'Henry Kettle' – Goff changed effortlessly to a higher gear – 'was a very elderly man who died when his car went out of control, probably due to a stroke or a heart attack. We'll no doubt find out what happened when the inquest is held. Meantime, I – and any right-thinking, rational person – would certainly take a dim view of any sensation-mongering attempt to make something out of the fact that my company had paid him a few pounds to do a few odd jobs. I think suggesting any link between the death of Henry Kettle in a car accident and Rachel Wade in a fall is in extremely poor taste, indicating a lamentable lack of professionalism – and a certain desperation perhaps – in any self-styled journalist who raised it.'
Goff relaxed, knowing how good he was at this. Fay, who'd never been much of an orator, lapsed, red-faced, into a very lonely silence.
'Now,' Goff said, not looking at her, 'if there are no further questions, I have ten minutes to do any TV and radio interviews outside.'
The heads had turned away from Fay. She'd lost it.
'You don't do yourself any favours, do you. Fay?' Ashpole said drily, out of the side of his mouth, passing her on the way out, not even looking at her.
'I suppose,' Guy Morrison said, 'you'd know about all the suicides around here, wouldn't you?'
Seven p.m. The only other customer in the public bar at the Cock was this large man, the local police sergeant, Wynford somebody. He was leaning on the bar with a pint, obviously relieved at unloading the two Divisional CID men who'd spent the day in town in connection with this Rachel Wade business.
Guy was feeling relieved, too. His heart had dropped when Max Goff had approached him immediately after the conclusion of the appalling press conference – Guy expecting to be held responsible for his wayward ex-wife and, at the very least, warned to keep her out of Goff's way in future.
But all Goff wanted was for the crew to get some aerial pictures of Crybbe from his helicopter, so that was OK. Guy had sent Catrin Jones up with Larry and escaped to the pub. Sooner or later he'd be forced to have a discreet word with Goff and explain where things stood between him and Fay – i.e. that she was an insane bitch and he'd had a lucky escape.
Meanwhile, there was this business of the suicide and the haunting. This was upsetting him. He wouldn't be able to concentrate fully until it was out of the way because Guy Morrison didn't like things he didn't understand.
He waited for Wynford's reaction. He'd got into suicides by suggesting that perhaps Rachel Wade had killed herself. Would they ever really know?
Guy Morrison was an expert at manipulating conversation, but Wynford didn't react at all.
As if he hadn't noticed the silence, Guy said, 'Doesn't do a place's reputation any good, I suppose, being connected with a suicide. I was talking to that woman who runs The Gallery. It seems her house is allegedly haunted by a chap who topped himself.'
Wynford didn't look up from his beer, but he spoke at last. 'You been misinformed, my friend.'
'I don't mean anything recent,' Guy said. 'This probably goes back a good while. Talking about the same place, are we? Heavily renovated stone farmhouse, about half a mile out of town on the Hereford road?'
'Yes, yes,' Wynford said. 'The ole Thomas farm.'
'Well, as I said, it could be going back quite a while. I mean, any time this century, I suppose, maybe earlier.'
How long had there been cut-throat razors anyway, he wondered. Hundreds of years, probably.
'Bit of a romancer, that woman, you ask me,' Wynford said. 'From Off, see.'
Meaning a newcomer, Guy supposed. It was an interesting fact that he personally was never regarded as a stranger in areas where he was recognized from television. If they'd seen you on the box, you'd been in their living-rooms, so you weren't an intruder.
Except, perhaps, here in Crybbe.
'No, look,' Guy said, 'this happened in the bathroom. Oldish chap. Cut his own throat with one of those old-fashioned open razors.'
Wynford licked his cherub's lips, his eyes frosted with suspicion.
'What's wrong?' Guy asked.
'Somebody tell you to ask me about this, did they?'
'No,' Guy said. 'Of course not.'
'You sure?'
'Look, Sergeant, what's the problem here?'
Wynford had a drink of beer. 'No problem, sir.'
'No, you do…' Guy was about to accuse him of knowing something about this but keeping it to himself.
He looked into the little inscrutable features in the middle of the big melon face and knew he'd be wasting his time.
Wynford swallowed a lot of beer, wiped his mouth. His face was very red. He's on the defensive, Guy thought, and he doesn't like that.
He was right. Wynford looked at him for the first time. 'Somebody said you was married to that Fay? Or is it you just got the same name?'
'No, it's true. I'm afraid. We were married for… what? Nearly three years. I suppose.'
Wynford smiled conspiratorially, a sinister sight. 'Bit of a goer, was she?'
What an appalling person. Guy, who didn't like people asking him questions unless they were about his television work, looked at his watch and claimed he was late for a shoot. And, actually, they had got something arranged for later; Catrin had set up one of those regressive hypnotist chaps and agreed to be the subject.
Should be entertaining. Perhaps in some past life she'd actually been someone interesting. He wondered, as he strolled into the square, what crime she could have committed to get landed with the persona of Catrin Jones.
In the Crybbe Unattended Studio Gavin Ashpole sniffed.
He knew the pace used to be a toilet, but that wasn't what he could smell.
This was a musky, perfumed smell, and the odd thing was that Gavin wasn't sure he could actually smell it at all. It was just there.
Probably because Fay Morrison used this studio for an hour or so every day.
There were a few of her scripts on the spike in the outer room. All hand-written, big and bold in turquoise ink.
Gavin picked up the phone and sniffed the mouthpiece. Sweating comfortably, cooling in his shell-suit. Gavin was a fitness freak, kept a hold-all in the back of his car with his jogging gear and his trainers inside. Any spare half hour or so he'd get changed, go for a run. Tuned your body, tuned your mind, and other people could sense it, too. You were projecting creative energy, dynamism.
He'd got an hour's running in tonight. Been up into the hills. Felt good. In control of himself and his destiny. Within a year he'd either be managing editor of Offa's Dyke radio or he'd have moved on.
Unlike Fay Morrison, who was over the hill and going down the other side fast. Left to him, the station would never have agreed to use her stuff. She was unreliable, awkward to deal with. And obviously unbalanced.
Bloody sexy, though.
The thought hit him surprisingly hard, a muscular pulse, where you noticed it.
He hadn't really considered her on this level before. She was older than he was. She'd had a lot more experience on radio, and although she never mentioned that, it was always there in the background, making her sound superior.
And she was a nutter. Not rational. Not objective as a reporter.
He'd see the boss tomorrow and explain precisely what had happened at Goff's press conference. She's doing us a lot of damage, he'd say. If she's put Max Goff's back up, who else is she antagonizing? No need to say anything to her or put anything in writing, just fade her out. Use less and less of her material until she stops bothering to send any. Then we'll put somebody else in.
Gavin attached a length of red-leader to the end of his tape. It hadn't taken much editing, just a forty-second clip for the morning.
He rang the newsroom to tell them he was ready to send, put on the cans, waited for the news studio to come through on the line.
He felt Fay in the cans. She'd worn them over that dark-blonde hair.