did belong to Sheila Forbes, why do they suddenly turn up where you found them, in South Welling Barn?”
“All right.” Carole took another deep breath. “There are things that happened in Malaysia which I’m guessing about, but which could be checked. I think Graham Forbes had met Irene before 1987 and fallen in love with her, which was why he did away with Sheila. He reckoned the body would be safe in the old barn behind his house, because it was only used as a village dumping ground and people very rarely went in there. When he retired, and felt able to introduce his new bride to Weldisham, he quickly got a position of power on the Village Committee. A man of his administrative skills, with time on his hands, would be welcomed with open arms. And thereafter, every time an application came up for planning permission to develop the old barn, Graham Forbes marshalled the Weldisham opposition against the idea. Everyone thought his motivation was to protect the village environment, but in fact he was protecting something else that was much more significant to him.”
“So why were the bones moved?”
“I’m getting there, Sergeant. Harry Grant had bought the barn and he, like others before him, kept trying to get permission to turn it into a dwelling. He was always turned down…until last week. I don’t know how it happened…local back-scratching perhaps, maybe a few palms greased…that’s not important. What was important, from Graham Forbes’s point of view, was that the barn was about to be developed, its floor was going to be dug up to build foundations. His guilty secret was about to be uncovered. So, as soon as he got wind of the Planning Committee’s likely decision, Graham Forbes knew he had to move his wife’s remains.”
“But why would he only move them as far as South Welling Barn?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was a temporary measure. Maybe he was going to take them to a more permanent hiding place and got interrupted.”
Baylis pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Carole hadn’t really worked out the next part of her allegations. The first bit had been conjecture supported by some facts and a good ration of logic; this bit was pure conjecture. “I think something…my finding the bones perhaps…had an effect on Pauline Helling. Maybe she had a guilty conscience about the crime of which she’d been part, but for whatever reason she decided that she was going to tell someone the truth of what happened.”
“Tell who?”
“I don’t know. You perhaps. But I think she let Graham Forbes know about her change of heart…or he found out about it somehow…and, for that reason, he decided that he had to keep her quiet.”
Baylis looked shocked now. “So you’re saying Graham Forbes torched Heron Cottage?”
Stated like that, the theory sounded rather bald. Carole backtracked. “I’m saying it’s a possibility. I’m not certain about that yet. It’ll need a bit of investigation.”
“Yes,” the sergeant agreed, slightly mocking. “That kind of thing often does.”
“All I am certain of, though,” said Carole, reasserting her authority, “is the fact that the bones I found belonged to Sheila Forbes, who was murdered by her husband.”
The door behind the bar opened. Will Maples stood there. “Sorry, have to open up to the thirsty public now.”
His manner was full of apology, but of something else as well. Carole wondered how much of their conversation the manager had overheard.
? Death on the Downs ?
Thirty-Nine
Charles Hilton led Jude up the heavy mahogany staircase to the second floor of Sandalls Manor. The landings off which the bedrooms opened showed no signs of the building’s New Age make-over. They were opulently decorated with rich carpets and curtains, as in any other luxury country house hotel. Again Jude got the impression that the minimum amount of change would be required to convert from psychotherapeutic to clay- pigeon-shooting weekends.
Tamsin Lutteridge’s bedroom was at the end of the corridor on the top floor. Charles tapped on the door. Jude didn’t hear a voice granting admission, but he pushed in regardless.
The room, like the landings, was expensively upholstered. Pine dressing table, chairs, bedhead and wardrobe gave a rustic impression, as did the chintzy curtains and bedcovers. The tall windows behind the closed curtains must in daytime have commanded wonderful views across the Downs and down to the glinting line of the sea. Jude wondered how much Gillie Lutter-idge was paying for accommodation, before she even started on her daughter’s medical treatment.
The mess around the room was more characteristic of a teenager than a girl in her early twenties. Underwear, T–shirts and trainers lay on the floor. Make-up and perfume bottles, some open, spread in confusion on the dressing table. Open magazines and paperbacks littered the bedside table. Minidiscs and their boxes clustered at the foot of an expensive stack system.
And, front down on the bed, watching an American high school soap, lay Tamsin Lutteridge.
She looked up without much interest at their arrival, and Jude’s first impression was how ill the girl looked. Four months of Charles Hilton’s regimen seemed to have made no difference to her health at all. If anything, she looked worse than when Jude had last seen her.
Tamsin Lutteridge was blonde, like her mother, with blue eyes which, at their best, could sparkle and entrance, but were now as dull as pebbles. The hair hung lank, not unwashed but lifeless. Her long, slight body was swamped in a grey sweatshirt and elasticated trousers of the same material. They were probably her normal day clothes, but gave the impression of pyjamas.
The most striking feature of the girl, though, was her pallor. Perhaps aggravated by reflection from the television screen, the face looked actually grey, a kind of papier-mache colour.
Tamsin recognized Jude and nodded a greeting. It wasn’t unwelcoming, but the effort of making the gesture positively affable seemed too great.
Charles Hilton either didn’t see the moment of recognition or – more likely – wanted to assert his control over the situation by making the introductions. “Tamsin, this is Jude, whom I’ve agreed can come and talk to you.”
“OK.”
The girl’s attention was now back on the television screen. Jude had anticipated a reaction of alarm, or even fear, to her arrival, but all she encountered was indifference.
Charles Hilton gestured to a pine armchair and Jude sat down. Then he perched himself neatly on the stool in front of the dressing table.
“Charles…I want to talk to Tamsin on her own.”
His eyes grew darker. “I’m sorry, Jude. I can’t allow that. Tamsin is my patient. We’re going through a long therapeutic process and I can’t risk her getting upset.”
“I have no intention of upsetting her. What I want to talk about is nothing to do with her illness. And, as I believe I mentioned, nothing to do with you.”
Charles Hilton shook his head slowly, as if dealing with someone unschooled in the
“Why? Are you afraid she might have some critical things to say about you and the way you’re treating her?”
“No, of course I’m not.” He was piqued by that.
Tamsin Lutteridge showed no reaction to the tension in the room. What little concentration she had was focused on her soap.
“It’s just that Tamsin is in a very fragile and vulnerable state. I have to monitor all her dealings with the outside world. I can’t risk her delicate mental equilibrium being threatened.”
“Charles,” said Jude languidly, “if you don’t leave the room, I’m going to have a word with Anne…about what happened on that course where you and I first met…”
He didn’t like the idea of leaving Jude alone with Tamsin. But even less did he like the idea of his wife finding out about his groping her. Charles Hilton left the room.
