Fethering 02 (2001) - Death on the Downs Read online

  “Don’t be defeatist.” But the mood was infectious. Jude’s response sounded automatic rather than heartfelt.

  There was a silence.

  “Do you want some more wine?”

  “Shouldn’t.”

  “Go on.”

  “Oh, all right.” After her glass had been recharged and she’d had taken a long sip, Carole said, “Do you know, I had another call from Barry Stillwell earlier this evening…”

  “Don’t know why you sound so surprised about it.”

  “He wants to take me out for dinner—again. I can’t understand why he keeps pestering me.”

  “Well, that’s not very difficult. Obviously because he fancies you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Jude looked flabbergasted. “What’s ridiculous about it?”

  “Look, I’m in my early fifties. God knows whether I ever was attractive to men, but I’m certainly not now.”

  “Are you saying that women in their early fifties can no longer be attractive to men? God, if I thought that, I’d top myself.”

  “There are exceptions, obviously, but I’m sure, even you, when you get to my age—”

  “Carole, Carole, stop. What’s all this ‘when you get to my age’? I’m older than you are.”

  “What?”

  “I’m fifty-four. You’re fifty-three, aren’t you?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because you told me.”

  “You never told me you were fifty-four.”

  “You never asked.”

  “There are lots of things I don’t know about you, Jude.”

  “Probably again because you never asked. There are no big secrets about me.”

  “No, but—”

  “I still can’t get over this thing about you not thinking you’re attractive. In the teeth of the evidence. There’s Barry Stillwell panting to get his hands on you.”

  “Yes, but who’d want Barry Stillwell’s hands on them?”

  “That’s not the point. He may be the most boring creature on God’s earth, but he’s still a man. And as a man, he fancies you.”

  “Maybe, but—”

  “And then there’s Ted…”

  “Ted Crisp?” Carole blushed. “He doesn’t fancy me.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “But you saw how he behaved to me in the Crown and Anchor last night.”

  “He was in a mood last night. Something had got up his nose. God knows what, but it certainly doesn’t mean he’s stopped fancying you.”

  “Jude, don’t be silly.”

  “Silly? Oh, this really upsets me. Have you never thought of yourself as attractive?”

  “Well, there were times, I suppose…Not since David walked out.”

  “Really hit you hard, didn’t it, Carole? You’re still hurting from that.”

  “Rubbish.” Carole tossed her head. “It’s happened to any number of women. And what you have to do when it does happen is just get on with things.”

  “I would think when it does happen what you have to do is talk to someone about it.”

  “Is that what you’d do? You said you’d had man trouble over this weekend. Have you talked to someone about that?”

  “Yes, of course I have.”

  Carole was taken aback, even a little hurt. “Who?”

  “Friends. I’ve hardly been off the phone for the last forty-eight hours.”

  “Oh.” Carole’s mood of gloom hardened into despair. She remembered, when she had offered a sympathetic ear, Jude had refused. “Have you talked to the man himself?”

  “No, of course I haven’t. I need support, not more humiliation. Talking to supportive people helps. It really does. You should try it.”

  Jude could not have known how much her words hurt. Unthinkingly, she had excluded her neighbour from the category of ‘supportive people’. Carole felt very alienated, forced once again to realize how little she knew Jude. As a result, her response was scornful. “That’s not my style. I can’t go all touchy-feely about things. I can’t spill out my guts to some complete stranger.”

  “Who said anything about complete strangers? Friends. For the last couple of days I’ve been talking to friends.”

  The line of Carole’s mouth hardened. “I think I have to get on with my own life in my own way.”

  “Who would you be letting down if you didn’t?”

  “Myself. I was brought up to believe that you should stand on your own two feet. You should be able to manage on your own.”

  “Without ever asking for help from anyone else?”

  “Ideally yes. I mean, obviously, if you’re physically ill, you need help from a doctor.”

  “And if you’re mentally ill?”

  Carole coloured with affront. “I am not mentally ill!”

  “I didn’t say you were. I was talking in general terms.”

  “Oh.”

  “Presumably this—what shall I call it?—this independence of yours means you’ve never shared what you’re really feeling with anyone?”

  “Maybe not. As I said, I’m not the kind to wear my heart on my sleeve.”

  “And presumably that’s why your marriage broke up?”

  Carole stopped in her tracks. The assessment was so accurate it almost winded her. And, to her amazement, she started to cry.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jude was ringing at her doorbell as soon as Carole got in the following morning. She’d just taken Gulliver for his walk on Fethering Beach. Her neighbour must’ve seen her go past the window and rushed round straight away. Carole was prepared to be embarrassed about the previous night’s uncharacteristic lapse into weakness, until she saw the expression on Jude’s face.

  “What on earth is it?” Carole had never seen her friend’s serenity so shot to pieces. The cheeks were red, the brown eyes wide with excitement and anxiety.

  “Come back to my place. I’ll show you.”

  “What?”

