The Fethering Mysteries 06; The Witness at the Wedding tfm-6 Page 8

  And, trying to be fair – not an activity that came naturally to her – she was in no position to carp at David’s sartorial shortcomings. She was wearing her inevitable Marks and Spencer’s ‘little black dress’ and, though she had deliberately bought something unfashionable in the hope that it would never go out of fashion, she knew the garment was showing its age. Carole felt a sudden access of gloom at the image of the two of them – a lacklustre middle-aged couple. The balloon of superiority over the Martins, which had been inflating slowly in her mind, was punctured. She and David looked at least as drab as Howard and Marie.

  Still, the evening had to be got through. And the protocol of politeness had to be observed. “Can I get you a drink, David?”

  “Erm…” He looked at his watch. “I’m not sure that I’ve got time. When exactly does the party start?”

  “Six thirty. But we don’t want to arrive on the dot.” How many times before had she said that in the course of their marriage? Neither of them had instinctive social skills; both had got nervous before parties and needed to gear themselves up beforehand in different, and mutually irritating, ways.

  “Erm…well…” David was still assessing the feasibility of a drink. “The fact is, I should be ordering a taxi.”

  “Didn’t you come by car?”

  “No, I came on the train and got a cab from the station.”

  “Ah.”

  “Why? Did you come by car?”

  Carole knew what reply this should have cued, but she resisted the answer. The Renault was her haven of security. Alone within its shell, she could arrive at the party venue – another hotel – park some way away, and then go through the process of make-up-tweaking, deep breathing and general psyching-up that she needed before she faced company. Even more important, with the car parked outside, she would have her escape route. If the party got too boring, or too confrontational – if she got too exasperated by the presence of David – she always had the option of slipping away early. With him relying on a lift back to their hotel, her freedom was curtailed.

  But, even as she had these thoughts, she knew her position was hopeless. She would have to bite the bullet.

  “Yes. So you don’t need to get a taxi, David. I can give you a lift.”

  “Oh, thank you, Carole. That’s…erm…very kind.”

  He had another look at his watch. His ex-wife felt another tug of familiar vexation. How could someone who was always so aware of time be persistently late for everything?

  “We don’t need to go yet. You’ve got time for a drink.”

  “Yes, and of course, if you’re driving, I don’t have to worry about it.”

  “You wouldn’t have had to worry if you’d got a taxi,” Carole pointed out.

  “No, I suppose not.” Suddenly – and unexpectedly – decisive, he announced, “I’m going to have a large Scotch. Think I’ll need a bit of a stiffener for the evening ahead.”

  For Carole, this was most unusual. During their marriage, David had never drunk spirits. While he was at the bar ordering, she wondered whether, in his second single life, he had turned to drink. Men, she recalled reading somewhere, were much worse at coping with divorce than women. Had David gone to pieces since they parted? Did he have a whisky bottle permanently on the go?

  While these seemed unlikely conjectures, they did remind Carole how little she knew of her husband’s current domestic circumstances. She had a phone number she deliberately couldn’t remember, and indeed an address, but not one she had ever visited.

  “So you have met the Martins, haven’t you?” she asked, once David was ensconced beside her with his uncharacteristic Scotch.

  “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  Carole probed, “And what did you think?”

  “Well, they’re…erm…They seem a very pleasant – a very quiet couple.”

  “And Gaby’s brother?”

  “No.”

  “Or the uncle they keep talking about. Uncle Robert, is it?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t met him either.”

  To Carole’s disappointment, David seemed content to let the conversation about the Martins end there. But she should have remembered from their marriage that David rarely volunteered his opinions of people. If she’d wanted to find out what he thought, she had always had to dig.

  “I got the impression,” she began, “when I had lunch with them and Gaby, that Marie seemed rather…frightened of something.”

  “Life,” said David ponderously, “is a rather frightening business.”

  Carole tried again. “And don’t you think it’s odd that Stephen and Gaby haven’t put any announcement about the wedding in the paper?”

  He shrugged. “I would have thought that was up to them.”

  “Yes, but – ” Carole persisted – “it seemed to me that it’s Gaby and her mother who’re anti the announcement.”

  “So?”

  “So – why are they?”

  The second shrug was more irritating than the first. “Who knows? I don’t think it’s a very big deal. Some people like to announce their forthcoming marriages in the papers, and some…erm…don’t.”

  Carole wasn’t getting anywhere with David. Indeed, when she came to think about it, she’d never got anywhere with David. It was amazing that their marriage had lasted as long as it did. Even more amazing, in fact, that they’d ever got married in the first place.

  David looked at his watch again. “I really think perhaps we should…erm…be getting along.”

  This time she couldn’t argue. She picked up her Burberry raincoat. “Yes, we must go and face the…”

  ‘Martins’ was the word she used, but her tone said ‘music’.

  ∨ The Witness at the Wedding ∧

  Nine

  If any support were needed for Gaby’s assertion that her parents should have nothing to do with the wedding planning, the engagement party provided it. The venue was another chain hotel, almost indistinguishable from the one in which Carole and David were staying, and the function room booked for the event made the Avalon Bar look sexy. Clearly all arrangements for the food and drink had been left to the hotel’s banqueting manager. While Marie and Howard Martin’s hearts were undoubtedly in the right place, they had very little experience of – or aptitude for – entertaining.

