Sometimes Carole Seddon was just so Carole Seddon.
TWELVE
Steve Chasen, it turned out, worked as a night shelf-stacker at a big Sainsbury’s in the retail park outside Clincham, ‘which brings in a bit of loot and gives me time to write.’ He did the weekends, Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights – ‘better hourly rate.’ He clearly wasn’t keen for them to come to his home, and when Oliver Parsons had suggested that they meet in the Crown & Anchor early that evening, he didn’t like that idea either. ‘Not a good idea to drink when I got a night shift coming up. And I’m one of those people who can’t go into a pub and not have a bevvy.’
So instead, that Friday evening at six, Jude and Oliver met him at the relatively new Starbucks, in what used to be Polly’s Cake Shop, on Fethering Parade.
Compared to how he had been on the Tuesday night, Steve Chasen was very definitely on his best behaviour. Though still dressed in his uniform of various camouflage patterns and Doc Martens, he showed none of the aggression he had demonstrated at the library.
‘I saw you at the talk,’ he said with something approaching charm, ‘but we didn’t get a chance to say much.’
‘No.’
‘So, until Oliver mentioned it on the phone this morning, I didn’t realize that you were an agent.’
Oh dear, Jude had completely forgotten the cover stories which had made Steve agree to a meeting. Though she had done a little acting in her time, she really didn’t relish playing a part for the whole evening. Also, if Steve Chasen lived locally, he would very soon find out her real identity. Besides, Jude’s inherent honesty would not allow her to raise his hopes about the possibility of his science-fiction novel ever being published.
She had to get out of the situation with the minimum amount of lying. ‘I’m sorry,’ she improvised wildly, ‘Oliver must’ve misunderstood me. I’m not a literary agent, I’m a healing agent.’
She was worried this made her sound like some kind of antiseptic cream, but Steve didn’t seem to read it that way. Nor, on the other hand, did he seem very pleased by what she’d said. Looking accusingly at Oliver, he demanded, ‘Then why the hell did you set up this meeting?’
Smooth as ever, the former television director tried telling the truth. ‘We’re just interested in what happened at Fethering Library on Tuesday night.’
‘All right, I got pissed,’ said Steve Chasen, his aggression returning with a vengeance. ‘What the hell business is that of yours?’
‘It isn’t our business, but—’
‘Then why the hell are you wasting my time?’ He stood up, ready to walk out.
But Oliver Parsons’ next words stopped him. ‘We aren’t wasting your time. We’re talking to you because the police are now treating the death of Burton St Clair as murder. And on Tuesday evening you were heard in front of a lot of witnesses threatening and badmouthing him.’
Slowly Steve Chasen sank back into his chair.
‘Have the police been in touch with you?’ asked Jude. She nearly added ‘yet’, but she thought that would be overdoing things.
‘I had a message on my mobile,’ Steve mumbled. ‘I haven’t got back to them.’
‘They’ll keep trying,’ said Oliver.
‘Well, yes,’ Steve conceded. ‘Presumably, if they think it’s murder, they’ll want to talk to everyone who was at the library on Tuesday night.’
‘Yes, everyone,’ Oliver agreed. And then, perhaps unfairly, he added, ‘But they’ll want to speak to some people more than others.’
‘Meaning me?’
Oliver shrugged, as if the answer to Steve’s question were self-evident. The younger man coloured. ‘But I haven’t got anything to do with murdering anyone.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t. Nor has Jude. But the police have talked to her, and given her quite a rough ride, so we thought we could probably help prepare you for when they do talk to you.’
Jude had to admire the way he’d brought the argument round, so that now it seemed they were supporting Steve Chasen, rather than just picking his brains.
The younger man nodded. ‘OK. Well, like I said, on Tuesday at the library I just got pissed. That’s all. And all right, the guy got up my nose, but I certainly didn’t murder him.’
‘We’re not suggesting you did,’ Jude reassured him. ‘But if we share our recollections of what happened that evening, then we’ll be better placed to knock down any suspicions the police may have about us.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ Steve Chasen agreed slowly.
‘First thing we ought to clear up,’ said Oliver, ‘is whether you had had any previous dealings with Burton St Clair? Had you met him before?’
Jude detected a moment’s hesitation before Steve replied, ‘No. He just represented everything I hate about a certain type of writing. Making it to the bestsellers with some middle-class, menopausal romance … Don’t know what his bloody book’s called, but I know what I think of it.’ He made a retching sound. ‘God, that’s not what writing should be about – not about ordinary people doing bloody ordinary things. Writing should involve imagination. Books shouldn’t copy life, they should create life.’
‘Like yours do?’ Jude suggested.
‘Yes, exactly like mine do. All right, I know I haven’t had the success that some useless tosser like Burton St Clair has had, but in time my books will be recognized for what they are.’
Jude didn’t think it was the moment to point out the ambiguity of what he had just said, but Oliver asked, ‘You mean, your work might be discovered posthumously? Like Gerard Manley Hopkins?’
Steve Chasen looked puzzled. ‘Don’t think I know him. Did he write science fiction?’
Leaving his question unanswered, Jude moved the conversation in another direction. ‘The police say that what killed Burton St Clair was an allergic reaction to walnuts. Did you know that?’
‘No, of course I bloody didn’t. You’ve only just told me he was murdered.’
‘Did you know he was allergic to walnuts?’
If this was an attempt by Oliver Parsons to wrong-foot Steve into an admission he had met Burton St Clair before, it didn’t work. ‘No,’ came the reply. ‘Of course I didn’t. I told you, I never met the guy.’
‘Well,’ said Jude, ‘the police seem to think that someone who did know about his allergy managed to get some walnut – I don’t know, ground walnuts, chopped walnuts, walnut essence – into something Burton drank at the library that evening. It seems unlikely anything could have been got into a sealed water bottle, but the bottle of red wine that was open in the staff room … well, that might be more feasible.’
‘We know that you went into the staff room, Steve,’ said Oliver, ‘I imagine to get more drink at the end of the evening …’
‘All right, what if I did? I didn’t go in there with a pocketful of chopped walnuts, I can assure you.’
‘We’re not suggesting you did,’ said Jude soothingly, ‘but we just wanted to know what you saw when you were in there.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Well, was there a bottle of red wine by the sink?’
‘Yes.’
‘A full bottle?’ asked Oliver.
‘Yes.’
‘With its screw-top off?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what did you do with it?’
‘What do you think I did with it? I went in there with an empty glass because I wanted a drink.’
‘You poured yourself one?’ asked Jude.
‘No. I would have done, but then that interfering librarian came in and stopped me. She said I couldn’t have any more, because the speaker hadn’t had a drink yet.’
‘And she poured a glass for him?’ asked Oliver.