Death under the Dryer

Sixteen

There was one thing at least that she could check right away. As soon as she got back to High Tor, Carole got out the Yellow Pages and made a list of the main conference centres and hotels in Brighton. She started to ring round, asking if they had recently hosted a Hair and Nail Conference. On the third call she got lucky. Yes, they’d had some four hundred delegates there just over two weeks ago. The dates tallied with what Martin Rutherford had said. So the conference certainly existed; whether he’d been at it, of course, was another matter.

Carole asked for the name of the organizer of the Brighton Hair and Nail Conference. The girl on Reception couldn’t tell her, but put her through to someone in the relevant department who very efficiently provided her with the name and contact numbers of the events company who had staged the conference. Another call confirmed that a Martin Rutherford had indeed been booked in as a delegate. And he had booked in for the dinner on the Wednesday night. What’s more, he had been there. By chance, the girl at the end of the line had sat next to him during the dinner. He had been very charming and amusing. No, she didn’t know where he’d gone after the meal. Now she really must be getting on with some work.

Carole was digesting this information when her phone rang. It was Stephen. He sounded tense again.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Gaby. They want to keep her in a few more days.”

“Any reason? Has there been more bleeding?”

“No. They just want…Something to do with blood pressure. They think she’ll be safer there.”

“Then I’m sure they’re right.”

“Yes…” He didn’t sound convinced.

“Listen, Stephen, it’s only about a month till she’s due. If the baby was born tomorrow, it’d be absolutely fine.”

“Mmm.”

“And the baby’s still moving around all right, is it?”

“Yes, yes. It’s not the baby they’re worried about. It seems to be Gaby.”

“Stephen, lots of women have problems with blood pressure when they’re pregnant. The hospital is just observing sensible precautions, that’s all. You should be grateful that they’re doing so.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” But he still didn’t sound at ease.

“What is it?”

“Mum…” She was warmed by the word. “I’m worried.”

“You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t. But I’m sure there’s no need. Gaby and the baby will both be fine.”

“Yes, but what worries me…I’m so concerned about Gaby that I don’t really care what happens to the baby. The admission cost him a lot. For a moment Carole lost her nerve. She couldn’t find the right response to what he had just said. Jude would have done it instinctively, immediately come up with the right formula of words. Carole didn’t have those skills. But somehow she managed to swallow her anxiety and found herself saying, “That’s a natural thing to think, Stephen. You shouldn’t feel guilty about it. You know Gaby, you love Gaby. If there’s any threat to her, you don’t care about anything else, so long as she’s all right. But you will get to know and love the baby just as much.”

“Will I?” He still sounded uncertain, pleading.

“Yes. You will.”

After the phone call ended, Carole was assailed with doubt. She had had to sound more positive than she really felt. And a tremor of guilt ran through her too. Easy enough for her to tell Stephen about the love he would feel for his child when it was born, but had she ever had that instinctive reaction to him?

There were a lot of things Jude cared about which came under Carole’s definition of ‘fads’. Her work as a healer headed the list. To Carole’s mind that was a fad, or at least the people who indulged in it were faddish. Healing was just a craze, there’d be another one along in a minute. It was Carole’s view that if you were so unfortunate as to have something wrong with you, then you should make an appointment at Fethering Surgery and go and see a proper doctor.

She also thought a lot of the decor at Woodside Cottage was faddish. Nobody really needed wind chimes or aromatic candles. And certainly no one needed crystals lying about the place. But Carole couldn’t deny the warmth and comfort that her neighbour’s home exuded, particularly when contrasted with the almost antiseptic austerity of High Tor.

When it came to food, though, Jude was really faddy. Not faddy in the sense of being picky about what she ate when she was out; she didn’t have a portfolio of personal allergies like a lot of the denizens of Fethering. But she was faddy about what she bought. Everything had to be organic. Carole thought such discrimination was an expensive luxury. The food she’d grown up with had kept her pretty healthy, and she couldn’t be bothered with checking the source of everything. She didn’t like shopping and the less time spent on her weekly trip to Sainsbury’s, the better. Besides, the organic stuff was always considerably more expensive than the normal food and, although Carole was economically secure with her Home Office pension, she didn’t believe in waste. As for all that nonsense about organic food tasting better…well, she could never tell the difference.

For Jude, however, it mattered. At home she liked to know the provenance of everything she ate. But she didn’t go for the overpriced supermarket organic option. Instead, she had built up a network of local nurseries, farm shops and farmers’ markets to source her supplies and either walked or travelled by train or bus to track down what she wanted.

That Monday afternoon a grudging Carole had agreed to drive her to a nursery outside Littiehampton which specialized in organic vegetables. Carole was not grudging because she resented doing the driving, only because of her innate suspicion of all things organic. In fact, she was still at a loose end and the trip had been her suggestion. At the nursery she was even prevailed upon to buy a bag of potatoes, saying stuffily that she’d ‘see if they tasted any different’. Mind you, she couldn’t fault the price. They were cheaper than the supermarket’s cheapest non-organic offerings.

