Death and the Decorator

SEVEN

‘Carbon monoxide poisoning,’ said Pete.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, that’s what killed him. After the alarm had been raised, the coastguard towed the boat back to the yacht club, then the police took over.’

‘There’s your coffee.’ White with one sugar. Jude’d get used to that order over the week ahead. Pete’s working life was fuelled by coffee. First day on a new job he’d bring his flask. Best to be prepared. With some clients he continued bringing the flask every day. He had reckoned Jude would have offered to make cups for him, but you could never be sure, working for a new client. However well you thought you knew them. People, Pete knew, were unpredictable.

As agreed, he’d arrived at Woodside Cottage at eight, let himself in and got started washing down the sitting-room walls. Jude had descended some forty-five minutes later, dressed in a voluminous, multi-coloured towelling robe. Though the central heating was on at full blast, the cold outside air somehow still infiltrated the house.

Her normal instinct, having made her cup of tea, would have been to take it back under the duvet, but that Monday morning she was much more interested in the news from Fethering Yacht Club.

‘Where did you hear it from, Pete?’

‘In the club, yesterday evening. No one was talking about anything else.’

‘I bet they weren’t. So, when did Harry take his boat out?’

‘Early in the morning. Before it was light, they reckon.’

‘Is that unusual, for people to take their boats out that early?’

‘Unusual, yes. But it still happens quite a lot. Particularly with owners going on long trips, to France or wherever. A matter of getting the tides right, you see.’

‘Of course. But, so far as you know, Harry wasn’t planning a long trip?’

‘No. They seemed to think he was just going out fishing. He did sometimes go out early for that. Harry used to be very keen on his fishing. Hasn’t done so much of it recently, though. Probably because of his back problems. But there’s an area about a mile out where he usually goes. Got some good catches out there, over the years. That’s where Harry’s Dream was found.’

‘Hm.’ Jude took a pensive sip of tea. ‘And the carbon monoxide … where did that come from?’

‘Heater in the cabin. He’d got that on full blast. If it wasn’t properly ventilated … or there was a faulty valve … one or the other. You keep reading of these tragedies of kids in caravans and, you know …’

‘Sure. When we saw Harry on Saturday, he said he’d done all the conversion work on Harry’s Dream himself …’

‘Yes. He was really proud of that boat.’

‘Right.’ Slowly, Jude pieced things together. ‘So, an experienced builder like Harry Lasalle would have known all about the dangers from faulty heaters, wouldn’t he?’

‘Certainly would.’

‘And he’d have known the safety precautions that had to be taken when installing them … and he’d have been particularly careful when he was doing the installation on his own boat …?’

‘You betcha.’

‘So, if there was a fault in the system, Harry would have known about it.’

‘He’d have known all right,’ said Pete.

‘Could he actually have caused the fault?’

‘You mean …?’

‘He did sound pretty low when we talked to him on Saturday.’

Pete nodded thoughtfully. ‘I hadn’t thought of that possibility.’

‘But he could have deliberately sabotaged the heater?’

‘Certainly could. For anyone who’d been in the building trade as long as Harry, to set that up would not have been a problem.’

While Jude was dressing, she had a moment’s doubt. Thinking of the phone call she’d had on the Saturday evening, was there any justice in Veronica Lasalle’s accusations? Harry Lasalle’s wife had berated Carole and Jude for ‘stirring things up’. And now her husband was dead, possibly by his own hand.

Instinctively, Jude didn’t feel any guilt, but she wondered whether she should. Whatever accusations had been made about Harry Lasalle at the time of Anita Garner’s disappearance had been ‘very hurtful’. They had even affected his business. Which must have meant the allegations were pretty serious.

But, from her brief acquaintance with the man, Jude hadn’t got the impression of someone hypersensitive, who needed to be cotton-wooled. If he felt guilty enough to kill himself, then Jude reckoned he must have committed some offence against Anita Garner and was worried about the truth coming out, thirty years on.

