The Torso in the Town

Sixteen

“It’s all rather frustrating,” said Carole on the Monday. She’d proposed lunch, predictably rejected Jude’s suggestion of going to the Crown and Anchor, and said she’d assemble something for them. But even the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc failed to make the chicken salad in her kitchen look convivial. The weather had changed too; it was dull and drizzly outside. Deprived of a long walk, Gulliver looked reproachfully mournful slumped against the cold Aga.

“I mean, we’ve got so little information,” she went on. “And the vital question we haven’t managed to answer yet is: who does the torso belong to? Until we know that, we haven’t got proper motivation for anyone.”

“Doesn’t stop us having suspects,” said Jude. She was, as ever, more philosophical about their lack of progress. “And really those come down to the people who have at one time or another owned Felling House.”

“Roddy Hargreaves…”

“Yes. Whose Sloane Rangerish wife Virginia disappeared, and thus becomes a potential candidate for the job of victim.”

“Debbie and Francis Carlton…”

“Who’ve suddenly moved up the suspect list, if thepolice really have summoned him all the way from Florida.”

“That’s what Grant Roxby told me. But we don’t know the details. Francis Carlton may not be a suspect, they may just want to ask him some questions.”

“Couldn’t they do that on the phone?”

“We have absolutely no idea, Jude. That’s the trouble. We don’t really know anything.”

“Stop sounding so miserable about it.” Jude smiled in a way that she knew to be potentially infuriating. “Ignorance has certain advantages. Our minds are less cluttered by extraneous detail.”

Carole snorted. “Thank you very much, Pollyanna. Our minds are less cluttered by any detail.”

“Which leaves them free and hair-trigger sensitive.” Jude wasn’t going to be infected by her friend’s gloom. “OK, Roddy Hargreaves and Francis Carlton…I don’t think we can rule out Debbie Carlton either. If her husband’s a suspect, then so’s she.”

“What do you base that on?”

Jude shrugged. “As little logic as any other thoughts we’ve had about the case. But she does seem to have gone out of her way to be helpful to your investigation. Since the effect that’s had has been to make you more suspicious of her ex-husband, maybe that’s what she wanted to do in the first place. Divert suspicion away from herself?”

“Huh.”

“Just a thought. And then there’s Grant. The way he reacted to seeing me and Harry in the cellar yesterday was very odd.”

“Anger at his son’s behaviour, I would imagine. He must’ve realized Harry had cut through the police seals.”

“Don’t know. There seemed to be more to it than that,” Carole sniffed. “Well, if you’re going to have Grant as a suspect, we should have Kim too.”

“What makes you say that?”

“As little logic as any other thoughts we’ve had about the case,” she parroted.

“Touché.” Jude grinned. “The trouble is, we don’t seem to be being very proactive.”

“Sorry?”

“We aren’t driving this investigation. People keep coming to us with ideas for moving it on.”

“Back to your conspiracy theory, are we?”

Jude shook her head ruefully. “Maybe. There is something odd happening. As if someone is orchestrating the way we think about things.”

“So who is that someone? Or are we talking about all the residents of Fedborough?”

“At times it almost seems like that. Don’t you find something spooky about the place, Carole?”

“Spooky?”

“Yes. As if everyone knows what everyone else is thinking. And as soon as anyone gets any information, it’s immediately spread around the entire network.”

“That’s how country towns work.”

“Hm. But it does somehow seem that the timing of things is arranged to – ”

The telephone rang. Carole answered it. “Oh, hello.” She mouthed to Jude, “Debbie Carlton.”

“See what I mean,” Jude mouthed back.

They went into Fedborough again on the Thursday, the morning for which Debbie had issued another invitation to coffee. She’d got in some new curtain fabric samples which, while fully understanding that Carole wasn’t committed to going ahead with any interior design work, she’d still like her to have a look at.

Carole had agreed, undecided whether what Debbie said was true, or was just an excuse to talk further about the discovery at her former home. Jude was convinced of the latter explanation. The timing of Debbie’s phone call, apart from anything else, had to be significant. Jude believed in synchronicity and other mystical concepts which, in her neighbour’s mind, were lumped together under the definition ‘nonsense’.

In spite of herself, though, Carole still felt a little glow of excitement as she parked the Renault at the top of Fedborough High Street.

Jude had fixed to have another session with Harry Roxby. After his anger at finding them in the cellar on the Sunday, Grant had been very quickly calmed down by his wife, and agreed with surprising meekness that Jude’s ‘treatment’ of their son should continue. He had even agreed that Harry should be allowed to take the Thursday morning off school, as if the boy’s session with Jude was like a genuine medical appointment.

Grant’s capitulation provided an interesting sidelight on his marriage. Like many egotists and control freaks, Grant Roxby could be cut down to size quite easily by the right person. The balance of power in the relationship between him and his wife was not as it appeared from the outside.

As Carole walked along to Debbie Carlton’s flat, she felt the quality of Fedborough which Jude had described as ‘spooky’. There was something about the picture-book prettiness of the town which contrived to be at the same time anonymous and watchful. Carole didn’t know many of the residents, but got the feeling they were all aware of her. In that enclosed, incestuous atmosphere, she was an intruder. She’d made more appearances in the town during the last couple of weeks than normal expectations might justify. Her behaviour was suspicious. She was under surveillance.

Carole gave a curt shake of her shoulders to dismiss such stupid thoughts. She’d been listening to Jude too much. All that was happening was that she had been invited to coffee by someone who was hoping to secure a commission as an interior designer; there was nothing more sinister than that. The idea of a town having a personality or an attitude or – heaven forbid – an ‘aura’ was New Age self-indulgence and should be treated appropriately. She was Carole Seddon, for goodness’ sake. Not prone to flights of fancy. ‘Sensible’ was her middle name.

