Jude knew the older man by sight. He worked in one of Fethering’s estate agencies on the parade (however small the town in West Sussex, there always seemed to be business for more than one estate agent). The agency was called Urquhart & Pease, though whether the man had one of those as his surname Jude didn’t know.
“Been only a matter of time before something like this happened,” he announced in a voice that had been to all the right schools. “Ever since the wretched EU opened up our boundaries to all and sundry, it’s been an accident waiting to happen. I mean, I’m the last person to be racist…” Wasn’t it strange, Jude reflected, how people who started sentences like that always ended up being exactly what they denied they were “…but I do think we ought to have a bit of a say in who we let into our country. We are islanders, after all, with everything that goes with that…and we have a long history of doing things our way. And I’m not saying all immigration is bad. I’m as tolerant as the next man…” Which in West Sussex, thought Jude, wasn’t saying a lot “…and I’ve got friends and colleagues who…What are you allowed to say now? Have different ethnic backgrounds…? Pakistani chap works as our accountant, and he fits in, you’d never know…Doesn’t he, Hamish?”
The younger man agreed that their Pakistani accountant did fit in, and listened dutifully as the estate agent pontificated on. “But I still do think you have to draw the line somewhere…or we’ll see more things happening like we did today.”
Jude didn’t want to get drawn into the conversation – she knew she’d be on a hiding to nothing – but she couldn’t help asking, “So you think this man was murdered because he was an immigrant?”
“Obviously.” He flashed her an urbane and slightly patronizing smile. “I’m sorry, we don’t know each other. Ewan Urquhart.” So he was one of the partners in the agency. “And my son Hamish.”
“This is Jude,” said Ted Crisp, as though he’d been remiss in not making the introduction before.
“I’ve seen you walking along the High Street,” said the estate agent. “Never fail to notice an attractive woman, you know.” It was a knee-jerk compliment, a little too smoothly delivered. Jude decided she would not buy a house from this man.
“But, Mr Urquhart, you were saying – ”
“Ewan, please.”
“Ewan. You seemed to be making the assumption that this man’s death must have happened because he was an immigrant…?”
“Well, my dear, in a situation like this the law of probability kicks in, doesn’t it? Get the country full of foreigners and they bring their own ways with them. So you get welfare scroungers, gangs, people traffickers…” He seemed to be picking randomly at Daily Mail headlines. “And then with the ones from the Indian subcontinent you get these so-called ‘honour killings’. Bumping your sister off because you don’t like her choice of boyfriend. I mean, what kind of behaviour is that?”
“Barbaric,” his son supplied.
“You’re right, Hamish. It’s barbaric. A culture of violence. We never used to have a culture of violence in this country.”
“No? What about our good old traditional soccer hooligans…?” Jude was tempted to add, “or our good old traditional public schools…?”, but didn’t.
Ewan Urquhart smiled blandly. He was clearly a man who thought he had a way with women and knew how to deal with their little foibles. “Ah, now I think you’re just being perverse, Jude. Much as we’d all like to believe there’s no connection between increased immigration and the crime statistics, I’m afraid the facts don’t leave much room for doubt. If you leave your borders open, it’s inevitable that you’re going to get a lot of riff-raff coming in. For me, I’m afraid, it all goes back to joining the Common Market. Worst move this country ever made.”
He was clearly preaching to the converted as far as Ted Crisp was concerned. “Couldn’t agree with you more, Ewan. I don’t want to be ordered about by bloody Brussels.”
“Nor me,” Hamish managed to slip in before his father continued. “Being British used to be a cause for pride. Not showing-off pride like some other countries are so fond of. Not standing up and saying ‘Aren’t I wonderful?’ pride. But that quiet British pride that just does the right thing without crowing about it. And where’s that gone, I ask you? God knows. Now our bloody politicians seem to be apologizing all the time…desperate not to offend anyone ‘of a different ethnic background’. Margaret Thatcher never used to apologize for being British.”
Surely Ted was going to take issue with that? In his stand-up days Thatcher-bashing had been a major ingredient of his material. But he said nothing, as Ewan Urquhart steamrollered on. “Things like this murder should be a wake-up call, you know. Get people to stop and think what we’re actually doing to this country by allowing uncontrolled immigration. As I say, I’m not a racist, but I do think there comes a point when you have to recognize that enough is enough.”
“You’re too right, Dad,” said Hamish.
Jude had intended to have supper in the Crown and Anchor. But as Ewan Urquhart continued his tub-thumping, and as Ted Crisp and Hamish continued to agree with him, the prospect became less attractive. When she’d finished the one Chilean Chardonnay, she went back to Woodside Cottage. She’d find something in the fridge.
Four
Carole Seddon’s flu was slow to shift, but after the weekend the prospect of life continuing in some form did once again seem a possibility. She was pleased to feel better, but also guiltily relieved that it had lasted as long as it did. The weekend had been one she was dreading, and she was glad that the flu had prevented her from participating in it. Being Carole Seddon, she was also worried about the extent to which she had used the illness as an excuse.
The event she had avoided was a meeting with her son Stephen, his wife Gaby and their four-month-old daughter Lily. But it wasn’t them Carole didn’t want to see. Since the baby’s birth she had actually bonded more with the young couple, happy on occasions to go and help her daughter-in-law out at their Fulham house. And she found Lily a miracle. That something so tiny and so perfect could suddenly exist was a source of constant amazement to her. Though she was the last person to go all gooey in public about babies, Carole did find she was suffering from considerable internal gooeyness. Of course she didn’t vocalize such self-indulgent thoughts, but they did give her a warm glow.
It was all so different from when she’d had Stephen. Then she’d been in such turmoil, finding herself in the one state she had tried to avoid all her life – out of control. The strange things that had happened to her body, the demanding new presence in her life, the realignment of her relationship with her husband…everything conspired to make her feel threatened and useless. Had she gone to a doctor about her feeling, there might have been a diagnosis of mild post-natal depression, but Carole Seddon had always believed that doctors were there to deal with physical problems, not feelings. And depression was something that happened to other people.
So she hadn’t been worried about seeing Lily and her parents at the weekend. In fact she longed to witness her granddaughter’s every tiny development. But Stephen had included another person in the proposed visit to Fethering.
His father. Carole’s ex-husband David. Stephen was still under the illusion that, because he’d seen his estranged parents together at social events – like his wedding – when they hadn’t actually come to blows, a new rapprochement between them was possible. With a wistful innocence that made Carole feel even guiltier, her son was desperate to be part of a happy family. And, now Lily was on the scene, of a happy extended family.