The Corpse on the Court by Simon Brett Page A

ring a bell. A story going back a long way . . . to when the Wardock family owned Lockleigh House. Now when did I hear that?’ She tapped at her chin in frustration. ‘Oh, when was it? It’ll come to me. I must have heard it from one of the members of the tennis club. Who was it?’ She waved her hands hopelessly. ‘I’ll wake up at three a.m. and remember it.’
    Oenone Playfair smiled, obscurely comforted. ‘It would make sense, though. Much more likely that Reggie had gone to the court on a ghost-hunting search than that he had fixed to meet someone there.’
    Neither Carole nor Jude was about to point out the inaccuracy of this assessment. If he was interested in its connections with ghosts Reggie Playfair could have inspected the Lockleigh House tennis court on many occasions. His presence there two nights before was much more likely due to an arrangement to meet someone.
    And both Carole and Jude knew that the words she had just articulated would only give Oenone a brief respite. Her worries about her husband betraying her would soon return.
    Which gave an extra urgency to their mission to find out precisely what had drawn Reggie Playfair to the tennis court that night.
    It was Carole who had asked permission to check out the BMW. Oenone admitted that she hadn’t had the strength to look inside it. ‘So much Reggie’s car – it’ll still smell of him, like he’s popped out and is just about to come back in. But you two do look in it by all means.’
    She had also explained to them how the car had got back to Winnows. ‘George Hazlitt – you know, the pro – he drove it over. With his junior, Ned, following in another car to take them back.’
    She gave them the keys, saying, ‘Obviously if you find anything of interest, let me know. Otherwise, just drop the keys back through the letterbox. I think I might go and put my feet up for a while.’
    And they both realized how desperately exhausted Oenone Playfair was. In spite of her overt stoicism, the events of the past days had taken a heavy toll on her. And the long conversation with Carole and Jude couldn’t have made her any less tired.
    She saw them to the door and added, ‘Oh, and by the way, do let me know if you find Reggie’s mobile phone in the car. I couldn’t find it in the clothes that came back from the hospital . . . not that I really looked that hard. I was . . .’ The strain was beginning to show more forcibly now. ‘As I say, I’m just going to put my feet up for a while. Then I’ll have to address myself to the subject of funeral arrangements.’
    They could both tell that she was now just desperate to be on her own, so they said their hasty goodbyes. And as soon as Oenone had closed the front door, they started their inspection of the BMW.
    â€˜Be very handy,’ said Carole, ‘if we did find his mobile phone, with a text on it from someone arranging to meet him at the tennis court.’
    â€˜Well, don’t hold your breath,’ said Jude. ‘The business of investigation, as we have found out, is seldom quite as simple as that.’
    And so it proved. The BMW did not contain a revelatory mobile phone. Nor a note setting up an assignation with an old flame. Nor indeed anything else that one wouldn’t have expected to find in the car of a wealthy married man in his seventies.
    As she sedately drove her sedate Renault back to Fethering, Carole Seddon observed, ‘There’s one thing that’s struck me as particularly odd in everything I’ve heard today.’
    â€˜Something Oenone said?’
    â€˜No. Something you said.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜When we were driving over to Winnows. You said when you arrived at the tennis court yesterday morning Piers Targett was standing beside his Jaguar . . .’
    â€˜The E-Type, yes.’
    â€˜And where was Reggie Playfair’s BMW?’
    â€˜Parked