The Killing in the Café

by Simon Brett

  ‘Well, we can check that out with him.’ The Commodore’s attitude now was that he wanted the whole business to be finished as soon as possible.

  ‘There is also the issue,’ said Arnold Bloom, ‘about what should be done with the café’s other assets.’

  Quintus Braithwaite was already bored with this nitpicking detail. ‘All the assets of Polly’s Community Café belong to Kent Warboys. He – or rather his company – owns the whole building.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s he going to do with all those tablecloths and short tunics in French navy – not mention a collection of various hideous pastiche impressionist paintings which nobody in their right mind is going to buy – and other objects on which his generous gift has been squandered?’

  If it wasn’t already clear that this was a direct attack on Phoebe Braithwaite’s management of the café, the way Arnold looked fixedly at her left no doubt about the matter.

  She groaned to remind everyone of her disabled status and said, ‘I’m sure they can do some good at a charity jumble sale. In fact, there’s one coming up for a charity promoting the welfare of abandoned donkeys in the Holy Land, of which Quintus has recently become the patron. They would be the perfect home for those things.’

  Jude thought she now knew the cause towards which the Braithwaites’ charitable energies would now be directed. One day it’s a Community Café in Fethering, the next it’s abandoned donkeys in the Holy Land. That seemed to fit with what she knew of Quintus and Phoebe’s characters. Soon, no doubt, it’d be reopening a silted-up canal route in Blaenau Gwent or funding a classical youth orchestra in Borneo. The Braithwaites were just the kind of people who are charitable by nature.

  Arnold Bloom wasn’t finished yet. ‘I would also like to register a very strong protest at the proposal recently put forward by the Chairman.’

  ‘The Chair,’ Quintus insisted.

  ‘This committee was set up to preserve Polly’s Cake Shop as a Community Amenity for the people of Fethering. Under its current management – if that’s not too positive a description of how it’s been run – that ambition has not been achieved.’ There was a groan from the sofa – Phoebe Braithwaite’s slipped disc was really playing up. ‘May I take it, Mr Chairman—?’

  ‘Chair.’

  ‘… that your proposal to wind up the SPCS Action Committee would incorporate your intention to resign as Chairman of the said committee?’

  ‘Well, of course it would!’ came the testy reply. ‘There wouldn’t be any committee for me to be Chair of, would there?’

  Arnold Bloom beamed. ‘In that case, I propose you submit your resignation to the SPCS Action Committee and the procedure is set in motion for the election of another Chairman.’

  ‘But that person wouldn’t have any committee to be Chair of either!’

  ‘They would if the proposal to wind up the SPCS Action Committee were rejected.’

  ‘What, you’re suggesting that the committee should be allowed to continue to exist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But what possible reason could there be for that?’

  ‘The main possible reason for that would be that … all right, everyone agrees that the previous approach to maintaining Polly’s Cake Shop as a Community Amenity has been a complete disaster …’ The slipped disc prompted another groan from the sofa. ‘But that doesn’t mean that this committee, under another Chairman and with a more businesslike approach, cannot revive the fortunes of Polly’s Cake Shop.’

  Quintus Braithwaite could feel the mood of the meeting turning against him. ‘I resent the implication that the project has been run in an unbusinesslike way. Phoebe’s Volunteer Rota was a work of pure genius.’

  ‘Yes.’ Arnold Bloom smiled, sensing he was getting the upper hand. ‘But it didn’t work, did it?’

  ‘So what are you suggesting that’s different?’

  ‘I am suggesting that the café still be run basically by volunteers, but that we employ a full-time professional manager for the business.’

  ‘You mean we pay someone?’ The Commodore sounded thunderstruck and he received a supportive groan from the sofa. ‘We can’t afford that!’

  ‘If most of the Action Committee’s funds – so generously donated by Kent Warboys – hadn’t been frittered away on French navy tablecloths and tunics and appalling paintings and a relaunch that failed to generate any publicity of any kind, we could easily have afforded to pay a professional manager for the last six weeks. And the place would have been run in a darned sight more efficient manner.’

