Death and the Decorator

NINE

Carole’s sour mood was somewhat sweetened by a call from Malk Penberthy, suggesting another meeting over coffee in Starbucks.

He must have news to impart. News which he probably could have imparted over the phone. But Carole preferred the idea of face-to-face contact. She thought it might be a symptom of loneliness in the old man but found that endearing rather than worrying. She also once again relished the idea of something covert, having her own private source of information.

And she was, in part, relieved. There had been some asperity in their meeting on the Monday, with her pushing Malk for revelations he was unwilling to share, and she was comforted that that hadn’t led to a permanent rift.

Their encounter that morning followed the previously established format of not getting to the meat of their subject until they were both supplied with coffees and had exchanged pleasantries about the inclemency of the weather.

‘I have been making it my business,’ Malk began in his customary formal manner, ‘to elicit information about the late Harry Lasalle’s involvement in the various incarnations of Footscrow House … or, as you probably know, what is known to the Fethering cognoscenti as “Fiasco House”.’

‘I have heard it called that, yes.’

‘Well, Carole, you may also know that the building is currently being converted into holiday flatlets.’ She nodded. ‘Maybe a project which will finally turn the fortunes of the place into something profitable.’

‘Maybe.’ She was keen for him to get through the preamble and tell her his latest discovery. But she was too well brought up to push him. Let him tell his story at a pace of his own choosing.

‘Now, in the past, Harry Lasalle kind of dabbled as a property developer. He started out as a builder, just that, and was very successful at it. Made a lot of money out of Lasalle Build and Design and started to think, “Why should I just be employed by other people to build houses which they’re going to sell at high profit? Why shouldn’t I be working on my own projects, so that I get a bit of that money too?”

‘He had variable success. Made money on some developments, lost on others. Only one thing remained constant – whenever he got involved with Fiasco House, it was the Midas touch in reverse. Sheer disaster. Maybe nobody could ever have made that place profitable. Certainly, Harry Lasalle couldn’t.

‘Meanwhile, he – or even more his wife Veronica – was grooming their son Roland to be an entirely different kind of operator, rather in the way thuggish homicidal Mafia bosses are supposed to get their sons trained up as lawyers. Roland Lasalle’s dainty hands would never be allowed to get engrained with cement dust like his father’s. He was a professional man, an architect, not a builder. Public school education, university, architect’s training, membership of London clubs – a precision-cut diamond, while his father was a rough one.

‘So, Roland was trained to have the social skills and articulacy which would make him a much more effective property developer than his father. For many of his projects, the younger Lasalle relied on investment from Harry, but in no way was it an equal partnership. The father was back in his box, working for someone else, though now the one who was raking in the big profits was his own son.

‘On the latest development, though, the conversion of Footscrow House into holiday flatlets, Roland has totally cut his father out. Raised the money elsewhere, wouldn’t allow Harry to invest. Employed other builders, cut out Lasalle Build and Design completely. Which, from all accounts, the old man took very badly.

‘So, Carole, I was thinking that might be of interest to you … another factor for you and your friend to consider in your investigation.’

She had never actually spelled out what she and Jude were investigating, or even that they were investigating anything, but clearly Malk Penberthy had deduced it for himself. Or maybe, given the way gossip travelled in Fethering, someone else had told him what they were up to.

‘Malk,’ Carole began slowly, ‘I’m really grateful to you for telling me that. It does open out a lot of new possibilities.’

‘I agree. Certainly, if one were going down the route of believing that Harry Lasalle’s death was suicide, that might give him an additional motive. It’s entirely possible he would have regarded his son’s behaviour as a betrayal. And if the old man had health problems, if his body was starting to let him down, that might be a stark reminder that he could no longer sustain the lifestyle that he was used to. Roland might have delivered to him a rather brutal form of memento mori. People, I am aware, have committed suicide with less reason.’

‘Yes,’ said Carole thoughtfully. She was trying to piece together how this rift between father and son might fit into a scenario in which Harry’s death was murder. But maybe she needed a bit more background first …?

‘Malk,’ she began tentatively, ‘going back a bit …’

‘Hm?’

‘Back to the time of Anita Garner’s disappearance …’

‘Yes.’ A slight smile played around his thin lips, as if he were acknowledging the predictability of her redirection.