  As Carole entered the room (the Caledonian Suite, with sad plaid on the walls), she wondered what phone calls must have been exchanged between Gaby and her mother over the event. She now knew that her son and fiancée’s tastes ran to the lavish, so she wondered how they were reacting to this charmless venue. One look at the strain on Gaby’s face provided the answer. The girl had not wanted to interfere. Her parents had taken the unusual step of initiating a party; advice on how to do it would only have upset them. Their daughter had to bite her lip and let the event be done their way. In both Gaby and Stephen’s eyes glinted the insecure energy of people determined to make the best of a bad job.

  Carole’s fears of arriving on the dot had been avoided, but they arrived only just after the dot, and she was surprised to see how many people were already there. She knew about thirty had been invited, and most of them must have checked in at six thirty sharp.

  Howard Martin was wearing exactly the same suit as he had done in the London restaurant, but Marie had clearly made an effort for the occasion. Perhaps a rather misguided effort, though. The print of pansies and violets on her dress drained what little colour there was in her face, and its tight high waist drew attention to the shapelessness of her body. As ever, the thick glasses blurred the features of her face. And yet she had the potential to be a pretty woman. With the sparkle of youth and energy, Gaby could look stunning, but her mother seemed deliberately to avoid making the best of herself. Again, Carole got the strong impression that Marie Martin found the world a very frightening place.

  Oh well, the evening had to be got through. Although she’d arrived with him, Carole tried to look as though David had nothing to do with her, as she str
ode across to greet Howard and Marie. They were standing awkwardly to one side of the entrance, as though in a truncated reception line. Neither had adrink or seemed to regard their role in the proceedings as anything other than to be greeted.

  Pleasantries were exchanged, and Carole was encouraged to ‘have some of the nibbles’. These were being listlessly handed round on a tray by an anonymous blue-waistcoated waitress, but neither the soggy smoked salmon on soggier bread nor the desiccated vol-au-vents with unguessable fillings held much appeal. Carole was relieved to be whisked away by Gaby and Stephen to get a drink from the bar. Her son instantly blotted his copybook by saying, “It’s great to see you and Dad together again.”

  There was a bit of confusion with the anonymous barman (clearly both hotels got their staff from the same anonymous employment agency). Having failed to take on board that the guests were not supposed to be paying for their drinks, he had been charging everyone. Stephen put the barman right on this detail and then felt obliged to go round to explain the situation to those who had already parted with good money for his future in-laws’ hospitality. Gaby negotiated for Carole a welcome glass of white wine (slightly less welcome when she felt how warm it was to the hand), and then said, “I must introduce you to my brother.”

  Anyone who’d met Howard Martin would have known that Phil was his son. He was probably about the same height, but being more slender, seemed taller than his father. And, in spite of gelled, spiked-up hair and silver earrings, he looked like someone from an earlier generation; his face bore the pinched look of post-war austerity. He was dressed in a shiny grey suit over a black satin shirt. A silver necklace gleamed at his throat. The bottle of Becks from which he took frequent swigs looked diminished in his huge hand. Carole couldn’t work out whether it was just his height, but something made Phil Martin look menacing.

  Gaby introduced her. She was not overtly affectionate to her brother, but seemed at ease in his company.

  “Hello, Phil. Gaby’s told me lots about you,” said Carole, knowing she sounded over-effusive.

  “Not everything, I hope.”

  Phil’s voice was unvarnished Essex, unlike his sister’s laid-back mediaspeak. Carole wondered whether they’d had the same education, and, if so, at what point Gaby had decided to get to work on her vowels.

  “Not everything, no,” Carole replied, suddenly remembering that the young man she was speaking to had a criminal record. “But she told me you lived in – Hoddesdon, is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you work in a warehouse?”

  “Yeah. Checker.”

  His pride in the word echoed that which his mother had shown in the restaurant.

  “Mm.” Carole tried to think of supplementary questions about working in a warehouse, but nothing sprang to mind. Jude, she felt sure, could instantly have elicited fascinating details about a checker’s lifestyle. “Well, we’re all delighted about the wedding,” she went on uncontroversially.

  “Yeah. Well, Sis has landed on her feet all right, hasn’t she? I gather your son’s loaded.”

  Carole wasn’t quite sure of the proper response to this. Phil seemed to be being a little ungracious, and that perception was not dispelled, as he went on, “Relief all round, actually. Gab’s no spring chicken. Didn’t think anyone’d ever take pity on her.”

  “Oh, shut up, Phil.” But Gaby spoke automatically. Her brother’s words didn’t seem to worry her at all.

  “And you’re not married yourself, are you?”

  “No way. Had girlfriends, of course – don’t get me wrong, nothing funny about me – but no way I’m going to get tied down.”

  “Right.”

  “Have too much of a good time with my mates. You know, we all got bikes. I’m saving up for a Harley.”

  “Are you?” said Carole, as though she had a clue what he was talking about.

