The Killing in the Café Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Selection of Recent Titles by Simon Brett

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Selection of Recent Titles by Simon Brett

  The Charles Paris Theatrical Series

  A RECONSTRUCTED CORPSE

  SICKEN AND SO DIE

  DEAD ROOM FARCE

  A DECENT INTERVAL *

  THE CINDERELLA KILLER *

  The Fethering Mysteries

  BONES UNDER THE BEACH HUT

  GUNS IN THE GALLERY *

  THE CORPSE ON THE COURT *

  THE STRANGLING ON THE STAGE *

  THE TOMB IN TURKEY *

  THE KILLING IN THE CAFÉ *

  The Mrs Pargeter Mysteries

  MRS PARGETER’S PACKAGE

  MRS PARGETER’S POUND OF FLESH

  MRS PARGETER’S PLOT

  MRS PARGETER’S POINT OF HONOUR

  MRS PARGETER’S PRINCIPLE *

  * available from Severn House

  THE KILLING IN THE CAFÉ

  A Fethering Mystery

  Simon Brett

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and 2016 in the USA by

  Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Simon Brett.

  The right of Simon Brett to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Brett, Simon author.

  The killing in the cafe. – (A Fethering mystery)

  1. Seddon, Carole (Fictitious character)–Fiction. 2. Jude

  (Fictitious character : Brett)–Fiction. 3. Fethering

  (England : Imaginary place)–Fiction. 4. Women private

  investigators–England–Fiction. 5. Detective and mystery

  stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-081-2 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-565-7(trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-729-5 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To Michael,

  with many thanks for being such

  a great agent and friend

  for over forty years

  ONE

  ‘That’s a word that’s the real kiss of death.’ Carole Seddon pronounced it with distaste. ‘“Community”.’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical,’ said Jude.

  ‘I’m not being cynical. I’m being realistic. I’ve never encountered anything beginning with the word “community” that wasn’t a complete disaster. “Community Action” … “Community Arts” … “Community Politics” … “Community Health” … They’re all shorthand for something that doesn’t work.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Jude was used to her neighbour sounding off, but she really felt she had to challenge this sweeping generalization. ‘I’ve got a lot of friends in the NHS who put in ridiculous hours on Community Health projects and are extremely—’

  ‘All right, all right.’ It wasn’t in Carole’s nature to concede that she was wrong, but she did redefine her criticisms. ‘I was talking about “community” at the local level. Where projects are taken on by amateurs rather than professionals, and the amateurs almost invariably mess things up.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure that—’

  ‘You don’t have to look any further than right here in Fethering. Can you name any village project that had the word “community” in front of it and wasn’t a total failure?’

  ‘Um, I’m sure there have been—’

  ‘There, you see, you can’t,’ said Carole with a grin of triumph. ‘It’s like the word “Big”. That used to be a perfectly simple adjective meaning that something was large in size. Now the word’s shoved in front of every half-baked project that anyone dreams up and it’s supposed to … I don’t know what … to make something intrinsically boring sound trendy and “of the moment”. Huh. Do you remember that daft idea that was called “The Big Society”, a hopeless scheme to replace the professional services the government had cut by the efforts of unpaid volunteers who hadn’t a clue about …’

  And Carole was off again on another of her rants. Jude smiled inwardly and thought, not for the first time, how unlikely their friendship was. Though about the same age, at that stage of life when women are (inaccurately) said to become invisible, they couldn’t have looked more different. Carole Seddon was tall and whippet-thin, with a forbidding helmet of grey hair and pale blue eyes that looked out quizzically – and frequently disapprovingly – from behind rimless glasses. She dressed in clothes which she hoped did not draw attention to her.

  Jude, by contrast, was just on the right side between voluptuous and blousy. Her hair was blonde or blonded (no one had ever thought to ask), always piled up on her head and insecurely secured by bands, clips, slides or whatever else she happened to find on her dressing table when she got up. Her eyes were brown and she went through life with an easy sensuality which, in spite of her bulk, men still found irresistible. She dressed in floaty layers of garments and a profusion of scarves.

  After a very varied life, which had included two marriages (both childless and both now defunct), stints as a model, an actress and a restaurateur, Jude now operated as a healer. Though she found the work draining and at times frustrating, she was convinced she had found her vocation.

