Fethering 02 (2001) - Death on the Downs (26 page)

Carole looked up to find herself confronted by Barry Stillwell. He was wearing yet another pinstriped suit and a charcoal overcoat. His blue tie had a repeated gold logo on it. Some golf club perhaps…Yes, he probably would play golf. Carole thanked God they hadn’t got on to the subject when they’d last met. Golf would have added agonizing new refinements to the torture imposed by Barry Stillwell’s conversation.

“Can I get you another glass of wine? The Bordeaux Blanc that Will has as a house white is not unacceptable.”

Carole’s first instinct was to refuse the offer, but on consideration she accepted. Barry Stillwell might be an embarrassing creep, but he did know some of the principals involved in the case. Most significantly, he knew Graham Forbes. Barry could be a useful source of information.

He bought her wine and sat down with a half of bitter for himself. “Just the half. Have to watch it when I’m driving.”

Carole had said exactly the same words many times herself. Why, on Barry Stillwell’s lips, did they sound so impossibly prissy? And why was he suddenly talking like that anyway? On their ‘date’ he had boasted about his immunity to the attentions of the breathalyser police.

He took a sip from his glass and grunted with satisfaction. “Ah, that hits the spot all right.”

Why is it, Carole wondered, that all men—particularly those who patently aren’t—have to pretend they’re part of some blokish beer-swilling pub culture?

Barry Stillwell looked at her in a manner that he imagined to be winsome. “If I didn’t know you better,” he said, “I’d think you’d been trying to avoid me.”

You don’t know me at all. And I have been trying to avoid you. But all Carole said was, “I’m sorry not to have returned your calls. I’ve just been so busy the last few days.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Barry archly. “I’m sure we can make up for lost time.”

Carole let out a thin smile, before asking, “So what brings you up here—business or pleasure?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I got my question in first.” Carole realized that she sounded impossibly girlish. Oh dear, was she actually using her ‘feminine wiles’?

Never mind. It was in a good cause. She might get something out of Barry to corroborate part of her theory of the crime. Because, though she was convinced by its general outline, Carole was aware that more than a few details needed filling in.

“So have you been visiting a client?”

“I have indeed, Carole.”

“Graham Forbes?”

“Yes. My oh my, you’ve got a good memory.”

“Not that good. We did actually meet at the Forbeses—”

“As if you imagine I could forget it, Carole.”

“And you were introduced to me by Graham as his solicitor.”

“So I was. Right. So you didn’t need such a good memory after all…though, mind you, I’m sure your memory is as excellent as everything else about you.”

Carole couldn’t think what on earth he was talking about, until she realized that this was another of Barry Stillwell’s ponderous compliments.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you.” She giggled coquettishly, then moved firmly on. “So what have you been seeing Graham about today?”

But he didn’t succumb to the direct question quite as readily as she’d hoped.

“Ah, now, Carole, I’m sure you’re aware that there is such a thing as client confidentiality.”

“Of course.” Damn. Her ‘feminine wiles’ were going to need a little more fine-tuning. She backed off and started a more roundabout approach. “Was Graham very upset when he heard about the planning permission for the barn?”

“I’m sorry?” asked Barry, confused by the sudden change of direction.

“The barn behind his house. You know, the one that Harry Grant’s been wanting to turn into a house for so long.”

“Well, we haven’t actually discussed it, but I can’t imagine Graham’s best pleased. It’s something he’s fought vigorously for many years.”

Yes, and I know why, thought Carole.

“Of course, I could see it coming,” Barry went on, moving into his ‘I know everything that goes on around this area’ mode. “Get a few new faces on the Planning Committee and it’s amazing how quickly things can change.”

“Presumably you know most of the major players,” Carole suggested sycophantically.

It had been the right approach. Barry Stillwell almost glowed as he said, “Oh yes indeed. Not many movers and shakers round here I don’t know.”

“So you’d probably also know how all the planning decisions get made, Barry…”

He chuckled knowingly.

“Who scratches whose back…and what with? How much with?”

