The Corpse on the Court (6 page)

‘But I can't do that.'

‘Why ever not?'

‘Because I'm fat and in my fifties.'

‘Absolutely no bar to playing the game. There were people you saw in the Sec's Cup yesterday who were carrying a lot more weight than you are.'

That was certainly true, but Jude still felt she had to protest, ‘I haven't lifted even a proper tennis racket for over twenty years.'

‘Jude,' said Piers Targett sharply, ‘that is the most offensive thing I have ever heard you say.'

‘Sorry?'

‘A real tennis racket is a
proper
racket. Real tennis is the
proper
game. “Lawners” is nothing more than a vulgarian upstart.'

Jude hadn't heard her lover speak like this before and wasn't sure whether he was serious or not, so was quite relieved when she heard him giggle from the other end of the phone as he announced, ‘Sorry, Jude, but you must get these things right. If you're going to be spending a lot of time round Lockleigh House tennis court then there are certain basic points of protocol you must understand.'

‘And who says I'm going to be spending a lot of time round Lockleigh House tennis court?'

‘I do. Anyway, the court's at seven forty-five, first booking of the day. Under normal circumstances I'd say I'd pick you up, but I'm not quite sure what my movements will be that morning, so could you meet me at the court?'

‘Well, yes, I'm sure I could, but I'm not sure that I want to make a fool of myself in front of lots of—'

‘The only person you will be in front of will be me. The professionals don't come on duty till nine. And, anyway, you're far too poised and beautiful a woman ever to make a fool of yourself.' He was silent. ‘Cheesy again?'

‘Pretty cheesy, yes.'

‘Ah well, I'm afraid you'll just have to learn to live with my cheesiness, Jude. Just as you will with many other less appealing aspects of my character.'

‘And what are they?'

Piers let out a low whistle of admonition. ‘I'm not going to screw up my chances by enumerating them now. Wait till we know each other a bit better.'

‘As you wish,' she said. ‘Anyway, what about after the game?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Will you be returning straight to London? Or do we get the chance to spend some time together?'

‘We spend all Wednesday together. Including, if I could impose on your hospitality, Wednesday night.'

‘Sounds good to me. I will introduce you to the delights of Woodside Cottage.' She was about to suggest an introduction to Carole Seddon as well, but no. Too soon, too soon.

‘I look forward to it, Jude.'

‘And then?'

‘Then?'

‘Sorry, it's just me being practical. There are some healing sessions I've got to book for Thursday, but I don't want to cut across any mutual plans we might have.'

‘I see what you mean. Well, no, sadly on Thursday morning we face another separation.'

‘Oh?'

‘I have to go to Paris on business for a few days. Back on Sunday, I hope.'

‘And what kind of business is it?'

‘Boring stuff,' said Piers Targett airily. ‘Money, you know.'

And before Jude could ask for a bit more detail, he went on, ‘So the booking at the court's seven forty-five am on Wednesday. Arrive a little earlier to give yourself time to change. And the dress code is strictly white.'

‘That was the new man, was it?' asked Carole as a somewhat shamefaced Jude returned to the bar.

‘Yes. Yes, it was.'

‘The one who introduced you to real tennis?'

‘Mm.'

Carole Seddon was desperate to ask more about the mystery man, but equally desperate not to be seen to be desperate about it. She looked around the crowded pub. ‘Ted certainly seems to be doing good business. Excellent for a weekday, isn't it?'

Jude was quite organized that afternoon. She cleared the messages on her answering machine and set up a couple of healing sessions for the following day. There was a third she said she might do, depending on how drained she was after the first two.

But though she felt better for having made the arrangements – and made a desultory gesture towards cleaning Woodside Cottage – she was still uncharacteristically twitchy. She didn't enjoy every aspect of being in love. Though no one realized it, the serenity she showed to the outer world had been hard won. She had thought her emotional equilibrium was secure. The arrival of Piers Targett in her life had made her conscious of its central fragility.

