The Chinese Takeout

by Judith Cutler

  ‘So that’s it?’ I said dully. ‘We pay our respects and go home and get on with our lives?’

  He looked at me. ‘I must have hit you harder than I meant. Knocked your brains askew.’ He gave an ironic smile. ‘Come on, Josie, I know you better than that.’

  I wasn’t sure I could say the same of him. Perhaps his half-nod acknowledged as much. ‘Oh, the police’ll get round to asking for my help eventually, when people talk about Tang’s aversion to chicken. And by then I’ll have something to tell them.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Our unofficial roadblock was now official, augmented as it was by another police car, blue lights still flashing, of course. Behind the police tape was a little knot of villagers, many anguished, some nosy. They and a larger tangle of news reporters combined to trap a distraught-looking Andy Braithwaite, severe in dog-collar, black shirt and the most sober of clerical grey suits. Had he known in his water something was wrong when he dressed today or was this what rural deans always wore for early morning meetings? Better speculate on his clothes than on his face, which was as bleak as Dartmoor granite.

  Without speaking, Nick set the 4x4 slowly but inexorably in motion, ignoring the mikes as if they were early midges. As we passed Andy, I leaned back to open the rear door. ‘Best hop in,’ I said, adding, as Andy did as he was told, ‘We’ll tell you all we can. But not here. OK?’

  To my surprise Nick drove us to where we’d parked the previous day. ‘Best view of the church is up that hill,’ he said grimly, over his shoulder. ‘They won’t let you any closer, not yet. And it’s best you see it for yourself.’ He stopped as if he couldn’t trust his voice any longer.

  We set off walking in single file, no one wanting to say the wrong thing to anyone else. Nick produced a powerful pair of binoculars as we came to rest at the top of the hill. He peered first, then passed them not to me, but to Andy. ‘The roof still seems sound,’ he said, ‘but the same can’t be said for the windows.’ I was used to Nick as phlegmatic as if he’d had his emotions cauterised, but Andy might not realise how deeply he was moved.

  ‘They always were hideous,’ I croaked.

  ‘Is death by fire – quick?’ Andy asked Nick.

  ‘Smoke inhalation’s very quick. It’s what gets most people. They lose consciousness and that’s it.’ Nick was again as deadpan as ever.

  I said nothing about the geese. Why had Nick chosen to censor what he’d said earlier? Sufficient unto the hour, I suppose. Which was why I had refused to identify even to myself the smell: it wasn’t just burning wood, but burning flesh. I’d roasted too many Sunday joints to be able to deny it.

  Tendrils of smoke apart, the scene was idyllic enough for one of those photo calendars the West Country seemed to specialise in. After Sunday’s bitter cold, I was now uncomfortably warm in my heavy fleece. Any day I’d be checking my wardrobe, slinging out anything too large or too yesterday and sending my winter gear off, via the village shop, for dry-cleaning. There was one treasured jacket that was not destined for the cleaners, however. I swallowed painfully hard. I’d make sure there were some flowers exactly that colour for Tang’s funeral. Or should they be white, for Chinese mourning? And Tim, poor innocent, naïve Tim: did the Church pull out all the funereal stops, as the police did, when one of their own had died in the course of duty? If Andy was praying, I was making a gritted teeth promise to bring to justice whoever was responsible for this … this – but there I ran out of polite words.

  Nick had told the police we were returning to the White Hart until we were needed, so that was where we all went now. Later on, one of us could ferry Andy back to collect his car.

  It was well past breakfast time and, to stop his stomach ulcer flaring, Nick should undoubtedly eat. But Andy and I had parted on the promise of a cooked meal with the boys, and there was no way I could turn to the grill-pan now. Compromising, I raided the morning’s baking for freshly baked rolls, which I laid on the coffee tray with butter – nothing frivolous like jam. I’ll swear neither man noticed his hands picking up or his mouth eating them, but the linen napkin I’d folded them into to keep them warm was soon empty.

  Eventually, none of us having said much, Andy announced he must go and brief the bishop. There was a tiny silence. One of us had to drive him back to his car. I had better things to do than make minimal small talk: I wanted to get amongst that dodgy chicken. But Nick had contacts to call too, and I was reluctant, now he’d overcome his terrible inertia, to stop him.

