Guns in the Gallery

‘It was round that time that I met up with Bonita again and I couldn’t believe it when I saw the state Hugo was in. He talked about committing suicide, so as I say, the drowning was a merciful release.’

‘Do you know how it happened?’

‘The drowning? They were on holiday out in Corfu and they had an inflatable dinghy with them. Not a real boat, not much more than a toy really, with plastic paddles, you know. Anyway, as Bonita told it to me, Hugo had kept saying he wanted to go out in the dinghy and she said it’d be dangerous – he had metal calipers on his legs, apart from anything else. But Hugo was strong-willed, a difficult man to argue with, so eventually he persuaded Bonita to let him have a go. The little girl stayed on the beach sunbathing, but the other three went out in the boat. Well, everything was fine at first, but, I don’t know exactly what happened . . . The boat capsized, Bonita grabbed hold of Giles, and Hugo, weighed down by the calipers, went straight to the bottom. Of course they raised the alarm, but by the time anyone got to him, Hugo was already dead.

‘I’ve never mentioned it to Bonita, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Hugo didn’t tip the boat over deliberately. As I say, he had no quality of life and no prospects of things ever improving. I think he wanted to die.’

There was a silence before Jude said, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking this, but did you restart the relationship with Bonita before Hugo’s death?’

Addison Willoughby gave a shamefaced nod. ‘I’m afraid we did, yes. Bonita’s a very highly sexed woman and with Hugo she was locked into a kind of Lady Chatterley situation. I took the role of a rather more cultured Mellors. I’m not particularly proud of what happened, but I’m very grateful for it.’

‘And it’s been confined to Fridays ever since?’

‘Yes. We wanted to be together all the time, but I couldn’t do that to Philomena. After a few years I bought this place . . . Pimlico, popular place for MPs to set up their mistresses. Nobody takes too much notice of what goes on here. So yes, for Bonita and me it’s been Fridays ever since.’

There was a silence. Then Addison Willoughby said, ‘Still, that’s all water under the bridge. You wanted to talk to me because you suspect my son of murdering Fennel Whittaker.’

Jude had forgotten the lie she had told to engage Addison in conversation, and was a little flustered as she said, ‘I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just that there now seems to be little doubt that she was murdered.’ She briefly outlined the discovery that the suicide note dated from Fennel’s earlier attempt. ‘And it was your son she bawled out at the Private View. So he could be seen to have had a motive against her.’

Addison Willoughby smiled a humourless smile. ‘My son has few redeeming qualities. One thing he certainly doesn’t possess is any organizational skills. The idea that he is capable of planning what sounds like a fairly complicated murder is . . . well, frankly unbelievable.’

‘You may be right.’

‘I’ve asked him about what he was doing the night Fennel died, and he says he was drinking all evening with Bonita’s son Giles.’

‘Yes, I’d heard that.’

‘Well, I’ve no reason to disbelieve him. It would certainly be in character.’

‘Hm.’ Jude deliberately moved the conversation in another direction. ‘What about Bonita’s daughter? What happened to her?’

‘Ingrid? Oh, they’ve completely lost touch. Never got on well . . . you know, mothers and daughters can be a combustible mix. Ingrid moved away from home at the first opportunity she had.’

‘Do you know what happened to her?’

‘Haven’t a clue. She had inherited Bonita’s talent, was a very good artist when she was a kid, so maybe she too is somewhere in the art world. Another one of those who’s realizing her potential rather than capitulating to mediocrity,’ he concluded bitterly. Jude was once again struck by how little he valued his success in the advertising business. To Addison Willoughby’s mind, anyone who wasn’t an artist was a failure.

A wisp of a memory came into Jude’s mind and she tried to trap it. ‘Just a moment. Ingrid, Ingrid. It’s not that usual a name, but I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere recently.’ Her brows furrowed with the effort of concentration. Then it came back to her. In what turned out to be their last session Fennel Whittaker had spoken of a tutor at St Martin’s College of Art called Ingrid, a tutor whom she had ‘rated’ and who had liked her work. The link was unlikely – Ingrid was not a common name, but nor was it strikingly unusual – but everything was worth investigating.

‘Denzil trained at St Martin’s, didn’t he, Addison?’

‘Yes.’

‘He never mentioned a tutor called Ingrid, did he?’

‘No. But then again we didn’t see much of each other while he was at college. He only tended to get in touch when he needed money.’

‘Yes. Fennel said he was only after her money.’

‘Entirely possible. Denzil may be my son, but I wash my hands of any responsibility for his moral values – or lack of them.’