The Torso in the Town

Thirty-Four

Jude had done as Carole surmised, and taken in some more of the Art Crawl. She had found the quality of the art mixed. Works in one or two exhibitions she liked a lot, others she loathed. She was relieved that she saw nothing she liked better than the watercolour she had bought from Debbie Carlton.

She wanted to talk to Carole about Debbie. And the appearance of Alan Burnethorpe in her flat. Jude had no wish to succumb to the knee-jerk reactions of Fedborough’s gossips, but it was hard to put an entirely innocent interpretation on his presence there. And it did open up a whole new range of interesting possibilities…Yes, she needed to discuss the case with Carole.

In the meantime, even where she couldn’t enjoy the art, she could enjoy the private view of Fedborough’s houses. The Art Crawl, as Debbie Carlton had said, was a Snoopers’ Charter, and Jude enjoyed a good snoop as much as the next person.

She and Carole had made flexible arrangements for meeting up again. The most likely event was that they’d bump into each other in the town, but if that didn’t happen, they’d agreed to home in on Carole’s Renault, parked up near the Castle, at three o’clock, four o’clock or five o’clock.

Jude had missed the three o’clock potential rendezvous, and was contemplating being there for four, when she remembered she had another assignation at that time. So sure was she that it belonged to another of Harry Roxby’s little games that she had almost forgotten about the anonymous letter.

Still, might as well turn up. There might be someone there. She might get some useful information.

Walking down the High Street, weaving her way through performance artists, Jude got out the letter once again. As she reread it, she became aware of a strangeness in the phrasing. The writer wasn’t actually promising anything. “If you think you know how Virginia Hargreaves died…” The message could be asking for information, rather than offering it.

Jude crossed Fedborough Bridge, and walked along the dead-end of towpath. Exactly opposite Bracken’s Boatyard, another thought struck her. She’d heard the name of Bob Bracken, the previous owner who’d sold the premises to Roddy Hargreaves, but would Harry Roxby know the name? Didn’t the use of the words ‘Bracken’s Boatyard’ suggest that the writer was someone who’d been a resident of Fedborough for quite a while?

She swept back the curtain of grass from Harry’s hideaway, but there was no one there. She stared across at the boatsheds. Deserted. Though the bustle of the town in Festival time lay only across Fedborough Bridge, Jude felt very alone.

She looked along the towpath towards the bridge, now intrigued. Maybe the anonymous letter had nothing to do with Harry…Who else would she see walking along from the bridge towards her?

She suddenly remembered something she had overheard that lunchtime in the Crown and Anchor. Francis Carlton had been talking about why he’d come back from Florida to talk to the police. And Alan Burnethorpe had been very quick to suggest they might have been tipped off. Maybe the anonymous letter had…

There was a sound from behind her.

“Good afternoon, Jude. So you made it,” said a voice she recognized.