by Sam Short
As Pepper entered the pub, she was greeted by the clatter of cutlery on plates and the welcoming scents of frying bacon and brewing coffee. The jukebox volume was low, but Pepper could make out the chorus of Mr. Blue Sky by Electric Light Orchestra, and silently commended the person who’d chosen the song. If there was a better song to see in a summer day, Pepper was yet to hear it.
Three workmen in clothes splattered with paint sat at the table next to the window, their plates laden with the ingredients essential to a full English breakfast, and an elderly couple nibbled at slices of toast as they inspected the headlines on the covers of their newspapers.
As Pepper approached the bar, Michael appeared from a door alongside it carrying a tray heaped with food. His eyes widened when he saw Pepper, and Pepper instinctively put a hand to her head. Why had he looked at her like that? Was it her hair? Had she put too little make-up on? Too much make-up on? She scowled at the bearded man and decided she didn’t want to know.
Michael gave a broad smile. “Hello, lady whose name she doesn’t want me to know, but is definitely not called Love or Sweetheart. You’ve come to get that drink I owe you, haven’t you? You can have an alcoholic drink if you like — my licence covers me to serve it at this time of day, but I suspect you’re not a morning drinker. I’d be happy to substitute the drink I owe you with a full English breakfast complete with a pot of coffee or tea. How does that sound?” He looked away for a fraction of a second. “I’d like to do that for you,” he added.
“No,” said Pepper, eyeing up the contents of the tray. “I’m not here for food or drink. I’m here to ask you a question. I’d like to know who —”
“I’m sorry,” said Michael, interrupting her. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you unless you agree to accept a breakfast on the house.”
The smell of fried bacon had already worked its magic on Pepper, and she was well aware that her mouth was watering. She looked at the food on the tray which Michael carried. There was plump sausages, frazzled bacon, crispy black pudding, golden mushrooms — no doubt fried in butter, baked beans swimming in a rich tomato sauce which suggested they weren’t the cheap type, and in a neat stack on a small plate was a pile of crispy fried bread. She licked her lips.
She had a terrible habit of thinking she didn’t want breakfast, and then two hours later suddenly discovering she was starving. She’d made that same mistake today, and was vulnerable to the temptation teased by a plate of food. Remembering again that her grandmother had advocated for the acceptance of an offer of food, Pepper nodded. “Why not?” she said. “I’ll have a full breakfast, please. With coffee. No milk or sugar needed.” She pointed at the table nearest the jukebox. “I’ll be sitting over there.”
Michael’s smile widened. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready,” he said.
After draping her jacket over the back of her seat, and placing her bag on the table, Pepper inspected the jukebox. It was as Michael had said when she’d visited to ask for directions to the gardening club — it was an old jukebox, and Pepper smiled as she ran her eyes over the playlist backlit in yellow light.
All the old classics, which wouldn’t have been so old when the jukebox was manufactured, were there. Everything from classics by The Police, to less well-known tracks by Iron Maiden and Metallica, were on offer, and Pepper made a mental playlist of the songs she’d choose to play if she ever got to spend a private hour with the jukebox.
Looking away as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass behind which were stored the little piles of vinyl records, Pepper ran a hand through her hair, now aware that while riding her bike the wind had changed the angle of her spikes.
She stepped away from the jukebox, wishing that everyday life wasn’t so full of reflective surfaces, and sat at the table, picking up the menu and scanning the meals on offer.
As she finished reading the main courses and moved onto the deserts, the apple crumble made with locally grown fruit grabbing her attention, Michael approached the table with a full tray. “There you go, madam,” he said, placing a full plate of food in front of Pepper.
He gave her another of the smiles which Pepper was becoming used to, and his eyes twinkled as he placed a plate on the table mat opposite Pepper’s. “I hope you don’t mind me joining you for breakfast,” he said. “The early morning rush is over, and the tradesmen are on their way to work, the girls who work for me can cope on their own for half an hour or so.” He placed the tray on the table and sat down, the wooden chair creaking beneath his weight. “Anyway,” he said, unwrapping his cutlery from the paper napkin folded neatly around them. “You said you had a question to ask me.”
A little taken aback, and trying to remember when the last time she’d shared breakfast with a man was, Pepper nodded. “Of course,” she said. “You can join me if you like.”
Lifting the little metal coffee pot, and filling two cups, Michael grinned. “I hope you’ll enjoy it,” he said, pointing at Pepper’s plate with his knife. “I cooked it myself, and everything is local. Even the baked beans are local – they’re organic too.”
As Michael cut into a slice of bacon, Pepper was happy to see that he was the sort of man who would concentrate on his food more than he would on his dining companion. She cut the end off a sausage, and popped it into her mouth, immediately appreciating the superiority of locally made butcher’s sausages over the mass-produced sausages bought in superstores. She chewed her food slowly, and then swallowed before speaking. “The question I wanted to ask you was —“
Not as polite as Pepper considered herself to be, Michael took a bite of fried bread and shook his head, speaking with his mouth full. “I only answer questions from people whose names I know,” he said. “Until I know your name, you’re still a stranger. I don’t like answering questions from strangers. Anyway, I think I already know your name. I guessed it last night after you’d gone.”