  ‘But where,’ asked Quintus Braithwaite, ‘are you hoping to find this paragon of all managerial virtue?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Jude, ‘I know the perfect person for the job.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  By the end of the EGM, Arnold Bloom’s triumph was complete. He had got himself elected Chairman of the SPCS Action Committee, and suggested some names ‘from the local Fethering community’ who might be co-opted on. Most of them were current members of the Fethering Village Committee, of which he was of course also Chairman. He suggested a date for the next meeting – on the Wednesday of that week, two days on; Arnold Bloom wasn’t the kind of chairman to let the grass grow under his feet. He ordained that it – and all future meetings – should take place at All Saints Church Hall. It was agreed that Jude should sound out Sara Courtney to see if she was interested in taking the paid role of manager for Polly’s Community Café. If she were, she would be invited to the Wednesday meeting to be interviewed by the renewed SPCS Action Committee.

  The Braithwaites had been eclipsed completely. No refreshments were offered to the committee members departing from Hiawatha that evening (and that wasn’t just because their hostess was immobilized on a sofa).

  The following morning, the Tuesday, Jude received a call from Kent Warboys. ‘Very good to see you over New Year.’

  ‘My pleasure. Good to see you too.’

  ‘Couple of things … One – your famous dead body.’

  ‘Amos Green.’

  ‘Exactly. Just wondered if the police had been in touch again …? You know, following up and previous questions …?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a dicky bird.’

  ‘Ah. Right. Good. Which probably means they’ve closed the case. So it seems likely Amos Green’s death will join that massive list of “The Unexplained”.’

  ‘Looks that way, yes.’

  ‘Hm. Anyway … from a rather gloomy subject to a much happier one … Sara and I are engaged!’

  ‘Wonderful! That’s brilliant news!’

  ‘Certainly what we think. And we both want to thank you.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘You have. You did a lot to help Sara when she was at her lowest … and then to explain things to me. We’re both very grateful to you.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘But listen, the thing is … short notice and all that, but Sara and I are going to have a few drinks with some mates on Friday … you know, to celebrate the great event. Fethering Yacht Club, six p.m. I do hope you can come.’

  ‘Yes, I haven’t got anything else on that evening. I’d love to.’

  ‘And do bring Carole too, if you’d like to.’

  Jude bit back the giggle. ‘Okay. I’ll check out whether she’s free.’

  Needless to say, she wouldn’t mention why the invitation had been issued, but she felt fairly confident that Carole would agree to come along to the yacht club. Her neighbour’s inhibition about not having actually met her host and Sara as a waitress in Polly’s would definitely be overcome by her ingrained nosiness.

  It also struck Jude as she walked home that, given her closeness to Kent Warboys, Sara Courtney too must believe Carole and Jude were a lesbian couple, or she would have put him right about the situation. Well, the two of them had gone on holiday to Turkey together the previous year. In West Sussex such action was tantamount to announcing your same-sex marriage in the Fethering O
bserver.

  Jude was still giggling when she got back to Woodside Cottage.

  The subject of her sexual orientation didn’t come up in the call she made to Sara shortly afterwards. After appropriate congratulations on the engagement, she said she was ringing to check out the woman’s interest in the potential paid job as manager, not of Polly’s Community Café, but of Polly’s Cake Shop.

  Sara Courtney was extremely interested. In fact, she sounded really ecstatic about the possibility. She would definitely attend the committee meeting on the Wednesday and spend the interim preparing herself for the interview. She was determined to make the job her own.

  ‘And,’ asked Jude tentatively, ‘you feel confident you could cope with it?’

  ‘At the moment, Jude,’ came the sunny reply, ‘I could cope with anything.’

  The subject of their lesbianism was not mentioned when Jude next spoke to Carole. But she did float the suggestion that her neighbour might be interested in organizing the Volunteer Rota for the revived Polly’s Cake Shop.

  ‘That’s a ridiculous idea,’ came the predictable response. ‘You know my views on Community Projects and volunteers.’

