To Sophie and Jeremy

with lots of love

As the taxi entered the gates, Jude looked up at Hopwicke Country House Hotel, a monument to nostalgic pampering. The mansion had been built in the early eighteenth century by George Hopwicke, a young baronet who had increased his considerable inheritance by �the successes of his plantations in the West Indies�, or, in other words, by his profits from the slave trade. The main building was a perfectly proportioned cube, the ideal echoed in so many late twentieth-century developments of �exclusive Georgian town-houses�. The elegantly tall windows on the three floors at the front of the house looked down from the fringes of the South Downs, across the bungalow- and greenhouse-littered plain around Worthing, to the gunmetal glimmer of the English Channel.

Stabling and utility buildings were behind the house, neatly shielded by tall hedges. The hundreds of acres in which George Hopwicke had built this testament to his taste and opulence had been sold off piecemeal for development over the centuries, and at the beginning of the twenty-first century only a four-acre buffer protected the upper-class elegance of the hotel from the encroachments of the ever-expanding English middle classes, and from the encroachments of the present. Even the brochure said, �Leave the twenty-first century behind when you step through our elegant portals.�

It�s remarkable, Jude thought as the taxi nosed up the drive, how much nostalgia there is in England for things that never existed. To escape the present, the English like nothing better than to immerse themselves in an idealized past. She felt sure the people of other nations � or other nations whose peoples could afford the luxury of self-examination � also venerated the past, but not in the same way. Only in England would the rosy tints of retrospection be seen through the lens of social class.

The taxi crunched to a halt at the furthest point of the gravel arc, which went on round to rejoin the road at a second set of tall metal gates. The semi-circle of grass the drive framed was laid out as a croquet lawn.

Jude paid off the driver, without calculating how large a chunk the fare would take out of her evening�s earnings, and hurried through the classical portico into the hotel.

New visitors were intended to notice the artfully artless displays of impedimenta that tidily littered the hallway, but Jude had seen them all before, so she didn�t pause to take in the coffin-like croquet box with the mallets spilling out, the randomly propped-up fishing rods, the brown-gutted tennis racquets in wooden presses, the splitting cricket bats and the crumpled leather riding boots. Nor did she linger to scan the walls for their hunting prints, mounted antlers, stuffed trout or ancient photographs of dead-looking tweedy men surveying carpets of dead birds.

Everything in the displays of which Jude took no notice supported her theory about English nostalgia. Hopwicke Country House Hotel aspired to an image of leisured indolence, set in comforting aspic somewhere between the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It was a world of field sports and tennis parties, of dainty teas on shaven lawns, of large slugs of brandy and soda before many-coursed dinners. It was a world in which nobody was so indelicate as to think about money, and in which all the boring stuff was done by invisible servants. It was a world that had never existed.

But though the guests of Hopwicke Country House Hotel deep in their hearts were probably aware of this fact, like children suspending disbelief to their own advantage over the existence of Father Christmas, they willingly ignored it. None of the clientele, anyway, had the background which might qualify them to argue with the detail of the hotel�s ambiance. Real aristocrats, whose upbringing might have contained some elements of the effect being sought after, would never have dreamed of staying in such a place. American tourists, whose images of England were derived largely from books featuring Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey, found nothing at all discordant. And, though the trust-funded or City-bonus-rich young couples who made up the rest of the hotel�s guest list might occasionally assert themselves by sending the wine back, they were far too socially insecure to question the authenticity of the overall experience for which they paid so much over the odds. When they departed the hotel, they didn�t blanch as they flashed a precious-metal credit card over the bill. In that detail, the image was sustained; no one was so indelicate as to appear to think about money.

As to all the boring stuff being done by invisible servants, here the hotel was on less certain ground. Though that was certainly the effect to which the management aspired, they didn�t have at their disposal the vast armies of staff which would have ensured the clockwork precision running of an Edwardian country house. Economy dictated that there were never really enough bodies around to do everything that was required, that the hotel�s owner ended up doing far more menial work than she should have done and that, when one member of staff failed to turn up on time, chaos threatened.

Which was why Jude had received an emergency call from the hotel�s owner that April afternoon. There was no one at the antique reception table as she hurried past, just a tiny brass bell to summon service. Jude was making for the kitchen at the end of the hall, but noticed a door opposite the bar entrance was open, and moved towards it.

Steep steps led down to the hotel�s cellar. The lights were on. As Jude peered down, a familiar face looked up at her.

�Thank God you�ve come!�

�What is it this time?�

�Bloody waitresses! Stella�s cried off because she�s going out with some new man, but she promised me her daughter�d come in. Bloody kid rang in at quarter to four to say she couldn�t do it.�

�Any reason?�

�Didn�t say. Told me and rang off.�

�Suppose you should be grateful she rang at all.�

�Why? God, Stella�s going to get an earful when she next comes in!�

�Don�t sack her.� Jude�s voice was firm and cautionary. �You can�t afford to lose any more staff.�

�No.� Suzy Longthorne the hotel owner sighed, and held out two bottles of port. �Could you take these?� She picked up two more, turned off the cellar light, came up the stairs and locked the door behind her. �Going to need a lot of port tonight,� she said, and led the way through to the kitchen. Inside, she put the bottles down on the table and wearily coiled her long body into a chair.

Even though she had thickened out around the neck, Suzy Longthorne remained a beautiful woman. It was still easy to see why she had graced so many magazine covers, been a desirable trophy for so many photographers and pop singers, been so frequently pursued and so frequently won. The famous hair, which had been through every latest style for nearly four decades, almost certainly now needed help to maintain its natural auburn, but looked good. The hazel eyes, though surrounded by a tracery of tiny lines, were still commanding. And the lithe, full-breasted figure seemed to have made no concessions to the years, though less of its toning now came from the gym than from the extraordinary effort of running Hopwicke Country House Hotel.

Suzy was incapable of dressing badly. Other women in the same pale grey T-shirt, jeans and brown leather slip-on shoes would have looked ordinary, sloppy even. Suzy Longthorne could still have stepped straight onto a catwalk. On her even the blue-and-white-striped butcher�s apron looked like a fashion accessory.

In fact, a perfect photo shoot could have been done at that moment � the chatelaine of Hopwicke House in her kitchen. Like the rest of the hotel, the room had been restored by expensive designers to a high specification. Without losing its eighteenth-century proportions or its wide fireplace, the kitchen had been equipped with the latest culinary devices. Hidden lighting twinkled knowingly on surfaces of stainless steel and the copper bottoms of serried ranks of utensils.

The two women had known each other since their late teens, when both had been picked up as potential �Faces of the Sixties�. But Jude�s modelling career had stuttered to a quick end. Though she didn�t lack for offers of work (among other things), a couple of long photo shoots and one catwalk show had brought home to her the incredible tedium of the job and she had moved sideways into acting in the blossoming world of fringe theatre and television.

But Jude�s relationship with Suzy had endured. Not on a regular basis � frequently years would elapse between contacts � but it was always there. Usually, Suzy was the one who contacted Jude at the end of another of her high-profile relationships. And the tear-stained famous face would be buried in Jude�s increasingly ample shoulder, while the perfidies of men were once again catalogued and bold unrealizable ambitions for a relationship-free life were once again outlined.

Suzy never seemed aware of what others had observed in their encounters with Jude � that they were the confiders, she the confidant. Jude rarely gave away much information about herself and, though her own emotional life had been at least as varied � if not as public � as Suzy�s, little of it was aired. There were friends to whom Jude did turn in moments of her own distress, but Suzy Longthorne was not one of them.

Yet the relationship wasn�t one-sided. Suzy mattered to Jude. There was a core of honesty in the woman that appealed to her, together with a strong work ethic. And Jude was endlessly fascinated by the problems that accompanied the fulfilment of many women�s dream � that of being born incredibly beautiful.

Suzy Longthorne had bought Hopwicke Country House Hotel with the proceeds from the breakdown of her longest marriage. For thirteen years she had stayed with Rick Hendry, as he metamorphosed from ageing rocker to pop entrepreneur to television producer, and as his tastes had shifted from the maturity of his wife to the pubescent charms of wannabee pop stars. Rick had made his name with a band called Zedrach-Kona, who produced supposedly profound sci-fi-influenced concept albums in the late seventies. The success of these, including the massive seller The Columns of Korfilia, had made him rich and famous for a year or two, then rich and forgotten. But in his fifties, Rick Hendry had found a new incarnation as an acerbic critic on Pop Crop, a television talent show which pitted the talents of manufactured boy and girl bands against each other. His own company, Korfilia Productions, made the show, and so once again for Rick Hendry the money was rolling in.

By that time, being back in the public spotlight meant his ego no longer needed the support of marriage. The divorce settlement had been generous and Suzy had invested it all in Hopwicke House.

The venture had started well. The conversion of the space from private dwelling to hotel had been expensively and expertly completed. The recollected glamour of its new owner gave the venue an air of chic. Well-heeled names from her much-publicized past booked in. Journalists who�d cut their cub-reporting teeth on interviews with Suzy Longthorne commissioned features for the newspapers and magazines they now edited. For a place that marketed itself as a discreet, quiet retreat, Hopwicke Country House Hotel got a lot of media coverage.

Suzy was by no means a remote figurehead in the enterprise; she was a very hands-on manager. Her money was backing the project, and she had always kept an eye on what her money was up to. She was punctilious about the quality of staff � particularly the chefs � who worked for her. The media may have started the ball rolling, but word-of-mouth recommendations ensured its continuing motion.

As the reputation of Hopwicke House grew, the hotel appeared more frequently in brochures targeted at the international super-rich � particularly Americans. Soon the breakfast tables in the conservatory resounded to Californian enquiries as to what a kipper might be, or tentative Texan queries about the provenance of black pudding. The hotel was included in an increasing number of upmarket tours, and played its part in nurturing the delusion of wealthy Americans that England had been created by P. G. Wodehouse and Agatha Christie.

So Suzy Longthorne had cleverly carved her niche, done the appropriate niche-marketing, and looked set fair to reap great riches from that niche.

Until 11 September 2001. Among the many other effects of that momentous day, as Americans ceased to fly abroad and the bottom fell out of the tourism market, bookings at Hopwicke Country House Hotel immediately declined. Unfortunately, the transatlantic market was not alone in drying up. A collective guilt about over-indulgence had struck the Western world, and no amount of inducements in the form of weekend breaks with suicidally low profit margins seemed able to reverse the downturn for Suzy�s business. She had been forced to abandon the exclusivity that had been her cachet and selling-point, and accept bookings from anyone who wished to stay.

It was with this knowledge, on that April afternoon, that her friend Jude asked, a little tentatively, �Who have you got in tonight?�

Suzy�s perfect nose wrinkled with distaste. �The Pillars of Sussex.�

�Oh.� Jude grimaced in sympathy. Though she had never met any members, she recognized the name. Like most British clubs and institutions, it had been founded in the second half of the nineteenth century. Originally, under the grand name of �The Pillars of Society�, the group had been initiated for philanthropic purposes, and was still involved in local charity work and Christmas fund-raising. As with many such associations, however, the initial worthy intention soon took a back seat to procedures, rituals, ceremonies, elections, all of which had the same general aim: that those who had achieved membership of the Pillars should feel eternally superior to those who had not. Nothing had changed since an 1836 publication, Hints on Etiquette, had observed that, �the English are the most aristocratic democrats in the world; always endeavouring to squeeze through the portals of rank and fashion, and then slamming the door in the face of any unfortunate devil who may happen to be behind them.�

Needless to say, meetings of the Pillars of Sussex involved a great deal of drinking.

What made all this worse, from Jude�s perspective, was that the Pillars of Sussex was an exclusively male organization. She had grown up suspecting that in the absence of female company men get increasingly childish, and experience had turned the suspicion into a conviction. She did not relish the evening of raucous misogyny ahead.

But her views didn�t matter; she was there to help out her friend. �What do you want me to do, Suzy? Bar?�

�No, I�ll handle most of that. Part of being the hostess. Might need some help with the drinks orders before dinner.�

�Trays of glasses of wine?�

�I think this lot�ll probably be drinking beer. No, basically, I want you to help with the waitressing.�

�OK.� That was what Jude had been expecting. �Is it just me?�

�No, I�ll help, of course. And I�ve got Kerry . . .�

Suzy spoke as if this possession was a not unmixed blessing. Jude had met the girl on a previous visit � a sulky, rather beautiful fifteen-year-old supposedly destined for a career in hotel management. Since Kerry was in her last year at private school and without much prospect of making any impact academically, her parents had arranged for her to spend her Easter holiday doing �work experience� at Hopwicke House �in order to get some hands-on training�. The girl�s commitment to her career choice was not marked � her only interest seemed to be pop music � but Suzy endured Kerry�s flouncing and inefficiency with surprising forbearance.

Perhaps any help was better than none. Finding steady waiting staff was a continuing problem for Suzy. �Don�t suppose you know anyone looking for some part-time work?� Jude was asked, not for the first time.

She shook her head, not for the first time, and once again had the mischievous idea of mentioning the job to her neighbour. It wouldn�t be a serious suggestion. Carole Seddon, with her civil-service pension and her hide-bound ideas of dignity, would be appalled at the notion of acting as a waitress. But Jude was playfully tempted to unleash the inevitable knee-jerk reaction.

�Max is cooking for them, presumably?�

�Yes.� Suzy looked at the exquisite Piaget watch Rick Hendry had lavished on her for one of their happier anniversaries. �He should be in by now. I�m afraid the Pillars of Sussex aren�t his favourite kind of clientele. Still, how else are we going to get dinner for twenty and most of the rooms full on a Tuesday evening?� She spoke with weary resignation.

Max Townley, Jude knew, saw himself as a �personality chef�. He was good at his job and, so long as Hopwicke House attracted high-profile guests, he had enjoyed mingling, and identifying himself, with celebrity. Since the downturn of the previous year, Max had been less at ease, and Suzy knew that each �ordinary� restaurant booking she took made him more unsettled. The fact that fear of drink�driving convictions would guarantee most of the hotel�s rooms were booked for the night carried little weight with the chef. From Max�s point of view, as clientele for a restaurant where he was cooking, the Pillars of Sussex were about as bad as it could get.

�Are you worried about him not turning up?� asked Jude.

�No, he�ll be here. Max is enough of a professional to do that. But he�ll make his point by being late . . . and resentful.� Her voice took on the chef�s petulant timbre. �A load of bloody stuffed shirts who wouldn�t recognize good food if it came up and bit them on the leg, and who will have blunted any taste buds they have left with too much beer before dinner, and then be allowed to smoke all the way through the meal.�

�Really?� asked Jude, amazed. One of the strictest rules of the Hopwicke House restaurant had always been its non-smoking policy. Mega-celebrities of the music and film business had succumbed meekly to the stricture, and retired to the bar for their cigarettes and cigars. The fact that the prohibition was being relaxed for a group as undistinguished as the Pillars of Sussex showed, more forcibly than any other indicator, the levels to which Suzy Longthorne�s aspirations had descended.

But it didn�t need saying. Jude leant across the kitchen table and took her friend�s hand, still soft from its years of expensive lotioning.

�Things really bad, are they, Suzy?�

There was a nod, and for a moment tears threatened the famous hazel eyes.

�Everything rather a mess, I�m afraid,� the �Face of the Sixties� admitted.

�Anything you can talk about? Want to talk about?�

�Some things, maybe. Certainly this.�

From a pocket in her apron, Suzy extracted an envelope. It bore the Hopwicke House crest, but no name, address or stamp. The back had not been sealed, just tucked in, and the envelope was slightly bent from its sojourn in the apron.

�Kerry found it in one of the rooms she was checking. She said she opened it because she thought there might be a tip inside . . . though I think she was just being nosy.�

Jude picked up the envelope. �May I?�

Her friend gave a defeated nod.

There was only one sheet of paper inside. Of the same quality as the envelope, again it bore the Hopwicke House crest. Centred on the page were three lines of printed text.

The phone call had disturbed Carole Seddon. Her life was rigidly compartmentalized, and many of its compartments had, she hoped, been sealed up for permanent storage. To have one of those old boxes opened threatened her hard-won equilibrium.

Having retired from the Home Office early (and the earliness still rankled), moving with her Labrador Gulliver to a house called High Tor in the seaside village of Fethering had seemed an eminently sensible solution to the problem posed by the rest of her life. And, though the arrival of her next-door neighbour had added extra dimensions to that life, in her more po-faced moods Carole could still feel nostalgic for the acceptable dullness of Fethering pre-Jude.

There was a sharp division in Carole Seddon�s mind between the life she had lived in London and now lived in West Sussex. Although she was happy to discuss her career as a civil servant, she had kept few London friends, and never talked about her personal life. Jude was one of the very few people in Fethering who knew her neighbour had once been married and was a mother.

Had the phone call come from David, Carole would have been less flustered. Her relationship with her ex-husband had now settled down to something totally inert, its only remarkable feature being the fact that two people with so little in common had ever spent time together. Mutual financial interests, or news of long-lost relatives� deaths, necessitated occasional phone calls, which were politely conducted without warmth, but without animosity.

It was Stephen, however, who had rung Carole that evening, and she wasn�t so sure what her relationship with her son had settled down to. On the rare occasions when she could no longer keep the lid on that particular compartment battened down, its contents prompted a mix of unwelcome emotions. She felt guilty for her lack of maternal instinct. Stephen�s birth had been a profound shock to her, shattering the control which up until then she had exercised over all aspects of her life. A woman who indulged in any kind of self-analysis might have deduced she had experienced post-natal depression, but for Carole Seddon that was territory into which she did not allow her mind to stray. She had been brought up to believe that giving in to mental illness was self-indulgent. Life was for getting on with.

All she knew was that, from the start, Stephen had represented a challenge rather than a blessing. She could not fault herself on the meticulous attention she had given to his upbringing, but she knew she had never felt for him that instinctive love about which so many parents wax lyrical.

So when, as an adult, Stephen drifted further away from her, Carole felt no extra guilt, no regret, possibly even an inadmissible degree of relief.

They never lost touch. Present-givings at Christmas and birthdays were meticulously observed. They rarely met in London, but at least twice a year Stephen would come down to the Fethering area and take his mother out for lunch. The meals were eaten in anonymous seaside restaurants or pubs, and passed off amiably enough.

On these occasions Carole would say the minimum about her local doings, but Stephen seemed quite happy to monopolize the conversation. He talked almost exclusively about his work, which involved computers and money in a combination his mother never quite managed to grasp. She should have taken more interest when he first started his economics course at Nottingham University; then maybe she would have been able to follow the subsequent progress of his career. As it was, when they met she felt increasingly like someone at a party who hadn�t caught the name of the person to whom they were talking initially, and had left it too late to ask.

So, if a question about their relationship had been put to them, both Carole and Stephen would have said they �got on�. In spite of the divorce, theirs could by no means be classified as a �dysfunctional� family; it was just one that lacked spontaneous affection.

Inside Carole grew the suspicion, which she was unable to voice � even to herself � that the entire contents of her son�s gene-pool derived from his father, and that Stephen Seddon was, in fact, a deeply boring man.

But exciting things happen even to boring men, and that evening Carole�s son had had exciting news to impart.

�Mother . . .� he�d said. As a child, he�d always called her �Mummy�. When he left for university, the word seemed to embarrass him. �Mother� was safer, less intimate. He�d stuck with it.

�Mother, I�m engaged to be married.� The wording, too, seemed formal, distancing.

It was the last thing Carole had been expecting. For Stephen to ring was unusual enough; for him to ring with anything to say beyond vague pleasantries was unheard of. �Ah,� she had responded, caught on the hop. �Wonderful.�

Funny, she�d never really thought of her son as having a sexual identity. He�d certainly never brought any girls home. Though maybe, given the state of his parents� marriage, he might have considered that an unnecessarily risky procedure.

�Her name�s Gaby. I met her through work.�

�And what work is that? Remind me again.� Of course she didn�t say the words, but Carole was surprised how readily they came into her mind. The unspoken response struck her as funny, and she knew it would have struck Jude as funny too.

She managed to come up with a more socially acceptable, �So how long have you known each other?�

�Three years. But we�ve only been going out together for the last seven months.� Stephen spoke of his fianc�e with exactly the same seriousness as he did about the work that Carole didn�t understand.

�Does she do the same sort of thing as you do? Is she in the same company?� Whatever that�s called.

�Oh no, no, she was a client. We set up a financing package for the agency she works for,� he continued, confusing his mother even more. She understood the individual words; they just didn�t seem to link together into anything that made sense.

�Ah.� Carole tried desperately to think what potential mothers-in-law were supposed to say in these circumstances. �So have you thought yet about when you�re going to get married?�

�September the fourteenth,� her son replied, surprisingly specific.

�Well, that sounds fine.�

�It fits in with Gaby�s parents. They always spend August in the South of France.�

Oh yes, of course. The fianc�e would have parents. Presumably at some point Carole would have to meet them. She shrank instinctively from the thought of contact with these unknown people. If their daughter was called Gaby, and they spent their summers in the South of France, then perhaps they weren�t even British?

�Also,� Stephen went on, �that date suits Dad fine.�

Carole was shocked by how much that hurt. Not just Stephen continuing to call David �Dad� while she had been relegated to �Mother�, but the implication of her ex-husband�s complicity in her son�s life. David had been told about the wedding before she had. He�d probably met Gaby. They all lived in London, after all. (At least, presumably Gaby lived in London.) Perhaps David was regularly included in social excursions with the young couple.

Her marriage, the event Carole thought she had locked away for ever, was evidently still capable of breaking out and reviving her pain.

�I�d like you to meet Gaby,� Stephen pressed on doggedly.

Carole felt new guilt. She should have said that before he did. �I�d love to meet Gaby soon� � that�s what she should have said. And yet, in the shock and smarting from the hurt, she was forgetting even her most basic good manners.

�Oh yes, I�d love that!� Trying to make up the lost ground, she only managed to sound over-effusive.

�We want to come down the weekend after next.� As her son spoke, Carole realized he was following an agenda. His and Gaby�s lives between now and the wedding were rigorously planned. Telling his mother the news and introducing her to his bride-to-be were duties that had to be performed and fitted into their schedule. �We�ve got to be in the area.�

�Oh, why?�

No answer could have surprised her more than the one Stephen came up with. �We�re looking at some houses down your way.�

�Really?�

�Gaby�s very keen to get out of London. We�re looking for a big family house in the country for the next stage of our lives.�

So formally did her son speak these words that Carole knew, had Jude been there to hear them, they would both have giggled. But, on her own, Carole was too winded by the implication of Stephen�s words to offer any response.

�So I was wondering, Mother, whether you�d be free for Sunday lunch that weekend.�

�Lunch? Sunday week. Yes, that sounds fine.� Uncharacteristically gushing, she added, �I�m simply thrilled at the idea of meeting Gaby!�

�She�s longing to meet you,� Stephen asserted, with all the enthusiasm of a weatherman announcing a cold snap. But he hadn�t finished. �There is one thing, Mother.�

�Yes?�

�I am very keen that you and Dad should both be at the wedding. Will that be all right?�

�Yes,� said Carole Seddon. �Yes, of course it will be.�

That was only one of her worries after she had put the phone down. A lot of moribund emotions had been stirred up, reminding her they were still far from dead. And she knew they wouldn�t go away. September the fourteenth would be a climax, a day of maximum stress, but that would not end the process. She was reliving the myth of Pandora�s box. Now it had been opened, Carole was made aware of its fragility, and felt foolish for the misguided reliance she had placed on its security.

Another troubling thought occurred to her. It was rare for Stephen to come down to Fethering, and even rarer for him to stay overnight. On the few occasions when he wasn�t just down for a quick pub or restaurant lunch and away, she had put him up in her spare bedroom. But if he was coming with a fianc�e . . . The spare room only had a single bed. Oh dear, would she have to arrange for a double to be brought in? Worse than that . . . would she actually have to ask Stephen what sleeping arrangements he and Gaby favoured? The potential embarrassment loomed large enough to cloud Carole�s entire horizon.

Seriously shaken, she wanted to talk to Jude. But even though the April evenings were drawing out, it still went against Carole�s nature to knock on the front door of Woodside Cottage.

She telephoned instead. Jude was out.

The outside door of the kitchen clattered open and, as Max Townley entered, Suzy slipped the sheet of paper and envelope back into her apron. The chef was dressed in black leathers; he�d parked his worshipped motor bike outside. He had once tried to impress Jude with the fact that this was a Ducati, but her patent lack of interest hadn�t allowed him to get far. As he came into the kitchen, he removed a crash helmet, revealing short bluish-black hair. He was as lithe and jumpy as a Grecian cat, his eyes piercingly pale blue, and his thin mouth permanently tight with discontent.

He nodded acknowledgement to the two women, and focused sneeringly on Suzy�s Piaget watch. �It�s all right. They�ll get their precious dinner in time. Fat lot they�ll notice, though.� He moved angrily across to a butcher�s block, on which stood a box of vegetables and flicked through it. �Still no celeriac.�

�They hadn�t got any celeriac,� said Suzy evenly.

�I know they hadn�t this morning. You said you�d ring them.�

�I did ring them, and they still didn�t have any celeriac.�

�Well then, get a bloody different supplier! How am I supposed to produce a celeriac remoulade without bloody celeriac?�

�You�ll have to do something else.�

�I thought you�d agreed a menu with the guests.�

�They won�t notice.�

The chef�s head snapped back and he faced his employer, but the retort on his lips died in her stare. He returned to the vegetables, mumbling, �No, hardly matters what I give them, does it? Might as well nip down and get them takeaways from Macdonald�s. Bloody peasants�d probably prefer that.�

Morosely, unzipping his leathers, he went through into the pantry to change into his freshly laundered white jacket, black-checked trousers and clogs.

Jude knew she had just witnessed a battle of wills, and also knew Suzy had won it beyond doubt. The triumph might simply be a credit to strength of personality, or maybe there was some other source of power. There had been rumours of an affair between the chatelaine of Hopwicke House and her chef, but Jude doubted their veracity. Such rumours clung around Suzy and every attractive man she met, but she was too shrewd an operator to put her business at risk by an unprofessional liaison.

Kitted out in his chef�s gear, Max slipped a couple of heavy-bladed knives out of their slots, like a cowboy drawing his six-shooters, and started to chop fresh carrots on the butcher�s block. His movements were slick from experience, and flamboyant by choice. He was a chef who, when he was working, welcomed � and played up to � an audience. Jude recalled some talk of his being considered for a television series, of a pilot programme about to be made, but she�d never heard the outcome. She could imagine Max successful in the role. His sulky good looks, his showmanship and waspish tongue might be just what a television scheduler wanted in the ever-more-desperate search for new ways of dressing up images of food.

Wearily, Suzy stretched out her long, perfect body till it was a straight line between chair seat and back. Then she snapped upwards to her feet. �Must get on. They�ll be coming soon. Kerry�s supposed to be laying the tables. She should be finished by now.�

�Anything I can do?�

�Thanks, Jude. Yes, give me a hand with a bit of set-dressing.�

Max Townley was now singing to himself. Quite a tuneful version of �Boiled Beef and Carrots�. Maybe that was another part of his sales pitch for the television moguls. The Singing Chef. God knows, thought Jude, as she followed Suzy out into the hall, they�ve tried every other kind.

