The Chinese Takeout

by Judith Cutler

  Ah, just along the road, then. ‘So it’s out there now? What does it look like, before it’s cooked?’

  ‘We don’t cook it. We pickle it. Like shallots or gherkins.’

  ‘So is it in season now?’

  ‘Pickled this lot last July. You put it in vinegar and that and then have to leave it.’

  I nodded slowly, as if hesitating. Nothing would have stopped me trying it. ‘And with those prawns – you really ought to try it.’

  I did. The combination was glorious. As to the source, there was no way that Michael Rousdon was going to let on.

  ‘You go and pick your own,’ he said, joining me for a coffee. There was no trace of amusement in his face. ‘Make sure you don’t get cut off by the tide.’

  ‘Like those Morecambe cockle gatherers.’ Poor Chinese kids brought in by profit-seeking gangmasters. They might have been from the same village as Tang.

  ‘As to chicken, now, that’s an open book,’ he said.

  I smiled the sort of smile I always smile for attractive young men with information I need. Perhaps some ghost of my former self replaces what’s really before them. Actually no: the thin former self that at Tony’s insistence always had to lurk inside the fat one. At least they always respond as if they see someone sexy, and who am I to correct them?

  Michael leaned intimately forward, allowing his knee to touch mine. ‘I buy them from my cousin, up Seaton way. So when this guy came charging in offering me free-range chicken at mass-production price, I almost told him where to go. But then I thought, you know, for casseroles and pies, why not?’

  I could have told him why not. If you were advertising organic or free-range produce, that was exactly what you should be selling. But I nodded understandingly and left my knee where it was. After all, it wasn’t every day that a thirty-year-old schmoozed up to me, especially one with as nice a body as Michael’s, which, despite his hours in the kitchen, carried not an ounce of flab and a reassuring amount of muscle. He’d shaved his head and grown a neat beard, so he was on to a loser: I didn’t do beards, on account of the soreness afterwards. But he had a skull that looked good, and there was no need to buy everything in the shop window, not even when it was in the sale.

  ‘So did you do any sort of deal?’

  He shrugged. ‘I bought a bit. A couple of kilos. And it was OK.’

  ‘Were you tempted to buy any more?’

  ‘I thought, better the devil you know. But other folk were: Kevin over in Exmouth. He says he’s no complaint.’

  ‘And, more to the point, has had no complaints?’ Lord, I was sounding like Andy Braithwaite.

  ‘Quite. So what’s your interest, Josie? I thought you were totally upmarket? Rich sods of Exeter paying through the nose.’

  ‘Like you, I always think about profit margins.’

  ‘I don’t buy that, Josie. Not you.’ A hand joined his knee.

  ‘If I told you the truth you wouldn’t believe it,’ I said. I tapped his menu. ‘Local produce: so were the chooks local?’

  ‘Never got an address out of him,’ he admitted.

  ‘The old mobile phone dodge?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And I do like an address. And a sheaf of paperwork. Pity. You wouldn’t have his number, would you?’

  He stood up. ‘What is this?’

  ‘I told you, it’s a long and boring story. Which is mostly a wild theory of mine. I’ll tell you if there’s a happy ending.’

  ‘I’ll get you that number.’ He disappeared into his kitchen. I stood up, ready to follow.

  He stepped straight in front of me, blocking the door. Shaking that elegant head, he snapped, ‘No you don’t. You’ll nick my pickled samphire.’

  There were too many people guarding it, judging by the voices I could hear. ‘I don’t even know what it looks like!’ But I’d damned well find out. In its natural, not pickled state, too.

  Robin and the team had finished the lunch session and were already deep into preparations for the evening sitting when I got back. Their efficiency posed a question: should I promote myself to manager pure and simple, leaving all the hard work to them and any other chef and dining room staff we might need, or continue to muck in, doing what I really enjoyed, cooking and talking to punters?

  Most days I inclined to the latter; today, with a police car sneaking into the place beside mine, the former was in order. Of course I made a great show, for DI Lawton’s benefit, of being too busy to spare her more than a few minutes, but show it was, with Pix, Robin’s cousin, particularly playing a wonderful supporting lead. Robin raised the eyebrow furthest from Lawton and got on with what he was doing.

