certainly wasn’t going to tell Winnie Norton that she’d heard it in the Crown and Anchor. Everyone in Fethering knew that Carole Seddon wasn’t a ‘pub person’.) “I do hope it’s not true.”
The light that blazed in Winnie Norton’s eye revealed that she knew all the details. And also revealed that she was at least as proficient as her dog at looks of pure malevolence. “It’s true, all right. And absolutely typical of the man! Selfish to the end!”
If Rory Turnbull’s suicide had been an attempt to make people feel guilty and realize how much they’d undervalued him during his lifetime, the gesture had clearly failed with his mother-in-law.
“But it’s definite, is it? I mean, they’ve found the body?”
“No, not yet. The police’re still looking. Typical of Rory again – wasting police time like that. That man’s never thought of anyone but himself from the moment he was born. I always told Barbara he was a dubious factor. Not our class of person at all. I could see that from the day I first met him.
“Barbara is, needless to say, distraught,” Winnie went on. “What a terrible thing to happen to her. And, if it’s confirmed as a suicide, that could well invalidate all the life insurance policies. Selfish, selfish, selfish. What’s more, everyone in Fethering will assume that there was something wrong with their marriage.”
“And wasn’t there?” asked Carole.
“There were faults on his side certainly. The only thing Barbara did wrong in that marriage was choosing an unsuitable man in the first place. But she knows it’s a wife’s duty to stay by her man. She’s discussed her situation with Canon Granger – you know, Roddy – and he has nothing but admiration for the way Barbara has coped. She’s behaved like a saint throughout…in spite of all the dreadful things Rory did.”
“What kind of things?” Carole decided it was going to be quite easy to get the information she was after. Such was the level of spleen Winnie Norton harboured for her son-in-law, the old woman didn’t stop to consider why she was being asked all these questions.
“Well, he was always boorish. Had no manners. Someone brought up in the gutter never quite loses the tang of it, you know. Rory was a product of state education, as you could probably tell. Jumped-up little oik from a secondary modern who managed to scrape into a university and somehow get his dental qualifications. As I said, always a dubious factor. Barbara did all she could to make something of him, but…well, you know the proverb about silk purses and sow’s ears…”
“But what kind of things specifically did Rory do?” Carole persisted. “Was he unfaithful to Barbara?”
“Good heavens, no. Even he wouldn’t have dared do that. No, it was more mental cruelty, I suppose you’d call it. He collected pornography, you know.”
“Did he?”
“Oh yes. Poor darling Barbara found boxes of the stuff when she was looking through their loft. And that was only the part of it.” Winnie Norton shook her head in shocked disapproval. “Rory was up to all kinds of other things as well…”
“Like?”
“Like staying out late. Like getting into fights.”
“Getting into fights?”
“He came back in the small hours only a coupia of months ago and he’d had a tooth knocked out, would you believe? Well, imagine how difficult it was for Barbara to maintain appearances when her husband was walking around looking like a prizefighter. And then there was the drinking…”
“Had he always drunk? Right through their marriage?”
“He’d always had it in him,” Winnie Norton replied portentously. “But it was only the last few months it’d got out of hand. And it wasn’t just drink…”
“What do you mean?”
“Drugs.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes.” The old lady nodded vigorously. While she did so, her sculpted hair made no independent movement. “Barbara had suspected something of the kind was going on, and I found some stuff in Rory’s study.”
In other circumstances Carole might have asked what Winnie Norton was doing snooping round her son-in- law’s study, but she didn’t want to stop the flow.
Winnie seemed to anticipate the thought anyway. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been looking into his affairs, but I couldn’t go on seeing my daughter suffer like that. So I took things into my own hands, and I found…this stuff.”
“What kind of stuff? Are you an expert on drugs?”
“Of course I’m not!” Winnie Norton snapped. “But I watch television. There’s hardly a drama on these days that doesn’t show people taking drugs. So I recognized it when I saw it. In Rory’s desk drawer I found a syringe, and some metal foil, and a little packet of white powder. I think he was spending all their money on drugs.”
There were a lot of follow-up questions she could have asked, but Carole decided to bide her time until she’d talked to Jude. She’d already been given more than she had dared hope for.
“Well, I’m distressed to hear all that, Winnie,” she said blandly. “Do give my condolences to Barbara, won’t you?”
If she’d thought this traditional formality would be met by an equally formal response, she was disappointed.
“Condolences!” Winnie Norton spat out the word. “Barbara doesn’t need condolences. She needs congratulations. Twenty-eight years of misery and now finally she’s shot of him.”
“Yes,” said Carole. “Of course. Now, about these raffle tickets…”
“The Canine Trust, yes, yes, yes.” Winnie rose with surprising agility from her chair. “Just get my chequebook.” She crossed to a writing desk decorated with intricate marquetry designs. “This is a charming piece, isn’t it? You see, 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.” She chuckled, then continued, “There are museums all over the world who’d give their eye-teeth for what’s in this room.”
Carole smiled graciously. Churchill emerged from behind the sofa and started yapping at her.
? The Body on the Beach ?
Twenty-Seven
As she’d mentioned, Jude had done some acting in her time. She’d done a lot of things in her time. Hers had been a rich and varied life.
On the Saturday morning, while Carole went off to do her bit with Winnie Norton, Jude decided she’d have to call on her acting skills to further her own research. She rang through to J.T. Carpets. Even if no carpet-fitting went on at the weekend, the showroom was bound to be open. And there must be someone working in the office.
There was. Jude put on a voice of excruciating gentility (school of Barbara Turribull) and went into her prepared spiel. “Good morning. I’m trying to contact one of your carpet-fitters. Named Dylan.”
“I’m sorry. The fitters don’t work at the weekend.”
“Well, could you give me his home address and phone number?” she demanded imperiously.
“I’m afraid it’s not company policy to give out our employees’ private details over the telephone.”
“Then in this case you must make an exception to company policy. My name is Mrs Grant-Edwards.” Jude was taking a risk that the girl in the office had never spoken directly to the real Mrs Grant-Edwards. And perhaps less of a risk in assuming that the real Mrs Grant-Edwards would talk the way she was talking. “I live in a house called Bali-Hai on the Shorelands Estate, where your people have just been fitting a carpet.”
“Oh yes?”
“And one of the fitters was this young man called Dylan.”
“You haven’t found anything missing, have you?”
The anxiety in her voice was a real giveaway. Clearly Dylan didn’t have a reputation as the most trustworthy of employees. Jude wondered how many little pilferings had occurred in the houses where he had fitted carpets. And wondered how much longer he would keep his job.
“No, no, it’s not that. It’s rather the reverse. I’ve found something of his in the house.”
