The Witness at the Wedding

Twenty-Eight

Had she thought about it, Carole could have predicted exactly the sort of restaurant David would have chosen for their dinner à quatre. (Her anticipation that her son’s fiancée wouldn’t feel up to the evening had proved unfounded. Gaby had gone back to work, had returned to her Pimlico flat, and Marie was safe in Harlow, with her beloved brother Robert round for the evening. By the time David’s ‘fine-tuning’ call came through, Carole had left it too late to come up with a decent excuse not to be there. In desperation she contemplated inventing some veterinary emergency for Gulliver, but hadn’t had the courage to go through with it.)

David’s choice of restaurant was a rather dimly lit Italian, whose dark wood alcoves, red gingham tablecloths and much-dribbled candlesticks seemed to hark back to the bistro boom of the late sixties – and indeed probably hadn’t been redecorated since. A lot of objects dangled from the ceilings: smoke-stained pennants from Italian football clubs, raffia bound long-necked wine bottles, boxes which had once contained – and might indeed still contain – rich fruit cakes, spindly tin knight-in-armour puppets. The atmosphere should have been cosy, but only felt cramped.

The choice of restaurant was also archetypically David because, a glance at the laminated menus had told Carole, it was cheap. Not embarrassingly cheap, but marginally underpriced. David was not exactly mean, but he derived great satisfaction from shaving a small percentage point off the price of anything. He was not capable of making the grand gesture. This particularly annoyed Carole because she knew she shared elements of the same trait. She was capable of generosity, but never of unthinking generosity.

The padrone of the restaurant was a short, stout man with an unfeasible wig, whose automatic bonhomie David took to be the recognition of a much-loved regular. The restaurant was in Swiss Cottage, ‘just round the corner’ from the flat whose address and phone number Carole willed herself not to memorize. David seemed determinedly hearty, ready to be a good host and demonstrate what an habitué he was of such eateries. Having seen his performance in Harlow, Carole wondered whether his heartiness was alcohol-aided, whether he’d had a few bracing Scotches straight from the bottle before he arrived.

In the long catalogue of David’s irritating modes, she probably found the bonhomous one the most irritating. (On the other hand, if he had been in his self-pitying mode, or the one where he nitpicked about her character, or the one which made him sullenly resentful of the success of others, that would have been equally annoying. Basically, so far as his ex-wife was concerned, David Seddon couldn’t do anything right.)

But Carole knew the evening wasn’t set up to rehearse old antagonisms. She and David, she had to keep reminding herself, were not the principal characters of the occasion. The dinner was for Stephen and, particularly, for Gaby, who had just been through a series of terrible traumas. The job of Carole and David was to give her as uncomplicated and enjoyable an evening as possible, to reassure her that normal life could continue, and to remind her that she was a young woman on the exciting verge of marriage. Nothing else – least of all the aggravation that had precipitated the end of another marriage – was important.

But, given the circumstances of their last encounter, Carole could not suppress a curiosity about her future daughter-in-law’s encounter with Inspector Pollard back in Harlow, and was therefore relieved when Gaby herself raised the subject.

“Look, I do just want to bring you all up to date. About the investigation into Dad’s death. Just so’s we can get it out of the way now, and not have it hanging over us all through the evening.” She smiled across at her fiancé. “Steve knows all this, so you’ll just bear with me, won’t you, love?”

He nodded willing acquiescence, as Gaby continued. “Inspector Pollard is not a great one for volunteering information.”

“You can say that again,” thought Carole “…but in questioning me, he couldn’t avoid letting out certain facts. There seems no question that Bazza – Barry Painter – did steal the carthat picked Dad up from the hotel in Harlow the night he died. Who arranged for him to do that Inspector Pollard either didn’t know or didn’t reveal to me, but I wouldn’t say that my dear brother Phil has been completely cleared of suspicion. I personally don’t think he had anything to do with it – or if he did, he didn’t realize the consequences, didn’t know where Bazza would take Dad…” she could not repress a shudder “…you know, into Epping Forest. Phil’s done some dodgy things in the past, but he’s not really evil. And he got on well with Dad. He wouldn’t knowingly have put the old boy in danger.”