  The charade over, I led her up to my quarters, offering tea, which she accepted. When she found it was green – so much better at mopping free-radicals and thus preventing cancer, I’m told – she gave an ironic smile, but then every appearance of enjoying it.

  ‘Why did you side with Father Martin and not the church wardens?’ she asked, point blank.

  I’d been asking myself that question, don’t think I hadn’t. But it didn’t seem to me that I need share with her the thought processes it had caused, many pretty uncomfortable, to do with Tony and underdogs and plum-in-mouth diction and all sorts of other stuff. I’d come up with one positive thing. So my smile was reasonably sincere when I said, ‘I think it might have been something to do with Father Martin’s sermon, which was about the Good Samaritan, and the concept of who was your neighbour.’ The fact that my mind had wandered was irrelevant. Let him go down as a better preacher than he was.

  ‘That sounds more like an answer for his bishop or whatever,’ she said, startling me. ‘In my experience, people do things like that for other reasons.’

  ‘OK. How about this? Once I’d disarmed him, I realised Tang was nothing but a poor thin frightened boy, much the same as Father Martin, as it happens, and I suppose my protective instincts were aroused.’

  ‘It wasn’t personal animosity against the two church wardens?’

  I spread my hands. ‘How could it be? I hardly know them.’ And what had who been saying?

  ‘But you knew Father Martin well enough to call him by his first name.’

  ‘We’d met at functions in Kings Duncombe. Occasionally he’d drink here. Lemonade shandy. Very rarely he’d eat in the bar. We were both grockles, which counts for something.’

  ‘I gather there was some hostility to him in the parish.’

  ‘Enough to burn him alive in his church? Hardly!’ She didn’t bite. More quietly I continued, ‘There was hostility to his predecessor, too. I suspect that if Christ himself paid a return visit people round here would find something to criticise in his sermons or his habit of leaving litter after picnics. Another incomer, you see.’

  ‘But Mr Malins and Mr Corbishley – why did you not know them?’

  ‘They weren’t part of village life. Well, check their addresses.’ Which reminded me, I’d never pursued the truth behind the village gossip, had I?

  She nodded. ‘Where did you spend last night?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘I live alone. My staff and my clients may have seen me buzzing around, but once my door is closed, that’s it.’

  ‘Mr Thomas?’

  ‘Occupies a room in the bed and breakfast area. The far side of my door.’

  She looked almost relieved. Hello, hello, hello, as Dixon of Dock Green might have said: was she sniffing round Nick? Well, I’d certainly spruced him up, but I’d have thought him a tad old for Lawton.

  ‘Is this getting us anywhere, Detective Inspector? Because I can’t really believe you’d think I was in any way responsible for torching that church.’

  She pounced on the word, perhaps, rather than on the concept, which, after all, I’d floated only a few moments before. ‘How do you know it was torched?’

  ‘Detective Constable Dog in Boots sniffing for petrol. We kept cooking and heating equipment away from what had bec
ome the living area. We had to.’ I explained about Tang’s initial desire to embrace the Calorgas heater and the consequent stench. ‘Tell you what, we filled a black sack with all Tang’s clothes in it. I told Tim to keep it. There may be something in there that could help you place his whereabouts and even identify him.’

  ‘Very circumspect, Mrs Welford.’

  It was best not to challenge the cynicism. ‘If someone claims sanctuary it could imply they’ve committed a crime. There might be evidence on his clothing. I wanted to make sure…’

  Her frown was inches deep. ‘You wanted to make sure the police couldn’t tamper with any evidence on it. How trusting, Mrs Welford.’

  ‘Life has taught me never to trust anyone, not even a good defence lawyer. Anyway, the bag of clothing disappeared, and I can only assume Tim took it.’

  ‘Any idea where it might be now?’ At least she was showing more interest in the bag than in me.

  ‘The rectory, I assume. The garage, most likely. Given the stench.’

  ‘Any idea who the key-holder would be?’

  ‘None. Apart from his neighbours? But surely, you people will be entitled to access since the guy’s dead.’

