‘The producer?’
‘Yes. You know he was here the weekend Alan died?’
‘Why?’
‘Alan wanted to talk to him about the television series, The Atticus Adventures. Redmond told me that Alan was giving him a hard time.’
‘I don’t understand, Susan. Why exactly did you want to talk to him? And why were you so aggressive with the vicar just now? You were almost interrogating him. What exactly is going on?’
I had to tell him. I didn’t know why I hadn’t told him already. So I took him through the whole thing: my visit to Claire Jenkins, the suicide letter, the Ivy Club – all of it. Charles listened to me in silence and I couldn’t help but feel that the more I spoke, the more ridiculous I sounded. He didn’t believe what I was saying and listening to myself I wasn’t sure I believed it either. Certainly, I had little or no evidence to support it. Mark Redmond had stayed a couple of nights in a hotel. Did that make him a suspect? A waiter had had his idea stolen. Would he have travelled all the way to Suffolk to get revenge? The fact remained that Alan Conway had been terminally ill. At the end of the day, why kill someone who was going to die anyway?
I finished. Charles shook his head. ‘A murder writer murdered,’ he said. ‘Are you really serious about this, Susan?’
‘Yes, Charles,’ I said. ‘I think I am.’
‘Have you told anyone else? Have you been to the police?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘For two reasons. I don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself. And frankly I think you could be stirring up more trouble for the company.’
‘Charles …’ I began but then came the sound of a fork being struck against the side of a glass and the room fell silent. I looked round. James Taylor was standing on the staircase that led up to the bedrooms with Sajid Khan next to him. He was at least ten years younger than anyone else in the room and couldn’t have looked more out-of-place.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Sajid has asked me to say a few words … and I’d like to start by thanking him for making all the arrangements today. As most of you know, I was Alan’s partner until very recently and I want to say that I was very fond of him and I will miss him very much. Quite a lot of you have been asking what I plan to do next so I might as well tell you that now that he’s gone, I won’t be staying in Framlingham although I’ve always been very happy here. In fact, if anyone’s interested, Abbey Grange is about to go on the market. Anyway, I want to thank you all for coming. I’m afraid I’ve never much liked funerals but, as I say, I’m glad to have had this chance to see you all and to say goodbye. And goodbye to Alan especially. I know it meant a lot to him, being buried in the cemetery at St Michael, and I’m sure lots of people will come here and visit him – people who liked his books. Please have some more to eat and drink. And thank you again.’
It wasn’t much of a speech and it had been delivered not just awkwardly but a little carelessly too. James had already told me that he couldn’t wait to get out of Suffolk and he had made it clear to everyone else too. While I was speaking, I had glanced around the room, trying to gauge the different reactions. The vicar was standing to one side, stony-faced. A woman had joined him, much shorter than him, plump with sprawling, ginger hair. I presumed she was his wife. John White hadn’t come to the reception but Detective Superintendent Locke was there – if indeed he was the black man I had identified at the cemetery. Melissa Conway and her son had left the moment James had started speaking. I saw them slip away through the back door and I could understand how they must have felt, listening to Alan’s boyfriend. It was still annoying, though, as I’d wanted to talk to them. But I couldn’t dash off a second time.
James shook hands with the solicitor and left the room, stopping briefly to mutter a few words to one or two well-wishers. I turned back to Charles, expecting to pick up our conversation, but at that moment his mobile pinged. He took it out and glanced at the screen.
‘My car’s here,’ he said. He had arranged a taxi to take him to Ipswich station.
‘You should have let me drive you,’ I said.
‘No. It’s all right.’ He reached for his coat and draped it over his arm. ‘Susan, we really need to talk about Alan. If you’re going to go on with this enquiry of yours, obviously I can’t stop you. But you should think what you’re doing … the implications.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you any closer to finding the missing chapters? If you want my honest opinion, that’s much more important.’
‘I’m still looking.’
‘Well, good luck. I’ll see you on Monday.’
We didn’t kiss each other goodbye. I have never kissed Charles, not once in all the years I’ve known him. He’s too formal for that, too strait-laced. I can’t actually even imagine him kissing his wife.
He left. I threw back the rest of my wine and went to fetch my key. I planned to have a bath and a rest before my dinner with James Taylor but as I made my way back towards the stairs – the other guests were dispersing now, leaving trays of uneaten sandwiches behind – I found my way blocked by Claire Jenkins. She was holding a brown A4 envelope, which must have contained at least a dozen sheets of paper from the look of it. For a moment, my heart leapt. She had found the missing pages! Could it really be as easy as that?
It wasn’t.
‘I said I’d write something about Alan,’ she reminded me, waving the envelope uncertainly in front of her. ‘You asked what he was like as a boy, how we grew up together.’ Her eyes were still red and weepy. If there was a website that sold exclusive funeral wear, she must have found it. She was wearing velvet and lace, slightly Victorian and very black.
‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Jenkins,’ I said.
‘It made me think about Alan and I enjoyed writing it. I’m not sure it’s any good. I couldn’t write the way he did. But it may tell you what you want to know.’ She weighed the envelope one last time as if reluctant to part with it, then pushed it towards me. ‘I’ve made a copy so you don’t need to worry about sending it back.’
‘Thank you.’ She was still standing there, as if expecting something more. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Yes. That was it. She nodded. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ she said. And then she went herself.
My brother, Alan Conway