He raised an admonitory ringer. “Now, Carole, there’s no actual corruption in West Sussex…” Another informed chuckle. “Mind you, certain builders who got the decisions they wanted might well…find themselves issuing surprisingly reasonable estimates for jobs for certain individuals…Or they might build the odd road or do some public maintenance work at a very competitive price…”

“And that’s not corruption?” she asked ingenuously.

“No, no, no, Carole, my dear. That is simply shrewd business practice…Been going on as long as business itself…and it’ll continue for the foreseeable future…”

“Mm. So how far ahead of the Planning Committee meetings will people know who’s likely to get their plans given the green light?”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone knows ahead of the meeting.”

They must sometimes, thought Carole. Otherwise bang goes my motivation for Graham Forbes’s moving of the bones.

Meanwhile Barry Stillwell continued his vindication of local business practice. “There’s nothing illegal in any of this, you know. It’s just a friendly way of doing business. Everyone likes to work with people they know.”

“As you do. I mean, I dare say, in your case, a lot of your clients have become friends?”

“I like to think that, Carole, yes. And I’m also delighted when it works the other way round.”

“The other way round?”

“When friends become clients. So if there’s ever any help you need of a legal nature—if you need help with your will or something—please don’t hesitate to pick up the phone…”

“That’s very kind of you, Barry.”

“Though…” Carole was aware of the effort as another cumbersome compliment was cranked up into position. “When we’re talking about someone as lovely as you, I hope you won’t wait till you need my professional advice before you pick up the phone to me.”

Another girlish giggle seemed appropriate to the situation and, from Barry Stillwell’s reaction, it had been the right choice. But, even as she giggled, Carole wondered how she was ever going to get round to the questions she wanted to ask. Unfortunately, she didn’t think it was going to work to say, “Barry, have you been seeing Graham Forbes because he’s been charged with murder?”

Still, she had got as far as mentioning his clients being also his friends. Build on that. “And it was as a client you first met Graham, of course?”

“Oh yes.”

“You did the conveyancing when he first bought the house here in Weldisham?”

“That’s right.”

“And did you do his divorce?”

“Divorce?”

The solicitor looked puzzled, and Carole knew she was on to something. “Yes, when he divorced his first wife, so that he could marry Irene.”

“Oh.” Puzzlement had given way to confusion, which was now giving way to a cover-up. “Ah.
That
divorce. I didn’t have anything to do with that. I suppose it must have been arranged out in Malaysia…You know, that’s where Sheila was when she…when she went off with this other chap…I suppose…”

Carole had him now. Triumphantly, she said, “You mean Graham and Irene aren’t actually married?”

“Well, they are in everything but name. I mean, it’s difficult to get a divorce if you’ve completely lost touch with the person you’re trying to divorce.”

Or if you’ve murdered them.

Suddenly Carole realized something else. She’d thought Barry’s intonation had been slightly odd when he said to her, “If you need help with your will or something’, but now it made sense. “You’ve been to see Graham Forbes to sort out his will, haven’t you?”

He looked at her in amazement. “How on earth did you know that?”

“You virtually told me, Barry.”

“Did I?”

It all made sense. Graham Forbes had felt the net tightening around him, and realized he had to put his affairs in order. He’d never been able to marry Irene. Sheila Forbes hadn’t been around to give her permission, and for proof to be found that she was dead…although it might have freed him for remarriage…that was the one thing that Graham couldn’t risk happening. As his wife, Irene would have inherited everything by law. Since they weren’t married, he needed to make a will if she was to benefit when he died.

Carole smiled triumphantly at Barry, who looked perplexed and a little guilty. He knew he’d said something he shouldn’t have done, but hadn’t quite worked out what it was. “And I know,” she announced, “why he suddenly needs to make a will in a hurry.”

“Well, obviously, because of the stroke.”

“Stroke?”

“Didn’t you know? Graham had a minor stroke on Friday afternoon.”

Friday afternoon. When Lennie Baylis had gone to visit him. The sergeant had confronted him with his crimes and the shock had brought on a stroke.

But she needed more information. “Was Graham taken to hospital?”

“Yes. Only brought back this morning. That’s why I came up this afternoon. First opportunity there was.”

