Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

But she was not so arrogant as to assume that she was right in her reaction. Her instincts were as fallible as anyone else’s. She could think of many occasions when she had been convinced of a certain truth, only to have it proved worthless by logic and evidence. But at that moment, she could not think of Alec Potton as a guilty man. Or at least not as a man guilty of murder.

Jude went through a routine she frequently followed when she was troubled. She did an hour of yoga. The familiar postures and movements, and the concentration required to achieve them, balanced her thoughts, put the unwelcome images into a better perspective.

Then she filled the bath with a personal mix of herbs, lit fragrant candles around the room, and while her heavy body luxuriated in the steamy water, allowed her thoughts not to dissipate, but to assume manageable proportions.

It was while she was towelling herself down and thinking what to cook for supper that her mobile rang.

“Hello?”

“Is that Jude?”

The voice was young, familiar and yet at that moment so stretched with tension that she could not immediately recognise it. Fortunately she did not have to wait long for identification.

“It’s Imogen. Imogen Potton. You know, we met at-”

“Yes. Of course I know who you are. Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” asserted a voice whose tautness told a different story.

“Listen, Imogen. I heard about your father being taken in by the police. I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Don’t worry, they’ll soon release him.”

There was no response from the other end. Jude felt this was not because Imogen had nothing to say, but because she didn’t feel confident that she could keep her emotions in check if she did speak.

“Presumably it is about what happened to your father that you were ringing?”

“Yes,” the girl answered curtly. Brusqueness perhaps gave her a means of control. “You remember that day you were at the stables?”

“What, at Sonia’s? When I was healing-?”

“No, the other time. Friday morning at Long Bamber.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I was mucking out Conker’s stable while you were talking to Lucinda and Donal, and I could hear everything you were saying-”

“I don’t think we were saying anything particularly dreadful.”

“No, that’s not the point.” Her voice now had a tone of teenage irritation at the inability of grown-ups ever to understand what was relevant. “Donal said something about you having a hotline to the police.”

“I remember. I’ve no idea what he meant by that.”

“What, you mean you haven’t got a hotline to the police?” Imogen almost wailed in disappointment.

“Well, I’ve been questioned by them, because I don’t know if you know, but I actually found-I was the first person to arrive at the scene of the crime after Walter Fleet’s death. But, apart from that, I don’t know anything about how their enquiries are currently proceeding. I think Donal was just having a joke with me.”

“No, but you do have a name? The name of one of the detectives in charge of the investigation?”

“Well, I can tell you who the two I talked to were, yes.”

Imogen seemed desperate for the information, so Jude gave the names.

“And do you know where they’re based?”

“I’m not sure. It’s somewhere in West Sussex. They just gave me mobile numbers if I needed to contact them again.”

“Could you let me have those numbers?”

Jude couldn’t see any reason why not to. She had to go into her bedroom, towel wrapped around her, to find the scrap of paper where she’d written them down.

“What is this about, Imogen? Can you tell me?” There was no answer. “I mean, do you have some information that you reckon can get your father off the hook?”

“Yes,” the girl replied. “Yes, I do.” And she rang off.

Which was, in equal measure, intriguing and frustrating.

Carole Seddon was equally restless that Monday evening, and partly for the same reasons. Though she hadn’t met him, she too was upset by the thought that Alec Potton was the police’s prime suspect. Her unease derived, however, not from a conviction of his innocence, but from the recognition that he was quite possibly guilty.

If he was, the case was at an end. Carole would lose the mental displacement activity offered by picking apart its details and trying to construct chains of logic from them.

And she’d be left with nothing to occupy her brain but the Times crossword, and anxieties about the state of her son’s marriage.

Then she remembered, rather guiltily, something else she should be worried about. Given the sudden access of emotion she had felt when she thought Ted Crisp’s life to be threatened, she had shown very little interest in his medical progress since the attack. She called his private number, the phone in his scruffy flat above the bar.

There was no reply. She let the phone ring and ring, in case he was in the bath or something, and then had a moment of panic. Maybe the wound had reopened. Maybe he was lying in bed, drowning in blood, his voice too feeble to summon help.

She dialled the number of the pub itself. On the third ring her call was answered. “Crown and Anchor,” said the unmistakable voice of Ted Crisp over a hubbub, which, by Fethering’s standards, was almost raucous.

“Ah. Er, Ted…it’s me, Carole.”

“Right, and what can I do you for? Want to order tonight’s special. It’s a prawn curry, served with rice and poppadoms.” Following Jude’s example, Carole had sometimes been known to order her meal before leaving home when she was eating at the Crown and Anchor.

“No, I’m not coming down to the pub tonight.”

“Oh, well, what is it? Sharpish, please, “cause we’re chocker in here tonight.”

“I just…”

“Mm?”

“I just rang to see how you are.”

“In what way?”

“I mean, after being stabbed yesterday, whether you’d taken any time off or seen the doctor or…”

“Bloody hell, Carole, it was only a scratch. I’m feeling fine. And now look, I’ve got customers clamouring for pints, so sorry, got to ring off,” he said, and immediately did so.

Leaving Carole feeling very foolish indeed, and wishing she had even more control over her emotions.

“Is your name Jude?”

“Yes.” She had just subsided into one of the sitting room’s shapeless sofas with a plate of one of her favourite Thai chicken and cashew recipes. “Would you mind calling me back? I’m just eating my supper.”

“I don’t care what you’re doing!” The voice of the woman at the end of the line was extremely angry. “I want to know what you’ve been saying to my daughter.”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who your daughter is.”

“My name’s Hilary Potton. My daughter’s name’s Imogen. Come on, don’t deny that you know her.”

“I’m not denying that I know her. She rang me earlier this evening.”

“She rang you, did she? Are you sure you didn’t ring her, to put vicious and hurtful ideas into her head?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Potton, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do, Jude.” She’d never heard her name invested with quite so much venom. “You’ve been encouraging her in these stupid, harmful fantasies.”

“I’m still not with you.”

“Do you deny that you gave my daughter the names of the detectives involved in the investigation of Walter Fleet’s murder?”

“No, I don’t deny that. I did give her the names.”

“And do you deny that you encouraged her to ring them, and tell them a complete fabric of lies?”

“Yes, Mrs. Potton, I deny that completely. I have no idea what Imogen told to the police. All she told me was that she had some information that might help to exonerate her father from suspicion.”