Читать книгу The Liar in the Library - Simon Brett - Страница 12

After the shower, Jude still felt restless and wakeful. Uncharacteristically, she poured herself a large Scotch and took it to bed with her laptop. To her surprise, she found she still had Megan Sinclair’s email address. There’d been no contact between them for more than fifteen years. Quite possibly Megan’s email had changed in that time, but, though she wasn’t about to write, ‘Your ex-husband came on to me this evening’, Jude did feel the need to be in touch with her old friend.

They had been very close at one time, even talked of sharing a flat together, though that never happened. But as girls to giggle with and shoulders to cry on, they had supported each other through a variety of dating disasters and false dawns of love. Jude felt confident that, if they did meet, the old rapport would be quickly re-established.

The email message she composed ran: ‘Seeing Al strutting his stuff in our local library this evening made me think about you. And when I say “local”, perhaps I should point out that I’m now living on the South Coast not far from Worthing in a village called Fethering. No idea where you are – still Morden? – or indeed what’s happening in your life. Be nice to meet and catch up some time. Oh, and by the way, when Al self-published those early books, did he use the pseudonym “Seth Marston”? Love, Jude.’

She swallowed down the remains of the Scotch, switched off the light and, after about an hour, sank into a troubled sleep.

The next morning, when Carole came round to Woodside Cottage for coffee, Jude didn’t mention the unpleasant ending to her evening at the library. She had found in the years of their acquaintance that her neighbour was inhibited in talking about sex. And for Jude to have raised the subject, even after such an unwelcome and unpleasant encounter as the night before’s, would have made Carole think she was boasting about her comparative attractiveness. Jude, in Carole’s view, was the kind of woman men came on to. She herself wasn’t.

So Jude, sitting in the throw-covered clutter of her sitting room, let Carole initiate the conversation, which that morning – as on many other mornings – centred on the doings of her granddaughters. ‘Gaby and Stephen are getting really worried about schools for Lily.’

‘Surely they don’t have to think about that for a couple of years.’

‘Oh, but they do. Living where they are – in Fulham – you have to think a long way ahead. They’ve got to get Lily into the right nursery to ensure that she goes to the right junior school, because a lot of those are feeders if they want to get into somewhere really good for the next stage – and obviously that’s what’s really important.’

‘Are we talking state education here?’ asked Jude, only for the benefit of the reaction she knew she’d get.

Which duly arrived. ‘Good heavens, no!’ screeched Carole. ‘State education is a very dangerous course to embark on if you live in London. State secondary schools are full of drugs and violence and teenage pregnancies. The thought of either of my two granddaughters going to a place like—’

The diatribe might have continued for some time, had it not been interrupted by the ringing of Jude’s doorbell.

When she opened her front door and felt the clutch of cold air, she found herself confronted by two people. The woman was dressed in a smart trouser suit, the man more casual in a red zip-up fleece. The woman was carrying a large-screened iPhone. Behind them in the street was parked a police Panda car.

‘Good morning,’ said the woman. ‘Are you Jude Nicholls?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Rollins, and this is Detective Sergeant Knight. We would like to talk to you about the death of Burton St Clair.’