“Let’s say I have an idea of where to start.”
“And I,” Carole announced confidently, “will make it my business tomorrow to find out more about Rory Turnbull.”
“How'll you do that?”
“Let’s say I have an idea of where to start,” came the lofty reply.
Carole Seddon could also play mysterious when she needed to.
¦
Carole wasn’t a dog person. When she left the Home Office, she’d taken on Gulliver for purely practical reasons. He would give a purpose to the many walks with which she had planned to fill the longeurs of her retirement. Being accompanied by a dog, she would avoid unwelcome questions and speculation. And anyway, people with dogs never look lonely.
It was the same kind of sensible thinking that had made her join the Canine Trust. She didn’t feel particularly strongly about the civil liberties of dogs, but she recognized that volunteering for the charity might provide occasional useful work to fill a little more of her time.
The demands were not onerous. She helped out with the Canine Trust local branch’s summer fete; twice a year she contributed to their bring-and-buy coffee mornings and she distributed raffle tickets.
Carole discharged these duties punctiliously, as she did everything, but she found her involvement in the charity increasingly dull. In fact, when the latest batch of raffle tickets arrived in the post a few weeks before, she had contemplated ceasing to be a volunteer.
But on the Saturday morning, clutching them in her hand as she walked down the High Street towards the Fethering Yacht Club, Carole positively blessed the raffle tickets. Nothing could have given her a better excuse to call on Winnie Norton.
And the reason why in the past she had tried to avoid calling on Winnie Norton with raffle tickets – because the old lady insisted on inviting her in and subjecting her to a minimum half-hour dose of the Winnie Norton view of the world – was on this occasion a positive advantage.
Spray Lodge was the nearest residential building to the river. Some eight storeys high, its most valued flats looked out, over the Yacht Club and the sea wall which separated the Fether from the beach, all the way to the distant horizon where the water melted into the sky. Normally, Spray Lodge was one of the most desirable of Fethering locations. But when the sea wall was being repaired, the block was uncomfortably close to the monotonous thud of the pile driver. Carole heard the noise increasing as she neared her destination.
Carole no longer took Gulliver on her raffle-ticket-selling excursions. The first time she’d thought he might be useful to establish her credentials as an authentic dog lover, but she had not repeated the experiment. The Fethering residents whom Canine Trust directives instructed her to target were, by definition, other dog owners, and Gulliver’s noisy enthusiasm – not to mention combativeness – on greeting their pets had made for slow and uncomfortable progress. Since the first time, therefore, he had remained at home when his mistress went out with her raffle tickets.
Winnie Norton was a dog owner, and presumably therefore a dog lover – assuming she was capable of loving anything other than her daughter. She was the owner of Churchill, whom Jude had encountered at Brigadoon. Carole didn’t really count Yorkshire terriers as dogs. They were too small, too silky, too yappy, a kind of bonsai mutant of what, to her mind, a dog should be.
When she buzzed through on the entryphone, she heard Churchill before she heard his owner. He was yapping, as ever. Then Winnie Norton’s carefully enunciated tones inquired, “Yes, who is it?”
“It’s Carole Seddon. I’ve got the Canine Trust raffle tickets.”
“Oh, splendid. Do come up.” And the entryphone box buzzed admission.
Winnie Norton’s second-floor flat was relatively small, but every item in it was exquisite. Carole knew that if she referred to any piece of furniture or ornament, her hostess would say, “Oh yes, well, when I sold the big house after my husband died, I had to get rid of a lot of beautiful stuff. Phillips auctioned it, and I’ve kept only the best, the very best.” Then she would chuckle and continue, “There are museums all over the world who’d give their eyeteeth for what’s in this room.”
And Carole knew if she referred to the sea view, Winnie Norton would say, “Oh yes, well, you see it best from here on the second floor. The people in the flats below just look out over the Yacht Club, and those above get a much less good angle on the horizon. When I sold the big house after my husband died, I insisted that I had to have the best flat in the block with the best view.” And then she’d chuckle and continue, “I may be slumming, but at least I’ll slum in style.”
That Saturday morning Carole was determined to avoid commenting on either the furniture or the sea view.
When she opened the front door of the flat to let Carole in, Winnie Norton was revealed in a cherry-coloured woollen suit with gold braiding and buttons. Her hair, still bearing a bluish tinge, was fixed like stiff meringue on top of her head. With her spare hand, she held Churchill up to her chest. He was once again yapping furiously.
“There, you lovely boy,” Winnie cooed. “Look who’s come to see you – it’s Carole. Look how pleased to see you he is, Carole.”
The dog’s little eyes glinted a look of pure malevolence at the visitor. Don’t worry, you revolting little mutt, thought Carole, it’s mutual.
“Now, you do have time to stop for a coffee, don’t you, dear?”
It was said defensively, almost challengingly. The last few times Carole had called, she’d managed to wriggle out of staying. This time, however, she gave the right answer.
“Oh, excellent. Now do sit down on the sofa, dear. The kettle’s just boiled. Barbara’s bought me one of those new-fangled cafetieres, so I’m getting quite ‘with it’. But I must confess, it does make delicious coffee. Oh, and I’ll just say the one apology now for that dreadful thumping from the sea wall.”
“Don’t apologize. You can hear it all over Fethering.”
“Yes, but it’s much worse from here. I tell you, I’ve had a splitting headache for days. It keeps going through the night, you know.”
“That’s because of the tides.”
“Huh. I suppose it has to be done. And, in theory, it’s all going to be finished by Monday. Mind you,” said Winnie Norton darkly, “I’ll believe that when it happens. Now, I won’t be a moment getting the coffee. You stay and talk to Carole, there’s a good boy.”
Winnie Norton poured Churchill down on to the carpet and went through to the kitchen. The dog leapt forward towards Carole, then stopped about a yard away from the sofa, his body tensed backwards. He growled.
“Get lost, you little rat!” Carole hissed.
The dog understood the sentiment, if not the words. He started up his high-pitched yapping again.
“Oh, shut up!”
Again she kept her voice down, but this time the injunction had an effect. With a final look of undiluted hatred, Churchill slunk off behind the sofa.
Carole looked out at the sea. Even though she was determined not to say so in Winnie’s presence, the view was undeniably magnificent. She rose and went closer to the picture window. No, from here Winnie couldn’t see the end of the breakwater where the dead man had lain. Because of the Yacht Club building, her view of the low-tide beach started further down.
“Wonderful view, isn’t it?” Carole heard from behind her.
“Mm,” she agreed, as she turned to help Winnie with the coffee tray.
“Oh yes, well, you see it best from here on the second floor. The people in the flats below just look out over the Yacht Club, and those above…”
Damn, out came the whole routine. Winnie Norton didn’t need prompting from anyone else. She was self- priming.
While the familiar words were rehearsed yet again, Carole reflected that her hostess wasn’t acting like someone whose son-in-law had just committed suicide. Maybe she didn’t yet know the news. Maybe Barbara Turribull had kept it from her mother out of kindness until the facts had been confirmed.
Carole was determined to find out. She waited dutifully for the chuckle and the, ‘I may be slumming, but at least I’ll slum in style’, before saying, “I heard a dreadful rumour about Rory in Allinstore this morning.” (She
