The Witness at the Wedding

Twenty-Two

Carole’s first thought was that another potential identity for the body in the car on the Downs had been eliminated. Her second thought, after a look at Gaby, was to rush to the bar and buy a large brandy from a slightly bewildered Ted Crisp. He wasn’t used to her ordering brandy, least of all before lunch.

But she’d done the right thing. The alcohol did at least stop Gaby’s trembling, and soon she was able to talk again.

“What did he say to you?”

“Just that his name was Mick Brewer.”

“Did he say how he’d got your number?”

“Yes.” An involuntary shudder ran through Gaby’s body. “He said he’d got it from my address book.”

“How could he have got your address book?”

“There’s only one way.” Gaby looked terrified as she pieced the thought together. “It must have been him, Mick Brewer, who burgled my flat. My address book was there, among the things that had been moved, so he must have looked at it. That means he knows where I live. He must have been following me formonths.” She let out a little gasp of pure fear. “He must know where I am now.”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Carole, more reassuring than she felt. “You’re safe here.”

“But for how long? Anyway, who is he? Who is Mick Brewer?”

“You know who he is. Inspector Pollard asked you about him.”

“Yes. But he didn’t give me any detail. Except that he’d just come out of prison after serving a very long sentence – which I would assume means he committed some violent crime. Do you know anything more than that about him, Carole?”

Her future daughter-in-law was in no state to hear all the details that Gita Millington had unearthed about the murder of Janine Buckley. So Carole ignored the question, as if she’d just had a new and urgent thought. “You must ring Inspector Pollard.”

“What?”

“He was asking you about Michael Brewer, wasn’t he? You must tell him about the call. I’m sure the police can trace where he was ringing from. They might be able to find him. Then you won’t have to worry any more.”

Gaby saw the logic. She quickly rang a number she’d scribbled on the back of a till receipt, and was put straight through to Inspector Pollard. It was clear from her reactions that he took what she was saying very seriously indeed.

When the call was over, Gaby looked ruefully at Carole. “So much for my idea of normality returning, of going back to work. The Inspector wants me in Harlow.”

“And your mother too?”

Gaby nodded. “He says he reckons we’ll be safer there. Though Harlow didn’t turn out to be very safe for Dad, did it?” A sob caught her unawares. “God, this whole thing’s a nightmare, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s a nightmare that’s about to end. By phoning you, Michael Brewer’s broken cover. It won’t take the police long to find him now.”

“I hope to God you’re right, Carole. I don’t know how much more of this I can take!”

Carole found herself instinctively reaching across to take the girl’s hands in hers. This surprised her, because she didn’t think she ever did anything instinctively. Maybe Gaby’s troubles were helping to find a new softness beneath the carapace of Carole Seddon’s personality.

“It’ll be all right,” she found herself saying. “Come on, I’ll drive you back to the Dauncey Hotel. It’ll be quicker that way. Soon you won’t have anything else to worry about.”

How untrue that remark turned out to be. As soon as Carole switched on the ignition of the Renault, Radio Four came on, right in the middle of the World At One opening news bulletin “…and the man whose body was found in a burnt-out car on the South Downs near Fethering in Sussex has been identified as Barry Painter of Harlow, in Essex…”

“Oh, my God,” Gaby breathed. “Bazza!”