‘I think I’m going to have to confront Suzy,’ Jude announced grumpily. ‘Now I know Rick Hendry was there that night. I bet it was him who called her on her mobile.’
Carole sniffed. She was still feeling raw and exposed after the call from David. Her pale blue eyes blinked behind their rimless glasses. ‘I can see that it’s interesting, the fact that he was there, but I don’t see how it can possibly have anything to do with the death of Nigel Ackford.’
‘If it doesn’t, why would Suzy want to keep it quiet?’
‘That doesn’t take much working out. If she’s as paranoid about publicity as you say, the last thing she wants is the tabloids knowing her ex-husband had been there. Particularly at a time when they’re already sniffing around him over this underage sex thing.’
‘True. So you reckon it’s just a coincidence he was at Hopwicke House the night of the death?’
‘I haven’t got enough information to reckon anything,’ Carole replied rather tartly. ‘But I find it pretty unlikely that someone like Rick Hendry would have any dealings with the Pillars of Sussex.’
‘Yes, it’s hard to see an obvious connection.’
‘Jude, it’s hard to see even an extremely obscure connection. The two worlds couldn’t be further apart.’
‘And yet they did come together that night at Hopwicke House – at least, geographically.’ Jude stopped walking and her brown eyes thoughtfully scanned the waters of the English Channel. ‘I’ll ring Suzy when I get home. We’ve got to sort this out.’
‘Yes.’ Carole looked a little wistful. ‘And I can’t really come with you when you confront her.’
‘No. We’re old friends. The meeting has got to be handled with great delicacy and sensitivity.’
The minute she’d said the words, Jude knew they were the wrong ones. Carole, already bristling, bristled further. ‘And of course I haven’t got anything in the way of delicacy or —’
‘I didn’t mean that. Just . . . Suzy and I go back a long way, if she’s going to talk to anyone, she’ll talk to me.’
‘And probably lie to you again.’
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’
‘Huh.’ Carole’s feathers hadn’t yet been satisfactorily smoothed down. ‘I wish there was something useful I could do.’
‘But there is. You can get more information on the Pillars of Sussex.’
‘How?’
‘Come on, Carole. Your ex-husband advised you to consult a solicitor about your will.’
‘Yes, but if you think I’m going to get into a professional relationship with Barry Stilwell, you can—’
‘Who said anything about Barry Stilwell? There’s another solicitor, very conveniently also based in Worthing, who’s a past president of the Pillars.’
A smile sweetened Carole’s sour face. ‘Yes, of course. Donald Chew.’
‘All right, Jude,’ Suzy agreed with surprising readiness when her friend rang. ‘Let’s talk. Do you fancy lunch in London?’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to go up for a couple of meetings, and a bit of body maintenance.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hair, facial, nails, massage. Staving off the ravages of time.’
‘You still look great, Suzy.’
‘Maybe.’ As an acknowledged beauty for as long as she could remember, Suzy had never been winsome about accepting compliments. ‘But looking great takes a little bit longer every day.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Jude automatically, though the line wasn’t really appropriate for her. She didn’t work hard on her appearance. She was overweight and, in her layers of floaty garments, at times looked downright scruffy. But it didn’t bother her. She wasn’t terribly interested in people who let that kind of detail put them off. ‘OK, where shall we meet?’
Suzy named an exclusive women’s club in Mayfair.
‘Renton and Chew.’ The voice was very carefully modulated, its natural vowels corralled into middle-class receptionist-speak.
‘Good morning. My name is Carole Seddon, and I wanted to talk to someone about making a change to my will.’
‘Certainly. And who have you dealt with before, Mrs Seddon?’
‘No one. This is my first contact with your firm.’
‘Right. And could you tell us, Mrs Seddon, how you came to hear about Renton and Chew? Was it through seeing an advertisement, personal recommendation, or just random selection from the Yellow Pages or similar listings directory?’
God, thought Carole, is there anywhere left in the world where you can avoid questionnaires? ‘It was through personal recommendation.’
‘Excellent, Mrs Seddon. That means we must be doing something right.’ But the words didn’t sound spontaneous. The receptionist was still sticking to her script. ‘Well, Mrs Seddon, perhaps I could put you through to Donna Highstone, who is very experienced in matters of wills and—’
‘The personal recommendation I had was to Donald Chew.’
‘Ah. Yes, well, Mr Chew himself is very busy at the moment with—’
‘The recommendation came from someone connected with the Pillars of Sussex.’
Having worked out the lies she was going to tell, Carole was not about to deviate from her chosen course. What she said did have the desired effect. There was an impressed ‘Oh’ from the other end of the line. ‘Perhaps I should have a word with Mr Chew then. May I ask, Mrs Seddon, the name of the person from the Pillars of Sussex who gave you the recommendation?’
‘Nigel Ackford,’ Carole announced, exactly according to plan.
‘Ah. Um, well, er . . .’ The receptionist’s script was now out of the window. So was her assumed accent, as she floundered on. ‘Um. Tell you what, Mrs Seddon, I’ll speak to Mr Chew. And maybe you’ve got a number what I can call you back on?’
Chapter Twenty-One
The exterior of Suzy Longthorne’s club looked like an eighteenth-century private house. But, given its Mayfair location, very few British private citizens could have afforded to live there, even if the property didn’t include a swimming pool in the basement, first-floor gym suite, second-floor beauty salon and top-floor restaurant with a panoramic view across the roofs of London.
Nor indeed could many private citizens have afforded the annual subscription, which, as it happened, Suzy didn’t pay. When the premises opened in the late eighties, she and various other famous faces had been offered life membership to enhance the club’s image and ensure celebrity-studded press coverage for the launch. Few of the other honorary members had continued to use the facilities, but Suzy, as ever recognizing a bargain when she saw one, was a regular visitor. Her trips to London were essential breaks from the pressures of running Hopwicke Country House Hotel, and a necessary part of what she had described as her ‘body maintenance’.
Suzy had already put in an hour’s swimming and an hour in the gym by the time Jude arrived for lunch. She had also been massaged and had her facial. The glowing skin, with her hair swept back in a bandana, showed off the natural beauty of her cheekbones. Then a couple of quick meetings and she would be back in time to spread the largesse of her loveliness over the evening’s diners at Hopwicke House.
Though the club’s membership was exclusively female, men were allowed in as guests, and so the top-floor dinning room looked just like any other expensive restaurant. The chef had, in fact, been recently poached from one of London’s most fashionable eateries, and the menu proffered to Jude was both lavish and exciting. In spite of all the equipment on the lower floors, the club had no pretensions to be a health farm. Its raison d’être was the pampering of its members. Those who got pleasure from depriving themselves were at liberty to pursue that course; those who enjoyed self-indulgence were equally free to follow their desires.