Murder on the Menu

by Fiona Leitch

  ‘Debbie Roberts,’ said Debbie, giving him a dazzling smile. Hang on, I thought, you’re married to the man of my teenage dreams. Don’t you start flirting with this one!

  Withers smiled back, showing off his white teeth and rugged jawline. Oh, he was so smooth. ‘Debbie. I need to have a word with Ms Parker here, but you can leave.’

  ‘She’s my lift,’ I said weakly.

  ‘Not anymore she isn’t,’ he said. Debbie gave me an apologetic look and got back in the car. Withers waited for her to leave, giving her a cheerful but firm wave when she hesitated at the exit and looked back. Then he turned to me with a sigh.

  ‘What part of “butt out” do you not understand?’ he said.

  ‘I dunno, probably the same part of “innocent until proven guilty” that you don’t understand,’ I said.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘And how exactly am I not understanding that?’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘I dunno. Lack of training?’

  I thought it was quite a witty comeback under the circumstances but he obviously didn’t. He grabbed my arm and marched me away from the hotel, into another part of the grounds. There was an old folly or pagoda thing, painted white with lilac wisteria and pink rambling roses growing over it. It was beautiful and romantic and just the sort of place I wouldn’t normally mind a bloke leading me off to for some privacy, only not this bloke, and not under these circumstances.

  He led me up the steps and sat me down firmly on a bench, then stood in front of me.

  ‘Why are you causing me so much trouble? What exactly are you accusing me of, Ms Parker?’ he said. He seemed a bit miffed. Good, I thought.

  ‘Why do you care what I think?’ I asked. He just stared at me. ‘Let me guess, you haven’t been here very long and you’re feeling a bit insecure about your position. I’m assuming Penstowan’s not like anywhere you’ve worked before?’

  He smiled thinly – he was a world-class thin-smiler – but I got the feeling I’d touched a nerve.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘This is your first major case here – definitely your first murder case; we don’t get a lot of those down this way – and you want to make a good impression by solving it quickly. But this is Cornwall. We don’t do things quickly here, and we don’t expect you to, either. We just want you to do it properly.’

  ‘I am doing it properly.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ I said. ‘You’ve already decided that Tony Penhaligon is the murderer.’ He opened his mouth to speak but I held up my hand to stop him. ‘Yes, I know he has the most obvious motive, and the most obvious explanation is normally the right one. But—’

  ‘But you know Tony,’ he interrupted, sarcastically.

  ‘Yes, I do. And you’ve got a theory and you’re trying to find the evidence to back it up, instead of looking at the evidence and coming up with a theory from that.’

  ‘I can assure you I’m not,’ he said, but he didn’t look that assured himself.

  ‘I get it,’ I said. ‘Your theory is completely plausible; it even sounds likely. But only if Cheryl’s dead, and we don’t know that she is. There’s no body. If Mel knew she was having an affair, and if Cheryl decided to leave because Mel threatened to expose her, and if Tony found out anyway and lost his temper with Cheryl and if he knew that Mel knew … that’s a lot of ifs.’

  Withers sat down next to me. To my amazement, he actually looked likegiven him food for thought.

  ‘Melissa Penhaligon had absolutely no enemies,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked around, and everyone liked her, even after she dumped Tony. They all seem to think she got her comeuppance when her lover dumped her. The only person who had any reason to bear her a grudge was Tony.’

  ‘And Cheryl, if she threatened to expose her affair to Tony.’

  ‘Yeah…’ Withers couldn’t really deny it. ‘But if she was going to go to the trouble of murdering Mel to save her relationship with Tony, why wouldn’t she stick around and go through with the wedding? Why kill someone to protect something that you then give up anyway?’

  We stared at each other, then both turned away and looked at the flowers growing over the pagoda, thinking deeply.

  ‘There’s always Roger Laity,’ I said, as a thought occurred to me.

  Withers looked at me sharply. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Mel said that Cheryl was after Tony’s shop,’ I said. He nodded.

  ‘Yeah, you told me that. But Mr Penhaligon – the older Mr Penhaligon – told me it was in a family trust. It wasn’t Tony’s to give away.’

  ‘I know that, and so did Cheryl. But apparently Roger Laity had been implicated in some dodgy dealings at the council. Nothing illegal, by the sounds of it, but definitely unethical.’ I tried to remember exactly what Mel had said. ‘Mel said her cousin worked there and had heard something. She said the Laity family have plans for Penstowan that not everyone would agree with.’

  ‘What the hell does that even mean?’ he asked, a little exasperated.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘But maybe it was to do with the shop. The first thing Mel did when she saw me was ask if I was investigating the Laitys.’

  ‘Hmmm…’ Withers took out his phone and looked up a message. ‘I thought so. I had a message earlier saying Roger Laity had been here, asking to take Cheryl’s belongings home.’

  I know, I thought, but I knew better than to mention it. Plus, I’d forgotten that the receptionist had even mentioned it once I’d got talking to Old Davey.

