“Well, we know he was a butcher – much as Fiona would like to keep that fact a secret. And he’s now… what? When we did the Town Walk, he said he was over seventy. So I wonder when he retired.”
“Why’s it relevant, Carole?”
“Simply because Philip Trigwell said he’d met Virginia Hargreaves in the grocer’s. Presumably he meant the one that Debbie Carlton’s parents used to run…which is now an antique shop.”
Jude caught on. “And which was next door to the butcher’s, formerly John Lister & Sons, now an estate agent’s.”
“Exactly. And I was wondering whether James Lister was still plying his trade on the weekend Virginia Hargreaves disappeared.”
“Carole, you aren’t making a connection between butchery and dismemberment, are you?”
A shrug. “Well, it’s a thought. I’d imagine removing arms and legs is an easier job for a professional than an amateur.”
Jude’s brow wrinkled as she assessed the idea. She pushed a flop of blonde hair off her forehead. “I have the same problem with James in the role of murderer as I do with Roddy. Or at least with Virginia in the role of victim. Now, if Fiona had been dismembered…well, yes, that would make sense.”
Carole grinned grimly. “Anyway, it’s all worthy of investigation. I’m sure we’ll find out that Roddy Hargreaves couldn’t possibly have killed his wife.”
“Yes…” Jude tapped her chin as she remembered something. “And there’s another person
“Who’s that?”
“The old bloke Roddy bought the boatyard from.”
“Do we know who that is?”
“Ted Crisp knows.”
Carole froze at the name. Her carapace of reserve was immediately rebuilt around her. The thawing of the last couple of weeks was undone in an instant.
“I thought I might go down and have lunch at the Crown and Anchor. I don’t suppose – ”
“No, Jude!”
Her primary purpose could not be fulfilled, because Ted Crisp wasn’t on duty at the Crown and Anchor. It hadn’t occurred to Jude before, because he seemed to be a fixture in the pub, but of course the landlord must have days off. There was a pattern even to lives as apparently disorganized as Ted Crisp’s.
But her trip wasn’t wasted. As she approached, Jude had seen a familiar figure getting out of a BMW he had just parked and going into the pub. Alan Burnethorpe, dressed in his uniform collarless black shirt and black jeans. She remembered Ted telling her that the architect who’d worked with Roddy Hargreaves was an occasional visitor to the Crown and Anchor.
Jude had checked her pace and wandered down to the sea front for a moment to give Alan Burnethorpe time tobuy a drink. She felt it would be easier to approach him once he was comfortably ensconced in the bar. He could certainly be a useful source of background information about his former client.
When she finally entered the Crown and Anchor, Jude couldn’t see any sign of the architect. Only when she had ordered a white wine and a Tina Bake from the unfamiliar girl who seemed to be in sole charge did she spot him, tucked away in a booth, deep in conversation with a heavily built man in a smart sports jacket and oblong glasses. She picked up her drink and sidled casually into the booth next to them.
“…overnight flight to Miami,” the one she didn’t know was saying, “which will be as uncomfortable as ever.”
“Surely you go First Class or Club?” said Alan Burnethorpe.
“No. It doesn’t take that long.”
“Oh, come on. You can afford it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You always were a bloody cheapskate, Francis.”
This ready identification was extremely convenient from Jude’s point of view. She felt confident that the large man was Debbie Carlton’s ex-husband, and she settled down with interest to hear what he had to say. Making her presence known to Alan Burnethorpe was an option she would decide whether or not to exercise later.
“I’m not a cheapskate. I’m just not going to give Debbie the satisfaction.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. What satisfaction?”
“The satisfaction of making me shell out for a First Class ticket.”
“Sorry, you’ve lost me, Francis. What is this?”
“Look, I don’t want to be over here. I want to be in Florida with Jonelle. I only came back because the police were getting suspicious of me.”
“About Virginia’s body?”
“Yes.” There was a silence between the two men. Then Francis Carlton asked, “Haven’t been in touch with you, have they?”
“The police? No. I don’t think anyone knows there’s any connection between her and either of us.”
“I don’t know whether the police knew anything about me and Virginia. If they did, they kept quiet about it when they questioned me. Mind you, of course, at that stage the body hadn’t been positively identified as hers.”
“No,” Alan Burnethorpe agreed. There was another awkward silence. “I should think we’re all right now, anyway.”
“Roddy Hargreaves’s suicide puts a lid on the investigation?”
“I’d have thought so. That must be what the police are thinking. Certainly what all the snoopers and harpies of Fedborough are thinking.”
“So Roddy’s really done us a favour,” said Francis Carlton slowly.
“Ensured that there’ll be no more investigation of Virginia’s past…Yes, I hope so. We’re both off the hook.”
“And I really don’t think anyone in Fedborough has a clue that either of us had affairs with Virginia. So far as they’re concerned, she was a nice aristocratic lady who only went up to London to sit on charity committees.”
“As opposed to sitting on…” The architect, maybe aware of its tastelessness, thought better of continuing the line. “Anyway, it was all a long time ago. I broke up with Virginia when I met Joke.”
“And with her and me it was just sex, really. Very good sex, it has to be said. I don’t need to tell you about that four-poster bed she had in London, with the design of vines climbing up the pillars and – ”
“No, you don’t,” said Alan Burnethorpe curtly.
“OK. I don’t actually think many people in Fedborough even knew Virginia had a flat in London. And nobody knew what she used it for.” Francis chuckled harshly. “There was a marked lack of curiosity about anything she did away from Fedborough. Which is good news for both of us. We can congratulate ourselves on having got away with it, having evaded the beady eyes of the town.” Francis Carlton let out an audible shudder. “God, I’d forgotten how claustrophobic that environment can be.”
“It’s not so bad.” Instinctively, Alan came to the defence of his home town.
“You may not find it so, but I do. Maybe it’s all right for you ‘Chubs’. You’re just like Debbie, she seems to enjoy all that shopkeepers’ gossip. Well, it’s not for me. I tell you, Alan, I wouldn’t dare be having this conversation with you anywhere in Fedborough.”
“Maybe not, but we’re fine here. This place is very quiet. I use it quite a bit.”
“Like you used to use your office on the houseboat.”
“Bring a few little friends here, do you?” Francis nudged.
“Francis, I’ve got Joke. I’m a happily married man.”
But the way he said it prompted a laugh of male complicity.
“Yes, of course. How is married life?”
“It’s fine.”
Francis Carlton picked up on the automatic nature of the reply. “Really?”
“Well…It’s all a bit familiar. I’ve got two small children. I had two small children before, when I was married to Karen. I don’t find the new set much more interesting than I found the first lot.”
“And how’s married sex?”
