The Fethering Mysteries 11; The Shooting in the Shop

“I don’t know exactly, but everyone had gone by half past six. And so far as we know, the only other time he went out that evening was to take Polly to catch the seven thirty-two at Fedborough Station.”

“So if your oh-so-reliable witness Kath is right, he’s been lying.” Carole drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “The other thing I’ve been thinking about is the gun.”

“What about the gun?”

“The fact that there was a gun. I mean, if Polly had been found stabbed or strangled, well, all right, there are plenty of suitable murder weapons available anywhere. But a gun – in Fethering? It’s not as if we’re talking about south London, or the back streets of Manchester, or the slums of Glasgow. I can’t think that many people in Fethering have guns – except for legitimate purposes like shooting at targets or pheasants.”

Jude smiled inwardly at the Daily Mail sensibility which informed all of her neighbour’s views on criminal demographics. But Carole had, nonetheless, raised an interesting point. “You’re right. And the police statement said that Polly was killed by a single bullet wound, which suggests that the weapon used wasn’t the kind of shotgun which most people in shooting parties would use. It’s a rifle or a pistol.”

“Well, who in Fethering would have one of those? And, more importantly, where is it now? If the murderer had any sense, he would – ”

“Or she.”

“Yes, absolutely right. He – or she – would have got rid of the weapon as soon as possible.”

“And, given the geography of Fethering, where would you do that – speaking as a murderer who had some sense?”

“Well, the sea’s the obvious place. Except, of course, the coastline’s so flat here, you might have to go quite a long way out to find deep enough water. Mind you, the same’s not true of the Fether. Even at low tide, in the river there’s enough water – not to mention a lot of extremely glutinous mud – to hide a gun very effectively.”

Jude nodded agreement. She looked thoughtful. “I was just thinking back to that boy who was drowned in the Fether…”

“Aaron Spalding? That was the first time we got involved in a murder investigation, wasn’t it, Jude?” Carole sounded fondly nostalgic.

“Yes. But remember the interesting thing about what happened to the boy’s body. He was what is called locally a ‘Fethering Floater’.”

“That’s right. He was swept up on Fethering Beach twenty-four hours after he’d gone into the river. Of course I remember, Jude. I was the one who found him.”

“Yes…” Jude mused and unconsciously tapped at her chin.

“What?”

“Well, I was just wondering whether what happens to a body might also happen to something small and heavy like a gun…?”

“That if it was thrown into the Fether, it, too, might get washed up on Fethering Beach?”

“Do you think it would?”

At that moment there was a loud knock on the front door of Woodside Cottage.

¦

There were two detectives, a man and a woman, and they’d clearly attended all the latest training courses on dealing with the public. Their approach was politeness itself, apologizing for interrupting things, but asserting that police work didn’t stop because it was a holiday season. They explained they were making general inquiries to try to ascertain the cause of the death at Gallimaufry, and they had been informed that the deceased, Polly Le Bonnier, had been at a party given by Jude on the Sunday, the day – or perhaps the day before – she died.

At this juncture Carole suggested that perhaps she should leave, so that the detectives could question Jude on her own.

“I think you should stay,” said her neighbour. She explained that Carole had also attended the party and had, in fact, spent longer talking to Polly than she had.

The police questioning was courteous and thorough, but if Carole and Jude had been hoping to be brought up to date on the official inquiry into the death, they were doomed to disappointment. Inquiries about how Polly had died were deflected by the information that forensic investigations were still continuing. When there was any news that could be made public, the media would be informed. In the meantime, the detectives would be very grateful if the ladies could just answer the questions to the best of their ability.

So they did. And no amount of prompts – such as Carole’s assertion that during their conversation Polly had seemed far from suicidal – made the detectives divert by a millimetre from their party line. They certainly never once mentioned the word ‘murder’.

After the detectives’ departure, the two women felt rather flat. It was so frustrating to have spent time with people who, undoubtedly, knew infinitely more about the case than they did, and to end the encounter without even the most meagre scrap of new information.

“All we do know,” Carole announced huffily, “is that their investigation is ongoing. Which means they haven’t yet solved the case…otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered coming to see you.”

This was so self-evident that Jude didn’t think it worthy of comment. Instead, she began slowly, “The only good thing about their visit – ”

“Oh, there is a good thing, is there?”

“Yes. They’ve given me an excuse to ring Lola.”

“What?”

“I can just tell her that the police have been questioning us. I’m sure she’d want to know. And Ricky certainly would, he said so.”

“Well, I think I’ll be getting along.” Carole rose to her feet. “Gulliver was covered in sand when I brought him back from his walk. I came straight round here, so I’d better go and do some sweeping up. Let me know if you hear anything new from Lola.”

“Of course I will,” Jude called out to Carole’s retreating back. Then she dialled the Le Bonniers’ number. She was relieved it was Lola who answered, and quickly passed on the news of her visit from the police.

“Thanks for letting me know. I must say, their investigations are very thorough. They seem to be contacting everyone who had anything to do with Polly or anyone else in the family.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Not really. Well, it’s just another thing that takes time, like Mabel’s ear infection, and the Dalmatian puppies, and Piers reappearing from his parents’ place in Gloucestershire, and Flora needing full-time attention for the last couple of days…”

“How is she, by the way?”

“Better today, thank God. She’s a tough old bird. The iron discipline she exercises over her emotions has reasserted itself. It’s in the genes, you know. If you asked, Flora would tell you that her upper lip has been permanently stiffened by generations of aristocratic in-breeding.”

“How long is she staying with you?”

“Till New Year’s Day.” Lola didn’t quite manage to prevent this from sounding like a prison sentence.

“Where does she live?”

“Service flat in a big block in St John’s Wood in London. Very exclusive, very tasteful, very soigne.” A gloomy thought intruded. “Though God knows how much longer she’ll be able to manage there on her own. Her hands are virtually useless now.”

Apparently casual, Jude changed the topic of conversation. “The detectives who came to see me were very pleasant.”

“Yes, they all have been. I mean, heaven forbid you should ever be involved in an investigation into an unexplained death, but if you were, you couldn’t ask for a more sensitive and efficient bunch of cops in charge.”

“You’ve seen a lot of them?”

“And how. Well, obviously they’re going to be asking us a lot of stuff, since Polly was Ricky’s stepdaughter. But they have been as pleasant as their job allows them to be. Mabel’s taken a definite shine to one of the young detective constables. And, incidentally, she keeps asking about you too, Jude. You made quite an impression on her when we went to the swings that day.”