Some of the tables in the restaurant had been locked together to make a twenty-seater for the Pillars of Sussex. The basic laying-up had been started, but apparently abandoned. The table settings were certainly not yet ready for those final touches which Suzy alone could provide. Of Kerry, the table-layer, there was no sign. Suzy and Jude exchanged a puzzled look.

Alerted by a clink of glass, Suzy led the way through to the darkened bar area. In the dim light behind the bar, Jude could see a slight blonde girl in a black-and-white waitress�s uniform, standing guiltily with a balloon of brandy in her hand.

�What the hell are you doing, Kerry?� Suzy snapped. �I�ve told you before, you�re not to drink on duty!�

�I h-had to,� the girl stuttered. �I was so shocked.�

She pointed across to an armchair where the substantial figure of a balding elderly man was slumped.

�I�ve never seen a dead body before.�

Suzy appeared unfazed and reached for a light switch. As she did so, the crumpled figure in the armchair stirred blearily.

�Dead body, Kerry?�

The girl shuffled awkwardly and put down her glass. �It was dark. I just thought . . . He looked dead. I�ll go and help Max.� Seizing the excuse like a lifeline, she rushed out of the room.

Suzy�s beautiful eyes narrowed. �Little liar,� she murmured. �Mind you, that was a new excuse.�

Then why do you keep her on? Jude was about to ask, but the man in the armchair had risen to his feet, embarrassed at having been caught � literally � napping. He swept his hand across his forehead as if to straighten the hair that was long gone.

�I�m so sorry, ladies. Arrived early. Must�ve nodded off.� His voice aspired to, but didn�t quite achieve, a patrician bonhomie.

He was in his sixties, dressed in a striped three-piece suit of an earlier generation, and wore a tie with red, blue and white striations, which didn�t quite manage to look regimental. The watch-chain bridging his waistcoat pockets established him as something of a poseur. In his lapel buttonhole gleamed the dull gold of a badge which neither woman recognized as the prized insignia of the Pillars of Sussex.

�I�m Suzy Longthorne. And this is Jude.�

Fastidiously, he took the hotelier�s hand. Unlike most men she met, he didn�t add that extra pressure that beautiful women learn to live with. �Donald Chew. We spoke on the phone. I�m outgoing president.� He left a gap for an impressed reaction. Receiving none, he went on, �And of course we have met here before, haven�t we?�

Suzy smiled polite acknowledgment of this, though she didn�t look as though their previous encounter had made much impression on her.

�Always know we�ll be well looked after at Hopwicke House. Excellent food �� he nodded across the hall �� and of course your wonderful cellar.� He cleared his throat. �Thought I�d come along a little early to check the arrangements. No one around, so I toddled through here and . . . just d-dozed off.�

The slight hesitation suggested he had got himself in training for the evening�s dinner with a heavy lunch.

�I think you�ll find everything is as we agreed, Mr Chew. The table isn�t fully set yet, but we�re just about to do it.�

�Fine. I wasn�t really worried. Just felt I should check, you know . . . as outgoing president.�

�Of course. Well, we�ll serve drinks to your members in here.�

A glint came into his eye. �Is the bar actually open now?�

�The bar�s open to residents at all times,� said Suzy, moving behind the counter. �Could I get you something?�

�Large one of those wouldn�t hurt.� He pointed to the bottle of Famous Grouse. �With the same amount of tap water.� He guffawed meaninglessly. �Start as I mean to continue, eh?�

�And then would you like to check into your room, Mr Chew?� asked Suzy, as she handed his drink across.

�No hurry. If you just let me have the key, I�ll find my own way.�

�Of course.� She went to fetch it from the set of pigeonholes on the wall behind the reception desk. In the brief ensuing silence, Donald Chew made no attempt to say anything to Jude.

Suzy returned and handed him a key with a heavy brass fob. �Would you excuse us, Mr Chew? I�ll just finish the table settings and when they�re done, I�ll call you and you can check everything�s all right.�

�Fine.� Slumping back into his armchair, he tapped his breast pocket. �Got the seating plan in here. Very important. Can�t have a New Pillar sitting nearer the president than an Ancient Pillar.�

Suzy Longthorne smiled acknowledgement of what a solecism that would be, and returned to the dining room, with Jude in tow. Donald Chew�s voice followed them, �And if I want another drink, I�ll just shout.�

�Yes. Or ring the bell at reception.�

Once again Jude was struck by the dignity with which her friend fulfilled her menial role. Even in her most high-flying days, Suzy had maintained a core of pragmatism. Though many men had spoiled her, she had never let herself be spoilt. Suzy was well-enough grounded to bear stoically whatever fortune might throw at her.

She looked at the unfinished table setting without overt annoyance, and started to align knives and forks from the cutlery tray. �Could you ask Kerry to come and help?�

Jude nodded. �And should I be getting into my kit?�

�Yes. Sorry.�

�It�s all right.� Jude grinned. �I always wanted a part in Gosford Park.�

As she approached the kitchen door, she could hear Kerry talking about her favourite subject.

�I mean my voice is definitely good enough, and I know I�m better-looking than most of the girl singers you see on Top of the Pops, but in television you�ve got to get that one lucky break.�

�Tell me about it,� Max was saying, as Jude entered the kitchen.

The relaxed way in which Kerry lolled at the table, chatting to the chef, confirmed what Jude had suspected, that the girl�s talk of a dead body in the bar had been a spur of the moment fabrication, a cover-up for her brandy-sipping. According to her boss, Kerry, in spite of her age, had a propensity for sampling the goods in the bar; she had been ticked off more than once about it.

�Suzy wants some help in the dining room.�

Elaborately lethargic, the girl rose to her feet. She was wearing the uniform Jude was shortly to don, a long black dress with a white, lace-fringed apron. By the time the guests arrived, they would both be wearing white lacy mob-caps as well. Kerry�s confidence about her looks was justified. She was a little below average height, but generously rounded, with that glow young women exude when they�ve finally put the awkwardness of adolescence behind them. Her naturally beautiful skin and blonde hair were enhanced respectively by skilful make-up and expensive cutting. Her manner implied a precocious sexuality, though Jude had no idea whether the image was backed up by actual experience. In her Edwardian black, Kerry looked good and knew it, Lolita in fancy dress.

Jude herself wasn�t particularly keen on being kitted out like a refugee from Upstairs, Downstairs and a thousand other television series, but that was Suzy�s house style, so she went along with it. The only advantage she could see, with an evening of drunken Pillars of Sussex ahead, was that none of them could put a hand up her skirt.

�All right. I�ll go,� said Kerry, as if the most unreasonable request in the world had just been foisted on to her, and slouched out of the kitchen.

As the door swung back and forth in her wake, Jude caught the sardonic eye of Max Townley. �Attitude problem?� she suggested.

�Whatever it is, Suzy�s stuck with it.�

�Oh?�

�Don�t you know who Kerry�s Dad is?�

Jude shook her head.

�Well, stepfather, actually. Bob Hartson.�

�Doesn�t mean anything to me.�

�Big local property developer. Often seen buzzing around in a chauffeur-driven Jaguar. You�ll see him tonight. He�s one of the bloody Pillocks of Sussex. And he�s bailed Suzy out.�

�What?�

�She�s had a bit of a cash crisis in the last six months.�

�I knew that, but I didn�t know how serious it was.�

�Serious enough for her to look for an investor. Bob Hartson obliged. Which means that if he wants Suzy to teach his useless daughter the hotel trade � or if he wants her to do anything else for him � then that�s what Suzy has to do.�

While Jude was taking in the implications of this, the chef changed tack. �How long have you known Suzy?�

�Goodness . . . Thirty years? Nearly forty now, I suppose.�

�And did you know her through media connections?�

�It�s so long ago that in those days the word �media� was hardly invented. But, yes, I suppose I met Suzy through the fashion world.�

�Did you work in television too?�

�A bit.�

�And are you still in touch with people from those times?�

�A few, yes. Friends like Suzy. Some others��

�Because what I really wanted to ask you, Jude, was��

But Max Townley never got to his question, because the door banged open to readmit a heavily sighing Kerry, suffering the unjust imposition of having to fetch more side plates.

�I am Bob Hartson, a Pillar of medium height . . .� a ripple of knowing laughter greeted this sally. Kerry�s stepfather was a tall man with the muscle-bound body of a retired wrestler. The corrugated face beneath his corrugated grey hair was red and unvisited by imagination.

�. . . and I would like to introduce to the Pillars of Sussex my guest � Mr Nigel Ackford.�

His sponsor looked on indulgently, as the young man at the far end of the table rose unsteadily to his feet. His suit was perhaps a little too sharp and his tie a little too pastel for the tastes of some of the guests, but he said what protocol demanded of him.

�I am very honoured to be here, even at the pediment of the great Pillars.�

The formula was greeted by raucous laughter and wild applause, disproportionate to any possible interest or wit in what had just been said. Jude doggedly continued clearing the dessert dishes.

In the remains of one sherry trifle a cigarette butt had been stubbed. Max wouldn�t like that. It wasn�t the first thing of the evening Max wouldn�t like. Normally, he would have returned home by this time, and missed seeing the latest insult to his cuisine, but that evening he had tried to neutralize his anger by drinking vodka. The ploy hadn�t worked � the alcohol seemed to make him even testier � but it had ensured he�d have to stay the night in one of the staff rooms. He might not have cared about the dangers to himself, but there was no way he was going to put his precious Ducati at risk from drunken driving.

Donald Chew, by now almost comatose with drink, smiled approvingly as the new president rose to his feet to reply to the young guest. James Baxter wore the heavy, over-elaborate chain which had, until recently, hung around Donald Chew�s neck. Baxter had spent his life in local government, working mostly in the planning department, and was seeing out his last couple of years before retirement in a job where, in spite of a fine-sounding title, he could do little harm. His main professional duty now seemed to be lunching, and he took disproportionate pride in being president of the Pillars of Sussex. He cleared his throat portentously before his reply.

�Your words are pleasing to the highest Pillar of Sussex. Welcome, and may you enjoy our dinner.�

Since they�d already finished eating, this didn�t seem to make sense, but Jude had, much earlier in the evening, realized logic played little part in the protocol of the Pillars of Sussex.

�And tell me, Mr Ackford,� the President rumbled on, �a little of yourself . . . or of those details which you are willing to share with the Pillars of Sussex.�

This was greeted by another automatic ripple of hilarity. Not for the first time, Jude wished she understood the rituals of male laughter. Its triggers seemed to have nothing to do with the humour of what had just been said; there were just certain prompts which, in an all-male assembly, required an immediate responsive guffaw. How to recognize these prompts Jude had no idea; she reckoned she never would � having been born the wrong gender.

Trifle dishes balanced up her arm, a skill mastered in her late twenties when she�d run a cafe, Jude made her way back towards the kitchen. As she left, she heard Nigel Ackford begin to present his professional credentials to the assembled Pillars.

�After being educated at Portsmouth Grammar School, and studying law at Bristol University, I was articled to Renton and Chew in Worthing . . .� A rumble of appreciative recognition greeted the name. Donald Chew was his boss. The young man moved in the right circles. He was one of them. �I qualified as a solicitor two years ago, and was fortunate enough to be kept on by Renton and Chew, working mostly at the moment on the conveyancing side, though I hope in time to expand my portfolio of skills to include . . .�

Suzy Longthorne lived in a barn conversion behind the hotel, and the staff quarters were in a converted stable block. The rooms were functional rather than luxurious, but each had its own walk-in shower and tea-making facilities.

Because her friend looked so suddenly exhausted and keen to leave, Jude said she�d lock up. She�d stood in at the Hopwicke Country House Hotel often enough to know the routine. The internal fire doors had to be checked and then the external doors locked. There was an alarm system, but it had been triggered so often by insomniac guests it was very rarely activated. If any of the residents should require anything during the night, bells rang in Suzy�s barn and the staff quarters. They were rarely sounded; it was made clear to the guests on arrival that they were staying in a country house hotel; what was being mimicked was the genteel life of the upper classes, rather than the corporate luxury of twenty-four hour room service.

As she climbed the stairs to check that the fire doors were closed, Jude was struck by how quickly the raucous camaraderie of the Pillars of Sussex had been switched off. From some rooms snores rumbled; no doubt later in the night, as ageing bladders protested against the many pints that had been poured into them, toilets would flush. But at two-thirty in the morning the overall impression was of silence.

She was on the top landing when she heard the noise. It sounded like a gurgling at first, but after a few moments she identified it as singing. Not particularly sophisticated � or indeed varied � singing. Just one little nursery rhyme phrase endlessly repeated, circling round and round.

The sound came from behind one of the fire doors. These were a legal requirement, but took no account of the architectural values. Though designed as sympathetically as possible, they still spoiled the proportions of the elegant top-floor landing.

Jude opened the fire door to reveal the source of the singing. Nigel Ackford, still in his sharp suit, was propped up, his body slack as if boneless, against the wall of the corridor. There was a silly smile on his mouth, out of which the strange, circular song still dribbled.

Jude tried to wake him up, but he was too far gone to respond properly. He was aware she was there, and tried to focus his grin on her, but the effort was too much. He was amiably, rather than aggressively, drunk, and made no objection to her rummaging in his suit pockets. Jude quickly found his key. Its number matched the room outside which he had collapsed, so he had only just failed to make it all the way to bed.

She unlocked the bedroom door, lifted the young man with difficulty, and manoeuvred him inside. His limbs were slack and powerless, and there seemed to be a disproportionate number of them; Jude�s mind formed the image of handling a drugged octopus.

Nigel Ackford had been given one of the best rooms in the hotel, presumably at the expense of his sponsor, Bob Hartson, who, from what Max Townley had said about him, could well afford such extravagance. The room was dominated by a high four-poster bed, with heavy brocade curtains gathered around the uprights by silken ropes. The windows were covered with the same brocade, and when the curtains were drawn back in daylight, they would reveal a perfect view down to the English Channel. As she manhandled the comatose guest onto the bed, Jude reflected that, when he woke up the next morning, he wouldn�t be in much of a state to appreciate the vista.

She decided to take some of his clothes off, so he wouldn�t have a creased suit to add to the embarrassment of meeting the Pillars at breakfast. Though his body was unresisting, she had difficultly extracting his limbs from the jacket. Once she�d removed his shoes, the trousers slipped off more easily. The pastel tie came off too, and she undid the top couple of buttons of his shirt, in case he twisted in the night and constricted his throat.

Jude put the suit on a hanger in the heavy dark-oak wardrobe, then turned to look at the figure on the bed. In his rumpled shirt, striped boxer shorts and socks, there was something boyish about Nigel Ackford. Despite the heavy late-night shadow on his chin, and the dark hair on his legs, the posture of his body suggested a five-year-old crumpled in sleep.

She decided he�d be more comfortable under the covers and managed to extricate the duvet and quilted bedspread from under the deadweight of his body, and flip them over him. Surprisingly, this, the gentlest of the manipulations he had undergone during the previous ten minutes, woke Nigel Ackford.

He looked around in benign confusion, and took a moment or two to register Jude�s presence. His confusion intensified.

�It�s all right,� she said, remembering her strange garb. �You�re not in some dream of being tended by an Edwardian nanny. You�re in your room at the Hopwicke Country House Hotel. I�m Jude. I�ve just helped you get into bed.�

�Ah.� Nigel Ackford giggled, reinforcing his childlike image. �I�m sorry I needed helping.�

Jude let out a non-judgmental �Well . . .�

�No, really sorry. I found the evening rather a strain. Very important to make the right impression with the P-Pillars of Sussex.�

�They seemed quite impressed with you.�

�Yes.� He smiled beatifically. �Yes, I think I did all right.� His smile grew broader. �Bob Hartson said he thought he might be able to put me up for membership soon.�

�To become a full Pillar?�

As soon as she had said the words, Jude realized how ridiculous they sounded, but Nigel Ackford was unaware of any incongruity.

�Oh yes, that�d be good. I�m quite young to be a Pillar of Sussex.�

Jude nodded, because that seemed to be the appropriate thing to do. The young man�s eyes gyrated in their sockets, and his lids flickered. He would soon be asleep.

But he overcame drowsiness for another mumbled communication. �Going to be a good year, this one. All my troubles are over. All sorted out. I�ve made up my mind which way I�m going. This is going to be a good year.� His head nuzzled luxuriantly back into the soft pillow. �I�m going to ask Wendy to marry me. And I�m pretty confident she�ll say yes . . .�

He was asleep. Jude left the room quietly, but she needn�t have bothered. Nigel Ackford was so deeply under nothing would wake him until, presumably, the crushing agony of the morning�s hangover.

Suzy, sensible as ever, recognized that Edwardian nanny costumes would look incongruous at eight o�clock in the morning, so the staff�s daytime uniforms were neat blue suits. Jude always found at least two in the uniform cupboard which fitted her, suggesting that a lot of the hotel�s staff were mature matronly women.

As she had surmised, almost all the Pillars of Sussex went for the full English breakfast option. One or two looked a little sweaty and greenish about the gills, but they managed to keep up a diluted version of the night-before�s banter. The misogyny certainly remained. There were many shouted exchanges along the lines of �Don�t get sausages this big at home!�

�That�s what your wife was saying to me only the other day!�

And each such sally would be rewarded by its statutory guffaw.

Because the Pillars came down to breakfast in dribs and drabs, and because Suzy was busy at reception collating their bills, it was a while before any kind of head-count could be done. And since eating breakfast was not mandatory, guests who chose to could stay in their rooms until the ten-thirty check-out time.

So it wasn�t until then that the absence of three of the previous night�s diners was observed. Jude checked the names against a printout of the guest list, which showed who had been allocated which room. Two gaps were quickly explained. Donald Chew, for reasons of his own, had gone early. He�d demanded his bill at seven-thirty, and left before breakfast. Next, after a couple of slices of toast and a cup of coffee on the dot of eight, Bob Hartson had been driven away by his chauffeur.

But no one had seen Bob Hartson�s guest, Nigel Ackford.

Having witnessed the state of the young man the night before, Jude wasn�t surprised. Either he was still sleeping it off, or he was simply immobilized by his hangover. Stupid boy, she thought as she climbed up towards the top floor. She wasn�t judgmental about people who over-indulged; she just reckoned they made life unnecessarily difficult for themselves. Jude drank a lot of white wine, but she very rarely got drunk. In spite of her laid-back manner, there was within her a steely core of discipline. Perhaps it was recognizing the same quality in Suzy that had kept the two of them friends.

She climbed up the hotel stairs, pushing the folded guest list into the pocket of her blue suit. On the top landing, she took out a pass-key, and opened the door of Nigel�s room Inside it was still pitch dark. As the sprung door clicked shut behind her, the brocade curtains squeezed out every glimmer of daylight.

�Time to get up, I�m afraid, Mr Ackford.� She crossed to the curtains and grasped the pull-string. �Shield your eyes, because I�m about to let the day in.�

Jude pulled the curtains wide, and turned back to face the bed.

Nigel Ackford had not shielded his eyes. They stared, prominent in their sockets, their whites discoloured with specks of red. His face was congested to the colour of claret. His body hung still, sock-clad feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Around his neck, suspending him from the end crossbar of the four-poster, was one of the silken ropes that had tied back the curtains.

Nigel Ackford had been spared his hangover.

Carole couldn�t believe how relieved she was to see Jude on her doorstep the following afternoon. She hadn�t slept well. The news from Stephen had upset her, and the fact that it upset her, upset her more. She should have been ecstatic. The announcement of a son having found the woman with whom he wishes to spend the rest of his life is something for which every mother should be waiting. There was potential for a new generation and all kinds of old-fashioned things, like hope. Joy should be unconfined.

And yet joy was not Carole�s predominant emotion; it was confusion, closely followed by guilt. This defining moment in family life had left her examining the shortcomings of that family life, had highlighted the failure of her marriage, and had reminded her of her lack of maternal instinct. She needed to talk to Jude about it. Jude was sympathetic. Jude was a constructive listener.

But that particular afternoon Jude was not in a listening mood. Her priority was the news she had to impart. And when she had imparted it, Carole realized her neighbour was shaky, perhaps even in shock. Jude�s customary serenity was so ingrained that Carole was surprised to see her in this state. She quickly supplied them both with glasses of white wine and sat Jude in an armchair in the sitting room. To avoid delay, she even resisted her instinct to put out a little table beside the chair for her friend�s wine glass.

�Presumably you�ve talked to the police?�

�Yes, they sent me home. There weren�t any cabs available, I had to get two buses. That�s why it�s taken me so long.�

�You should have called me from your mobile. I�d have picked you up.�

�Sorry, I didn�t think.� Unwontedly twitchy, Jude looked out of the window into Fethering High Street. �The police said they�d be round later to talk more. Suzy wanted the minimum of fuss at the hotel.�

�One can understand that she would.� Carole couldn�t quite keep disapproval out of her voice when Suzy Longthorne�s name came up. They�d never met, but the former model�s public image predisposed Carole against her. Being splashed over papers and magazines, having high-profile lovers, building a career simply from being pretty . . . all of it offended Carole Seddon�s Calvinist work ethic. Deep down, there was also the natural, inescapable resentment of a plain woman towards a beautiful one.

Feeling guilty for her disapproval � everything was making her feel guilty that day � she compensated with solicitude. �You must be feeling terrible � awful for you to have actually found the body.�

Jude nodded. �It was nasty. Particularly as I�d talked to the boy only a few hours earlier.�

�And he hadn�t sounded suicidal then?�

�Far from it.�

Carole grimaced wryly. �Who can tell what goes on inside another person�s mind?�

Jude felt confident she quite often could tell, but all she said was, �True.�

�Was there a suicide note?�

�Apparently. Well, not necessarily a suicide note, but some document which made the police pretty certain it was suicide. I didn�t see it. As soon as I found the body, I rushed straight down to tell Suzy. She went up to the room to check it was locked, and then called the police. Apparently they found a letter in the bedroom � under the pillow, I think.�

�And did they immediately question all the guests?�

�They had all gone by then. Had breakfast, checked out by ten-thirty.�

�Who were they again? You did tell me.�

�The Pillars of Sussex.�

Carole made a face. �Oh yes, I have heard of them. Some kind of back-scratching organization for local businessmen, isn�t it?�

�That�s right.�

�And this poor young . . . you know, the one who died . . . was he a member?�

�A guest. But he seemed quite excited at the prospect of becoming a member.�

�Hm. Lucky for your friend Suzy� � Carole was incapable of saying the name without the preface of �your friend� � �that all the guests had gone before the news broke.�

�I suppose so.�

�Well, it�s the kind of thing you�d want to keep as quiet as possible. You�re hardly going to advertise a suicide in the hotel brochure, are you?�

�No.� Jude was preoccupied, still uncharacteristically subdued. Her mind was full.

�Though there�s no way it won�t get out soon enough,� Carole went on. �People gossip. The hotel staff are bound to talk.�

�I don�t know that they will. Suzy commands a lot of respect. So if she asks them not to tell . . .�

�I doubt if even Suzy Longthorne�s fabled charms could stop this getting out.� The resentment was back in Carole�s voice.

�No. Probably not.�

�Did the police speak to the staff?�

�Yes. A quick word with each of us individually; then they�ll follow up.�

�Have they closed the hotel down?�

�I�m not sure what�s happening. There aren�t any bookings for the next couple of nights. Some at the weekend � a wedding reception and quite a lot of people staying over. By then I would imagine they�d have completed any investigations they�re going to make.�

�Hm. Well, that�s very sad. Horrible shock for you . . . and a terrible waste of a young life.� Carole reckoned she had shown an adequate amount of sympathy, and could move the conversation on. �I actually had some rather surprising news. From Stephen, my��

But she got no further. Jude was on her feet, looking out of the window. A car was parking outside Woodside Cottage.

�It�s the police. I�d better go and let them in.�

Carole�s face set in an expression of frustration.

�I just do not believe that that boy committed suicide,� said Jude, as they approached the Crown and Anchor.

�If he had a history of depression . . .� Carole argued.

�He may well have had a history of depression, but I saw him that night. He wasn�t depressed then. He was just drunk.�

�Drink is a notorious depressant,� said Carole primly.

�But he wasn�t drunk and depressed. He was drunk and incapable. He couldn�t have organized a suicide, he could hardly stand.�

�Then maybe it happened by accident.�

�You do not remove a curtain rope, tie it to a crossbeam and put it round your neck by accident.� Jude pushed open the clattering doors of the pub.

Carole followed her in, surprised to see so much anger. She was the uptight one; Jude always seemed to emanate an almost unnatural laid-back calm. But the interview with Detective Inspector Goodchild had clearly got to her.

�Well, there�s a sight to brighten up a dull evening. Two large Chardonnays if ever I saw them.�

Ted Crisp stood in his usual position behind the bar. His beard and hair showed their customary ignorance of grooming. The sweatshirt he wore was so faded that its original colour could have been black, blue or green; the advertising logo it had once shown off was now an incomprehensible blur. The idea that she had had an affair with him � however brief � still seemed incongruous to Carole. But not distasteful. She was glad their relationship had now settled down to a kind of joshing affection.

He was pouring the drinks before they ordered them. There was some comfort in that, thought Carole. Though she still didn�t think of herself as a �pub person�, it was good to have a haven where one was known and recognized.

�How�re you, Ted?� she asked.

�Mustn�t grumble. Doesn�t stop me, though. Guess what this is an impression of.� Suddenly he turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees behind the bar.

�No idea.�

�A counter-revolutionary.�

They gave the joke the groan it deserved. In a previous incarnation, Ted Crisp had been a stand-up comedian. If the one he�d just cracked was representative of his jokes, it was no wonder he�d sought alternative employment.

�So you two got any news, have you?�

�Well . . .� Carole scoured her memory, without much optimism that she�d find anything interesting. Then she suddenly remembered. �Actually, my son�s getting married.�

�Fancy,� said Ted.

�You didn�t tell me that,� said Jude.

�I�ve hardly had a chance to get a word in.�

�True. Sorry.�

�I keep forgetting you got a son.� Ted scratched his chin through the thatch of beard. �Forget you�d been married, and all. Still, we divorcees have to stick together, don�t we?�

Carole didn�t like that. Her marriage was a private failure. She didn�t want it to be lumped together with all the other broken relationships.

�What�s your potential daughter-in-law like?� asked Jude.

�I haven�t met her yet.�

�But you must have got an impression from what Stephen said.�

Carole had. Her son had engendered an impression of someone she wouldn�t get on with. Someone whose agency had had a financial package set up for it, who had rich parents who were possibly not even British. Someone who had the rather affected name of Gaby. Of course she didn�t say any of that. She knew it was just prejudice. But then Carole, like most middle-class English people, had ingested prejudice with her mother�s milk.

�Not really. Her name�s Gaby.�

She tried to keep disapproval out of her voice, which was just as well, because Jude said, �Gaby. That�s a nice name.�

�She�ll probably talk your head off.� In response to curious looks, Ted explained, �Gaby by name, gabby by nature.�

Yes, it was a blessing for everyone, really, that he�d not continued with the stand-up.