  She had the decency to look down. ‘We shall need DNA to identify him. Or dental records. There’s no question of anyone identifying him, Mrs Welford.’ This time she looked me straight in the eye. ‘Or Tang.’

  The moment she’d gone, I phoned Andy Braithwaite.

  Damned repetition again! ‘Keys to the rectory? Not that I know of. Surely a neighbour or the St Faith and St Lawrence church wardens…’ Light dawned; his voice hardened. ‘Why?’

  My voice epitomised innocence, and why not? ‘I just fancy seeing what the police are going to see. To be honest, when they’ve finished with it, it’ll need a spring-clean. I suspect Tim wasn’t the best of housekeepers, and I’d hate his parents to see it before it’s civilised. When are they coming, by the way?’

  ‘When they get back from Australia. Imagine the plane journey back, in those circumstances… But as for cleaning the rectory,’ he said slowly, ‘why don’t I put just that point to the police? If you’re kind enough to put his effects together for his parents, I’m sure they’d be grateful.’ There was a pause. I presume he was making a note. He’d assumed what was no doubt his professional voice. ‘Tell me, Josie – how are you bearing up?’

  I gave a conventional answer, one I’d heard so often from other inmates’ wives – and, in effect, what I actually did all the time Tony and I were apart. ‘I’m keeping myself busy.’ Less lugubriously I added, ‘I’ve got a possible lead on the dodgy chicken as it happens.’ No need to mention the industrial espionage I’d undertaken. I returned pointedly to the previous subject. ‘Just let me know precisely when Tim’s parents are coming down.’

  ‘Of course.’ Another pause. ‘Josie, they may be letting me back into St Jude’s later this afternoon, maybe this evening. When they’ve…removed the bodies, and finished with it as a crime scene. Would you care…?’

  He wasn’t speaking in the tone to which you could respond, You bet I would! So I murmured a quiet assent, and prepared to cut the call. But there was one conversational nicety I’d ignored. ‘How are you coping? And with the bishop?’

  ‘He’s not best pleased, Josie. With me in particular. He feels I should have exercised more authority and compelled Tang—’

  ‘Tell you what, you leave him to me. I presume he’ll be coming over at some point?’

  He chuckled. ‘With that threat hanging over him, I’m not sure he’ll dare.’

  ‘He will if I hold the post-funeral wake here. The villagers will want to say goodbye. And the guy conducting the service’ll have to show.’

  ‘That will be me.’

  ‘Sorry, Andy, and nothing personal, as you know – but anyone other than the bishop and the people round here would be insulted.’

  ‘I take your point. And will let you loose on the bishop if necessary. I – er – I’ll see you later, then, shall I?’

  We danced round another few sentences of farewell, and at last I could get to work.

  If I were going to go to St Jude’s with Andy, I couldn’t afford the luxury of traipsing round the countryside talking to colleagues about chicken. I had to resort to phone or email instead. This message would be more specific than last, and addressed only to people who’d responded with positive information before. Had anyone been sold chicken by someone giving a mobile number only? I thought of giving the number Michael had given, but if I were going to be devious enough to sell ropey meat as good, I might well want to be as elusive as possible. This would be a busy time of day for those without a staff like mine: I couldn’t expect an immediate response.

  Next a check on the Internet: so many references and indeed recipes for samphire that, provided I could locate some, I could give Michael a run for his money. And why not try some other local – and free! – wild vegetables and herbs? I put it top of the agenda for tomorrow’s staff meeting. The only excuse I had for never thinking about it before was that none of the chefs I’d trained with had ever mentioned wild food, except the sort of mushrooms you can buy in Italian markets. Still, one shouldn’t be too hard on them: Birmingham might be at the centre of the country, but it was a long way from any really unpolluted countryside. I wouldn’t fancy dandelions picked from a motorway hard shoulder.

  I was just clicking on to find what sort of funeral rites we should give Tang when my phone rang.

  ‘The bishop’s coming with us to St Jude’s,’ Andy Braithwaite gabbled. ‘I told him you’d be coming. Any chance we could eat at the White Hart afterwards?’

