The Corpse on the Court (20 page)

The pro solemnly set the stick upright against the lowest point of the net's sag. Even from the dedans Jude could see that the height was perfectly correct. Three foot. But rather than pointing that out, George Hazlitt went to the side of the court, reached into one of the galleries nearest the net and pulled out a metal bar. It was about a foot long with a square hole in one end. He fitted this over a metal nub sticking out of the pillar supporting the net and cranked it up a couple of notches. ‘Oh, I've done it a bit too far,' he announced, and then cranked back the other way exactly the same number of turns.

Ceremoniously, he went back to the centre of the net and checked its height against his measuring stick. ‘There, I think you'll find that better, Jonty.'

‘Thank you so much, George. Sorry to be a bother, but that kind of thing can make quite a big difference to my kind of game.'

‘Of course. No problem.'

George Hazlitt turned on his way back to the office just as Jude was passing along the walkway. Catching her eye, he winked. And she realized that being a real tennis pro was as much about public relations as it was about sport.

C
arole Seddon had an email back from Iain Holland around five on the Wednesday afternoon, with text at the bottom reading: ‘Sent from my iPad.'

The message read: ‘I don't know who you are and since my daughter disappeared I've been contacted by a lot of cranks. But if you genuinely do have information about Marina's whereabouts, then we should meet and talk about it.' There was a mobile phone number.

Carole was shocked by the speed of the response. Not expecting it, she hadn't prepared her next step in the investigation. She felt a little frightened, too. Iain Holland had interpreted her message to mean that she actually had information about his daughter. How would he react when he discovered she knew nothing?

For a moment she was tempted to put the whole thing on hold. It had been a stupid idea to become involved in the Lady in the Lake mystery, and she was getting out of her depth. Better to pull the plug on the whole operation.

On the other hand . . . Jude was getting ever more deeply entangled with Piers Targett and the affairs of Lockleigh House tennis court, and though she'd done her best to get Carole participating in that enquiry, it was Jude who had the contacts. She was the one who would be going the following day to Reggie Playfair's funeral; there was no justifiable reason why Carole should attend. And funerals are traditionally fruitful hunting grounds for both police and amateur investigators. Overheard conversations, family rows, revelatory body language from suspects . . . how many times had those been used as stepping stones towards the solution of a case?

So no, Carole Seddon couldn't deny that her nose was a little out of joint. She'd started the Lady in the Lake investigation intentionally as something she was doing on her own. Without Jude. She'd just been offered an open door to the next stage. She couldn't give up now.

Carole decided that she'd make the call from a public phone box. There seemed now to be infinite numbers of ways to track people down through their phone numbers and she didn't want Iain Holland to know where she lived.

A few years before there had been a row of red telephone boxes on the parade at Fethering. Now, with the growth of mobile-phone usage, there was just one. And that wasn't in a proper box. Only in a three-sided screen which, in the event of bad weather, depending on which way the wind was blowing, might protect someone from the waist upwards. Soon, Carole reckoned, that booth too would disappear.

It was with considerable trepidation that she dialled the number from the email. It was answered immediately. ‘Hello. Iain Holland.'

There was a brashness in his tone, but also a wariness. It was a confident voice, with no taint of public school, the proper voice for a man of the people.

‘Hello. I've just received your email.'

‘In what connection is this?'

‘About Marina's whereabouts.'

That had its effect. Carole heard him raise his voice and call, ‘Sorry, got to take this in the other room.' Presumably that was addressed to his new squeaky-clean wife and his new squeaky-clean children.

There was a silence, the sound of a door closing, and his voice was more urgent when he came back on the line. ‘Who are you?' he asked.

She had thought about her answer to this. She had no intention of giving her second name, but nor was she going to go down complicated routes of inventing a pseudonym or answering with something like ‘a well-wisher'. ‘My name's Carole,' she replied.

‘And you know something about Marina?'

‘I know that she disappeared eight years ago.'

‘Everyone knows that. It was all over the media. You implied that you had some new information.'

‘Did I?' Carole was advancing cagily, trying to assess how Iain Holland had read her message.

‘Listen, I haven't got time to play games. There's quite a lot at stake here, probably more than you realize. So if you've got some information, tell me about it. If not, let me get back to my evening with my family.'

‘I do have some information,' Carole boldly lied, ‘but I think I should tell you about it face to face.'

She couldn't quite explain why those words had emerged from her lips, and she fully expected them to be greeted by a blast of scepticism. Instead, Iain Holland said, ‘When do you want to meet?'

‘Soon as you like.'

‘I could do a half hour this evening.'

‘All right,' said Carole. Her voice sounded cool, but that was no reflection of her thoughts. Everything was moving so quickly. She was normally a very cautious person, agonizing over even the smallest decision. And here she was being swept along manically into who knew what embarrassment or danger.

Iain Holland said there was a pub in Brighton called The Two Ducks. It had a private room that he quite often used for meetings with residents in his ward. He could be there at eight o'clock. Carole said that she could too. She told him she had grey hair, rimless glasses and would be wearing a Burberry raincoat.

When she put the phone down, Carole Seddon was left with two questions. One, why had she totally lost her marbles? And two, why had Iain Holland agreed so readily to a meeting?

The Two Ducks was in Kemptown, another part of Brighton that Carole didn't know well. Though she had no reason to spend time there, she had been put off the place by reading somewhere that it was the gay centre of the town. Carole wasn't exactly homophobic, she just didn't feel at ease in cultural environments different from her own. Finding herself in a gay pub would prompt the same anxieties as being at a Catholic church service, not sure when to stand up and sit down. Carole Seddon's primary fear was always of drawing attention to herself by doing something wrong.

