“She wasn’t in Dubai with you?”
“No. So far as I know, she was here in England.”
“So far as you know?”
“Yes, as far as I know,” Giles Newton said testily. “She may have gone travelling. She went abroad last summer, to Holland and Germany, I believe.”
“You
“Yes. Look, Mrs…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Carole Seddon.”
“Well, Mrs Seddon, as you may well have deduced, the fact is that my wife and I are no longer together.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Carole automatically.
“I’m not sure that I am. At least I’m no longer involved in the messes Melanie gets herself into.”
“Messes?”
But echoing his words was not so fruitful this time. “Look, Mrs Seddon, what do you want? If it’s something to do with my wife, you’re talking to the wrong person. What she does is her own business. I no longer have any contact with her.”
“But do you know where she’s living?”
“No, I don’t. We used to live together in a house in Fedborough, but since we sold that, we’ve gone our separate ways. And may I emphasize that I have no responsibility for her financial affairs. In fact, after some of the things she got me involved in, I hope I never see her again.”
“What kind of things did she get you involved in?”
The question was over-optimistic. “Mrs Seddon, if my wife has once again got herself into trouble, I suggest you talk to her rather than to me.”
“Well, that’s what I want to do, Mr Newton, but I don’t have any means of contacting her.”
“I can give you a mobile number.”
“Is it still current?”
“I’ve no idea. I’ve made no attempt to contact Melanie since last November.”
And so it was that Carole got hold of Melanie Newton’s phone number. The words ‘Home Office’ did still command a measure of authority.
She knew she should really share her discovery with Jude, but the temptation to present her neighbour with some kind of dramatic coup was too strong. Carole rang the number. It went straight on to voicemail. No identification of the phone’s owner, just a terse, “Leave a message after the tone.”
A pity, but Carole’s gratification outweighed her disappointment. She now had a name and a phone number for Melanie Newton. And she had heard the woman’s voice.
¦
Zofia Jankowska stayed in her bedroom late on the Sunday morning, but Jude knew the girl was awake because she could hear music. At about half-past eleven she tapped on the door. “Just wondered what you’d like to do about lunch?”
The girl was dressed and sitting on her bed. She looked as though she might have been crying, her pigtails once again emphasizing her youth and frailty. After a quick look at her watch, she said, “No, I don’t think I have time for lunch. Ted wants me to do a shift at the pub starting at twelve.”
“So you must have done all right last night.” Jude had been in bed before Zofia returned from the Crown and Anchor.
“I think so. Not that you’d have known it from Ted. He watch me all evening like he thought I was about to steal from the cash register.”
“He’ll get used to you. He’s naturally distrustful.”
“Distrustful of ‘foreigners’, yes.”
“If he’s asked you to come back, he can’t be too worried.”
“He does not make it sound like he is happy. He offer me shift today only because he is very busy at Sunday lunchtime, and his other staff let him down. Still he don’t say whether there will be more work for me.”
“You’ll win him round.”
Zofia grinned. “Yes, I think I will.”
“Well, look, would you like me to rustle up something quickly for you before you go?”
“No, I’m OK. I’ll just have a cup of coffee.”
“How long’s the shift?”
“Ted wants me to work till three.”
“I’ll have something nice and hot waiting for you when you come back.”
“Please, Jude, you don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
“You are very kind to me.”
Jude grinned and there was a silence between them. She became aware of the music. Soft acoustic guitar and a gentle voice in a yearning song, some kind of folk-tune in a language Jude could not understand. The sound quality was not professional, as though a primitive microphone had just been placed in front of the singer in an ordinary room.
“This is your brother, Zosia?” The girl nodded and once again tears welled in her eyes. “He’s very good. Is it one of his own songs?”
The girl gave another nod, not daring to speak lest it start her weeping. Jude sat down on the bed and put her ample arms around the thin shoulders. “We will find out what happened to him. Don’t worry. I promise we will.”
“Yes.” Zofia’s hazel eyes sought Jude’s. “That will not bring Tadek back, will it?”
“No, I’m afraid it won’t. Nothing will do that.”
“But finding out who killed him, is that supposed to bring me…closure?”
“I hate the word. American psychological claptrap. But I think knowing how and why Tadek was killed may make it easier for you to live with what has happened. I’m not stupid or simplistic enough to tell you that the grief will ever go away.” Another silence. Jude could feel in the tension of the girl’s shoulders how hard she was trying not to cry. “I’m sorry, not knowing any Polish, I’ve no idea what this song is about.”
“What does it sound as if it’s about?”
Jude listened to the music for a moment. “Love. Yearning. A love that is doomed.”
“Then Tadek has written a good song, if you can understand the feeling without understanding the words. Yes, it is about a love that is doomed. He wrote songs for all of the women he loved.” She let out a wry little laugh. “And with every woman he loved, I’m afraid the relationship was doomed.”
“You said most of them were older women?”
“Yes, this song was for one of his music teachers at the university. She was married with two small children.”
“So did they have an affair?”
“No, no. A lot of his relationships were not…what do you say? Hands on?”
“He worshipped from afar?”
“That is a good way of saying it, yes. The love was mostly in his head. He put the women on…what was that word you told me…?”
“A pedestal.”
“That is correct.”
“What do the words of the song say?”
“I can’t translate exactly, but Tadek is saying that, though he and the woman can never be together, this does not stop his love from being beautiful.”
Jude nodded. “That explains it. Because, although the song is yearning, it doesn’t actually sound sad. It isn’t a miserable song.”
“No, sometimes I think Tadek likes it that his love affairs never work out. Perhaps he finds it is easier to write about an imagined woman than a real woman.”
“Typical romantic. It’s much easier to remain romantic about an imagined woman than a real one.” There