“Right.”

Carole was thoughtful. In one way the stroke fitted perfectly into her theory. But in another way it didn’t. If Graham Forbes had been hospitalized until that morning, there was no way he could have started the fire in Heron Cottage which killed Pauline Helling.

Her mind raced as she tried to accommodate these new facts into her scenario. She was aware that Barry Stillwell was saying something, but she wasn’t listening.

It was only when she felt his hand on her upper thigh that Carole stopped and looked at him. His thin lips were moving towards hers, puckering like a drawstring purse.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She’d spoken louder than she intended and conversations around them stopped. Barry Stillwell looked uncomfortable, but tried an ingratiating grin. “Come on, Carole,” he urged quietly, “you know we both feel the same about each other. You know we’re going to get it together one day soon, aren’t we?”

“When hell freezes over!” shouted Carole Seddon, and, marching out through silenced customers, left the pub.

§

Outside, the weather had turned suddenly cold, but Carole didn’t notice. Nor did she have any reaction to her flare-up with Barry. She’d forgotten it almost as soon as she was through the door, because her mind was full of other thoughts.

One thought dominated the rest. Maybe Graham Forbes couldn’t have done the deed, but Irene Forbes could easily have torched Heron Cottage.

She looked across at the gutted building, roped off by police tapes. She remembered the little Chinaman pincushion that had stood on the window sill, and would have put money on the fact that Pauline Helling had brought it back from her one trip abroad. A souvenir of Kuala Lumpur.

Carole hurried through the dark car park to her Renault. She needed to get back to Fethering as quickly as possible. She must talk to Jude. They must pool their ideas. Then they must talk again to Detective Sergeant Baylis. Soon they’d have all the loose ends tied up in neat little bows.

She had her key in the car door before she was aware of the noise behind her.

“I think you’d better come with me, Carole,” said a voice she recognized.

She turned. Thin moonlight caught the outline of a long knife in a gloved hand.

T
amsin had been persuaded to turn off the television. She lay on the crumpled cover, propped on a pile of pillows against the pine bedhead. Her manner wasn’t adversarial, just exhausted and apathetic. Defeated.

“How’s it been?” asked Jude.

“I have good days and bad days. Sometimes I have some energy, sometimes I don’t have any. I find it terribly difficult to concentrate on anything. Even a half-hour television soap leaves me mentally exhausted.”

“And are you managing to read much?”

A shake of the head. “That’s too much concentration as well. I flick through the odd magazine, but…” Tamsin gestured helplessly to the mess around her.

“How about the physical symptoms?”

The girl grimaced. “Bad. Like having flu a lot of the time. Some days my joints just ache so much that…Oh, I don’t know.”

“And do you think what Charles is doing is making things better?”

Tamsin seemed to contemplate a quick fiery response and reject the idea. There was a silence. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think it’s helping. I mean, I know this…what I’ve got…this illness…it’s partly to do with the mind. I don’t mean it’s in the mind,” she added sharply.

“I know what you mean,” said Jude gently. “You don’t have to convince me it’s a real illness.”

“No. That’s a good thing about Charles too. He never questions that it’s a real illness.”

Jude felt the uncharitable thought forming in her head: at the prices he’s charging, why should he? She wished she could curb the distrust that the thought of Charles Hilton always prompted in her.

“And he’s good,” Tamsin went on, “about showing how the mind works. Some of what he says is garbage, but a lot of it makes sense. So if I can understand my mind…see how that ties in with what’s happening to my body…maybe I’ll get closer to getting better…” With an unexpected surge of animation, she echoed her mother’s words. “I mean, we’ve tried everything else! I’ve had endless tests in hospital. I’ve been prescribed vitamin supplements, tonics, antidepressants. None of them’ve worked. Maybe what Charles is doing will help…” She shrugged and repeated a despairing, “I don’t know.”

The long speech seemed to have drained her. There was now no colour in her face at all; she was in monochrome, pale, pale grey. And her eyes a darker grey.

“So you’re staying here because you think he may be able to cure you?”

An almost imperceptible nod.

“But that’s not the only reason, is it, Tamsin?”