‘You used the word “murder”, Rick,’ said Jude coolly. ‘I thought there was general agreement that Nigel Ackford committed suicide.’
‘I used the word “murder” because that’s what you seem to think it was. And if you go on snooping around, other people will start using it. Which will be extraordinarily bad news for Suze and for me.’
‘You still haven’t given me a good reason to stop “snooping”, as you call it. In fact, the more you go on about it, the more I get the feeling you have something to hide.’
He shrugged, and sighed. The anger was back under control. ‘I’m not going to convince you, am I, Jude?’
‘Not unless you give me a reason, no, Rick.’
‘If I said for the sake of your friendship to Suzy?’
‘You’ve already said that. My friendship with Suzy is fine, even though I know she’s holding out on me just as much as you are.’
He stood up, apparently defeated. ‘I’m going to have to get back.’
Jude rose too. ‘It’s been good to see you. Though I don’t know why you bothered to drag me over here. This conversation doesn’t seem to have advanced much from the ones we had on the phone.’
‘No.’ He gave her the big, toothy smile again. All friends, it seemed to say. ‘Incidentally, Jude, I gather from Suze that you first thought the boy had been murdered because of something he said to you the night he died.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And, since then, have you found out anything else that has confirmed your suspicions?’
Jude was forced to admit that she hadn’t much more corroboration. ‘Only the fact that everyone involved in the case seems desperate to hush it up.’
Her answer apparently relieved him. ‘Yeah. Well, like I say, nobody likes bad publicity.’ He paused for a moment, then turned the beam of his smiling charm on her. ‘Nothing I can do to make you lay off, is there, Jude?’
‘What do you mean?’
He made a wide, slack gesture with his hands. ‘Might be something you need. Few people have got everything they need these days, have they?’
Jude couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Are you trying to bribe me, Rick? Are you offering me money?’
‘Needn’t be money.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m lucky enough to be able to organize most things people might want.’
‘Like what?’ asked Jude, still incredulous. ‘An appearance in the starting line-up for Pop Crop?’
The speed and violence of his reaction amazed her. Suddenly he was close to her, his hand on the scarf around her neck. Then he seemed to remind himself of who he was, where he was, and what he was doing. He relaxed his grip and stepped backwards, manufacturing a little laugh. ‘No, Pop Crop’s all above board. No cheating or unfair influence allowed there. The auditions are sacrosanct.’ Still trying to lighten the atmosphere, he went on, ‘Besides, we haven’t quite got to your generation of singers yet.’
A very tentative tap on the door sounded. ‘This time I must go.’ He opened the door. ‘See you, Jude.’ And he was gone.
Leaving her with more questions than answers.
The biggest question being – why had he asked her to meet him? As she walked back through the anonymous carpeted corridors to the hotel’s main reception, Jude went through their conversation in detail. And the question that seemed most important to her was Rick’s asking whether she had any new evidence to support the theory that Nigel Ackford had been murdered.
She could be wrong, but Jude got the feeling he’d been trying to find out how much she knew.
Chapter Twenty-Six
They certainly did a good Sunday lunch at Hopwicke Country House Hotel. Like everything Suzy Longthorne arranged on the premises, the meal was traditional, but with a few extras that distinguished it from the run-of-the-mill. So, yes, it was roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and vegetables, but each component was special. The meat had been selected from one particular farm in Scotland. The pudding batter contained a couple of secret ingredients known only to Max Townley. The roast potatoes were crisped to perfection, animated with the occasional surprise of a few sweet potatoes. The range of vegetables, and the way their tastes complemented each other, provided their own private gastronomic experience. The gravy was rich and thick, and the Hopwicke House home-made mustard (available in jars for purchase at reception) was to die for.
Stephen had ordered a wonderfully robust St Emilion to accompany the food and, in his practised perusal of the wine list, had shown an expertise which his mother would never have suspected. Carole wondered if he had always had an interest in fine wines, or whether this was a new skill born of his relationship with Gaby. And, once again, she felt guilty for not knowing the answer. Was it her fault she and Stephen seemed so far apart?
In physical appearance there was no doubt about their being related. Stephen had inherited his mother’s angularity, and had the same pale blue eyes. Like her, he had needed glasses from an early age and, after a flirtation with contact lenses in his twenties, had now reverted to them. That he sported rimless ones was a point of fashion rather than a homage to her own, but Carole could see how much they increased the likeness between them. And the fact that Stephen’s hair was prematurely greying only accentuated it.
Whether he was similar in personality, Carole realized with a shock, was another important detail she didn’t really know. Wouldn’t it be shaming to have to ask his fiancée what her son was really like?
Because there was no doubt that Gaby seemed to know Stephen really well. Carole had had no idea what to expect from her potential daughter-in-law, and had been seriously anxious about the encounter. Indeed, she’d woken at three and stayed awake for a couple of hours that morning, something that had rarely happened since the worst stage of her break-up with David.
If forced to put a face to Gaby before they met, Carole would probably have opted for an older version of Kerry. All she knew of her son’s choice was the implication of money – the parents’ spending summers in the South of France, the casual booking into Hopwicke House. The image that had formed in Carole Seddon’s prejudiced mind was of a spoilt trust-fund baby, someone who worked more for social convenience than financial necessity.
She certainly wasn’t expecting the plumpish, bubble-haired blonde with the comfortable body and broad smile who greeted her in the Hopwicke House bar. Nor was she expecting to be greeted with a warm hug. The embrace took her by surprise, and she responded like a stick insect.
The first good news, though, was that Gaby was undoubtedly English. Carole tried, without success, to stop herself from feeling a politically incorrect glee at this discovery.
She had expected the young couple would be drinking deterrently fashionable cocktails, but they were both on white wine, so she ordered the same. While Stephen went to the counter to get her drink, Gaby gestured to their elegant surroundings. ‘Fabulous place, isn’t it? Wonderful to see how the other half lives. I told Stephen it was daft to spend this much on a weekend, but you know what he’s like.’
And again Carole didn’t.
What became clear during their conversation in the bar, and later in the dining room, was that Gaby didn’t have private money. In fact, the rich one in the partnership was Stephen. Carole had known he was doing well at whatever it was he did, but she hadn’t realized quite how well. In a couple of hours, his fiancée told her more about her son’s current life than she had ever known. Or perhaps had ever thought to ask.
Carole was also comforted to discover that Gaby was bored to tears when Stephen talked about his work. So it wasn’t just her. Even better, Gaby didn’t understand what he did either. Carole realized her image of her son had been coloured by this. Since there were so many subjects off-limits in their occasional conversations – subjects like David, Stephen’s childhood, Carole’s banal daily life in Fethering – she had allowed her son to go on about his work in exhaustive detail. At least the subject was a safe one. But by making him talk about other things, Gaby revealed a whole new side to her fiancé, a side hitherto unknown to his mother.