Chapter Eight

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Avril bit her nails nervously. "I know what happened on Wednesday night last week," she said at last. She paused until Sue, the owner of The Cosy Kitchen, had served her her scone, butter, clotted cream and jam. Tom waited patiently. "It's to do with … Francis Cavour."

"Of course it is," said Tom quietly.

"The thing is ― Gillian. I said I was her best friend ― and that's true. But I was ever so jealous of her."

"Of course you were," said Tom.

"See ― when I went to that interview a year back, I really fancied Francis. And he really fancied me." Tom merely raised his eyebrows. "In fact, he made love to me there and then."

"Really?" Tom thought that Avril must have just confirmed to him that, unlike her best friend, she was not herself virgo intacta.

"Oh yes, he fancied me too. I thought I had it made. But then Gillian went to her interview, a week later."

Tom watched her as he took a sip of tea.

"She got the job!" Avril's eyes clouded with tears, which she brushed aside. "It wasn't fair. I kept calling Francis, and he kept calling me, but things were never the same again."

"Go on." Tom took a bite of his toasted teacake.

"Eventually, the silly bitch told me that she was going away with Francis. I was furious."

"Yes."

"She said that he had persuaded her to have a boob job done." Avril leaned forward. "But the thing is, the night before she was due to meet him, she said that she wasn't going through with it."

"Wasn't going through with what?" asked Tom.

"The boob job. And she said that she was going to tell the police that he was still doing this operation."

"Ah." Tom leaned back in his chair. "And she also had first-hand evidence, from what you tell me, that he was continuing to practise when he had been struck off."

"That's what she told me." Avril took a large bite of scone laden with jam and cream. "That night, on Tuesday night, we had a row."

"You had a row with Gillian?"

Avril nodded. "It was 'cos, never mind the business of the boob job, she said she was still going away with him."

"That must have annoyed you a lot," said Tom.

"It did," admitted Avril. "As a matter of fact, I went slightly mad."

Tom finished his teacake and watched Avril with a mixture of compassion and curiosity.

"I called Francis on my mobile, about midnight Wednesday, or just before. I knew they were at a bed-and-breakfast somewhere and were due to fly out to St Lucia the next day. I said―" and here Avril had trouble going on, but Tom waited until she had composed herself sufficiently "―I said that I would commit suicide if he didn't come and see me that instant."

"Suicide?" Tom took another sip of tea.

Avril nodded, the tears forming in her eyes again. "I know it's stupid, but please, please believe me, Inspector Barnaby, I was quite serious at the time. I had a bottle full of Paracetamol and I threatened to take them all if Francis didn't come round straight away."

"And...?"

"And he did."

"But surely, Avril, if you were in your mother's house, at midnight..."

"Oh, I don't live in the main house," said Avril hastily. "I live in the summer house. It's been converted into my quarters. It used to be a guest room and bathroom, but I moved out there a couple of years ago. I had to, 'cos Mum was always prying, trying to find out what I was doing."

"I can understand that," said Tom. "So Francis arrived..."

"Yeah, Francis arrived, and he talked me out of it." She said it quite matter-of-factly. "I suppose," she said with an embarrassed grin, "that I was really trying to disrupt their holiday. Trying to prevent them from going away together."

"Did he mention Gillian?" asked Tom.

"No, not really. He just said that he loved me and that everything would be fine when he got back from St Lucia."

"And then he left?"

"Yeah, he left ― after comforting me. If you know what I mean." Avril looked down demurely.

"Oh, I see," said Tom. "So, after he had 'comforted' you―" he gave the word a slight inflection, at which Avril giggled, "―he left?"

"He left, and as far as I know went back to her. The next thing I knew he was back from holiday and she was dead." Avril now drank a whole cup of tea and Tom poured out another cup for her. "I'm sorry I've been such a so-and-so," she said.

"Oh, not at all ― you have been very helpful," said Tom. "But you do now realise, don't you, that Francis Cavour is a dangerous character?"

"Yeah, I do," said Avril. "I wish I'd never got mixed up with him. Oh, Inspector Barnaby―", as a sudden thought struck her, "―please don't repeat what I've just said to Francis, will you?"

Tom looked at her sternly. "It seems to me," he said, "that what you have told me will already be known to Francis. You have nothing to fear," he said, wondering whether in fact Avril might not herself now be in danger.

"Really?" Avril always was easily controlled by older men.