  ‘Yes, but the new set-up is going to be more professional.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The café will have a paid manager.’

  ‘And who’s that going to be?’

  ‘Hasn’t been decided yet.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘And I was just thinking,’ said Jude at her most beguiling, ‘that you have all that experience of organizing things at the Home Office, so I’m sure it’s a job you could do.’

  ‘The question, Jude, is not whether I could do it, but more whether I would want to do it.’

  ‘Well, there’s no hurry for you to make a decision.’

  ‘Good.’

  Jude knew from experience that this was the way things always had to be approached with her neighbour. An idea had to be proposed, agonized over and rejected a good few times before Carole would commit herself to anything.

  But on this occasion, Jude could see that her interest had been engaged.

  Compared to Quintus Braithwaite, Arnold Bloom was perhaps less charismatic as a Chairman (the title ‘Chair’ had quickly gone the way of ‘Polly’s Community Café’), but he was effective at working his way through an Agenda. And he was more than a match for Quintus in getting his own way.

  The meeting was scheduled for seven-thirty in the All Saints Church Hall, and Sara Courtney was asked to appear at eight-fifteen for her grilling. She responded well to the questions put to her – in fact she was brilliantly charismatic. Her engagement to Kent Warboys had blown away all the cobwebs of doubt that had clouded her mind. Getting the managerial job would be icing on the cake.

  Jude worried slightly about the time when Sara’s volatile mood changed again, but for the moment she could only applaud her protégée’s confidence.

  After Sara had left the church hall, it was a matter of moments for the SPCS Action Committee to agree that she should be offered the job. As Treasurer, Alec Walters agreed to sort out and discuss with her the terms of her employment and get the appropriate contracts drawn up.

  Jude said she had fixed to meet Sara in the Crown and Anchor for a drink after the meeting, and asked if she could pass on the good news.

  ‘In fact,’ Arnold Bloom replied, ‘I – and many other committee members – will be adjourning to the pub, so I will be able to tell her myself. I think it would be more appropriate for such information to come from the Chairman.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jude.

  Arnold Bloom smiled with satisfaction. ‘How much more convenient it is,’ he observed, ‘being able to go down the road to the village pub than to be dragging all the way over to some tarted-up mansion on the Shorelands Estate.’

  The Fethering Yacht Club was looking surprisingly festive that evening. This was chiefly because the Christmas fairy lights round the top of the bar hadn’t yet been taken down (and it was now into February). But the bar-room was a welcoming place, particularly in the winter, when all of the windows, right-angled to look over the Fether estuary and the English Channel, were closed. The glass was slick with condensation generated by the warmth of the large number of people inside.

  Jude hadn’t been to the yacht club since her first weeks in Fethering, when she and Carole had become involved in investigating the drowning of a boy called Aaron Spalding. But, barring the Christmas lights, not a lot seemed to have changed in the interior décor. On the wall were ships’ wheels and glassed-in picture frames showing displays of nautical knots. Boards with flaking gold letters listed the club’s commodores and vice-commodores, as well as the victors in various categories of sailing. In a dusty cabinet were displayed tarnished cups engraved with the names of long-dead winners.

  The whole place had an air of defeat and dilapidation about it, but that didn’t prevent its members from being very sniffy about who else they admitted to their ranks.

  When Carole and Jude arrived that Friday evening, the engagement party was in full swing. Drink had been flowing for a while and the noise level of the conversation was high.

  The affianced couple looked suitably radiant. Sara, in particular, glowed with happiness and looked wonderful in a defiantly scarlet dress. Careful make-up accentuated the sparkle of her dark eyes and her black hair was swept back into a girlish ponytail.

  Kent looked good too, wearing an unflamboyant but beautifully cut suit in pale grey over a pale blue shirt. He greeted Carole and Jude effusively and directed them towards the bar ‘where you can order whatever you want’. The Fethering Yacht Club did not boast a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, but they did have a perfectly acceptable French one (and, after all, the French had been making Sauvignon Blanc much longer than the New Zealanders).