She was also annoyed with herself for not telling Carole about him. She should just have cut through her neighbour's assumed lack of interest and given her the facts. Not having done so left Jude feeling guilty; it was not a sensation that she was familiar with. And not one she enjoyed.

These thoughts were circling unhelpfully around her head when the phone rang. She answered it.

‘Oh, hello, it's Wally.'

‘Sorry?' She couldn't immediately place the claret-soaked voice.

‘Wally Edgington-Bewley. We met up at Lockleigh on Sunday.'

‘Oh yes, of course I remember.'

‘You probably also remember that I mentioned a little book I'd written.'

‘Erm . . .' She had no recollection of it, but didn't want to sound rude.

‘Little, self-published thing. About some of the world's real tennis courts I've visited with some chums. Called
Courts in the Act
.'

‘Oh yes,' said Jude vaguely.

‘Anyway, I said on Sunday I'd like to give you a copy.'

‘Of course.' This time she gave a better impression of knowing what he was talking about.

‘Well, I was wondering how to get the copy to you . . .'

‘It shouldn't be a problem . . .'

‘. . . and then Piers said he was taking you up to Lockleigh for a knock-around on Wednesday.' How quickly news spread in the world of real tennis. ‘Which is going to work rather well, because I've got to be up at the court tomorrow, so I could leave a copy for you on the table in the club room.'

‘Well, that's very kind, Wally.'

‘No problem at all. Be in a brown envelope with “Jude” written on the front in my almost-legible scrawl.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Incidentally, I'm very glad to hear you're going to take up the game.'

‘I'm not absolutely sure that I—'

‘You'll love it. Takes about ten years to get used to the dimensions of the court and the scoring and what-have-you.' Exactly what Oenone Playfair had said. ‘After that it's plain sailing.'

‘Well, I'll certainly do my best to work it all out,' said Jude.

‘And, incidentally –' Wally Edgington-Bewley paused and his voice became deeper, more personal – ‘I'm so glad that Piers has got you . . .'

‘Oh?'

‘. . . you know, after all he's been through.'

Which didn't do a lot to make Jude feel more settled. She was becoming preoccupied with how much she didn't know about Piers Targett.

O
n the Wednesday morning Jude got a cab from Woodside Cottage to Lockleigh House. She could have asked her neighbour for a lift in her Renault and the request would undoubtedly have been granted. Despite her denials, Carole was infinitely curious about Jude's life and wouldn't have turned down the chance of a visit to Lockleigh House . . . not to mention the possibility of catching a glimpse of Piers Targett.

But for the time being Jude was inclined to play things close to her chest. If her relationship with Piers continued, there would undoubtedly come a moment when his introduction to Carole would have to be made. But Jude was in no hurry to rush that encounter. Carole had met a few of her lovers over the years, but never one about whom she was so serious.

Following Piers' instructions, Jude had managed to get together a white ensemble suitable for Lockleigh House. It was a while since she'd worn the shorts and she had to breathe in quite severely to get them on. Picking one of many white cheesecloth shirts was less of a problem and the top she chose was voluminous enough to hide her struggling waistline. She also succeeded in tracking down some white socks and a battered pair of whitish trainers. Piers had advised that they'd change at the court, so she packed her kit into a woven straw basket of African origin.

It was a perfect autumn day when the cab dropped her at the gates of Lockleigh House. Though there had been rain during the night, that had gone now. The air felt crisp so early in the morning but with a promise of warmth later. The Victorian mansion looked huge and impressive. The Wardock family must have had many children to fill its fourteen bedrooms, or more likely the space was designed to accommodate all the guests who attended long country weekends. The house looked to Jude like the perfect setting for a game of Cluedo.

The high, wrought-iron main gates of Lockleigh House were locked (though members of the tennis club arriving by car had electronic cards to open them), but Jude had been instructed to enter the premises through a small door to one side of the gates.

Once inside, she looked up at the high rectangular bulk of the real tennis court, standing at some distance from the house. Before the Sunday she wouldn't have had a clue what the building might be used for; now she couldn't imagine it being anything else.

