Guilt at the Garage

EIGHTEEN

Gulliver was lucky. He got a second walk that Sunday morning, a beneficiary of the confidence his owner’s encounter with Malee Shefford had engendered. Carole already had so much to reveal to Jude on her return from Leeds, that she wondered if she could gild the lily with one more revelation.

The name ‘Fethering Marina’ raised expectations that were never going to be fulfilled. Adjacent to the yacht club, where rows of neat pontoons provided moorings for the wealthy boat-owners of West Sussex, the marina had once been the home of Fethering’s thriving fishing fleet. But the decline of that industry, hastened, if you believed the sages of the Crown and Anchor, by increasingly adverse EU regulations, had decimated the number of locals who made a living from it. As a result, the manmade inlet off the River Fether where the boats sheltered, had suffered from lack of maintenance which would soon make the facility unusable. The twice-a-day sweep of the tides had silted up the entrance and the wood of the old pontoons was eroded and sagging.

The paucity of boats moored there, however, was a bonus for Carole. There were only three. Two were battened down, their tarpaulins streaked with gull droppings, and looked as if they had been that way for a long time. On the deck of the third, mending his nets, sat a septuagenarian with walnut-shell skin.

‘Excuse me,’ Carole called out, still emboldened by her success with Malee. ‘Are you Red?’

His eyes, buried deep in wrinkles, flashed venomously at her. ‘What if I am?’

‘My name’s Carole Seddon.’

‘So?’

‘And I believe you were a friend of Bill Shefford …?’

This caught his attention. ‘I was, yes,’ he said cautiously.

‘You’ve heard, presumably …?’

‘Of course I’ve heard. I live in Fethering. Anyone dies in Fethering, it’s impossible not to hear about it.’

‘Yes. I gather Bill Shefford used to go fishing with you …’

‘What if he did?’

‘But then Malee stopped him from going …’

‘Is that what you heard?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who are you, by the way?’

‘I told you. My name’s Carole Seddon and I—’

‘You told me your name. I meant: who are you who has the right to ask me all these questions?’

‘I just—’

‘I know your type. Far too many like you around Fethering. With your Labrador and your fancy raincoat. Another middle-class snooper. This place was a lot better before all you lot moved in.’

‘I have actually lived here for—’

‘I’m not interested in how long you’ve lived here! All I want is a bit of peace on my own boat on a Sunday morning.’

‘I’m sorry. I just—’

Red put down the net he was working on and stood up. He was a lot taller than she’d expected and his stance was combative.

‘Sorry. One question,’ Carole pleaded.

‘What?’

‘Was it Bill’s marriage to Malee that stopped the two of you going fishing together?’

‘Yes. I only saw him once after that.’

‘And was that because …?’

But Red had moved quickly down into the interior of the boat. To emphasize that their conversation was at an end, he had pulled the hatches closed after him.

Carole looked around. Fortunately, there was no one in sight. No one to witness the embarrassing encounter.

As she walked Gulliver back to High Tor, she decided she wouldn’t tell Jude about her visit to Red. No need to trouble her with that. After all, she came much better out of the visit she’d paid to Malee.

To defuse the urgency she felt to ring Jude’s mobile, Carole spent the Sunday evening teaching herself how to use the camera facility on her new mobile. She had been dreading the process but found it surprisingly easy. She was soon competent to produce a full still and video record of her granddaughters’ visit to Fethering in a few weeks’ time.

Carole managed to restrain herself until the Monday morning. She took Gulliver for his usual tramp on Fethering Beach and rang Woodside Cottage as soon as they returned to High Tor. It was not yet half past seven. The bleariness in Jude’s voice expressed her opinion that this was far too early for someone to be woken, particularly someone who’d arrived back after midnight from a tiring weekend in Leeds.

‘I’m sorry,’ Carole lied – she wasn’t sorry at all – ‘but there’s something I really have to tell you. You won’t believe what I found out over the weekend.’

‘You won’t believe what I found out over the weekend,’ countered Jude. ‘I found out things about your friend Adrian Greenford.’

‘Oh, I’m not interested in him,’ said Carole. Then, after a slight pause. ‘What did you find out about him?’

‘It’s more about his wife Gwyneth. She—’

Carole changed her priorities. ‘But I actually saw Malee Shefford.’

‘You did?’ The awe in Jude’s voice was very rewarding.

‘Yes,’ said Carole calmly. ‘She told me what was in Bill Shefford’s will.’

‘Did she actually show it to you?’