“Really?” said Pepper, casting politeness aside and putting a crispy chunk of black pudding in her mouth. Pleased that the butcher had used a liberal amount of spices and herbs in his recipe, Pepper noted that the maker had favoured cardamom as the main spice. “Why would you try and guess my name?”
“Because you’re interesting,” said Michael, wiping his mouth with his napkin. He stopped eating for a moment and looked across the table at Pepper. “When you left my pub last night, at first I guessed your name was something that would match your jacket and hair. I settled on Roxy.”
“Roxy?” said Pepper. “You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried.”
“Hold on,” said Michael. “I said at first I guessed your name was Roxy. Then I decided it would be something more traditional, so I settled on Henrietta.”
Pepper sipped her coffee, impressed at how strong it was. “No,” she said. “My name is not Henrietta.”
“Hold your horses,” said Michael, popping a mushroom into his mouth. “Then I thought to myself, no, her name is not Henrietta. This lady’s name is more exciting than that. She got all fired up when I called her sweetheart — she’s got a sting in her tail. So then, I decided that your name must be something spicy. At first, I guessed it was ginger, but then I changed my mind. I’m guessing your name is Pepper. Am I right?”
Pepper stopped chewing and stared at Michael. “You guessed that?”
Michael wiped his mouth again. He gave a nod, accompanied by a broad smile. “Am I right?”
“Actually,” said Pepper, suitably impressed. “You are. That’s quite amazing. I’m shocked.”
Michael’s body shook as he laughed. “I’m just teasing you, Pepper. Winston was in for his breakfast this morning. He told me all about the goings on at the allotments last night, including your name. I’ve already guessed what the question is you’ve come to ask me — you’ve come to ask me the same question that Sergeant Saxon came to ask me, haven’t you? Winston told me you had some sort of gut feeling that Stan, God rest his soul, wasn’t the victim of an accident. You’ve come to ask me
who the two lads were that Stan was arguing with, haven’t you?”
Not used to being the butt of a practical-joke, however innocent, Pepper felt her cheeks warming. “It’s rude to speak about people behind their backs,” she stated. “Although, yes, you’re right about the question I’ve come to ask you. I’d like to know who those two young men were.”
Michael folded a piece of fried bread in half and used it to mop up any trace of his breakfast from the plate. “What are you going to do with that information, Pepper?” he asked. “You can’t go around accusing people of things they haven’t done, however undesirable those people are.”
“So the two men in question are undesirables?” asked Pepper, raising an eyebrow. “Who are they, Michael?”
Michael placed the fried bread in his mouth and chewed slowly. He frowned. “I’m all for gut feelings, Pepper,” he said. “I have them all the time. I can tell just by looking at somebody whether I’m going to like them or not — all based on a gut feeling, but from what Winston told me, it’s quite obvious that Stan had an accident. I’m not sure what good it will do for you to go accusing people of crimes as serious as murder.”
As far as she was aware, Pepper hadn’t mentioned murder, and if she had — she hadn’t meant to. The plant had merely told her that somebody had probably pushed Stan. The fact that Stan’s shoelace had become entangled in the shed door had probably been an accident, as had him falling onto the upturned rake.
She told Michael as much. “I’m not saying it was murder,” she said. “I’m saying it may still be an accident, but somebody might have caused the accident. I saw Stan arguing with those two men in your pub, and then I saw him arguing with another two men outside his shed. All it would have taken is for one of them to have gone to Stan’s shed later on and pushed him. He could have easily fallen in the way he did, after being pushed — even gently. Like you, Michael, my gut feelings are rarely wrong, and the one I have about Stan’s death is very powerful.”
Michael pointed at the single slice of fried bread on Pepper’s plate as she placed her knife and fork neatly alongside each other. “Are you going to eat that?” he asked.
Pepper shook her head and pushed her plate towards the landlord.
Taking the piece of bread, and mopping up the remains of Pepper’s baked beans, Michael nodded. “Okay,” he said. “It can’t do any harm giving you those troublemaker’s names. But I must tell you that Stan was no angel, either. He was always into something — sometimes legal, and sometimes not so legal. Those two brothers might have had a good reason to be angry with him.”
“Brothers?” said Pepper. “They didn’t look alike.”
“Not all siblings do,” smiled Michael. “My sister looks nothing like me. Her beard is nowhere near as bushy as mine.”
Pepper smiled. He was right. She and Jasmine hardly resembled one another at all. “Who are the brothers?” she asked.
“I call them the Brothers Dim,” said Michael. “On account of the lack of IQ either of them displays. I doubt either of them understands the reference — I’d guess they’re not the sort of people who read a lot of books. They’re not all bad though. I mean you’d be in no danger from them. They’re not the sort of men who’d hurt a woman.”
“The Brothers Dim?” said Pepper. “I like it. Would you happen to know where I could find these brothers? I only want to ask them some questions which the police might not have asked.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “There’s something about you, Pepper. Something intense. Something I can’t put my finger on, but for whatever reason — I feel like I can trust you, and I feel like you know what you’re doing. I’ll tell you where you can find those two brothers on two conditions. One condition for each brother.”