‘Do you know the detail of Harry Lasalle’s involvement with Footscrow House back then?’

‘Well, he owned it. And he ran it as a care home, with his wife Veronica. Not very successfully. That’s why, soon after, he cut his losses and converted the place into a boutique hotel. Which – surprise, surprise – wasn’t very successful either.’

‘So, Malk, going back to Anita Garner’s handbag, why was the bedroom where it was found being decorated at the time? To improve the conditions of the care home?’

‘By no means. Harry was already running the care home business down, looking to Fiasco House’s next incarnation as a hotel. He wasn’t replacing residents who died off and he was working with the local authorities to get the remaining ones transferred to other local homes.’

‘So, the bedroom was being redecorated for its new life as a hotel room?’

‘Precisely that, Carole.’

‘And Harry and his firm wouldn’t have been doing the decoration themselves?’

‘No. He was basically a builder. He always subcontracted decorating jobs.’

‘And do you know who he subcontracted that one to?’

Malk Penberthy let out a little smile which seemed to say that Carole wasn’t going to catch him out in ignorance that easily. ‘Yes, he gave the job to Brenton Wilkinson.’

‘The decorator who Pete used to work for before he set up on his own?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is he still around?’

‘Brenton? Just about.’

‘He must be very old.’

‘He’s exactly the same age as I am,’ said Malk Penberthy rather tartly.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry. I long ago gave up all attempts to pass myself off as a spring chicken.’ His tone was joking but he still looked hurt.

‘And do I gather that you know Brenton Wilkinson?’

‘I do.’

‘I don’t suppose, Malk … it would be possible for …’

‘To introduce you to Brenton?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

The former journalist grinned. ‘I think that could be arranged.’

Jude didn’t have a problem with Pete being in the house, but there were one or two phone calls that discretion told her were better taken upstairs. His hearing details of her private life didn’t worry her too much, but she thought Pete himself might be embarrassed.

On the Wednesday morning, she was downstairs in her robe, chatting to the decorator, when the phone rang. Seeing on the screen who it was, she decided to take the phone up to her bedroom.

Ted Crisp. What was all this with Ted Crisp ringing her? He’d only ever rung her before in an emergency or to make the briefest of arrangements. And now suddenly he wants to share with her far more than she might have wished.

It was about Brandie again. Of course. The landlord had clearly got it bad.

‘I was wondering …’ Ted said tentatively – and tentative was far from his natural style. ‘I was wondering whether you could give me some advice …?’

‘Of course,’ said Jude, sitting on the bed and wrapping the double duvet around her shoulders. Though the central heating was on full blast, the house still felt cold. It was that marooned time in February when even the idea of summer was a cruel illusion.

‘Well,’ the landlord went on, still not finding progress easy, ‘you know, in the past, I may sometimes have sounded a bit … well, sceptical about some of your ideas, Jude …’

‘Ideas like healing and alternative therapies and what Carole would call “mumbo-jumbo” …?’ Jude offered helpfully.

‘That sort of thing, yes.’

‘Yes, I have noticed that, Ted.’

‘Ah.’

‘It was when you said things like “I had a pain in my foot, so I went to a heeler. He put new soles on too while he was at it.” Up to the usual standard of your jokes, but it made me think perhaps you didn’t take what I did seriously.’

‘I’m sorry, Jude. I apologize.’

‘Bit late for that.’

‘Oh,’ he wheedled, ‘you can’t judge a man by his jokes.’

‘Just as well in your case, Ted,’ said Jude with a grin in her voice. ‘What a mercy it was to the stand-up comedy circuit when you gave it up.’

‘I agree, I agree. There are lots of things I’ve done in the past that I regret bitterly.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself.’

‘No, but, Jude, I realize I’ve spent all my life … “not giving space for my spiritual dimension”.’

That sounded very much like a quote. And Jude didn’t have any doubt about who he was quoting. ‘How is Brandie, by the way, Ted?’

‘Well, she’s … Well, she’s …’ But encapsulating his feelings in words was a feat beyond him. ‘I enjoy her company,’ he concluded formally.

‘Good.’

‘But I do feel … I don’t know … unworthy of her.’