  Carole had retired, rather earlier than she would have wished, from the Civil Service, and moved to live full-time in Feth
ering. She had had quite a high-powered job at the Home Office. Divorced from a very annoying nitpicker of a man called David, she had an adult only son called Stephen, a daughter-in-law Gaby and a much-adored granddaughter called Lily. Gaby was again pregnant, due to give birth in a few weeks at the end of October. So the prospect of becoming a grandmother for the second time was tending to preoccupy Carole. In fact, in some ways it was a relief for Jude to hear her neighbour going on about something other than the forthcoming baby. Like the shortcomings of initiatives prefaced by the word ‘community’.

  That Sunday evening the two women were sitting in an alcove in Fethering’s only pub, the Crown and Anchor. Each had a large glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc. (They had used always to drink Chilean Chardonnay, but had quite suddenly gone off that buttery taste in favour of a crisper white. For a few weeks this innovation had confused the Crown and Anchor’s scruffy and bearded landlord, Ted Crisp. It was rare in Fethering for things as momentous as Carole and Jude’s drinking habits to change.)

  Jude was getting down her glass quicker than Carole, at least partly because she wasn’t talking so much. Through the pub windows from the alcove where they sat, Jude could see the sea, the English Channel, shelving very slowly in this part of West Sussex. The tide was out, exposing acres of cement-coloured sand. In the late afternoon there were a few hardy families still playing on the beach, pretending in a very English way that the weather had not turned autumnal. It wasn’t actually raining, but the leaden clouds suggested that situation might only be a stay of execution. The children with the families were all very small. The older ones had gone back to school. And soon the little ones would be taken back to their holiday accommodation for suppers, baths and beds.

  It was the fourth of October, Jude’s birthday, but in their long acquaintance she had never told her neighbour of the date’s significance. This was not because Jude had a secretive nature – rather the reverse – but Carole had never mentioned her own birthday. And Jude knew that knowing the date of her friend’s would throw Carole into a state of social consternation. How involved should she be in the celebration of the event? What level of expense would be the appropriate outlay for a present? Such questions, Jude knew, could upset Carole’s hard-won equilibrium.

  Besides, Jude had never made a big deal of birthdays. During her marriages and her longer affairs, they had been celebrated by tête-à-tête dinners with the man of the moment, but she didn’t feel the need for such indulgence when she was on her own. Because her sitting room doubled as a consulting room, any cards that arrived were displayed upstairs in her bedroom. And otherwise the day was marked only by phone calls and emails from close friends and former lovers.

  Of course being born on the fourth of October meant that, for people to whom such things are important, she was a Libran. Jude herself, to whom such things were not without importance, was content to be a Libran and thought she was a fairly typical representative of the sign. Tactful, romantic, able to see both sides of the story … yes, she did seem to have some of the positive Libran qualities. As to the negative ones – lazy, indecisive, self-indulgent – yes, at times she could own up to them as well.

  The issue which had got Carole so aerated that Sunday evening concerned one of Fethering’s two cafés. The Seaview, a glassed-in structure on the edge of the beach, did a busy trade during the summer supplying tourists with battered fish, dry burgers, chips, chips, more chips and endless pots of tea. Though open all the year round, it was generally shunned by the upmarket locals (though the older generation of ‘common people’ from the Downside council estate continued to patronize it for fish suppers and endlessly eked-out pots of tea).

  A venue more in tune with Fethering’s middle-class sensibilities was Polly’s Cake Shop. Also open all the year round, a casual visitor might at first believe that the place had been unchanged since the 1950s or even earlier. The few American tourists who came to Fethering thought with ecstasy that they had stumbled on a genuine piece of ‘Olde England’. They loved the rough white plaster of the interior, they loved the oak beams, they loved the horse brasses and warming pans that hung from them. They were overwhelmed by the red and white gingham tablecloths and the tiered silver cake stands. And when they were approached by waitresses in black with a frilly white aprons and frilly white caps offering them a menu of toasted teacakes, cucumber sandwiches, homemade coconut kisses and sponge fancies, they thought they’d died and gone to heaven. They knew for certain that they were part of the authentic English tea-shop experience they had witnessed in so many television adaptations of Agatha Christie. Only the appearance of Hercule Poirot himself could have made the experience more complete.

