‘What was your maiden name?’
‘Franks. Debbie Franks.’
‘Either of them sounds all right for an interior designer.’
‘Yes.’ A light chuckle. ‘At least I had a maiden name I could go back to. Unlike my poor mother.’
Carole waited for a gloss on this, but it didn’t come. So she smiled briefly, then asked, ‘Didn’t you want to move after the divorce?’ She remembered after David’s departure how frantic she had been to get out of the marital home as soon as possible and make her permanent base in their country cottage in Fethering.
‘I desperately wanted to move,’ said Debbie with feeling. ‘But my parents are still down here. Dad’s in a home, which means Mum’s virtually on her own. She sold the big house, to pay for Dad’s hospital expenses and lives in a houseboat on the Fether. I can’t really leave her, so . . .’ The shrug this time encompassed all the hopeless inevitability of life.
‘Mm. You say you were at art college . . .’ Carole gestured to the walls. ‘Are those yours?’ Debbie nodded. ‘They’re lovely.’
‘Thanks. I’m hoping to start selling a few, you know, bolster the old income a bit. This flat’s actually going to be part of the Art Crawl.’ In response to Carole’s puzzled expression, she explained, ‘In the Fedborough Festival in July. Only a couple of weeks away now. You’ve heard of the Festival, haven’t you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Carole thought of the programme book that had come through the letter-box a month before, and which this year had remained unopened. ‘I’ve been to the odd play or concert in the past. But I haven’t been aware of the . . . what did you call it?’
‘ “Art Crawl”. So called because it’s kind of modelled on a pub crawl, I suppose. You move from venue to venue. Artists display their work in various houses round the town, and people get maps showing where the stuff is and walk round looking at it. Very popular. Possibly brings more people to the Festival than the theatre and the concerts do.’
‘Does a lot of art get sold?’
‘Some artists do quite well, yes. Some less so.’ Her face twisted with the effort of saying what she was about to say with the maximum of diplomacy. ‘The fact is, in a place like Fedborough you get a lot of self-appointed artists.’
‘Whose talent isn’t up to that of professional artists?’
‘I didn’t say that. You did. I’d hoped to show my stuff in Pelling House during the Festival, but . . .’ Debbie briskly shook off maudlin thoughts. ‘So I’m going to turn this room into a bit of a gallery for the Crawl and see what happens. Which reminds me, I’ve still got a lot of framing to do.’
‘Do you do your own framing?’
‘Yes. Saves money.’ She sighed. ‘At least I can guarantee to get a lot of people through the flat, even if they don’t buy anything.’ She provided another explanation. ‘For most people in Fedborough, the Art Crawl is just a Snoopers’ Charter – chance to have a crafty look round other people’s houses.’
‘Ah.’ Carole grinned.
So did Debbie. But her mood swiftly changed, as an unwelcome thought returned to her. ‘The really horrid thing about this whole business . . . you know, what I’ve been talking to the police about . . . is that that . . . thing . . . the torso . . . must’ve been there all the time we lived in Pelling House . . .’ She shuddered. ‘A kind of malign presence. A curse on the house . . . and on those inside it.’ She let out a short, bitter laugh. ‘People of a superstitious nature might imagine that that’s what cast a blight on Francis and my marriage.’
‘And are you of a superstitious nature, Debbie?’
‘No. I’m of a very realistic nature. And I’m fully aware that the only malign presence which cast a blight on our marriage was a younger, richer American woman called Jonelle. Francis was always very interested in money. He was almost obsessively . . .’ She swallowed back the bile in her voice. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t burden you with my troubles.’
‘It’s all right. I’ve been there.’ As she said the words, Carole realized that she was being sympathetic, showing people skills of the kind that came so effortlessly to Jude. For the first time in months, she felt a tiny flicker of returning confidence. Emboldened, she moved the conversation back to what in her mind was starting to be called ‘the investigation’.
‘The police didn’t say anything else of interest about the torso, did they?’
Debbie Carlton, relieved by the change of subject, firmly shook her head. ‘No. Presumably they’re doing all the forensic tests, going through Missing Persons files and what-have-you, but they were hardly likely to share anything they knew with me, were they?’
‘Hardly. So, Debbie, you weren’t even aware of the boarded-up bit in the cellar in Pelling House, were you?’
‘No. I may have glanced down there when we were looking round with the estate agent, but that’s it. There wasn’t a light fixed up, so, as I say, I never went down to the cellar.’
‘Surely you must’ve been glad of the space for storage?’
‘No. We moved from a tiny flat just along the road here, so we didn’t have nearly enough furniture for somewhere like that. And you’ve no idea how much cupboard space there is in Pelling House,’ she added wistfully.
‘What about Francis?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’ve said you didn’t, but did Francis often go down to the cellar?’
There was a distinct beat of silence before Debbie Carlton replied, ‘No. Hardly ever.’
Chapter Six
There was a click of the downstairs door being unlocked, and someone called up, ‘Are you there, Debbie love?’ The voice was elderly, but strong, with the hint of a Sussex accent.
‘Yes, Mum, come on up. I’ve got someone here.’
The woman who appeared at the sitting-room door was stout with a tight grey perm and a bulging raffia-covered shopping basket. She looked infinitely reliable. Carole had no difficulty picturing her behind an old-fashioned grocer’s counter, able instantly to put her hand on all her stock, ready to take and pass on confidences. The grocery would have been a sub-station in the network of Fedborough’s communications, the kind of essential information source which has disappeared in the days of out-of-town superstores.
Debbie’s mother looked like a character from a bygone age, a card from a game of ‘Happy Families’. Mr Bun the Baker. Mrs Franks the Grocer. Comparing Debbie’s elegance, Carole reflected on the unlikeliness of Miss Franks the Grocer’s Daughter ever being part of the same set. But seeing the two of them together did help to put Debbie Carlton into context. Her rise to art school, wealthy marriage and interior design consultancy had been from comparatively humble origins.
‘This is my mother, Billie Franks. Carole Seddon.’
The old woman’s brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’ There was no criticism in her words, only puzzlement. It was unusual for Mrs Franks to meet anyone in Fedborough whom she didn’t know.
‘I live in Fethering.’
‘Ah. That would explain it.’ If Carole had said Reykjavik or Valparaiso, she would have got the same reaction. Billie Franks reached into her basket. ‘Reg got me a couple of lettuces out of his allotment, and I thought you could probably do with one, love.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘I’ll put it through in the kitchen.’ Billie Franks bustled off. She treated the flat as if it were her own, and her