Finally he’d come out with it. That had been the reason why he’d wanted to talk to her on her own, perhaps the only reason why he’d come over to the Crown and Anchor to witness Spider’s Elvis Presley act.
‘But I haven’t been spreading any rumours like that,’ Jude protested. ‘Who did you hear that from? Was it Sam Torino?’
Ned denied the allegation hotly, but Jude didn’t believe him. She couldn’t think of any other person he might know with whom she’d shared her suspicions. And she began to wonder even whether Ned had set up Sam Torino deliberately to sound out her views of Fennel’s death. She remembered the card the supermodel had given her. A call to that private mobile number at some point might be in order.
‘I’m not just saying this on my own behalf,’ Ned Whittaker volunteered. ‘I’m speaking for the whole family. We don’t want any gossip. Sheena’s particularly insistent on that.’
‘So is it Sheena who’s put you up to this – you know, warning me off?’
That suggestion was denied with equal vehemence, but again Jude got the feeling that she might have stumbled on the truth. Sheena Whittaker remained enigmatic, her only identifiable emotion seeming to be relief at her daughter’s death. Jude reckoned she and Carole should try to find out more about the dead girl’s mother.
She tried to get more out of Ned Whittaker, but without success. From his point of view, discouraging her from suggesting his daughter might have been murdered was the sole aim of their meeting. Why he was so worried about that happening he did not reveal. But, given the fact that the police had concluded their investigation, he seemed disproportionately anxious about the matter.
Which suggested to Jude that Ned had suspicions that someone he knew might be implicated in his daughter’s death. But who that person was, she had no idea.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was typical of Carole Seddon that she hadn’t waited in the Crown and Anchor for her neighbour to return from the assignation in the car park. Wearily, Jude reminded herself that anyone who wanted to be friends with the owner of High Tor had to reconcile themselves to a regular amount of bridge-building and fence-mending. There were no two ways about it – Carole Seddon was touchy. She had felt slighted by her friend going off without telling her, and she wanted that slight to be registered, so she’d gone home alone . . . no doubt leaving two untouched glasses of wine in the Crown and Anchor function room. It was just to be hoped that somebody had drunk them, rather than wasting good Chilean Chardonnay.
As a result of this, before she went to bed in Woodside Cottage, Jude found herself going next door on a ruffled-feather-smoothing mission. It was characteristic of Carole that, once they were sitting either side of her kitchen table with glasses of wine, she didn’t mention the instance which had caused her touchiness, but listened with interest as her neighbour relayed the conversation she’d had in Ned Whittaker’s Prius.
‘But, Jude, how does he know we’ve been discussing the possibility of Fennel’s death being murder?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to work out. As I say, he could have got it from Sam Torino, but then again, if he actually set up Sam Torino to question me, he must have had his suspicions before that.’
‘And you think he’s protecting someone?’
‘I can’t find any other explanation for his behaviour. And I’ve been thinking since I left him that the only two people Ned might really have an interest in protecting are Sheena or Chervil.’
‘You mean he thinks one of them killed Fennel?’
‘Well, was implicated in her death in some way, yes.’
There was a beady look in Carole Seddon’s eyes as she reflected her friend’s thoughts. ‘Sheena’s the one who intrigues me,’ she said.
As it turned out, they didn’t have to go looking for Sheena Whittaker. Jude had a call from her the following morning, the Thursday. The social unease the woman manifested on public occasions was nowhere evident in her manner. Just talking on the phone she sounded in control. And she was very direct.
‘Ned told me about the conversation you had last night.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I want to talk to you about it.’
‘Fine. Talk away.’
‘I’d rather do it face to face.’
It was arranged that Sheena Whittaker would come straight round to Woodside Cottage.
Sheena was wearing a pink top and jeans, both of which had too much glitter on them. She looked what she was, a chubby East London hairdresser who had got lucky. But though she spent much of her life being paraded as her husband’s accessory, there was no doubt that she had a strong will of her own.
‘Ned’s very upset,’ was the first thing she said, after refusing offers of tea or coffee.
‘I know. He made clear to me how much Fennel meant to him.’
‘Yes. There was something between them that I . . . well, sometimes I have to confess it made me feel rather uncomfortable.’
‘Oh?’
‘I don’t mean any of that child abuse nonsense they keep doing television programmes about. I just mean they had this kind of . . . I don’t know what you’d call it . . . a kind of psychic connection.’
‘Telepathy?’
‘Yes, maybe that’s the word. Anyway, I know you probably think that my reaction to Fennel’s death has been rather heartless . . .’
‘I’ve never said—’
‘But you’ve thought it. The fact is, I’ve spent many years dealing with my daughter’s depression . . . her fragility, her breakdowns. We’ve tried every kind of medication, every kind of treatment – including what you were doing for her – and none of it worked. I’ve felt for a long time that whatever we did, it was just delaying the evil hour, that one day she would . . . do what she did.’
Sheena Whittaker’s voice caught on the last few words, the first indication that her narrative was taking any emotional toll on her. She drew the back of her hand firmly across her nose before continuing, ‘So I have spent a long time preparing for this moment.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ said Jude. ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking you something . . .’
‘What?’
‘When Ned came to see me the Monday after . . . you know . . .’ Somehow to say the words would have felt like an intrusion on Sheena’s emotions. ‘We talked about Fennel’s depression and discussed whether it might be hereditary. And Ned said he’d never actually been depressed, but—’
‘He didn’t say that I was a depressive, did he?’
‘No, but—’
‘Thank goodness for that. Because I never have been.’
‘You haven’t ever—?’
‘No!’ The expression ‘protesting too much’ came instinctively into Jude’s mind, as Sheena Whittaker went on, ‘I am extremely lucky. I have a great lifestyle. I’d be mad to be depressed.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Depression is a form of madness, so if you say you’d be “mad to be depressed”, what you mean is—’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about.’
‘After what happened with Fennel, it’d be no surprise if you—’
‘I am not depressed!’ Sheena seemed taken aback by her own vehemence. ‘Yes, I’m shocked. I’ve lost my daughter. And though, yes, obviously I feel a terrible sadness, I also can’t deny a sense of relief.’
‘But Ned doesn’t share that feeling?’
‘No, he’s still just too caught up in his grief. He’s too raw. I think maybe in time he may come round.’
Jude pushed the flopping blonde hair up off her forehead. ‘And Chervil . . . she doesn’t seem to be suffering too badly either.’
‘Chervil’s a businesswoman. You’ve only seen her in her professional mode. She wouldn’t show her real feelings in such circumstances.’