‘No.’ And Carole recreated the conversation she had had with Malee the day before. ‘So, will you do it?’ she asked at the end.

‘What, you mean tell Shannon what was in the will?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’ll think it pretty odd, coming from me. And I can’t begin to imagine how her mother will react. Or perhaps I can, all too accurately. I don’t think Rhona Hampton is ever going to be persuaded that there’s any good in Malee.’

Knowing Jude’s love of conciliation, Carole pleaded, ‘It might start some kind of rapprochement between them. Make Shannon at least realize that her stepmother wasn’t just a gold-digger.’

‘I suppose it might.’ Jude didn’t sound convinced. ‘I think I’ll have to get Shannon on her own. Any mention of Malee’s name in Rhona’s presence will just unleash another burst of xenophobia.’

‘See what you can do,’ Carole pleaded.

‘I’ll try.’

‘Have you got another session booked with Rhona?’

‘This afternoon.’

‘The perfect opportunity.’

‘Maybe. Of course, you realize, Carole, if this is a murder investigation we’ve embarked on …’

‘Please say it is.’

‘… and if anyone did know Bill Shefford’s intentions – you know, that he meant to leave the garage to Billy … well, it knocks the motives of a few of our suspects on the head, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose it does. Anyway, do your best this afternoon and let me know what happens.’

‘Of course I will. And now,’ said Jude, still slightly aggrieved, ‘I’m going to make myself a cup of tea and see if I can get a couple more hours’ sleep.’

‘You do that. Oh, and incidentally, how was your conference?’

‘Very enjoyable.’ She couldn’t keep a giggle out of her voice as she said, ‘I’m not sure it would have been your sort of thing.’

‘I’m absolutely certain it wouldn’t,’ said Carole, with some force. ‘And how were your … friends?’

‘In very good form.’

‘Good,’ said Carole icily.

‘Ah yes, and I almost forgot. I must tell you what they told me about Adrian and Gwyneth Greenford.’

Which is exactly what Jude did. Much to Carole’s amazement.

Rhona Hampton’s palliative care was not exclusively Jude’s responsibility. She was also under the watchful monitoring of her GP, which suited Jude very well. It had never been her view that what she did was in conflict with conventional medicine. Though she had achieved remarkable curative results by healing alone, she had always been happy to regard her skills as complementary to more traditional treatments.

As the old woman’s pain level mounted, the GP had slowly been increasing her morphine dosage. This was administered by Shannon. Her mother could still manage to take the medication orally, though in time a syringe pump might be required. There was no doubt that Rhona Hampton’s condition was worsening but, as her remaining time on earth dwindled, she still never mentioned death.

One effect of the medication was that Rhona slept more. She still welcomed Jude’s visits and managed to vent some spleen against her usual targets, particularly Malee, but the outbursts didn’t last so long. She was tiring, and the relaxation produced by the healing soon brought her the release of sleep.

This was very convenient for Jude. With her client out of it for the time being, it was quite logical for her to step into the Waggoners kitchen, where Shannon was preparing her children’s supper. The kitchen itself was functional rather than modern. No islands. It probably hadn’t changed much since the Sheffords moved into the house. Stuck to the fridge door was the usual gallery of children’s drawings.

Billy’s wife looked up anxiously from the pizza dough she was rolling out. ‘Getting weaker, isn’t she?’

Jude nodded agreement. She had never believed in sugar-coating unarguably bad news, particularly when dealing with a realist like Shannon Shefford. ‘But she doesn’t seem to be in much pain,’ she said.

‘Thanks to you for that.’

Jude shrugged. ‘I think the morphine’s doing as much as I am.’

‘No, you’re really helping. She looks forward to your visits. With the GP, it’s all done remotely. Mum hasn’t actually seen a doctor since she’s been unable to get to the surgery. They don’t do home visits any more. Mum just talks on the phone to him – or her; she never seems to get the same one. And, recently, I’ve been doing most of the talking to the surgery. Mum’s not really up to it.’

‘Remotely or not, the GP does seem to be getting the dosage right.’

‘I suppose so. Controlling the pain. That’s all that can be done now.’ Shannon was seized by a sudden burst of emotion and turned away towards the sink as she said, ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage when Mum finally does go. I’ll miss her terribly. I know she can be a bit of a cow at times, and she’s horrible to Billy, but I’ve always loved her to bits.’

‘I’m sure she’s loved you too.’