  The first people they encountered as they weaved their way back from the bar were the Braithwaites. Quintus was in blazer and crushed strawberry cords with some naval tie over his checked shirt. Phoebe was wearing rather too formal a little black dress. She moved with her customary poise.

  ‘Delighted to see the slipped disc’s getting better,’ said Jude.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Phoebe Braithwaite, being Phoebe Braithwaite, showed no embarrassment about her sudden recovery. ‘I’ve got this wonderful little man in Harley Street who’s just magic with backs.’

  Jude would have put money on the fact that she had been nowhere near Harley Street since the Monday meeting. She felt certain that the slipped disc, having served its purpose of getting Phoebe out of running Polly’s Community Café, had neatly and conveniently slipped back to its appropriate place in its owner’s spinal column.

  Carole had been briefly introduced to the Braithwaites at the relaunch, and Jude was about to remind them of this when Quintus, clearly unwilling to engage in conversation, hailed a couple of yacht club acquaintances across the room and led his wife across to meet them.

  Standing on the edge of the social circle, looking a little isolated, was Rosalie Achter. Carole went over to greet her. ‘I think you’ve met my neighbour Jude.’

  ‘I’ve certainly served you in the café,’ said Rosalie rather brusquely. ‘Served practically everyone here. Not that I’d call them my friends.’ Jude wondered whether Rosalie had inherited some of her mother’s social paranoia. ‘Except perhaps Kent. Kent used to be my friend.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew him,’ said Carole.

  ‘Ah, didn’t you? No, a lot of people didn’t.’ This seemed a rather enigmatic reply, but Rosalie wasn’t slow in providing an explanation. Her eyes, as they had been during their meeting in the Crown and Anchor, looked a little glazed. Her glass contained what looked like vodka and tonic. Once again, Carole wondered if she was a little drunk.

  ‘What you’re saying is: you wonder why I’m here.’

  ‘Not at all. As a colleague of Sara’s at the café, I—’

  But Rosalie wasn’t listening. ‘It’s a perfectly good question. I th
ink Kent also wonders why I’m here. I was invited – Sara rang me – but I don’t think Kent ever expected me to turn up. But I thought I would – just to show him.’

  ‘Are you saying,’ asked Jude tactfully, ‘that there’s some history between you and Kent?’

  ‘That’s a bloody tactful way of putting it, isn’t it? “Some history”? Yes, we were an item. Not a full, public item,’ said Rosalie sarcastically. ‘Not the bells-and-whistles variety like him and Sara. No prospect of me and Kent ever having an engagement party at the Fethering Yacht Club. Sara doesn’t even know that we were ever together. Oh no, I was just his “bit on the side”.’

  Carole looked embarrassed by her frankness. Jude now thought she understood what Kent had referred to on New Year’s Eve when he mentioned ‘age difference’ as a reason for one of his relationships failing. And she remembered Carole reporting that Rosalie had been with someone but broken up four months previously. The news opened up a lot of intriguing possibilities.

  ‘Not that I want to get married,’ Rosalie continued. By now both Carole and Jude were convinced she was drunk – maybe she’d topped her level up beforehand to steel herself for the encounter with her ex. ‘From what I’ve seen of my parents’ marriage, there’s no way I want to go down that route. I can be quite unhappy enough on my own without deliberately adding to the misery. It’s easy enough to hate yourself. Marriage just spreads more hatred around, so that you end up hating everyone involved.’

  ‘But when we talked,’ said Carole reasonably, ‘you implied that you loved your father.’

  ‘Oh, I did. When I was twelve I adored him. And I thought he adored me too. But he seemed quite happy for me suddenly not to be part of his life. Just like that – one day I’m living with him, next I’m not. End of story. End of relationship. End of everything.’

  ‘I thought you still saw him sometimes.’

  ‘Been a while. My father, the ever-loving Hudson Vale, has got a new wife now. And twin daughters. Couldn’t show any love to one daughter, but now he’s lavishing it on two of the little buggers. Ridiculous for a man of his age to be going back to nappies and nursery school, isn’t it? But that’s what he’s chosen.