‘“Unworthy”?’

‘Yes. Brandie’s so much younger than me … but so much wiser.’

‘“Wiser”?’ Jude realized this was a conversation in which her role was in danger of being reduced to that of an echo.

‘Yes,’ Ted Crisp confirmed. ‘Brandie has a wisdom that is as old as all of history.’

Jude thought the safest response to this was silence. Any other options would have involved giggling.

‘And I was wondering, Jude …’ Ted went on.

‘Yes?’

‘… whether you could help me find space for my spiritual dimension?’

Jude was dressed and getting Pete yet another cup of coffee (white with one sugar), when the knocker sounded. She opened the front door to reveal a woman whose expression was as wintry as the blast of cold air she brought in.

Jude had seen her before around Fethering but they’d never exchanged words. She thought she knew who the woman was, though, and this was confirmed by the announcement, ‘I’m Veronica Lasalle. I need to talk to you.’

Jude’s gesture of welcome was too late, Harry Lasalle’s widow was already in the house, closing the front door behind her. She was a short woman with harsh features, zipped into a hooded purple puffa jacket. The hair that was visible had once been reddish and had paled into a kind of sandy white. She moved as though her knees were giving her pain.

‘Good morning, Pete,’ she said.

The decorator’s reaction was unexpected. After an automatic ‘Good morning, Veronica’, he started to wrap his brushes in damp cloths, before saying he needed to get to the trade counter for some more paint. His aversion to being in the same space as Veronica Lasalle could not have been more clumsily disguised.

Bewildered by this uncharacteristic brusqueness, Jude offered her visitor tea or coffee.

‘No. I haven’t come to socialize. I’ve come to talk to you.’

‘Well, at least sit down.’ Jude gestured to sheet-shrouded sitting-room furniture. ‘There are chairs in the kitchen if you—’

‘I’ll stand. If I sit down for too long, my arthritis seizes up.’

‘Right.’ Jude didn’t feel she could sit down if her guest wasn’t doing so. She stood awkwardly facing the woman and said, ‘I was very sorry to hear the news about your husband’s death.’

‘Were you?’ The response was almost snapped. ‘Well, of course, that’s what everyone says in circumstances like this, don’t they?’

‘Perhaps, but I—’

‘Anyway, I haven’t come here for your sympathy. I’ve come to find out what rumours you have been spreading about Harry.’

‘I can assure you I haven’t been—’

‘You’re the one who found the handbag at Footscrow House, aren’t you?’

‘I was with Pete when he found it, yes.’

‘Yes, but you’re the one who’s been digging up the past, all those rumours about Harry and Anita Garner.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’ve been—’

‘You and that skinny neighbour of yours, Carole Seddon.’

‘We—’

‘Well, I hope you’re happy with what your meddling has achieved.’

‘I don’t know—’

‘Harry could have had a good few more years of happy life if you hadn’t stirred things up.’

Jude didn’t say anything. She knew she’d only be interrupted.

‘It was all untrue,’ Veronica went on, ‘what they said back then but, of course, mud sticks, doesn’t it? Especially in a little place like Fethering. Harry’s always been good to his workforce, whatever business he’s been in. And it was like that when we was running Footscrow House as a care home. Yes, he was friendly to Anita, but he was friendly to all the younger ones, tried to make them feel at home. He knew the job they was doing could be tough and he liked them to feel he was someone they could bring their troubles to – a shoulder to cry on, if you like. But that’s as far as it went – with Anita or any other of the girls, come to that. I was living in the building, helping him run the place. I’d have known if there was any hanky-panky going on. But once people like you start to gossip …’

‘You can’t blame me for any gossip round the time of Anita Garner’s disappearance. We’re talking thirty years ago.’

‘I didn’t say you. I said people like you. Harry never laid a finger on Anita and we’d just about got to the point where everyone in Fethering had forgotten the accusation had even been made. Until you and your nosy neighbour started digging it all up again!’

‘Just a minute, Veronica—’

‘“Mrs Lasalle” to you!’

‘Very well, Mrs Lasalle … are you sure that your husband committed suicide? Did he leave a note?’