This conclusion made her even more determined to find out the facts of what had happened. To which end, she went next door to High Tor and invited herself in for a cup of coffee. She had plenty to tell her neighbour.

Armed with the news of Veronica Lasalle’s call to Jude and her husband’s subsequent death, Carole announced that she was going to talk further to Malk Penberthy.

When the wind blew in directly off the sea, Fethering could be seriously cold. And that morning it was. But Jude had wrapped herself up in a long floral, faux-fur-lined coat she had bought for a fiver at a jumble sale. By way of fastenings, it had rope loops and toggles. She knew, if she didn’t go out for a walk, she would never get her circulation going, and feel cold all day. Her other fallback heating option, lighting a fire in the sitting room, was off the menu because Pete was painting in there.

She pulled a burgundy woollen hat a long way down over her hair, shoved her hands in the coat’s faux-fur-lined pockets and set off on her warming-up exercise. Reckoning the wind straight off the sea would be too chilling, she avoided the beach and walked along the residential streets north of Fethering Parade. As ever, she couldn’t stop her mind from creating backstories to the lives lived behind all those respectable front windows.

But these speculations could not entirely shut out of her mind thoughts of Harry Lasalle and Anita Garner.

She heard her mobile ring. Damn, it was in the pocket of her fleece, under the coat.

By the time she had negotiated the toggles and the faux-fur, the caller had resorted to leaving a message.

Brandie. Jude called her back. ‘How’re you doing, love?’

‘Fine. Just wanted to ask you something.’

‘Ask away.’

‘About Ted Crisp.’

‘Oh?’

‘What kind of person is he, Jude?’

‘What kind of person? Well, he’s … er …’

‘I think he has a good soul.’

‘Yes. Yes, Brandie. Nothing wrong with his soul.’

‘You said that as if there are other parts of his personality where things aren’t so healthy.’

‘Did I? I didn’t mean to. No, Ted’s … well, he’s … He’s very kind. He’s been a good friend to me over the years. He’s … um … well, he’s probably not exactly at the sharp end of the political-correctness spectrum. And his sense of humour is … Well, he used to be a stand-up comic but it didn’t really work out for him. Even Ted himself would admit that his jokes are lousy. Sorry, Brandie, why are you asking me this?’

‘Because I’m going to have lunch with him today.’

‘Oh. Very nice. Where? At the Crown and Anchor?’

‘No, at a vegan restaurant in Brighton.’

Vegan? Ted Crisp? What the hell was going on?

Inevitably, it was Starbucks again. Malk Penberthy looked less relaxed than he had at their previous meeting there.

‘You’ve heard, presumably, about Harry Lasalle?’ Carole began in a businesslike way, once they were at a table with their coffees.

‘Yes. I may not still have the range of information conduits I once had, but that news did filter through the Fethering bush telegraph.’

‘My neighbour Jude met him for the first time on Saturday. He was very down, she said. The consensus seems to be that he committed suicide.’

He smiled. ‘Is there anywhere on God’s earth where a consensus can build up more quickly than in Fethering? As to the verdict of suicide, I wouldn’t be qualified to comment on that. One thing my journalistic training did teach me is that one should never announce conclusions until one has enough facts to back them up. In this case, I don’t know enough about the background to offer an opinion.’

‘Oh, come on, Malk. You know as much about the background as anyone in Fethering.’

‘Maybe I did once,’ he said, rather primly, ‘but I’m retired now.’

‘The events we’re talking about occurred long before you were retired.’

‘I thought we were talking about Harry Lasalle’s death. That only happened yesterday.’

Carole looked at the old journalist beadily, certain that he was being deliberately obtuse. ‘What I am interested in is the cause of Harry Lasalle’s death.’

‘I thought the consensus on that was carbon monoxide poisoning.’

‘Malk, you know what I mean.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ He took refuge in a long swallow of coffee.

