Tamsin Lutteridge continued to watch the television.
¦
No customers had come into the Hare and Hounds at six, but Carole and Detective Sergeant Baylis couldn’t continue their conversation with Will Maples ostentatiously busy polishing glasses behind the bar.
The sergeant looked at his watch. “I’d better be off. Got a few more calls to make.”
“Yes. We need to talk about this further.”
“We certainly do.” Suddenly he leaned in close and whispered fiercely into her face. “Whatever you do, don’t mention anything we’ve talked about to anyone else.”
“Of course I won’t,” said Carole, bewildered.
And suddenly Baylis had straightened up, downed his whisky and, with a ‘See you, Will’, left the pub.
The manager looked across at her, entertained by her discomfort. “Would you care to have a drink now, madam?”
“Yes. Please. I’ll have dry white wine.”
Just one. Then straight back home. Jude must be back soon. They had so much to talk about.
As regulars trickled into the pub, Carole sipped her wine, stared at the unchanging flames on the ceramic logs and felt mounting frustration. If only Baylis had given some response, some reaction to everything she’d just spilled out…Did he think of her as a perceptive sleuth or a hysterical menopausal woman? Had anything she’d said struck a chord with him? Had she provided him with any ideas he hadn’t already got?
And, above all, how much did the police know? They must’ve run DNA tests on the bones by now. Had they been looking for a match with the Helling family? Baylis had said Carole wasn’t the first person to suggest the remains belonged to Sheila Forbes. Had they made a positive identification yet? What had Detective Sergeant Baylis said to Graham Forbes when he visited him the previous week? And what was the ‘everything’ that he was afraid might be ruined by her talking?
“Well, hello. This is an unexpected pleasure. Very interesting that you should be here.”
Carole looked up to find herself confronted by Barry Stillwell. He was wearing yet another pinstriped suit and a charcoal overcoat. His blue tie had a repeated gold logo on it. Some golf club perhaps…Yes, he probably would play golf. Carole thanked God they hadn’t got on to the subject when they’d last met. Golf would have added agonizing new refinements to the torture imposed by Barry Stillwell’s conversation.
“Can I get you another glass of wine? The Bordeaux Blanc that Will has as a house white is not unacceptable.”
Carole’s first instinct was to refuse the offer, but on consideration she accepted. Barry Stillwell might be an embarrassing creep, but he did know some of the principals involved in the case. Most significantly, he knew Graham Forbes. Barry could be a useful source of information.
He bought her wine and sat down with a half of bitter for himself. “Just the half. Have to watch it when I’m driving.”
Carole had said exactly the same words many times herself. Why, on Barry Stillwell’s lips, did they sound so impossibly prissy? And why was he suddenly talking like that anyway? On their ‘date’ he had boasted about his immunity to the attentions of the breathalyser police.
He took a sip from his glass and grunted with satisfaction. “Ah, that hits the spot all right.”
Why is it, Carole wondered, that all men – particularly those who patently aren’t – have to pretend they’re part of some blokish beer-swilling pub culture?
Barry Stillwell looked at her in a manner that he imagined to be winsome. “If I didn’t know you better,” he said, “I’d think you’d been trying to avoid me.”
You don’t know me at all. And I have been trying to avoid you. But all Carole said was, “I’m sorry not to have returned your calls. I’ve just been so busy the last few days.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Barry archly. “I’m sure we can make up for lost time.”
Carole let out a thin smile, before asking, “So what brings you up here – business or pleasure?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I got my question in first.” Carole realized that she sounded impossibly girlish. Oh dear, was she actually using her ‘feminine wiles’?
Never mind. It was in a good cause. She might get something out of Barry to corroborate part of her theory of the crime. Because, though she was convinced by its general outline, Carole was aware that more than a few details needed filling in.
“So have you been visiting a client?”
“I have indeed, Carole.”
“Graham Forbes?”
“Yes. My oh my, you’ve got a good memory.”
“Not that good. We did actually meet at the Forbeses – ”
“As if you imagine I could forget it, Carole.”
“And you were introduced to me by Graham as his solicitor.”
“So I was. Right. So you didn’t need such a good memory after all…though, mind you, I’m sure your memory is as excellent as everything else about you.”
Carole couldn’t think what on earth he was talking about, until she realized that this was another of Barry Stillwell’s ponderous compliments.
“Oh, that’s sweet of you.” She giggled coquettishly, then moved firmly on. “So what have you been seeing Graham about today?”
But he didn’t succumb to the direct question quite as readily as she’d hoped.
“Ah, now, Carole, I’m sure you’re aware that there is such a thing as client confidentiality.”
“Of course.” Damn. Her ‘feminine wiles’ were going to need a little more fine-tuning. She backed off and started a more roundabout approach. “Was Graham very upset when he heard about the planning permission for the barn?”
“I’m sorry?” asked Barry, confused by the sudden change of direction.
“The barn behind his house. You know, the one that Harry Grant’s been wanting to turn into a house for so long.”
“Well, we haven’t actually discussed it, but I can’t imagine Graham’s best pleased. It’s something he’s fought vigorously for many years.”
Yes, and I know why, thought Carole.
“Of course, I could see it coming,” Barry went on, moving into his ‘I know everything that goes on around this area’ mode. “Get a few new faces on the Planning Committee and it’s amazing how quickly things can change.”
“Presumably you know most of the major players,” Carole suggested sycophantically.
It had been the right approach. Barry Stillwell almost glowed as he said, “Oh yes indeed. Not many movers and shakers round here I don’t know.”
“So you’d probably also know how all the planning decisions get made, Barry…”
He chuckled knowingly.
“Who scratches whose back…and what with? How much with?”
He raised an admonitory ringer. “Now, Carole, there’s no actual corruption in West Sussex…” Another informed chuckle. “Mind you, certain builders who got the decisions they wanted might well…find themselves issuing surprisingly reasonable estimates for jobs for certain individuals…Or they might build the odd road or do some public maintenance work at a very competitive price…”
“And that’s not corruption?” she asked ingenuously.
“No, no, no, Carole, my dear. That is simply shrewd business practice…Been going on as long as business itself…and it’ll continue for the foreseeable future…”
“Mm. So how far ahead of the Planning Committee meetings will people know who’s likely to get their plans given the green light?”
“Oh, I don’t think anyone knows ahead of the meeting.”
They must sometimes, thought Carole. Otherwise bang goes my motivation for Graham Forbes’s moving of the bones.
Meanwhile Barry Stillwell continued his vindication of local business practice. “There’s nothing illegal in any of
