The Witness at the Wedding

Thirty-Six

There was now a light on in the cellar, and Carole could take in its contents. Michael Brewer kept things tidy, there was a monasticism about the place, or maybe it was an echo of another kind of cell. From hooks on the walls hung old threadbare waterproofs, cartridge belts and rabbit snares, dating from the occupancy of thirty years before. But since his release from prison Michael Brewer had stocked the room with boxes of tinned food, packs of bottled water and Camping Gaz cylinders. He could live out a long siege here. He also had a mobile phone and a modern laptop with a large supply of battery packs. There were also plastic crates filled with cardboard files. Stuck on the wall in front of a makeshift desk were press cuttings covering the murders of Howard Martin and Barry Painter.

He had not left her on her own long. In less than an hour Carole had heard the shifting of the rafters on metal overhead, then the trapdoor had opened and he came in and lit a gas light.

Immediately she had asked him, “Why have you brought me here?”

“I want to get at Gaby,” he replied. “You are my way of getting at Gaby.”

“Gaby is in France, visiting her grandmother.”

“Oh.” He scratched his beard, assessing the information for a moment. “How long is she away for?”

“Just two nights. Back the day after tomorrow.”

“Maybe she will have to come sooner.” He looked at his watch. “Maybe you will ring her in the morning.” He thought about this, too. “No, better perhaps to wait till she comes back. We don’t want to set any alarm bells ringing.”

“So you are proposing that I should stay here for the next two days?”

He looked straight into her affronted eyes. His were hazel and full of pain. “I have stayed here for much longer than that.”

“Why? Why do you hide away here?”

“What would be my chances out in the open? What would be my chances if the police caught me?”

“All right, I take your point.” There was a silence. “So it’s Gaby you’re really after? I’m just a means to an end.”

“Yes, I need Gaby.” Then he added, chillingly, “I need her to finish what I’ve started.”

They said little more that night. Even though he passed her an old sleeping bag, Carole didn’t think there was much prospect of her eyes closing. But he said he was about to turn the light out. “And don’t try anything.”

“I won’t. Just tell me one thing. Suppose I do manage to lure Gaby to come to you…”

“Yes?”

“What would happen if I managed to communicate the danger to her? If she brought the police along with her?”

“Then I would have to kill you,” said Michael Brewer, as though it were the most reasonable answer in the world.

They both felt down after they left the retirement home, Gaby because of the disagreements with her grandmother about Catholicism, and Jude because she had the feeling she had screwed up an opportunity and lost a valuable source of information. Neither felt up to another lavish meal, so they settled down outside a small café in Villeneuve-sur-Lot for a croque-monsieur and a glass of wine.

Their jaunt felt as if it was nearly over, and they were both crestfallen by how little they had achieved. Nor had they heard anything from Inspector Pollard. Both had expected a call to say that Michael Brewer was now safely in custody, but there had been nothing. For Gaby, the prospect loomed of returning to England the following day with her life still under threat.

So when Jude’s mobile rang and the caller announced himself as Inspector Pollard, she was ecstatic with relief.

But only briefly. “I was just wondering, Jude,” he said, “if you have any idea where your friend Carole Seddon might be?”

“So far as I know, she’s at home. In Fethering.”

“I tried calling her there, but got no response.”

“Well, she could be out shopping. Or she has a dog. She takes him out for a lot of walks.”

“She’s not with the dog.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got one of the local coppers in Fethering to check on her house. The dog was barking, so he gained access. The mess on the kitchen floor suggested that the dog had not been let out at all since yesterday.”

Panic flickered within Jude. “But Carole would never leave Gulliver that long. Something must have happened to her.”

“That was rather the direction in which my thoughts were beginning to move.”

“Do you think Michael Brewer may have got her?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Are you any nearer to finding him?”

“I can assure you, Jude, that we are making every effort to track him down. We’re pretty sure he’s gone to ground somewhere in West Sussex. I don’t think it’ll be long now before we get him.”

“I hope not.”

“Robert Coleman’s helping us out. Apparently he was brought up in the same area as Michael Brewer, knew him pretty well. He’s down in Worthing now advising the local force. We’ll get him,” said the Inspector grimly. “In the meantime, I’ll contact Mrs Seddon’s son. He may have some idea where his mother’s gone. Or do you think she’s likely to have been in touch with her ex-husband?”

“Very unlikely, I would have said.”

“Oh well, it might be worth giving him a call. And how’s Gaby bearing up?”

“She’s fine. With me right now. Do you want to speak to her?”

“Not necessary. Just give her my good wishes…and tell her I think at the moment France is the safest place she could be.”

Gaby had caught the alarm in Jude’s responses and looked at her, eyes wide in fear. “What’s happened?”

Jude brought her quickly up to date. “There’s only one thing I can think of to do. We must pay another call on your grandmother.”

He refused to talk, just sat there playing patience. Carole thought she would be driven mad by the intermittent slapping of the cards as he turned them. Michael Brewer was used to waiting. Waiting a little longer, at this stage of his life, was small hardship.

Apart from the silence, he didn’t treat her badly. He offered, even cooked, food, and was discreetly unobservant when she had to leave the cellar to relieve herself. There was no way Carole could feel relaxed in the presence of a double murderer, but – apart from holding her as a prisoner at gunpoint in a remote cellar – he did nothing else to add to her stress.

Michael Brewer had the air of a man whose plans were nearing completion.

Grand’mère was not pleased to see them again. She might have been happy at another visit from her granddaughter, but not bringing this other woman, this inquisitive other woman, with her.

Jude was too concerned about Carole’s safety to be over-sensitive to the old lady’s feelings. “I’m sorry, this is important. A friend of mine is in danger, and you may have the information that could save her.”

“I do not understand this. Why do you wish me to –?”

“Don’t worry about the ‘why’? Just answer my question.”

“But this is very ill-mannered. Pascale, will you let this woman talk to your grandmother in such a way?”

“Please, Grand’mère. As Jude says, it is very important.”

The old lady still looked put out, but said grudgingly, “Very well. What is it you wish to know?”

“It goes back to something you said when you were talking about your husband going shooting with Michael Brewer – ”

“Oh no. Why are we always back to this Michael Brewer? It was a terrible time for me and my family. As Robert said, you should not be bringing such memories back to me.”

“Please, Madame Coleman. Please. Just think back to that time once more.”

“Please, Grand’mère.”

“Oh very well.”

“You said that, when your husband went out shooting at night-time with Mick Brewer, they used to drink.”

“Yes. I told you this.”

“You mentioned that Mick ‘always had drink stashed away on the estate’.”

“Yes, but this was thirty years ago. Why is it now so important?”

“Just take my word for it, it is. Did you mean that there was a place on the estate where your husband and Mick Brewer used to go to drink.”

“I believe there was. From what my husband said, Mick Brewer had a secret place, somewhere that his employers did not know about, where he kept a supply of drink, where he could hide for a few hours if he felt like it. I believe also – ” Madame Coleman’s thin lips set in a moue of disapproval – “that Mick Brewer also sometimes took girls there.”

“And did your husband ever say where the place was? Did it have a name?”

The permed head shook with the effort of recollection. “No, I don’t think…or was there a name? It is so long ago that…Oh, the name was strange, I remember that. Something to do with illness or…It had to do with – Oh.”

“Yes. Leper. Leper’s something – Leper’s Copse. Yes, that was the name. Leper’s Copse.”