For a moment she wobbled, emotion threatening. Having to be strong for her mother had forced Gaby to suppress her own feelings of loss for her father, but they were nonetheless powerful. Sensing her distress, Stephen put a large hand on top of his fiancée’s. With a grateful smile, Gaby took a deep breath and continued, “The police do seem to have a suspect, though. Inspector Pollard didn’t spell it out – indeed, he probably tried to keep the information from me – but from what he said, and from things that Uncle Robert told me, I think they’re after this man called Michael Brewer.” She looked across at Carole. “The one from whom I had that call on my mobile. I don’t know much about him.”

Jude and I probably know a lot more, thought Carole. But, with David present, she wasn’t about to share what she knew. She realized a new level of her resentment towards her former husband. She didn’t like the fact that Gaby was including him so automatically in her talk about what Carole thought of as ‘the case’. Her work with Jude on murder investigations was part of her painfully created change of identity: the new Carole Seddon who lived at High Tor with her dog Gulliver. She resented someone like Gita Millington being involved in that aspect of her life, but the thought of David as part of it was even more distasteful.

“But the good thing is,” Gaby went on, “now the police know who they’re looking for, they’re pretty confident they’ll soon have caught him. So we’ll all be able to relax.”

“Are you saying that Michael Brewer is definitely the police’s suspect for both murders?”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“Did Inspector Pollard tell you why they’re convinced it was him?”

Gaby shook her head. “No. The inspector wasn’t going to tell me more than he had to. But Uncle Robert was able to fill things out a bit. It’s useful having someone in the family with contacts in the Force. Apparently there’s strong forensic evidence linking Michael Brewer with both crime scenes.”

“Do you know what that evidence was?”

“No, Carole, I don’t. But apparently it’s pretty unarguable.”

“And have the police any idea where Michael Brewer might be now?”

“They’re concentrating their searches on the South Coast.”

“Oh yes, he was brought up in Worthing.”

Gaby did look slightly surprised at the depth of Carole’s knowledge, but she didn’t comment. “And that call to my mobile…”

“Yes?”

“It was made from a public phone in Brighton.”

“Ah.” It made Carole feel a little uneasy, the confirmation that a double murderer was at large, not far from Fethering. “Did Robert say any more about Michael Brewer? Because they used to be friends.”

This detailed knowledge again prompted a rather curious look, but Gaby gave a straight answer. “No. He said they used to know each other, but that was it.”

“But surely – ”

Her son came in to stop further questioning. “That’s all Gaby knows. So we’re all up to date. And I think it’ll be a relief all round if we now moved on to talk about more pleasant things.”

Though frustrated in her further researches, Carole was impressed by how masterful Stephen could be. Masterful and protective. The look of gratitude that Gaby flashed at him augured well for their life together. He showed a sensitivity to his fiancée’s needs that Carole would never have suspected he had in his nature.

The thought inevitably reminded her of David’s presence. Here they were, a family group, mother and father, son, son’s fiancée – it should all have been so normal. Talk of weddings, talk of the future, and the unspoken thought of the family developing into another generation. Yet to Carole it all felt uncomfortably abnormal.

But the engaged couple, the people who mattered, did not seem aware of any unease. Having got the distasteful topic of the evening out of the way, they did as Stephen had suggested, and talked about more pleasant things. These mostly concerned their wedding plans, their invitation list, the friends Carole and David had yet to meet, the ‘characters’ from their separate work environments. Gaby’s theatrical connections promised a lively group of party-goers, and even Stephen’s professional colleagues sounded quite a jolly bunch. (Carole could not repress the mental ‘even’. Whatever it was that her son did, she somehow hadn’t expected his colleagues to be amongst the sparkiest of individuals. Prejudice again.)

Stephen and Gaby also talked further about their house purchase plans. They still seemed to want to move south. When Carole had first met them together, they had come down to the Hopwicke Country House Hotel to check out the local property scene, and their intentions had not changed. A large house near the South Coast remained their ambition. Feasibility of commuting might put them nearer Brighton than Fethering, but the likelihood remained that Carole would have them as relative neighbours. For her, the attractiveness of this situation was tempered by the knowledge that it would also bring David close to her on a regular basis.

She really did want to make the evening a success, and it was, but she still could not relax in her ex-husband’s presence. Maybe constant encounters would dilute her distaste for him, but she didn’t feeloptimistic. There was too much history, too many spoken – and, even worse, unspoken – resentments between them.