‘Yes. No worries about that.’ She was caught by a new spasm of grief. ‘And the thought of organizing another funeral, so soon after Bill’s …’ Her words were drowned in deep, torso-shuddering sobs.

Jude saw an opening. ‘I gather Malee was at Bill’s funeral.’

‘She couldn’t not be, could she? She was technically his wife.’

‘More than “technically”.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was his wife – full stop.’

‘All right.’ The distinction didn’t seem important to Shannon.

‘And I gather, at the funeral, no one spoke to her.’

‘So? Are you asking me to apologize for that? Feel sorry about it? We’re talking about a woman who parachuted herself into our family and ruined everything!’

‘Have you ever talked to her, Shannon?’

‘Not more than I have to. Why should I? Would you talk to someone who destroyed your husband’s future?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean that, until Malee appeared on the scene,’ the name was marinated in contempt, ‘everyone knew that Bill was going to leave the garage to Billy. Now Bill’s dead and that foreign tart is going to inherit everything.’ Clearly, Shannon could match her mother when it came to xenophobia.

‘I heard that you asked Malee if you could search her house for Bill’s will.’

‘Yes, I did. And she refused to let me.’

‘A friend of mine knows for certain that Bill did actually make a will.’

‘Of course he did. That’s why Malee wouldn’t let me look for it.’

‘Sorry, I’m not with you.’

‘Bill made a will leaving the garage to Billy. When I asked to look for it, that alerted her.’

‘Alerted her to what?’

‘To the danger of me finding it. Nobody’ll find it now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She will have destroyed it.’

‘Malee?’

‘Yes, of course. I should never have suggested that she look for it.’

‘Sorry, Shannon, you’re going too fast for me here. What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that somewhere in the house where Bill lived for most of his adult life there was a copy of the will he made leaving the garage to Billy. Once I alerted Malee to that idea, she found it and destroyed it.’

‘But why would she do that?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jude! Because it left the garage to Billy! If that will didn’t exist, Bill would technically have died intestate. I don’t know much about the law, but I do know that if a married person dies without a will, the estate goes to the surviving partner!’ Shannon leant against the work surface, drained by this outburst.

‘You’re right about one thing,’ said Jude coolly.

‘Oh?’

‘Bill Shefford did make a will.’

‘See? I told you.’

‘But he made that will very recently.’

‘Oh?’

‘After he married Malee. And in the will, he left the house and his savings to her. And he left the garage, the whole Shefford’s business, to Billy.’

‘I don’t believe you but, even if I did, what difference would that make? It would still have been to Malee’s advantage to destroy it.’

‘She didn’t destroy it. She fully supported the provisions Bill had made for her and for Billy.’

‘Oh yes? And why should I believe that?’

‘You could ask her.’

‘Talk to Malee? You’ve got to be joking.’

‘It’s better to talk to someone than go around nursing groundless suspicions of them.’

‘My suspicions are not groundless! Malee is, and always has been, nothing but a gold-digger!’

‘But you can’t—’

Jude was interrupted by a weak voice from the front room calling, ‘Shannon.’

Instantly, daughter went to mother. Jude followed, asking, ‘Is there anything more I can do for you, Rhona?’

‘No, I just want Shannon,’ said the old woman with a note of petulance. ‘I don’t trust healers! They don’t do any good for people. Just get them worried about things they don’t need to worry about. They’re all rubbish. The first one you brought to me, Shannon, he was rubbish. And this woman’s no better!’

The sudden change of attitude hit Jude like a slap in the face. Though Rhona had expressed scepticism of the healing profession at their first meeting, there had been no criticism voiced since then. Jude wondered whether the old woman’s mind was starting to go. She had been aware recently of a tendency towards rambling.

But this was no time to take issue or defend herself. Jude picked up her woven straw basket and said, ‘Very well, I’ll be on my way then. See you, Shannon.’

Shannon, who was cradling her mother’s frail body like a baby’s, hardly seem to register Jude’s departure. Just before the front door closed behind her, she heard Shannon calling upstairs, ‘Supper in ten minutes, kids!’

The perfect example of the sandwich generation, caught between the aging and the young. Though Jude feared that Shannon Shefford’s sandwich would very soon be reduced to one slice of bread.

As she walked back to Woodside Cottage, she kept asking herself, ‘Why won’t people talk to each other?’ She knew of many situations, usually within families, of conversational lockdowns, which sometimes lasted for decades. And it was her view every complexity in life could be improved by at least talking about it. (Except, of course, for telling a spouse that his or her partner was having an affair. That never helped.)