“Your plan? What on earth are you talking about, David?”
“My plan for the four of us to…erm…as it were, have dinner together.”
“Oh. Well, yes, I’m sure…at some point.”
“Stephen said he and Gaby could do Thursday evening.”
“Could they? Well…um…”
“Have you got anything on on Thursday night, Carole?”
“I might have – I’m not entirely sure.”
“It would be good for us to…erm…get together as a foursome.”
“Maybe. But I’m sure Gaby’s not ready for something like that yet. She’s in a very bad state about her father’s death, and she’s worried about her mother, so I’m sure she’d rather put off that kind of social encounter for – ”
“Yes, I suppose she might. But if she did feel up to it, then you would join us, wouldn’t you? It would mean so much to Stephen.”
First Gaby, now David, thought Carole. Why’s everyone trying to blackmail me about my duty to my son? Trouble was, the blackmail was working, making her say things against her better judgement.
“Well, look, David, if it happens, I suppose I could be free.”
From David’s enthusiastic reaction no one would have guessed how gracelessly she had said the words. “That’s terrific, Carole. I knew you’d be up for it. Look, I’ll…erm…ring you before Thursday with the fine-tuning – details of times and…erm…where we’re going and…erm…”
Oh God, thought Carole savagely as she put the phone down, why do I get myself into situations like this? But she hadn’t time to brood, because at that moment there was a ring at her doorbell. She opened it in expectation of a misdirected delivery or a youngman of dubious provenance selling tea towels and oven gloves of equally dubious provenance. The only person in Fethering who would ring the bell of High Tar without pre- arrangement was Jude. And Carole knew Jude was away somewhere that afternoon.
She was therefore surprised to see Gita Millington standing on her doorstep. This was the new, fully made- up, efficient Gita Millington. Carole was for a moment nonplussed, before ingrained manners asserted themselves and she said, “Oh, how nice to see you, Gita. Won’t you come in?”
But she didn’t feel comfortable. Gita was Jude’s friend, and Carole had never been in her company without Jude present. Gita on her own in High Tor felt like an obscure invasion of privacy.
But the atavistic rituals of politeness had to be followed. Coffee was offered and accepted, and nothing more than small talk exchanged until the two of them were sitting over a tray in the sitting room. Carole assumed Gita must have some reason for her call, but behaved as though someone dropping in for coffee unannounced was the most natural thing in the world.
The coffee-pouring ceremony performed, Gita revealed why she had come round. “Jude’s out this afternoon, but I thought you’d like to know, Carole, that I’ve got some more information on Michael Brewer.”
Carole certainly did like to know that, but couldn’t totally repress the resentment she still felt at the inclusion of a third person in their investigating team.
Gita qualified what she’d said. “Well, it’s not information as such that I’ve got, more a source of information. I’ve found someone you could contact to find out more details.”
Carole liked that a lot better, Gita in her proper position as junior researcher, not as a main investigator.
“I should have thought of it before, but I got on to Friends Reunited.”
“Oh?” said Carole blankly.
“A website service whereby old school friends can track each other down.”
Carole’s face revealed her distaste for the concept. Her own schooldays had been a time of complex emotions and continuous embarrassment, certainly not a time of her life she wished to revisit. Nor indeed were there any people from school with whom she wished to renew contact.
“Anyway, Carole, I suddenly realized that Friends Reunited might be the simplest way to make contact with people who were at school with Janine Buckley.”
And, of course, with Marie Martin – or Marie Coleman, as she would have been then. Carole almost said the name out loud, but then remembered Gita knew nothing of the connection between the Martin family and Michael Brewer.
“That’s an excellent idea, Gita,” she was forced to concede.
“I found quite a few contact names, a lot of them still local. Surprising how many of the girls stayed in the Worthing area.”
“But how did you get into the website? Surely it’s meant only for people who actually were at the school?”
Gita blushed. “There are ways round that kind of thing. You don’t have to use your own name to log in.” Carole didn’t probe further.
“Look.” A printout of names was proffered. “Here’s a list of girls who were in the same year as Janine Buckley. All local. A lot are married and have changed their names, but I’ve managed to get phone numbers for all of them.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” said Carole, with something approaching enthusiasm.
“And look – ” Gita’s finger found a name. “There’s one who lives right here in Fethering. Libby Pearson.”
“Oh. Goodness…” Carole was instantly besieged by social doubt. What, she wondered, was the correct protocol for ringing someone out of the blue to question them about the murder of a school friend more than thirty years ago? She supposed she could wait till Jude was back. That felt rather wimpish, though. She should seize the opportunity she had been given. But what pretence could be fabricated to justify the initial contact?
Gita must have identified her dilemma, because she said, “Are you wondering how to break the ice?”
“Well, it might be rather awkward, you know, just ringing someone up. One ought to have some kind of reason.”
“Like writing a book about the Janine Buckley case?”
“That would do it, certainly.” But Carole had never had the ease with tactical lying that Jude had. “The trouble is, I’m
“No.” There was a silence, then Gita Millington said firmly, “But I am.”
The two women’s eyes met. Carole recognized that Gita was offering her a deal. I’ll make the next stage easier for you – if you include me in your investigation.
The phone in High Tor rang while Gita was back in Woodside Cottage, touching up her make-up. It was logical, really, that there should be a call from the police. Carole hadn’t followed through the implications, but of course she and Jude had been among the last people to see Barry Painter – known to his friends as Bazza – before his death.
“I’m Inspector Pollard from Essex Police,” the humourless voice on the phone identified itself. “I’m collaborating on this case with West Sussex, so it is permissible for me to talk to you. Have you had any contact yet from West Sussex Police?”
Carole said that she hadn’t.
“Right. I’m sure you will soon. They’re always a bit slow off the mark.” There was a satisfaction in this, some point-scoring in an inter-constabulary rivalry. “I’ve obviously been talking to Marie Martin and her daughter Gaby. I believe you know them?”
“Gaby is the fiancee of my son Stephen.”
“Fine. Given what happened to Mr Painter, we are needless to say trying to reconstruct his movements during the last hours of his life. And I believe” – a note of disbelief came into his voice – “that he had a drink in the Crown and Anchor pub in Fethering with you and your friend, Jude something-or-other – I don’t have a record of her surname.”
“She’s just called Jude,” said Carole loyally.
For a moment Inspector Pollard seemed about to press for a surname, but decided he had more important questions. “May I ask, Mrs Seddon, how Mr Painter came to be having a drink with you? Was he a friend of yours?”
“Good heavens, no.” Carole couldn’t keep the instinctive distaste out of her reply.
“Or of your friend Jude?”
“No.”