She could not understand why David himself was so relaxed. Surely he was feeling the same tension that she was? But if so, he was disguising the fact well. He seemed very at ease, drinking too much certainly, but exchanging badinage with the padrone, even telling bad jokes to Stephen and Gaby, entering into the spirit of the occasion in his habitually inept, hesitant way. Maybe, thought Carole coldly, David really believes that we have achieved that goal so desired by all divorced couples – ‘a civilized relationship’, in which they can meet up socially without rancour. Well, he might have attained that plateau; Carole couldn’t see herself making it until – various formulae of words involving ‘hell’ and ‘freezing over’ came to her mind.

At the end of the dinner there was an elaborate routine between David and the padrone (whom he insisted on calling padrone) about sambucas ‘on the house’. The narrow glasses with the colourless liqueur and coffee bean were brought forth and ceremoniously ignited, and there was much comment from David about the blue flame. He even, ill-advisedly, tried to express his gratitude to the padrone in Italian.

The winding-down of the evening was far too extended for Carole’s taste. Wasn’t he ever going to ask for the bill? She kept sneaking glances at her watch, assessing the tube journey between Swiss Cottage and Victoria, along with the limited timetable of trains to Fethering. It was a huge relief when Stephen suggested giving her a lift. He was going to take Gaby to her flat in Pimlico. Victoria was virtually on their way.

Finally, they were standing up. Carole submitted to a slobbery kiss from her ex-husband, and smiled noncommittally at his hope ‘that this will be the first of many such evenings’.

Once inside Stephen’s ultra-comfortable BMW, she had two predominant emotions. First, massive relief that the evening was over. And, second, deep guilt for the ungracious thoughts which had filled her mind throughout it.

Because of the vagaries of the SouthCentral timetable, to avoid Carole having a half-hour wait in the inhospitable wastes of Victoria Station, Stephen decided he would drop Gaby at her flat first, take his mother to catch her train and then return to Pimlico. There had been an unspoken sexual semaphore between the couple all evening, and as soon as they were alone together, Carole felt sure they’d be in bed. She found the thought rather heart-warming. She certainly felt no jealousy. An evening in the company of her ex-husband had proved a powerful anti-aphrodisiac. The thought that Carole Seddon might ever again entertain desire for another human being seemed unlikely. And yet her mind could not erase the unwelcome sexual frisson she had felt for David at the hotel in Harlow.

Never having been there, Carole was curious to seewhere her future daughter-in-law lived. She’d just missed a train and at that time of night there was only an hourly train service to Fethering, so there was going to be time for a ‘quick cup of coffee’. Carole also wondered whether she was about to meet Gaby’s flatmate, the actress Jenny.

It was a road of early nineteenth-century terraced houses, well-proportioned with tall windows. All were iced with white paint, and fronted by shining black railings. The parked cars bespoke affluence. “This is very nice,” Carole murmured.

“Yes. Lucky to get it. Belongs to one of our clients. He’s now making it big in Hollywood, but he’s kept this on, and Jenny and I are the lucky tenants.”

Stephen eased the BMW into a space. “The gods are with us tonight,” he said.

“Certainly are. Sometimes, you know, Carole, Steve has to park about half a mile away. Traffic here’s appalling. But tonight, voilà – we’re right outside.”

“Sure I’ve got time for that coffee?”

“Yes, course you have, Mum. Quick one. Don’t worry, I’ll see you’re in good time for the train to Fethering.”

The three of them mounted the three steps of the white portico, and it was Stephen who unlocked the tall black door. He moved proprietorially across the dimly lit hall to one of the two apartments and inserted another key into the lock.

He had hardly begun to turn it before the door burst open. A girl’s scream sounded from inside the flat, as a tall, thin man pushed forward, sending Stephen flying backwards across the hall. A tied scarf obscured the man’s face. He paused for a moment at the sight of the two women, then, before she had time to recoil, grabbed Gaby’s throat with his hand.

For a long, terrifying second, the man stared at Gaby. Then, he seemed to change his mind. As suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he released his hold, and rushed out of the front door, slamming it behind him.

In the doorway of the flat, a distraught girl approached, sobbing. If logic hadn’t done so already, her histrionics would immediately have identified her as the actress flatmate Jenny. “He said he’d come to see you, Gaby. He was expecting you to come back alone. He only decided to leave when he saw through the spy hole that you’d got other people with you.”

“Jenny, did he say who he was?”

“He said his name was Michael Brewer.”