‘No, we haven’t found any note. But that wouldn’t have been Harry’s way. He didn’t come out with things. He kept it all bottled up inside. The way he died says quite as much as a note would have done.’

‘What do you mean, exactly?’

‘My husband virtually built Harry’s Dream … well, built it up from an empty hull. He installed all the electrics, all the gas-powered stuff. He knew every inch of that boat. There’s no way he would let the space fill with carbon monoxide by accident. No, Harry knew precisely what he was doing. He anchored out at sea, sabotaged the gas supply and drank a bottle of whisky to see him on his way. Harry knew what he was doing,’ she repeated doggedly.

‘If what you say is true—’

‘Of course it’s bloody true! Are you suggesting I didn’t know my own husband?’

‘No. All I’m saying is that, if he did commit suicide, are you sure the reason was the revival of all the allegations about him and Anita Garner?’

‘What other reason could there be? If you’re implying that there was something wrong with our marriage—’

‘No, no, I’m certainly not. It’s just … I only met your husband very briefly … at Fethering Yacht Club last Saturday … and I thought he seemed very depressed.’

‘Oh? And what qualifications do you have to say whether someone’s depressed or not?’

‘I do have some experience of medical conditions. I work as a healer.’

‘Huh.’ Even Carole could hardly have bettered the level of scepticism in that ‘Huh’.

‘Your husband seemed to be depressed by his physical frailty, the fact that he couldn’t go on working like he used to do.’

‘Yes, all right. There were some adjustments he needed to make because of his age, but he’d have managed that all right. Harry wouldn’t have been the first man to find the early stages of retirement difficult.’

‘No, I agree. But he also seemed to be drinking a lot of whisky.’

‘How much Harry drank was his business! He had a strong head for the booze. He was never out of control.’

‘I’m not saying he was. He also talked that morning of not being able to go out in Harry’s Dream for much longer. He talked of taking her out for one last trip.’

‘All right.’ Veronica Lasalle reacted as if her point had been proved. ‘So that means he was already thinking about suicide, doesn’t it?’

‘It could do, yes. But his reasons for thinking about it might have been his increasing infirmity rather than anything to do with Anita Garner.’

‘Well, it wasn’t,’ Veronica Lasalle asserted.

‘He also’ – Jude hazarded – ‘seemed upset at the prospect of handing the business over to your son.’

This suggestion caused considerable annoyance. ‘He wasn’t handing the business over to our son! Roland has his own business. He’s an architect and property developer. Harry was just a builder.’ There was a lot of subtext in the way she said the word. It was clear that Veronica Lasalle had always considered she’d married beneath her.

She went on, ‘Harry had nothing to do with the current development of Footscrow House into holiday flatlets. It’s Roland’s company that’s doing that. Originally, Roly was going to employ Lasalle Build and Design on the project, but he found another builder who offered a better rate.’

‘But wouldn’t having his professional services rejected by his own son be just the kind of thing to turn Harry suicidal?’

‘No. He was very proud of Roland’s success. I made sure Roland had all the advantages his father hadn’t. I never wanted him to be just a builder like Harry. I wanted my Roly to be a professional man – and that’s what he is. Lives up in London and is working on projects all over the world. Footscrow House is small beer, by Roly’s standards. He showed his father what real success looks like.’

Jude recognized in Veronica’s words a whole rat’s nest of potential family conflicts, but it wasn’t the moment to explore them. Instead, she repeated, ‘What we heard at Fethering Yacht Club gave me the impression that your husband was depressed by his increasing infirmity.’

‘“We”? Who’s this “we”?’ the old woman asked sharply. ‘Who were you with?’

‘I was with Pete.’

‘Oh well, you don’t want to believe anything Pete says. He’s a right little troublemaker.’

Strange. It was the first time Jude had heard anyone in Fethering say a word against the decorator. Except, of course, for Roland, who’d unjustly accused him of skiving at Footscrow House. What did the two surviving Lasalles have against Pete?

‘I just think,’ Jude reiterated, ‘that your husband’s reason for taking his own life might have been something other than those old allegations about him and Anita Garner.’

‘You only say that because it lets you and your neighbour off the hook.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that Harry killed himself because that old accusation about him and Anita had resurfaced.’

‘But—’

‘And I blame you and Carole Seddon for his death!’