  ‘Tell me, Josie, do you know Tim’s family?’ Andy asked, as he belted himself in.

  ‘Family? I hardly knew Tim himself, services apart. Different generation, different backgrounds. I assume you know all about him?’ I prompted, starting the car.

  ‘According to the church equivalent of personnel records, he was the son of a couple of Home Counties teachers.’

  ‘So they’re in their late fifties? Early sixties?’ Maybe they’d have retired by now. After all, teachers burned out quickly these days. ‘Did you meet them when he was ordained? Is that the term?’

  ‘It is but I didn’t. I told you: I’m new to the job – wasn’t even on the scene when he was inducted into this parish. But I shall have to get in touch with them now.’

  ‘Now? Are you telling me they know nothing of this? That the first they hear about it is when they know he’s dead? Good God!’

  ‘It was his wish,’ Andy interrupted me in mid-spate. ‘He forbade me to say anything. Absolutely. Don’t think I didn’t try to persuade, even order him. He refused point blank even to give me their phone number.’ His voice broke.

  ‘You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?’ I asked flatly. I’m sure other people would have pussyfooted around, but to my mind it was better to bring it out now than let it fester. And perhaps talking to a driver with her eyes glued to the road had connections with a confessional.

  His voice broke, mixing grief with anger. There’d be bruises where his fists struck his thighs. ‘I should have been there, Josie! Of course I should!’

  ‘So should I. And Nick. And my betting is that we’d all have been dead. I even bet that if there’d been a couple of police officers, they’d be dead too.’ It was time for him to hear some of Nigel’s words to me. I made my voice as flat as Nick’s.

  ‘But—!’

  No, I didn’t want to pursue the murder theme. ‘But me no buts, as someone or other said. Of course you’re feeling bad: I’d think the less of you if you weren’t. But we all have jobs to do. Yours is to pull together a fragmented parish and comfort the section that’s in mourning, and reconcile those who hated what Tim was doing. All of it, not just the sanctuary issue.’

  ‘Bells and smells?’

  ‘Tim never got that far, but he would have liked to. Andy, as I told you, the curate that Tim replaced wasn’t the best in the world, a bit sloppy about truth and pretty low in terms of doctrine. Then we get a Father Martin who offends all the people Sue didn’t upset. Someone’s got to stick his thumb in a great big hole until someone can repair the crumbling old dyke.’ I added, not quite as an afterthought, ‘And by that I don’t mean me.’

  He contrived a smile. ‘You’re trying to say let the dead bury the dead.’

  ‘Am I? Andy, God’s Word and all that is your department, not mine, but the only way I’ve ever been able to go is forward. There have been times I wouldn’t want my worst enemy to have endured, but I got through them somehow. That’s why I’m as tough as old boots.’

  ‘Are you?’

  Did he want tears? Breast beating? ‘On the outside, anyway. Which is all the world needs to know about. Some people will think it very weird of me to spend the rest of the day not sobbing into my pillow, but checking chicken farmers and slaughterers and packers. But that’s what I’m going to do. Not to get a better price for produce for my restaurant, as it happens, though I shall encourage folk to think that, but to get a handle on Tang.’

  ‘What’s chicken got to do with Tang?’

&
nbsp; ‘All that business of baths and new clothes? When Tang arrived he stank – not just unwashed, though he was filthy, but with a smell of putrefaction.’

  ‘Putrefaction?’

  If he was going to start echoing me he could have it between the eyes.

  ‘Putrefaction. Rotting flesh. Not necessarily his. Not necessarily human.’ I waited for him to question that, too, but when he didn’t, I added in a less strident tone, ‘When someone offered him a wonderful meal involving chicken he flipped. I’m making a bit of a jump, OK, quite a big jump, but one assisted by Nick. Think cheap illegal labour. Where would a man like Tang work? There aren’t a lot of Chinese takeouts or building sites round Exmoor, Andy. Plenty of farms, mostly arable, I grant, but enough for me to have a wide choice when it comes to my suppliers. So I’m thinking chicken farms or chicken slaughterers or chicken processors.’