It was six o'clock that evening, and Joyce was snoozing on the settee downstairs, after her large meal with Amy. Cully was upstairs, writing up some notes for the following week's rehearsal, while Tom, having returned from his second visit to Midsomer Wellow that day, had gone upstairs to lie down, but he found his mind too full of unanswered questions to sleep. Francis Cavour... the bottle of wine... ricin... the thoughts swirled around his brain like water in a sink whose drain has become blocked. Suddenly he opened his eyes. The two glasses of red wine. Madeleine had said there were two glasses of red wine that she had to wash up. It didn't make any sense. Unless, of course, that was a deliberate ploy by Cavour to make it look as though he had drunk the wine as well, and he'd tipped his wine into Gillian's glass when she needed a top-up. Monday morning, without fail, and in the company of Ben Jones, he would go and interview Francis Cavour again. Francis Cavour... he closed his eyes, but unfortunately had an image of Cully and Joyce and Amy, and all three of them were reprimanding him for some unknown misdemeanour. Suddenly the front doorbell rang. Being the widest awake, Cully answered it.

"Chad!" she said with some surprise.

"Cully, I'm sorry to barge in like this, but of course I had your address from the notes..." said Chad Hunt.

"Yes, of course, come in!" said Cully, opening the door wide.

Joyce had just managed to come round and was sitting up on the settee. "Hello, Chad," she said as brightly as she could. Chad was carrying a sheaf of papers.

"Hello, Joyce," he said, "I was wondering whether I might have a word with your husband."

"Yes, of course," said Joyce and called out loudly, "Tom!"

Tom opened his eyes with the impression that Joyce's call had just saved him from being stabbed with a dagger by Amy. "Coming!" he managed to croak.

Joyce offered Chad a cup of tea, or something stronger, but Chad declined. Certain that his visit had to do with the murder investigation and not with the play, Cully excused herself and returned to her notes. Tom came downstairs a moment later. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"I wondered if I could have a word with you in private?" asked Chad.

"Ah," said Tom, looking at Joyce, who took the hint.

"I've got such a lot to do in the kitchen," she said, and left the two of them together, firmly closing the kitchen door behind her.

"Please ― have a seat," said Tom, indicating the armchair. They both sat down.

"It's about Francis Cavour," said Chad.

"I thought it might be," said Tom.

Chad spread his sheets of paper all over the coffee table. They were photocopies of newspaper articles, dating back some ten years, and they all concerned Francis Cavour, whose image was displayed on most of them. "I've been collecting these for some time," he said. "I don't think he should get away with it."

Tom studied them one by one. "Rape... indecent assault... rape... ah, here we have the breast implants," he said.

"Why has he not been brought to book?" asked Chad.

Tom felt slightly embarrassed. "Well... it wasn't really my department," he said, collecting together the articles that had appeared during the last twelve months.

"But a girl has now died," said Chad. "And we know her mother died from his incompetence. How many more have to die?"

Tom passed his tongue over his lips, which suddenly felt very dry. "None, I hope," he said.

"Hope isn't good enough," said Chad, his eyes blazing in a way that Tom hadn't seen before. "That man must go behind bars. You, Barnaby, are now in a position to nail him."

"What most interests me," said Tom, "is these nine articles published in the last year. As you may or may not be aware, he was only suspended last year by the General Medical Council."

"Of course I'm aware!" said Chad. "I kept prodding that sleepy organization to do something about him. He should have been struck off years ago."

"Yet according to these articles," and he selected four photocopies which he grouped together, "he has performed several breast augmentation operations in the last twelve months, the most recent of them being only last month. Which is illegal," he added.

"Using banned breast implants from France. Some of them leaked, and every time they leak the NHS has to pay a fortune to remove them."

"However," continued Tom, scrutinising the articles in question more closely, "I see that they are all attributed to 'an anonymous source', or their 'own correspondent'. Unless these papers ― and I note that they are all local papers ― were prepared to disclose their sources, I fear that none of the allegations would stand up in court."

"Prepared or forced?" asked Chad.

Tom looked at him calmly. "Do you have any special reason to wish to see Mr Cavour put behind bars, sir?" he asked.

Chad shrugged his shoulders. "Not really. But a girl's body is sacrosanct. Nobody should interfere with them. Do you realise, Barnaby, that some of these girls were only eighteen?"

"I hear what you say," said Barnaby, only too aware that he was using weasel words. "My main concern, of course, is to find the murderer of Gillian Wrigley."

"Pah!" Chad let out a plosive puff of air. "You won't have far to look." He gathered up his sheaf of papers and stood up. "I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time," he said, with none of his previous easy-going manner in evidence. "Good day to you, Barnaby. Do excuse me to Joyce," with which he took his leave.

Tom considered the interview for a moment or two, now seeing Chad in a new light.