  “I videoed it. Quick!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The local news. They had a headline about it, so I switched the video on straight away. I got most of the report.”

  “Look, I’ve got to take my coat off and give Gulliver a drink and—”

  “Come on!”

  Carole perched on the swathed arm of a chair while Jude fiddled with the video control to wind back the tape. The playback wheezed into life.

  “…a terrible tragedy,” said a reporter’s voice. “The fire, which is believed to have started on the ground floor, spread very quickly.”

  The screen filled with a blackened shell, from which wisps of smoke still rose. It took Carole a moment to recognize Heron Cottage.

  “Because Weldisham is so far from the main road and because the fire had taken such a firm hold before the alarm was raised at four o’clock this morning, the emergency services were able to do little. By the time they reached the cottage, it was already virtually demolished. ‘One body, that of an elderly woman, was found on the premises in an upstairs room. She has yet to be formally identified.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “I’m only here because you went to Heron Cottage yesterday morning. I saw her in the evening. Apart from me, you’re probably one of the last people to see Pauline Helling alive. I’m sorry, it’s just a formality. I have to ask you a few questions.”

  Since Brian Helling had planted the thought in her mind, Carole couldn’t get rid of it. Detective Sergeant Baylis might well have an agenda of his own, outside his official duties. It did seem odd that he was constantly talking to her, and maybe his aim was not to get information but to assess her suspicions.

  And why was it always him? Carole Seddon’s knowledge of police procedure was rudimentary, but knew there’d be other officers involved in the investigation of the bones she’d found. And possibly even a whole new team investigating the incident—no one was yet calling it a crime—at Heron Cottage. So why was it once again Detective S
ergeant Baylis who was sitting in her front room?

  “Of course, you can ask me anything you like,” she replied smoothly, “but I don’t think there’s much I can add to what I said when we last met.”

  “No, but you didn’t really tell me what kind of state Pauline Helling was in when you visited her.”

  “I don’t know what kind of state she was in normally. I’ve only seen her three times in my life, only spoken to her once, and on each occasion she was as antisocial to me as she could be. From all accounts, antisocial was her customary manner. So I suppose I’d have to say, when I visited her, she was quite normal.”

  “She didn’t seem ill or anything, did she?”

  “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Because if she had been particularly doddery, she might have been more likely to have knocked over something, not noticed an electrical spark flying out of the fire…”

  “She didn’t seem particularly doddery. Come on, you saw her yesterday evening. Surely you could judge for yourself.”

  “I’m asking you, Mrs Seddon.”

  “All right. Well, I’ve answered your question. Have they any idea how the fire started?”

  He shook his head. “Far too early to say.” It was easy for him. In terms of information, he held all the cards. Any time he wanted to avoid a question, Baylis could back away behind professional police-speak. Far too early to say…our enquiries are still progressing…we haven’t had the results yet…

  “You’re waiting for the report from the forensic examination of the scene?”

  “Exactly, Mrs Seddon.”

  “And have you had the results of the other forensic examination yet?” she asked, challenging him with her pale blue eyes.

  He looked uncomfortable. “Which other forensic examination?” But he knew what she was talking about.

  “The examination of the bones I found.”

  He hid again behind his professional front. “I’m afraid, even if I had such information, I wouldn’t be able to divulge it until permission had been given.”

  “No, but something must be known by now.” Carole recognized that she was getting increasingly reckless, but wasn’t quite sure why. “They’ll have got a DNA profile from the bones.”

  “But for that to have any meaning, they’d have to have tissue to match it to.”

  “Might they not try to get a match through relatives of the deceased…?”

  He chuckled at her absurdity. “If you don’t know who a victim is, it’s sometimes very difficult to trace their relatives.”

  “You haven’t been asked to give a sample of DNA, have you, Sergeant?”

  The expression on his face could not have changed more if Carole had slapped him.

  “I was just meaning that there were rumours about your mother when—”

  “I know exactly what you were meaning, Mrs Seddon.” He stood up. “I came here to talk about the fire at Heron Cottage and I think there’s nothing else I need to ask you.” He moved towards the door. “Oh, there was one other question…When you went to see Pauline Helling yesterday morning, did you see Brian?”

  Carole shook her head, and then her hand leapt to her mouth. “He wasn’t killed too, was he? They didn’t find Brian’s body in the ruins of the cottage?”

  “No. No, they didn’t.”

  “So where is he?”

  “A very good question, Mrs Seddon. And one which we hope, in the not too distant future, to answer.”

  Carole had risen from her chair too, as if to show the sergeant out, but still he lingered, swaying slightly, by the door.

  “We’ve established that Pauline Helling was profoundly antisocial…”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew she was before, and your experience with her has only borne that out…” Still he swayed, uncertain. “And yet she let you, a complete stranger, into Heron Cottage. Why?”

  Was he suspicious of her, Carole wondered. Did he think she’d been lying, that in fact she had some association with Pauline Helling going back a long way into the past?

  “She let me in,” came the unflustered reply, “because I mentioned something that Brian had said to me.”