And the attention with which Debbie Carlton showed her the new curtain fabrics suggested that the morning’s was to be an entirely sensible encounter. The speed, however, with which her hostess put the sample books aside and started to talk about the torso would have added considerable fuel to Jude’s conspiracy-theory fire – or would have done for anyone, unlike Carole, who was gullible enough to believe it in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” Debbie said, as she slopped coffee while refilling Carole’s cup. “I’m a bit jittery this morning. Francis is back.”

“Your husband?” asked Carole ingenuously, pretending she hadn’t heard of his return. She noticed that Debbie Carlton was dressed more formally that morning, in a black trouser suit and high heels. Her make-up wasagain impeccable. She didn’t want Francis to see her at anything less than her best.

“Ex-husband, yes. He flew in from Florida on Tuesday. I’m afraid knowing he’s around makes me nervous.”

“But surely you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to?”

“He’s staying here.”

“Oh?”

“He said it was daft to shell out for a hotel when I’d got an empty spare room. He…” Debbie was about to say more, but thought better of it. Carole felt sure there would have been a reference to Francis Carlton’s meanness, which had been hinted at in their previous conversation.

“Why has he actually come back?” she asked, once again feigning ignorance.

“The police wanted to talk to him.”

“About what was found in Pelling House?”

“Yes. I mean, Francis isn’t a suspect or anything like that.” Debbie Carlton didn’t sound totally convinced by her words. “But there were questions the police wanted to ask and he thought it’d be simpler to talk to them face to face…you know, to avoid any misunderstandings…That’s all.”

Her conclusion sounded very inadequate. That couldn’t be all. For someone as apparently mean as Francis Carlton to fly over the Atlantic to talk to the police suggested a degree of…perhaps not guilt…but at least anxiety to put his side of the story without risk of misunderstanding.

“And has he actually talked to them yet?” Carole was having difficulty sounding as uninvolved as she knew she must.

“He had one session with them yesterday.” Debbie glanced apprehensively at her watch. “And he’s with them again now.”

“Going over the same sort of stuff as they asked you? Or hasn’t he confided what they’ve asked him about?”

“Francis didn’t say a lot yesterday evening. Wasn’t here much, actually. There were some local friends he’d fixed to meet in the pub.” Debbie Carlton looked troubled. “Funny, he seems to think he can just behave exactly the same in Fedborough, like nothing had happened, like we were still together.”

“Must be hard for you.”

“Mm. I supposed it’s always the case, in any divorce, that there’s a winner and a loser. He’s got his new life, two homes on opposite sides of the world, and…” She gestured feebly round her Italianate sitting room. “…and I’ve got this. But he doesn’t seem to be aware of the difference.”

“Are you sure that’s not just a ploy, part of some one-upmanship game he’s playing with you?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know how Francis’s mind works. If the divorce has taught me nothing else, it’s made me realize how little I knew the man I spent five years of my life with.”

“So he hasn’t passed anything on to you that the police told him?” Carole eased the question in. “Anything you didn’t already know? Whether they’ve got any further in their thinking about the case?”

Debbie Carlton shook her blonde head. “If they have given Francis any information, he hasn’t confided it in me. But then I’d been quite surprised if he did.”

“Why?”

For a moment she seemed to contemplate another answer, but then just said, “We’re divorced. The time for confiding in each other – if it ever existed – is long past.”

“All right, so you don’t know anything about the police’s thinking on the case. What about your thinking on the case? Your ideas advanced at all?”

Debbie Carlton looked up sharply. “Why should they have done?”

“Having lived in Pelling House, you can’t pretend not to be interested in what happened there.”

“I’m not pretending that.”

“And the fact that your ex-husband has come all the way across the Atlantic must mean – ”

“Is that what they’re saying?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are the Fedborough gossips saying that Francis must’ve had something to do with the torso, otherwise he wouldn’t have come back?”

“I’ve no idea what they’re saying, Debbie. I don’t live in Fedborough.”

“No, of course you don’t,” But Debbie nodded to herself, as if some conjecture had been proved correct. “I bet that’s what they are saying.” She smiled wryly. “I don’t think Francis’d like that, knowing that the whole town thinks of him as a murder suspect. He has a rather high opinion of himself, he wouldn’t like the idea of not appearing respectable.”

“And if people were thinking as you suggest…” asked Carole gently, “do you think there’d be any reason for them to do so?”

There was a nanosecond of consideration before Debbie said, “No. No, of course there wouldn’t be.”

Carole wondered about the level of innocence in this reaction. She couldn’t forget Jude’s suggestion that Debbie might be deliberately directing suspicion towards Francis, and continued her probing. “But you’ve just admitted you don’t know your ex-husband very well.”

“No, but Francis…It’s unthinkable. He has his faults…He’s vain and a bit tight-fisted…but there’s no way I could see him as a murderer.” And yet her words slowed down, as if the idea were taking root, as if for the first time she was seriously contemplating the possibility of her former husband having some connection with the dead body. “Anyway, we’ve no idea who the torso belonged to. If, when we get that information, it turns out to have been someone who Francis knew or…I suppose in those circumstances, we might all have to think differently about what went on.”

Though her words expressed token resistance, fascination with the new thought was still growing in Debbie Carlton’s mind. Or, alternatively, that was the impression she was trying to give.

There was the sound of a key in the front door, and she tensed. They were both silent as quick, heavy footsteps mounted the stairs.