�Anyway, I�m going to meet her soon,� said Carole, with what she hoped sounded like enthusiasm. �Weekend after this.�

�It�s very exciting,� said Jude. �The prospect of grandchildren.�

That was the consequence of the marriage about which Carole hadn�t allowed herself to think. In spite of Stephen�s talking about buying a large family house, she had not followed the logic through. Grandchildren � they would provide another opportunity for her maternal skills to be found wanting. It was all daunting � and very confusing.

She was relieved that when they�d sat down, having ordered Ted Crisp�s recommendation of Dover sole, the conversation reverted to the events at Hopwicke House. A suspicious death was always so much more interesting than wedding plans.

�I�ve a feeling there�s a kind of cover-up,� said Jude.�

�Aren�t you being a bit melodramatic?�

�I got the firm impression from Detective Inspector Goodchild that he�d be very happy with a suicide verdict.�

�From what you say, the death did look like suicide. And presumably the police like things nice and straightforward.�

�Yes, but I got the feeling there was more to it. As if Detective Inspector Goodchild had been talked to by someone . . . and that someone didn�t want the investigation to go any further.�

�What makes you say that? Do you have any evidence?�

�No.� The idea was quickly dismissed. Jude had always placed more reliance on instinct than evidence. �Those Pillars of Sussex are an incestuous lot. All scratching each other�s backs. They�ve got a lot of influence locally. If they wanted something kept quiet, I�m sure they could arrange it.�

Carole went into wet-blanket mode, a position that came distressingly easily to her. �Jude, you don�t know any of the people involved. You only met them last night � and that was hardly meeting in any meaningful sense. You may not have liked the Pillars of Sussex setup � I don�t like secretive all-male associations either � but that doesn�t mean they�re in a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.�

�No, I agree. But there�s one person I do know up at the hotel, and she�s behaving totally out of character.�

�Your friend Suzy?� This was said with the inevitable flicker of disapprobation.

�Yes. She denied having seen that threatening note. I know she saw it � she showed it to me. So somebody�s been putting pressure on Suzy. And I want to know who.�

�Listen, Jude, if there�s one subject I know about, it�s publicity. Good and bad.�

It was true. Suzy Longthorne had suffered the attentions of the press pack ever since she was in her teens. She had been flattered by them, fawned on, extravagantly praised, worshipped even. Then she had been criticized, carped at, pilloried, vilified. She, of all people, knew how quickly a media darling could become the target for all the mud that could be slung. And she knew how irrelevant the actual behaviour of a celebrity was to the press�s treatment of it. Suddenly, on a whim, they could turn against you, at the flick of a switch converting every positive to a negative.

�I�ve put a lot of time and money into building up Hopwicke House,� she went on at the other end of the phone. �I�m not about to throw all that away because of a burst of bad publicity.�

�What are you saying?�

�I�m saying that a suicide at the hotel is about the worst thing that can happen. But it�s containable. The poor young man�s family won�t want it blazoned all over the papers. The Pillars of Sussex certainly won�t want that either. And the police, for once, seem quite inclined to be discreet. OK, there may be some publicity when the inquest happens, but hopefully that can be kept to the minimum too.�

�So you�re saying �Don�t rock the boat�.�

�Exactly.�

�You can�t deny you saw that note.�

�I can�t deny it to you, Jude, no, because you saw it too. But I can sure as hell deny it to the police . . . or anyone else who asks.�

�That�s lying, Suzy.�

�So? For God�s sake, Jude, don�t come on to me like some sort of moral guardian. There are worse things in the world than lying. I happen to think that a murder enquiry at Hopwicke House would be one of them.�

Jude seized on that. �So you think it was murder too?�

�I don�t think anything,� her friend replied wearily. �I think what happened yesterday morning was another piece of incredibly bad luck, and I don�t know how many more of them I and this business can survive. I will do anything to keep the wrong kind of publicity for Hopwicke House down to a minimum. If that involves a little lying . . . then so be it.�

�But don�t you want to know the truth about what happened?�

�No, Jude, I really don�t.�

It was true. Suzy wanted to protect her business and her reputation. Not everyone, Jude reflected wryly, was like her, desperate to get to the bottom of every mystery that life offered.

�Listen,� the voice on the phone went on, �over the years I�ve had enough prying into my private life. I don�t want to put at risk��

�This is hardly prying into your private life.�

Suzy sounded thrown by this, as if she were covering up. �No, I . . . well, I didn�t mean��

�You had nothing to do with Nigel Ackford.�

�Try telling that to a tabloid journalist. They�ll have fabricated an affair between us within seconds. And no doubt, along with that, the implication that I murdered him when he tried to break it off. In a fit of jealous rage. I can see the headlines now. �Fading sixties beauty Suzy Longthorne . . .��

�Are you telling me you will never admit to the existence of the threatening note Kerry found?�

�Yes, Jude. That is exactly what I�m telling you.�

After she had put the phone down, Jude felt troubled. Not because she feared the disagreement might end her friendship with Suzy � Jude was not prone to flouncing � she knew they�d stay in touch. What had troubled her, were Suzy�s words about prying into her private life. The guard had dropped then; she had sounded vulnerable, ill at ease. Almost guilty. As if concern for her business was not the only reason why she wished to minimize the level of investigation into Nigel Ackford�s death.

�Hello. Could I speak to Barry Stilwell, please?�

There was a slight delay, during which Carole visualized the solicitor. Thin. Thin face. Lips thin almost to the point of absence. And so eternally pin-striped that she had idly wondered whether his flesh was pin-striped too. Fortunately, she had never been put in the position of verifying that speculation � though not for want of trying on Barry Stilwell�s part. The recollection of his face-flannel kisses could still send an involuntary shudder through her body.

�Well, well, well, Carole. This is a voice from the past. An unexpected bonus in my boring day.�

�Good to talk to you again too, Barry,� she lied.

�To what do I owe this? Business or pleasure?�

Well, it wasn�t really business. She was neither getting a divorce, nor moving house, nor sorting out a will, and those were the three areas of limited expertise from which Barry Stilwell, as a solicitor, made a very good living.

�Can we have a third category?� asked Carole. �It�s not business, it�s not pleasure. It�s really, I suppose, brain-picking.�

He sounded disappointed at that, but was still eager to meet. An unexpected cancellation (oh yes?) meant he was actually free for lunch that day. Could Carole make it? Wonderful. Why not go back to the Italian in Worthing? Yes, Mario�s. �Of happy memory?�

Carole�s memories of dinner with Barry Stilwell at Mario�s weren�t particularly happy. As she put the phone down, she wondered if the solicitor had once again misinterpreted her interest in him. Surely not, though. When they�d last met, he�d been a widower. Now he was remarried to the widow of a fellow Rotarian. Surely he wouldn�t be looking for other female company, would he?

As she sat sipping her cappuccino and waiting for Wendy Fullerton, Jude reflected on the coffee-shop boom and how one clever idea could suddenly take over the world. People had drunk coffee for many centuries, but it was only in the late twentieth that they had started drinking overpriced and variegated coffees on sofas in chains of identical cafes. And so, many millions of pounds were made. But it couldn�t last, the boom must be nearing its end. The fact that there was such a coffee shop in Worthing seemed to prove her point. By the time trendy outlets start to open in dowdy venues, the smart money has already moved on.

The girl was only a little late. She wore a blue suit over a patterned blue-and-red shirt. Though better tailored than building society uniforms used to be, the ensemble still expressed little personality. Short dark hair with a reddish colouring and heavy make-up, which should have made her stand out, somehow seemed to have the opposite effect. They provided a mask, a perverse kind of anonymity.

Wendy Fullerton recognized Jude from the description given over the phone. All she wanted to drink was still mineral water. She sat impassively by while Jude fetched a bottle and glass from the counter. There was no expression behind the mascara or the perfectly outlined metallic claret lips. Wendy�s hands, nails varnished in the same colour as the lips, lay still on her lap. She was giving nothing away; any effort would have to be made by Jude.

After another sip of cappuccino, Jude embarked on her mission. �As I said, I was working up at Hopwicke House the night Nigel Ackford died.�

�Doing what?� asked Wendy Fullerton.

�Waitressing.�

The girl nodded, as if this were significant information.

Quickly, and without sounding judgmental, Jude told her how she had found Nigel drunk in the corridor in the small hours.

�He always drank a lot when he was nervous,� Wendy volunteered, almost as if this were a justification. �And he was very worried about that Pillars of Sussex meeting.�

�You imply you knew he was going to it.�

�Yes.�

�I had heard your relationship ended four months ago.�

�We stopped living together then. It just didn�t work, so he went back to his place.�

�How long did you live together?�

Jude�s questions were so gentle that it didn�t feel like an interrogation. The girl answered fluently, �Only about nine weeks.�

�But you�d known each other for some time?�

�Oh yes, we�d been knocking around together for four years � longer � on and off.�

�And then he moved in?�

�Mm. But like I say, it didn�t work. Nigel was too intense, too moody for me.�

�So was that the complete end, when he moved out?�

�No. We stayed in touch. Lots of phone calls, texting each other. Met for the odd meal, but it wasn�t really working.�

�Because of his moods?�

The doll-like head nodded. �Yes. And I was sort of thinking, time�s moving on. I�m twenty-eight next birthday, and Nigel was, like, drifting. Still living in a rented flat. He wasn�t looking ahead. He didn�t really have any ambition.�

Jude could see it all. Perhaps too young to be worrying about her biological clock, Wendy was worried about her aspirational clock. No doubt she had contemporaries who were getting married, contemporaries with impressive boyfriends carving out careers for themselves. Nigel Ackford wasn�t providing her with that kind of prospect. Her work probably didn�t help either. Building societies are magnets for young couples, full of plans to set up home together, to get their stake in the booming property market, to mortgage their lives away. Wendy would be dealing with people like that every day. And Nigel was still living in a rented flat. If the relationship wasn�t going to go the distance to the destination of fitted kitchens, integral garages and babies, then Wendy had thrown away four years of her life, and had better move on quickly to find an alternative prospective partner.

�But Nigel was doing well, wasn�t he?� Jude suggested.

Before the girl could answer, she was interrupted by the trill of a mobile phone. She took it out of her pocket, checked the number calling and pressed a button.

�Don�t worry. I�ll take it later. Just seeing if it was for me.�

�Sorry?�

�My phone got stolen. While I was waiting for a replacement, Nigel lent me his. Well, he gave it to me, said he was going to get another . . . so I have to check whether a call�s for me rather than him.� This thought was too forceful a reminder of her boyfriend�s absence, so she drove it away. �You were saying, about Nigel doing well?�

�Yes. Well, I would have thought . . . qualified solicitor, good job at Renton and Chew. I actually heard him start to tell the Pillars of Sussex his life history that night. Sounded as if he was doing fine.�

A grimace spoiled the perfect outline of Wendy Ful-lerton�s mouth. �In some moods he was. He must�ve already had a lot to drink to be so positive that night. Other times, he � well, he had no self-confidence at all.�

�He got depressed?�

The girl nodded, a little flicking movement that seemed both to acknowledge and to dismiss the idea at the same time.

�Do you think he got depressed enough to kill himself?�

�He talked about it,� she admitted. �I never took that literally. I knew he got low, but I never thought he�d actually do it.� A tremor ran through Wendy Fullerton�s body, and Jude realized the immense effort that was required to maintain her impassivity.

�Shows how wrong I was,� the girl said eventually.

�Did you know any of the people involved in the Pillars of Sussex?� A negative flick of the head. �He didn�t talk to you about them?�

�He may have mentioned the odd name. I didn�t really take it in.�

�But he was excited about being invited to the dinner?�

�Oh yes. He saw it as something very positive, like, perhaps his luck was changing. He was very young to be invited to something like that, even just as a guest.�

�Did you know his host for that evening? Bob Hartson?�

�Used to know him. We lived quite close, before he started making a lot of money and moved upmarket. I sometimes used to baby-sit for them, make a bit of pocket money while I was still at school.�

�Would that be for Kerry? Or did they have other children?�

�No, Kerry�s the only one. She�s not his daughter. His wife�s. How come you know her?�

�She works up at Hopwicke Country House Hotel as well.�

�Does she?� The idea seemed to surprise Wendy. �I can�t imagine her working anywhere.�

�Why not? Most people have to.�

�Yes, but I thought, with Daddy�s money . . .� She couldn�t disguise the envy in her voice. �I heard he�d set her up in a flat in Brighton � and she can�t be much more than sixteen. Not even that, actually. I remember, it�s her birthday quite soon. She�s still only fifteen � and got her own flat. No mortgage, nothing � lucky little bugger. Surprised to hear she�s working. I suppose I�d always seen Kerry as a kind of trust-fund kid.�

�She�s doing work experience up at Hopwicke House, with a view to learning hotel management.�

A short, cynical chuckle. �And then no doubt Daddy�ll buy her her own hotel to play with.�

�Maybe. Do you still see her?�

�Might bump into her in the street, say hello, that�s it.�

�And what was she like as a child?�

�Spoilt little madam. Only had to ask for something and she got it. I think her new Daddy was buying her affection in the old traditional manner.� Again, undisguised resentment.

�How did Nigel come to know Bob Hartson?�

�Through work. Renton and Chew handle all Bob Hartson�s legal stuff. He�s very in with the senior partner there, Donald Chew. Nigel was very impressed that Bob Hartson seemed to be, sort of, taking him under his wing as well.�

�Yes.� Jude was thoughtful for a moment. What was it the property developer had hoped to get from the young solicitor? Why had he bolstered the young man, even suggested he might become a member of the Pillars � which, from what Barry Stilwell had told Carole, was extraordinarily unlikely. Oh well, worth asking. �Apparently, Wendy, Hartson was even suggesting that he might put Nigel up for membership of the Pillars of Sussex.�

�I didn�t know that.�

�No, well, he only told me on the night�� Jude wished she hadn�t embarked on that sentence, and quickly changed direction. �So you don�t know why Bob Hartson might have wanted to cultivate Nigel?�

A quick shake of the head, then a silence. The girl took the first sip of her water, and looked at her watch. Jude hadn�t got long.

�Thank you very much for seeing me, Wendy.� She scribbled a number on a paper napkin. �That�s my mobile. Do give me a call if��

�If what?�

�If you find out anything else about how Nigel died.�

The girl looked blank. �That�s not very likely, is it?�

Jude had to admit that it probably wasn�t. �No. I know this must be a difficult time for you.�

After a moment of bemusement, the girl said, �Oh, you mean because of Nigel� She considered the idea, as if it hadn�t occurred to her before. �Yes . . . I don�t think it�s really sunk in yet. I�m afraid my first reaction was, like, relief. Awful, but maybe that�s what he wanted. He won�t be unhappy any more.�

�No.�

�And . . . well, it has, like, made certain decisions for me. Our relationship wasn�t going anywhere, it had to end at some point and . . .�

She looked at her watch again. Jude wondered what further information she could get before this particular window closed.

But Wendy had already slipped off her stool and was saying, �I�d better be getting back. End of the week, things to tidy up.�

�Yes. Once again, thank you very much for making the time to see me.�

The girl lingered, though. There was something else she wanted to say, but she wasn�t finding it easy to get the words out.

�Jude . . . you mentioned on the phone that Nigel said something about me � you know, when he was drunk.�

Of course. Jude had completely forgotten the pretext on which she had arranged their meeting.

�Yes. I�m so sorry. He did.�

�What did he say?� The question tried to sound casual, but failed.

�He said he was going to ask you to marry him.�

Wendy Fullerton winced, as though she had just been stabbed.

�And he said he felt pretty confident that you�d say yes.�

The facade of insouciance cracked. Tears welled and spilled, making rivulets in the girl�s thick armour of make-up.

�I�ve fixed to go up to the hotel tomorrow morning,� Carole announced. �To have a look around. So any thoughts as to what I should look out for would be welcomed.�

�Well . . .� Jude buried her fingers in her bird�s nest of blonde hair as she concentrated. �Certainly ask to see the four-poster room on the top floor. The murder scene.�

�We don�t know that it was murder,� Carole reprimanded her puritanically.

�Don�t nitpick.�

�But the girlfriend wasn�t surprised by the idea that he�d committed suicide.�

�No, I know that. He was depressive, he had threatened to kill himself. I�m just convinced he didn�t.�

�I agree with you completely.� Behind the rimless glasses, there was a rare twinkle in Carole�s pale blue eyes. �But we mustn�t get carried away.�

�Why not?� asked Jude pugnaciously. �Why is everyone in this bloody country always so terrified of getting carried away?�

Carole looked across the cluttered sitting room at her friend. Jude didn�t usually behave like this. Normally she was very grounded, secure in her own space.

Reading her thoughts, Jude explained, �I�m sorry. I�m letting this get to me. It must be because I saw the boy so soon before his death. I can�t stop thinking of the waste. And that�s sort of mixed in with my distaste for all-male organizations like the Pillars of Sussex. I�m sorry, it�s just . . .� Tears glistened in the large brown eyes.

Carole found herself in a rare role reversal: she was calming Jude, rather than the other way round. �Don�t worry. We�ll find out what really happened to Nigel Ackford. That�s the only thing that�s going to make you feel better.�

Jude nodded gratefully.

Jude was not one of those women for whom the visit was an essential weekly ritual, but she did enjoy going to the hairdresser. She had been blonde for so long that she�d almost forgotten her original hair colour, though she was relieved to observe her roots were not yet showing white. For her the signal to go to the hairdresser was not the blondness creeping away, but a sudden sensation one morning that there was too much hair to pile on top of her head. That was when she�d book in, or more often just appear without an appointment.

She wasn�t particularly bothered who did the cutting, being able to find subjects for conversation with most people. As usual, she did more listening than volunteering information. She found the process restful, the washing, the application of the colour, the cutting.

But the most enjoyable part was waiting for her hair to dry after the colour had been applied. Jude liked lying back in a chair, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing else she could be doing at that point. The drying process would take as long as it took, at such times the hairdresser would be busy with another client so conversation would not be required. And Jude could either let her thoughts wander, or idly skim through a variety of magazines which did not impinge on the normal course of her life.

The Saturday after Nigel Ackford�s death, she was in the hairdresser�s enjoying one of those weeklies that have redefined � and considerably lowered the qualifications for � the status of �celebrity�. In the inevitable synchronistic way that relevant events have a habit of bubbling to the surface at the right moment, she found herself looking at a picture of Suzy Longthorne.

The photograph dated back to the prime of Suzy�s marriage to Rick Hendry, and the accompanying text was all about him rather than her. She was mentioned as a �former model�, too old to ring many bells among the youthful demographics of the magazine�s target audience. Rick Hendry would have suffered the same fate, had his career not been revived by new television fame. Famous for his acerbic dismissals of the talents of teenage pop wannabees, he had now reached the coveted status of �the man the public love to hate�.

His new celebrity had brought him all the bonuses attendant on television popularity � appearances on chat-shows, at awards ceremonies and in highly paid commercials. The words � �I wish I�d been born deaf� � with which he greeted the worst of the aspirants on the talent show had become a recent national catchphrase. He had even reached the giddy heights of being caricatured by cartoonists and lampooned by satirical television impressionists. The old rocker had certainly reinvented himself for the new millennium.

The photograph of Rick with Suzy was one of a sequence evoking his previous career. There were also shots of him leaving for international tours with his band, squiring other forgotten women, looking beat-up and past-it in the early nineties. These shots framed the main picture which showed Rick with his arms around nineteen-year-old twin girls who had survived the rigours of the talent show to become over-hyped one-hit Number Ones. His famously large teeth were revealed in a lascivious grin, which deepened the engraving of lines on his long thin face. His hair was short and grey. The caption read: �As young as the women he feels.�

Jude had met Rick Hendry a few times while he had been married to Suzy. He had always worked hard on his image. The �wild man of rock� was a cunning self-marketer, shrewd about business, tight with his money, ruthless in getting what he wanted. The new incarnation � poison-tongued, ageing enfant terrible � was, Jude felt sure, quite as carefully manufactured as any of the previous ones.

And whoever wrote the text which accompanied the magazine�s photo-spread had clearly bought into Rick Hendry�s self-image.

The emergency call came through at four. Four on a Saturday � Jude had a pretty good idea it would be Suzy Longthorne.

�I�ve been let down again.�

�What is it?�

�Wedding reception.�

�Who�ve you got?�

�Max, obviously. The boy who insists on calling himself the sous-chef, and Stella. It�s one of the other girls who�s let me down. Well, not really let me down. Her mother�s ill.�

�And have you got Kerry?�

�Oh yes, I�ve got Kerry. For what it�s worth.�

�OK. I�ll get a cab.�

It was early for the phone to ring on a Sunday morning. Barry Stilwell�s tone was once again conspiratorial. �Carole, I need to talk to you.�

She had no reciprocal need to talk to him, but, remembering Jude�s exhortations, put a nuance of coyness into her voice as she said, �Really, Barry?�

�Listen. Pomme�s in the bath . . .� This is more information than I need to have, thought Carole. �So I took the opportunity to call you to see if we could meet again?�

�Sure we could. At some point,� she replied lightly.

�This week. Lunch on Monday.�

�You�re talking about tomorrow?�

�Mario�s. You know it. And Mario�s the soul of discretion.�

Objections rose within her. Not only did she find Barry Stilwell repulsive, she was also opposed on principle to extramarital affairs. (Though if Barry had any thought of actually starting an affair with her, he had another think coming.) �Are you sure that�d be a good idea?� she asked, rather stiffly.

�I think,� he replied, deepening his voice in the manner of some film star he had once seen, �it�s the best idea I�ve had for a long time.�

�Well . . .�

�Go on, say yes, Carole.�

She was torn between her instinct, her principles, and what Jude had said to her. Loyalty to her friend won. �Very well.�

�Oh, thank you. You don�t know how happy that�s made me feel.�

If you knew why I�d said yes, you wouldn�t feel happy, thought Carole. But she also felt a little frisson of excitement. Maybe she did have a bit of the Mata Hari in her, after all.

�Mario�s, one o�clock, tomorrow.� A sudden panic came into Barry Stilwell�s voice. �Pomme�s coming out of the bathroom! See you then.�

And the line went dead.

Later that morning, as she let Gulliver scamper around her on Fethering beach, Carole was once again struck by the incongruity of her situation. She, Carole Seddon, was apparently giving the nod to a married man who wanted to have an affair with her. Even more remarkable, to her way of thinking, there actually was a married man who wanted to have an affair with her. A repulsive one, true, but he did exist. That would have been a surprise to her former colleagues at the Home Office. And maybe to her former husband.

When they got back to High Tor, Gulliver was ecstatic to see their next-door neighbour, who had just rung the front door bell.

Jude wondered if it would be possible to have a lift to Brighton.

�But that�s impossible,� said Carole as they drove back through the bungaloid sprawl that separated Brighton from Fethering. �Barry doesn�t drink whisky.�

�Are you sure?�

�He told me he never touched spirits. Doesn�t like the taste.�

�He wasn�t just saying that? Maybe he tells his wife � the sainted Pom-Pom � that he doesn�t touch whisky, but when he�s back with the boys . . .?�

�I don�t think so. He volunteered the information to me when we had lunch at Mario�s last week. Pomme wasn�t there. He had no reason to feel pressured about it.�

�True. That�s very interesting, Carole. I do hope you�ll be seeing Barry Stilwell again soon.�

�Well . . .� In spite of herself, Carole blushed. �I am supposed to be meeting him again for lunch tomorrow, but I�m not sure that I really should . . .�

�Of course you should. It�s your duty, Carole. In the cause of truth.�

The spark in Jude�s eye sent up the pomposity of her announcement, but there was a core of seriousness in what she said. Carole knew she had no choice but to continue betraying her sisterhood with Pomme.

The Crown and Anchor had seats and tables at the front, looking across to where the River Fether ran out into the sea, but there was also an overgrown garden at the back, which Ted Crisp kept saying he was going to get tidied up and open for customers. But all that seemed to happen was that the garden, like his beard and his hair, just got more matted and messy.

�Hardly worth doing,� he said to Carole and Jude, as they looked through the window at the patch that Monday evening. �Soon be next door to a building site, anyway.�

�What do you mean by that?� asked Carole.

The landlord pointed to the crumbling wall of a long, low structure on the other side of the pub garden. �Old milk depot, that was. Used to be full of tankers and floats. Been empty for five years now. Soon be a nice shooshed-up residential estate, though.�

�Really?�

�Yes, I�ve seen the plans. Go on, have a guess how many houses they�re going to fit on to that site.�

�Eight?� Jude hazarded.

He gave a derisory laugh. �If only. The answer is twenty-four.�

�Twenty-four? On that space? Is there a lot of land the other side of the depot?� asked Carole.

�No. What you see is what you get. Within the perimeter of that existing building they are going to fit twenty-four residences. Starter homes, I think they call them. Two bedrooms and a pocket handkerchief of garden each.�

�Garages?�

�No. Won�t be room for that.�

�So where are they going to park?� Carole instinctively asked the question any local would ask. �Fethering High Street�s already jammed solid. If High Tor didn�t have a garage, I don�t know what I�d do.�

�This is quite funny, actually,� said Ted, as he led them gloomily back across to the bar. �Or at least it would be funny, if it weren�t so bloody insane.� He took a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay out of the fridge. �Come on, let me top you up. On the house.�

�You�re pouring away all your profits,� Jude reprimanded him, as he filled the glasses.

�No way. Don�t do this for everyone, you know. Only special customers.� He guffawed. �And don�t worry, I overcharge the rest, so it all evens up in the end.�

�You were talking about these starter homes,� Carole reminded him.

�Right. OK, well, what I�m about to tell you is government policy � if that�s not a contradiction in terms with this lot in charge. One of the local architects comes to drink in here, he was telling me about it. You�ve probably heard there�s a housing shortage in the south-east?�

�Yes.�

�So, the various possible solutions to that are: build new towns; extend the outskirts of existing towns and villages; start nibbling away at the Green Belt. But no. What the government, in its wisdom, has decided to do is not extend the area of existing housing, but to develop brown-field sites.�

�Like the old milk depot?�

�Exactly, Carole. And on these sites they want a greater density of housing.�

�More people living per square metre?�

�That�s the idea, yes. But, of course, if you�re going to do that, then you�ve got to keep the footprint of each house pretty damned small. No room for fripperies like garages.�

�Mind you,� Jude pointed out, �it�s not all bad, from your point of view. If you�ve got twenty-four new houses right behind you, that�s not going to do any harm to your business, is it?�

Ted didn�t seem to be persuaded. �Maybe, maybe not. It�ll certainly mean complaints about noise, kids thieving from my premises, cars clogging access to my car park.�

�Yes,� Carole, the proud Renault-owner insisted, �where are the new residents supposed to put their cars?�

Ted Crisp grinned sardonically. �Ah, now this is the clever bit. This is where the government suddenly does a little nod to the green lobby.� He pronounced his next words as though imparting the secret of life. �Apparently, the fact that the new residents have nowhere to park will encourage them to make greater use of public transport!�

�But public transport round here�s dreadful,� Jude objected.