Whether or not the Two Ducks was a gay pub was hard to tell. Certainly there were men in there, but there were also women. And there was nothing particularly camp about the barman to whom Carole gave her order. Fizzy mineral water. She needed all her wits about her for the forthcoming encounter.

She sat at a small round table and sipped her drink. Nobody seemed to take much notice of her. In characteristic Carole Seddon style she had got to the Two Ducks at a quarter to eight.

On the dot of five to, Iain Holland entered the pub. It was clearly somewhere where he was known. He addressed the barman by name as he ordered: ‘A J2O – the orange and passion fruit one.'

Carole recognized him from his website. He was a good-looking man, fiftyish like his ex-wife. His neatly-cut hair carried a dusting of grey and his face still had a residual tan, perhaps from a summer holiday. He was dressed in smart leisurewear – green polo shirt under a brown leather blouson, Levi jeans, moccasins.

Carole thought he had clocked her when he first entered the pub, but Iain Holland waited until he'd got his drink before turning and moving towards her. ‘You must be Carole,' he said.

His handshake was firm, his expression bluff and honest, demonstrating the automatic charm of a politician. He called across to the barman, ‘Is the upstairs room unlocked?'

‘Sure, Iain.'

As he led her up the narrow staircase, Iain Holland told Carole how useful this room had been to him. ‘You know, when I'm meeting someone in my ward who's got a problem, a lot of them prefer an informal chat in a pub. Less intimidating than coming to my office or attending one of my official surgeries. Oh, by the way, here's one of my cards, got all my contact details on it.'

He very effectively projected the image of a councillor who could not do enough for the people he represented. Iain Holland was all concern, altruism and transparency.

But the minute he had closed the door and they were alone inside the small function room, his manner changed. Immediately he demanded, ‘Do you know where she is?'

There are two ways in which that question could be posed by the father of a missing child. The first is with eager anticipation, hoping against hope that there might be some prospect of being reunited with someone believed to be lost forever. The second is with an edge of fear, frightened that the secret of where the missing child is might have been breached. Iain Holland's intonation was definitely of the second kind.

Carole really was flying by the seat of her pants. She had known that question – or something very like it – was bound to arise, but though she had tried to plan a response, nothing had offered itself.

So, outwardly calm, she said, based on no evidence at all, ‘Well, I certainly don't think she's dead.'

‘You're in the minority there. The general consensus seems to be that she is.'

‘And what is your view?'

Iain Holland shrugged. He was doing quite a good impression of nonchalance, but Carole could sense the tension in him. He was probing at her, trying to find out whether she did genuinely know anything. ‘My view,' he said at length, ‘is that Marina probably is dead.'

‘You don't know how or where?'

‘No. It's just in this day and age, with all the means of contact and surveillance we now have, it's difficult for someone to vanish off the face of the earth.' More or less the exact opposite of what Donna Grodsky had said.

Iain Holland looked at her sternly. He wasn't bothering with the politician's charm any more. His voice took on the bullying tone of someone used to getting his own way as he said, ‘Look, I'm a busy man. If you've got anything to tell me, tell me. If not, I think we should both conclude that this meeting has been a waste of time.'

‘Then why did you so readily agree to meet me?'

‘Because I didn't at the time know that you didn't have any new information.'

‘Ah, but perhaps I have,' said Carole. She was floundering, and it was only a matter of time before he realized just how much she was floundering.

But she was let off the hook for a moment. Still worried that she might actually know something, Iain Holland's manner changed again. He became more conciliatory. ‘Listen, obviously if there is any prospect of finding Marina alive, well, that would be great news for me. Great news for any father. But I've written off the possibility for so long that it's hard for me to take the idea on board. My situation's changed since I split up with Marina's mother. And I'm sorry that went wrong, but I'm not the first person in the world who's got married too young. Now I'm in a new relationship, got two lovely kids, business going well. I'm all right. And I don't want to go back to how things were before.'

‘Are you saying that finding Marina alive would take you back to those times?'

‘No, of course I'm not. It'd be brilliant. Like I say, every father's dream. But it would take some adjustment. Not everyone knows much about my past, but there is a kind of acknowledgement that there has been some great sadness there.'

‘The loss of your daughter?'

‘Exactly. And if that situation changes, well, yes, obviously there'd be some adjustments.'

‘You mean you might lose some people's sympathy?'

‘No. Not exactly that. Look, Carole, the fact is that I'm increasingly interested in politics, hoping to spend more of my time, you know, doing some good, helping people out.'

‘Do you mean on the national stage?'

‘It's not impossible. Some high-ups in the Conservative Party have been quite impressed by the difference I've been making down here in Brighton. It's not impossible that I might be short-listed as a candidate at the next election.' He couldn't keep the note of pride out of his voice.

‘And you're afraid,' said Carole, ‘that your perfect image with the “high-ups in the Conservative Party” might be a little tarnished if they found out you had a living daughter from a previous marriage, a daughter who perhaps has gone to the bad?'

‘No!' Iain Holland blustered. ‘Of course that's not what I mean.'

But Carole Seddon knew that it was.

‘Anyway, you've still said nothing that convinces me you have any proof Marina's alive.' He looked at his watch. ‘And unless you do have something new to tell me, I think we should draw this meeting to a close.'

She had been let off the hook once, but she couldn't see history about to repeat itself. Iain Holland had risen from his chair and was moving towards the door. Carole thought back desperately to her conversation with Donna Grodsky and blurted out, ‘What intrigues me is Marina's Russian connection.'

It had been a complete shot in the dark, but it found its target. Iain Holland froze, then slowly turned back to face her. The slick confidence of his expression had been replaced by something very close to fear. ‘What do you know about Marina's Russian connection?'

Absolutely nothing
was the answer inside Carole's head, but what she said was, ‘I know that she suspected her origins to be Russian. I know that she was very much drawn towards the Russian community here in Brighton.'