  “Yeah, rather save up for a Harley than save up for a deposit on a three-bed semi.” He grunted out a laugh, as though this were rather a good joke.

  “Mm.”

  “Got to enjoy life while you can, don’t you? You’re a long time dead.”

  This was not an exact reflection of Carole’s own philosophy of life, but she nodded nonetheless, and scoured her brain for something else to say. She might be wrong, but she couldn’t somehow envisage her son spending a lot of time with his brother-in-law in the future. She hoped this wouldn’t lead to tension between Stephen and Gaby.

  The potential conversational impasse was saved by the arrival of a newcomer, who received a much more affectionate greeting from Gaby than her brother had. Even before he was introduced, Carole felt certain she was meeting the famous Uncle Robert. He was a shortish man, not much taller than his sister Marie, with soft white hair puffing out from a central bald spot. His suit was casual but well-tailored, and he carried himself with a confidence lacking in the older generation of Martins. The huge hug that Gaby gave him demonstrated that he was very much the favourite uncle. It also emphasized the family likeness. Uncle Robert shared the energy and sparkle that Gaby radiated, but which seemed to have bypassed her mother.

  “Robert, this is Steve’s mum.” Carole got a frisson of referred pleasure from Gaby’s use of the word.

  “Carole, that’s right, isn’t it? I’m Robert Coleman.”

  Her hand was taken in a firm grasp, and his brown eyes twinkled as he looked her in the face. Unlike his sister, he anglicized his name, pronouncing its final ‘t’. “Heard a lot about you from young Gabs, and it’s a great pleasure to meet you.”

  “You too.”

  “And you’re from – Gabs did tell me – South Coast somewhere, isn’t it?”

  “Fethering.”

  “Of course. I know exactly where you mean. I grew up in Worthing.”

  “That’s right. Marie said you were there for a short while.”

  “Yes.” He seemed to readjust his memory. “Isuppose it was only a short time, really. But a lovely part of the world.”

  “Oh yes,” Carole agreed automatically. She was sometimes guilty of ambivalent thoughts about where she lived, but it was certainly better than Harlow.

  “And you’re retired, is that right?”

  Gaby had gone to greet new arrivals and Phil had drifted off to get another beer. David was in a knot of people around Stephen. But Carole didn’t mind being isolated with Robert. He was a man who knew that one of the big ingredients of charm was appearing fascinated in the person you were with, and in everything they had to say. For Carole, being at the receiving end of this treatment was an unusual and pleasant experience.

  “Yes, retired from the Home Office,” she replied.

  “Ah, my old employers.”

  She looked at him quizzically. “I’m an ex-copper. Did twenty-five years. Desk jobs, not on the beat.”

  “Really?”

  “Took early retirement at forty-five. They offered me a good package. Yours must have been an early retirement too.”

  Carole didn’t know whether this was just a manufactured compliment, but she didn’t dislike it. “Yes, a bit early. And, when you were in the Force, did you work…er…” she managed to avoid saying ‘in this God-forsaken hole’ “…out here?”

  “Yes. First job out of Hendon Police College was in Billericay, and I spent my whole career in Essex.”

  “Mm.” Carole felt she ought to say ‘How nice’, but couldn’t. “And are you having a lazy retirement of golf and fishing?”

  He grinned. “Don’t think that’s really for me. Always like to be doing things. And, particularly since my wife died – well, I don’t want to have time on my hands. I’m a JP, though, and that keeps me pretty busy.”

  Carole did a quick memory check about policemen becoming Justices of the Peace. Any serving officer would be disqualified, but after two years of retirement an ex-policeman was eligible to serve on the Bench.

  “Oh, I’m sure that keeps you very busy. Still, must be very helpful for the other magistr
ates, having someone with your specialist expertise.”

  “Yes, I like to think I have some understanding of the criminal mind.”

  “Always useful to have someone around who can do that. So, as an ex-policeman, what did you make of that rather strange burglary at Gaby’s flat?”

  As soon as the words were out, Carole realized she shouldn’t have said them. The incomprehension in Robert Coleman’s face showed that he had never heard anything about the break-in, and too late she remembered how unwilling Gaby had been for the police to be notified.

  She tried to backtrack. “Oh, I’m sorry. If you don’t know about it, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned anything. Now presumably you know everyone who’s here tonight? I’ve just – ”

  But she wasn’t allowed to escape that easily. “Carole, you can’t stop there. You mentioned a burglary at Gaby’s flat.”

  His voice was firm and authoritative. “Maybe you shouldn’t have done, but you did, and neither of us can pretend it hasn’t been mentioned.”

  “No.” She felt like a reprimanded schoolgirl.

  “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Well, I don’t know very much. Just what Stephen told me.” Quickly, she ran through the few details she had.

  “So nothing at all taken?”

  “Nothing obvious, apparently. But, as I say, I’ve had all this at second hand.”

  The twinkle had gone from Robert Coleman’s eyes. He was taking the news very seriously indeed. “And Gaby’s personal papers were disturbed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hm. I’m going to have to talk to her about it.”

  “Well, do apologize to her for my telling you about it. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m very glad you did tell me. Maybe I should have a word with her…” He made as if to move away.