subject. “But it wasn’t anything to do with their family. Just the victim was a school friend of Marie’s. They got the man who did it, anyway.”
“And he wasn’t a family member?”
“No, I’m sure Stephen would have told me if that were the case. But whether or not this ancient murder has anything to do with Gaby’s unease, I’ve no idea. As is so often the case, we have insufficient information.”
Jude was torn. She felt tempted to share the tiny bit more information that she did have – the fact that Gaby had expressed anxiety about ‘things’ being brought back to life. But there were two strong reasons why she couldn’t. The first was that she had been treating Gaby and, though Jude was not a conventional practitioner, there still existed a rule of confidentiality between patient and healer. The second, even more compelling, reason was that Gaby had expressly asked her not to tell Carole about their consultation. With exasperation, Jude asked herself how she managed to get into such situations. Her instinct in life was always to tell the complete truth, and whenever she was persuaded by someone to go against that instinct – even for the best of motives – trouble ensued.
Still, she’d given Gaby her word. She couldn’t break that confidence.
Further conversation about the causes of the girl’s distress was interrupted by the arrival of Gita from upstairs, where she had just woken up. Instantly, Jude could see her neighbour tightening up with jealousy. After some brittle chat about very little, Carole finished her drink and announced that she must ‘be getting on’.
Seeing her out, Jude reflected, not for the first time, that Carole was not the easiest person in the world with whom to sustain a friendship.
? The Witness at the Wedding ?
Eight
Carole Seddon had long since stopped pretending that she hadn’t got prejudices. Prejudices were unavoidable for a woman in her fifties, brought up in the middle of the English middle-class, and one of her biggest was geographical. Almost as big as the divide amongst Londoners between ‘north of the river’ and ‘south of the river’ was Carole’s attitude, from ‘south of London’, towards places and people ‘north of London’. She had been brought up and lived her working life in the outer suburbs south of the metropolis, and her ambitions had always been directed towards the English Channel. Living in Fethering, therefore, seemed entirely right and appropriate. And, though ‘some very nice people’ came from and lived in the North of England, they were always bound to be ‘rather different’ from people from the South.
In this geographical hierarchy, Essex occupied a unique position. Proximity to London might be thought to make it a special case, but not to Carole’s way of thinking. Though she would never admit it if asked, her image of the county was a lifelong compilation of media stereotypes. She imagined it to be full of semi-retired East End gangsters, larcenous travellers, overpaid uncouth footballers and their wives, who, like most of the other female denizens, were blondes of voracious sexuality and minimal perception. She thought the only bathroom styles available in the county were onyx and gold, the only garden accessories were windmills and wishing wells, the only newspaper read was the
There was not the slightest danger of reality softening the outline of any of these images, because Carole Seddon had never been to Essex.
But as her immaculate Renault approached the outskirts of Harlow, she saw nothing to change her ingrained perception. The fact that she had driven through the Dartford Tunnel to reach her destination served only to emphasize her feeling of being in an alien land.
Maybe when the ‘new town’ had first been created – the construction started in 1947 – Harlow had had some glamour. Maybe its tightly contained centre, its cement colonnades of shops, had then been state of the art, and the envy of more traditional towns. But, in common with many other examples of post-war building, Harlow had not aged well. Though some developments of that period survived to find a renaissance as ‘retro-chic’, the hopes of that ever happening to Harlow were so small as to be beneath statistical significance.
Perhaps the hotel Carole had chosen to stay in afterthe engagement party reflected her determination not to find any glamour in Essex. Outside the immediate environs of Harlow itself, there was more comfortable accommodation on offer, and she couldn’t pretend to be unaware of the fact, because Stephen and Gaby had booked into a very luxurious hotel converted from an Elizabethan mansion. But Carole had opted for a room in the identikit glassy rectangle of an international chain.
She felt a grim satisfaction as she drove into the car park, from which cement walkways led to the cement monolith itself. The hotel was one you could imagine someone checking into when contemplating suicide; if they hadn’t arrived with suicidal thoughts, they would certainly have them by the time they left.
She looked forward to returning to Fethering as soon as possible the next morning. Carole Seddon didn’t like being off home base. There was no practical difficulty about being away – Jude was going to feed and walk Gulliver – but Carole didn’t like sleeping anywhere other than her own bed at High Tor.
She had no idea where her ex-husband was staying. When Carole had last spoken to Stephen, his father had not yet booked anywhere. Characteristically, David had been late in committing himself to a decision. Equally characteristically, he hadn’t phoned her back, as promised. Carole had contemplated ringing him again before their inevitable meeting at the engagement party, but she had put it off, comforting herself with the argument that it really was his turn to ring her.
Yet somehow she wasn’t surprised, as she walked through the anonymous automatic doors of the hotel, to see a man standing at the anonymous reception, giving his details to the anonymous blue-suited girl behind the counter.
“Yes, the name is…erm…Seddon. David Seddon. I have a single room booked for just the one night.”
“Of course, Mr Seddon,” said the receptionist in perfect received pronunciation, confounding at least one of Carole’s preconceptions.
He hadn’t seen her yet. Carole cleared her throat as she took up a position behind him. He didn’t react. “Excuse me…” she began.
“Won’t be a moment, madam,” said the beautifully spoken girl. “Just dealing with this gentleman.”
Still David didn’t turn. He would always studiedly avoid confrontation or potential unpleasantness.
“Yes, but this gentleman was actually my husband,” Carole found herself saying.
He did turn at that. They stood awkwardly facing each other. Compounding the discomfort, the receptionist asked innocently, “Oh, so will you be wanting a double room then?”
“No,” said David.
“No,” said Carole, with equal promptness, and then added tartly, “I said ‘was’. He’s my ex-husband.”
“Ah.” The girl’s eyes moved discreetly down to her computer keyboard.
Carole tried to think how many years had passed since she and David had seen each other. At least five, probably longer. What she was now confronted with was a middle-aged man slightly below her own height, the dominant feature of whose face was a pair of black heavy-rimmed glasses. His hair, the crown of which had been brown when they last met, was now uniformly white, and he’d had it cut short and spiky, which gave a slightly raffish air, totally at odds with his nondescript beige suit. David Seddon looked what he was, a minor civil servant in retirement.
But Carole had enough detachment to know that, as he looked at her, the same thought was probably crossing his mind. She felt she looked drab and ordinary, an increasingly neurotic middle-aged woman; a minor civil servant in retirement.
Neither of them could think what to say, but the receptionist prevented total silence. “There’s your key, Mr Seddon. Do you want any help with your bags?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Just got this little wheelie one.”
“Splendid. Well, I hope you enjoy your stay, Mr Seddon. And now…Mrs Seddon, is it?”
“Yes. Carole Seddon.”
David hovered. To go straight to his room without saying anything would have been downright rude, but he couldn’t think of anything appropriate to the circumstances.
“Maybe,” Carole suggested, to ease the awkwardness, “we could meet for a cup of tea – or a drink – you