‘When we met before,’ Carole persisted, ‘when I asked you about possible relationships Anita Garner might have had while she was working at Footscrow House, you talked in general terms about the common phenomenon of bosses “coming on” – with impunity – to members of their staff.’

‘Did I? I really don’t remember.’ He suddenly sounded very old and confused. Carole felt convinced, however, that it was a ploy to make her back off.

And she wasn’t about to fall for it. ‘Were there any rumours back then of Harry Lasalle “coming on” to his staff?’

Malk Penberthy physically squirmed with discomfort. ‘As I said, such allegations are made about the bosses in any organization. But there was not so much publicity about that kind of thing back then. Women were conditioned to be less assertive. No junior employee would have contemplated taking a senior member of staff to court for sexual harassment … even for rape. Incidents like that got covered up. The complainant would just be moved to another job. In those days, a boss with wandering hands could get away with murder.’

His expression showed he’d just realized the implication of his words.

Carole rubbed it in. ‘Unfortunate thing to say … given the circumstances.’

‘Maybe.’ He looked appropriately cowed.

‘So, Malk, all I’m asking is … At the time of Anita Garner’s disappearance, was there talk of Harry Lasalle having “come on” to her – or even of their being in a relationship?’

‘There was all kinds of talk round that time … as you can imagine in a place like Fethering.’ He was silent.

‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ Carole prompted.

‘No.’

‘Were there actual accusations of sexual harassment levelled at Harry Lasalle?’

Another silence. Then, ‘All right, yes, there were. A couple of the other younger care staff claimed that Harry had … touched them up.’

‘And did they say whether he’d done the same to Anita?’

‘I don’t think they had any proof of it, but they suggested it was likely that he had. Listen,’ he pleaded, ‘these were two young girls, still in their teens, and suddenly they’re the centre of media attention … not just me from the Fethering Observer, but the nationals were briefly interested in Anita Garner’s disappearance. Radio reporters, television crews. So, these kids loved their moment in the spotlight, and they probably embellished their stories to keep the focus on themselves. They told the national press what the national press wanted to hear.’

‘Which was?’

‘That Harry Lasalle had done more than “come on” to Anita Garner. That they were in a relationship. That she was his mistress.’

‘And do you think that was true?’

‘Absolutely not!’ The old man looked affronted by the very suggestion. ‘All right, Harry’s “wandering hands” may have wandered where they shouldn’t, but I’m sure it didn’t go further than that. What the girls said was just fabrication and rumours.’

‘Presumably fabrication and rumours that the police would have followed up on?’

‘Presumably.’

‘Did you hear their conclusions?’

Malk Penberthy smiled wryly, ‘No, I’m sorry to say I didn’t. In detective stories, the police seem to be very generous sharing all their findings with amateur sleuths. Real life, I believe, is rather different … not least because amateur sleuths do not exist. They are a complete and convenient figment of crime writers’ imaginations.

‘And I’m afraid the same holds true for the relationship between the press and the police. Again, in fiction, the latter are far more open-handed with information than they are in the real world. Journalists in books always seem to have a friendly source in the police force who keeps them up to date with the progress of their enquiries. Whereas, in the real world, journalists are fed what the police want them to know at press conferences. Apart from that, the “appropriate authorities” tend to play things rather close to their chests. So, the detectives looking into Anita Garner’s disappearance – surprise, surprise – did not go out of their way to confide in me the results of their investigation into the relationship between Harry Lasalle and the missing girl.’

‘No, Malk, but you must have been talking to lots of other people, apart from the police. You must have formed your own opinion on the subject.’

‘Yes, that’s true. And I did briefly entertain the idea that the two might be involved in some ongoing affair.’

‘“Briefly”?’

‘Yes. Because I soon found out that, whatever was the cause of Anita’s disappearance, her murder or any other outcome, Harry Lasalle could not have had anything to do with it.’

‘Oh?’

