The Shooting in the Shop (23 page)

‘On a Sunday?’

Hearing the scepticism in Carole’s voice, Anna
buried her head in her hands, quietly sobbing.

‘And was it at the shop that you and Ricky had
your assignations?’

An almost inaudible ‘Yes.’

‘Why not at your place?’

‘I’m in rented rooms. The landlady lives on the
premises. She’s a nosy cow.’

‘Right. And of course there was a furnished flat
upstairs at Gallimaufry, wasn’t there? Which no doubt
had a convenient bed available. Oh yes, I remember.
Lola had wanted to rent out the flat, but Ricky wasn’t
keen on the idea. Now we know why, don’t we?’
Carole couldn’t keep the scorn out of her voice.
‘Didn’t you ever stop and think what you were doing
to Lola? Didn’t you think you had any loyalty to her?’

‘Nothing we were doing was hurting Lola.’

‘Only because she didn’t know.’

‘Ricky would never do anything to threaten his
marriage.’

‘Oh no?’

‘No. He’s just one of those men who’s capable of
loving two women at the same time.’

‘I’ve heard of them,’ Carole snorted. ‘And no doubt
he told you that he was like that because he was a
creative person, and creative people have to be
judged by different moral standards from the rest of
the world?’ The way Anna evaded her eye told Carole
that her conjecture had been correct. She felt even
more furious with Ricky Le Bonnier, and her anger
spilled over towards Anna. ‘Well, you’ll have to find
somewhere else for your trysts now. Your little love-nest
had sadly been burnt down, hasn’t it?’

Her victim offered no resistance as verbal blows
thudded in. ‘And have you seen Ricky since that assignation,
since the Sunday before Christmas?’ Carole
continued harshly.

‘No. We had a bit of a tiff that evening and I was
worried he was trying to end our relationship. But
it turned out all right – that’s what we were talking
about in the car. We were making up, saying that we’d
got too much going to stop it just like that. Ricky
promised he’d ring me over Christmas, but now all
this has happened, it must be very difficult for him
to . . .’

There was no need for Carole to ask. She now
knew that when they’d last been in the same shelter
and the mobile had rung, Anna had been hoping for
a call from Ricky. Her expression of disappointment
at the time was explained.

Carole moved quickly on to details of timing. ‘You
were seen in Ricky’s car about eight o’clock that
Sunday evening . . .’

‘Who saw us?’

‘That doesn’t matter. Now, according to Ricky
himself – and Lola, come to that – he had gone to
take his daughter Polly to catch the seven-thirty-two
London train from Fedborough Station. Had he
already made the assignation to meet you after he’d
done that?’

‘No. He called me at about seven-fifteen that
evening. He said he couldn’t stop thinking about me
and he’d suddenly got half an hour free . . . and he
could pick me up on the corner of my road and . . .’
Her words petered out as she realized how shabby the
arrangements sounded.

‘You
were
honoured, weren’t you? A whole half-hour.’

‘You don’t know what our relationship was like,
Carole,’ Anna protested.

‘It seems to me I’m getting a pretty fair impression
of it. From what you’ve just said, it was like
any other hole-in-the-corner adulterous affair. So, you
both got back to the shop in his car at about eight,
enjoyed half an hour of . . . each other’s company –
and then what? Did Ricky do the gentlemanly thing
and drive you back to the end of your road?’

‘No, I walked.’

‘So he didn’t do the gentlemanly thing. How
gallant.’

‘Carole, we are in love.’

That plea got the contemptuous snort it deserved.
‘Tell me, Anna – and this is important – did you see
Ricky leave Gallimaufry that evening?’

‘No, he was still in the shop when I left.’

‘Right. And you say you haven’t seen him since?’

‘Haven’t seen him, haven’t heard from him.’ The
woman was on the verge of further tears. ‘Do you
think the police are likely to question me again?’

Carole shrugged. ‘If they’re doing their job
properly, I think they should.’

‘So Lola will find out about Ricky and me?’

Anna’s scarf had slipped down, revealing peroxide
blond hair whose roots needed doing. Tears had
spread her mascara and her scarlet lipstick was
smudged. She looked so crushed and feeble that
Carole couldn’t help feeling a surge of pity. ‘Maybe
not,’ she replied, with no knowledge to justify the
assertion. ‘It may not be necessary for Lola to be told.’

There was a silence. While they were talking,
they hadn’t noticed a thin, cold rain begin to fall.
Down at the water’s edge Gulliver and Blackie were
engaged in their own independent but vitally important
manoeuvres.