  It would have been cruel to disillusion them, to point out that until the 1990s the café on Fethering Parade had been a butcher’s shop, that the oak beams and other period impedimenta had been grafted on as part of a shrewd marketing campaign. And that all of the café’s ‘homemade’ fare was delivered every morning from a specialist supplier in Brighton.

  The owner of Polly’s Cake Shop was a woman, but she wasn’t called Polly. The name was just another bit of window dressing, with possible echoes of the old nursery rhyme, ‘Polly, Put the Kettle On’. The café was owned by an unsentimental woman called Josie Achter. Jude had met Josie through a mutual friend who conducted a Pilates class that Josie attended. Like most Fethering residents, Jude had also met the owner when enjoying the delights – in Jude’s case particularly the éclairs – of Polly’s Cake Shop.

  Josie Achter, Jude discovered – though from local gossip rather than the woman herself – had invested all of her divorce settlement into the business and exchanged the five-bedroomed house in Esher that she’d shared with her inadequate husband for the cramped flat above the café. There she had brought up her daughter Rosalie until the girl went to college in Brighton to study Hospitality and Catering. And, at the end of her course, though she no longer lived with her mother, Rosalie worked with her in the business. Then after some years Josie, who must by then have been in her late sixties, announced that she was going to retire.

  Fethering was rife with rumours that mother and daughter had had a row, but no one actually knew what had happened between them (though lack of information had never inhibited anyone in the village from having an opinion about anything and everything). The only certain facts that emerged were that Rosalie was not going to take over the business, and Josie was going to sell up.

  There not being an enormous amount to talk about in Fethering, once the weather and house prices had been dealt with, this news prompted fierce debate. People who had never patronized Polly’s Cake Shop became very concerned about ‘saving this valuable amenity for the village.’ Rumours proliferated about who the purchaser of the property was likely to be. As was standard procedure in such cases, someone claimed to have heard that the premises were to reopen as a sex shop. A more likely conjecture was that it would become another estate agent’s. (While other businesses closed with some regularity, there always seemed to be room for another estate agent.)

  Equally groundless suspicions were voiced that Polly’s Cake Shop was to become an upmarket restaurant under the control of a well-known television chef. This idea that it might continue as a catering outlet gave rise to the inevitable rumour that the place was to become a McDonald’s (a prospect that caused much fluttering in the bourgeois dovecotes of Fethering).

  And quick on the heels of that came the positive assertion, from somebody who knew as little about the true situation as anyone else in the village, that Polly’s Cake Shop was going to become a branch of Starbucks.

  This possibility led to considerable outrage and a letter to the Fethering Observer, spelling out the threat of ‘a genuinely local business becoming an identikit branch of an international, overpriced conglomerate with an idiosyncratic attitude to paying British taxes.’

  Soon a ‘Save Polly’s Cake Shop’ campaign had been started. An Open Meeting of the usual suspects among Fet
hering’s busybodies was held, and it was proposed that an action committee should be formed (again no doubt of the usual suspects). The personnel of that body, together with the appointment of a Chair and other officers would be decided at their next meeting, but it was at that first one that the possibility was raised of the village taking over Polly’s Cake Shop as a ‘Community Project’.

  And that was the news which had prompted Carole Seddon’s tirade that October Sunday afternoon in the Crown and Anchor.

  TWO

  Jude had suggested they stay in the pub to eat, but Carole insisted that she had in the fridge the ‘perfectly adequate remains of a chicken salad’ she’d made on the Friday. She didn’t also say that the real reason she wanted to get home was to watch a Sunday evening television series featuring nuns and midwives to which she had become secretly addicted.

  So home they went: Jude to her house, Woodside Cottage (though so far as anyone could tell there had never been a wood anywhere near it), and Carole next door to High Tor (though there wasn’t a tor within a hundred and fifty miles of Fethering).

  While Carole settled down with her perfectly adequate salad for an evening of prayer and placentas, Jude found the light on the answering machine flashing when she entered her sitting room. The message was from one of her clients, Sara Courtney, who sounded to be in a really bad way.

  Sara had come to her a couple of years before, on the edge of a serious nervous breakdown and contemplating suicide. In her early forties, she had just come to the end of a very long cohabiting relationship with the chef of the Brighton restaurant she co-owned. The door to her future, which she had thought would at some point involve marriage and children, had been slammed in her face.