�Yes,� Ted agreed. �That is the small miscalculation the government has made. You�d think they�d realize they�d got the whole thing arse-about-face. The sensible plan, a naive person might imagine, would be first to get good public transport, then build houses without garages to attract people without cars. But no, that�s not the way this government does things.� He ran an exasperated hand through his beard. �Don�t get me started on this government.�

�No, no, fine,� said Jude hastily. Ted Crisp had suffered a lot since the election of New Labour. A lifelong socialist, faced with a government of decidedly Tory tendencies, he had nobody left to vote for. Jude, herself without politics of any colour, could nonetheless sympathize with his frustration.

�Still,� he went on savagely, �all be good news for the developers, won�t it? They�ll get a very cushy ride indeed � as ever. Nothing like a nice housing boom to boost the building trade, is there? Lots of profit for the developers, and the builders, and the decorators, and the plumbers, and the electricians, and their attendant army of local planners, and solicitors, and accountants and Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all. God, don�t get me started!�

Though he kept asking to be stopped, Ted Crisp was clearly about to get started. �When I think I grew up believing the Labour Party was the party of equality, that its principles encouraged the distribution of wealth to the less privileged members of��

It was, in many ways, fortunate that at that point a large party of customers entered the Crown and Anchor. Once Ted did start on one of his diatribes, his listeners could be transfixed for a long, long time. With some relief, Carole and Jude crept away to one of the alcove tables. After that day�s lunch with Barry Stilwell, Carole had become more aware of the significance of alcoves. She wondered how many illicit couples had exploited the privacy of the one where they now sat in the Crown and Anchor.

Jude was quickly brought up to date with what had been said during the lunch at Mario�s. �I�m certain,� Carole concluded, �that he was just making it up. That dreadful male solidarity thing. Bob Hartson, a fellow Pillar of Sussex, had used Barry�s name to establish an alibi, and Barry wasn�t going to let another chap down. I�m sure he wasn�t in that bedroom with Bob. Apart from the contradiction about drinking whisky, he didn�t know that Kerry was supposed to be there with them.�

�Perhaps,� said Jude thoughtfully, �he did know that Kerry was there.�

�What do you mean?� Carole looked at Jude, and the expression on her face told her exactly what her friend meant. �That Kerry was alone in the bedroom with her stepfather. That� Oh, surely not?�

Jude shrugged. �Wouldn�t be the first time it had happened to a stepdaughter. She�s a pretty girl. She greeted him very affectionately when he came round to her flat yesterday morning.�

The idea was still too extreme for Carole Seddon�s hidebound mind. �Surely not?� she repeated.

�Maybe not,� Jude conceded. �But it�s a possibility. Another idea to throw into the mix. What we now know for sure, though, is that there have been cover-ups about that night at the hotel. And I�m still intrigued about Bob Hartson�s driver.�

�What?�

�You know � he�s called Geoff. And he�s supposed to have spent the relevant night in the stable block, as I did. But I wonder . . . When I asked about that at Kerry�s flat, she could have been about to say something different when her father interrupted her.�

�Oh?�

�So perhaps we should check Geoff out.� Jude let an exasperated stream of air hiss through her teeth. �The one thing that�s clear is that somebody had something to hide. Either Kerry, or her stepfather.�

�Or possibly Barry Stilwell,� Carole added.

�How? Sorry, not with you.�

�Well, alibis work both ways. Suppose Bob Hartson knew that Barry was up to something that night. He might have volunteered the alibi to save suspicion pointing at his fellow Pillar of Sussex.�

�It�s possible.� Jude sounded sceptical, but Carole was quite excited. The thought of Barry Stilwell as a potential murderer did at least make him a little bit more interesting.

The call came through to High Tor in the middle of the Tuesday morning. �It�s all right. I�m calling from the office.�

Which meant that Barry was out of earshot of the threatening Pomme, so why did he still have to whisper?

�It was very lovely to see you at lunchtime yesterday.�

Carole couldn�t bring herself to reciprocate the sentiment, but she did manage to thank him for the meal.

�And I�m sorry you didn�t feel ready to come and see the new office with me.� He made the words sound like a euphemism for something really disgusting.

�It wasn�t a matter of �feeling ready� or not; it was a matter of not wanting to,� she snapped. Jude would disapprove of her threatening the continuance of Barry Stilwell as a contact within the Pillars of Sussex, but Carole had had enough of his sly insinuations, and she thought she�d probably exhausted his stock of relevant information anyway.

He seemed impervious to her put-downs. �Don�t worry, Carole, I�m prepared to wait for as long as it takes.� How about till hell freezes over and they hold the Winter Olympics there? �You�ll come round,� Barry went on. �You know there�s something between us.�

Loathing, on my side, thought Carole. Whatever Jude�s views, the situation could not be tolerated much longer. The moment was fast coming when Barry Stilwell must be given a massive, unequivocal brush-off.

But he didn�t let her get to that moment. �There was one thing I thought I ought to make clear, Carole darling� � Darling � yeuch! �about yesterday. I may have given you the wrong impression . . .�

No, I think the impression you gave me was exactly the one you intended to. The wrong impression was the one you seemed to take away of my reactions to your advances.

�It was my own fault. None of us are entirely responsible in our cups.�

�Oh, come on, you didn�t have that much to drink.�

�I wasn�t talking about yesterday. I was talking about the week before, after the Pillars of Sussex dinner at Hopwicke House.�

�Ah.�

�As I say, it�s my own fault. I like whisky, but it doesn�t like me. And I�m afraid it was the whisky that rather blurred my recollections of the end of the evening . . .� He paused, but Carole didn�t give him any help. �The fact is, I think I told you that I was up in Bob Hartson�s room drinking whisky, and there were just the two of us.�

�That�s what you said, yes.�

�Well, the point is, I�d completely forgotten . . . but his daughter was with us too . . . stepdaughter, that is. Kerry. Don�t know if you know her?�

�I saw her briefly when I went to the hotel.�

�Right. Well, she was there � that night � so it was the three of us drinking whisky.�

�I see. And who finished first?�

�Sorry?�

�Who was the first one to stop drinking whisky and go back to their own room?�

�Oh. Kerry. Yes. Kerry�s not much of a whisky drinker. She just had a small one and tootled off to her bed. And then, a bit later, I rolled off to mine.� He chuckled at the folly of his alcoholic excess. �Had a bit of a head in the morning, I can tell you.�

�Hm. And on the way back to your bed in the middle of the night . . .�

�Yes?�

�You didn�t happen to see Nigel Ackford, did you?�

�No, good heavens, no. Of course I didn�t.� Having expressed his shock at the mere idea, Barry moved back into seductive mode. �Do you know something, Carole?�

Yes, she thought. I know Bob Hartson has been on the phone, giving you a three-line whip to toe the party line.

�Hello. This is David.�

�Oh. David.�

�Remember?�

�Yes. Of course I remember,� said Carole. Though she�d tried to put all thoughts of their failed marriage behind her, she still recognized his voice.

�I was ringing about Stephen . . . and, erm . . . Gaby.�

Instantly she recalled how irritating she had found that little �erm . . .�, a mannerism her ex-husband contrived to get into almost every sentence he spoke.

�Oh yes. It is excellent news, isn�t it? About them getting married,� said Carole conventionally.

�Very good. She�s a . . . erm . . . sweet girl, don�t you think? Stephen�s done very well for himself there.�

Carole was forced to admit she had yet to meet their son�s paragon of a fianc�e. �I�m having lunch with them this Sunday down here . . . well, near here.�

�Yes, of course. They told me. I was getting my . . . erm . . . getting my weekends mixed up. They�re house-hunting, aren�t they?�

�There was talk of looking at some properties, yes.� Carole was amazed at how stilted she sounded. They hadn�t spoken for at least two years, but were instantly back to full awkwardness.

�Erm . . . Carole . . .�

�Yes?�

�I was ringing about our wills.�

�Oh?�

�I know you changed your will . . . erm . . . after we got divorced.�

�Yes,� she agreed with some asperity. �It was one of the first things I did.�

�Yes, erm . . . I didn�t, actually.�

�Didn�t what?�

�Change my will.�

�Good heavens!� So if, during all the years she�d been in Fethering, David Seddon had stepped under a bus or met some other fatal accident, Carole would have inherited.

�David, why on earth didn�t you?�

�I just . . . erm . . . didn�t get round to it. I was, sort of, very cut up after . . . erm . . . after what happened, and I didn�t really want to think about anything to do with it, so . . . I . . . erm . . . I knew anything I left would go eventually to Stephen through you.�

�You didn�t know that. I could have left it to anyone.�

�Yes, you could have done. But I knew you wouldn�t.�

She was dispirited to realize that he was right.

�I suppose, Carole, I thought if I met someone else, if I remarried, then obviously I would change my will in favour of . . . erm . . . but there hasn�t been anyone to change it in favour of.� Then, without much optimism, he added, �Yet.�

�Well, I�m amazed.�

�Yes. I . . . erm . . . I knew you would be.�

�But you are going to change your will now?�

�Oh yes. Yes, absolutely. I am. And that�s the point. I thought I ought to tell you.�

�There was no need. Since it never occurred to me that I might still be a beneficiary��

�No . . . erm . . . it�s the way I�m going to change it that is the point.�

�Ah?�

�I�m going to skip a generation.�

�Sorry? You�ll have to explain.�

�Well . . . erm . . . the way I see it, Stephen is very well set up for himself, with his work.� Whatever that may be, thought Carole, yes. �And he�s obviously going to be much better set up when he�s married Gaby.� Another indicator that her future daughter-in-law came from moneyed stock. �Two incomes.� Or at least was well paid for what she did. �So I�m going to . . . erm . . . change my will to leave everything to their children.�

�But they haven�t got any children.�

�Yet. And, all right, they may never have any. The terms of my will take that into account. If they don�t have any children, then everything�ll go straight to Stephen and Gaby. But if they do . . . erm . . . it�ll be divided among them . . . the children.�

�Right.�

�I thought that would be the prudent course to take. Avoid two sets of Inheritance Tax.�

�Yes, well . . . Very prudent. If Stephen and Gaby are happy with the arrangement . . .�

�They are. I�ve discussed it with them, of course.�

�Of course.�

�So I was wondering, Carole, if . . . erm . . . you might be thinking of doing the same.�

�Leaving my money to these . . . erm . . . conjectural grandchildren?� Oh God, she was doing it now.

�Yes. Exactly that.�

�Well, I hadn�t really thought about it, David, but . . . well, it�s certainly something to consider.�

�It is. Is there a solicitor who you deal with at the moment?�

Carole almost found herself giggling. But she didn�t think her ex-husband was yet ready to hear about the oleaginous advances of Barry Stilwell.

�Because I . . . erm . . . I made my will through Humphrey � you know . . .?�

�Yes.� Their former mutual solicitor, who had represented David in the divorce. Carole certainly wasn�t going to deal with him. Humphrey was symbolic of a period in her life she wished to blank out completely.

�But perhaps you wouldn�t want to . . . erm . . .?�

�No, I wouldn�t,� Carole agreed hastily. �No, if I decide to go ahead with the change, I�ll use someone down here.� And it wouldn�t be Barry Stilwell. The thought of his having a professional reason to lure her into his new office was not to be contemplated.

�Right. Well . . . erm . . . good to hear your voice.�

�Yes.� She couldn�t in all honesty reciprocate. Hearing David�s voice had set all kinds of unwelcome thoughts running through her head and would, she knew, disturb her sleep that night.

�And . . . erm . . . if not before . . . see you on September the fourteenth.�

�September the fourteenth?� came the baffled echo.

�The wedding, Carole.�

�Oh yes, of course. The wedding.�

The exterior of Suzy Longthorne�s club looked like an eighteenth-century private house. But, given its Mayfair location, very few British private citizens could have afforded to live there, even if the property didn�t include a swimming pool in the basement, first-floor gym suite, second-floor beauty salon and top-floor restaurant with a panoramic view across the roofs of London.

Nor indeed could many private citizens have afforded the annual subscription, which, as it happened, Suzy didn�t pay. When the premises opened in the late eighties, she and various other famous faces had been offered life membership to enhance the club�s image and ensure celebrity-studded press coverage for the launch. Few of the other honorary members had continued to use the facilities, but Suzy, as ever recognizing a bargain when she saw one, was a regular visitor. Her trips to London were essential breaks from the pressures of running Hopwicke Country House Hotel, and a necessary part of what she had described as her �body maintenance�.

Suzy had already put in an hour�s swimming and an hour in the gym by the time Jude arrived for lunch. She had also been massaged and had her facial. The glowing skin, with her hair swept back in a bandana, showed off the natural beauty of her cheekbones. Then a couple of quick meetings and she would be back in time to spread the largesse of her loveliness over the evening�s diners at Hopwicke House.

Though the club�s membership was exclusively female, men were allowed in as guests, and so the top-floor dinning room looked just like any other expensive restaurant. The chef had, in fact, been recently poached from one of London�s most fashionable eateries, and the menu proffered to Jude was both lavish and exciting. In spite of all the equipment on the lower floors, the club had no pretensions to be a health farm. Its raison d��tre was the pampering of its members. Those who got pleasure from depriving themselves were at liberty to pursue that course; those who enjoyed self-indulgence were equally free to follow their desires.

Suzy chose not to drink alcohol. �I�ll wait for the one I grant myself at the end of the day. Never tastes so good if I�ve had one earlier. But don�t let me stop you.�

Jude didn�t. She consulted the wine list for half-bottles, but Suzy said it�d be simpler to order a bottle, and there was no demur from her guest. Jude didn�t have anything to do in the afternoon except return to Fethering, and a mild alcoholic haze was the best condition in which to ignore the third world discomforts of southbound trains from Victoria Station. She was slightly nervous about the forthcoming conversation, and thought a couple of glasses of the excellent New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc Suzy had ordered might relax her.

She was also encouraged by her hostess to use the menu to the full, so again she did, ordering a smoked duck�s breast salad, to be followed by monkfish with spinach and ginger. Suzy limited herself to a rare steak and green salad. She had never gone to the anorexic lengths of some models, but always ate sensibly. And Jude had known her far too long to feel any guilt about eating larger meals in her presence. Suzy Longthorne�s looks remained her fortune and her business equipment, so a proper diet was just another element in her �body maintenance�.

When they were both settled with a drink, the hazel eyes focused on Jude, and it became clear that Suzy had thought through exactly what she was going to say.

�First, I owe you an apology. I�ve been less than honest with you, which I shouldn�t have been, because you�ve been my friend for a long time. I value your friendship, and I don�t want to do anything that threatens it. But there are other things I value too. I don�t have much choice about valuing the hotel; that�s my living, all my savings are tied up in it, and I can�t put it at risk.�

Jude might have said something at this point, but the pace of Suzy�s narrative did not allow her to. �But I gather, from things you�ve said, you believe there was something sinister about that young solicitor�s death. Can I ask what your basis is for thinking that?�

Jude realized this was the first time they had really discussed the events of that Tuesday night. Previously, Suzy had cut the conversation short; now she was prepared to listen.

�All right. My thinking Nigel Ackford might have been murdered is based on things he said to me when I found him drunk and put him to bed. He was very optimistic, he seemed to think he�d turned a corner, both professionally and personally. He told me he was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him. And, all right, I know you�re about to say that he had a history of depression and that his mood swings were��

�Jude, I wasn�t about to say anything. I know nothing about him. He was simply a young man called Nigel Ackford who was inconsiderate enough to die in my hotel.�

�Didn�t any of the Pillars of Sussex say anything to you about him?�

�No. Nothing personal. They just agreed with me that his timing and choice of location couldn�t have been more unfortunate.�

�And did they ask you to cover up?�

�They didn�t have to ask, Jude. Every instinct within me wanted to cover up.�

�So you�d be happy to cover up a murder?�

Jude stopped, as her duck breast salad was delivered by an impassively handsome young waiter.

After he�d gone, Suzy giggled, reminding Jude how much she loved her. �You�ve got a great sense of timing. Now he�s overheard that, I�ll probably be asked to leave the club.�

�Sorry, Suzy.� Jude too giggled at the notion.

The ice had been broken. Jude felt closer to Suzy than she had since the death had come between them. �Look, you know I want Hopwicke House to succeed for you. I�m not trying to do anything that�ll threaten your business.�

�I know, Jude, but regardless of whether or not it�s your intention, what you�re doing could threaten my business.� Suzy sighed. She wasn�t enjoying holding out on her friend. �Apart from anything else, logic is not on your side. All you�re basing your suspicions on is some drunken rambling from a young man who � you now tell me � had a history of depression and mood swings. If that�s all the evidence there is to support a murder verdict, I�m not surprised the police were happy with suicide.�

�There is something else. You must remember.�

But the puzzlement with which Suzy shook her head suggested that she didn�t.

�The letter. The death threat.�

She remembered it now. And her expression suggested she�d rather she hadn�t.

�I know you told the police it didn�t exist, but you can�t say that to me. You and I saw it. And Kerry saw the letter too � she was the one who found it.�

Reluctantly, Suzy acknowledged this.

�I haven�t talked to Kerry about it yet, but��

�Yet? Jude, what is all this �yet�? Are you telling me you are going to continue investigating this death?�

�Yes. I�m afraid I am.�

Her friend sighed exhaustedly, and looked out over the vista of London. Though the roofs gleamed with April sunshine, to her everything looked bleak. �All right. I can�t stop you. I�ve known you long enough to know nobody can stop you when you�ve got a bee in your bonnet.� The will to resist had gone out of her. �What do you want to ask me?�

�Which room did Kerry find that note in?�

The answer came in a long exhalation of despair. �The four-poster room.�

�And, in retrospect, Suzy, don�t you think that�s significant?�

�Yes. It probably is.�

�A note�s left in a room telling someone they�re not going to wake up the next morning, and the next morning the occupant of the room is dead . . . I think there�s more than a �probably� in that.�

�If you say so.�

�Suzy �� Jude�s brown eyes locked on to the famous hazel ones �� do you know what actually happened that night? Do you know how Nigel Ackford died?�

An impatient shake of the head. �No, I don�t.�

�Well, I�m more convinced than ever that he was murdered.�

The waiter�s timing was immaculate. He just caught Jude�s words as he swept away her salad plate. The conversation in the kitchen must be fun, she thought.

�If he was, I can guarantee you one thing, Jude. His death had nothing to do with anyone working at the hotel. He brought his trouble with him. He must have offended one of the Pillars of Sussex.�

�So you�re admitting it�s possible he was murdered?�

�Possible?� Suzy Longthorne didn�t seem to have a lot of respect for the word. �Anything�s possible. It�s possible that Elvis Presley�s still alive. It�s possible that somewhere Lord Lucan is riding Shergar off into the sunset. Possible. But unlikely.�

�If you just entertain the possibility, Suzy, then you can help me.�

There was a defeated shrug from the shapely shoulders. �All right, Jude. Against my better judgment. All I really want to do is let sleeping solicitors lie, but��

�Funny. That�s exactly the expression Rick used.�

�Rick?� Suddenly Suzy was alive again. And worried.

�Rick Hendry. Your ex-husband.�

�You�ve been in touch with Rick?�

�He rang me.�

�Why?�

�Basically, to tell me what you�ve been trying to get me to do for the last week � lay off the investigation.�

�Oh, God.� Suzy sank back in her chair.

�I know he was at Hopwicke House that night,� said Jude softly.

�Oh, God. Oh, God,� Suzy repeated. Then, with a vanquished look at her friend, she asked, �How much else do you know?�

The receptionist at Renton and Chew was the one Carole had spoken to on the phone, but her vowels had been reconstituted for their face-to-face encounter. She had rung back very quickly the previous day and fixed an appointment for Carole with Donald Chew for eleven o�clock on the Wednesday morning. Carole had brought with her a copy of the post-divorce will, which left everything to Stephen. Even if she didn�t get any information about the Pillars of Sussex or Nigel Ack-ford�s death, she did still have legitimate business to discharge.

The offices were smart, in a neat Georgian house in a neat Georgian square near the Worthing seafront. Though extensively modernized, they retained certain quasi-Dickensian features. Windows bulging with asymmetrical panels of glass, narrow creaking staircases, porcelain fingerplates and door handles, an old-fashioned intercom on Donald Chew�s desk, all dated the office�s image, contradicting the evidence of the thin-screened computers, fax machines and photocopiers. Yes, we�ve got all the latest technology, the message read, but basically we�re still an old-fashioned family firm. Your secrets will be safe with us. We know the world is full of distasteful inevitabilities � like death, divorce and house purchase � but here we will deal with them as discreetly as an embalmer titivating a corpse. We at Renton and Chew exist � as we have for generations � to help you cope with the little nastinesses of life.

Donald Chew himself reinforced that image. Carole had never met him before, but he was dressed more or less exactly as he had been when Jude saw him asleep in the bar of Hopwicke House. It was a different pinstriped suit, but only Donald himself or his tailor would have known that. Though the nearly regimental tie was not identical to the one he�d worn at the hotel, it was very much of the same school. And the reassuring gold watch-chain looped across his waistcoat was an original. Carole was reminded of surgeons she had met, who dressed in a way that was almost a parody of how a surgeon should look. Donald Chew�s appearance was part of an act, and Carole believed everyone who put on an act had something to hide.

Beneath the hairless dome of his head, Donald Chew�s rubicund face wore an understanding smile. Again, the reference point was Dickens. Here was the solicitor who, at the end of the book, would make all well, restore the riches to the rightful heir and reveal that there was no legal bar to the young lovers marrying. In Dickens he would have been called something like Mr Cheerybumble.

�My dear Mrs Seddon, how very nice to see you,� he said, all bustling bonhomie. �Now do please take a seat. Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea or something?�

She asked for coffee, which was ordered over the quaint intercom system, and waited to see what happened next. Carole had worked out her plan of campaign and intended to stick to it. The speed with which the senior partner had suddenly become available for their meeting suggested he had an agenda, arising from her mention of the Pillars of Sussex and Nigel Ackford. At some point he was bound to bring the subject back to that, so all she had to do was pursue the legal enquiry which was the pretext for her presence.

Pleasantries about the good April weather and winter really being over and the nice view of the sea from his office took them as far as the delivery of the coffee � and some iced biscuits, which Carole refused. The girl from reception acted as waitress. When she was gone, Donald Chew beamed magnanimously and asked, �So, Mrs Seddon . . . how can I help you?�

She described the circumstances of her son announcing his engagement � �Oh, how delightful, what splendid news for you� � and the thought of changing her will to benefit her potential grandchildren rather than Stephen himself. She didn�t give the idea its proper attribution to David, but since Donald Chew neither knew nor was ever likely to meet her ex-husband, this did not seem unreasonable.

�Well, that is an increasingly popular course for people to take, Mrs Seddon � and a very practical one. None of us wants to pay two sets of Inheritance Tax, do we? And given the value of property these days, many more people are becoming liable for Inheritance Tax. The only caution I would offer is that it�s important that all parties know what�s going on. There could be unfortunate reactions if, say, your son was unaware of your plans and had been counting on a personal legacy at such a time as � unfortunately, but inevitably � you should reach the end of your natural span.�

�You mean when I die?�

With the very tiniest wince at her indelicacy, the solicitor acknowledged this was indeed what he meant.

�Well, don�t worry about that, Mr Chew. I would certainly not consider taking such a step without discussing it with my son. In fact, I�m meeting him and his fianc�e �� she still didn�t feel natural with the word � �for lunch this Sunday, so that will give me the perfect opportunity to raise the matter with him.�

�Excellent, excellent. I�m sorry, but I did have to mention the point, to avoid any misunderstanding.�

�There won�t be any.�

�Good. Fine. And am I to understand, Mrs Seddon, that you have already made a will?�

She confirmed that she had and slid the copy across the desk. Donald Chew quickly scanned the text. �Well, all seems very straightforward. And that�s the only change you wish to make � to nominate your son�s children as the sole beneficiaries rather than your son � er . . . Stephen � himself?�

�That�s right.�

�Then I think��

He was interrupted by a buzz from the intercom. �Please excuse me, Mrs Seddon. Yes?�

The receptionist�s crackly voice said, �Another call from Mr Floyd at the Fethering Observer, Mr Chew.�

�You know I�m in a meeting.�

�He�s very insistent,� the voice crackled back.

�Say I�ll definitely fix a time to meet him next week. I�ll call back in the next half-hour.� He switched off the intercom and switched on his professional smile. �So sorry, Mrs Seddon. Now where were we? Ah yes . . . nominating your son�s children, right. There are no other personal legacies you wish to make at this point?�

For a brief, insane moment, Carole wanted to leave something to Jude. Nothing big, just a kind of keepsake, to show how much her friendship had been appreciated. But, as soon as she�d had the idea, it felt inappropriate and sentimental. Carole Seddon didn�t do things like that. If Jude wanted to remember her, well and good. There was no need for emotional blackmail.

�No. No personal legacies,� she replied.

�Well, the change will be very straightforward,� Donald Chew announced, prompting the knee-jerk thought in Carole: straightforward, yes, but it�ll still involve me coming back for another meeting and a considerable number of solicitor�s working hours added to your bill.

�What I propose is that I should work out an appropriate form of words and produce a new will document which, maybe if you were to make another appointment for a couple of days� time, you could come in and check over? It goes without saying we could get the will witnessed by members of my staff � unless you wish to have friends do that service for you?�

�No, no. Your staff�d be fine.�

�Good.� He patted his watch-chain with satisfaction and chuckled. �Well, that is, as I believe the young people these days say � �sorted�. If only all of the clients who came into this office had such simple problems to sort out.�

�Thank you very much, Mr Chew.� Carole drained her coffee cup. �Should I make an appointment with your receptionist?� She rose as if to leave, confident that he wouldn�t let her go quite so easily.

He didn�t. �No need to rush away, Mrs Seddon. I always like to get to know a bit about my clients. Not nosiness, you understand � just so that one feels a personal closeness to the people one is representing in a professional capacity.�

�Right.� Carole sank back into her chair, waiting to see what would come next.

�Well, you�re divorced, we�ve established that, and you live in . . .?�

�Fethering.�

�Charming spot, charming spot. And still working?�

Carole gave a brief history of her employment at the Home Office. She knew the solicitor was just playing for time and was interested to see how he�d get round to what he really wanted to talk about.

Not very subtly was the answer. �My receptionist said you had a connection with the Pillars of Sussex, Mrs Seddon.�

�Not a direct connection. Through a friend.�

�Ah. And that was why you contacted our firm?�

�It was the first time I�d needed a solicitor since I moved down here. Someone in London dealt with the conveyancing and what-have-you on the Fethering house. I asked for advice from my friend and got a recommendation for Renton and Chew.�

�Good, good.� But he still didn�t know enough. �And this friend of yours is a member of the Pillars of Sussex, is that right? If so, he must be someone I know.�

�No, not a member. It�s a she.�

He let out a patronizing chuckle. �Oh, then she certainly wouldn�t be. So is she married to a Pillar perhaps?�

�No, no, she just met this young man, called Nigel Ackford �� the name sent a flicker of paleness across the claret face in front of her �� and he said he worked for a solicitor and if she ever needed one, she should get in touch with Renton and Chew.�

�Very gratifying.� But Donald Chew didn�t sound gratified. He looked suddenly less urbane than he had for the rest of their meeting, even perhaps a little confused. Carole could see him evaluating his next move. He had an agenda, she had a feeling it was an agenda which he had been given by someone else. And one of the items on it, she felt sure, was finding out how much she knew.

