‘Oh, good afternoon.’
‘I heard from Sandra Hartson about the promise you’d secured for the auction. This session of . . . canasta . . .?’
‘Kinesiology,’ said Carole, as though she had been familiar with the word from birth.
‘Yes. Well, I’m very grateful to you, but I thought I’d better check the details.’
‘I gave all the details to Sandra.’
‘But I just wanted to double-check.’
Recognizing Brenda Chew’s inability to delegate, Carole said rather tartly, ‘The details are all exactly as I gave them to Sandra. My next-door neighbour, who is a trained kinesiologist, is offering a free two-hour session for the auction of promises at the Hopwicke Country House Hotel next Saturday.’
‘Yes. That’s exactly what Sandra Hartson said.’
‘Of course it is. It’s exactly what I told her.’
‘Hm. So what is your friend’s name?’
‘Jude.’
‘Jude what?’
‘Most people just call her Jude.’
‘Oh dear. I’m not sure that that will look quite right in the catalogue though I suppose, in the world of alternative therapies, you might expect people to be a bit odd. Still, I’ll discuss it with her.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to telephone her. Could you give me the number?’
Carole did so, and then asked, ‘Are you just going to ring her to say thank you for the offer?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’ A moment’s pause. ‘Well, and just to double-check all the details.’
With difficulty Carole managed not to grind her teeth.
‘Oh, and there’s another very good bit of news, Carole.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You know I was saying at our meeting how useful it would be to our cause if we could get a celebrity auctioneer . . .?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve got one.’
‘Who?’
Brenda Chew’s voice was full of smug pride as she announced, ‘That man from the television. Rick Hendry.’ She went into a very bad impersonation of his catch-phrase. ‘I wish I’d been born deaf!’
‘What! Who on earth fixed that?’
‘Oh, I did. As I may have said before, if you want a job done properly, do it yourself.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Carole’s second appointment with Donald Chew was the following afternoon, but before revising her will she went for coffee at Woodside Cottage, and she and Jade pooled their new information.
‘What seems to be happening,’ said Jude, ‘is that the divergent elements of the case are drawing together. For a long time we couldn’t find a single connection between the world of Rick Hendry and the world of the Pillars of Sussex, but now we’re spoilt for choice.’
‘Yes. I can’t imagine what pressure was put on him to take on this auctioneering job.’
‘From what I know of Rick, it must have been pretty strong. He’s never been known for his charity works. Having long pockets is part of the image he’s so carefully built up. He deliberately refused to take part in the Live Aid recording, regularly refuses to have anything to do with Children in Need, Red Nose Day and all those other telethons. So the idea of him turning out for the Pillars of Sussex . . . somebody’s twisted his arm pretty hard.’
‘Suzy?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Well, maybe you could ask her?’
Jude grimaced. ‘She’s trying to freeze me out at the moment. Doesn’t want to talk to me.’
‘Is that permanent?’
The narrow thread of jealousy in Carole’s nature meant she couldn’t help hoping the answer would be yes, but Jude shrugged off the suggestion. ‘No We’ve been friends for too long for anything like that to be permanent.’
‘Oh,’ said Carole.
‘Anyway, you will talk to Donald Chew about the alibi he’s supposed to be providing for Kerry?’
‘I don’t quite know how easy it’ll be to bring the conversation round to that.’
‘Won’t be a problem, Carole. He’ll probably volunteer the information. I’m sure the Pillars of Sussex grapevine has been busy overnight. Bob Hartson will know that his daughter’s changed her story, and the damage limitation work will be well under way.’
‘All right. I’ll do my best.’
‘Meanwhile I’m going to recontact Wendy Fullerton – you know, Nigel Ackford’s on-off girlfriend. There may be something else she can tell me about his background.’
‘Might be useful, yes.’ But Carole didn’t sound very convinced. What we really still need is a timetable of the movements of everyone in the hotel that night.’
‘And in Suzy’s house as well.’
‘And don’t let’s forget the stable block – the staff quarters. How many potential murderers have we got in there?’
‘Me?’ Jude suggested. ‘Kerry – Max – Ooh, and of course, Bob Hartson’s driver, Geoff.’
‘Is he in the frame then?’
‘Wish he was,’ said Jude wistfully. ‘But Inspector Goodchild seemed to rule him out. Anyway, Geoff wouldn’t have had a key to the hotel and, according to Max, he was snoring away in his bedroom after the kitchen door was locked.’
‘Which was before Nigel Ackford was killed.’
‘Yes.’
‘Max could have been lying,’ Carole suggested.
‘He could have been. He’s lied about plenty of other things. But we don’t know for sure, do we? Frustrating business, solving murder mysteries, isn’t it?’
‘Mm.’ Carole picked up her handbag in a determined fashion. ‘Well, let’s see what I can find out this afternoon from my friendly local solicitor.’
As soon as her neighbour had left, Jude did an hour of yoga. Her mind was filled with permutations of the suspects at Hopwicke Country House Hotel and of how Nigel Ackford might have died and the yoga, she knew, would empty and cleanse her, leaving a more effective brain in a more relaxed body.
She went through the comforting movements which were by now almost instinctive, and which left no spare concentration available for niggling thought. In the privacy of her bedroom her plump body posed and balanced with surprising grace, and at the end of the session she felt, as she had known she would, completely recharged.
Jude was just rolling up her mat when the phone rang. It was Max Townley. He sounded ill at ease; he wanted to talk. Jude suggested lunch at the Crown and Anchor.
‘Your death’s made it to the Fethering Observer,’ said Ted Crisp.
‘What?’ said Jude, spluttering in to her Chilean Chardonnay. ‘But I haven’t even been ill.’
‘Listen, I do the jokes. Actually, I was talking about that solicitor you mentioned up at Hopwicke House.’
‘Really?’
‘Look.’ The landlord thrust over the counter a copy of the local paper, folded to an inside page. There, amid two-inch reports of thefts from cars in Littlehampton car parks, monies raised by a sponsored cycle ride, and the appointment of a new primary school head, was a snippet that read:
HOTEL DEATH
Worthing solicitor Nigel Ackford was found dead in his room at a local hotel. The cause of death is as yet unknown. Ackford’s employer, Donald Chew, senior partner of the long-established firm Renton and Chew said, ‘Nigel Ackford was a very promising young man. He will be sorely missed.’
‘How do they do it?’ asked Jude in disbelief.
‘Do what?’
‘Keep all the facts out. Look, no mention of the Hopwicke Country House Hotel. No mention of the Pillars of Sussex.’
‘I think your last four words have answered your own question, Jude. The Pillars of Sussex have got fingers in most of the local pies. If they want to control what gets printed, I’m sure they can lean on someone at the Fethering Observer.’