‘He had an alibi for the relevant days. He was with his wife Veronica, on a sailing trip to Northern France in his boat.’

‘Harry’s Dream?’

‘The very same.’

‘So, the police would have found out about that alibi too?’

‘I can only assume so. Once again, they were not magnanimous enough to vouchsafe me that information.’

‘Ah. Right.’

Carole must have looked as crestfallen as she felt, because Malk Penberthy said, ‘I’m sorry. I can only wish you better luck with your investigation than I had with mine.’

‘Thanks,’ said Carole ruefully.

He looked at his watch. ‘I must be on my way.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m due to do a guided tour of the Fedborough Wetlands Centre.’

‘Ah.’

‘Birding has always been a big thing with me.’

‘More coffee?’

Jude had just come back in from her walk. It had done the business. Her body, underneath its many layers, felt warm again. But she was glad to be back in the central heating of Woodside Cottage.

‘Never say no to a cup of coffee,’ said Pete. ‘My drug of choice. Need constant fixes.’

Jude went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on and called back, ‘While I was out, I was thinking about Harry Lasalle.’

‘Me, and all. Felt sorry for the old bugger. He sounded so down on Saturday. Wondered whether I should have said something or, I don’t know, called Veronica to ask her to look out for him.’

‘We weren’t to know what would happen.’

‘No, you’re right.’ Pete had reached the stage of sanding down uneven bumps on the sitting-room wall.

‘I was asking myself whether I should feel guilty about what happened and decided I shouldn’t.’

‘But why should you feel guilty, Jude? You only met Harry on Saturday.’

‘Yes, but, if he did take his own life … and if that was because people had started talking about Anita Garner again … Here. White with one sugar.’

Pete took the proffered cup. ‘Thank you. Still don’t see what it’s got to do with you.’

‘Well, I was the one who took Anita Garner’s handbag to the police station, and that’s what started everyone talking about her.’

‘You was just doing your civic duty, Jude. A public-spirited act. Nothing to feel guilty about.’

She still couldn’t quite convince herself. If she and Carole hadn’t started “stirring things up” again …

‘Pete, were you aware of any talk about something going on between Anita and Harry Lasalle?’

But he wasn’t to be drawn. ‘There’s always talk about stuff like that. After she went, the poor kid’s name was linked to virtually everyone in Fethering.’

‘Including you?’ asked Jude cheekily.

The decorator grinned. ‘Probably. It’s always a problem when what’s being talked about is something nobody knows a blind thing about. Not, of course, that ignorance of the facts has ever stopped the gossips of Fethering.’

‘True.’ Jude took a sip of her coffee. It continued the warming-up process.

‘They come up with more theories than you’ve had hot dinners,’ Pete continued. ‘Particularly when the subject might be murder. Generally speaking, I reckon the people of Fethering spend far too much time watching television. That’s where they get all their theories from. If you ask me, there’s too much bloody crime on television. Particularly now there’s all that forensic stuff. People used to watch the box to learn how to cook. Then they started on decorating, house makeovers, all that … which, let me tell you, didn’t help me doing my job. Nothing worse than a client who reckons they know how to do it better than I do. “Ooh, on the telly, they were doing this rag-rolling and they were using stencils and they …” If they’re so clever, why don’t they just bloody get on with it, rather than bringing me in just to listen to their criticism?’

For a moment, Pete sounded uncharacteristically angry, but then he relaxed into the familiar grin. ‘Anyway, now everyone watches so much bloody forensics on telly, half of them reckon they could conduct their own post-mortems. As I say, too much crime, people think they know it all.’

‘Of course,’ said Jude, ‘one of the clichés of crime on telly, and in books, is the old theory that the first suspect is always the person who finds the body.’

‘Oh yes, I’ve heard that one a few times.’

‘So, Pete, you said it was someone from Fethering Yacht Club who went out and found Harry’s Dream on Sunday.’

‘Right.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Glen Porter,’ said the decorator.