The Shooting in the Shop (25 page)

Waking up to a new year did not improve Carole’s
mood. When she passed Woodside Cottage on her way
to Fethering Beach for Gulliver’s early morning walk,
there was no sign of life. Nor was there when she
came back.

She felt terrible. And what made everything more
terrible was the ancient familiarity of the feeling. She
remembered the sheer awfulness of school dances,
where you’d gone with a friend and then, when a
half-decent-looking boy had come on the scene, the
friend’s loyalty had immediately gone straight out of
the window. And though the two of you had agreed to
travel back together, somehow you ended up going
home on your own.

She couldn’t settle to anything that morning and
took her bad temper out on the house, cleaning High
Tor to within an inch of its life.

After considerable indecision, at eleven o’clock
she rang Jude’s home number. There was no reply.
She didn’t even contemplate ringing her mobile.

It was not until a quarter to one in the afternoon
that a rather smart BMW sports car drew up outside
Woodside Cottage. Jude bounced out with a cheery
wave to her escort. What compounded the awfulness
of the situation was that Carole hadn’t moved back
from the bedroom window quickly enough, and she,
too, received the blessing of a wave from her neighbour.

Moments later, the phone rang. She knew it would be
Jude. And it was – a bouncy, bubbly Jude, full of good
wishes for the new year, with no hint of apology in
her voice. She seemed completely unaware of the
purgatory she had inflicted on her friend.

‘I just wondered, Carole . . . I know it’s late, and
you’ve probably had lunch . . .’

‘No, I haven’t, actually. I didn’t feel like anything.’

‘Well, I’m starving and I feel like a huge big, self-indulgent
fry-up. Do you fancy joining me?’

Carole was faced with a moral dilemma. Declining
the offer might be a way of expressing her
disapproval, but accepting was the only way she was
going to find out how her neighbour had spent the
previous night. Obviously, accepting won.

There was a tantalizing smell of bacon when she
arrived in the sitting room of Woodside Cottage.
Jude had changed out of her party attire and wore a
long Arran cardigan draped over a long denim skirt.
She supplied a Chilean Chardonnay for Carole, but
poured a glass of Argentinian Cabernet Sauvignon
for herself. ‘I always find red works better as a “hair
of the dog” than white. Now, you just sit down, and I’ll
bring the food through in a minute.’

Carole did as she was told, and listened to Jude
bustling about cheerfully in the kitchen. Something
had certainly put a smile on her face. Carole was
damned if she was going to ask what.

The fry-up was particularly delicious. Jude’s
approach to cooking was eclectic, depending on her
mood. She was just as likely to offer guests dishes
with brown rice and bean sprouts as she was
steak
frites
. But the Full English she delivered that afternoon
was perfect for a bleak English New Year’s Day.

Both women were very hungry (though Carole
didn’t like to speculate what had given Jude her
appetite). They were silent as they wolfed down their
food and only when they’d reached the stage of
mopping up the remaining bits of egg and fat with
crusts of fried bread did Jude speak. ‘Interesting, last
night, wasn’t it?’

It may have been interesting for
you
, Carole was
tempted to say, but she curbed the instinct. If Jude
wished to volunteer details of how she’d spent the
night, then fine. If not . . . well, Carole was not going
to demean herself by asking (though she was afire
with curiosity). ‘In what way?’ she asked uncontroversially.

‘Seeing Ricky Le Bonnier in his pomp. That was
one hell of a glitzy party.’

‘Yes, and hardly appropriate in the circumstances.’

‘What do you mean?

‘Well, Jude, I’m not in favour of people going into
deep mourning or anything like that, but it is less
than a fortnight since his stepdaughter died. You’d
have thought he’d have made some concession to her
memory.’

‘Don’t you think, though, that Ricky’s the kind of
man who’s always going to be presenting an upbeat
image of himself? I wouldn’t imagine many people
get through to what he’s really thinking.’

‘Probably not much,’ said Carole waspishly. ‘He’s
one of the shallowest people I’ve ever met.’

‘And yet Lola clearly sees something in him.’

Carole sniffed. ‘Without denigrating our gender,
I’m afraid it’s true that few of us have ever shown
much taste when it comes to men.’

