“Yes. Whose Sloane Rangerish wife Virginia disappeared, and thus becomes a potential candidate for the job of victim.”
“Debbie and Francis Carlton…”
“Who’ve suddenly moved up the suspect list, if thepolice really have summoned him all the way from Florida.”
“That’s what Grant Roxby told me. But we don’t know the details. Francis Carlton may not be a suspect, they may just want to ask him some questions.”
“Couldn’t they do that on the phone?”
“We have absolutely no idea, Jude. That’s the trouble. We don’t really know anything.”
“Stop sounding so miserable about it.” Jude smiled in a way that she knew to be potentially infuriating. “Ignorance has certain advantages. Our minds are less cluttered by extraneous detail.”
Carole snorted. “Thank you very much, Pollyanna. Our minds are less cluttered by
“Which leaves them free and hair-trigger sensitive.” Jude wasn’t going to be infected by her friend’s gloom. “OK, Roddy Hargreaves and Francis Carlton…I don’t think we can rule out Debbie Carlton either. If her husband’s a suspect, then so’s she.”
“What do you base that on?”
Jude shrugged. “As little logic as any other thoughts we’ve had about the case. But she does seem to have gone out of her way to be helpful to your investigation. Since the effect that’s had has been to make you more suspicious of her ex-husband, maybe that’s what she wanted to do in the first place. Divert suspicion away from herself?”
“Huh.”
“Just a thought. And then there’s Grant. The way he reacted to seeing me and Harry in the cellar yesterday was very odd.”
“Anger at his son’s behaviour, I would imagine. He must’ve realized Harry had cut through the police seals.”
“Don’t know. There seemed to be more to it than that,” Carole sniffed. “Well, if you’re going to have Grant as a suspect, we should have Kim too.”
“What makes you say that?”
“As little logic as any other thoughts we’ve had about the case,” she parroted.
“Touche.” Jude grinned. “The trouble is, we don’t seem to be being very proactive.”
“Sorry?”
“We aren’t driving this investigation. People keep coming to us with ideas for moving it on.”
“Back to your conspiracy theory, are we?”
Jude shook her head ruefully. “Maybe. There is something odd happening. As if someone is orchestrating the way we think about things.”
“So who is that someone? Or are we talking about all the residents of Fedborough?”
“At times it almost seems like that. Don’t you find something spooky about the place, Carole?”
“Spooky?”
“Yes. As if everyone knows what everyone else is thinking. And as soon as anyone gets any information, it’s immediately spread around the entire network.”
“That’s how country towns work.”
“Hm. But it does somehow seem that the timing of things is arranged to – ”
The telephone rang. Carole answered it. “Oh, hello.” She mouthed to Jude, “Debbie Carlton.”
“See what I mean,” Jude mouthed back.
They went into Fedborough again on the Thursday, the morning for which Debbie had issued another invitation to coffee. She’d got in some new curtain fabric samples which, while fully understanding that Carole wasn’t committed to going ahead with any interior design work, she’d still like her to have a look at.
Carole had agreed, undecided whether what Debbie said was true, or was just an excuse to talk further about the discovery at her former home. Jude was convinced of the latter explanation. The timing of Debbie’s phone call, apart from anything else, had to be significant. Jude believed in synchronicity and other mystical concepts which, in her neighbour’s mind, were lumped together under the definition ‘nonsense’.
In spite of herself, though, Carole still felt a little glow of excitement as she parked the Renault at the top of Fedborough High Street.
Jude had fixed to have another session with Harry Roxby. After his anger at finding them in the cellar on the Sunday, Grant had been very quickly calmed down by his wife, and agreed with surprising meekness that Jude’s ‘treatment’ of their son should continue. He had even agreed that Harry should be allowed to take the Thursday morning off school, as if the boy’s session with Jude was like a genuine medical appointment.
Grant’s capitulation provided an interesting sidelight on his marriage. Like many egotists and control freaks, Grant Roxby could be cut down to size quite easily by the right person. The balance of power in the relationship between him and his wife was not as it appeared from the outside.
As Carole walked along to Debbie Carlton’s flat, she felt the quality of Fedborough which Jude had described as ‘spooky’. There was something about the picture-book prettiness of the town which contrived to be at the same time anonymous and watchful. Carole didn’t know many of the residents, but got the feeling they were all aware of her. In that enclosed, incestuous atmosphere, she was an intruder. She’d made more appearances in the town during the last couple of weeks than normal expectations might justify. Her behaviour was suspicious. She was under surveillance.
Carole gave a curt shake of her shoulders to dismiss such stupid thoughts. She’d been listening to Jude too much. All that was happening was that she had been invited to coffee by someone who was hoping to secure a commission as an interior designer; there was nothing more sinister than that. The idea of a town having a personality or an attitude or – heaven forbid – an ‘aura’ was New Age self-indulgence and should be treated appropriately. She was Carole Seddon, for goodness’ sake. Not prone to flights of fancy. ‘Sensible’ was her middle name.
And the attention with which Debbie Carlton showed her the new curtain fabrics suggested that the morning’s was to be an entirely sensible encounter. The speed, however, with which her hostess put the sample books aside and started to talk about the torso would have added considerable fuel to Jude’s conspiracy-theory fire – or would have done for anyone, unlike Carole, who was gullible enough to believe it in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” Debbie said, as she slopped coffee while refilling Carole’s cup. “I’m a bit jittery this morning. Francis is back.”
“Your husband?” asked Carole ingenuously, pretending she hadn’t heard of his return. She noticed that Debbie Carlton was dressed more formally that morning, in a black trouser suit and high heels. Her make-up wasagain impeccable. She didn’t want Francis to see her at anything less than her best.
“Ex-husband, yes. He flew in from Florida on Tuesday. I’m afraid knowing he’s around makes me nervous.”
“But surely you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to?”
“He’s staying here.”
“Oh?”
“He said it was daft to shell out for a hotel when I’d got an empty spare room. He…” Debbie was about to say more, but thought better of it. Carole felt sure there would have been a reference to Francis Carlton’s meanness, which had been hinted at in their previous conversation.
“Why has he actually come back?” she asked, once again feigning ignorance.
“The police wanted to talk to him.”
“About what was found in Pelling House?”
“Yes. I mean, Francis isn’t a suspect or anything like that.” Debbie Carlton didn’t sound totally convinced by her words. “But there were questions the police wanted to ask and he thought it’d be simpler to talk to them face to face…you know, to avoid any misunderstandings…That’s all.”
Her conclusion sounded very inadequate. That couldn’t be all. For someone as apparently mean as Francis Carlton to fly over the Atlantic to talk to the police suggested a degree of…perhaps not guilt…but at least anxiety to put his side of the story without risk of misunderstanding.
