Guns in the Gallery

The one person who wasn’t present that afternoon was Ned Whittaker. His wife Sheena was there, more relaxed than Carole and Jude had seen her before, drinking and chatting cheerfully with anyone and everyone. Carole thought her husband’s absence was odd. Jude, who knew the depth of Ned’s grief over his daughter’s death, was less surprised. To both of them Sheena’s apparent insouciance seemed in the circumstances bizarre.

The whole of the Walden site was en fête for the occasion. Bunting hung from the trees and, rather incongruously, a maypole stood one side of the central area, with a bonfire on the other. The yurts themselves were garlanded with coloured cloth and their doorways hung with bright curtains. Every viewpoint offered a photo opportunity.

And the assembled paparazzi were not wasting those opportunities. Smartly-suited girls from Gale Mostyn, looking impossibly cool in the warm sunshine, choreographed the photographs, lining up the assembled celebrities in one setting after another, all the time working in close consultation with Chervil Whittaker and Giles Green. Meanwhile black-trousered waitresses moved among the guests with trays of champagne, Pimm’s and fruit juices.

Sam Torino and her family had their own minder who organized the photos they were required for. Dressed in an oatmeal-coloured linen suit with an open-necked blue shirt, he was introduced to Carole and Jude as Nigel Mostyn. Clearly Sam Torino’s stature required the personal attentions of one of Gale Mostyn’s partners.

A lifetime’s modelling had given her grace and patience. She made no fuss as the photographers posed and reposed her; and the less-experienced ones from the local papers seemed to need a lot of reposing. If any of her children showed signs of boredom or restlessness, she reprimanded them in a manner that was old-fashioned almost to the point of being schoolmarmish.

To her surprise, Carole was having a rather good time. Because she would later be driving her Renault back to Fethering, she had determined at the beginning of the afternoon to restrict herself to one drink, but the first Pimm’s weakened her resolve and she allowed her glass to be refilled from the ever-circulating jug. Despite inevitable misgivings before the event, she enjoyed having no responsibility. She could just melt into the background and observe what was going on, hoping – though with small expectation of fulfilment – to pick up some small clue that might help her solve the mystery of Fennel Whittaker’s death.

For Jude the situation was different. She had been invited to the launch in her professional capacity and, as the various minor celebrities were photographed with various alternative therapists, she felt a growing sense of awkwardness. The lingerie model who had just dumped a Premiership footballer after tabloid ‘love rat’ allegations was led into the treatment room to be shot revealing a lot of flesh while she underwent a mock-up of a hot stone massage. The stand-up comic who had recently become the voice of a smoothie-maker in a new ad campaign was posed by an acupuncture chart with needles stuck in his nose. Jude felt uncharacteristically ill at ease.

The moment came. Chervil approached her, together with one of the smoothly suited Gale Mostyn girls. ‘I wonder, Jude, whether you’d be up to a photograph with Shaylene?’

‘Shaylene?’

‘She’s the girl from Rochdale who’s got this fantastic dance act with her Siamese cat.’

‘And what do you want me to be doing with her?’

Chervil Whittaker looked nonplussed. ‘Well, healing, obviously.’

‘Healing isn’t a very photogenic subject, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, can you be sort of waving your hands around or something? I was hoping Shaylene would be able to bring Gin Seng with her.’

‘Gin Seng is nothing to do with the kind of healing I do.’

‘Gin Seng is the name of her cat. But since they’ve got famous, Gin Seng’s insurers have got very strict about how much he can travel around with Shaylene.’

‘I’m sorry, Chervil,’ said Jude firmly, ‘but I’m afraid I can’t be photographed healing. It wouldn’t be real, unless I was actually doing the healing. And if I was doing it, I certainly wouldn’t be being photographed.’

Carole, standing nearby, was mildly surprised. Her neighbour was usually up for most things. But now Jude was showing the kind of reticence that would have been more characteristic of Carole herself.

‘Oh,’ said Chervil, puzzled by not getting her own way.

Rescue for Jude came in an unexpected form. ‘You can’t photograph someone healing,’ announced a warm Canadian voice.

It was Sam Torino who had overheard their conversation as she passed from one photo opportunity to another.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Chervil.

‘It trivializes the whole thing,’ said Sam Torino, putting into words exactly what Jude had been feeling.

Chervil Whittaker backed down immediately and moved off to get the singer predicted to go Top Hundred on iTunes within the next week to take up some positions with the Hatha yoga instructor.