Jude giggled. Annoyingly, in her neighbour’s
view. ‘Well, Carole, at least we have made some
advance in our investigation. We do now know that
Lola’s lied to protect Ricky. She gave him an alibi for
all of the night of the fire, and what you heard from
Anna has broken that.’

‘To be fair, Anna left him in the shop at . . .
what . . . half-past eight? He may have gone straight
back home after that.’

‘But Lola said he didn’t leave the house again
after he’d come back from taking Polly to Fedborough
Station.’

‘Though I got a different story from Saira Sherjan.’

A new idea struck Jude and her brown eyes
sparkled as she said, ‘Suppose Lola actually knows
about Ricky’s affair with Anna, and she gave him the
alibi because she didn’t want anyone else to find out?’

‘The way she was cuddling up to him last night
didn’t look like the behaviour of a woman who knows
her husband’s having an affair.’

‘Don’t you believe it, Carole. Remember how
many people were there at that party. Public displays
of affection are no guide to the real state of a
marriage. And don’t forget that Lola used to be quite
a good actress.’

‘Hm . . .’ Carole took a sip of Chardonnay. ‘Do you
think we’re ever going to get more out of Flora Le
Bonnier?’

Jude grimaced. ‘I think we’ve had our ration of
information there. One thing’s for sure, she’s never
going to reveal the identity of Ricky’s father. As she
said – rather gleefully, I thought – that secret will go
to the grave with her.’

‘Do you think Ricky himself knows?’

‘I wonder. Flora’s will is so strong she’s quite capable
of having kept it a secret from him too.’

‘But what Piers said to me virtually proved that
Ricky’s father was Rupert Sonning.’

‘What?’ demanded a thunderstruck Jude. ‘Could
you run that past me again?’

‘Oh, of course, I haven’t told you, have I?’ And
Carole gave a quick résumé of her conversation on
the terrace with the drunken writer, concluding, ‘So
what else do you think he meant?’

Jude nodded thoughtfully. ‘You could be right.’

‘Of course I’m right!’ Carole snapped. ‘I wonder if
we could get another chance to talk to Flora?’

‘Doubt it. I think she’s already suspicious of us.
And, anyway, she’s probably going back up to London
this afternoon, so we’d have to find some reason to
beard her in her den in St John’s Wood. She’d be –
Oh, damn!’ said Jude suddenly and shot out into the
hall, calling back as she went, ‘Lola asked me about
babysitting, didn’t she? Said she’d call me in the
morning. And I’ve had my mobile switched off since
last night.’

Iron strength of will was required to stop Carole
from asking, ‘Why?’ Jude reappeared, holding the
mobile and tapping through the buttons to check for
messages. ‘Oh, no! She does want me to. Sorry,
Carole, I must ring her back.’

From the Woodside Cottage end of the conversation
it was clear that Flora was insisting on being
taken back to St John’s Wood, and that she required
both her son and daughter-in-law to escort her there.
Varya had not returned from her vodka-steeped night
in Southampton, and if Jude could possibly . . . ?

‘I’ll get a cab. Be with you in as long as it takes.’

When the call had ended, Carole said, ‘Don’t
bother about a cab. I’ll take you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Carole, adding frostily,
‘I’m not in the habit of making offers I don’t intend to
carry through.’

‘No, well, thank you. I would very much appreciate
it.’ Jude hesitated. ‘Though it just might be a bit
awkward if you wanted to join me for the babysitting.’

Carole looked frostier than ever. ‘I have no desire
to join you for the babysitting.’

They were in the Renault on the way to Fedingham
Court House. Jude had been silently musing
away to herself for a while when suddenly she said,
‘Piers could have meant something else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When he talked about “ex-wives” and “a flat”, you
assumed he meant Flora.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘But suppose he wasn’t talking about her . . . ?’

‘How many ex-wives is Rupert Sonning supposed
to have?’

‘Not Rupert Sonning. Ricky.’

‘Ricky’s ex-wife? Are you talking about Kath?’

‘That’s exactly who I’m talking about, Carole.’

As Jude smiled across at her friend, a huge yawn
took over her face. Which Carole found very annoying.

The handover to Jude in the hall of Fedingham Court
House was quickly achieved. Mabel made no fuss;
she was delighted to see one of her approved babysitters.
Ricky was out the front, settling his mother
into the Mercedes 4x4, as a harassed-looking Lola
gave instructions.

