The Shooting in the Shop (16 page)

‘When you talk of having “fights”,’ asked Carole
sternly, ‘do you mean actual physical violence?’

‘God, no,’ Piers protested. ‘I’d never hit anyone –
and certainly not a woman.’

‘Did Polly know about your new girlfriend, the
one from the sitcom?’

‘No, I’m sure she didn’t.’

‘She wasn’t even suspicious that you had someone else?’

‘I don’t think so.’ But he didn’t sound very sure about it.

Jude picked up the interrogation, moving off on
a sudden tangent. ‘Presumably Ricky and Lola know
more about the progress of the police enquiry than you or I do?’

‘Probably, yes. They certainly seem to have spent
a lot of time talking to various detectives.’

‘But have they passed any details on to you?’

He shrugged. ‘Bits and pieces. Lola usually tells
me most things.’

As soon as he’d said the words, he wished he
hadn’t, but Jude didn’t pick him up on them. ‘Has she
said whether the police have found the gun which
killed Polly yet?’

‘I don’t think so. I can’t recall her mentioning it.
Why would that be important?’

For someone with a Cambridge education, Piers
Duncton could sometimes be surprisingly dense. Or
so wrapped up in his own concerns that he couldn’t
see the bigger picture. ‘Because,’ Jude explained
patiently, ‘if they did find a weapon, then the death
could be either suicide or murder. If they didn’t,
suicide becomes much less likely. It’s quite tricky to
dispose of a gun after you’ve shot yourself.’

Piers acknowledged the truth of this, then said,
‘Oh yes, I think Lola did mention something about
the police having found a gun in the ruins of the
shop.’

Jude found this sudden access of memory somewhat
suspicious and her scepticism didn’t decrease
as Piers went on, ‘Actually, the more I think about it,
the more I think Polly may have taken her own life.
There were signs in the last few months, signs I can
only recognize in retrospect. God, if only I’d picked
up on them and got help for her, Polly might still be
alive today!’

His outburst of emotion also seemed suspect to
Jude. ‘So why do you think she killed herself?’

He shrugged hopelessly. ‘Depression. It’s a very
cruel illness. Insidious. And Polly had suffered from it all her life.’

He now seemed to be echoing exactly what Ricky
Le Bonnier had said about his daughter’s death. ‘Just
a minute,’ Jude remonstrated. ‘Only a few days ago,
you sat here in this very room telling me Polly was
always talking about how happy her childhood had
been.’

‘I know,’ said Piers. ‘But when I said that I was
thinking she had died in an accident, and I didn’t
think I needed to tell comparative strangers about
her history of depression. Now, though, now that we
know she committed suicide, we don’t have to maintain
the pretence any more.’

We don’t
know
she committed suicide, thought
Jude, but no amount of further argument would shift
Piers Duncton from his stated belief that his girlfriend
had killed herself. Jude felt certain he was behaving
like that because he suspected murder and was trying
to protect the person who he thought might have
done it.

She also was beginning to think that Ricky had
supported the suicide theory for exactly the same
reasons.

And that the person they both wanted to protect
was Lola.

Now knowing that Piers Duncton shared everything
with his ex-lover, Jude was unsurprised the next
morning, the Monday, to have a call from Lola Le
Bonnier. But the reason for her making contact had
nothing to do with Polly’s death. She wanted Jude’s
help in her professional capacity.

‘It’s Flora,’ said Lola. ‘You know she’s been in a
terrible state since . . . since what happened.’

‘Yes. Has she taken a turn for the worse?’

‘I don’t really know. But she’s now manifesting
physical symptoms, which she wasn’t before. Basically,
her back’s packed in and she doesn’t seem able
to get out of bed.’

‘Have you called the doctor?’

‘That was my first thought, but Flora won’t hear of
it. She doesn’t trust “those damned money-grabbing
quacks”.’ Lola’s impersonation of her mother-in-law
was uncannily accurate. ‘She’s always relied on what
are now called “alternative therapies” – long before
they were fashionable. In London, she’s got a network
of acupuncturists and reiki healers, but down here . . .’

‘I’m the nearest thing to an alternative therapist?’

‘Exactly.’ There was a slight giggle in Lola’s voice.
Again Jude felt strong empathy with the girl, an
attitude that clashed uncomfortably with the suspicions
she’d been harbouring overnight. ‘I know it’s
supposed to be holiday time, but would you mind
coming to have a look at Flora?’

‘Of course. I’ll be with you in as long as it takes.’

‘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.’

Jude could have observed that she hadn’t got him
started, that he seemed quite capable of self-starting
without any help from anyone. But she didn’t.
Instead, she asked, ‘Ricky, thinking back to that
Sunday, the one before the fire, could you—?’

He looked at his watch. ‘Got to be on my way or
I’ll miss the train. Good luck with Mother. Oh, by the
way . . .’ He stepped closer to Jude and spoke with a
new earnestness. ‘Don’t worry if she says anything
odd.’

‘What kind of odd?’

‘Well, if she starts making accusations about
anyone. She’s a wonderful woman, in very good nick
for her age, but occasionally she does get confused.
Usually when she’s had a shock of some kind. And
what’s happened with Polly has really knocked her
sideways. As a result, Mother may say some strange
things. Just ignore it. As I say, she’s confused. I’m
sure she’ll soon be back on an even keel.’