Guns in the Gallery (10 page)

Jude had rung for a cab and, while she waited in the stricken hallway of Butterwyke House, she heard the sound of a car drawing up on the gravel outside. Chervil, presumably snatched from the arms of Giles Green by a telephone summons from her parents, burst in through the doors, seeing Jude and saying, ‘Isn't this bloody typical? Are there any lengths Fennel wouldn't go to, to spoil one of my projects?'

Another question to be pondered on when Jude had more leisure. Which she didn't have in the half-hour cab ride back to Fethering. She was still in shock and the only question in her mind was whether she could have done anything to save the life of Fennel Whittaker.

To Jude's mind, guilt, like regret, was a completely wasted emotion. Looking backwards and wishing the past undone made for a pointless expenditure of emotional energy. But on this occasion, surprised to find herself sobbing in the back of the cab, Jude did feel some level of responsibility for what had happened.

‘Presumably you inspected the crime scene before you went back to Butterwyke House?' Carole's tone turned her words into one of those expressions remembered from school Latin: a question expecting the answer yes.

And she got what she expected. ‘I had a quick look round, yes. But I was in shock and pretty bleary.'

‘I'm not surprised, given the amount of alcohol you say you'd consumed.' This tart reproof showed that, in spite of Jude's explanation, Carole hadn't quite forgiven her lack of communication.

Jude was about to launch into a defence of empathetic drinking. She knew that the previous evening trying to stop Fennel having more wine would not have worked. Matching the girl glass for glass had increased the closeness between them.

But a look at Carole's face told her that articulating such thoughts would be a waste of breath, so instead she said, ‘It looked like a classic suicide set-up. Alcohol, there were pills on the table too, and the kitchen knife, which had clearly been used to cut the wrists.'

‘Suicide note?' Jude nodded wearily. ‘I don't suppose you read it?'

‘I did.'

‘What, you opened the envelope? The police aren't going to be very pleased when they—'

‘It wasn't in an envelope. Just lying there on the table. I didn't have to touch it to read it.'

‘What did it say?'

‘I can't remember the exact wording, but the usual stuff . . . “can't go on . . . no talent as an artist . . . everything too painful . . . hate myself . . . simpler for everyone if I . . . ” You know.' Once again Jude was surprised by tears in her eyes.

‘Did it read convincingly to you?' asked Carole gently.

‘Oh yes. That's the kind of thing people write in suicide notes. It always sounds terribly banal in retrospect, but . . .' Jude reached under layers of garments to produce a handkerchief on which she blew her nose loudly.

‘So it sounds like it really was a suicide.'

Reluctantly, Jude nodded her head. ‘Except . . . when we talked that evening . . . yesterday evening – God, it was only yesterday evening – Fennel sounded so positive about everything.'

‘So positive about everything
you can remember
,' said Carole sniffily. The lack of a phone message still rankled. ‘Come on, concentrate, Jude. Was there anything else you saw at the scene of the crime that you think might be relevant?'

‘That's the second time you've used the expression “scene of the crime”. Are you suggesting that it wasn't suicide?'

‘I'm keeping an open mind on that.' Though whether Carole Seddon's mind, cluttered as it was by a tangle of prejudices, could ever be described as ‘open' was an interesting topic for discussion. ‘Anyway, suicide was a crime in this country right up until 1961. And a lot of people still think it is. But don't let's get sidetracked. I'm asking you if you saw anything odd at the scene of the crime.'

Jude gave another firm wipe to her nose and put away the handkerchief. ‘Well, the was one thing, but it's more “a dog in the night-time”.'

‘Something you were expecting that wasn't there?' asked Carole, instantly picking up the Sherlockian reference.

‘Yes.'

‘So what was it?'

‘Fennel's mobile phone. She certainly had it with her during the evening. I even have a vague recollection of her holding it when she went out of the yurt. But there was no sign of it at the . . . all right, I'll use your expression . . . at “the scene of the crime”.'