  He twisted in his seat. ‘You don’t think you know them – his killers – do you?’

  ‘Andy, all my suppliers know their chooks by name and treat them as family. They don’t quite send the birds birthday cards, but they come pretty close. And they probably treat their employees just as well. They certainly wouldn’t have them ranging around smelling like a charnel house.’

  Out of the tail of my eye I could see his frown. ‘Are you sure there’s a difference? Between organic and factory chicken, I mean.’

  For a moment I was nonplussed: why ask such a trivial question now? I risked a sideways glance: perhaps he was afraid of losing control. So I played along. ‘Eat at the White Hart and I’ll show you the difference. It’s not just flavour but texture and… When you’re ready to relish your food, rather than simply eat to keep going, when I’m ready to cook for pleasure rather than to pay my way, then I’ll cook for you. Was the church insured, by the way?’ I added, not changing the subject as much as he realised.

  ‘Probably. But not enough, I’d say.’

  ‘Despite poor Corbishley’s shovelling cash into it?’

  ‘“Poor” Corbishley?’ he echoed in disbelief.

  Should I tell him to his face how much I disliked having my words repeated all the time? ‘I saw his face this morning. Now, do you want me to wait while you turn your car round and lead you back to the main road? Or do you have to go and say all that’s proper to the fire crews and police? Actually,’ I continued, killing the engine and preparing to get out, ‘I wouldn’t mind tagging on behind – see what sort of approach they’re taking. You have a right to ask questions: I don’t. Then I’ll lead you wherever you want to go.’

  I didn’t think he’d argue, but he raised a hand to stop me. Unlike Tang’s, it was very well manicured, something, in a man, I’d never quite made up my mind about. ‘Before I forget. Tim’s parents. I should imagine they’ll want to come down … to see everything for themselves. I don’t suppose … do you do bed and breakfast?’

  ‘I’m not exactly geared up to it. All the original B and B rooms are occupied.’

  ‘Did I hear something about your putting up a whole family when one of the villagers died?’

  ‘The Gays. My head waitress’s family. Their mother was already dead and their father died in an accident.’ He was trying to blow me up, but Andy didn’t need to know that. ‘Lucy wanted to keep them together, and it seemed the best way forward. The other room is still occupied by Nick.’

  ‘Nick and you … He doesn’t share your quarters?’

  Now that was an interesting question. How long had he been saving it up? Had there been some gossip about us, or was he purely and simply interested? And if so, why? But this wasn’t a time or place for personal conversations, whatever he seemed to think. ‘Why should he? He’s my lodger. He arrived in the floods last autumn and would have moved out except that Social Services thought he’d be useful as a father figure for the Gay children.’

  ‘So you simply took them all in?’

  ‘Well, their own house was uninhabitable. Don’t see this as some huge act of charity! I had the space, after all. And Social Services pay me huge amounts.’ Which went straight into a trust fund for them, but that was another story. If Andy and I ever got closer, I’d tell him all about my surrogate family. He might even be useful helping with their RE homework. Meanwhile, I would maintain my tough as old boots persona. ‘Anyway, if you don’t think the Martins will object, I’ve got space in my staff quarters which can be theirs. Brand new and en suite. Gratis, given the circumstances. But that’s between you and me. I don’t want them going round being grateful. I can quite see why they can’t stay at the rectory,’ I added darkly. I had seen the previous incumbent’s decor, and had no reason to believe that Tim might have had any more interest in his surroundings.

  Andy’s dog-collar acted like an open sesame on the police tape. I kept my head down, swept along in his wake. We passed little bunches of wild and garden flowers already mourning the dead. One note read, For Tim and our new friend: you will both be missed.

  I would point that out to him on our way out.

  ‘I can smell – honey?’ he asked.

  ‘The bees’ nests must have melted,’ I suggested, pointing upwards at sticky trails. ‘Apparently the bees were a real nuisance in the summer.’ There seemed nothing either of us could add to that.

