The Witness at the Wedding

Thirty-Four

It was dark but still warm when Carole took Gulliver out through the back garden gate on to the scrap of rough ground behind her row of cottages. When they went by this route, the dog was always gloomy. He knew that the excitement of lead-rattling was not the precursor of a proper walk, just a quick functional trip out for him to empty his bowels.

This he did with quiet efficiency, and Carole was about to take him back to High Tor when a tall figure stepped out of the shadows between her and her garden gate.

“Sorry to interrupt you.” The voice was rough and unmistakably familiar.

“Excuse me,” said Carole, in a voice of steely gentility. “Could I please get back to my house?”

“Yes. But only to leave the dog. Then I’m afraid you must come with me.”

Carole just had time to register that she was talking to someone who knew about dogs. If Gulliver was left wandering around outside, his barking would soon raise the alarm. Inside High Tor, he’d just settle down to snuffle in front of the Aga, reconciled to yetanother of his mistress’s unexplained absences. But then, of course, someone who’d been a gamekeeper would know about dogs.

As she led Gulliver and Michael Brewer through into her kitchen, Carole wondered what she could do to escape her predicament. Rush to the phone? Rush out into the street screaming “Help!” Such behaviour wasn’t her usual style, but she was hardly in a situation to care about style.

As if anticipating her thoughts, Michael Brewer said, “I do have a gun in my pocket. I don’t want to use it, but if that becomes necessary, I won’t hesitate.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You have to come with me.”

“Where?”

He didn’t even bother to answer. “We’ll go in your car. You’ll drive.”

“Well, can I just put out some food for the dog?” Michael Brewer allowed her to put out the dog food, then ushered her through into the hall.

“And don’t try calling anyone on your mobile phone.”

“I don’t have a mobile phone,” said Carole icily, as he escorted her out through the front door.

She had hoped there might be someone on the road, someone to whom she could call out to for help, someone who would rescue her. But no, the good folk of Fethering kept sedate hours. Every curtain along the road was discreetly closed.

And of course there were no lights in Woodside Cottage. When Carole needed her most, Jude was in another country.

Like an automaton, following the man’s instrucfions, she opened the garage door. Any thoughts of leaping into the Renault and driving off without him had been anticipated. At gunpoint he saw her into the driver’s seat; keeping the gun trained on her, he moved round the car and jumped in beside her.

Touching her with the gun to remind her that it was still there, Michael Brewer told her to keep within the speed limit and drive on the Fedborough road out of Fethering.

Doing as she was told, Carole thought back to the modus operandi of the other murders. In the form of the Renault was she conveniently providing her own inflammable coffin…