The Shooting in the Shop

Thirty

Waking up to a new year did not improve Carole’s mood. When she passed Woodside Cottage on her way to Fethering Beach for Gulliver’s early morning walk, there was no sign of life. Nor was there when she came back.

She felt terrible. And what made everything more terrible was the ancient familiarity of the feeling. She remembered the sheer awfulness of school dances, where you’d gone with a friend and then, when a half-decent-looking boy had come on the scene, the friend’s loyalty had immediately gone straight out of the window. And though the two of you had agreed to travel back together, somehow you ended up going home on your own.

She couldn’t settle to anything that morning and took her bad temper out on the house, cleaning High Tor to within an inch of its life.

After considerable indecision, at eleven o’clock she rang Jude’s home number. There was no reply. She didn’t even contemplate ringing her mobile.

It was not until a quarter to one in the afternoon that a rather smart BMW sports car drew up outside Woodside Cottage. Jude bounced out with a cheery wave to her escort. What compounded the awfulness of the situation was that Carole hadn’t moved back from the bedroom window quickly enough, and she, too, received the blessing of a wave from her neighbour.

Moments later, the phone rang. She knew it would be Jude. And it was – a bouncy, bubbly Jude, full of good wishes for the new year, with no hint of apology in her voice. She seemed completely unaware of the purgatory she had inflicted on her friend.

“I just wondered, Carole…I know it’s late, and you’ve probably had lunch…”

“No, I haven’t, actually. I didn’t feel like anything.”

“Well, I’m starving and I feel like a huge big, self-indulgent fry-up. Do you fancy joining me?”

Carole was faced with a moral dilemma. Declining the offer might be a way of expressing her disapproval, but accepting was the only way she was going to find out how her neighbour had spent the previous night. Obviously, accepting won.

There was a tantalizing smell of bacon when she arrived in the sitting room of Woodside Cottage. Jude had changed out of her party attire and wore a long Arran cardigan draped over a long denim skirt. She supplied a Chilean Chardonnay for Carole, but poured a glass of Argentinian Cabernet Sauvignon for herself. “I always find red works better as a ‘hair of the dog’ than white. Now, you just sit down, and I’ll bring the food through in a minute.”

Carole did as she was told, and listened to Jude bustling about cheerfully in the kitchen. Something had certainly put a smile on her face. Carole was damned if she was going to ask what.

The fry-up was particularly delicious. Jude’s approach to cooking was eclectic, depending on her mood. She was just as likely to offer guests dishes with brown rice and bean sprouts as she was steak frites. But the Full English she delivered that afternoon was perfect for a bleak English New Year’s Day.

Both women were very hungry (though Carole didn’t like to speculate what had given Jude her appetite). They were silent as they wolfed down their food and only when they’d reached the stage of mopping up the remaining bits of egg and fat with crusts of fried bread did Jude speak. “Interesting, last night, wasn’t it?”

It may have been interesting for you, Carole was tempted to say, but she curbed the instinct. If Jude wished to volunteer details of how she’d spent the night, then fine. If not…well, Carole was not going to demean herself by asking (though she was afire with curiosity). “In what way?” she asked uncontroversially.

“Seeing Ricky Le Bonnier in his pomp. That was one hell of a glitzy party.”

“Yes, and hardly appropriate in the circumstances.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Jude, I’m not in favour of people going into deep mourning or anything like that, but it is less than a fortnight since his stepdaughter died. You’d have thought he’d have made some concession to her memory.”

“Don’t you think, though, that Ricky’s the kind of man who’s always going to be presenting an upbeat image of himself? I wouldn’t imagine many people get through to what he’s really thinking.”

“Probably not much,” said Carole waspishly. “He’s one of the shallowest people I’ve ever met.”

“And yet Lola clearly sees something in him.”

Carole sniffed. “Without denigrating our gender, I’m afraid it’s true that few of us have ever shown much taste when it comes to men.”