  ‘What sort of time?’ I knew off the top of my head we had a party of twelve booked for seven-thirty, but had no idea how the rest of the evening was looking.

  ‘Whatever time we finish at the church, I suppose.’

  The man had no idea, had he? Still, I could always seat them up here rather than in the restaurant if things were really tight downstairs. And cook for them myself.

  ‘No problem,’ I said blithely.

  I was less blithe when I saw a small detachment of reporters hanging round outside. Still, it was their way of making a living, so I invited them all in, made sure they had plenty to eat and drink and, hand somewhere in the region of my heart, admitted I’d discovered the fire while out looking for wild garlic. I’d bet Tony’s legacy they wouldn’t know it from common weed, any more than I would. But, I added, they’d quite understand, would they, if I wanted my part kept to a minimum in their reports. After all, I’d done nothing but raise the alarm. Heads awash with champagne they nodded – well, not exactly soberly, but the nearest they could manage.

  When Nick appeared he looked spent but satisfied, as if he’d just had good sex. Or, since he waved his briefcase at me, as if he too was making progress with his chicken investigation. His return coincided with the arrival of Andy and his boss, whom he introduced as Bishop Jonathan. I knew vaguely that bishops took their see as their surname, but couldn’t remember for the life of me what see we were in.

  Bishop Jonathan looked younger than Andy, I’d say, though that might simply be a result of the way he tilted his head slightly sideways in a way meant to be winsome. He sported a heavy wedding ring on a hand so fleshy I was instantly glad he wasn’t about to embark on healing me by laying it somewhere – anywhere – on my anatomy.

  ‘Mrs Welford – Josie!’ he beamed solemnly, engulfing my right hand in both of his. It was like being greeted by a duvet. But he had a voice I could only describe as mellifluous. If I closed my eyes the honey would certainly flow; if I opened them it went all crystalline and gungy. ‘Such a pleasure…but in such sad circumstances…’

  Nick with more speed than tact bunged us all into his Honda. As he opened the door for me, he whispered, ‘I’m sure I’ve seen the bishop’s face somewhere before – like on the sex offenders’ register.’ But he accompanied the slander with a wink I returned.

  I wa
sn’t at all sure why we all needed to go, but there was no way I was going to let Bishop Jonathan bully Andy for supporting poor Tim’s fait accompli. As for Nick, he seemed to have espoused the case as some sort of convalescence as he recovered from his post-traumatic stress disorder. He’d had some therapy, once it was officially diagnosed, but I swore that his recovery had started the moment he’d saved me from certain death.

  In tacit agreement, we dawdled by the Honda while the two clergymen spoke to the police officers still guarding the crime scene. The younger PC backed off sharply, as if afraid of ecclesiastical interference; the other simply tucked his hands firmly behind his back.

  Another car drew up: to my amazement this brought Messrs Corbishley and Malins. Who had invited them? The bishop? That would look very much like a taking of sides. Andy? In which case, why hadn’t he told me?

  ‘Does this mean covers for six? Or just for the four of them?’ I whispered to Nick.

  ‘Wherever they go, I go,’ he replied. And suited the deed to the word, as he plunged into the church as if late for evensong.

  When, more slowly, I joined them, Bishop Jonathan was already leading what seemed like extempore prayers. Not wishing to interrupt, perhaps, or simply finding them, I lingered behind a smoke-stained pillar until he had finished.

  Let them talk man-talk. I drifted along the aisle until I reached the altar. The cloth was ruined, but the stone had withstood the assault. Using spit and a couple of tissues, I cleaned the smoke from the ancient incised mark of the cross.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We spent the majority of the meal – I’d organised a table in the quietest part of the restaurant – listening to the sad little fundraising schemes Corbishley was propounding. Poor man, they wouldn’t even scratch the surface of what had to be done.

  ‘We’ve done it before and we can do it again!’ Corbishley declared with a fervour quite touching provided that you forgot his outburst to me. And what had he done with the flowers he’d bought me as an apology? Was his wife – if he had one – a surprised beneficiary? Or had he, in his fury, simply shoved them on to the nearest grave or even face down in a hedge?