“Go on,” said Pepper.
“The first condition is that you don’t tell them that it was me who told you who they are, and where you could find them — I don’t want them knowing that I sent you, and I don’t want the police knowing either. I like my life as peaceful as it can be.”
“And the second condition?” asked Pepper.
“The second condition is the most important,” said Michael. “I’m going to need you to promise that you’ll take me up on the offer of a free drink.”
“I thought my breakfast was in place of a drink?” said Pepper, squirming in her seat.
“It was, but while sharing that breakfast with you,” said Michael, getting to his feet and placing the empty plates on the tray. “I decided that I would like to have a drink with you. I won’t tell you where you can find those boys until you agree to it.”
“That’s blackmail,” said Pepper.
“Then phone the police,” smiled Michael.
Chapter 17
Heading towards the part of Picklebury in which Michael had told her she would find the brother’s flat, Pepper wondered how on earth she’d managed to end up in the unenviable predicament of having to allocate a portion of her week to having a drink with a man.
Some people might have called it an appointment, or even a date, but Pepper called it what it was — an infringement on the one-hundred-and-sixty-eight hours of precious time afforded to her each week.
She could cancel, of course, but that would be going against every fibre of her being. She’d made an arrangement, and she was going to stick with it. Anyway, she reckoned she could down a glass of red wine in less than twenty-five seconds if pushed. Michael had implicitly used the term a drink, and that was precisely what Pepper was going to honour. One drink, and then she would be gone.
Even a place as picturesque as Picklebury had areas which weren’t quite as beautiful as the rest of the town, and as Pepper cycled into the small courtyard enclosed by apartment buildings on three sides, she knew she’d discovered such a place.
While not an awful area, it was evident by the blankets which replaced curtains in the windows of one flat, and the rubbish strewn over the unkempt grassed areas surrounding the courtyard, that it was not the sort of place the local tourist board would use on an advertisement for the Peak District.
Leaning her bike against a lamppost, and unwrapping the lock from beneath her seat for the first time in longer than she could remember, Pepper secured the frame to the post, popped the shopping she’d bought from The Bazaar into her denim bag, and slung it over her shoulder.
Although her grandmother would have told her not to assume her belongings would be stolen if she left them unattended in a place like Ashford Court, Pepper also reminded herself that her grandmother had been the victim of car theft three times in her life. She’d been such a frequent victim after insisting that her car keys could quite safely be left in the ignition overnight, thereby reducing the chances of her losing them again. Her grandmother had meant well, and had been a wonderful person, but some of her advice was best ignored.
Pepper looked around for the correct flat. Although Michael hadn’t been able to furnish Pepper with a number, he’d told her that he’d once driven the boys home after one of them had passed out drunk in the pub, and remembered that it was the flat with a statue of Buddha in the window.
Pepper found the Buddha figurine quickly, placed alongside a tilted ornament representing the Eiffel Tower, and approached the door of the ground floor flat. The letterbox was no longer fully attached to the door and hung perpendicular to the floor. With no bell to press or knocker to knock, she formed a fist and rapped firmly on the grimy wood.
She waited for what she deemed a polite enough amount of time and then knocked again when nobody answered. After another minute, and still no answer, Pepper took a step backwards and looked at the windows. Spotting no sign of movement inside, she did what she’d seen people doing on the television, and crouched in front of the door, staring through the hole where the letterbox should have been.
Two faces stared back at her from where their owners crouched in the hallway, their backs against the wall. One of them, his head adorned with dark hair, blinked, and the other, sporti
ng fair hair, pointed at the door. “You,” he said. “You — the person looking at us. Can you see us?”
Realising a nod of her head would have been ineffective in her current situation, Pepper spoke her answer without visual embellishments. “Yes,” she said. “I can see you. Will you let me in, please? I want to ask you some questions.”
“Who is it?” whispered the dark-haired brother.
“It must be the feds again,” came the reply.
“But we answered their questions last night.”
“Let’s crawl away and hide.”
Lowering themselves to their stomachs, the two brothers began to slither slowly towards the open door through which Pepper could see an oven and half of a refrigerator door. Attempting to enter the kitchen simultaneously, the brothers managed to entangle their arms and legs and struggled to gain forward momentum. Eventually, they stopped struggling and lay still, one of them emitting a sigh of contentment.
When neither brother moved for half a minute, Pepper spoke again. “I can see you,” she said. “Are you trying to hide?”
“Shhh,” hissed one of the brothers. “Did you hear that? There’s somebody here!”
“Where?” asked the other brother, kicking his legs behind him.
“I’m here,” said Pepper. “At the door. Look at the letterbox.”
The two brothers slid backwards in unison, and when they were free of the door frame, they both turned to face Pepper. The brother who saw Pepper’s eyes first let out a startled scream. “Look, there’s somebody in the door!” He stared at Pepper, fear on his face. “How did you get in there?”
The other brother shook his head. “No!” he said. “There’s nobody in the door! It is the door!”
“Are you the door?” said the brother with dark hair. “What do you want?”