  Someone produced hard hats. Provided we wore overshoes, we might stand in the porch and look in. There was nothing to see but stinking destruction, water having done what the fire hadn’t. There were none of the chapel chairs left, that I could see, and the pulpit and font were nothing but rubble. Only the stone altar would stand for another millennium.

  Always assuming the church authorities wanted the place rebuilt.

  Andy touched my elbow: a fire officer was talking to us. I followed the line of his finger. The two-legged fire fighters had a canine assistant, kitted out in little boots.

  ‘Accelerant. That’s what that there dog’s looking for. To see if the fire was started deliberately. But that’s not for public consumption, you understand, your reverence. But we also found Calorgas cylinders, which didn’t help one bit. Not one bit.’

  ‘Why the boots?’ Andy asked, again concentrating on the irrelevant.

  ‘Boots? Glass. Lot of glass in a building. Specially a church. Stained.’

  In my book it had been ripe for renewal. Properly, this time. I’d see to that. ‘Why should anyone torch it?’ I asked, aloud, feigning innocence.

  ‘That’ll be for the police to say. And maybe,’ he added, ‘for you to tell them.’

  ‘I thought we’d agreed we would interview you back at the White Hart,’ DI Lawton frowned, as she caught sight of us. I patted Andy gently on the arm. Accepting the valediction, he wandered over and spoke to tired fire fighters and a couple of uniformed officers.

  There were times when the honest truth sounded like an excuse. ‘The dean needed to collect his car: I brought him over. When we were told we could look into the church, we decided to do so.’ As I spoke I heard Tony’s exasperated words about stupid cons always returning to the scene of the crime and thus giving themselves away.

  ‘Really?’

  Oh, in years to come, she’d regret that carefully practised cynical eyebrow lift, too.

  ‘Really.’ Flat as a pancake. ‘It’s a pity your budget couldn’t have run to round the clock protection.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t make him turn himself in!’

  I hadn’t the heart for any more jousting. ‘You’re right. It is. Tell me,’ I added, dropping my voice, ‘what’s your theory about the fire? Calorgas? Or something altogether more sinister?’

  ‘My theories are no more than that, and as such are police business, not yours. Sorry,’ she added perfunctorily. ‘Now, until the forensic teams have come up with evidence of what happened, I really would appreciate being allowed to get on with my work.’

  There seemed to be something of a non sequitur there, but Tony had taught me never to expect logic from a police officer under pressure.

  ‘Of cou
rse,’ I smiled sweetly. ‘And hearing my theory would be a waste of your time.’

  I have to hand it to her, she looked me straight in the eye as she said it. ‘Frankly, Mrs Welford, yes. It would.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  My first move was, on the face of it, silly. An extravagant waste of something I had so little of: time. OK, I wanted to be on the move, to hunt for unsafe chicken, but why I should take it into my head to drive all the way to a restaurant in Starcross, a village on the Exe estuary, when I had colleagues reporting dodgy dealing nearer to home, I don’t know. Well, I wanted to get out of the village, with all its gossip and sympathetic glances. And I justified going to Starcross by telling myself that Burnham-on- Sea, where I had another contact, was hardly next-door, and that the views across the Exe were nicer than those across the Severn, especially when the tide was out. In any case, Starcross has a residual charm that Burnham indisputably lacks.

  I lunched at Michael Rousdon’s new restaurant, busily building its reputation on the freshest of local fish simply served. Which suited me: I didn’t fancy consuming any chicken that – though I hated even thinking ill of the dead – hands as filthy as Tang’s when he’d tumbled into St Jude’s might have handled at some point in its progress from life to my plate.

  ‘Samphire!’ I echoed the roly-poly waitress offering the day’s special. ‘That doesn’t sound very local!’ Or, since I’d only met it on the pages of King Lear, where someone collected it on the cliffs of Dover, was I betraying appalling gastronomic ignorance?

  ‘Local,’ she insisted.

  ‘Cliffs?’ That would take me a few miles westward, to Dawlish and Teignmouth and beyond, all much beloved of railway photographers. I didn’t see Railtrack taking kindly to people abseiling on their property.

  ‘From the marshes.’