‘And, Anna, you don’t have an idea why anyone
might have wanted to murder Polly Le Bonnier?’

‘No idea at all.’

Carole thought it was probably the truth. She had
found out everything relevant to the investigation
that she was going to find out from Anna Carter. The
natural moment had arrived for them to collect their
dogs and go their separate ways. But there was still
something that was intriguing Carole.

‘You keep talking about having come to Fethering
to make a new start. What was it you were trying to
get away from? A divorce?’

‘Something rather more permanent than that,’
Anna replied quietly. ‘My husband died.’

‘Oh, I am sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. It was nearly four years ago. I’ve . . .
I don’t know what the best expression is . . . Not “got
over it” – well, you don’t get over it – “I’ve come to
terms with it.” Yes, that’s probably right. So I’d rather
it hadn’t happened, but I can cope with the rest of my
life. Or at least cope with most of it. The bit I couldn’t
cope with was being treated like a widow. My husband
and I had quite a close circle of friends, and of
course they all knew . . . and it wasn’t that they
weren’t kind to me, but whatever they did, I got the
feeling they could never forget that “poor old Jo’s a
widow”.’

‘Jo?’

‘Yes. Another part of the makeover. The hair, the
make-up, the name. I was Joanna Carter-Fulbright.
So I chopped off the ends of my old name and made
myself into “Anna Carter”. And I moved down from
Carlisle to Fethering, and I cut off all communication
with my old friends. To start a new life. And then the
first thing I do in that new life . . .’ tears threatened
again – ‘is to begin having an affair with Ricky Bloody
Le Bonnier.’

‘I’ll be seeing him tonight,’ said Carole. She felt
calmer now; the flames of anger had subsided to
glowing embers. ‘I’ve been invited to their New Year’s
Eve party.’

‘Oh, so have I!’ The thought seemed to excite
Anna.

‘But will you be going?’

‘Yes, I must.’ She turned her tired, tear-washed
face to Carole as she murmured intensely, ‘I can’t not
see him.’

That New Year’s Eve you would not have known that
Fedingham Court House was a place of mourning.
The display of Christmas decorations which Jude
had observed on her last visit had been doubled in
size, and black-dressed waitresses worked assiduously
to see that no one spent a moment without food or
drink. From the huge sitting room music blared, and
through the door could be seen the live band who
were playing.

There was also a huge number of people. A few
familiar Fethering and Fedborough faces, but not
many. There was a good scattering of older men
with gorgeously attired younger wives or girlfriends,
who somehow looked as if they must be Ricky’s
contacts from the music industry. There were even
stars from the world of rock whom Carole could
recognize from the media but not put names to. It was
clearly a very glamorous party. Carole was glad they’d
agreed to leave their coats in the Renault; that made
a quick getaway possible if required. All her insecurities
about being somewhere where she didn’t know
anyone rose immediately to the surface. Her atavistic
instinct was to stay very close to her neighbour.

Jude intuitively sensed her unease, and whispered
as they entered the hall. ‘Don’t think of it as a social
occasion. Think of it as a stage in our investigation.
There’s a lot of information we need to get from the
various Le Bonniers.’

Though at that stage finding a Le Bonnier looked
like being something of a challenge. No sign of Ricky
or Lola. There were so many guests that they must
have been off somewhere in the noisy throng doing
their hostly duty. The party wasn’t going to offer
the most conducive atmosphere for interrogation of
murder suspects.

Looking around at the milling guests, Carole also
felt sure she’d got the dress code wrong. All the other
women were so colourful and flamboyant that she
feared her trusty Marks & Spencer’s little black
number looked absurdly dingy by comparison. Its
eternal aim – to make her look anonymous and
invisible – might be having the opposite effect of
making her look conspicuous. Even the sparkly
snowflake brooch Gaby had given her felt cheap and
inappropriate in this environment.

Jude, needless to say, had got her ensemble just
right. Without changing her habitual style of a long
skirt and wafty tops, she had added a sparkling stole
and shimmering glass beads to give the overall
impression that she had dressed for a special occasion.

Both women took the proffered glasses of
champagne, and Jude sailed boldly forward towards a
room where there wasn’t music playing. ‘Let’s look
for somewhere with seats.’

‘Why do you want to sit down?’

‘I don’t, Carole, but I know there’s one person in
this household who will be sitting down.’