Carole decided to toss something his way. �My friend said that Nigel Ackford was a great friend of somebody called . . . Bob Hartson?�

�Yes. I�m not sure that �great friend� is quite appropriate, but they knew each other, certainly. Mr Hartson is another client of this firm.�

�Oh, so you deal with the legal side of all his property deals?�

�I suppose that is a way of putting it, yes.�

Carole pushed a bit harder. Retaining a tone of naivety, she continued, �My friend says the Pillars of Sussex is an organization devoted to professional backscratching.�

The description pained Donald Chew. �I think that�s a rather cynical view. The primary purpose of the Pillars is a charitable one. We�ve raised an enormous amount of money in the Sussex area. Recently we�ve been working for a children�s cancer ward at Queen Anne�s Hospital. We�ve raised over a hundred thousand for that � be handing over the cheque at a ceremony next week. If you saw an event like that, you�d perhaps have a more generous view of the Pillars.�

But Carole was not to be won round so easily. �I am afraid I�m always a bit cynical about male-only organizations.�

�Well, you shouldn�t be. Yes, all right, some of the Pillars� activities are strictly men-only.� He let out a bluff, masculine laugh. �And we probably do drink more than we should at our dinners. But our womenfolk are involved too.�

�Oh?� Carole didn�t like the concept of �womenfolk�, with its implication that the females belonged to a different tribe.

�The November dinner,� Donald Chew went on, �is always a ladies� night, for wives, girlfriends and �� he chuckled �� other women in relationships we don�t delve into too deeply. And some of the fund-raising events are organized by the womenfolk. My wife Brenda�s very active for the Pillars. You should talk to her. That�d change your image of the society.�

�Perhaps I should.�

�You could actually help her too. Right now she�s organizing an auction of promises for the Pillars. Happening Saturday week. Brenda�s taken too much on herself, as usual, so she�s in need of willing helpers.�

�But don�t the willing helpers all have to be wives of Pillars of Sussex members?�

He pooh-poohed the idea. �Good heavens, no. As long as they don�t mind a bit of hard work � that�s all that matters.� So while for the men, membership of the Pillars of Sussex was an essential passport to their rituals, �womenfolk� didn�t have to pass any tests to be entitled to do the boring bits.

�As I say, have a word with Brenda. We�re in the book. Only three Chews in the local directory, and we�re the East Preston ones.�

�Perhaps I will.�

�She�ll put you right. Whatever image we may have locally, there�s nothing sinister about the Pillars of Sussex.�

�But don�t you think any society that�s secretive is bound to get that sort of reputation?�

The solicitor shrugged. �Maybe. Like the Masons, I suppose. They�ve had their share of bad press. But there�s no basis for those kind of allegations about the Pillars of Sussex.�

�So it�s not true that a lot of deals get made at the society�s dinners?�

�Certainly not. The dinners are social functions � just opportunities for like-minded people to get together and relax over good food and good wine.� He was now positively Pickwickian in his innocence.

�I see,� said Carole, apparently retreating. �My friend must�ve got the wrong end of the stick.�

�Yes, I�m rather afraid she has.�

�Oh, well. Perhaps I�d better be off.�

Again she made as if to leave, but again the solicitor detained her. Whatever information he had been delegated to extract, he hadn�t got it yet.

�Mrs Seddon,� he began, with an attempt at casualness, �You said your friend knew of some connection between Nigel Ackford and the Pillars of Sussex?�

�Well, yes. He told her he was going to some Pillars of Sussex dinner, so he must have been a member and��

�No, no, Mrs. Seddon. He was a guest, not a member.�

She shrugged, deliberately provocative. �Same difference, isn�t it?�

�Certainly not.� He was, as she had intended him to be, affronted. Edging a little closer to what he wanted to find out, Donald Chew went on, �Did you actually meet Nigel Ackford?�

�No,� she replied, honestly.

�Mm . . . the fact is � this is rather awkward, Mrs Seddon. You haven�t heard anything recently about Nigel Ackford, have you?�

�No,� she replied, dishonestly.

�Well, I�m afraid I have rather bad news about the poor young man. He is no longer with us.�

�I�m sorry?�

�He�s dead, Mrs Seddon.�

�Oh dear. He was very young.�

�Not even thirty.�

�Poor boy. And may I ask, Mr Chew, how did he die?�

The solicitor smiled a smile of avuncular solicitude. �I�m afraid I don�t know, Mrs Seddon. But I�m sure we�ll hear in time. Maybe at the funeral, which, of course, as his employer, I will attend.� Donald Chew sighed at the unfairness of life. �It�s very sad. Why should someone so young suddenly die?�

Why indeed? thought Carole.

After her lavish lunch with Suzy Longthorne, the last thing Jude really felt like was fish pie, but she didn�t want to offend the cook in Carole, so she did her best with her piled plateful. The new bottle of Chardonnay helped maintain the comforting haze which had been engendered by the lunchtime�s Sauvignon Blanc. She was excited too, and although Carole wanted to talk about her meeting with Donald Chew, Jude was full of what she had learned from Suzy.

�Rick Hendry was actually staying at the hotel that night! Well, not at the hotel � in Suzy�s barn conversion behind the hotel.�

�Why? Surely they�re not back together again?�

�No. It was just Rick living up to his image as the meanest man in rock. He�d been in Brighton doing auditions for his Pop Crop show, and he wanted to save on accommodation costs, so a free bed at his ex-wife�s place sounded like a good idea. But at least that explains it, doesn�t it?�

�Explains what?� asked Carole a little testily. She was miffed that Jude�s news had taken priority over hers.

�Explains the way Suzy�s clammed up over what happened. A death in the hotel would be bad enough publicity, but if it got out that Rick Hendry was on the premises at the time, the tabloids�d be all over her. I can see the headlines now � �TV�s Mr Nasty in Death Riddle at Ex-wife�s Hotel.��

Carole tapped her chin thoughtfully. �You said the chef told you he was there?�

�That�s right. Max.�

�I wonder who else knew.�

�What are you thinking?�

�Just that you said the girl Kerry was terribly keen on the idea of a career as a pop singer � or whatever they call themselves nowadays. And Rick Hendry�s television show is very influential in launching young singers� careers.�

�I see. Yes.� Jude nodded. �Bit of a coincidence. If Kerry did know he was there, she wouldn�t have missed the opportunity to introduce herself. She�s not lacking in self-confidence, that kid. And, actually,� she remembered, �Max said something about taking her to an audition in Brighton.�

�Maybe you should ask her about it.�

�Don�t worry. I will.� Jude forked the remainder of her fish pie to the side of her plate. She really had tried, but after that lunch . . . She avoided Carole�s reproachful eye, as she went on, �Still, it makes me feel better about Suzy.�

�What does? I�m sorry. What do you mean?�

�Well, as you know, she�s one of my oldest friends� � Carole nodded curt acknowledgment of this fact � �and I hated the idea she was lying to me, or holding out on me, so Rick�s presence does at least explain her behaviour.� The lines around the brown eyes tightened with frustration. �But I�ve thought it through from every angle, and I still can�t see how Rick being there can have had any connection to Nigel Ackford�s death.�

�No, of course it can�t. That�s to do with the Pillars of Sussex. Some internal feud or argument there.�

�I�m afraid you�re right.� Jude looked wistful. �We�re never going to find a connection between Rick Hendry and those wretched Pillars.�

�No.�

Jude shook herself out of introspection and looked her friend straight in the eye. �So tell me about your meeting with Donald Chew.�

Which Carole did. And Jude heard how the Pillars of Sussex were now even covering up the fact that Nigel had died by suicide. Let alone murder.

�Well, they can�t keep that up for ever. The adjourned inquest will happen at some point. The press�re going to get hold of the story then.� The pile of blonded hair shook gloomily. �Unless of course the coroner is a Pillar of Sussex, or the local newspaper proprietor is, and he�s given his reporters instructions to stay away.�

�I don�t think that�d be possible,� said Carole, with the authority of her Home Office experience.

�Hm. I like the idea of a conspiracy theory better.�

�Well, according to Donald Chew, you shouldn�t entertain any such thoughts. He kept insisting that there�s nothing sinister about the Pillars of Sussex. Just a charitable organization with purely philanthropic intentions.� Carole chuckled at the idea as she said, �He was even trying to get me to help his wife with some fund-raiser they�re doing.�

Jude started at her friend. �Well?�

�Well what?�

�Carole, what are you waiting for?�

�Jude?�

�Yes.�

She had instantly recognized the voice at the end of the line, but made him go through the process of identifying himself. �Rick Hendry.�

�Two calls so close from a major celebrity. How exciting.�

He ignored her sardonic tone. �Listen, I know you had lunch with Suze.�

�Impossible to have secrets these days, isn�t it?�

�Well, I like to think it is.� Once again he deepened his voice to concentrate his charm; once again, to her annoyance, a part of her responded. �That�s really what I�d like to talk to you about, Jude.�

�Talk away.�

�No, not on the phone. I�d like us to meet.�

�Why?

�Because I think we have mutual interests.�

�Suzy?�

�Suzy�s one of them. And Suzy not getting hurt is another.�

�Keep going.�

�The rest can wait until we meet. Tomorrow morning all right for you?�

�Possibly.�

He ignored the wariness in her response and gave her the address of a hotel conference suite in Brighton. �Eleven o�clock. Ask for me.�

Jude was annoyed she�d let herself be steamrollered, but pleased the meeting had been set up. Rick Hendry had known she�d say yes, partly because she was in the course of an investigation, but also because women rarely said no to him. His arrogance about his magnetism had some justification, and that annoyed Jude even more.

Rick Hendry had aged since Jude last saw him in the flesh, but he had aged sensibly. The long permed hair had been abandoned as soon as Zedrach-Kona split up in the early eighties, and he�d opted for a short crop, which had become more fashionable over the years and still looked smart now the blackness was dusted with grey. His wardrobe had changed as well. Gone were the romantic frilled shirts, the heavy brocades and velvets that would not have been out of place in an upholstery catalogue. In their place came a lot of grey: shirts in stone and slate, charcoal jackets and trousers. The only remaining concession to the dandy was his pair of trademark black cowboy boots.

Rick had dealt with advancing years more gracefully than many of his contemporaries; no straggly pony tails or white-flecked stubble for him. Whenever re-forming Zedrach-Kona for a final bank raid of a tour was mooted � as it frequently was � people asked Rick Hendry whether he would grow his hair long again to recapture the band�s former glamour. He never gave a straight answer to the question, though he had long ago decided he would have wigs made. Nor, in spite of pleas from other band members, would he commit himself to when the group would re-form. His former colleagues had been less shrewd with their money; for them a revival tour was a necessity; for Rick, with his canny investments and his reinvention as a television personality and producer, it was a pension, waiting to be taken when he decided that the time was right.

Rick Hendry had no sagging jowls or beer-gut either. He�d taken care of his body and was still as thin as a whip. Though the rock publicity machine had blown up the mandatory debaucheries of Zedrach-Kona, Rick himself had only dabbled lightly with drugs and alcohol. A control freak by nature, he disliked anything that limited his command of himself or his circumstances. So, all the time he was encouraging the press to run stories about cocaine-fuelled post-concert orgies and the other excesses necessary for a rock star image, he had kept himself almost entirely clean.

Rick Hendry was a businessman. He would have made a fortune in whatever industry he�d chosen. But, as a young man, he�d seen rock music as his most promising opening.

He smiled when Jude was ushered into the office. His was a big smile, much caricatured in the music press. The teeth had always been too bulky for his mouth and expensive cosmetic dentistry had ensured that their makeover was exactly like the original � though now with an unnatural whiteness. The famous smile deepened the grooves of his facial muscles.

�Long time no see. Take a seat.�

She knew that was all he would offer. No peck on the cheek, certainly no refreshment. Other men might have conducted this interview over lunch, or at least a cup of coffee, but Rick Hendry lived up to his legendary parsimony. The room chosen for the meeting was anonymous, just another conference suite in a town whose main business was conferences.

Why hadn�t he made more effort, Jude thought with annoyance. He�d initiated the meeting, and she�d made her way there on the train from Fethering at a time that fitted in with his schedule. But he was the supplicant. He was the one who wanted something. (Well, actually, Jude wanted something too, but he wasn�t to know that.) Rick had known she would turn up, exactly when and where he specified. The infuriating thing was that his confidence had proved justified. There she was.

�Great to see you, Jude.�

�And you, Rick. What brings you to Brighton?�

�Work, of course. It�s always work. The way the Pop Crop thing has taken off is just out of this world. Broadcaster wants a new series almost before the last one�s finished. So I�m here auditioning the young hopefuls.�

�Female young hopefuls or male young hopefuls?�

He gave her a sharp look, suspicious she was referring to the tabloid allegations. Jude kept the stare of her brown eyes steady, and he backed off. �Both. I make and break boy bands and girl bands indiscriminately. Have you seen the show, by the way, Jude?�

She shook her head. �Not for me, I�m afraid. Unlike most of the viewing public, I�ve never confused humiliation with entertainment.�

He didn�t take the criticism personally, just smiled one of his big smiles. �You�re right, of course. I�m constantly amazed that �ordinary people� still put themselves up for this garbage. They should have seen enough of the programmes to know that everyone who�s on them ends up getting stuffed. Any television producer with half a brain in an editing channel can make a �member of the public� look stupid. But still they turn up � each one presumably convinced they can break the sequence, that their natural personality will shine through, that they�ll become stars. They�re wrong �� another big smile �� but don�t tell them. I�m making a lot of money out of them being wrong.�

�But some of the ones who�ve been through Pop Crop must�ve had talent. I read somewhere they�ve had number-one records.�

A cynical laugh. �Talent and number ones don�t have a lot to do with each other. The Pop Crop kids have done well just because of the promotion and coverage they�ve got. Give the same amount of airtime to a choir of donkeys with sore throats and they�ll go to the top of the charts.�

Jude couldn�t help admiring his candour. With a journalist, he�d have been extolling his programme�s encouragement of new talent, its achievements in giving young people hope and aspirations, its contribution to the nation�s cultural heritage. With her, he cut the bullshit.

There was a tap on the door; it opened. A purple-haired girl in T-shirt and jeans pointed to her watch. Rick Hendry nodded. The door closed.

Jude got in first. �Better move on to what you wanted to say.�

�Yeah. It�s still about that night you talked to Suze about.�

�Tuesday last week.�

�Right. Gather you know I was there.�

�Max Townley the chef told me.�

Rick gave a little nod, as if that confirmed his conjecture. �Listen, Jude, it�s very important no one else knows about that.�

�Why? There doesn�t seem to have been any publicity about that solicitor�s death. So you can�t use your previous line about protecting Suzy and the hotel.�

�I�m not so sure that��

�So is it maybe you who needs protection, Rick?�

�Not protection. I just don�t need publicity at the minute.�

�Because of these allegations about you and underage girls?�

He was angry, but contained himself. �That was a load of baseless tabloid garbage!�

�Anyway, how does Suzy have anything to do with that? She�s hardly an underage girl. In fact, I�d have thought the news that you�d spent a night under the same roof as your ex-wife could do your image a lot of good at the moment.�

�Jude, just take my word for it � my presence at the hotel has to be kept a secret.�

�OK, I�m not about to rush to the press with the news. That�s not the sort of thing I do.�

�And you�re not about to rush to the press with news about that boy�s death?�

�No, of course I�m not.�

�And you�re going to stop snooping round trying to find out how he died?�

He�d gone too far there. Firmly, Jude shook her head. �I�m going to find out everything I can about that.�

�But you mustn�t! You can�t!� For the first time in their conversation Rick Hendry lost his cool.

�I don�t see why you�re so worried,� said Jude evenly. �You didn�t have anything to do with it, did you?�

�Of course I didn�t. I never even met the guy. Or any of the other Pillocks of Sussex or whatever they�re called.� It was the same name Max Townley had used for them. Jude wondered whether it was more than coincidence. �Except Bob Hartson, of course.�

�Oh, you know Bob Hartson?�

�Not know well. I�ve met him at the odd charity do.�

�I see.� So at least there was some connection between the worlds of the pop impresario and the Pillars of Sussex. �You still haven�t told me, Rick, why what I�m doing frightens you so much.�

�I�m not frightened.� But he sounded at least anxious. �I just know how out of hand publicity can get. News of a murder at a hotel owned by Suzy Longthorne would get all those scavengers licking their chops. Then, if they found out that I�d actually been on the premises when it happened.�

There was another tap at the door. �I�m bloody coming!� he screamed. The door didn�t open.

�You used the word �murder�, Rick,� said Jude coolly. �I thought there was general agreement that Nigel Ackford committed suicide.�

�I used the word �murder� because that�s what you seem to think it was. And if you go on snooping around, other people will start using it. Which will be extraordinarily bad news for Suze and for me.�

�You still haven�t given me a good reason to stop �snooping�, as you call it. In fact, the more you go on about it, the more I get the feeling you have something to hide.�

He shrugged, and sighed. The anger was back under control. �I�m not going to convince you, am I, Jude?�

�Not unless you give me a reason, no, Rick.�

�If I said for the sake of your friendship to Suzy?�

�You�ve already said that. My friendship with Suzy is fine, even though I know she�s holding out on me just as much as you are.�

He stood up, apparently defeated. �I�m going to have to get back.�

Jude rose too. �It�s been good to see you. Though I don�t know why you bothered to drag me over here. This conversation doesn�t seem to have advanced much from the ones we had on the phone.�

�No.� He gave her the big, toothy smile again. All friends, it seemed to say. �Incidentally, Jude, I gather from Suze that you first thought the boy had been murdered because of something he said to you the night he died.�

�That�s right.�

�And, since then, have you found out anything else that has confirmed your suspicions?�

Jude was forced to admit that she hadn�t much more corroboration. �Only the fact that everyone involved in the case seems desperate to hush it up.�

Her answer apparently relieved him. �Yeah. Well, like I say, nobody likes bad publicity.� He paused for a moment, then turned the beam of his smiling charm on her. �Nothing I can do to make you lay off, is there, Jude?�

�What do you mean?�

He made a wide, slack gesture with his hands. �Might be something you need. Few people have got everything they need these days, have they?�

Jude couldn�t believe what she was hearing. �Are you trying to bribe me, Rick? Are you offering me money?�

�Needn�t be money.� He shrugged. �I�m lucky enough to be able to organize most things people might want.�

�Like what?� asked Jude, still incredulous. �An appearance in the starting line-up for Pop Crop?�

The speed and violence of his reaction amazed her. Suddenly he was close to her, his hand on the scarf around her neck. Then he seemed to remind himself of who he was, where he was, and what he was doing. He relaxed his grip and stepped backwards, manufacturing a little laugh. �No, Pop Crop�s all above board. No cheating or unfair influence allowed there. The auditions are sacrosanct.� Still trying to lighten the atmosphere, he went on, �Besides, we haven�t quite got to your generation of singers yet.�

A very tentative tap on the door sounded. �This time I must go.� He opened the door. �See you, Jude.� And he was gone.

Leaving her with more questions than answers.

The biggest question being � why had he asked her to meet him? As she walked back through the anonymous carpeted corridors to the hotel�s main reception, Jude went through their conversation in detail. And the question that seemed most important to her was Rick�s asking whether she had any new evidence to support the theory that Nigel Ackford had been murdered.

She could be wrong, but Jude got the feeling he�d been trying to find out how much she knew.

They certainly did a good Sunday lunch at Hopwicke Country House Hotel. Like everything Suzy Longthorne arranged on the premises, the meal was traditional, but with a few extras that distinguished it from the run-of-the-mill. So, yes, it was roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and vegetables, but each component was special. The meat had been selected from one particular farm in Scotland. The pudding batter contained a couple of secret ingredients known only to Max Townley. The roast potatoes were crisped to perfection, animated with the occasional surprise of a few sweet potatoes. The range of vegetables, and the way their tastes complemented each other, provided their own private gastronomic experience. The gravy was rich and thick, and the Hopwicke House home-made mustard (available in jars for purchase at reception) was to die for.

Stephen had ordered a wonderfully robust St Emilion to accompany the food and, in his practised perusal of the wine list, had shown an expertise which his mother would never have suspected. Carole wondered if he had always had an interest in fine wines, or whether this was a new skill born of his relationship with Gaby. And, once again, she felt guilty for not knowing the answer. Was it her fault she and Stephen seemed so far apart?

In physical appearance there was no doubt about their being related. Stephen had inherited his mother�s angularity, and had the same pale blue eyes. Like her, he had needed glasses from an early age and, after a flirtation with contact lenses in his twenties, had now reverted to them. That he sported rimless ones was a point of fashion rather than a homage to her own, but Carole could see how much they increased the likeness between them. And the fact that Stephen�s hair was prematurely greying only accentuated it.

Whether he was similar in personality, Carole realized with a shock, was another important detail she didn�t really know. Wouldn�t it be shaming to have to ask his fianc�e what her son was really like?

Because there was no doubt that Gaby seemed to know Stephen really well. Carole had had no idea what to expect from her potential daughter-in-law, and had been seriously anxious about the encounter. Indeed, she�d woken at three and stayed awake for a couple of hours that morning, something that had rarely happened since the worst stage of her break-up with David.

If forced to put a face to Gaby before they met, Carole would probably have opted for an older version of Kerry. All she knew of her son�s choice was the implication of money � the parents� spending summers in the South of France, the casual booking into Hopwicke House. The image that had formed in Carole Seddon�s prejudiced mind was of a spoilt trust-fund baby, someone who worked more for social convenience than financial necessity.

She certainly wasn�t expecting the plumpish, bubble-haired blonde with the comfortable body and broad smile who greeted her in the Hopwicke House bar. Nor was she expecting to be greeted with a warm hug. The embrace took her by surprise, and she responded like a stick insect.

The first good news, though, was that Gaby was undoubtedly English. Carole tried, without success, to stop herself from feeling a politically incorrect glee at this discovery.

She had expected the young couple would be drinking deterrently fashionable cocktails, but they were both on white wine, so she ordered the same. While Stephen went to the counter to get her drink, Gaby gestured to their elegant surroundings. �Fabulous place, isn�t it? Wonderful to see how the other half lives. I told Stephen it was daft to spend this much on a weekend, but you know what he�s like.�

And again Carole didn�t.

What became clear during their conversation in the bar, and later in the dining room, was that Gaby didn�t have private money. In fact, the rich one in the partnership was Stephen. Carole had known he was doing well at whatever it was he did, but she hadn�t realized quite how well. In a couple of hours, his fianc�e told her more about her son�s current life than she had ever known. Or perhaps had ever thought to ask.

Carole was also comforted to discover that Gaby was bored to tears when Stephen talked about his work. So it wasn�t just her. Even better, Gaby didn�t understand what he did either. Carole realized her image of her son had been coloured by this. Since there were so many subjects off-limits in their occasional conversations � subjects like David, Stephen�s childhood, Carole�s banal daily life in Fethering � she had allowed her son to go on about his work in exhaustive detail. At least the subject was a safe one. But by making him talk about other things, Gaby revealed a whole new side to her fianc�, a side hitherto unknown to his mother.

To Carole�s amazement, she discovered her son could actually be quite funny. He had a disposition towards pomposity which she had always accepted as part of his personality, but Gaby constantly punctured that self-importance. And Stephen took it from her, with good humour, even relish.

The proscription on talking about his work also revealed that Stephen Seddon had a whole repertoire of other topics for conversation, most of which � to his mother�s total surprise � were related to the arts. This was down to Gaby�s influence. The �agency� she worked for, which Carole had assumed to be something to do with the world of finance, turned out to be a theatrical one. She represented actors, of both genders. (She explained to Carole, amid some giggling, that the word �actress� had become very d�mod� in these politically correct times. Now there were male actors and female actors.) As a result, most of Gaby�s evenings were spent crossing the country to see clients or potential clients in theatres and ever more unlikely fringe venues. Whenever possible, Stephen accompanied her.

This was Carole�s biggest surprise in a day of surprises. Apart from a couple of early attempts on her part to take him to pantomimes, her son had never shown even the mildest interest in the theatre. He was marginally more likely to go to a cinema, but even that hadn�t happened very often. So to hear him discussing the latest offerings from the National Theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Company was, for Carole, like being introduced to someone she had never met before.

Apart from the theatre, there was of course another topic of conversation. The wedding. Needless to say, Gaby did most of the talking on the subject, but Carole had been unprepared for the enthusiasm with which Stephen contributed his own views. She was also surprised to discover how little advanced the plans for September the fourteenth were. The young couple hadn�t even got a venue sorted yet.

�But won�t you be getting married from your parents� house?� asked Carole, who knew the conventions in these matters.

Gaby grimaced. �Wouldn�t work. They�ve only just moved to this little flat in Harlow.�

Harlow. Essex, thought Carole, with all the prejudice a middle-class person in West Sussex automatically feels at the mention of that county, reckoned by everyone � except those who live there � to be the �commonest� in England.

So what was all this about Gaby�s parents spending their summers in the South of France? Even as the question came into Carole�s mind, her potential daughter-in-law answered it for her. �Also, Mum�d flap terribly about organizing a wedding. She and Dad always go to France in August, which is when the arrangements would be busiest. It�s my gran, you see. Grandm�re. Mum�s mum. She�s in a home out there, bit gaga, but they always go and visit.�

Oh. So Gaby wasn�t completely English. Carole comforted herself with the thought that, on first meeting her, nobody would ever know it.

�Where are you thinking of getting married then? Somewhere in London?�

Gaby gave a large expressive shrug which, now Carole knew her provenance, looked distinctly Gallic. �Don�t know.�

�But we�ve got to sort it out quickly,� said Stephen.

�I know that, darling. But it�s difficult, isn�t it, Carole, when you don�t have any faith? I mean, I totally lost it with Catholicism in my teens, and Stephen�s told me he was brought up without anything in the way of religion.�

Carole was a bit miffed. Was that the impression her son had given? Though Carole herself had never since her teens believed in any kind of god, she still put �Church of England� in the box marked �Religion� on forms. Stephen had been christened, and he�d had to undergo school assemblies with prayers and hymns. The way Gaby described it made Stephen�s upbringing sound godless.

But Carole suppressed such thoughts and asked, �So what are you going to do?�

Another � very definitely Gallic � shrug. �Find somewhere we like, set up the wedding there.�

�What about here?� Rather daringly, Carole gestured round the dining room.

Her son looked puzzled.

�They do weddings here, I know. Suzy Longthorne told me.�

�Is she the dishy one?�

�That�s right. She owns the place.�

�And seems to be doing most of the work.�

Carole had been too preoccupied with her lunching companions to notice before, but Stephen was right. Suzy Longthorne was doing everything in the dining room, with the help of only two waitresses. All the tables were full, and the various courses were arriving on time, but at the cost of a lot of hard work. Perspiration shone through Suzy�s perfect make-up as she scuttled back and forth to the kitchen.

