“Not in so many words. But what he said implied that we would have a future together, that we would go on seeing each other. He said I was one of the few people he could trust, and he wanted me to look after something for him.”
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“He said it was a flash drive…you know, one of those memory sticks. He said it was very precious to him, and he didn’t want to leave it lying around at home because he didn’t feel his home was secure.”
Jude had the passing thought that her finding Polly’s mobile might have something to do with his risk assessment.
“Did you get the flash drive?” asked Carole, trying without great success to hide her urgency.
“How could I have done?”
“It was probably on his key-ring, or in his pocket.”
“Look, I’d just come across the dead body of the man I loved, possibly the only man I really loved. I wasn’t about to start riffling through his pockets.”
“No, of course not,” said Carole, properly abashed for her insensitivity.
Jude asked the important question. “Do you know what was on the flash drive, Anna?”
“Ricky said it was a copy of a book that his stepdaughter Polly had written.”
Thirty-Eight
“The agent,” said Jude, as soon as they got back into the Renault. “We’ve got to get in touch with the agent who read Polly’s book.”
“The one who’d been at Cambridge with Lola and Piers?”
“That’s right. Serena Somebodyorother, if my memory serves me right.”
“I suppose we could try to contact Piers. If he’s still at Fedingham Court House.”
“We don’t need to do that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll have Serena’s number at Woodside Cottage.”
“Oh?” said Carole.
“Because that’s where Polly’s mobile is.”
“Ah,” said Carole.
Sure enough, in the Contacts list on dead girl’s phone, there was an entry for ‘Serena’. On the assumption that the name was unusual and this must be Serena Fincham, Jude rang the number straight away. As soon as she said she was calling about Polly Le Bonnier, the rather Sloaney voice at the other end became very concerned.
“That was terrible. I only got the news from a chum a couple of days ago. I’d been away skiing over Christmas. What a disaster – poor Polly. Do you know anything about exactly what happened?”
“I know quite a bit, and I’m trying to work out the rest. I wonder, would it be possible for us to meet?”
“Sure. When?”
“Sooner the better. Is tomorrow possible for you?”
“No, I’m staying with my parents in Gloucestershire. Back to work on Monday, though. Could do after work, sixish. My office is in Earls Court.”
“Would it be possible to make it a bit earlier?”
“Not sure. There’s bound to be a log-jam of manuscripts. Aspiring writers don’t seem to observe public holidays.”
“It is rather urgent.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose I could nip out for a coffee sometime in the morning. Since it’s about Polly. I mean, I really am devastated.”
They fixed to meet in a coffee shop near Serena’s office at eleven o’clock on the Monday morning. Anticipating the reaction when she relayed this to Carole, Jude said, “And you’ll be there too.”
She was on her own in Woodside Cottage at about half past nine on the Sunday evening when the phone rang. It was a very weary-sounding Lola.
“How’re you holding up?”
“Pretty grim. But it helps having to do stuff with the children. Though I’m still no nearer breaking the news to Mabel. I fobbed her off this evening with something about Daddy being away, which has been the case often enough so she didn’t suspect anything. But there’s only so long I can keep doing that.”
“You’ll find a way to tell her.”
Lola sighed deeply. “I’m sure I will, though I can’t for the life of me imagine what it’ll be.”
“Is Piers still with you?”
“Yes, and getting to be a bloody nuisance. Emoting all over the place. It’s quite honestly the last thing I need at the moment.”
“He’s a sensitive soul.”
“Huh. Is that what you call it? A self-appointed ‘sensitive soul’. His only real concern is his own emotions, he never considers anyone else’s. Anyway, Jude, reason I rang…”
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to say thank you for being such a support over the last few days. I don’t know how I’m going to get through what lies ahead, but at least I’ve got friends like you to help me through.”
“Of course you have,” said Jude. “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”
And she felt very guilty that Lola Le Bonnier was still on her list of suspects.
Thirty-Nine
They’d travelled up from Fethering to Victoria on the first cheap train, and were in Earls Court well before eleven. From the wide array offered by the coffee shop, Carole asked frostily for ‘an ordinary black, please’. Jude opted for a cappuccino, and also had a sticky pain aux raisins. Serena Fincham was late. It was after twenty past eleven and they were beginning to think she might have ducked the encounter when a red-haired girl in her thirties came rushing in through the door, clutching a battered leather briefcase overflowing with papers. She identified the only two women sitting together and came bustling across to them.
“So sorry. All hell breaking loose at the office. Now which one of you is Jude?”
Introductions sorted and a ‘tall skinny latte’ ordered, Serena Fincham sat down at their table. She was glowing with health from her skiing. The sun had brought out the freckles on her nose, and her brown skin made the other customers in the coffee shop look pale and wintry. “I’m still reeling from the news about Polly,” she said. “Are you two relatives of hers?”
“No,” Jude replied. “Just people who want to find out how she died.”
“Yes, well, it seems to get ghastlier the more details I find out. Shot dead before the shop was burnt down around her – horrible.”
“How did you find out about it?”
“Oh, the Cambridge Mafia. I deliberately refrained from checking any emails while I was in Davos, because I knew they’d just be from needy paranoid authors, so I didn’t get the news till Saturday.”
“You haven’t spoken to Lola, have you?”
“No, I thought she’d have enough on her plate with her stepdaughter having been killed. Her husband must be devastated.”
Ah, so it seemed Serena hadn’t heard about Ricky’s death. Probably nothing to be gained by telling her unless she asked after him.
“What about Piers? Have you spoken to him?”
“Texted him. Said how devastated I was. How ghastly it must be for him. I mean, whatever he may have thought about Polly, they had been together for, I don’t know, twelve years, something like that.”
“You say ‘whatever he may have thought of Polly’. What do you mean?” asked Carole.
“Well, I gather from mutual chums that things haven’t been too good between them recently. And Piers always treated her a bit as though she was second best. I mean, when we were doing Footlights revues and things, Polly was always the hanger-on, the outsider, you know, not at Cambridge, not part of the group. But maybe Piers’d treat any woman he was going out with like that.”
“Oh?”
“Not lacking in self-esteem, our Piers. Biggest ego on the planet. The only thing he really cares about is his writing, his bloody career, and now with this sitcom of his apparently going into production, all his ambitions are going to be realized.”