Guns in the Gallery

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

The 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.