Idly, Carole wondered what had happened to Kerry. The Sunday before, she remembered, Jude had said the girl was to have lunch with her parents. Maybe the relaxed terms of employment her stepfather had organized for her gave her every Sunday off.

And if Kerry was unavailable, why hadn�t another emergency call gone out to Jude to come in and help with the waitressing?

Carole tuned back in to the conversation between her son and his fianc�e about the possible merits of Hopwicke House as a wedding venue. They seemed surprisingly keen on the idea, and Carole began to question her wisdom in suggesting it. If the wedding was right on her doorstep, she�d be bound to get involved in local arrangements. Better somewhere distant, anonymous, where she would have independence, where she could just turn up for the ceremony and leave as soon as she wanted to. But she couldn�t deny that the thought of her son�s wedding being at Hopwicke House did give her a little buzz of excitement.

At the end of the lunch, after lingering over their coffee, Carole insisted that it was her treat. Stephen demurred, saying the suggestion had been his and everything would go on the one bill, but his mother stood her ground. She was so delighted to have met Gaby, she would like to buy them lunch as an early engagement present. On his own, Stephen would have dug his toes in, but Gaby�s presence rendered him gracious. With a shrug and a smile, he accepted Carole�s largesse.

They said goodbye in the hall. Stephen and Gaby announced they were going to have a walk and would collect coats from their room. But the eye contact between them suggested that was not at all what they intended to do when they got back to the four-poster. Carole realized she wasn�t at all embarrassed by the blatant lust she saw in the young couple�s eyes; she found it heart-warming.

After they had gone upstairs, she settled the bill with Suzy Longthorne at the reception desk. Carole had never in her life paid half as much for a meal for three, but she didn�t mind. Such gestures were rare, not because she was ungenerous, but because she didn�t feel at ease with the flamboyance generosity usually required. Paying for this lunch, though, made her feel good, even gracious.

Suzy Longthorne presented her customary polished exterior, but she looked absolutely exhausted.

�That was a terrific lunch,� said Carole. �You were a bit short-staffed, weren�t you?�

The hotelier did not take this as a criticism. She just grimaced and said, �Couple of people let me down at the last moment.�

�Surprised you didn�t ask my friend Jude.�

�Oh, I did, but she couldn�t make it.�

�Ah.� Carole took the proffered credit card slip and, enjoying her new mastery of the grand gesture, added a tip that would have covered a meal for three at the Crown and Anchor.

Carole Seddon drove the Renault back to Fethering in a haze of well-being. The most remarkable thing had happened. She found that she actually liked her son�s fianc�e.

And, through Gaby, she saw the prospect of getting to know � and like � Stephen.

�I don�t suppose,� said Carole, as she served coffee to Jude on Monday morning, �that you can think of any promises?�

�Promises? Sorry, you�ve lost me.�

�For this auction of promises thing. I want to get back in touch with Sandra Hartson � you know, Kerry�s mother � and I feel I need an excuse. If I had a promise to offer her, she wouldn�t be suspicious.�

�What kind of promises are they?�

�Weeks at Spanish villas, weekends at hotels, dinners for two � all the kind of stuff the well-heeled middle classes value.�

�Forget it. Unless someone fancies an afternoon for one at Woodside Cottage.�

�Oh, and services.�

�Like what?�

�Facials, hairdos � usual stuff.�

�Hm.� Unconsciously Jude�s plump hand played with a hanging tendril of blonde hair. �I suppose I could offer a balancing session.�

�Balancing session?� Carole was constantly surprised by her neighbour�s new skills. Had Jude spent some time working in a garage? �What, for the wheels of their cars, because most of them have got these huge big off-road vehicles with��

�No, Carole, no. Balancing their bodies, their personalities.�

�Oh.� The voice went frosty. This sounded like more of Jude�s New Age healing nonsense.

�You�d be surprised how much take-up you�d get for it. Particularly from the women.�

�But these are women who spend all their time tanning themselves and playing geriatric golf. I suppose they might want to get balanced to improve their swings, but that�s the only��

�Well, if you don�t like the balancing idea, I could offer kinesiology.�

Carole looked blank.

�Kinesiology is a natural health care system, based on muscle testing . . .�

�Ah.�

�. . . to analyse minor functional imbalances.�

�Right.�

�It�s a holistic system which uses massage, nutrition and contact points to balance the whole person.�

Carole nodded, but her face remained blank. �And you say the �womenfolk�,� Caroline winced at the word, �of the Pillars of Sussex will go for it?�

�I�m sure they will.�

�Well . . .� Carole wasn�t convinced, but at least she had something to offer Sandra Hartson as an excuse for getting in touch with her.

�Why do you want to talk to Sandra, anyway?� asked Jude. �Have you got some new line on the investigation you�re not sharing with me?�

�Of course not.� Though making a breakthrough on her own did have an undeniable appeal. �I�ve just a feeling that if we�re going to find out more about that night at the hotel, using any contacts we�ve got with the Pillars of Sussex is going to be a good idea.�

�I agree.�

�And the wives � or should I say �womenfolk� � are part of that communication system. Brenda Chew, Sandra Hartson � Bob Hartson is a very powerful man.�

�Oh yes.�

�I�m sure if anything odd has been going on in the Pillars of Sussex, he�d know about it.�

�And Kerry knows more about that night than she�s letting on. I�m going to get back in touch with her.�

�Through the hotel?�

�No, directly.� Jude remembered something and tapped her fingers on her chin. �Mind you, I am going to talk to Suzy. Find out why the hell she lied about calling me yesterday morning. She really is behaving very strangely.�

Their plans for the next stage of the investigation were just about in place when the phone rang. Carole answered it.

�It�s all right,� a conspiratorial voice whispered. �I�m calling on my mobile from the garden shed.�

She�d completely forgotten the existence of Barry Stilwell.

�I rang to say congratulations.�

�What for?� Kerry Hartson sounded suspicious. Why was Jude, whom she only knew vaguely, ringing her again?

�Congratulations on getting the Pop Crop audition.�

�Oh, yeah, well, thanks. It�s a big opportunity for me, and I�m determined to do my absolute best. I�m really going for it.�

Instantly the girl had dropped into interview mode. Jude could picture her, sitting in her flat in Brighton, looking at the sea and indulging the fantasy of the television crew around her, the fawning presenter asking about her next single. She could even imagine Kerry tidying up her sitting room, in case the interviewers arrived unannounced. The prospect of fame could have a wonderful effect on the domestic habits of teenagers.

�You heard from Suzy, I suppose?� the girl went on.

Jude saw no reason to contradict her. �She said you were going to stop working at the hotel.�

�Yeah, well, that was like only work experience, but I don�t reckon I�m going to end up in hotels. Obviously, now Pop Crop�s come up, well, I�ve got to, like, really go for it, haven�t I?�

Still in interview mode. Jude wondered whether Kerry would repeat herself as much in a real interview, and decided the answer was probably yes.

Time for a change of tack. Time to find out where Kerry really was on the night of Nigel Ackford�s death. When last asked the question, she had claimed to be drinking whisky in her father�s room. Bob Hartson had supported that, and had claimed Barry Stilwell as a witness. Somebody had been lying, though, and, determined to find out who, Jude spelled out to Kerry the inadequacy of her alibi.

The girl was thrown. �Look, why�re you on about this again? I�ll have to tell Dad you�ve been asking.�

If that was meant to be a threat, the words had no effect on Jude. �Fine. But you answer me first.�

�I don�t have to.� Archetypal adolescent defiance.

�No, you don�t have to, but if you don�t, I will know for definite that you have something to hide.�

There was a silence while Kerry took in the logic of this. Then she asserted, �I haven�t got anything to hide. I did go up to Dad�s room, like I said, and drank a bit of whisky with him��

�Just the two of you?�

�No,� she snapped. �There was someone else there.�

�Barry Stilwell says he was there, but he says you weren�t.�

�Well, I wasn�t there all the time. I just had a drink and left them to it.�

�So where did you go then?�

�I went to bed.�

�You weren�t in your room when I turned in round three.�

�No, I was� It was later than that when I left Dad�s room.�

�Your father said you left about two.�

�Yes, well . . .� She was really floundering now. �Dad�s never got a good sense of time, and when he�s been at the booze . . .�

�That doesn�t sound very convincing to me, Kerry.�

�It�s the truth. Ask that solicitor.�

�Barry Stilwell? The one who first of all said he was with your dad, but you weren�t there, and then changed his tune and suddenly remembered you had been there? I don�t think he�s a very reliable witness. In fact, I�ve a feeling Barry Stilwell will say anything your father tells him to say.�

Kerry Hartson might have been expected to pick up on this criticism of her precious father, but she didn�t. Instead, she spoke as if new light had come flooding into her life. �Of course, I�ve got it. The reason we�re getting all mixed up over this.�

�Oh?� asked Jude cynically. �And what is that?�

�It�s Dad.� The girl chuckled. �He�s always had this dreadful thing with names � mixes people up. He said the solicitor was with us, right?�

�Yes. Barry Stilwell.�

�But that�s it, you see, it wasn�t Barry Stilwell in the room with us while we were drinking the whisky.�

�Then who was it?�

�Dad�s own solicitor. Mr Chew.�

�Donald Chew?�

�That�s right. Yes.�

Jude reckoned a long time had passed since she had heard quite such a preposterous lie, but she let it pass, thanked the girl for clearing the matter up, and moved on. �Going back to the Pop Crop thing.�

�Yeah. Exciting, isn�t it?� And then, as if the words hadn�t been said enough, �I�m really going to go for it.�

�Good for you. And you got it by doing an audition in Brighton?�

�Sure. There were a lot of people, but I thought if I, like, gave it my best shot � really went for it � well . . . And it turned out OK.�

�And you were auditioned by Rick Hendry?�

�Right.� A note of caution had come into the girl�s voice.

�Was that the first time you�d met him?�

�What do you mean?�

�I mean, was the audition the first time you met Rick Hendry? Or had you met him before up at the hotel?�

�No,� said Kerry Hartson. �First time I met him was at the audition.�

But she sounded as guilty as hell. Jude wondered how soon after putting the phone down on their call, Kerry would be ringing her stepfather.

Carole�s second appointment with Donald Chew was the following afternoon, but before revising her will she went for coffee at Woodside Cottage, and she and Jade pooled their new information.

�What seems to be happening,� said Jude, �is that the divergent elements of the case are drawing together. For a long time we couldn�t find a single connection between the world of Rick Hendry and the world of the Pillars of Sussex, but now we�re spoilt for choice.�

�Yes. I can�t imagine what pressure was put on him to take on this auctioneering job.�

�From what I know of Rick, it must have been pretty strong. He�s never been known for his charity works. Having long pockets is part of the image he�s so carefully built up. He deliberately refused to take part in the Live Aid recording, regularly refuses to have anything to do with Children in Need, Red Nose Day and all those other telethons. So the idea of him turning out for the Pillars of Sussex . . . somebody�s twisted his arm pretty hard.�

�Suzy?�

�I doubt it.�

�Well, maybe you could ask her?�

Jude grimaced. �She�s trying to freeze me out at the moment. Doesn�t want to talk to me.�

�Is that permanent?�

The narrow thread of jealousy in Carole�s nature meant she couldn�t help hoping the answer would be yes, but Jude shrugged off the suggestion. �No We�ve been friends for too long for anything like that to be permanent.�

�Oh,� said Carole.

�Anyway, you will talk to Donald Chew about the alibi he�s supposed to be providing for Kerry?�

�I don�t quite know how easy it�ll be to bring the conversation round to that.�

�Won�t be a problem, Carole. He�ll probably volunteer the information. I�m sure the Pillars of Sussex grapevine has been busy overnight. Bob Hartson will know that his daughter�s changed her story, and the damage limitation work will be well under way.�

�All right. I�ll do my best.�

�Meanwhile I�m going to recontact Wendy Fullerton � you know, Nigel Ackford�s on-off girlfriend. There may be something else she can tell me about his background.�

�Might be useful, yes.� But Carole didn�t sound very convinced. What we really still need is a timetable of the movements of everyone in the hotel that night.�

�And in Suzy�s house as well.�

�And don�t let�s forget the stable block � the staff quarters. How many potential murderers have we got in there?�

�Me?� Jude suggested. �Kerry � Max � Ooh, and of course, Bob Hartson�s driver, Geoff.�

�Is he in the frame then?�

�Wish he was,� said Jude wistfully. �But Inspector Goodchild seemed to rule him out. Anyway, Geoff wouldn�t have had a key to the hotel and, according to Max, he was snoring away in his bedroom after the kitchen door was locked.�

�Which was before Nigel Ackford was killed.�

�Yes.�

�Max could have been lying,� Carole suggested.

�He could have been. He�s lied about plenty of other things. But we don�t know for sure, do we? Frustrating business, solving murder mysteries, isn�t it?�

�Mm.� Carole picked up her handbag in a determined fashion. �Well, let�s see what I can find out this afternoon from my friendly local solicitor.�

The revised will was on Donald Chew�s desk when Carole was ushered into his office. She reflected rather sourly that the document could have been on his desk by the end of their previous meeting. A few sentences added to a standard form and the job was done. The inventions of word-processing, faxes and email must have reduced the workload of solicitors enormously. But respect for �the law�s delay� was one of the foundations of their professional principles � and certainly of their fee structure. So, in a provincial practice like Renton and Chew, everything had to take a long time, and all communications be sent by post.

After another bonhomous Dickensian welcome and an accepted offer of coffee, Donald Chew asked her to �run her eye� over the will and check it was now in the form she wished. (If it wasn�t, the document would no doubt be removed for the lengthy changing of a couple of words and another appointment be made for a further meeting.)

Having scrutinized the insertions and then, as a double-check, read through the whole will, Carole agreed that the changes had been made according to her instructions. Since that was the moment her coffee arrived, Donald Chew suggested that, if she were happy about the arrangement, Carole�s signature could be witnessed straight away by himself and his receptionist.

Their business was done. Carole could think of no pretext on which she could extend the encounter, but she did not need to. Donald Chew seemed happy � even keen � to talk further. This could have been part of his usual professional manner, but she had a feeling he had an agenda to elicit information from her, or to impart some to her. So she was content to let his pleasantries unroll.

�Delighted you got in touch with Brenda,� he began. �She�s always so pleased to have extra helpers� � he chuckled � �though often she has to end up doing a lot of things herself.� Decades of marriage had taught Donald Chew the party line on his wife�s perpetual martyrdom.

�Well, anything I can do to help. It�s in a good cause.�

�Oh yes. And Brenda was very grateful for the promise you organized. What was it . . . callanetics?�

�Kinesiology.�

�Ah,� he said with a masculine chuckle. �Something for the ladies, anyway.�

�No. In fact, kinesiology is a highly respected natural health care system.� What on earth was happening? Carole Seddon defending alternative therapies?

�I�m sure. Anyway, very grateful to you for organizing it. And will you be at the auction of promises itself, Mrs Seddon?�

Carole hadn�t entirely decided about this, but she thought she probably should be. A hundred and fifty pounds was a huge amount to shell out for what would most likely be an uncongenial evening, but contact with Hopwicke Country House Hotel remained important. And if, as it seemed, Jude was temporarily persona non grata there . . .

�Yes, I would like to. The trouble is, I don�t know anyone��

�Nonsense. You know Brenda. Have a word with her. She�ll see you�re put on our table.� He decided this was perhaps more than he could promise on his wife�s behalf. �Or at least on a table with a nice bunch of people.�

�I�ll give her a call about it.�

�Good. Good.� He looked out at the sea through his office window. �Never tire of that view, you know. Lovely, isn�t it? The sea. Never still, always changing.�

This moment of poetry from the solicitor was unexpected, until Carole realized he was just playing for time. Donald Chew was tense. There was something he needed to say to her, and he was having difficulty getting round to it.

She agreed the view was lovely, and waited.

�You remember last time you were here, Mrs Seddon . . . we discussed the young man who used to work here. Nigel Ackford, you know, who was up at the hotel.�

�Oh yes,� Carole recalled, as if she hadn�t heard the name since Donald Chew last mentioned it.

�There was an announcement of his death in the Fethering Observer.�

�Really? I haven�t seen it yet.�

�No mention of the cause of death.�

�Presumably there�ll be an inquest?�

�There has been a preliminary one; adjourned until there�s more evidence,� said the solicitor, confirming what Jude had heard from Inspector Goodchild. �Postmortems, that kind of thing I suppose.�

�Yes.�

Donald Chew sighed wearily. �I feel rather bad about it.�

�Why?�

�Well, because I was actually at the hotel the night he died. You know, you always have the feeling perhaps there was something you could have done. Probably not true, but . . . And those Pillars of Sussex dinners can get a bit rowdy and I�m afraid too much gets drunk and . . . I don�t know. Always a tendency to feel guilty after someone�s died. I�m sure I�ll get over it.�

Carole felt certain he had not yet unburdened himself of everything he needed to, and sure enough, after a silence, Donald Chew continued, his eyes still fixed on the sea. �I suppose I feel guilty because I�d drunk more than I intended that evening. In fact, I�d intended to drink virtually nothing, but . . . the road to hell and all that.�

Carole let him run on. �I even went on drinking after we�d left the bar. Bob Hartson offered to share a bottle of whisky with me up in his room, and I�m afraid I succumbed to that temptation too. Must have been up there for an hour, drinking with Bob � and his daughter Kerry. Goodness, for a child of her age, can she put the drink away?� He chuckled, but still hadn�t finished what he had to say. �So, do you know, it was about quarter past three by the time I actually fell into my bed. Bob and I staggered downstairs to say goodnight to Kerry. She had a room in the stable block out the back, staff quarters, same place the chef and Bob�s chauffeur spent the night. And then I tottered off to bed.�

He shook his head; his eyes were full of self-loathing. �Dear oh dear. Don�t we ever learn? Why is alcohol so seductive while we�re drinking the stuff, and why does it make us feel so � uncomfortable afterwards.� He had nearly let out a stronger adjective, but bowdlerized for Carole�s benefit.

From that point the conversation moved away from Nigel Ackford. Donald Chew talked further about the auction of promises. Carole said how much she was looking forward to it. Their meeting ended with great apparent cordiality.

And it left Carole feeling exactly as Jude had felt after her conversation with Max Townley in the Crown and Anchor. Someone was very deliberately orchestrating the alibis of the people present at Hopwicke House on the night Nigel Ackford died.

Jude had just parted from Carole and entered Woodside Cottage when her mobile rang. �It�s Wendy Fullerton.�

�Oh, hello. How are you?�

�Fine,� the girl said shortly. She didn�t want to dwell on how she was. �Listen, you know you asked me to ring if anything else came up about Nigel.�

�Yes?�

�Well, there is something. I don�t know whether it�s important or not, but it�s . . . odd. I don�t know if you remember, but I was using Nigel�s mobile.�

Jude had forgotten, but said, �Yes.�

�His latest bill arrived yesterday. He must�ve given a change of address to the phone company when he moved in with me, and then forgotten to say he�d moved out, and then of course . . .�

The sentence died away, and Jude was aware of the tension in the girl�s manner. �So what�s odd about it, Wendy? Presumably you opened the bill?�

�Yes. Like I said, I�d been using the phone, so a lot of the calls � particularly the later ones � were mine, but it was the ones before that seemed odd.�

She ran out of steam again. �How, odd?� Jude prompted.

�In the itemized listing there were some numbers I recognized. A lot of calls to me obviously, and some to Renton and Chew and . . .�

�Yes?�

Wendy Fullerton took the bull by the horns. �There were also a lot to a number I didn�t recognize.�

�A local number?�

�Yes. 01903 prefix. I just�� She was getting quite emotional now. �It�s not a number I know and��

�You haven�t rung it, have you, Wendy?�

�No, I kind of want to, but . . .�

Jude understood completely. Wendy Fullerton had taken comfort in the news that Nigel Ackford had wanted to marry her. Maybe the knowledge was helping her cope with the complexities of bereavement. Now she was faced with the evidence, from his telephone bill, that Nigel had been ringing someone else a lot in the last weeks of his life. Wendy�s comforting image was threatened. Maybe she wasn�t the woman he had loved.

�What you�re asking,� said Jude softly, �is whether I�ll call the number for you and find out who all the calls were to?�

�Yes.� The girl�s relief was almost palpable. �If you wouldn�t mind?�

�Of course I wouldn�t. Give me the number.� Jude wrote it down on the back of a shopping receipt. �And I�d better take your mobile number too. That is, presumably you do want me to let you know who it is?� There was a pained silence from the other end. �Even if the news, from your point of view, is bad?�

Wendy Fullerton summoned up her courage. �Yes. Whoever it is, let me know.�

Jude would have made the call straight away, had the sound of a car stopping not drawn her to the front window. A smart new BMW Mini had parked outside Woodside Cottage, and out of it, elegant in burgundy silk shirt and white jeans, stepped Suzy Longthorne.

Carole Seddon really resented having paid out a hundred and fifty pounds to attend the Pillars of Sussex Auction of Promises. At that price, she thought bitterly, I hope I at least find something that�s relevant to the investigation. As it turned out, she got rather more than she had bargained for.

None of the attendees at the auction would be staying overnight at the hotel. Not that the Pillars of Sussex intended to drink any less than was their custom, but on this occasion they had their womenfolk with them. And, among that class and that generation, one of the marriage vows taken by wives was to drink less than their menfolk at social events, and to drive them home.

Brenda Chew had asked her �little group of helpers� to arrive at six, though the pre-dinner drinks were not scheduled to start until seven-thirty. The early call was avowedly �so we can double-check everything�s all right�, though, in fact, it was so that Brenda could reiterate to her helpers how much hard work she�d put into organizing the event, but how she didn�t mind at all, she was used to it.

She was also very concerned with the stage management of her bouquet � at exactly what point in the evening it should be presented to her, and who would say the few words about �the infinitely dependable Brenda Chew, who has worked far beyond the call of duty to make this event such a success, and without whom nothing on the fund-raising side of the Pillars of Sussex�s work would ever happen.�

Since, however, the presentation was meant to be a surprise about which she knew nothing, getting her anxiety across with regard to the bouquet was quite a challenge, but a challenge Brenda Chew met with consummate skill born of long practice. Indeed, the finesse with which she managed to make her points without actually mentioning the word �bouquet� might well form the basis for a long-running Radio 4 panel game.

In spite of their rapprochement, Suzy had not called on Jude to help out with the event, but, working with waitress staff Carole had not seen before, the hotelier had yet again transformed the dining room into a magnificent venue. From a centrepiece on each table swirled a display of greenery intertwined with ribbons picking up the colours of the Pillars of Sussex tie. As well as a thick menu, at each place-setting stood a stout auction catalogue with the association�s insignia embossed on the front. Beneath this crest, given appropriate star billing, was printed the name of the evening�s auctioneer.

Carole flicked through and found the promise of �A two-hour session of kinesiology given by a well-known professional practitioner.� So Brenda had decided that the attraction of the package would not be augmented by the addition of Jude�s name.

By a quarter to seven, there was nothing left for Carole to do. All possible double-checking had been double-checked, and Brenda Chew was engaged in indicating to Sandra Hartson and some other helpers the best curtain behind which her bouquet should be hidden. As soon as the week for two in the Hartson�s Spanish villa had been knocked down by the auctioneer, that would be the ideal cue for the flowers to be produced. If Rick Hendry could be persuaded to make the presentation himself, that would also be ideal. Since Brenda was still abiding by the rule of not mentioning the word �bouquet�, explaining all this was a complicated procedure.

Carole drifted through to the bar, to find Donald Chew, dressed in a dinner jacket that knew his contours well, sitting there with a glass of whisky in his hand. No surprise, really. Daft to bring two cars and, since Brenda had to be there at six, her husband would have had to tag along. Donald could always be relied on to kill a bit of time with a glass in his hand.

The way he greeted Carole suggested the drink wasn�t his first of the day. He rose unsteadily and enveloped her in a whisky-hazed hug. �My dear Mrs Seddon, wasn�t expecting to see you here, though now I come to think of it, entirely logical you should be since you�ve been helping Brenda on the . . . Amazing how much she gets done, Brenda, isn�t it?� Long habit still did not allow him to mention his wife without an accolade to her remarkable industry, but the words sounded less than heartfelt.

Carole sat down, and Donald subsided with relief back into his chair. �Will you have something to drink? Only have to ask the lovely Suzy and . . .�

�No, thank you. I�m sure there�ll be plenty of drinking later on.� Carole was very good about alcohol when she was driving. (She had actually been very good about alcohol when she wasn�t driving � until she met Jude.) Like the rest of the womenfolk, she would be restricting her intake that evening.

Still, she had a perfect opportunity to start getting her hundred and fifty pounds� worth. Jude had filled her in on the truncated conversation with Karl Floyd, which raised some potentially interesting speculations about Nigel Ackford�s private life. And here was Carole fortuitously sitting next to the young man�s boss.

�Mr Chew . . .�

�Oh, please, call me Donald,� he said expansively. �Out of the office. This is a social meeting, not a professional one.�

�Very well. Then you�d better call me Carole.�

�I would be honoured to, Carole.� Still very much the conventional gentleman of the old school. And yet there was something else in Donald Chew, something else beneath his bonhomous exterior. Carole had been aware of it on their other meetings, but never so strongly. The drink seemed to have weakened his facade, and what showed through looked very much like pain. Carole found herself wondering what life was really like inside the Chews� marriage. Why had they not had children? Why was Brenda so obsessively busy all the time? Why was she constantly seeking approval? And, come to that, why did her husband drink so much?

As if prompted by her thought, the suspicious face of Brenda Chew suddenly poked round the dining-room door. �Donald, I�m not going to warn you again. If you�re drunk tonight, I don�t want you with me.�

The face vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Donald Chew�s jaw fell and into the embarrassed vacuum Carole easily dropped a change of subject. �Donald, I�d like to talk a bit more about Nigel Ackford.�

But it wasn�t the right subject. The claret-coloured face clouded instantly. �There�s not much purpose in that, Carole. Nigel�s death was very sad, a tragedy for one so young, but I don�t really think we should dwell on it. Time to move on. Apart from anything else, I seem to remember you saying you�d never met him.�

�That�s true, but my friend did.�

Donald Chew sighed ingenuously. �I don�t honestly think I have anything more to say about Nigel Ackford.�

Carole took a risk. �You wouldn�t by any chance know about a note that was found in his room at the hotel?�

The solicitor looked very alarmed. �What do you mean?�

His reaction was sufficient for her to persevere. �A note was found in the four-poster room early on the evening of the dinner. It read:

Rather than cranking up his anxiety, to Carole�s surprise, this seemed to relax Donald Chew. �Oh yes.� he smiled. �I left that for him.�

�But why?�

�To wish him luck for the evening.�

His response sounded innocent, but Carole had to say, �It doesn�t sound like a good-luck wish.�

He sighed. �Nigel and I had argued about a lot of things � professional things � he had all kinds of misplaced scruples about our work. He didn�t seem to understand how necessary solicitors are for the smooth-running of life and society, he didn�t realize how much good we do. I tried to persuade him, and engineered his introduction to the Pillars of Sussex. It was a terrific opportunity for someone his age. So I left him the note. He knew what it meant. Enjoy yourself, join in, don�t get on your high horse about ethics. If you don�t do as I suggest, I said � then this is the last Pillars of Sussex evening you�ll ever attend.�

�Oh.� Carole was utterly deflated. The explanation sounded all too credible. Had Jude over-dramatized once again?

