Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Jude?’
‘Yes.’
She had instantly recognized the voice at the end of the line, but made him go through the process of identifying himself. ‘Rick Hendry.’
‘Two calls so close from a major celebrity. How exciting.’
He ignored her sardonic tone. ‘Listen, I know you had lunch with Suze.’
‘Impossible to have secrets these days, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I like to think it is.’ Once again he deepened his voice to concentrate his charm; once again, to her annoyance, a part of her responded. ‘That’s really what I’d like to talk to you about, Jude.’
‘Talk away.’
‘No, not on the phone. I’d like us to meet.’
‘Why?
‘Because I think we have mutual interests.’
‘Suzy?’
‘Suzy’s one of them. And Suzy not getting hurt is another.’
‘Keep going.’
‘The rest can wait until we meet. Tomorrow morning all right for you?’
‘Possibly.’
He ignored the wariness in her response and gave her the address of a hotel conference suite in Brighton. ‘Eleven o’clock. Ask for me.’
Jude was annoyed she’d let herself be steamrollered, but pleased the meeting had been set up. Rick Hendry had known she’d say yes, partly because she was in the course of an investigation, but also because women rarely said no to him. His arrogance about his magnetism had some justification, and that annoyed Jude even more.
The Chews’ home in East Preston was a bungalow. The purchase had been prudent, as had everything else in the life of Donald and Brenda Chew. The mortgage had been long paid off, and its accompanying endowment bonus shrewdly invested. Those dividends, together with the extensive pension schemes Donald had set up – not to mention his continuing income from the practice – ensured that the couple lived in considerable splendour.
Though splendour, of course, was not the same thing as taste – or, at least, not the same thing as Carole’s taste. After only a few moments in the bungalow, she found she was challenging herself to find anything in the living room to which she would have given house room. No expert, and fully aware that her own decorative style was minimalist to the point of austerity, Carole still winced at everything that caught her eye.
None of it was cheap. A great deal of money, and quite possibly the services of an interior designer, had been lavished on the room, but there wasn’t a single item Carole would have bought – or even have put on display if it had been given to her by her dearest friend. Carole had never liked windowpanes with swirling designs of lilies on them, or pink curtains ruched like the petticoats of a Toulouse-Lautrec dancing girl. She’d always had an aversion to gold Dralon three-piece suites, and never been that mad on rough brown stone fireplaces with beaten brass surrounds. She disliked porcelain figurines of small children with tears welling from their eyes, had a positive aversion to floppy clowns splaying winsomely out of baskets. And she really hated tasselled velvet picture frames holding photographs textured to look like oil paintings.
Carole knew that in time the challenge to find something in the house that she might have bought herself would become obsessive. She found herself taking against the door handles and the window-catches. Even the window sills were spoiled by curlicues of gold, and the light switches were tarted up with brass and onyx surrounds.
Competition to this decorative nightmare was offered by her hostess’s dress sense. Brenda Chew was tiny-boned and delicate; mere survival without being crushed by her large husband must be one of the achievements of their marriage. She was wearing a skirt, blouse and cardigan of pastel fluffiness, whose every available edge was beaded with gold braid. Diamond-patterned white tights did little for her thin legs, and her patent-leather shoes had large pink bows on them. The impression she gave was of being gift-wrapped rather than dressed.
But any image of fluffy femininity was dispelled as soon as Brenda Chew spoke. Her voice on the phone had expressed only the imposed gentility, not the steel that lay beneath. ‘Carole, do let me introduce you to some of our other ladies. All towers of strength, without whom I could not begin to achieve all that I do.’
The other ladies, a half dozen of them seated around the room, were mostly about Brenda’s age, sexagenarians on the verge of becoming septuagenarians. They were expensively dressed and cosseted, their faces lined in spite of the large volume of designer creams that had been rubbed into them over the years. Carole got the feeling that few of these ladies had worked for their living. They were of the generation that had played golf, tanned themselves in Spanish villas, brought up children with the help of au pairs, and cooked cordon bleu meals with the bacon their husbands had so satisfactorily brought home.
She took in the names as they were introduced, but there was only one who really interested her. She was the youngest woman in the room, in her early forties, ten years younger even than Carole. Expensively dressed, but with more taste than the rest of them: grey knitted silk top, well-cut white jeans, black boots with high heels. Short blonde hair and a family likeness so strong Carole had identified her before being told that her name was Sandra Hartson.
Her shape and posture shadowed her daughter’s, though Kerry carried herself with more attitude, a stroppier jutting of the hips than her mother. Sandra Hartson had probably looked more like Kerry when Bob had married her, but now she was altogether more tentative, even self-effacing, as though her fragile personality had been crushed between the egos of her daughter and her second husband.
Carole felt a little glow of triumph. She would talk to the woman, get to know her, and through her find out more about Bob Hartson. The thought made Carole feel empowered. Up to this point, Jude, because of her connection with Hopwicke Country House Hotel and Suzy Longthorne, had been the dominant partner in their investigation. Contact with Sandra Hartson offered Carole a more equal role in the proceedings.
But she couldn’t start her probing straight away. Particularly because no one else was allowed to take the initiative in any room which contained Brenda Chew.
‘You haven’t missed much, Carole. I was just bringing the ladies up to date with what’s been achieved so far. As you know, the auction of promises is being held on Saturday week at Hopwicke Country House Hotel.’
Carole nodded knowingly, though the information was new to her.
‘Members of the Pillars of Sussex will be filling up tables with their guests, and remember, ladies, we don’t want any empty seats. Sixty is the dining room’s capacity, so we want sixty paying bottoms on those seats. Tickets are only a hundred and fifty pounds a head, and for that the guests will not only be able to enjoy the auction of promises, but also an excellent gourmet dinner cooked by the resident chef at Hopwicke House, Max Townley. I’m sure most of us have already tasted his cuisine and know what a treat we have in store.’
A murmur of pampered agreement ran around the room.
‘We’re only up to thirty-two definite acceptances at the moment, so I really do urge you to use all your feminine wiles’ – a little giggle greeted this daring proposition – ‘to get those seats filled. Of course, I will be doing a ring-round of some of those who’re dragging their feet, but I can’t do it all on my own, so, ladies, I am relying on you as well.’
‘I’m quite optimistic of getting four from the bridge club,’ one elderly lady volunteered.
‘Very good, Betty.’
‘And I’m sure Bob can be relied on for half a dozen,’ said Sandra Hartson, ‘if he pulls in a few favours.’
This was greeted by an appreciative chuckle. The womenfolk all knew about Bob Hartson pulling in favours. But his wife hadn’t spoken with any pride in her husband’s power. She had simply said what was required of her, and retreated back into her shell.