like having their national treasures shot down in flames. Anyway, for the tabloid-reading public, Flora’s now way too old to be interesting. All they want to hear about is the doings of drugged-up girl singers or love-rat footballers.”
“So there never was a newspaper expose of Flora?”
“There was one, actually, now I remember. Early seventies, as I recall. Done by a music journalist called Biff Carpenter. I think it was a hatchet job on Ricky Le Bonnier, actually, but it did bring in the fact that his mother’s background was completely fabricated. There was a bit of a fuss at the time, but it soon blew over. The British public liked to think of their national treasure Flora Le Bonnier as an aristocrat, and they weren’t going to let a little thing like the truth get in the way.”
Carole made a mental note to google the name of Biff Carpenter as soon as she got back to High Tor. Then she turned the conversation back to the fire at Gallimaufry. “Suppose you’d got it wrong, Rupert? Suppose it wasn’t about your residency at the beach hut that the police wanted to talk to you?”
“Ricky told me it was about my being in the beach hut.”
“But he might have been lying. Your being out of the way here might not be in order to protect you, but to protect Ricky himself.”
“But why?”
“Because, Rupert, you did see Ricky from your beach hut the night Gallimaufry burnt down, didn’t you?”
“Yes, all right, I did, but there was no way I would have told the police that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like authority.”
Carole took a risk and asked, “Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“I got the impression, when we last met, that you might have a particular reason for wanting to steer clear of the police.”
His pale blue eyes looked sharply into hers. “How much do you know?”
Carole wasn’t about to answer this truthfully and say, “Nothing.” She shrugged, hoping that her silence would prompt further revelations.
It did. Rupert Sonning’s gaze moved rather shamefacedly down to his battered trainers. “Last summer I had a bit of a set-to with the cops. I hadn’t done anything, but if you live my lifestyle, you open yourself up to certain accusations.”
“How do you mean?”
“As you know, I spend most of my time wandering along the beach and inevitably, during the summer, I walk past lots of families with young kids. Well, some of them don’t like that.”
“You mean they think you have designs on their children?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, that’s exactly what I mean, Carole. The press is so full of hysteria about kids being abducted and paedophiles and…any man who goes for a walk on his own puts himself at risk of that kind of accusation.”
“So somebody did make that accusation against you?”
“Yes, some uptight Yummy Mummy whose daughters had been changing into their bathing costumes as I walked past. She called the police and made a complaint against me. So I was hauled in and…well, let’s say, they didn’t give me a very nice time.”
“Were you charged?”
“No. There was nothing they could charge me with. And that made them even more furious. Anyway, the result of that rather unpleasant experience is that I vowed never to go out of my way to co-operate with the police again.”
“Even if you were a witness to a murder?”
“Even then.” He looked up at her again, an expression of definace now on his face. “I don’t know whether you want to believe me or not – that’s up to you – but I can assure you that I have no interest in small children. The sight of a mature adult female in a bikini can still sometimes get the old juices flowing, but children – no. That has never turned me on. As I say, you don’t have to believe me.”
After a silence, Carole said, “Actually I do.” And she did.
“Anyway, it was an unpleasant experience – and one that’s characteristic of the way things are going these days. I think there are too many people around in this country trying to tell the rest of us how to live our lives. What happened to the great British principle of minding your own bloody business? That seems to have gone from contemporary life. We’ve become a nation of busybodies, whistleblowers, informers, sneaks. Like all these officials who’re trying to get me out of Pequod. We’ve lost far too many basic freedoms during my lifetime – particularly since we joined the European Union. I think people should have the right to use their own property as they think fit.”
“Even to the point of burning it down?”
“In Ricky’s case, yes. His wasn’t the first and it certainly won’t be the last insurance fire in the history of the world. Gallimaufry was doing badly – hardly surprising, it was a stupid thing to set up in the first place – money was getting tight, so Ricky burnt it down.”
“Did you see him do that?”
“I saw him go in the back way carrying a can of something. Then I saw him drive away. A few minutes later I could see the flames licking upwards from the downstairs window.”
“What time would that be?”
“Soon after midnight, I think.”
“From what you say, Rupert, you don’t seem to regard lighting an insurance fire as a crime?”
“Not really. Well, if it is, it’s a victimless crime. The only people who suffer from it are some faceless bureaucrats in an insurance company.”
“You say they’re the only people who suffer. You’re forgetting that Ricky’s stepdaughter was inside the shop when it burnt down.”
“Yes, but she must have been already dead. Ricky would never have lit the fire if he’d known she was alive in there.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“So who do you think killed Polly?”
“As to that, Carole,” said Rupert Sonning, “I have no idea.”
? The Shooting in the Shop ?
Thirty-Three
While she continued to play the Hiding Things game with Mabel, Jude took only Woolly Monkey out of the secret hiding place. She left the mobile phone sock where it was and slid the hidden drawer back into the skirting board. It moved with great ease, as if it had been recently oiled, but she reckoned the mechanism was probably quite old. Fedingham Court House had borne witness to many generations who had no doubt used the secret space to hide valuables, jewellery, private papers perhaps even the vessels and vestments for a Catholic Mass.
Mabel’s parents didn’t arrive back at seven, but if they had, they would have found all calm at Fedingham Court House. Their daughter had given Jude very detailed instructions about how to serve supper for herself and her brother, told her about the bit of CBeebies television they were allowed to watch, and talked her through the required rituals of bathtime. Henry, a model of docility, had a bottle of milk before retiring and allowed himself to be put back in his cot with no fuss at all. Mabel indicated to Jude the three stories she required to have read to her – all of which she seemed to know by heart – and then she, too, had her light turned off and settled down for the night. Neither child seemed at all fazed by having their bedtime routine conducted by a relative stranger.
As soon as Mabel’s light was off Jude went back downstairs. She had no moral qualms about reopening the secret drawer and removing the fluorescent pink sock, which, as she had hoped, did still contain a mobile phone. She hadn’t decided yet what she would do with this vital piece of evidence, but was glad her neighbour wasn’t with