�Did you tell the police about the note, Donald?�

�Of course I didn�t. Given the way the night ended, I wasn�t going to volunteer the fact that I�d been up to his room.�

�The room must�ve been locked. How did you get the letter in?�

�Pushed it under the door. I was only wishing him luck, for heaven�s sake. There was nothing sinister about it.�

�Did you know it was Kerry Hartson who found the note?�

�No, I didn�t.�

�Or that later that night it disappeared?�

�No.�

The openness of his reply suggested that Donald Chew was probably telling the truth. Time to move on. �I was wondering,� she said, �about Nigel Ackford�s private life.�

The solicitor spread his hands wide. �Who can say? These young people, they don�t get married early like my generation did. Goodness knows what they get up to.�

�But do you happen to know what Nigel himself got up to?�

A shake of the head. �Not really. Some talk of a girlfriend at some stage.� His words were slurring badly now. As his wife had feared, Donald Chew was already very drunk. �W-working in a building society or something � I never met her.�

�But, Donald, you knew him well.�

�Just in the way a boss knows an employee.�

�Did you ever hear any suggestion � or get any impression that Nigel Ackford might have been gay?�

�Gay?� The word went through him like an electric shock.

�Yes. Homosexual.�

�Why would I know about that?� he asked in a state of panic.

�Because you worked with him.�

�No. I don�t think . . . No, there was nothing of that. You�ve got the wrong end of the stick.� He lumbered to his feet. �Excuse me, I must � sorry. Call of nature.�

And he stumbled out of the bar.

To Carole�s relief, Brenda Chew had not sat her at the same table as Barry and Pomme Stilwell. Throughout a whole dinner, the humour of his discomfiture might have palled.

Although she wasn�t feeling at ease, Carole could recognize what a good dinner Max Townley had supplied. The Pillars of Sussex had conventional tastes, but, as with the Sunday lunch, the chef had worked subtle refinements on the traditional. Whether he had the personality to project himself on television Carole did not know, but his cooking skills were certainly up to the mark.

She had been put at the same table as the Chews, though only Brenda was in evidence. At the beginning of the meal, she had said, with what sounded like callous disregard, �Oh, Donald has probably dozed off somewhere. Don�t worry, he�ll turn up.� And that was the last time he had been mentioned. Though his chair remained empty, no one else on the table thought this worthy of remark, and his wife hadn�t time to worry about him. She was too occupied buzzing from table to table, �double-checking� and demonstrating how much hard work she was putting into the evening.

The other couples at her table didn�t do a lot for Carole. When introduced to the editor of the Fethering Observer, she was hopeful of his having fascinating �stories behind the news� to share, but he proved an extremely dull dog, only interested in counting down the days to his imminent retirement and a life of uninterrupted sea fishing.

Then there were a Mr and Mrs Goodchild � Carole didn�t catch their first names. He was a tall man, apparently a police officer, whose talk was all about golf.

Another couple were very excited about the preparations for their daughter�s wedding, and, once she�d established that her son was also getting married, Carole managed a bit of conversation with them. But the incredibly detailed knowledge they could bring to the subject of their daughter�s plans only made her realize again how marginalized she was in the lives of Stephen and Gaby.

One thing Carole had made a point of finding out was the timetable for the evening�s proceedings. She had done her own bit of double-checking with Brenda Chew, and established that, when the coffee arrived, an announcement of a ten-minute �comfort break� would be made and, at the end of that, the auction would begin.

Carole, who had a lifelong aversion to queuing for the Ladies�, prudently decided to take the moment of finishing her dessert as a cue to leave the dining room and cross the hall. Which should ensure she reached the limited toilet facilities � only two cubicles in the Ladies� � before the rush.

So, as she put the last spoonful of Max�s summer pudding (not exactly the right season, but an ambrosial taste) into her mouth, Carole looked around the room to see if anyone else had anticipated her plan.

Things looked good. Donald Chew�s seat was still empty. So was Kerry�s, but while his wife looked quietly on, Bob Hartson was regaling his table with some loud anecdote. All of the other Pillars� womenfolk were in their seats. Rick Hendry was out of the room, and so was Suzy, the latter no doubt directing operations in the kitchen.

The moment was right. Even if Kerry had gone to the Ladies�, there would still be one empty cubicle. Carole dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, picked up her handbag and discreetly left the dining room.

The minute she was in the hall, she saw there was something different. The door opposite the bar, which she had never really noticed before, was open.

Carole moved across to the entrance, and looked down.

The cellar light had not been switched on, but enough illumination spilled from the hall chandelier to illuminate the steep steps.

At the bottom of them lay an inert body. The bald head identified it as that of Donald Chew.

Carole Seddon�s upbringing did not allow her to make a habit of arriving unannounced on people�s doorsteps at half-past ten at night. But this was an exceptional occasion. The lights were still on in Woodside Cottage. And Jude was her friend, for heaven�s sake.

The white wine was open almost before she�d finished announcing Donald Chew�s death.

�What happened, Carole? Was the word �murder� mentioned?�

�Certainly not. Nor suicide. Plenty of talk of a tragic accident, mind. There was a police inspector there. He took charge of things. Called Goodchild.�

�Tall man, rather smooth?�

�Yes,� agreed Carole, surprised.

�He was the one who investigated Nigel Ackford�s death. Came and talked to me.� Jude looked thoughtful. �So he actually is a Pillar of Sussex . . .�

�Don�t know that for sure. He could have been someone�s guest. All the members were being encouraged to drum up support from their friends.�

�But at least he�s close to the Pillars of Sussex.�

�Yes. Everyone seems to be. The editor of the Fethering Observer was at my table too, which might explain the minimal coverage the paper gave to Nigel Ackford�s death.�

�I wouldn�t be surprised if the same thing happens with Donald Chew.�

�Not so sure, Jude. He was a respected local figure, a pillar of the local community as well as a Pillar of Sussex. I should think there�d be a big spread about him.�

�Yes, but I wouldn�t be surprised if the exact circumstances of his death were glossed over. �Following a tragic accident . . .�, that kind of thing.�

�Probably.�

�Did Inspector Goodchild actually talk to you, Carole? Or to anyone else?�

�No. He called out the local police, and said that if further investigations were required, he�d be in touch with us. He had a copy of the guest list and contact numbers.�

�But he can�t just leave it like that,� Jude protested. �A suspicious death � the second suspicious death at Hopwicke House � can�t just be shuffled under the carpet.�

�There wasn�t any suggestion it would be. As I say, everyone was talking about an accident.�

�It couldn�t have been an accident. That cellar door is always kept locked.�

Carole shook her head. �Usually it is. But Suzy had left it open tonight. Because of the large party in the dining room she was expecting extra bottles might have to be brought up at some point.�

Jude looked disappointed. �So, for those who go with the �tragic accident� scenario, what�s supposed to have happened?�

�All right.� Carole spelled out the Pillars of Sussex�s consensus. �Donald Chew was very drunk. I can vouch for that. I talked to him in the bar before the reception and he was well away.�

�Did he say anything of interest � I mean anything useful to our investigation?�

�Well . . .� Carole�s thin nose wrinkled as she tried to concentrate. Death had upstaged her memories of the conversation in the bar. �Oh yes. He did explain the threatening note.� She repeated what Donald Chew had told her, concluding, with a rueful nod, �And it all sounds quite feasible. So at least we know where that note appeared from.�

�Yes. But we don�t know where it disappeared to.�

�What do you mean, Jude?�

�Remember, it vanished from Suzy�s apron in the kitchen. Someone must�ve taken it.�

�Oh yes,� Carole agreed thoughtfully.

Jude moved on. �Anyway, don�t let�s bother about that for the time being. You were saying Donald Chew was pretty drunk before the dinner?�

�Yes. His wife Brenda had spotted the signs and told him if he couldn�t behave, she didn�t want him around to spoil her big evening. Apparently her acting like that was not uncommon. The Pillars of Sussex seemed to find the spats in their marriage rather an amusing spectator sport. So the theory is that Donald, knowing how drunk he was and not wishing to provoke the wrath of Brenda, went off and fell asleep in the residents� lounge. Apparently he drops off to sleep quite easily, particularly when he�s in his cups.

�Then, the theory goes, Donald wakes up and he�s desperate for another drink. The dinner�s in full swing, he knows better than to antagonize his wife, the bar can be seen from the dining room, so the only source of booze he can think of is the cellar. He finds the door open, starts down the steps, loses his footing in his inebriated state and lands head first on the stone floor. End of story � and end of solicitor.�

�And it was definitely the fall that killed him?�

Carole shrugged. �Who knows for certain until his body�s been examined by a police surgeon? But among the Pillars that was the general assumption.�

�So how did they react?�

�With remarkably little emotion, really. The only surprise seemed to be that something like that hadn�t happened to Donald Chew before. They all knew he had a big drink problem.�

�Any individuals react strangely?�

Carole shook her head. �No. Well, one or two seemed quite relieved that the evening had been broken up. They�d managed to eat their gourmet dinner, and weren�t going to have to sit through the auction of promises.�

�Yes, I�m quite relieved that no one�s going to take me up on my two-hour kinesiology session.�

�I thought you were properly qualified,� said Carole, affronted.

�I am. But it�s a long time since I�ve practised. I�m a bit rusty.� She smiled for a second, then turned serious. �What about Brenda Chew? Was she devastated?�

�She was, yes.� Carole shook her head in disbelief. �But not because her husband was dead. The way she reacted, you�d think Donald had engineered his death deliberately to scupper the auction of promises � on which she had worked so far beyond the call of duty. Strange . . . Probably it was a shock reaction, and she will mourn him in time � but this evening all that seemed to upset her was the fact that she wasn�t going to be presented with her bouquet.�

�Huh.�

�Still, at least she will have another event to organize � where once again she can complain that nobody else pulls their weight.�

�What�s that?�

�Donald�s funeral.�

�Thanks, Carole. Very tasteful.�

Their glasses had mysteriously become empty. Jude refilled them in silence. Then she said, �I�m assuming we don�t accept the accident verdict?�

Carole was more cautious. �Well, it is possible.�

�Come on.�

�Oh, very well. No, we don�t.�

�And, putting the suicide verdict on one side for the moment � if it was murder, who could have done it?�

�You mean who wasn�t in the dining room during the dinner?�

�Exactly.�

�Obviously the hotel staff were in and out. I hadn�t seen any of the waitresses before.�

�Let�s forget them then � concentrate on the people who were also in the hotel on the night of the first death.�

�All right. Well, your friend Suzy Longthorne was in and out of the dining room all evening, Max was presumably in the kitchen � Ooh, and I noticed when I left to go to the loo, just before I found the body, Rick Hendry wasn�t in his seat either.�

�But Bob Hartson was?�

�Yes, definitely.� As Carole pictured the scene, another recollection came back to her. �Though Kerry wasn�t.�

�Any idea where she was?�

�No. Maybe she was in the Ladies�, but I didn�t see her come out. I mean, as soon as I�d looked down in the cellar and seen the body, I went and found Suzy in the kitchen. Then she told Inspector Goodchild. Quite honestly, from that point everything got chaotic. Kerry and Rick Hendry both reappeared, but I haven�t a clue where they came from.�

Jude circled a thoughtful finger around the top of her wineglass. �I�m sorry Bob Hartson isn�t in the frame. I�d been moving towards casting him in the role of murderer.�

�He could have murdered Nigel Ackford. There�s no way he had anything to do with Donald Chew.�

�Pity.�

�I suppose it�s possible that the two deaths are unconnected?�

This tentative suggestion was immediately blown away. �Do you really believe that?�

�No,� Carole admitted. �They�re connected.�

The task was not one Jude relished, but she knew she had to do it. And not on the phone; this had to be face to face.

At least she had an excuse. Her promise to contact Wendy Fullerton was overdue. She left a message on the girl�s mobile, but got no reply on the Sunday. Wendy rang back the next day from the building society.

She thought it odd and probably ominous that Jude didn�t want to tell her on the phone, but agreed to meet her after work. The rendezvous was a small wine bar behind her office.

Jude got there first and was halfway down a glass of wine by the time Wendy appeared, once again neat in her building society uniform. The girl chose a vodka and tonic, expecting to need bolstering for the news she was about to receive.

�All right, tell me,� she said after she�d taken a long swallow. �Was it another woman?�

�No. It was a man.� But Jude couldn�t allow time for the relief to flood in; she pressed on. �Which means I�ve got to ask you a very awkward question, Wendy.� The girl looked puzzled. �Do you know if Nigel ever had any gay experiences?�

The answer did not come immediately. Wendy looked pale; the idea was clearly not new to her. �I don�t know, Jude. I really don�t. I sometimes wondered. Nigel was certainly screwed up about sex . . . but then he was screwed up about a lot of other things too. I don�t know. I think he really loved me.� She clung to this thought, the last piece of the wreckage left to her.

�I�m not asking out of prurient curiosity. There are two reasons. The first � the man whose mobile he kept ringing. His name was Karl Floyd, by the way � I don�t know if that means anything to you?�

The girl shook her head. �Does sound vaguely familiar, but no, nothing to do with Nigel. He never mentioned anyone called that.�

�And the second reason is that a suggestion has been made that Nigel might have been in a relationship with his boss at work.�

�His boss?� Wendy was incredulous. �You mean Donald Chew?�

�It was suggested.�

�No. Well, I don�t know whether there was any attraction on Donald Chew�s side. I got a general feeling that round the company they thought he was gay, but pretty much still in the closet. Still, the suggestion that he and Nigel�� The idea was too much for her. �No. No.� Though forceful, her reaction was one of logic rather than distaste.

�You said Nigel was screwed up about a lot of things.� Jude prompted gently.

�Yes. I think it was part of the depression. I�ve never been depressed. I�ve been down or miserable � I�m not great at the moment � but I�ve never had it the way he described . . . the sort of self-hatred thing. Sometimes he just worried about everything so much, about who he was, what he was doing, whether he should be doing it.�

�You mean professionally, Wendy?�

�I suppose so, yes. In his work. He did have worries in his work, but I�m sure they had nothing to do with Donald Chew coming on to him. It was more . . .�

�More what?�

�He kept saying he was worried about the ethics of what he was doing.�

Jude smiled. �Unusual for a solicitor to worry about that. But rather heart-warming, I suppose. Was it anything specific? Any particular part of the job � or any particular case that was worrying him?�

�I honestly don�t know. Nigel talked so much about everything, after a time it was difficult to keep up. I remember he kept saying there was nothing illegal. �That�s what so wrong,� he�d say. �No laws are being broken. It�s not illegal.� But it still worried him.�

�You can�t think of any more details?�

Wendy Fullerton gave a rueful shake of her head. �Sorry. He did just go on about it not being illegal. �There should be a big expos�,� he said. �People should know what�s going on� and then he�d go back to the fact that it wasn�t illegal.�

There was a silence. Behind her mask of make-up, the girl was thinking things out. �I�m sure Nigel wasn�t gay. I�m sure, whatever his connection was with this Karl person, it wasn�t that. And he certainly wasn�t in any kind of emotional relationship with Donald Chew.�

She looked at her watch. �Sorry, I must go. Get home, change, put on my make-up. Then go out.�

Jude found it hard to imagine that Wendy Fuller-ton�s face could take any more make-up. �Are you going somewhere nice?�

The girl grimaced. �Oh yes. Very nice restaurant. I�ve been invited out. I�m getting back into the business of dating.�

�Good.�

�I suppose so.� But she didn�t sound convinced. �Has to be done, though. Have to move on. Meet men. Meet the man.� She sighed at the effort of it all, downed the last of her vodka and stood up. �Though at the moment it�s as if I�m just going through the motions.�

As she watched the girl leave, Jude got the feeling that Wendy Fullerton would be going through the motions for a long time yet. Perhaps for the rest of her life.

�I�m beginning to wonder if it all is coincidence,� said Carole grumpily. The crusading hunger she�d felt for the truth when she last spoke to Barry Stilwell seemed to have trickled away. �Suppose everything is exactly as it appears on the surface? Nigel Ackford committed suicide; Donald Chew fell down the cellar stairs by accident.�

�I can�t believe I�m hearing you say this, Carole.�

Carole looked morosely out of the front window of Woodside Cottage, where heavy grey rain fell, matching her mood. �Well, we�ve tried every way to get a logical thread through recent events on the assumption that murder was involved, and we�ve failed dismally. It might make more sense if we took things at face value.�

Jude�s haystack of hair quivered as she vigorously shook her head. �No. There are too many inconsistencies for us to take things at face value. We�ve been treated like the Red Queen in Alice Through the Looking-Glass � been asked to believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast! Think about it.�

�What?� Carole was being deliberately obtuse.

�First, Suzy covers up � not telling the police about the threatening note.�

�Simply to protect the reputation of her hotel.�

�All right. Then Max lets out the fact that Rick Hendry was there that night, and suddenly we have a whole new set of cover-ups. Kerry drinking with her father and Barry Stilwell � later replaced by Donald Chew. Kerry being very happy to tell me that alibi, and the timing happening to coincide with her passing an audition to be in Pop Crop. Max comes back to me and spells out a very detailed scenario which doesn�t allow Kerry to be alone with Rick � and, goodness me, it turns out that Korfilia Productions are going to be promoting Max as a celebrity chef. Don�t you find all that a bit odd, Carole?�

�Yes, all right. Rick Hendry was trying to divert publicity from himself, and using bribes he knew would work with Kerry and Max. But I still can�t find any connection between that and Nigel Ackford�s death. Until he heard about the body in the four-poster room, I doubt whether Rick knew of Nigel�s existence.�

�All right.� Jude sighed. She couldn�t decide whether Carole had genuinely stopped believing in the murder theory, was playing devil�s advocate, or was just being bloody-minded. �Let�s look at it from another angle. The information that Max gave me in the Crown and Anchor � which I don�t believe for a minute was true � established, as you say, that Rick could not have been alone with Kerry, so no one could accuse him of messing about with yet another young girl. But it also established the same for Bob Hartson. He couldn�t have been alone with Kerry either.�

Carole looked alarmed. �What are you suggesting?�

�You know what I�m suggesting. I�ve mentioned it before. Every time I�ve seen Bob Hartson with Kerry, he�s been exceptionally affectionate towards her.� Jude rubbed a rueful hand against her cheek. �He wouldn�t be the first stepfather to have found his stepdaughter more attractive than his new wife.�

Carole remembered Sandra Hartson�s pained look as she had watched her husband and daughter go arm in arm into the hotel bar on Saturday night. �You could be right. So what you�re suggesting, Jude, is that Bob Hartson might have set up Max to give you all that guff?�

�Possible.�

�But if that were the case, Bob Hartson can�t have had anything to do with Nigel�s death.�

�How so?�

�Well, assuming that Bob Hartson is the one who�s been orchestrating the alibis � or at least he knows they are being orchestrated . . . We are assuming that, aren�t we, Jude?�

�All right.�

�Well then, although he�s covered himself with regard to his stepdaughter, he left himself completely without an alibi for the time when the conjectural murder might have taken place. Surely that shows he�s innocent. It never even occurred to him that he might be a suspect. If it had, he�d have covered himself.�

�True.� Jude nodded. �He was awake and inside the hotel, so he could have killed Nigel.�

�The same goes for Donald Chew.�

�Which brings us on to yet another cover-up. All that stuff Barry Stilwell gave you about Donald Chew being gay.�

�I think that could actually have been true.�

�But the idea of him and Nigel having been in a relationship. Having talked to Wendy Fullerton again, I just don�t buy that.�

�No, Jude. Nor do I.�

Jude looked thoughtfully out into the sheeting rain. Forget April showers, this was more like another Deluge. The good people of Fethering would soon be getting out their B&Q cubit measuring tapes and building arks.

�It�s odd,� she said finally. �All these cover-ups and alibis . . . I�m sure they�re being done just for us.�

�Sorry?�

�For our benefit. Nobody else is being given all of this information, because nobody else is interested. Other people either genuinely don�t care, or they recognize the fact that it�s prudent not to care.�

�Where�s this leading you, Jude?�

�Well, we keep being offered scenarios to believe in, and we make it clear we don�t believe in them, and then we�re offered another one. Maybe if we claim to be satisfied with the latest explanation, there won�t be any more of them.�

�So if we let it be known that we believe Nigel Ackford committed suicide because of his difficult relationship with Donald Chew, and Donald Chew topped himself for the same reason, everything�ll go quiet?�

�Might do.�

�And if they think we�ve accepted the explanation,� said Carole excitedly, �they�ll relax, and we�ll be able to continue our investigation without so much interference?�

�What is this investigation?� asked Jude ingenuously. �I didn�t think there was any investigation to be pursued. I thought your view was that it was all coincidence.�

�Oh, shut up,� said Carole.

The lunch at Hopwicke House was part of a day-long seminar given by one of the few companies that still realized the value of lavish corporate entertaining. They were an up-market accountancy firm, whose invitation list had only included people the capture of whose business would justify the outlay. A surprising number of these had agreed to turn up; they hadn�t made their fortunes by failing to recognize the value of a free lunch. Each one of them had arrived determined to make no change to their existing accountancy arrangements. But they were all duly appreciative of Max Townley�s cooking, and listened with apparent interest to the blandishments of the accountants who were trying to ensnare their business.

Because of the tight timetable to which the seminar had been planned, lunch was a relatively short break. Some wine was drunk, but not a great deal. The dining room was clear by two-fifteen; tidying and re-laying for dinner would be complete by quarter to three.

The flat was in the basement of an old white house in Hove. The space had been well designed and renovated, but too long ago. The exposed pine and the low Scandinavian furniture gave a feeling of the early seventies. So did the white emulsion, which had needed repainting for at least a decade. The grey and white striped curtains, bought from Habitat at its peak of trendiness, now had new stripes where the sun had faded them.

The man who let Jude in also seemed to be a relic of an earlier age: jeans, a faded denim shirt tight over his swelling belly and hair cut long in a style that had been fashionable before the hair became white.

�Edward Dukesbury,� he said, and gestured to the crammed cardboard boxes in the middle of the room. �You were lucky to catch me. As you see, I�m moving out shortly.�

�Away from Hove?�

Away from Hove. Away from Sussex. London. I�m afraid this place doesn�t have very happy memories for me.�

Jude did not ask him to elaborate at that point. She was still taking him in, forming her own estimation of the man.

�Do sit down. Can I offer you anything? Coffee, tea, or I�ve got some wine . . .� he offered vaguely.

�No, thank you.� Jude subsided on to a low sofa, which only seemed to promise comfort to those who lay on it horizontally. She perched on the edge of the cushion.

�You said you wanted to talk to me about Nigel.�

�Yes.�

As he lowered himself on to a narrow wooden chair, Jude noticed there was a list on the box in front of him. She saw the words �electricity� and �gas�. No doubt things that had to be done before he left. The handwriting was the same as in the letter she�d seen at Hopwicke House.

�I heard about you through Suzy Longthorne,� Jude volunteered.

Edward Dukesbury shrugged and shook his head. �Sorry, the name doesn�t mean anything to me.�

�What about Rick Hendry, or Bob Hartson?�

�The only Rick Hendry I�ve heard of is the former rock musician, but I�ve never met him. And the other name � sorry, never heard it.�

�What about Donald Chew?�

�I know that was the name of Nigel�s boss at work, but we never met.�

�So you haven�t heard what happened to him?�

�No.� The ignorance in the watery blue eyes appeared genuine. But Edward Dukesbury wasn�t interested in the fate of Donald Chew; he was keen to move on. �You said you wanted to talk to me about Nigel. Did you know him?�

�I met him once. The night before he died.�

�How come?�

�I was working at Hopwicke Country House Hotel.�

�Ah.� The man looked puzzled. �Then I don�t see why . . .�

�I just wanted to be sure that he committed suicide.�

�What?� There was authentic surprise in the voice.

�That there wasn�t some other explanation for his death.�

Edward Dukesbury let out a bitter laugh. �What other explanation could there be? You don�t hang yourself by accident.�

�No. But I thought . . . You knew him well. Perhaps you could tell me why you think he did it.�

For the first time there was wariness in the pale eyes. �Why did you come to me? How did you get my phone number?�

�I happened to see a copy of the letter you wrote to Nigel Ackford the day before he died.�

�Ah.� Her answer satisfied him, and brought a new resignation into his tone. �Are you police? I�ve already talked to Inspector Goodchild. I thought that would be the end of it.�

�No, I�m not police. I�m just interested in what happened.�

Her lack of official authorization didn�t seem to concern him. �Well, since you�re here, ask what you want to ask. Nigel�s dead. Nothing we say can harm him any more.�

�You and he had a relationship?�

Without embarrassment, he replied, �Yes. We were lovers, on and off, for over a year. Nigel had problems with admitting he was gay. He even moved in with a girlfriend to try and cure himself, but it was never going to work.�

�Wendy.�

�That was her name, yes.�

�Did you ever meet her?�

He shook his head.