Their route back to High Tor and Woodside Cottage took them along the High Street and, as they were approaching Connie’s Clip Joint, Jude said urgently, “Slow down.”

“What?”

“Look.”

Carole watched as Theo emerged from the salon. He was dressed in his uniform black shirt and trousers and had his black leather jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder. His tinted glasses with the gold stars at the corners were in place. He didn’t exactly mince, but he sashayed along the High Street away from them, unafraid of looking camp.

“Follow him,” hissed Jude.

“Why? He’s just going home, I assume. Must’ve done his last appointment of the day. So why on earth should I follow him?”

“Do you have other major plans for this afternoon? Are you going to try out some new organic potato recipes?”

“No,” Carole replied testily. Then, with an ‘Oh, very well’, she put the car in gear and moved slowly along behind the stylist. “Though I still don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“So that we can see what he does.”

What he did was to click his key remote to unlock a dark green Skoda Fabia, into which he climbed and drove off.

“See, I told you. He’s just going home.”

“Follow him,” said Jude mischievously.

Carole sighed at the pointlessness of the exercise, but in the tradition of endless Hollywood movies, followed the car in front. It wasn’t very difficult. The prevalence of road bumps and assiduous traffic police, combined with the overwhelming sedateness of Fethering, meant that nobody ever drove fast there. And, unlike a character from a Hollywood film, Theo appeared to have no suspicion that the women in the Renault pootling along behind him had any ulterior motive. He wasn’t about to break into a routine of sudden reversing and screeching tyres.

“I don’t know why we’re doing this,” Carole repeated grumpily.

“Just a hunch. But if you’d rather be making an organic potato salad…”

“Huh.”

The route Theo’s Fabia was taking led out of Fethering in the direction of Bognor Regis, which was a mild surprise. Because of his gayness, Carole and Jude had expected him to gravitate towards Brighton. But, fair enough, there are gay men in Bognor Regis too.

That wasn’t where he was going, though. He suddenly indicated and turned right off the A259 towards Yapton. No reason why he shouldn’t. Maybe that was where he lived. There were almost certainly gays in Yapton too.

But his destination was not a private house. The Fabia turned into the impressive drive of Yeomansdyke, a luxury hotel and health spa which Jude had visited when she was investigating the murder of Walter Fleet, owner of a nearby livery stables.

“What shall I do?”

“Drive in. Keep following him.”

With bad grace, Carole did as instructed. By the time they reached the hotel car park, the Fabia was parked and Theo was walking towards the spa entrance. The Renault was neatly guided into a parking bay, but Carole didn’t turn off the engine. “What’re we supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know.” Jude was almost girlishly irresponsible, knowing that her attitude was irritating her neighbour, but blithely incapable of changing it. “Odd place for him to come, though, isn’t it?”

“It’s a free country. People can go where they want to go.”

“Yes, but he’s just walked into the spa like he’s a regular. The membership for this place is seriously expensive. I can’t think he pays for that on what he makes as a hairdresser.”

“He may not be a member. He could just have come here to meet someone.”

“Yes, but you’d have thought, if he was going to do that, he’d go in the main hotel entrance. That’s where the bars and places are. Not so likely to meet someone in the leisure centre. I don’t think the Yeomansdyke spa is like a New York bathhouse.”

Carole didn’t get the reference. “Well, I don’t know,” she said huffily. “All I do know is that I feel a complete idiot sitting here in the car, like I was some police detective on a stake-out.”

“Well, if you imagine that’s what you are…does that make it any easier?”

“No.” Carole switched off the ignition. “Ten minutes we’re going to wait here. If he doesn’t come out within ten minutes, we’re going.”

“But look, if he’s come here for a swim, or a work-out in the gym…well, that’s going to take him more than ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” Carole reiterated firmly, and folded her arms behind the steering wheel. She wished she had brought the Times crossword with her on this wild goose chase. There were three clues in the top left-hand corner she hadn’t managed to complete yet.

They didn’t have to wait ten minutes. In just over five Theo emerged from the Yeomansdyke spa entrance, and moved briskly across towards his Fabia.

He was unrecognizable. Gone were the tinted glasses and the black gear. Now he was dressed in beige chinos and a light tweed sports jacket. His whole body language had changed too. There was no longer any feyness, but a firm resolution in his stride.

“What on earth…?” breathed Carole.

“Wait till he gets back into the car, then follow him,” said Jude.

They watched the Fabia parked in front of them for what seemed an inordinately long time. Then their attention was drawn by the gunning of a powerful engine. They turned as one to see a silver BMW sports car speeding past them out of the car park. At the wheel, unaware of their presence, was the new Theo.

By the time they reached the road at the end of the Yeomansdyke drive, the car had disappeared, whether to the right or left they had no idea.