  Withers grinned. ‘I also got a garbled message about a dog escaping from a car from PC Trelawney, and I thought for a moment he must have eaten a dodgy pasty and been hallucinating. And then I thought, who just inherited a dog they can’t control and keeps popping up at my crime scene?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about…’ I said, making a point of studying a rose very carefully, but I could see the look of amusement on his face. He looked nice when he smiled properly. I sniffed at the rose then looked back at Withers, but he’d turned away. ‘So why would Roger Laity want Cheryl’s things? I know he was her guardian, but she didn’t live with him anymore. Apart from the fact it would probably be down to Tony to collect her things, what’s the hurry? She’s been missing less than forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Yeah…’ Withers looked thoughtful for a moment, then came to a decision. He stood up. ‘Right, I’d better take you home.’

  I stood up, disappointed to be dismissed again so easily, and followed him down the steps to his car. He held the door open for me, then got in and started the engine. He sat for a moment, letting it idle, then turned slightly to me.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I need to take a bit of a detour first.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  We drove out of the car park and along the avenue of trees that led out of the hotel grounds and to the road. But instead of turning left to Penstowan, he turned right, then right again onto the A39 heading south.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘I’m only doing this to shut you up.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  He kept his eyes on the road. ‘Stop talking before I change my mind.’

  I looked out of the window and watched the countryside flash past. It was quiet and it started to feel a bit awkward, not like the comfortable, companionable silences I shared with Tony. Oh God, please put the radio on or something, I thought, and to my surprise he did. It was tuned to a local station which played innocuous chart hits, most of which I didn’t know, each sounding much the same as the one preceding it. I must be getting old, I thought.

  ‘This music! It all sounds the same to me,’ said DCI Withers, making me start in surprise. He was reading my mind.

  ‘You do know that’s a sign of getting old?’ I said, and he laughed.

  ‘Yup.’

  We were headed towards a bend in the road, one I knew only too well. I tensed as we approached it, just as I’d always done since the cra
sh – not that I’d driven along here much in the last few years.

  Withers noticed. ‘What’s the matter? I’m a safe driver.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. I just know someone who had an accident here, that’s all.’ I wasn’t going to tell him about it. We passed a signpost for Crackington Haven.

  ‘Now that is a fantastic place name,’ he said. He was actually trying to lighten the mood. Wonders would never cease.

  ‘Have you been there? It’s a great place for a walk, really rugged.’

  ‘Yeah, and a nice pub there too.’

  ‘Are we popping in for a pint?’

  He laughed. ‘Much as I could do with one, no. We’re going to Boscastle.’

  ‘Boscastle?’

  ‘Home of one Roger Laity.’

  ‘You’re taking me to see Roger Laity?’

  ‘No, I’m taking you to sit quietly in the car while I talk to him. Don’t make me regret this.’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ I said, and he gave me what could only be described as ‘a look’.

  ‘I’ll believe that when it happens…’

  The Laity family home was on the outskirts of Boscastle. It perched high up on the hillside, overlooking the pretty town and harbour. A sweeping gravel drive led through manicured lawns and flower beds bursting with colour to an imposing stone-built Georgian mansion. It was the sort of place wealthy middle-class incomers from up country would call a ‘cottage in the country’, and everyone else would call a ‘bleeding massive house’. It was bleeding massive. There was a stone outbuilding next to the house, whitewashed and converted into a garage or workshop, by the looks of it. It was about the same size as my actual house. The door was shut, its frosted glass panels giving nothing away about its contents.

  There was a newish Range Rover, de rigueur for the wealthy man-about-countryside, parked in front. Unlike in London, where cars like this were really only used for handling the rough terrain of Kensington and Chelsea or the frozen wastes of Islington, this one looked like it had actually been taken off-road, as nature intended; the wheels were muddy, and there were even a few weeds with yellow flowers sticking incongruously out of one of the grills at the front. As DCI Withers pulled up next to it, Roger Laity came out of the house. He was carrying a sports bag and looked surprised to see us.

  Withers looked at me. ‘Stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Why did you bring me, if I can’t get out?’ I said.

  ‘Buggered if I know,’ muttered Withers. ‘I brought you so you can see that I am following all lines of enquiry, and then you’ll leave me alone, yes?’

  ‘Mmm,’ I said. I wasn’t going to commit myself. He rolled his eyes, then pressed the button to wind down my window.

  ‘You can listen in, but that’s it.’ He opened the door and as he got out I heard him say, ‘I’m going to regret this…’

  Roger Laity approached the car, a fake smile composed of one hundred per cent pure bullshit on his face. He wasn’t just surprised to see us, I thought; he was unhappy about it too. He held out his hand to shake Withers’s warmly, but that warmth did not extend to his eyes.

  ‘DCI … Withers, isn’t it? I never forget a name,’ he said, bending down slightly to get a look at me inside the car. ‘And that’s the young lady who leapt into action so spectacularly the other night. What brings you here?’ He quickly put on a sincere face. ‘Is there some news of my niece?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Withers. ‘We were just passing and I thought we’d drop by and go over a few things, see if there’s something we missed.’

  Laity’s smile became even more fake. It was impossible to be ‘just passing’ Boscastle unless you were actually heading there, so he knew that Withers’s visit was not quite as casual as the DCI would have him believe. He shifted the bag in his hand. Withers looked at it.

