Before she reached the river, Bonita turned right into a narrow road on one side of which was a parade of shops and on the other a terrace of pretty little cottages. Without a backward glance, the woman took a set of keys out of her shoulder bag and let herself into one which had a door of Victorian purple.
It was by now about eleven o’clock. Jude, trailing some way behind, looked at the row of shops and was delighted to see that one sold coffee. Taking her time, she ordered a cappuccino and an almond croissant, then settled herself into a window seat. She pretended to be reading her Daily Mail, but she had already been over it so thoroughly that it no longer even made her cross.
She was getting towards the end of her second cappuccino (and her second almond croissant) and beginning to wonder how she could eke the time out much longer, when the purple door opposite opened.
Bonita Green came out first, and there was about her an aura of happiness which Jude had never seen in their previous encounters. The bag still hung from her shoulder, but there was no sign of the painting.
She was followed out by a tall white-haired handsome man who looked at least as happy as she did.
Jude recognized him from the websites Carole had shown her. It was Addison Willoughby.
THIRTY
Jude followed the happy couple at a distance. They walked along arm in arm, talking and giggling animatedly.
Given the time of day, it was quite possible that they were on their way out to lunch. Jude wondered how she would maintain her surveillance if that was their intention. Go into the same restaurant and scrutinize them over the top of her menu? Sit in a convenient coffee shop opposite their venue and drink more bladder-straining cappuccinos? But as was usually the case with Jude, she decided she would make that decision when she had to.
Anyway, it was soon clear that their destination was not a restaurant. In fact, they seemed to be heading straight back the way Bonita had come, to Pimlico Underground.
So it proved. At the head of the stairs down to the station the couple stopped and embraced warmly. Jude managed to be close enough, apparently removing a stone from her shoe, to hear their conversation.
‘It seems awful to be going so soon,’ Bonita said.
‘Just for today,’ said Addison Willoughby. ‘Once I’ve sorted things out with Denzil, there’s nothing to stop us being together all the time.’
‘I can’t wait.’ Bonita Green rose on tiptoe to give him a parting kiss on the lips. ‘Call me when you’ve done the deed.’
‘Of course.’
Then he watched her as she skittered off down the stairs. When Bonita was out of sight, he turned to find himself facing a generously upholstered woman with a bird’s nest of blonde hair.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name’s Jude. You don’t know me.’
‘No, I certainly don’t.’ But he said it in puzzlement rather than anger.
‘I know your son Denzil.’
‘Ah.’ He waited to see what she’d say next.
Jude, grateful that Carole wasn’t there to disapprove, decided to go for broke. ‘And I’m investigating the death of his former girlfriend Fennel Whittaker.’
‘Are you from the police?’
‘Not exactly.’ Which, given the situation, was a rather cheeky answer. ‘You heard what happened to her?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said almost snappishly. ‘And what – are you suggesting there’s some thought Fennel might have been murdered?’
‘It seems to be a possibility.’
‘And Denzil is under suspicion of having done it?’
‘Let’s say we’d like to rule him out of our enquiries.’
‘Very well,’ said Addison Willoughby wearily. ‘You’d better come back to my place.’
The interior of the terraced cottage with the purple door was immaculate and expensively appointed. But it had the feeling of a hotel suite, not a place where people lived all the time.
Over the fireplace in the front room where they sat hung the Piccadilly snowscape from the Cornelian Gallery. ‘Did you do that?’ asked Jude. Addison Willoughby nodded. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Yes, there was a time when I was thought to have considerable talent. Long ago dissipated, I’m sorry to say.’
‘You seem to have been very successful in the world of advertising.’
‘Maybe, but I don’t regard that as a talent. It is at best a skill, and a learnt skill at that. Talent is what artists have.’
‘Like your son?’
‘I’d say the jury’s still out on that.’
‘Then like Bonita?’
‘She too has not fulfilled her early promise. Every year the art schools churn out another generation of aspiring artists. Most of them are at that stage described as “promising”. Very few of them actually make it.’
‘Is it a disappointment to you that you weren’t one of those who made it?’
‘A constant disappointment, yes.’ There was a dry bitterness in his tone.
Jude was silent, wondering where next to direct her questioning. Then she asked, ‘Has your relationship with Bonita been going on a long time?’
‘Yes, a very long time. We met as students at the Slade, had a wild fling, then drifted apart and married other people. Both married too young, of course.’ He sighed. ‘Everyone marries too young.’
‘I think they may have done in our generation. I’m not sure that they still do.’
‘Maybe not. Certainly Denzil shows no sign of leading some poor unfortunate girl to the altar.’
‘He told you, I assume, that I and my friend Carole visited him at his studio on Monday.’
‘He mentioned it, yes.’
‘We were there when he got the text about his mother’s death.’
‘Oh.’ The intonation was so flat it was hard to tell whether this was news to him or not.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Jude formally.
‘You don’t need to be. It’s been common knowledge for years that Philomena and I didn’t get on. We’ve lived apart since Denzil was about five.’
‘Did you separate because of your relationship with Bonita?’
‘That was one of the reasons on my side. Not Philomena’s. I worked very hard to ensure that she never knew about me and Bonita.’
‘I don’t see how that could have been possible.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if you walk through the London streets arm in arm, surely there’s a very real danger of your being seen by friends of your wife or, given your high profile, being spotted by a press photographer and—’
‘You don’t understand. What you’ve witnessed this morning is something very new. Something I wish could have happened a very long time ago. Up till now our relationship has been conducted exclusively within these walls. We haven’t dared go out together, even to a restaurant, in case, as you say, we were seen by someone who might get the news back to Philomena. Now the situation is different.’
‘Because of Philomena’s death?’
Addison Willoughby nodded. ‘For that very reason. Now there is nothing to stop Bonita and me from doing what she should have done many years ago – and getting married.’
‘But why did you feel you had to wait so long? It’s not too hard to get a divorce these days.’
‘There are two reasons why we waited. One was that, though Philomena and I didn’t get on, I didn’t hate her. I still had a lot of respect for her, and I wanted to spare her the pain that must inevitably be caused by her knowledge that Bonita and I were lovers. The public explanation of our marriage breakdown was that I was a workaholic – which is probably true, by the way. Anyway, that ensured that Philomena was not publicly humiliated.’
‘You said there were two reasons.’