people out with politeness. You smile when you meet them, you give them a nod, but you never invite them into your house.”
Carole grinned wryly. She’d encountered some of that aloofness in Fethering.
“So I would imagine,” Detective Sergeant Baylis concluded, “that for the past twenty years the only person Pauline Helling has talked to is her son.”
“He’s still around?”
“Brian? Oh yes, he’s still around.” The sergeant spoke as if this was not an entirely satisfactory state of affairs.
“He isn’t a writer, is he?” asked Carole, with sudden insight.
“He calls himself a writer, though there doesn’t seem to be much evidence that he’s ever actually written anything.”
“I think I overheard him in the Hare and Hounds yesterday.”
“It’s quite possible. Hard not to overhear Brian. He’s always been of the view that everyone within earshot should have the benefit of his conversation. He was like that at school. I was in the same class as him. Nasty sneaky little bastard then, and I don’t think the passage of the years has changed him that much.”
“What kind of nasty?”
“Vicious to other kids. And to animals. Most people who grow up round here know how to treat animals. They’re not sentimental about them, but they don’t hurt them deliberately.”
“And Brian Helling did?”
“When he was a kid, yes. Killed a couple of cats in a way I still can’t forgive him for. He thought it was a game. The rest of us didn’t play that kind of game.”
“Oh?” Carole put her next remark as sensitively as she could. “In the Hare and Hounds he did seem to be…a little eccentric.”
“Eccentric’s generous. He’s a self-appointed eccentric, just as he’s a self-appointed writer. Brian Helling has never been able to hold down a proper job. If his mother hadn’t had the pools money to support him, God knows what he’d have lived on. He’s always been getting into trouble of one sort or another.”
“Trouble that’s involved the police?”
“Not often. Occasionally drunk. Reckless driving once, I think.”
“What about drugs?”
A shadow of caution crossed the sergeant’s face. “I’m fairly sure he dabbles in drugs, but he’s never been convicted for it. No, he’s not into anything that you’d call major-league criminal. Brian’s always been a bloody nuisance, though – just like he was at school. Always trying to join everyone else’s gang – and nobody wanted anything to do with him, because he was…I don’t know…creepy.”
“In the Hare and Hounds yesterday,” said Carole, “he was talking about the possibility of there being a serial killer in Weldisham.”
“Was he?” Detective Sergeant Baylis turned very pale. “Was he really?”
? Death on the Downs ?
Fifteen
“The bones weren’t Tamsin Lutteridge’s!” Carole and Jude spoke the words simultaneously.
Baylis had gone and Carole had hurried to answer the doorbell’s summons, hoping it was Jude. She was dying to share her news. And amazed that Jude had the same news to impart.
“What do you mean? Come in. It’s cold.”
“What do you mean? How do you know it’s not Tamsin?”
“Justfhad Detective Sergeant Baylis round. Can I get you a coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
They went through into the sitting room and Carole quickly brought her friend up to date with what Baylis had said about the bones. “I should have realized at the time. When I think about it, the bones looked old. Older than four months, anyway.”
“You weren’t to know. You’re not a pathologist. And there are all kinds of factors that can affect how quickly a body decomposes…whether it’s left in water…if scavengers can get at it…”
“Maybe. I still think I should have known.” Carole had never enjoyed looking stupid – or, perhaps more accurately, thinking she looked stupid. “Anyway, Jude, how did you find out they weren’t Tamsin’s bones.”
“Because I’m pretty certain Tamsin’s still alive.” And she gave an edited version of her morning’s visit to Sandalls Manor.
“Do you think she’s being kept there against her will?”
“No, I’m sure her stay is entirely voluntary.”
“But you hear of these cases of young women getting caught up in cults…You know, falling under the spell of some guru and – ”
“Carole!” Jude sounded uncharacteristically annoyed. “This is nothing to do with a cult. It makes me really angry when people lump every alternative lifestyle in together. We’re not talking about some crazed religious zealot here; we’re talking about a psychotherapist with legitimate qualifications.”
“But from your tone of voice, it doesn’t sound as though you like him very much.”
“I may not like him, and I may not like some of the things he does, but that doesn’t stop me respecting him as a healer. Charles Hilton has had a great deal of success with bringing people back to health, both emotional and physical.”
Carole suspected that her friend was protesting a little too much in her respect for the therapist, but she didn’t mention it. “If Tamsin is up at Sandalls Manor, undergoing legitimate treatment, then why did he deny she was there?”
“Maybe he was respecting her wishes. If a patient asks for confidentiality, it’s a therapist’s duty to provide it.”
“But she’s only a child. And her parents are so worried.”
“Tamsin’s twenty-four years old. Quite old enough to make her own decisions. And I think it’s only one of her parents who’s worried.” Jude stood up with sudden resolve. “Anyway, I’m about to find out.”
“Hm?”
“I’m going to pay another visit to Gillie Lutteridge.”
¦
Jude accepted the offer of a lift up to Weldisham, but didn’t respond to the unspoken request for them to do the interview together. Carole knew she shouldn’t even have had the thought – Jude had Gillie Lutteridge’s trust and they had discussed Tamsin’s illness together – but, in spite of herself, Carole was getting excited about the case and didn’t want to be excluded from any part of the investigation. However, she didn’t raise the issue when she dropped Jude outside the Lutteridges’ irreproachable house.
“Give me an hour,” said Jude. She looked up at the sky. It was only four, but already nearly dark. “Don’t know what you’ll do.”
“It’s all right,” said Carole, unwilling to appear resource-less. “I’ve got time to make a quick raid on Sainsbury’s.”
“OK. Then we can maybe go to the pub and see where we’ve got to – if anywhere.”
“The Hare and Hounds?”
“I was thinking the Crown and Anchor.”
For some reason, Carole didn’t object to that idea.
¦
Gillie Lutteridge looked once again as if the cellophane had just been removed from her package. This time she was wearing a burgundy chenille waistcoat over a cream silk shirt and black linen trousers, which, like every other pair she possessed, defied creasing. Flat black shoes with a little burgundy bow across the front.
Jude had phoned ahead, so she was expected. Before Gillie even had time to offer tea, she asked, “Have you heard from the police about the bones?”