  “Ah, Brian,” said Baylis, almost to himself. “Everything comes back to Brian.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m getting the feeling that Brian Helling had a lot of enemies…that his mother knew he had a lot of enemies…and she was trying to protect him. That’s why she had to listen to what you said about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she thought you might be one of his enemies…or that you might have been sent by one of his enemies. That’s why she objected so much to you snooping around the village.”

  “I thought she behaved like that to everyone. I didn’t think I’d been particularly singled out.”

  “I think you may have been.”

  “But why me? Did I look like one of Brian’s enemies? What kind of enemies did he have, come to that?”

  “Drug dealers in Brighton.”

  “Well, thank you very much!” Carole Seddon was affronted to her middle-class core. “Do I look like a…I don’t know…like a drug dealer’s moll?”

  “You’d be surprised, Mrs Seddon. Maybe you imagine drug dealers are shifty half-castes in loud suits. Very few of them are. Most you wouldn’t be able to tell apart from any other kind of businessman.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’ve just discovered this morning,” the sergeant went on, “that Brian Helling owes a lot of money to one of the big boys in Brighton. A really enormous amount of money.”

  “So are you suggesting that they were behind the torching of Heron Cottage? That it was Brian, and not his mother, who was the intended victim?”

  A moment before, Detective Sergeant Baylis couldn’t stop volunteering information. Suddenly, once again, he was all professional caution. “We haven’t established yet,” he said primly, “that the fire was not accidental.”

  “No,” Carole agreed, deflated.

  He rubbed his hands together. “I must be going. Thank you for bearing with me once again, Mrs Seddon. Sorry, a lot of police work is like this, routine enquiries, double-checking the facts…achieving little, I’m afraid.”

  But after the sergeant had gone, Carole wondered whether he really had achieved little that morning. Again, she felt certain that his visit was part of a personal agenda. And that that agenda could well include diverting suspicion away from the circumstances of his mother’s death.

  §

  She watched the lunchtime local news. She wished Jude had been there to see it with her, but Jude was on her way to Sandalls Manor.

  The bulletin had more on the tragedy in Weldisham. Still, as Baylis had pointed out, it was far too early to say what had caused the blaze, although they did have an ID of the victim, Mrs Pauline Helling.

  “One of her nearest neighbours,” said the presenter, “manager of the Hare and Hounds pub in Weldisham, is Will Maples.”

  The landlord was filmed behind the bar, in a report which started on the smouldering wreckage of Heron Cottage, then moved round to the jokey sign of the Hare and Hounds, before cutting to the interior. The directors of Home Hostelries must have been delighted; it looked just like a commercial.

  “This is a terrible tragedy,” said Will Maples. “Mrs Helling was not a regular here in the Hare and Hounds, but she was a familiar sight around the village, always out walking her dog. She’ll be sorely missed.”

  His words were formal and meaningless, like a retirement-party encomium from a managing director who’d never met the guest of honour. For a moment Carole thought how ridiculous it had been to get Will Maples to speak. He had no roots in the village, he was just passing through on the way to his next promotion. He didn’t know Pauline Helling.

  But then she reflected that it didn’t matter. No one in Weldisham had known Pauline Helling, or at least no one had chosen to know her. Better perhaps platitudes from Will Maples
than condescension from a more established resident.

  Will’s mention of the dog made Carole think. Pauline Helling and the spaniel had been inseparable. Had the dog too perished in the blaze? If so, surprising that the local news, always keener on animal-interest than human-interest stories, hadn’t mentioned the fact.

  “Mrs Pauline Helling, who died in a fire at her cottage in Weldisham last night.”

  The screen filled with a photograph. It must have been twenty years old, dating from before Pauline Hel-ling’s move to the village that subsequently ostracized her. The features were thinner, the sharpness of the nose more pronounced.

  Carole gasped. It was a face she recognized.

  At that moment the telephone rang.

  “Carole Seddon?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Brian Helling.”

  The voice sent a chill through her. “Oh. I was terribly sorry to hear about your mother.” Her condolence sounded clumsy.

  “Sad,” said Brian, in a voice that gave no clue to his real feelings. “Bit of a bummer, wasn’t it?”

  “Where are you, Brian?”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone that—least of all you.”

  “Why least of all me?”

  “Because, Carole, I think you suffer from more than your share of curiosity…and less than your share of reticence.”

  “Are you hiding somewhere?”

  “You could say that. There are lots of good hiding places on the Downs, you know. I’m just keeping out of the way until it’s safe for me to get back.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “When the people who threaten my safety have been brought to justice.”

  The languor of his delivery was starting to annoy Carole. “Why’re you ringing me?”

  “Just a bit of friendly advice.” His voice was still calm, nearly lazy, but with an underlying tension. Not the voice traditionally adopted by someone who’d just lost his mother.

  “Like the friendly advice you gave me last Friday?”

  “Not unlike that. In fact part of the advice is identical. Mind your own bloody business!”