The Death on the Downs. Simon Brett
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cashmere sweater, black and white tweed trousers with ruler-edge creases and gleaming black shoes with gold buckles.
In spite of her deterrently flawless exterior, Jude got on very well with Tamsin’s mother. Gillie was sensitive, compassionate, warm; she possessed all of the qualities that her appearance seemed to make unlikely. And, from the moment it first manifested itself, she had been deeply anxious about her daughter’s illness.
But that Monday morning she seemed no more anxious than she had been when Tamsin disappeared from the family house four months previously. So unworried did Gillie Lutteridge seem that Jude wondered whether she had actually heard the rumours about the bones in South Welling Barn. Having no skills in prevarication, that was the first thing Jude asked her about.
‘Yes, I heard,’ Gillie replied. ‘But that’s just village gossip. I’m sure the bones have nothing to do with Tamsin. Tamsin’s not dead.’
The words were spoken with firmness and a degree of calm. But was that just the desperate resolution of a mother unable to believe her child was no longer alive?
‘Still, it must be hurtful for you even to hear people make the suggestion.’
Gillie Lutteridge shrugged her perfectly tailored shoulders. ‘People are not very bright – certainly not here in Weldisham,’ she said. ‘They tend to go for the obvious. A dead body’s found. A girl’s missing. If you haven’t got much imagination, then you assume the two must be related.’
‘Have the police talked to you?’
‘Yes. Nice young man, Lennie Baylis. I’ve often seen him round the village. I think he even used to live here. Anyway, he came. He was very reassuring.’
‘What, you mean they’ve identified the bones and they definitely know they’re not Tamsin’s?’
‘No. Apparently that’ll take a bit longer. The . . .’ For a moment her equilibrium was shaken by the thought of what she was saying. ‘The . . . remains are at the police laboratories. But Lennie said there was nothing so far to connect them with Tamsin. There was no reason for us to panic.’
‘It looks as if panicking is the last thing you’re doing.’
‘I’m very optimistic by nature, Jude. I’m positive Tamsin’s still alive. Miles, though . . . Miles is taking it rather hard.’ Gillie Lutteridge sank into an irreproachable armchair, giving for the first time some hint of the strain that she was under. ‘Miles sees this as kind of . . . the end of a process.’
‘What process?’
‘The process that began with Tamsin’s illness. That hit him very hard. Everything had always gone well for us. We’d been fortunate. Tamsin had always done well . . . school, university, walked straight into her job in magazine publishing. When she got ill, it was the first reverse in her life, in our lives too, I suppose. Miles couldn’t really cope with the idea. He saw it as a reproach, almost as if it was his fault.’
‘Of course, he never really believed in Tamsin’s illness, did he?’
‘No, he thought it was psychosomatic, that she was malingering. Everything’s very black and white for Miles.’
‘And very black at the moment?’
Gillie nodded. ‘It’s dreadful to see him like this. He’s always been so positive. He’s not gone into work today. The weekend was dreadful. Ever since Lennie Baylis told us about what had been found in South Welling Barn, Miles has just been twitching round the house, waiting for the phone to ring.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘In the garden. Pretending to be busy. He won’t stay out there long.’
As if to prove her point, Miles Lutteridge appeared in the doorway. He looked at Jude with undisguised disappointment. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
The husband manifested the same brochure-like quality as his house and his wife. He was expensively dressed in a pale lilac jumper with a designer logo which hid the designer logo on the cream polo shirt he wore underneath. The creases in his beige trousers were as sharp as his wife’s and his brown slip-on shoes carried the same shine.
The only things that would have kept him out of a leisurewear catalogue were his thinning hair on top and the expression of grey anxiety on his face.
‘Good morning, Miles,’ said Jude.
She knew he didn’t like her – or perhaps just didn’t trust her. She was too forcible a reminder of his daughter’s illness, the very existence of which he sought to deny. He had met her once or twice when she’d come up for exploratory chats with Tamsin and hadn’t disguised the fact that he thought her only one step away from charlatanism.
‘I’m very sorry to hear about the rumours going round the village,’ Jude continued. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with Tamsin.’
‘What do you know about it?’ Miles Lutteridge demanded brusquely. In their previous encounters he’d always managed to stay the right side of politeness. Worry was taking its toll on his civility.
‘I don’t know anything for certain,’ Jude replied evenly. ‘I just think it very unlikely that Tamsin would have stayed around this area.’
‘Do you mean you know where she did go?’ The glint in his eye revealed both hope and suspicion. ‘I bet she went off with one of your lot.’
‘By “my lot”, do you mean some alternative therapist who was trying to help her with her illness?’
‘If “alternative therapist” is what you want to call it, yes. I mean some New Age quack doctor who took my daughter for everything she was worth by giving her false hopes he’d find her a cure.’
‘Are you talking about someone specific?’ asked Jude.
But Gillie decided the conversation had become too adversarial for polite society. ‘Miles,’ she intervened, ‘it’ll be all right, I promise.’
‘How can you make promises like that? What meaning do they have? You aren’t a god. You can’t bring Tamsin back to life, Gillie.’ He was getting very overwrought now. Tears glinted in his eyes.
‘I don’t need to bring her back to life. She is still alive.’
‘Can you give me any proof of that?’ he bellowed.
There was a long silence while husband and wife held each other’s gaze. Gillie seemed about to say something, but decided against it. She looked down and shook her head.
‘See!’ He spat the word out. ‘Why does it happen to my daughter? First she gets some phoney illness. Then she starts mixing with alternative therapists.’ He loaded the words with contempt. ‘And now she’s probably dead!’
‘Miles, she isn’t!’
But he’d gone. Afraid to have his tears witnessed, Miles Lutteridge had stormed out of the room.
Jude talked to Gillie for a while, but little new was said. The mother retained her conviction her daughter was alive; the father was convinced she was dead. And all Jude was aware of was how much this new situation had driven a wedge into their marriage. While everything had been going well, Miles and Gillie Lutteridge seemed to have been fine. Tamsin’s illness made the first crack in their unity, pointing up the differences between them – Gillie’s belief in the illness and her search for a cure, Miles’s disbelief and desire to pretend it wasn’t happening. And the discovery of the bones at South Welling Barn had made that rift wider still.
Chapter Ten
Having cracked that first clue, Carole’s mind moved up a gear and she had nearly completed the Times crossword by the time Jude joined her in the Hare and Hounds. They ordered cottage pie and yes, both did have a glass of white wine.