  ‘Sorry, you were just off out somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Laity. ‘Only to see a friend.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long. So it’s just you and your wife living here? And your son? Are they around?’

  ‘No,’ said Roger. ‘My wife’s gone to stay with her mother for a few days, down in Helston. She’s not well at the best of times and this whole business has really upset her nerves.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Withers. ‘And your son…?’

  ‘Craig?’ said Laity. ‘No, he moved out a couple of months ago. He went home this morning. Work tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. Where does he live?’

  ‘Oxfordshire,’ said Laity. ‘I believe he made a statement yesterday, not that he saw anything.’

  ‘That’s absolutely fine.’ Withers had a soothing voice. ‘Now, of course we’re concerned about Cheryl’s whereabouts, but what I’d really like to talk to you about is the murder. How well did you know the victim?’

  Laity briefly looked surprised, but he hadn’t become a successful businessman (with a bleeding massive house) by letting his emotions get the better of him. His expression turned thoughtful. ‘Hmm, let me think… You know, I honestly don’t think we ever met?’

  ‘She didn’t work for you at any point, or have anything to do with your business? What was your business again?’

  Laity definitely looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I own a string of campsites along this coast. Very successful campsites. I do employ quite a few people, mostly seasonal of course, but I don’t recall ever hiring her.’

  ‘Oh. That’s strange…’ Withers shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

  Laity looked alarmed. ‘What’s strange?’

  Inside the car, I was hopping around in my seat in frustration. Let me talk to him! But I had to admit that Withers was doing a pretty good job, especially as we didn’t even really know what we were accusing Roger Laity of, if anything.

  Withers looked bemused. ‘I don’t suppose it’s anything, really. Only the victim apparently made some allegations about your business dealings with the local council. Do you have any idea what she was talking about?’

  Laity no longer looked alarmed, just annoyed.

  ‘My dealings with the council are my own business,’ he said.

  ‘That depends on what they are, really,’ said Withers. ‘Not to worry, I’ll have a word with them tomorrow and see if I can get to the bottom of it. Thank you for your time, Mr Laity.’ And with that he turned away, leaving Roger Laity looking after him in angry astonishment. Oh, that was good, I thought. He’d definitely been up to something, and it was looking like maybe Mel had had an enemy after all.

  Withers went to open the car door and winked at me, then turned back to Laity, which I was glad about because my stupid cheeks stupidly went all hot and red and stupid.

  ‘Oh yeah, you were at the hotel earlier asking about Cheryl’s belongings? They’re part of the crime scene so we’d like to keep hold of them for the moment, but if there was something in particular you were after…?’

  Laity shook his head. ‘No. I just wanted to have them near me. I’m still clinging to the hope that she’s alive and has just seen sense and left that … that idiot Tony, and I’d like to have them here for her, in case she comes back.’

  ‘I see. We’ll need them for a while longer but I’ll let you know when we release them. Thanks again.’

  He got in the car but didn’t turn on the engine. I opened my mouth.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said.

  Roger Laity looked at us awkwardly, obviously waiting for us to leave. Withers picked up his phone and put it to his ear, making it look like he was taking a call.

  ‘Is he watching?’ he asked. I discreetly peered at Laity.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He looks really uncomfortable.’

  ‘Good,’ said Withers, putting down the phone with a grin and starting the engine.

  We drove away from the house. In the rearview mirror I saw Laity take out his phone and go back into the house. I caught Withers’s eye in the mirror; he’d seen it too.

  ‘So he doesn’t look at all guilty of anything,
does he?’ I said, and he laughed.

  ‘A fine upstanding citizen, if ever I saw one.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  We drove the rest of the way back to Penstowan in a slightly less awkward silence than we’d left it in. A couple of times I tried to make conversation, but Withers appeared to be deep in thought and, although he answered pleasantly enough, he wasn’t to be drawn any further. I was dying to ask him what conclusions (if any) he’d come to after our visit to Roger Laity, but I thought better of it; he’d taken quite a big and unexpected step, letting me go along with him, and if I wanted to stay in his confidence I was probably best off waiting for him to share things with me rather than badgering him.

  We turned into my road and he pulled up outside my house.

  ‘So…’ I said, not entirely sure what to say. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘What happens now is you let me get on with my job.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘But I thought— What was that all about? Taking me to see Laity?’

  ‘That was about showing you that I am following all lines of investigation, regardless of what you may think.’ Withers looked amused. ‘What, did you think we were partners or something now?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said, flustered, because, ridiculous as it was, that kind of was what I’d thought. Of course we weren’t partners. I was a chef, not a police officer. ‘But what are you going to do about Roger Laity?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Well, he’s proper shifty, isn’t he?’

  Withers sighed and turned to look me in the eye. ‘Jodie. Stop it. Yes, he did look guilty, but guilty of what? Not of murder.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ I said stubbornly, but I knew he was right.

  ‘Yes, I can. You saw him when I mentioned Mel; he was completely taken by surprise. I’m sure he’s guilty of something – people like him usually are – but you could tell that was the first he’d heard of Mel’s allegations.’