‘Flora. Of course.’

Through the crush they did manage to find the
old lady. She was sitting in a high-winged armchair
which, with her in it, looked like a throne. Her hair
had been expertly remoulded into shape and she wore
a dress of glittering silver. The diamonds round her
neck and hanging from her ears were undoubtedly
the real thing (making Carole feel that her brooch was
even more tawdry). If ever there was an illustration
for ageing gracefully, Flora Le Bonnier was providing
it. Only her crippled hands, immobile fingers pressed
together as she lifted a champagne glass to her lips,
let down the image.

When the two women reached her chair, she was
alone, surveying the scene with all the grandeur of a
monarch reviewing her troops. She recognized Jude
instantly and inclined her head graciously to Carole.

‘You’re looking magnificent,’ said Jude. ‘I do hope
this means that you’re feeling better.’

‘My dear girl,’ Flora Le Bonnier trilled, ‘I cannot
thank you enough for what you have done for me.
From the moment you finished your healing, the pain
disappeared and, thank the Lord, has stayed away. No
professional doctor, however many letters he might
have after his name, could have begun to do what you
did for me.’

Jude decided that when it came to investigation,
there was no time like the present. ‘I’ve been reading
your book, Flora,’ she said, ‘which I found absolutely
riveting.’

‘Oh, it’s just a pot-boiler.’ In spite of her modest
words, Flora was clearly very pleased by the compliment.

‘One thing that really interested me,’ Jude went
on, ‘was about Ricky.’

‘Oh?’ There was a new alertness in the old
woman’s eyes.

‘For a start, there doesn’t seem to be a lot about
him in the book.’

Flora sighed. ‘I know. I so wanted to put in more
about my dear boy – I’d even written a lot of it – but
I had this very stubborn editor at the publisher’s. She
kept saying, “The book is about
you
, your career, not
your family life.” So, I’m afraid, if I wanted to get the
book published, I had to go along with her recommendations.
I kept telling her that Ricky was famous
in his own right, that his involvement in pop music
might spread the potential readership for the book,
but she wouldn’t budge.’

‘Oh well, maybe he’ll write his own biography in
time.’

A gracious smile greeted this. Flora clearly had no
objection to the idea. She looked at Carole. ‘And have
you read the book?’

The expression was so imperious that Carole felt
as if she was up in front of a headmistress for not
having done her homework. ‘No, I haven’t yet, but
I’m looking forward to borrowing it from Jude and
reading it.’ She was, too. A second mind applied to the
text might deduce more about the Le Bonnier family
secrets.

Jude was still in investigative mode. ‘There was
something in the book which I found rather
strange . . .’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, I hadn’t thought about it before, but I found
I was suddenly asking myself why Ricky’s surname
was Le Bonnier.’

‘Why shouldn’t it be? It’s my surname. It’s a name
with a great deal of history.’

‘Yes, I’m not questioning that, but there is a tradition
in this country that children take the surname of
their father.’

‘Traditions,’ Flora Le Bonnier announced magisterially,
‘are there to be broken. Ricky’s father had no
relevance in his life.’

‘But who was—?’

That was as far as Jude was allowed to get. ‘My
dear girl, you are not the first person to have asked
me that question. Over the decades many journalists
have tried by various means to winkle a name
out of me. None has been successful, and I’m afraid
you won’t be either. Le Bonnier is a fine and time-honoured
name. My son has always been proud to
bear it.’

‘If that’s the case,’ Carole chipped in, ‘why did he
go to school under the name of Ricky Brown?’

The look that travelled down Flora Le Bonnier’s
finely sculpted nose was very nearly a glare. Then,
remembering her manners, she converted it into a
cold smile. ‘I would gather,’ she said, ‘that you have
never been troubled by the inconveniences of
celebrity.’ Carole was forced to admit that she hadn’t.
‘Well, let me explain to you. When Ricky was young,
I was – there’s no point in false modesty – very
famous indeed. The media make a great fuss nowadays
about the hounding of celebrities by the
paparazzi, by door-stepping journalists, by stalkers
even, but let me tell you that kind of thing was very
much up and running in the post-war years. Before
the major expansion of television, the cinema played
an even more important role in people’s lives, and its
stars were subjects of intense popular speculation.
For my son to have gone to a local school down here
in Fethering under the name of Ricky Le Bonnier
would have been to condemn him to a nightmare of
intrusive interest and teasing. For that reason he was
known as Ricky Brown.’