The Witness at the Wedding

Thirty-Seven

In the hire car outside the home, Jude rang the number Inspector Pollard had given her. She tried again and again, but it was resolutely engaged.

“Don’t worry.” Gaby took out her mobile. “Pollard said Uncle Robert was working with the West Sussex police. I’ll see if I can get through to him.”

She called a number from the phone’s memory. “Uncle Robert, hi. It’s Gaby. No, I’m fine. Listen, we’ve been talking to Grand’mère, and she may have given us a lead on where to look for Michael Brewer. It’s something she remembered from ages ago when Grandpa used to go shooting with him. I think it’s somewhere on the estate – or near the estate where Michael Brewer used to work. And it’s called Leper’s Copse’.”

She listened to her uncle’s response, said goodbye and turned to Jude, her eyes gleaming. “I think we’re nearly there. Robert’s going to check with the local police. If anyone knows Leper’s Copse, or if it’s on any map of the area, then I think everything’s going to be all right.”

There is a finite time that one can stay at a pitch of total panic, and Carole had found she was, if not relaxing in the cellar, at least occasionally thinking of subjects other than her own imminent demise. It was after six in the evening. Another night of enforced proximity to the murderer approached. Then, the next day, Gaby and Jude would be back. That would be the time of danger, when Michael Brewer required something of her. Until then, in spite of her discomfort, frustration and sheer boredom, Carole reckoned she would be relatively safe.

He had left the cellar again, on another unexplained mission. He took the mobile phone with him. If he was going to use it, Carole deduced, then it must be to call someone who represented no threat. The police, she knew, had means of pinpointing the exact location from which a mobile call had been made. Which must mean that Michael Brewer had some friends out there, at least one person who he knew would not betray him.

Because she was on her own, and bored, Carole felt empowered to check out her enforced environment. She looked at the laptop first. A sudden spark of hope glowed within her. Maybe he’d linked it up to the internet. Maybe she could send out an email for help.

But such optimism was soon crushed. Even with her limited knowledge of computers, Carole knew that an internet connection required a phone line of some kind. Maybe he could hook the laptop up to his mobile, but he had that with him. And, anyway, she had to admit to herself, she’d never sent an email in her life. She wished she hadn’t been such a Luddite when it came to new technology.

She tried summoning something up to the laptop’s screen, but it remained blank. A password was needed to access Michael Brewer’s computer files.

But his other files – the cardboard ones in the plastic boxes – there was nothing to stop her from accessing those.

For a moment she was assailed by middle-class doubt. After all, the files were his private stuff. She shouldn’t really be snooping at the personal documents of Carole quickly realized the stupidity of that knee-jerk reaction; after the way Michael Brewer had treated her, she owed him nothing. She picked up a cardboard folder and opened it.

The contents were computer printouts, newspaper cuttings and handwritten notes. From a quick glance it was clear that all the material related to the murder of Janine Buckley.

Carole heard the scrape of the rafters above, and went quickly to replace the file in its box. Too quickly. In her haste she dislodged the whole box from its shelf. Files and their contents scattered over the cellar floor.

Carole looked up guiltily towards the oncoming torch beam.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Michael Brewer harshly. “Have you been looking at that lot?”

In his hand was the gun, and in his eye a look of murderous intent.