this, you know. It’s just a friendly way of doing business. Everyone likes to work with people they know.”
“As you do. I mean, I dare say, in your case, a lot of your clients have become friends?”
“I like to think that, Carole, yes. And I’m also delighted when it works the other way round.”
“The other way round?”
“When friends become clients. So if there’s ever any help you need of a legal nature – if you need help with your will or something – please don’t hesitate to pick up the phone…”
“That’s very kind of you, Barry.”
“Though…” Carole was aware of the effort as another cumbersome compliment was cranked up into position. “When we’re talking about someone as lovely as you, I hope you won’t wait till you need my professional advice before you pick up the phone to me.”
Another girlish giggle seemed appropriate to the situation and, from Barry Stillwell’s reaction, it had been the right choice. But, even as she giggled, Carole wondered how she was ever going to get round to the questions she wanted to ask. Unfortunately, she didn’t think it was going to work to say, “Barry, have you been seeing Graham Forbes because he’s been charged with murder?”
Still, she had got as far as mentioning his clients being also his friends. Build on that. “And it was as a client you first met Graham, of course?”
“Oh yes.”
“You did the conveyancing when he first bought the house here in Weldisham?”
“That’s right.”
“And did you do his divorce?”
“Divorce?”
The solicitor looked puzzled, and Carole knew she was on to something. “Yes, when he divorced his first wife, so that he could marry Irene.”
“Oh.” Puzzlement had given way to confusion, which was now giving way to a cover-up. “Ah.
Carole had him now. Triumphantly, she said, “You mean Graham and Irene aren’t actually married?”
“Well, they are in everything but name. I mean, it’s difficult to get a divorce if you’ve completely lost touch with the person you’re trying to divorce.”
Or if you’ve murdered them.
Suddenly Carole realized something else. She’d thought Barry’s intonation had been slightly odd when he said to her, “If you need help with your will or something’, but now it made sense. “You’ve been to see Graham Forbes to sort out his will, haven’t you?”
He looked at her in amazement. “How on earth did you know that?”
“You virtually told me, Barry.”
“Did I?”
It all made sense. Graham Forbes had felt the net tightening around him, and realized he had to put his affairs in order. He’d never been able to marry Irene. Sheila Forbes hadn’t been around to give her permission, and for proof to be found that she was dead…although it might have freed him for remarriage…that was the one thing that Graham couldn’t risk happening. As his wife, Irene would have inherited everything by law. Since they weren’t married, he needed to make a will if she was to benefit when he died.
Carole smiled triumphantly at Barry, who looked perplexed and a little guilty. He knew he’d said something he shouldn’t have done, but hadn’t quite worked out what it was. “And I know,” she announced, “why he suddenly needs to make a will in a hurry.”
“Well, obviously, because of the stroke.”
“Stroke?”
“Didn’t you know? Graham had a minor stroke on Friday afternoon.”
Friday afternoon. When Lennie Baylis had gone to visit him. The sergeant had confronted him with his crimes and the shock had brought on a stroke.
But she needed more information. “Was Graham taken to hospital?”
“Yes. Only brought back this morning. That’s why I came up this afternoon. First opportunity there was.”
“Right.”
Carole was thoughtful. In one way the stroke fitted perfectly into her theory. But in another way it didn’t. If Graham Forbes had been hospitalized until that morning, there was no way he could have started the fire in Heron Cottage which killed Pauline Helling.
Her mind raced as she tried to accommodate these new facts into her scenario. She was aware that Barry Stillwell was saying something, but she wasn’t listening.
It was only when she felt his hand on her upper thigh that Carole stopped and looked at him. His thin lips were moving towards hers, puckering like a drawstring purse.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She’d spoken louder than she intended and conversations around them stopped. Barry Stillwell looked uncomfortable, but tried an ingratiating grin. “Come on, Carole,” he urged quietly, “you know we both feel the same about each other. You know we’re going to get it together one day soon, aren’t we?”
“When hell freezes over!” shouted Carole Seddon, and, marching out through silenced customers, left the pub.
¦
Outside, the weather had turned suddenly cold, but Carole didn’t notice. Nor did she have any reaction to her flare-up with Barry. She’d forgotten it almost as soon as she was through the door, because her mind was full of other thoughts.
One thought dominated the rest. Maybe Graham Forbes couldn’t have done the deed, but Irene Forbes could easily have torched Heron Cottage.
She looked across at the gutted building, roped off by police tapes. She remembered the little Chinaman pincushion that had stood on the window sill, and would have put money on the fact that Pauline Helling had brought it back from her one trip abroad. A souvenir of Kuala Lumpur.
Carole hurried through the dark car park to her Renault. She needed to get back to Fethering as quickly as possible. She must talk to Jude. They must pool their ideas. Then they must talk again to Detective Sergeant Baylis. Soon they’d have all the loose ends tied up in neat little bows.
She had her key in the car door before she was aware of the noise behind her.
“I think you’d better come with me, Carole,” said a voice she recognized.
She turned. Thin moonlight caught the outline of a long knife in a gloved hand.
? Death on the Downs ?
Forty
Tamsin had been persuaded to turn off the television. She lay on the crumpled cover, propped on a pile of pillows against the pine bedhead. Her manner wasn’t adversarial, just exhausted and apathetic. Defeated.
“How’s it been?” asked Jude.
“I have good days and bad days. Sometimes I have some energy, sometimes I don’t have any. I find it terribly difficult to concentrate on anything. Even a half-hour television soap leaves me mentally exhausted.”
“And are you managing to read much?”
A shake of the head. “That’s too much concentration as well. I flick through the odd magazine, but…” Tamsin gestured helplessly to the mess around her.
“How about the physical symptoms?”
The girl grimaced. “Bad. Like having flu a lot of the time. Some days my joints just ache so much that…Oh, I don’t know.”