ELEVEN

T
he phone call from the police to Woodside Cottage came the following morning, the Sunday. The woman's voice said that it was in relation to the death of Fennel Whittaker and asked whether it would be convenient for a Detective Inspector Hodgkinson to visit Jude and discuss a few details with her. The request was put in the form of a question that was very definitely not expecting the answer no.

Detective Inspector Hodgkinson, who arrived just before noon, turned out to be female. She was a tall woman, a large woman actually, though she moved with considerable grace. She was not in uniform, but wore a light green fleece, well-cut jeans and pointy-toed ankle boots. Her manner was easy and her vowels sounded privately educated.

‘Call me Carmen,' she said, after accepting the offer of coffee. (‘Just black, please.')

Jude made a broad gesture towards the variously swathed items of furniture in her front room. ‘Sit where you want.' And she went off to make the coffee.

By the time Jude returned, Carmen Hodgkinson had a reporter's notebook open on her lap and was consulting some sheets of printed-up emails. ‘Just checking what you said to my colleagues yesterday.'

‘Ah.' Jude handed across one cup of coffee and sat down opposite the Inspector with the other one, waiting for the interrogation to begin.

The first question was not one she would have predicted in a hundred years. ‘Do you ever watch rugby, Jude?'

She admitted that she did. ‘I'm not a diehard fan, but come the Six Nations, I'm sometimes found to be glued to my television screen.'

‘Me too. I used to play, for my school and at uni.'

Jude let out another cautious ‘Ah', not quite sure in which direction the conversation was leading.

‘Well, if you've watched a game recently, you'll know that they now have a “TMO” – television match official, video referee, and it frequently happens that the match referee will consult him when a try appears to have been scored, but there's a slight doubt about whether the ball was touched down properly. And the match referee will ask the TMO: “Is there any reason why I shouldn't award this try?” Well, that's really why I'm here today. I'm asking you: “Is there any reason why we should not feel that the death of Fennel Whittaker is as straightforward as it appears to be?” Do you get my drift?'

‘I do, yes.'

‘It's the old “if it looks like a duck and swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck.” This looks like a suicide.'

Jude was silent for a moment, as the realization sank in that, for all her folksy roundabout manner, Carmen Hodgkinson was a highly intelligent woman.

‘So,' the Inspector nudged, ‘do you have any reason to believe that Fennel Whittaker didn't kill herself?'

‘Well . . .'

Hodgkinson picked up on the hesitation. ‘Right, so you do have some doubts. Can we establish a few background facts first of all? You spent the night in the yurt with Fennel Whittaker. Was that because you were in a relationship with her?'

‘“In a relationship”? Are you asking if we were lovers?'

‘It seems a reasonable question to me. What you have to remember, Jude, is that you have a lot more information than I do. I heard this morning that I was being assigned to this case. I've read the existing paperwork which, given the fact that the death only occurred yesterday, is pretty minimal. I'm starting really with a
tabula rasa
.'

‘A blank slate?'

‘Yes. I know nothing about you or the Whittakers. All I do know is that you and Fennel spent last night in a yurt in the grounds of Butterwyke House, a house where she had her own bedroom. So I ask myself why you did that. And I come up with a possible explanation.'

‘That I'm lesbian?' said Jude with a smile, imagining how Carole would have reacted to the suggestion if it had been aimed at her.

‘Yes. A lot of us are,' said Detective Inspector Hodgkinson calmly.

‘Well, no, not in my case. My main relationship with Fennel was a professional one.'

‘Of what kind?'

‘I'm a healer, alternative therapist, whatever you want to call it.'

Jude anticipated the reaction that statement quite frequently elicited from more conventional members of the public, but it didn't come. Instead Carmen Hodgkinson asked. ‘And you were treating Fennel Whittaker?'

‘That's right.'

‘For depression, bipolar tendencies?'

‘Yes.'

‘So you knew that she had a history of self-harming and suicide attempts?'

‘Of course.'

‘Hm.' Detective Inspector Hodgkinson wrote something down. Though she couldn't read the words, Jude noticed that the handwriting was very neat, almost calligraphic in its precision. ‘What kind of treatments do you use, Jude? Acupuncture?'

