to.”
“So was it Marie who set up the meeting you were going to have with Howard – you know, the day after he died?”
“No. I didn’t want her to know about that. I rang Howard to fix it at a time I knew Marie would be out.”
“And of course the meeting never happened.”
“No. Wouldn’t have happened even if Howard hadn’t been killed. As soon as I discovered that Robert knew about it, there was no way I was going to turn up.”
“But how did you discover that Robert knew about it?”
“Marie told me. I rang her that night after the engagement party.”
“You did? Where did you ring her from? Were you in Essex?”
“No. I was planning to go up the following morning. I was down here.”
Carole’s eyes sparkled in the gloom. “Mick, do you realize what that means?”
“What?”
“It means you’ve got an alibi for the time of Howard’s murder. Your call to Marie in Harlow. The police can trace where the mobile was being used from. If you were down here talking on the phone, there’s no way you could have been in Epping Forest, strangling Howard Martin.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said softly.
“And if Marie had told the police about your call, then that would have removed the suspicion from you straightaway. Why didn’t she?”
“I think she wanted to protect me. She thought that if the police knew I’d been in touch with her, it would make it easier for them to track me down.”
Carole wondered if that was the real reason. She reckoned that Marie Martin’s secretive nature, encouraged by her control-freak of a brother, had stopped her from saying a lot of important things over the years. Some of which would definitely have prevented murders.
Neither of them slept much that night. The weather was so mild that they didn’t feel the need to go back down to the cellar. They talked intermittently, half-dozing through long silences. And, as the June dawn rose over the Downs, Carole Seddon realized that she had spent the night talking to the father of her prospective daughter- in-law.
And they hadn’t discussed wedding plans at all.
Michael Brewer made them some breakfast, and Robert ate a little too. Then, at nine o’clock, the time when Jerome Clancy always arrived at his office, Carole rang through to him. Like so many from her Home Office days, his number was etched into the address book of her brain.
Jerome Clancy remembered her well, and was very interested in the story she had to tell about the miscarriage of justice against Michael Brewer. More than interested, excited. He asked how soon they could get up to his office in High Holborn.
They went all the way up to London in Robert’s Peugeot, Carole driving. On public transport there was still a risk of Michael Brewer being recognized.
Jerome Clancy was delighted to see them. They talked for two hours, and he took copious notes. As the conversation developed, he grew increasingly gleeful. This was exactly the sort of case he relished.
That afternoon, acting on information received, the police arrived at Leper’s Copse, and arrested Robert Coleman.
? The Witness at the Wedding ?
Forty-One
On that August evening outside the Crown and Anchor, Fethering felt more like the South of France than the South Coast of England. Global warming, the locals tutted, but they couldn’t help loving the warm weather.
Gita Millington had come down to stay at Woodside Cottage for the weekend, and had insisted on treating Carole and Jude to dinner at the pub as a thank-you.
“What for?” Jude had asked.
“I’ll tell you when you’re there.”
So after they’d loaded up with drinks, heard Ted Crisp’s latest joke about the difference between a fishmonger and a footballer, all ordered his recommendation of Fethering Crispy Fish Pie, and found a table outside, Jude said, “All right, Gita. Enough of this mystery. What are you thanking us for?”
“I’m thanking you for putting me on to the Michael Brewer story.”
“Well, thank you for all the research you did,” said Carole. “It really helped. And now, thank God, Michael Brewer has a chance of living the remainder of his life in peace.”
“In peace, and in some luxury, I would imagine.”
“What do you mean, Gita?”
“Compensation. I know no amount of money can actually make up for thirty years in prison, but he will be getting a pretty substantial sum.”
“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Come on,” Jude urged. “Why are you thanking us for getting you to do our research for us?”
“I’m thanking you, because, the more I got into the story, the better I realized it was. So I put together a proposal for it and – ”
“What, a proposal for a magazine feature?”
“Better than that. A proposal for a book. A true crime book, following the whole story through from 1973 right up to the present day. And the great news is – I’ve got a publisher.”
“It’s been commissioned.”
“With, I may say, a very substantial advance.”
Jude leant across to hug her friend. “That’s absolutely brilliant!”
“I know, it’s great. Because, not only is it terrific to have got the commission, it’s also a new direction for my career. For a long time I’ve been wanting to get away from the grind of journalism – I told you – to write something that lasts more than the shelf-life of a magazine. And the book will achieve that. I’m going to write most of it in the next six months,” Gita bubbled on with excitement. “Then I’ll sit in all the way through Robert Coleman’s trial, add the finishing touches and the publishers will have it in the bookshops within a week of the verdict!”
Jude grinned at Carole, who knew she was being judged. Did she still resent Gita having been included in their investigation? She didn’t. Such worries seemed to belong to a very distant time. She smiled graciously back at Jude.
“And the good thing is,” Gita continued, “that Jerome Clancy’s also going to help me on the book. Obviously there are things he can’t talk about for professional reasons, but he’ll give me any assistance he can.”
“Which might mean,” Jude suggested slyly, “that you’ll have to have quite a few meetings with him.”
“I suppose I might.”
“Or has that process of consultation already started?”
Gita Millington looked coy. “Well, we have had the odd dinner…”
They caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing. And as she looked at her friend, beautifully dressed, beautifully made-up, glowing with professional and emotional confidence, Jude felt that the rehabilitation of Gita Millington was well under way.
Embarrassed now, the journalist wanted to move the conversation on. “But tell me, Carole, how are preparations going for the wedding of the century?”
“Absolutely brilliant.”
“And how’s the blushing bride?”
“Wonderful.”
“Except, of course,” said Jude with a little smile, “that she’s been coming to see me for a few sessions. She’s got trouble with her back again.”
The wedding was one of the most splendid that Fedborough Church had ever witnessed. The fourteenth of September proved to be a glorious late-summer day, contributing to the general feeling that nothing would be