�Was the sex thing the reason why Nigel killed himself?�

�Part of it. Like a lot of young men, Nigel was uncertain about his own identity. Sexual orientation was part of the problem, but he was also worried about doing the work he was doing.�

�Being a solicitor?�

�Yes.�

�Why, was there something criminal going on at Renton and Chew?�

Another short, bitter laugh. �Not so far as I know. No more than in any other solicitor�s office, I imagine. But Nigel sometimes thought he should be doing something more useful to the world, something that actually did some good. We used to talk about it a lot.�

�Why? Is your work more useful to the world?�

He smiled cynically. �Might be, if I had any work. I�m an architect by training. Was quite successful in the sixties and seventies, but now . . .� He gestured feebly, needing no more explanation than the flat around him. �Trouble is, I started letting my conscience get in the way . . .�

�Oh?�

�Got rather involved in environmental issues. Tried only to do projects that would actually improve the world around us. The nineteen eighties weren�t the best time to have principles like that.�

�But surely the climate�s better now? There�s more awareness of the environmental consequences of development.�

He didn�t look convinced. �There�s a certain amount of lip-service, yes. Projects get stopped because they threaten the habitat of some little-known field mouse. And the big developers go through a major charade of environmental consultation before they submit their plans. Some of them even have their own in-house environmental consultants. But, as ever, there�s a big difference between the plans that are approved and what actually gets built.�

He sighed. �Maybe I�m being too cynical. Maybe, if I was starting out now as a young architect, I�d be full of idealism and the belief that I could actually make changes. And maybe I could. Now, though, at my age � I�m too old and defeated.�

�And that was the kind of subject you and Nigel used to talk about?�

�Yes.�

�Because Renton and Chew works with property developers.�

�I�m sure they do. Anyone in business is going to need contracts sorted out, that kind of thing. There�s always work for solicitors to do.�

�But you say Nigel never worried he was being asked to do anything illegal?�

�No. I think he just thought he�d reached a crossroads in his life. He could hang on to his principles, the kind of ideas I talked to him about, or he could just get on with his career, take the money and close his mind to the consequences. And that was exactly paralleled in his private life. He could ask this Wendy to marry him, and spend the rest of his days pretending to be something he wasn�t � rather as he implied his boss did. What�s his name? Donald Chew, that�s right. Apparently he�s gay, but has maintained the facade of a marriage for a long time. Anyway, those were the pressures Nigel was under. And the fact that he couldn�t cope with those pressures was the reason why he killed himself.�

�Had he talked about suicide to you?�

The white head nodded, and the blue eyes became even more watery. �Yes. He did get bad moods. Well, he was a depressive. I kept telling him to go to his doctor, get professional help, but Nigel could be very stubborn at times.�

Jude stayed perched in silence on the edge of the sofa. Then she asked, �Was the letter you wrote the last communication you had with Nigel?�

�No.� He was almost weeping now. �I wish it had been. I could have done without the phone call.�

�What phone call? When did that happen?�

�The night . . .� Tears trickled down his lined face as he tried to get the words out. �The night he was at the hotel, the night he . . . Nigel phoned me in the small hours. He woke me up.�

�What time would this have been?�

�About four o�clock. I don�t know exactly.�

�And what did he say?�

Again the words didn�t come easily. �That he was going to kill himself. He said he�d just woken up and realized things were never going to get better. He�d made up his mind.�

�But he was incredibly drunk. I don�t think he was capable of��

�I wish you were right, wish he had just passed out that night. But no, Nigel was coherent enough to do what he had to do.�

�Didn�t you think of calling the police?�

�No,� the architect replied flatly. �By the time they got there, it would have been too late. Anyway, if that was what Nigel had decided to do . . . Also, quite honestly, I�ve had enough tangles with authority in my life. When I was growing up, just for me to express my sexuality was illegal. I�ve been through plenty with the police over the years, so after Nigel�s call I didn�t fancy the idea of picking through my most painful emotions with some insensitive flatfoot.�

�But the police did talk to you?�

�Of course they did. They saw the original of the letter that brought you here. There�s no way they weren�t going to talk to me after that. Oh yes, I did my time with Inspector Goodchild. I�d love to have escaped that pleasure, but I didn�t.

�I�m afraid, you see, I�m not one of those people who regards the truth as the most important thing in life. I would say, over the years, I have generally received more comfort from lies. Sorry, not a very public-spirited citizen, am I?�

Jude�s mind was moving fast, trying to find some logical objection to what she had just been told. �The phone call!� She clung to the thought. �If Nigel called you that night, the call would have registered on the Hopwicke House switchboard.�

�He used his mobile.�

He hadn�t got a mobile! He�d given his mobile to Wendy Fullerton! But before she could produce that clinching argument, Jude remembered Wendy saying that Nigel had been planning to buy another. Presumably the new phone was now in the hands of the police, yet another piece of the evidence that would be used to help the coroner arrive at a verdict of death by suicide.

Which was the truth. Jude looked back at her past weeks of speculation and excitement, and could only see the wreckage of her false logic. She had never felt lower.

It was about a quarter to seven when Jude knocked on the door of High Tor, but there was no reply, so she went disconsolately back into Woodside Cottage. She poured a glass of white wine, but forgot about it as she buried herself deep in the draperies of an ancient armchair and gave herself up to gloomy thoughts.

She and Carole had been guilty of breaking one of the most basic rules of investigation: they had ignored the obvious. Once she had found out from Wendy Fullerton that Nigel Ackford had been a depressive, she should have realized that they were on a hiding to nothing. She should have guessed that the police had evidence to justify their ready acceptance of a suicide verdict, and she should have recognized that the many cover-ups she and Carole had encountered were merely symptoms of naturally secretive people trying to avoid damaging publicity for reasons which had nothing to do with their being guilty of murder.

The way she had behaved, in retrospect, appeared naive and melodramatic.

For Jude, who prided herself on her good sense and mental equilibrium, that knowledge hurt deeply. The gloomy thoughts did not lift.

They both had so much to say that it was some time after Jude had opened the door before either of them could hear the other. The Renault was parked directly outside Woodside Cottage. Carole must have been really excited to forgo her customary ritual of putting the car in the High Tor garage.

She managed to get in first with what she had heard from Karl Floyd.

�I thought something like that must have happened,� said Jude.

�There remains some doubt over whether it�s actually illegal, but Karl�s still on the case. He�s got all enthusiastic about it again now. And his boss at the Fethering Observer has definitely gagged him on the story, so he�s convinced there is something to hide. He�s going to open out his investigation to the whole Pillars of Sussex network.�

�Great.�

�I�ve given him your phone numbers as well as mine, so if you get a call from him, you�ll know what it�s about.�

�That�s good, Carole, but listen to what I�ve got.� The defeatist lethargy was gone. Jude�s whole face sparkled with animation. �You know, this man I went to see this afternoon��

�No, I�m sorry, I don�t know what you�re talking about.�

Jude realized she hadn�t spoken to Carole since her emergency summons to the hotel that morning. Briefly she brought her up to date on the letter Suzy Longthorne had shown her, and the subsequent meeting in Hove with Edward Dukesbury.

Then she revealed her new discovery.

�There are details that need checking,� Jude concluded, glowing with excitement, �but I�m sure we�re on to something.�

�Well, you must ring Wendy Fullerton.�

�I know that. I just wish there was some way I could check what I saw on the television. I don�t have any contacts in that world any more.�

�No,� said Carole, with sudden complacency, �but I do.�

�What!� Jude couldn�t have been more surprised if her neighbour had announced she was taking up bungee jumping.

�This is an area in which my future daughter-in-law-to-be could prove very useful indeed.�

She rang Stephen straight away. If he was surprised by a sudden call from his mother asking to speak to Gaby, he disguised the fact. Soon Carole was connected. And yes, Gaby thought she could help. Would be delighted to help. A bit of research on the internet would be required, but it should be possible. She�d ring back. Or, in fact, emailing the results would be simpler.

Jude didn�t use a computer, but she still had the laptop upstairs which had belonged to Laurence Hawker. Within minutes, the machine was switched on and attached to a printer.

Jude rang Wendy Fullerton, and got the information she had hoped for.

Then she and Carole sat and waited. Seeing her still untouched glass, Jude offered Carole a drink. But no, they were both too tense.

After twenty minutes that felt like an hour, Jude had a sudden recollection and found the chambermaids� sheet she had filched from the linen room at Hopwicke House. She checked the bookings through against the Pillars of Sussex guest list she had kept. Her hunch had been right. Jude had just found the confirmation she required, when her land-line rang. It was Gaby, asking to speak to Carole.

Yes, she had found the information and Stephen was emailing it through as she spoke. �Don�t bother to explain, Carole. You�re clearly in a hurry. Tell me about it when we next meet.�

Carole just had time to register the warming thought that they would be meeting again, before she and Jude rushed upstairs to retrieve Gaby�s email.

They were looking at the printout when Jude�s phone rang again.

�Carole? Did you say Carole? Yes, she�s here.�

Jude looked anxious as she passed the phone across. �I don�t know who it is. I can hardly hear what he�s saying.�

Carole couldn�t recognize the voice immediately, there was so much wheezing and groaning. Then she realized it was the young man to whom she�d been speaking only an hour before.

�Karl, what on earth�s the matter?�

�He came round . . .� the boy managed to gasp. �Beat me up. He�s . . . coming round to get you . . .�

As she heard the words, Carole heard a shuddering crash. She and Jude moved to her bedroom window. A large car was parked outside High Tor. And a man was using the garden birdbath to smash down the front door.

�Quick,� hissed Jude. �Into your car! We�ll get away!�

Hopwicke Country House Hotel was just as good at small private parties as it was at larger events. The one laid-up table in the dining room had a cloth of exactly the same colour as the Dolce & Gabbana dress that Kerry had been given by her parents as one of her presents. The table centrepiece was a cake out of whose surface Max Townley had conjured a number sixteen in spun sugar. And the menu had been specially designed according to the birthday girl�s wishes.

The invitation list had been drawn up by her stepfather. He�d booked a London club for the Saturday night party Kerry was going to have with her contemporaries. On the birthday itself he was, as ever, in sole command.

He�d chosen to have an intimate dinner party. Himself, Kerry, her mother, Suzy Longthorne and Rick Hendry. Though the last two did not seek out each other�s company at social events, Bob Hartson knew they�d do it for him. Kerry had wanted Rick Hendry there, so she could discuss her pop career, and Suzy would be on the premises anyway. Since, as well as being involved in a business relationship with him, she was also his friend, Bob Hartson had decided she should be one of the dinner guests. And since she was the hotelier, she could do any serving at table that might be required. Not that there would be much. The menu and wines had been pre-ordered. All Suzy would have to do was collect the dishes from Max in the kitchen and take back the empty ones. Bob Hartson enjoyed having the money and power to lay on nice treats for his stepdaughter.

The party had started with vintage champagne in the bar. Bob Hartson watched with indulgent pride the speed at which Kerry could put her drink away. For as long as he�d had any influence on her, he�d brought her up to relish the good things of life. He luxuriated in the prospect of her attaining pop success, of seeing his stepdaughter�s photograph and lifestyle splashed across celebrity magazines. Bob Hartson liked being in charge. He liked having power over everyone around him. And that evening, in that company, he felt good. He looked round the hotel bar, and every face he saw gave him a good feeling.

Except for the face of the woman who�d just walked in from the hall.

�What the hell are you doing here?�

�Jude.� Suzy had risen to her feet in alarm.

�I had to come,� said her friend. �I owe you an apology, Suzy.�

�What is this?� said Rick Hendry.

Suzy knew his question was directed at her. �I don�t know.�

Jude provided the explanation. �I wanted to apologize not just to you, Suzy, but to anyone else about whom I may have harboured false suspicions.�

�Look,� said Kerry, �this is my birthday party. It�s private. I don�t want it disturbed by��

But a raised hand from Jude silenced her. �I went to see someone this afternoon. An architect called Edward Dukesbury. A former lover of Nigel Ackford. And Edward Dukesbury was good enough to explain to me exactly why that poor young man hanged himself here in the hotel. His explanation was entirely convincing.�

She looked covertly round the room to see if anyone had visibly relaxed at this news. But no, they all stayed tense, as if they were all expecting more.

�So what we were talking about this afternoon, Suzy � whether I�d be satisfied if I was given a reason why Nigel Ackford committed suicide � well, I guess now I have that reason. I should be completely satisfied.�

�Thank God.� Suzy did relax.

�And I would be completely satisfied,� Jude went on, �if I did not know Edward Dukesbury to be a fraud.�

�What?� demanded Sandra Hartson.

�He�s an actor called Lionel Greaves.� There was no point in spelling out to them how she�d recognized the face from the old television show, how Carole had asked Gaby to check out the name, and how Gaby had emailed back a photograph taken from the website of the Spotlight actors� directory.

�A very good try,� Jude went on. �Nearly had me fooled. But I got a break of good luck. So I don�t know who tried to set up that little treat for me . . .� She looked round the room. Suzy would not meet her eye. �Anyway, whichever one of you it was who briefed Lionel Greaves, I should tell you he got one detail wrong. As a clincher on selling me the suicide theory, the so-called Edward Dukesbury told me he�d been woken by a phone call from Nigel Ackford shortly before he killed himself. The young man apparently rang on his mobile � which is strange, because Nigel Ackford didn�t at the time have a mobile. He�d given his to his former girlfriend Wendy Fullerton, and though he�d talked of buying another one, according to Wendy, he hadn�t got round to it. So . . .�

Jude�s brown eyes gave the room another circuit. Suzy still wouldn�t look at her, but none of the others cracked.

Kerry Hartson, though, was annoyed. �Listen, this is my birthday party��

�Ssh!� It was Rick Hendry�s hand that had gone up, and the girl was instantly silent.

He turned to face Jude. The beam of his smile was as big as ever, but there was little warmth in it. �Listen, sweetie. I know you�ve always been a bit flaky. Suze always had some friends who were a few joss-sticks short of a bundle. But I want some explanations. Presumably what you�re talking about makes sense to you, but I got lost a long time ago. Edward Dukesbury � Lionel Whatever � who are these people?�

�Someone here knows very well,� said Jude doggedly. �Or maybe you all do?�

�What do you mean by that?� asked Sandra Hartson.

�I mean I think there�s been collusion between all of you. The efficiency with which Carole and I have been fed ever-changing stories � someone�s been orchestrating that.�

Sandra Hartson still didn�t understand.

�When you�re threatened,� Jude went on, �you all close ranks, just like the Pillars of Sussex.�

�I have nothing to do with the Pillars of Sussex,� Suzy objected.

�Nor do I,� her ex-husband agreed.

�Not directly, no. But you�re all part of the same thing, or you�ve all become part of the same thing.�

�And what�s that?� Sandra Hartson posed the question as if she really did not know the answer. Which she possibly didn�t. Sandra was the only person present Jude reckoned might be genuinely ignorant.

She had their attention, so she started to spell out what Carole had relayed to her. �There�s a journalist called Karl Floyd, who works for the Fethering Observer, and he got rather interested in the business dealings of some of the Pillars of Sussex. All right, low-power threat. Not too dangerous. He could be controlled by his editor who, like so many important people locally, the Pillars had in their pocket. He could be gagged and sacked if necessary. But Karl Floyd was persistent and, once Nigel Ackford started feeding him information about Renton and Chew, he became more of a threat. Still, he hadn�t got much, and if Nigel could be stopped from giving him more, the threat would go away. That, in my view,� said Jude boldly, �is why Nigel Ackford was killed.�

�He wasn�t killed. He committed suicide.� But Suzy no longer sounded as though she believed her own words.

�That wasn�t the end of it, though. Nigel was out of the way, but Karl Floyd wasn�t. And he was persistent. He started working away at a new source of information, someone much higher up in Renton and Chew, Donald Chew himself. And Donald was getting increasingly unreliable. He was getting less cautious about hiding his homosexuality. Maybe he liked the idea of talking to a young male journalist. And he was also drinking more than ever. He was becoming more of a potential liability every day, and life would be a lot easier if he were off the scene, which of course, conveniently, he now is.�

There was a derisive laugh from Rick Hendry. �I�ve heard of conspiracy theories . . . We�re spoilt for them in the rock business. Who sabotaged Buddy Holly�s plane? Did the CIA kill Jimi Hendrix? Who was the actual body in Elvis Presley�s coffin? But yours, Jude, seems to take the biscuit. What is this awful deed that the Pillars of Sussex were perpetrating? And that this intrepid boy reporter was about to unmask. Gun-running? Drugs? Illegal immigrants?�

�Nothing so dramatic as those. And indeed something that may not even be illegal � though it could engender some bad publicity � and I don�t need to tell you, Rick, how nasty that can be. What Karl Floyd was investigating concerns the business practices of Bob Hartson.�

There was no change of expression on the property developer�s corrugated face, though both his wife and stepdaughter looked anxiously towards him.

�As we all know, Mr Hartson, you�ve been very successful.� He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. �You have a vast property empire all along the South Coast. You�re very well in with the local planners and all the other great and good of Sussex.� Still he seemed to think he was being flattered. �And as a result, you have a lot of money to invest in new developments and, on occasions to help out people in trouble.�

Bob Hartson seemed to be enjoying this paean to his success and philanthropy.

�Just as you have helped Suzy here at Hopwicke House.�

As Jude went on, the hotelier gave her a sharp look.

�In his researches, Karl Floyd found out that what you�ve done for Suzy follows a pattern. You look out for businesses in nice old properties or on attractive sites, and you particularly look out for ones that are having financial problems. Then you offer to invest in the properties, help the people out, offer them loans at advantageous rates. All above board, proper contracts sorted out by your friendly solicitors, Renton and Chew.�

Bob Hartson smiled. �You haven�t said anything yet that I wouldn�t be happy to see in the Fethering Observer � or the Sunday Times Business Section, come to that.�

�No, I agree,� said Jude. �You�ve been very supportive to local businesses. It�s when you withdraw the support that�s significant. The contracts Renton and Chew draw up for you have very specific timing clauses, giving you options to pull the plugs whenever you choose.�

Bob Hartson shrugged his large shoulders. �Normal business practice.�

There was the crunch of a large car drawing up on the gravel outside. Jude flinched, recognizing the significance of the sound. But none of the others reacted, so, swallowing down her fear, she continued to outline her argument.

�But, Mr Hartson, it�s striking in how many cases you�ve withdrawn your financial support at a very bad time, and as a result the owners have been forced to sell up, and then � remarkably � their properties have been bought by one of your companies.�

He still couldn�t see anything wrong. �I always offer well over the going rate. Otherwise they wouldn�t sell to me.�

�And then you sit on the properties until your friends in the planning departments get change of use agreed, and you develop them into housing.�

�In exact accordance with current government policy,� said Bob Hartson complacently. �The south-east needs more houses. I bet the prime minister wishes there were more developers like me around.�

�I don�t know. I think the prime minster likes to keep all the power to himself. He might not like you having as much as you do � or indeed the way you use it.�

�How do you mean?�

Surprisingly, the answer came from Suzy. �Like the way you�ve used your power over me! Constantly threatening to take your investment out of Hopwicke House unless I do exactly as you want. Making me take cut-rate bookings for functions like the Pillars of Sussex dinner, so you can show off to your friends!�

Rick Hendry joined in. �And the way you�ve manipulated me! Encouraging me to invest in your companies, then threatening to expose my involvement with you. Constantly asking for favours in return!�

�Favours like getting Kerry through the Pop Crop auditions?� suggested Jude.

�Yes,� said Rick Hendry.

�Oy!� the girl wailed. �That�s not the reason. It�s because I�m good!�

All her idol responded to this was �In your dreams.� Kerry burst into tears.

�Favours like building up Max Townley�s hopes for his television career?� Jude went on.

�Yes,� Rick Hendry admitted. �And the worst of the lot was making me agree to be auctioneer for that bloody auction of promises!�

�I�m not so sure, Rick,� said Jude. �Don�t you think the worst was actually using your showbiz contacts to persuade a beat-up actor like Lionel Greaves to spend a little time in one of Bob Hartson�s unconverted flats in Hove, taking a very small part for a very large amount of money?�

But that was an admission too far for Rick Hendry. He looked bemused. �I don�t know what you�re talking about.�

Kerry Hartson was now weeping bitterly. Her mother leant across to comfort her. But her stepfather was enjoying himself too much to notice. He was positively glowing with confidence.

�I don�t deny anything you�ve said, Jude.�

�And you don�t deny that, if it appeared in the press, a list of all the deals of that kind that you�ve done would look pretty bad?�

�Sure, it�d look bad, but it�s not going to appear in the press.�

�Because Nigel Ackford and Donald Chew are both dead.�

�Yes. Conveniently, they are.� Bob Hartson�s smile was almost smug now. �And no one will ever be able to find any connection between me and either of their deaths. Anyway, if I wanted to keep that stuff out of the press, I wouldn�t have gone after Nigel or Donald. I�d have silenced the journalist � this Karl whatever-his-name-is. And I notice nobody�s yet made an attack on him.�

�Oh, but they have,� said a new voice, as Carole Seddon stepped into the bar.

�What?� Bob Hartson�s demeanour changed completely. He looked as if he had just received a heavy punch in the stomach.

�You should be careful,� Carole went on, �when you use someone else to do your dirty work. There�s always a danger they may go freelance and start doing things off their own bat. Like attacking Karl Floyd. Like trying to attack me � and breaking down my front door!� she added indignantly.

�Where is he?� Bob Hartson gasped.

�In the kitchen. Where do you expect him to be?� asked Carole. �That�s his proper place.�

�I�ll go and get him,� said Suzy.

A moment later, she returned through the dining room, and resumed her seat. The man who had followed her from the kitchen stood framed in the doorway, looking in amazement round the group in front of him. Finally, his eyes rested on Bob Hartson.

�What is this? What�s going on?� he asked.

The developer seemed to have recovered some of his composure. �Oh, it�s very simple. You�ve just been accused of two murders.� He turned to Carole. �Or is it three? You didn�t say whether Karl Floyd was dead or alive.�

�Alive. Badly beaten, but alive.�

Bob Hartson turned back to the man in the doorway. �Two murders and one GBH, I reckon it is then.�

�But there�s no way I could have done the first one. I was fast asleep in the stable block.�

�No,� said Jude coolly. �You were supposed to be in the stable block, but when I checked the chambermaids� check sheets for that night, it turns out you were actually in one of the rooms inside the hotel.�

�I didn�t know anything about that,� said Suzy.

�No. But I think I know who organized it.�

Under the probing beam of Jude�s look, the way Kerry Hartson turned away her tear-stained face was sufficient admission of guilt.

The man in the doorway appealed to Bob Hartson. �It�s rubbish, isn�t it? They can�t prove anything, can they?�

The property developer smiled a hard smile. �I could say I saw you do Nigel Ackford.�

�But you didn�t. You weren�t there. You�d got an alibi with Donald Chew. That was the whole point.�

�Hm.� Bob Hartson�s self-confidence seemed to be returning very quickly. �I certainly didn�t see you kill Donald Chew. And the attack on Karl Floyd � the first I heard of such a thing was when this lady mentioned it a minute ago.�

�But I thought it was what you�d want, Bob. Suzy rang to the car while you were on site. She told me that woman Carole was going to meet Karl Floyd. I thought you�d want to stop that. I thought that was what you�d want, Bob.� The was pathos in his repetition of the line.

The developer shook his head sagely. �Very risky, to try and imagine what other people might want, Geoff.� He looked his driver straight in the eye. �Next thing you�ll be telling these good people that I wanted Nigel and Donald dead.�

�But you did. You told me to get rid of them.�

�Doesn�t sound like me.� Bob Hartson turned to his wife. �Does it, Sandra?�

�No,� she said weakly.

�Not my usual style at all.� He rose from his chair and moved towards the bewildered chauffeur. �I think you must have got the wrong end of the stick, Geoff. And that�s a dangerous thing to do when you�ve been inside twice for GBH.�

�But, Bob, you told me��

�I don�t think you�ve got any proof of that, Geoff.�

�You bastard!�

Quick as a flash, a gun appeared in the chauffeur�s hand.

Even quicker, Bob Hartson�s hand bunched into a fist and shot up into the man�s jaw.

The bullet hit the bar-room ceiling before the gun smashed into the wall.

As his chauffeur crumpled on to the floor, Bob Hartson looked back at his guests and gatecrashers. �Well, say thank you. I think I saved at least one person�s life there.�

Then he looked up as Inspector Goodchild came into the room. �Reg, good to see you. I�d assumed Carole would call you over here.� He pointed to the heap on the floor behind him. �There�s your murderer.�

The pub was full, but Carole and Jude felt a distinct atmosphere of disappointment around the Crown and Anchor when the news came through that Bob Hart-son�s chauffeur Geoffrey Gardner had been charged on two counts of murder and one of grievous bodily harm. The police knew they�d get him on the last count, because Karl Floyd had identified Gardner as the man who attacked him, but they were surprised when the driver admitted to the murders of Nigel Ackford and Donald Chew.

The accused kept insisting that he had done the killings under the express instructions of his boss, Bob Hartson, but could produce no proof to back up his assertions. Since Geoffrey Gardner had a prison record for violent crime and Bob Hartson had never been charged with anything, the police were inclined to the view that Gardner was simply trying to shift the blame. And since Bob Hartson would certainly engage the best lawyers money could buy, the police view was unlikely to change.

As Carole and Jude sat over their Chilean Chardonnay in the bar that evening they tried for the umpteenth time to think of a single scrap of evidence against Bob Hartson. �There must be something we�ve forgotten,� Jude insisted. �Something that hasn�t been explained.�

Carole removed her rimless glasses and polished them thoughtfully with a handkerchief. �Well, I suppose the only thing that hasn�t been explained is what happened to the note Donald Chew left in Nigel Ackford�s bedroom.�

�That�s true.� Jude perked up instantly. �Yes. Kerry found it, and gave it to Suzy. She showed it to me, and then later in the evening it had disappeared from her apron pocket.�

�There�s probably some perfectly simple��

But before Carole had time to defuse the idea, Jude had her mobile phone out and was moving excitedly towards the pub door. �I�m going to ring Suzy. Too noisy in here.� And she was gone.

�You look like a cat that�s had its mouse taken away.�

At the sound, Carole looked up to register that Ted Crisp had joined her.

�Yes, I�m sorry, I . . . Jude�s just finding something out for me.�

�Oh yeah? Well, if you�re trying to nail Bob Hartson, you have my full support.�

Carole looked puzzled. Ted nodded his head towards the old milk depot behind the pub. �Work starts on that site Monday week.�

�Oh yes?�

�And it�s one of Bob Hartson�s companies that�ll be doing it.�

The landlord�s news did nothing to improve Carole�s mood.

But at that moment, Jude came rushing back into the pub, and her bubbling manner suggested that maybe all hope was not completely lost.

�I talked to Suzy. She knows what happened to the missing note!�

�Really!�

Ted Crisp hadn�t a clue what was going on, but he wasn�t about to interrupt their euphoria by seeking explanations.

�Yes. Kerry talked to her about it some time last week. It was Kerry who removed the note from the apron!�

�Why?�

�This is the good bit . . .� Excitement sparkled in Jude�s brown eyes. �Kerry mentioned to her father she�d found the note, when she saw him at the dinner, and Bob Hartson insisted she should take the note back and destroy it. Well, don�t you see what that means?�

�What?� asked Carole, confused, but beginning to catch her friend�s childlike elation.

�Bob Hartson didn�t want anything suspicious connected with Nigel Ackford�s room! That apparently threatening note was bound to alert the police to something funny going on. The fact that he asked Kerry to destroy the note means Bob Hartson knew that the murder was going to take place!�

�Yes,� Carole sighed with satisfaction.

�Yes,� Jude echoed.

�Erm . . .� Ted Crisp broke into their microclimate of mutual bliss, �I don�t fully know what you�re talking about, and I don�t want to put a damper on proceedings or anything but are you saying you�ve now actually got proof against Bob Hartson?�

�Yes.�

�Proof that would stand up in court?�

�Well . . .� But Jude was in no mood to have her enthusiasm dented. �Yes, we have. If the police only use their imagination and ��

�Inspector Goodchild use his imagination?� asked Carole, beginning to absorb the moisture from Ted�s wet blanket.

�Of course,� Jude brazened on. �Then if we can get Kerry to stand up in court and repeat what she told Suzy . . .�

�And what�s the likelihood of that happening?� Carole�s question was bleak. �Kerry shopping her own father, after all this?�

The sudden flare of excitement had fizzled out. The atmosphere of disappointment reasserted itself. All three of them found themselves looking out through the pub window to the old milk depot.

Seeing the site of Bob Hartson�s next highly profitable project served only to turn the knife in their wounds. There had to be some way they could nail him.