The Liar in the Library - Simon Brett Fethering Village Mysteries

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possibly Megan’s email had changed in that time, but, though she wasn’t about to write, ‘Your ex-husband came on to me this evening’, Jude did feel the need to be in touch with her old friend.

      They had been very close at one time, even talked of sharing a flat together, though that never happened. But as girls to giggle with and shoulders to cry on, they had supported each other through a variety of dating disasters and false dawns of love. Jude felt confident that, if they did meet, the old rapport would be quickly re-established.

      The email message she composed ran: ‘Seeing Al strutting his stuff in our local library this evening made me think about you. And when I say “local”, perhaps I should point out that I’m now living on the South Coast not far from Worthing in a village called Fethering. No idea where you are – still Morden? – or indeed what’s happening in your life. Be nice to meet and catch up some time. Oh, and by the way, when Al self-published those early books, did he use the pseudonym “Seth Marston”? Love, Jude.’

      She swallowed down the remains of the Scotch, switched off the light and, after about an hour, sank into a troubled sleep.

      The next morning, when Carole came round to Woodside Cottage for coffee, Jude didn’t mention the unpleasant ending to her evening at the library. She had found in the years of their acquaintance that her neighbour was inhibited in talking about sex. And for Jude to have raised the subject, even after such an unwelcome and unpleasant encounter as the night before’s, would have made Carole think she was boasting about her comparative attractiveness. Jude, in Carole’s view, was the kind of woman men came on to. She herself wasn’t.

      So Jude, sitting in the throw-covered clutter of her sitting room, let Carole initiate the conversation, which that morning – as on many other mornings – centred on the doings of her granddaughters. ‘Gaby and Stephen are getting really worried about schools for Lily.’

      ‘Surely they don’t have to think about that for a couple of years.’

      ‘Oh, but they do. Living where they are – in Fulham – you have to think a long way ahead. They’ve got to get Lily into the right nursery to ensure that she goes to the right junior school, because a lot of those are feeders if they want to get into somewhere really good for the next stage – and obviously that’s what’s really important.’

      ‘Are we talking state education here?’ asked Jude, only for the benefit of the reaction she knew she’d get.

      Which duly arrived. ‘Good heavens, no!’ screeched Carole. ‘State education is a very dangerous course to embark on if you live in London. State secondary schools are full of drugs and violence and teenage pregnancies. The thought of either of my two granddaughters going to a place like—’

      The diatribe might have continued for some time, had it not been interrupted by the ringing of Jude’s doorbell.

      When she opened her front door and felt the clutch of cold air, she found herself confronted by two people. The woman was dressed in a smart trouser suit, the man more casual in a red zip-up fleece. The woman was carrying a large-screened iPhone. Behind them in the street was parked a police Panda car.

      ‘Good morning,’ said the woman. ‘Are you Jude Nicholls?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’m Detective Inspector Rollins, and this is Detective Sergeant Knight. We would like to talk to you about the death of Burton St Clair.’

      SIX

      Though she was being interviewed in her own home (Carole had conveniently remembered something she had to do back at High Tor), Jude was left in no doubt that her police interrogation was a serious matter.

      Once they were seated on the sagging, throw-covered sofa and armchairs of her sitting room, the first thing Detective Inspector Rollins said was, ‘You reacted with surprise, Mrs Nicholls, when—’

      ‘Call me “Jude”. Everyone calls me “Jude”.’

      A slight wrinkle of the woman’s nose showed that she didn’t warm to such intimacy, but all she said was, ‘Very well, Jude. You reacted with surprise when I mentioned Burton St Clair’s death. Does that mean you didn’t know he was dead?’

      ‘Of course that’s what it means!’ The delayed shock of the news suddenly caught up with her. ‘But I can’t believe that Al … Burton’s dead. I was with him only yesterday evening.’

      ‘We know you were,’ said Rollins. ‘And we think it’s possible that you were the last person to see him alive.’

      ‘Which is why we’re talking to you,’ added Detective Sergeant Knight, perhaps unnecessarily. Through the confusion of her thoughts, Jude got the impression that the junior officer needed to assert himself, to demonstrate that he wasn’t just a weak male sidekick to a female boss.

      ‘Did Burton die at home?’ asked Jude. ‘He was about to drive there when I left him.’

      ‘No,’ the Detective Inspector replied. ‘His body was found in his car this morning in the Fethering Library car park.’

      Jude was bewildered. ‘But that’s where I last saw him.’

      ‘Yes,’ Rollins confirmed.

      ‘Which is also why we’re talking to you.’ This second intervention by Knight prompted the tiniest wrinkling of his superior’s brow. He had overstepped some mark in their professional relationship. The Detective Inspector’s iPhone lay on her lap. Jude assumed it might contain notes about the beginning of their investigation, but Rollins gave no sign that she would be writing anything down during their interview.

      ‘Well, how did he die?’ asked Jude. ‘What did he die of?’

      ‘We don’t know yet,’ replied the Detective Inspector, all police formality. ‘We will have more information when a post-mortem has been conducted.’

      ‘And forensic investigations,’ Knight contributed.

      This again prompted a moue of annoyance from Rollins. Jude thought she knew why, as she asked the obvious question. ‘Forensic? Does that mean there’s a suspicion of foul play?’

      ‘We’re at a very early stage of our enquiries. At this point any suggestions as to the cause of Mr St Clair’s death would be nothing more than speculation.’

      Jude felt appropriately deterred from asking further questions. The ball was still in the Detective Inspector’s court. ‘But, obviously, Jude, we are trying to get as exact a picture as we can of his movements during the last twenty-four hours. We’ve spoken to his wife …’

      ‘And to his ex-wife?’

      ‘Yes, we know he was married twice.’ Rollins’s tone was testy, as though Jude had been picking her up on some lapse in her investigative method. ‘We’ve left a message with Megan Sinclair, as she still calls herself, but she hasn’t got back to us yet.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘One of her neighbours,’ Knight contributed, ‘believes she’s visiting an actress friend in Scarborough.’

      Again, Detective Inspector Rollins’s expression suggested that her junior’s intervention was unwelcome. She turned back to her interviewee. ‘Persephone St Clair, the deceased’s widow, said you used to spend a lot of time with him and his former wife …?’

      ‘Yes, there was a stage when we used to see quite a lot of each other. We’re talking some years ago.’

      ‘How many years?’

      ‘Fifteen … twenty …’

      Detective Sergeant Knight thought he had been silent for too long. ‘And, back then, were you close to Mr St Clair?’

      Again, Rollins looked peeved by the intervention. Maybe that was the very question she had been about to ask.

      ‘I

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