“Yes,” Jude agreed thoughtfully.
“Well, do you have any bright ideas of how we’d set about it?”
An even broader beam took over. “I do, actually. It will involve someone else – ”
“What?” Carole demanded suspiciously.
“But it’ll still be secret. We’ll still be the only ones who know we’re investigating another murder.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I promise. Come on, you’ll trust me on this, won’t you?”
“Ye-es,” Carole replied distrustfully.
“The Dauncey Hotel’s perfect. I just wanted to ring and thank you for fixing it.”
“A pleasure. How’s your mother?”
“More relaxed already, just because the phone’s not ringing all the time. She’s crying a lot about Dad, but it’s kind of more relaxed, more genuine grief – therapeutic crying.”
“Good. Have you heard from Stephen?”
“Only briefly. Still up to his ears at work. But hopes to get down for a bit of time this weekend.”
“I hope he can manage it. And you haven’t had any calls from the police?”
“Nothing, I’m glad to say. Look, Carole, I’d better go. I don’t like to leave Mum on her own for too long.”
“No, of course not. And do remember my offer if you fancy getting out for a meal or anything.”
“Sure. Thanks. I’ll be in touch. Bye.”
“Have you rung anyone?”
Jude knew the answer before she asked the question. Gita Millington lay listlessly draped over the sofa, the television flickering an unseen cookery programme at her.
“Do you think a glass of wine might help?”
Gita shrugged. “About all I’m fit for, probably. Drinking up your booze. Leeching on your goodwill.”
Such remarks didn’t deserve any response. Jude went through to the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two glasses. When they were charged, she switched off the television and sat down facing herfriend. “Listen, Gita, I have a proposition to put to you.”
“Goodness. I can’t remember how long it is since I was last propositioned.”
“Look, at the moment you think you’re never going to pick up your career as a journalist again.”
“I don’t think it. I know it. Whatever skill I used to have – well, it’s just gone. I used to be able to cold-call twenty editors in a morning till one would accept the idea I was flogging. Now I’m afraid even to ring one who’s a close friend and to whose daughter I’m godmother. It’s just gone.”
“The confidence has gone. But I’m sure the ability hasn’t.”
Gita puffed out a despairing breath. “I’ve no idea. At the moment I think the ability’s gone too, but it doesn’t make a lot of difference either way. Oh, and this was going to be a breakthrough time in my life. I was going to move gradually away from journalism and start writing books. Non-fiction, maybe true crime, but until I can start selling myself again, it doesn’t matter whether I have any ability or not.”
“Listen. When you were writing articles, you used to do a lot of research, didn’t you?”
“Yes. You had to do research.”
“Right. So if you had a job to do, you’d know where to go to get the right research information?”
“Of course I would. But since I’m currently incapable of picking up the phone to get myself a job…”
“Suppose I gave you a job.”
“Jude, you’re a very dear friend, and I love you very much, but one thing I can’t help noticing about you is you’re not a magazine editor.”
“I know that. But there’s still something that I want researched.”
“What?” For the first time, there was a little glimmer of interest in Gita’s eye.
“I can’t tell you why I want it researched, and, I’m sorry to say, I can’t pay you for researching it.”
“Jude, after what I owe you in hospitality and kindness and listening to me maundering on, I wouldn’t take your money whatever you wanted me to do.”
“All right. Well, what I was thinking was, that if you do this research job for me and you do it well – which I know you will – it might make you realize that you haven’t lost all your old skills, that there are still things you can do.”
“So it’d be like a dry run?”
“Exactly. And once you’ve proved you can still do it, I think the confidence might return for you to do the real thing.”
Gita’s lips twisted wryly. “Nice thought, but I doubt it.” She was hooked, though. “Come on, Jude, what is it that you want me to research?”
? The Witness at the Wedding ?
Sixteen
If it had done nothing else, the prospect of having a research project had sharpened up Gita Millington’s personal grooming. When she set off next morning to start her investigations, she was dressed in a smart black trouser suit over a turquoise blouse and black shoes with long screwdriver toes. She’d also done some personal colouring in the shower (she didn’t feel she could face a public hairdresser yet), and her hair was back to its uniform dark brown glossiness. And, even more encouragingly for Jude, she’d put on her full war paint. Very skilfully. She had taken ten years off her face. Gita looked what she was – what she feared she would never be again – a successful journalist setting out on an assignment.
Her manner of speaking had also undergone a total make-over. “I’m going to start in the archives of the
“Only really local one. There’s also the
“I’ll probably try that too. Then move on to the nationals. If it was a big murder trial, then there would have been a lot of coverage. I did a bit of preliminary stuff last night on the internet.”
“That’s working all right, is it?” Jude had inherited a laptop from her late lover Laurence Hawker. She very rarely used it herself, but had offered Gita the facility.
“Absolutely fine. It’s a nice machine.”
“Well, it’s already done some useful research into another murder, so let’s hope that’s a good omen.” Jude felt a slight melancholy pang for the loss of Laurence.
“Yes. Don’t worry, Jude, I’ll get the information you need.”
And Gita left, as bouncy as the intrepid boy reporter Tintin embarking on a new assignment. Which made Jude feel very good.
What made her feel slightly less good was the prospect of telling Carole that it was Gita who was becoming a part – albeit an as yet unwitting part – of their murder investigation.
“Carole…”
“Gaby, what is it? You sound upset. Is your mother all right?”
“She’s fine. Mind you, she wouldn’t be if she’d heard the news that I’ve just heard.”
“What’s that?”
“The police have taken Phil in for questioning.”
Carole picked Gaby up at the Dauncey Hotel. Marie Martin was having an afternoon sleep, and her daughter felt safe to leave her for half an hour. She didn’t want to talk in the hotel, so Carole drove to a car park on a nearby beach. On the far side of the River Fether from Fethering itself were rambling dunes topped with coxcombs of rough, springy grass. At weekends, the car parks and the beach filled up, but that June afternoon there were only a few dog walkers and a couple of young parents with tiny offspring on the sand.
“Do you want to walk or just sit?”
Gaby opted for just sitting. They wound down the car’s windows. A slight breeze aerated the car with the smell of the sea, as Carole waited patiently for the girl to get her thoughts together and start talking.
“OK. I had a call from Inspector Pollard this morning. He just told me that ‘he thought we would like to know’ that my brother Philip Martin is currently ‘helping them with their enquiries’.”
