‘Sorry, what do you mean?’ asked one of the Joannas or Samanthas.
‘Quintus is convinced that the man didn’t enter the water from anywhere along the south coast. In other words, whoever had the daft idea about him being the victim of gang warfare in Brighton, well, that just can’t be right.’ The Joanna or Samantha in question pursed her lips. ‘Quintus thinks the man either entered the sea from the North Coast of France or fell off a vessel in the Channel.’
‘Exactly what I said!’ crowed the relevant Joanna or Samantha. ‘He’s an illegal immigrant who fell off a leaky boat! You know, these people smugglers who charge them thousands of pounds to travel in vessels that aren’t seaworthy, they’re terrible people. They’re murderers and they just don’t care. I read about them in the Daily Mail.’
So that must be right, thought Jude ironically. But Phoebe Braithwaite had resented the Joanna or Samantha’s interruption, because she hadn’t yet finished repeating her husband’s views on the body found on Fethering Beach. (Which also of course must be right, thought Jude ironically.)
‘Quintus says the most likely thing is that the body was that of a Russian sailor whose ship had called in to some port in Northern France – like Dieppe or Boulogne, let’s say. He says there are a lot of Russian seamen in every kind of commercial vessels these days. And Quintus is pretty sure that this “poor bastard” – his words, not mine, I hasten to add …’ She tittered at her daring. ‘… Anyway, he’d gone on shore leave and got a skinful of booze and missed his footing on the way back to his vessel and drowned there, and then the currents carried him out into the Channel and deposited him on Fethering Beach.’
‘So Quintus reckoned he drowned?’ asked Jude.
‘Well, of course, yes. What other possibility is there?’
Jude thought it was probably just as well that the assembled ladies in Polly’s Cake Shop didn’t know about the bullet hole she had seen in the man’s temple.
And the bullet hole which Sara Courtney had seen earlier actually inside Polly’s Cake Shop. Assuming, of course, that Sara Courtney had seen anything.
Which, in spite of the woman’s denials, Jude now felt certain she had.
She also felt certain that before too long the investigating police would make public the fact that the man had been shot. And she wondered what fresh theories that news would generate among the Joannas or Samanthas of Fethering.
TWELVE
Jude woke up on the Sunday morning and switched on Radio Four. She wasn’t a regular listener to the channel, but now awaited in every bulletin something about the Fethering Beach body. She was rather confused to find that she wasn’t hearing the regular news programme, and took a moment to realize that British summertime had ended and she’d gained an hour during the night.
Jude also woke up with something of a dilemma. She hadn’t seen Sara Courtney again after the woman had taken her order in Polly’s Cake Shop the previous morning. Presumably she’d been busy in the kitchen. Anyway, even if they had met again, the café was a rather public arena in which to have the kind of conversation Jude needed to have with Sara.
It was because she knew about the woman’s fragility that she felt the conversation just had to take place. So far Sara hadn’t apparently made any connection between the body she saw (or hallucinated) and the one found the previous Thursday on Fethering Beach. But it was only a matter of time before the news emerged that the man had been shot rather than drowned. The information would probably be revealed in a police news conference and then spread around all of the media. It’d be front-page news in the Fethering Observer. There was no way Sara could avoid knowing about it.
And, given the woman’s previous history, Jude was worried about the effect the revelation would have on her. If the case of the Fethering Beach body became a murder inquiry, Sara Courtney would either have to become involved or live in fear of being investigated.
So Jude wanted to talk to her, fill her in on what was likely to happen, to cushion the prospective blow.
But that Sunday morning there was no reply from either her landline or her mobile. Jude left messages on both, asking Sara to ring back but not giving any clue as to why she wanted to talk.
Jude got up in a leisurely fashion and had a long bath, laced with essential oils, while incense burned around her.
She was surprised how much she wanted to talk to Carole, to share with her speculation about the body they had discovered. But she’d heard nothing since her neighbour had set off for Fulham on the Friday morning. Jude could have rung the mobile, but didn’t want to intrude on the euphoria and anxiety of Chloe’s arrival. Carole would communicate in her own good time.
So, relaxed by her bath and still feeling self-indulgent, Jude decided that she would treat herself to lunch at the Crown and Anchor. Having picked up a copy of the Mail on Sunday (really just to make her cross), she arrived on the dot of twelve, just as the pig-tailed blond bar manager Zosia was unlocking the door for Sunday opening.
The Polish girl enveloped her in a huge hug. Zosia had adored both of them ever since Jude and Carole had investigated the death of her brother Tadeusz. Had Carole been there, she too would have received a huge hug, which would have pleased and embarrassed her in equal measure.
Zosia went straight behind the bar and, without asking for the order, poured a large glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. ‘If you’re lunching, Ed’s Sunday Special is a cassoulet. And we’ve got all the usual joints as well.’
‘Cassoulet sounds wonderful. Real winter warmer. Funny how the clocks changing always makes you feel that winter’s on the way.’
‘Would you like me to put your order through straight away?’
‘I’m not in a hurry, Zosia.’
‘Well, look, shall I put it through in half an hour? I only say that because we’ve got a big family party booked in at twelve thirty. Might be wise to get your order in before the kitchen gets really busy.’
‘Good thinking. Yes, if you could put it through in half an hour, that’d be great. Thus giving me half an hour’s drinking time to get really cross with the Mail on Sunday.’
‘I hadn’t got you down as a Mail on Sunday reader, Jude.’ Ted Crisp had appeared from the kitchen door. His faded summer T-shirt had given way to a faded sweatshirt, perhaps another homage to the ending of British Summer Time. Winter was definitely on its way.
‘I like to vary my reading occasionally,’ said Jude. ‘See how the other half thinks.’
‘I see. Now if it had been Carole reading the Mail on Sunday, I wouldn’t have thought anything odd about that. She sounds like she’s quoting from it every time she opens her mouth.’
‘Now that’s unfair, Ted.’
‘Only slightly.’ He grinned behind his scruffy beard. ‘You have to admit Carole’s opinionated, don’t you?’
‘I’ll give you that.’ Jude grinned back, not for the first time amazed to recall that Ted and Carole had once had an affair. Inevitably it hadn’t lasted very long, but there was still a tenderness between the two of them. ‘Anyway, big news on the Carole front is that she has just become a grandmother for the second time.’
‘Oh, great. What was it? A baby?’ Ted Crisp could never quite escape his past as a stand-up.
‘Ha. Ha. Very funny. Little girl called Chloe. Born Friday morning. Carole’s up in Fulham with them now.’
‘Oh well, do pass on my congratulations to her.’
‘Course I will.’
Ted looked around the bar. There were very few customers. ‘The good burghers of Fethering haven’t got used to the time change yet.’