‘No. I'm not qualified to do that.'

‘I've found acupuncture very effective . . . for quite a lot of complaints . . . both physical and mental.'

Jude had not been expecting this kind of openness from a police officer. She said, ‘I have no doubts about its efficacy. I keep telling myself I should get trained in it, but never get round to it.'

‘So what kind of therapies are you trained for?'

It was a shrewd question, posed without heavy intonation, but still a probing one. Anyone could call themselves an alternative therapist, and the Inspector was assessing where Jude fitted in on the scale between serious professional and complete charlatan.

‘I did a massage therapy training, so I do use massage a lot. But the healing is really a matter of channelling energy.'

Carmen Hodgkinson nodded and asked, still without scepticism, ‘Like reiki?'

‘I suppose it does have some elements in common, but it's not reiki. Anyway, I'm not trained in reiki, nor have I ever claimed to be.'

‘I see. So the healing power comes from within you?'

Jude found herself uncharacteristically embarrassed by the question. ‘I suppose it does, yes.'

‘I used to be a complete cynic about that kind of thing, but I have seen healing work. On humans and animals. I think it was the animals that convinced me. I mean, you can fool a human being with a load of blarney and mumbo-jumbo, but you're never going to get away with that with a police Alsatian, are you?'

‘No.'

‘Right,' said Carmen Hodgkinson, suddenly businesslike. ‘Let's put you back in your TMO role. Is there any reason why you think that Fennel Whittaker did not commit suicide?'

‘My main reason is that she seemed so together on Friday evening, so positive.'

The Detective Inspector consulted one of the printouts on her lap before echoing, ‘“Together”? From what I've heard about how Fennel Whittaker behaved at the Cornelian Gallery Private View, “together” would not be the first word that came to mind.'

‘No, I agree. She was drunk and she did make a big scene. But the scene she made did have a therapeutic effect on her. She got a lot of stuff off her chest.'

‘Stuff like having a go at her former boyfriend Denzil Willoughby?'

‘Yes. Have you spoken to him yet?'

For the first time the glaze of police officialdom came over Carmen Hodgkinson's face. ‘I'm sure he will be interviewed at the appropriate time,' she replied, in automaton mode. Then, reverting to her more relaxed manner, she continued, ‘You also used the word “positive”, Jude. You said that Fennel Whittaker seemed “positive”.'

‘Yes. She said for her to die “would be a terrible waste”. She actually said that she wanted to go on living.'

‘You mean she was making plans for the future?' Jude nodded. ‘Moving into a more manic than depressive phase on her bipolar scale?'

‘That's how it felt, yes. Though “manic” is not really the right word. Fennel seemed very in control.'

‘In spite of having consumed at least two bottles of wine?'

‘In spite of that.'

‘Hm.' The Detective Inspector was silent for a moment. ‘Presumably, having had dealings with a lot of bipolar patients, you are aware that the period of emergence from a depressive period can be a very dangerous one.'

‘I know that.'

‘At the really low point the sufferers may have suicidal intentions, but they are too lethargic to be capable of taking any action about anything. As the mood lifts, however, the thought is formed: I'm not going to put myself at risk of that kind of misery again. Now, while I'm actually capable of action, I'm going to do what I've been wanting to do for the past weeks. I'm going to top myself, and I'm going to plan it in such a way that there is no possibility of failure.'

‘I am aware that that can happen.'

‘And wouldn't you say that Fennel Whittaker fitted that archetype rather well? She had made suicide attempts before . . . As you say, she was emerging from a bad bout of depression. Might not that be the moment for her to put into practice a sequence of carefully-planned actions?'

‘“Carefully-planned”? I don't quite get that.'

‘We haven't got all the information yet, but the way things look . . . the kitchen at Butterwyke House had been locked by Ned Whittaker on Friday evening, so—'

‘Why?'

‘Why did he lock the kitchen?'

‘Yes.'

‘Apparently there was something wrong with the back door lock. He wanted to ensure that anyone who broke in would get no further into the house than the kitchen.'