‘Henry’s asleep. The baby monitor’s switched
through to the playroom and the sitting room, so
you’ll hear him when he wakes up. If you take Mabel
up with you, he’ll be quite happy about you taking
him out of the cot. And he’ll want some milk when he
wakes up, his bottle’s in the kitchen. Mabel knows
where it is. He may need a nappy changing, but it
shouldn’t be dirty this time of day. Mabel’ll show you
where everything is.’

Lola looked at her watch. It was just after half
past two. ‘I don’t know what the traffic’ll be like, but
with a following wind, Ricky and I should be back
by seven, which is their bathtime. That is assuming
Flora lets us just deliver her and turn straight round.’

‘Is she likely to?’

‘I don’t know, Jude. She’s in one of her particularly
imperious moods today. Insisting that I travel up in
the car with her and Ricky. “I just don’t feel I’ve
had a proper
talk
to you, Lola, while I’ve been down
here. What with everything that’s been going on,
we haven’t had a proper
talk
.”’Once again her impression
of her mother-in-law was spot-on. ‘It’s totally
unnecessary, but Ricky always gives in to her whims.
Anyway, hopefully we’ll be able to turn straight
round. If we’re not back by seven—’

‘I’ll show Jude where everything is,’ said Mabel,
solemnly responsible.

Lola grinned. ‘She will. She’s much more organized
than I am. I sometimes think I’m the one who
needs a babysitter. And I’ve put their supper out on
top of the fridge. Henry’s a bit picky at the moment.
If he doesn’t like the pasta, try him with a slice of
apple or some raisins. Don’t worry if he doesn’t eat
much. He evens up over the day.’

Ricky Le Bonnier came bustling in through the
front door. ‘Better be off, love. The old girl’s champing
at the bit.’ Lola went off to grab her coat as her
husband scooped Mabel up into his arms. ‘You’ll be a
good girl for Jude, won’t you?’

‘Yes, Daddy. Mummy says she needs a babysitter,
not me.’

‘And your Mummy is dead right, as ever.’ He put
the girl down and planted a kiss on top of her white-blonde
curls. ‘Look after Henry, won’t you, and we’ll
see you at bathtime.’

‘If you’re back in time.’

‘Yes, Mabel, if we’re back in time. Which we will
try to be.’

‘But that’ll depend on Grandma. Mummy says
she’s in one of her imp . . .’ Mabel struggled with the
word – ‘impish moods.’

‘Something like that.’ Ricky ruffled her hair, as if
he didn’t want to leave her, then looked up to see Lola
approaching, grabbed her arm and set off for the car.
‘Bless you for looking after them, Jude.’

‘No problem.’

‘’Bye.’ And the large front door closed.

First Mabel insisted on showing Jude all her dolls
and cuddly toys in the playroom. They were arrayed
in a long line on the windowsill. ‘They’re here so that
Henry can’t reach them when he crawls. He can’t
crawl yet, but when he can crawl he won’t be able to
reach my dolls and cuddlies.’

Mabel introduced each of her collection by name.
Then she announced that they must play a game.

‘What game do you want to play?’

‘I want to play Grandmother’s Footsteps.’

‘But can you play that with just two?’

‘Oh yes,’ Mabel assured her.

So they played. One of them – ‘Grandmother’ –
faced the wall while the other crept across the room
towards her. If, when ‘Grandmother’ whirled round,
she caught a glimpse of movement, then the other
had to go back to the beginning and start again. Mabel
had clearly played the game many times and had
become expert at taking tiny steps and then freezing.

They played for so long that Jude was beginning
to feel a little weary (and not only from her late
night), but fortunately, just when her acolyte thought
she could take no more, the Mistress of the Revels
decided it was time for a different game. ‘This is not
a real game, not like Grandmother’s Footsteps. This is
a game my Daddy made up,’ she said proudly.

‘What’s it called?’

‘It’s called Hiding Things.’

‘Oh yes, I heard you and your Daddy talking about
it another time I was here.’

Mabel nodded. ‘That was when you came to make
Grandma’s back better.’

‘You’re absolutely right.’ The little girl had an
excellent memory.

‘How you play Hiding Things,’ she went on, ‘is
one person hides things and the other person has to
find them.’