Jude giggled. Annoyingly, in her neighbour’s view. “Well, Carole, at least we have made some advance in our investigation. We do now know that Lola’s lied to protect Ricky. She gave him an alibi for all of the night of the fire, and what you heard from Anna has broken that.”

“To be fair, Anna left him in the shop at…what…half-past eight? He may have gone straight back home after that.”

“But Lola said he didn’t leave the house again after he’d come back from taking Polly to Fedborough Station.”

“Though I got a different story from Saira Sherjan.”

A new idea struck Jude and her brown eyes sparkled as she said, “Suppose Lola actually knows about Ricky’s affair with Anna, and she gave him the alibi because she didn’t want anyone else to find out?”

“The way she was cuddling up to him last night didn’t look like the behaviour of a woman who knows her husband’s having an affair.”

“Don’t you believe it, Carole. Remember how many people were there at that party. Public displays of affection are no guide to the real state of a marriage. And don’t forget that Lola used to be quite a good actress.”

“Hm…” Carole took a sip of Chardonnay. “Do you think we’re ever going to get more out of Flora Le Bonnier?”

Jude grimaced. “I think we’ve had our ration of information there. One thing’s for sure, she’s never going to reveal the identity of Ricky’s father. As she said – rather gleefully, I thought – that secret will go to the grave with her.”

“Do you think Ricky himself knows?”

“I wonder. Flora’s will is so strong she’s quite capable of having kept it a secret from him too.”

“But what Piers said to me virtually proved that Ricky’s father was Rupert Sonning.”

“What?” demanded a thunderstruck Jude. “Could you run that past me again?”

“Oh, of course, I haven’t told you, have I?” And Carole gave a quick résumé of her conversation on the terrace with the drunken writer, concluding, “So what else do you think he meant?”

Jude nodded thoughtfully. “You could be right.”

“Of course I’m right!” Carole snapped. “I wonder if we could get another chance to talk to Flora?”

“Doubt it. I think she’s already suspicious of us. And, anyway, she’s probably going back up to London this afternoon, so we’d have to find some reason to beard her in her den in St John’s Wood. She’d be – Oh, damn!” said Jude suddenly and shot out into the hall, calling back as she went, “Lola asked me about babysitting, didn’t she? Said she’d call me in the morning. And I’ve had my mobile switched off since last night.”

Iron strength of will was required to stop Carole from asking, “Why?” Jude reappeared, holding the mobile and tapping through the buttons to check for messages. “Oh, no! She does want me to. Sorry, Carole, I must ring her back.”

From the Woodside Cottage end of the conversation it was clear that Flora was insisting on being taken back to St John’s Wood, and that she required both her son and daughter-in-law to escort her there. Varya had not returned from her vodka-steeped night in Southampton, and if Jude could possibly…?

“I’ll get a cab. Be with you in as long as it takes.”

When the call had ended, Carole said, “Don’t bother about a cab. I’ll take you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Carole, adding frostily, “I’m not in the habit of making offers I don’t intend to carry through.”

“No, well, thank you. I would very much appreciate it.” Jude hesitated. “Though it just might be a bit awkward if you wanted to join me for the babysitting.”

Carole looked frostier than ever. “I have no desire to join you for the babysitting.”

They were in the Renault on the way to Fedingham Court House. Jude had been silently musing away to herself for a while when suddenly she said, “Piers could have meant something else.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he talked about ‘ex-wives’ and ‘a flat’, you assumed he meant Flora.”

“Yes, of course.”

“But suppose he wasn’t talking about her…?”

“How many ex-wives is Rupert Sonning supposed to have?”

“Not Rupert Sonning. Ricky.”

“Ricky’s ex-wife? Are you talking about Kath?”

“That’s exactly who I’m talking about, Carole.”

As Jude smiled across at her friend, a huge yawn took over her face. Which Carole found very annoying.