“I may have to go out, and I know Ricky has a lunch somewhere, and I’m not sure where Piers is, but Varya will be here. She’s the au pair.”
Jude knew that Carole would happily give her a lift in her immaculate Renault to the Le Bonniers’, but she didn’t ask the favour. She never liked to impose on her neighbour’s generosity when it was for work.
Fedingham Court House had Elizabethan origins, still evident in the redbrick frontage and high chimneys of the main part of the house. But generations of owners had renovated and improved (according to their lights) the structure, so that the house had become a compendium of three centuries’ architectural styles. Jude’s taxi deposited her in front of elaborate, high wrought-iron gates which opened automatically after she had announced herself into the entryphone.
Though Fedingham Court House was impressive in size, there was nothing daunting about it. At the back of the grounds was farmland, which melted upwards into the soft hazy grey undulations of the South Downs. The gravel circle in front, on which stood the Mercedes 4×4 and a brand-new Mini, was a little untidy. The garden too was welcomingly unkempt, and a child’s swing hanging from a tree emphasized the homely impression. For the kind of person who could afford it – which presumably Ricky Le Bonnier could – it was the perfect family house.
The front door was opened before Jude reached it by a young dark-haired woman she didn’t recognize but assumed correctly must be Varya. The au pair held a sleeping Henry in her arms and round one side of her legs peered the mischievous face of Mabel, excited to see one of the few people to whom she vouchsafed the great honour of her friendship. Round the other side of the au pair peered an equally curious Dalmatian.
“Hello, Mabel,” said Jude. “And what’s the dog called?”
“Spot the Dog.” The girl spoke with the seriousness of a child who’d spent more time with adults than with her own generation. Not hooded and scarfed as she had been at the swings by Fethering Beach, she was revealed to have wispy hair so blond as to be almost white, a striking contrast to her bright brown eyes.
“And is Spot the Dog the one who’s just had puppies?”
“No, he’s a boy dog. Boy dogs can’t have babies. Nor can boy men.”
“Ah, thank you for telling me that. So what’s the name of the lady dog?”
“You don’t say ‘lady dog’. You say ‘bitch’.”
Jude stood corrected and exchanged a grin with the au pair. “So what is the name of the bitch who’s had the puppies, Mabel?”
“She’s called Spotted Dick.”
“But isn’t Dick a boy’s name?”
“Yes, it is. So she shouldn’t be called Spotted Dick. Daddy chose the name. Daddy’s sometimes very silly.” But it was clear from her tone that Mabel approved of her father’s silliness. “Would you like to see Spotted Dick’s puppies?”
“Yes, please.”
Jude was led from the hall, which was heavily garlanded with decorations and featured a ceiling-high Christmas tree, into a huge farmhouse kitchen, off which, in a small scullery, the proud mother lay in a nest of rugs. Six small white puppies were feeding vigorously from her.
“They’re four boys and two girls,” Mabel announced authoritatively. “But we can’t keep them all. When they’re bigger, most of them will go to good homes. And the spots don’t show at first, but they will all be spotty.” She clearly took in and retained any information she was given.
After a few moments admiring the puppies, Mabel announced that they could go now. “Are you feeling better?” asked Jude as they passed through the kitchen. “Because I hear you’ve been poorly.”
“Yes, I’ve had an ear infection.” She produced a perfect parroting of the phrase. “I have lots of ear infections. I may have to have grommets,” she concluded proudly.
“But you are feeling better?”
“Yes. That’s because of the…” it was an adult word too far ‘antibibotics.’
“Good,” said Jude, trying hard to keep a straight face and not catch Varya’s eye. As they arrived in the hall they met Ricky, who was just putting on a Drizabone riding coat.
At the sight of Mabel, he crouched down and welcomed her into his arms. “Ooh, Daddy,” she squealed, “can we play a game? Can we play Hiding Things.”
“Sorry, lovely. Daddy’s got to go out to lunch, and then he’s got meetings in London for a couple of days, but he’ll be back on Wednesday afternoon. That’s only two days away, gorgeous. We can play Hiding Things then.”
“Is this going to be a ‘boozy lunch’, Daddy?” Another phrase she’d clearly picked up from adult conversation.
“Almost definitely, sweetie.” He stood up, with Mabel still in his arms. “Oh, hi, Jude. Very good of you to come and see Mother.”
“No problem.”
“I think it’s her back. Just stress, probably, you know, after what happened. She’s a tough old bird, but I’m afraid she’s not as strong as she’d like to think she is. And, as Lola probably told you, she’s never trusted doctors.”
“I’ll see what I can do for her.”
“Very good of you. I’ve told her you’re coming. If you don’t mind, I must be off, but she’s in the bedroom right opposite the top of the stairs.”
“I’ll find her.”
“Mm…” He hesitated for a moment, as if about to say something, but thought better of it. “I see Henry’s fast asleep, Varya.”
“Yes, Ricky. I was just taking him up to put him in his cot when Jude arrived.”
“Oh well, you’d better take him now.” He put Mabel down and planted a kiss on the top of her head. “You go up and help Varya tuck Henry in.”
“All right, Daddy.” She followed the au pair. Halfway up the stairs she turned and waved at him formally. “See you later, aggelater.”
“In a while, crocodile,” he responded, his seriousness matching hers. Then he turned to Jude. “She’s right, of course. It will be a boozy lunch.”
“Are you going somewhere local?”
“No, up to London. Drive to Fedborough, get the train to Victoria, boozy lunch today and a few more boozy meetings in the next couple of days. Hope I’ve sobered up by the time I have to drive back from the station on Wednesday.”
“Will this be the first time you’ve been to Fedborough Station since you took Polly there on that Sunday?”
“I suppose it will.” He grimaced. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“No, no, don’t worry. Just something I’m going to have to come to terms with.” He still didn’t sound like a man whose stepdaughter had been killed only a week before. But, as Lola had said, it was hard to work out what someone as positive as Ricky was actually feeling.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but have the police got any nearer to explaining what happened?”
“Don’t apologize. Everyone’s asking the same questions. And I don’t blame them. We want to get to the bottom of it as much as anyone else. But I’m afraid the police haven’t told us anything definite yet.”
Jude thought there was no harm in repeating the question she’d put to Piers about the whereabouts of Polly’s mobile phone. Ricky said he had no idea. “I would assume that it was destroyed in the inferno at the shop.”
“Probably, I expect you’re right. I was just thinking, if the phone was found, it might explain a few things.”
“How so?”
“There’d be a record on it of the calls and texts Polly had received, maybe even the message that had made her change her mind and go back to Fethering.”
“I suppose that’s possible. But since the phone is now probably an unrecognizable melted blob of plastic and metal…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. “Anyway, I must get off to this lunch.” He made a childish stomach-rubbing gesture. “Lovely lunch. Best meal of the day. Except nobody lunches properly these days. Back in the sixties, early seventies, we’d have these proper lunches every day. Start with two or three Camparis and orange, have at least a bottle of wine per head and round it off with a couple of brandies. Lunch was part of the creative process back then, bloody good ideas came out of lunch. That’s why the current state of the music business is so formulaic and anodyne. None of the bloody accountants who run things these days ever have a proper lunch. Sandwiches at the desk, a bottle of fizzy water…no surprise no original ideas come out of that. Oh, don’t get me started.”