Piers was already there, leaning against the side of his E-Type, basking in the thin October sun. There was one other car parked outside the court, a substantial silver BMW.

His smile of welcome was warm, but somehow strange. After the intimacy of their weeks together, the two days of separation had made Jude feel almost awkward at re-meeting him.

But his kiss was reassuringly familiar. He did have exceptionally full, soft lips for a man.

As they drew apart, he said, ‘It's been too long,' in a voice of mock heroics. ‘I will never again let you escape my web of enchantment. And soon you will be bound to me closer than ever.'

‘Oh yes? How's that?'

‘Soon you will have fallen under the spell of real tennis, and then our shared obsession will allow you no escape route.'

‘Really?' said Jude drily. ‘Suppose I don't like the game?'

‘Impossible,' he said as he moved towards the court building. ‘I couldn't possibly be in love with someone who didn't like real tennis. Come on, don't let's waste a minute of our booking.'

The door had a keypad entrance system. ‘We only have to use this when the pros aren't here,' said Piers Targett. Then he tapped in a code, the door gave and he ushered Jude inside.

After the raucous jollity of the Sec's Cup, the lobby in which they found themselves seemed almost unnaturally silent. The door to the court itself was closed. ‘Better get you a racket,' said Piers, and led Jude into a small room just inside the entrance. ‘This is where the pros hang out,' he said.

A closed door with a glass panel showed into an office with the usual assemblage of laptops, printers and telephones. In a glass-fronted case in the outer area was displayed a selection of white kit, each item bearing the Lockleigh House logo of crossed rackets with a fish above them. Purple and green stripes also featured. Supported on pegs on one wall was a row of rackets. Piers took one down and felt its heft in his hand. ‘A bit heavy for you, I think.' He replaced it and tried another. ‘This is a better weight, but it'll probably be easier for you if you have a bigger grip.' He found a racket that met all his criteria and solemnly handed it across to her. ‘Take it in your hand and feel the first tricklings of your lifelong obsession.'

Jude grinned. ‘We'll see.'

‘Just do the lights.' He reached into a cupboard to flick a switch.

‘Are they on all day?'

‘Pretty much. Switched on by the first person to get to the court in the morning, switched off by the last one to leave in the evening. But they've got sensors to turn them off if there's no activity on court. Keeps the electricity bills down. Lockleigh House tennis court doing its bit for the environment, eh?'

Piers opened the door and led the way along the passageway at the side of the court, down towards the club room and changing rooms. As he did so, he glanced to his left on to the court and stopped stock still.

‘Oh, my God!' he breathed.

Lying on the court, more or less in the position where he'd fallen on Sunday, lay Reggie Playfair. He was not wearing tennis whites, but a smart business suit with some kind of club tie.

And the glazed expression on his congested face left no room for doubt about the fact that he was dead.

I
n her online Lady in the Lake researches Carole Seddon had by now weeded out the eccentric, ghoulish and frankly demented references and had found only two leads which, while they might not provide a solution to the problem, did at least offer sanity. The first was a posting from a man called Dmitri Gascoigne, who was convinced that the bones found in Fedborough Lake belonged to his wife Karen. He had set up a rather primitive website called
What Really Happened to Karen Gascoigne?
which had the air of the unvisited. The most recent update was nearly four years previously, so Carole got the feeling that Dmitri Gascoigne's campaign had maybe run out of steam.

The other – and to Carole's mind more promising – lead was to a woman called Susan Holland. Her blog made clear her conviction that the Lady in the Lake was her daughter, Marina, last seen in Brighton over eight years previously. From the way she wrote, Susan Holland came across to Carole as a very level-headed woman, not a hysterical over-reactor. If she suspected the dead body to be that of her daughter, then she had good reasons for those suspicions. Carole was also attracted to the woman by the reference to Brighton and the surname Holland, which was quite common in the Fethering area. Both of these clues suggested that Susan Holland might be a local.