The Chinese Takeout

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Hospital?’ I echoed. ‘And they’re keeping her in?’ I sat heavily on a kitchen stool.

  Robin nodded. ‘Apparently they wanted Abby to stay in last check up, but she said Dan couldn’t spare her. Well, he’s got to now. Till she pods, I should think. And now he’s wringing his hands saying he doesn’t know how to manage. I guess it’d be financially as much as anything else. I don’t suppose that tea and scones venture brings in more than fifty quid a week, maybe more if they have a fine weekend, but it seems to me that’s what they live on. That,’ he added, looking hard at me, ‘and the wild garlic.’

  ‘Which is vital for your wild garlic risotto, wild garlic soup and butter-braised wild garlic,’ I said, smiling innocently.

  ‘Absolutely, gaffer,’ he responded. ‘Even at £10 a kilo. So how are we going to keep them afloat, eh?’

  My shock was genuine. ‘We? Are you off your head, Robin? We’re fully stretched here – more, with me gadding around hither and there.’

  ‘The cooking’s no problem. It’s just finding someone to serve the teas.’

  ‘“Just” finding someone. The age of miracles is past, kid.’ But when his face fell like that, what else could I do? ‘Or maybe, just maybe, it isn’t. Leave it with me. And by the way,’ I added, patting his arm before I headed back upstairs, ‘you’re a nice lad – you know that?’

  ‘I’m sorry everything’s such a mess,’ Annie apologised.

  All her cottage showed was that she was just back from her holiday, with a pile of unopened mail on the hall table and the sound of a washing-machine already in action.

  ‘Doesn’t look messy to me. And I’m sorry I came at an inconvenient time. Only I needed some help and thought of you.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it? And you can fill me in on what the police have found so far.’

  I sat. The Regency day bed she used as a sofa was as excruciating as it was elegant. I kept the narrative brief. It could have been briefer but I wasn’t sure how she’d respond to a single four-letter word before ‘all’. And in any case, Tony never liked to hear me use the word, except in an appropriate context.

  ‘No wonder they’ve handed it over to a specialist team,’ she summed up for me. ‘And those poor boys denied a burial. Dear me. I almost wish I’d stayed away a bit longer, but I could hear the garden calling me. You know how it is. You plan a low-maintenance life, and need to add a bit more spice to it because it’s so bland, and next thing you know you’ve got a water feature and fish to worry about. And still have time round the edges.’

  ‘That’s music to my ears! Annie, I know you’ve got your CAB commitment – but could you take something else on? Maybe just for a few days – maybe for a good deal longer?’ I explained. ‘But before you say anything, I ought to warn you: someone disapproved of my connections with the place – they sent a warning message in a bottle last night.’

  Her chin went up. ‘All the more reason to get involved, then. Count me in, Josie. I bet there are a couple of other ladies from St Jude’s we could involve, too.’

  ‘They’d have to know the risk.’

  ‘That’s about the only advantage of growing old I can think of: even thugs tend to treat you more gently.’

  I would have argued, but she embarked on a reminiscence of her teaching days, and I didn’t want to interrupt.

  As I stood, eventually, to go – my bum announcing that it simply would not countenance another minute on the unyielding springs – she asked, ‘Was this Andrew Braithwaite’s idea?’

  I nearly sat down again. ‘No. Why should it be?’

  ‘I just wondered. He seems such an imaginative man. Very attractive too,’ she added, shooting a look from beneath her eyebrows.

  ‘Very,’ I said.

  ‘But already spoken for, I’d say.’

  ‘He has a lady friend?’ I was quite pleased by my choice of term, given the shock.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘By whom, then?’

  ‘By God.’

  I popped the portable CD player, with a supply of batteries and a selection of discs, on Abigail’s bedside cabinet, plus a pile of glossy mags she might just care to leaf through. ‘You’re looking better already,’ I told her, almost truthfully.

  ‘Don’t tell Dan, or he’ll want me straight back again.’

  I didn’t think she was joking. ‘Of course he misses you.’

  She dismissed the platitude with the sniff it deserved. ‘Misses the work I do, more like.’

  ‘Well, he won’t be missing that, not if the ladies of St Jude’s have anything to do with it. The afternoon teas, at least. And one of them swears she enjoys cleaning. Truly!’

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘Why should I do that? It gives them something to do, Abigail – they can’t lovingly polish the church or tend the graveyard, not till the police say they can. Their families have moved away. They’ll be operating in pairs so they’ll have a bit of company. It’ll work, I promise you. Because Annie Bryant’s running it.’

  ‘Not you?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry: I truly don’t have the time. Which is why I have to dash. I’m so sorry.’

  To the shops. If that nightie was the best she could manage, I’d better hit Taunton fast. A couple of places on my own behalf. Marks and Sparks for Abby’s nighties and some flowers. I couldn’t trust Dan to take either, though I didn’t say so to his face as I handed them over at the farm gate.

  ‘Don’t you dare let on who they came from!’

  ‘I don’t want your charity.’

  ‘How about they’re an apology for disturbing your sleep last night? Come on, man, you don’t have time to shop, but it’ll do her heart good to think you did. Won’t it? How did Annie get on, by the way?’

  He looked at me hard. ‘Like you. Like a bloody whirlwind.’

  Whirlwind? All I wanted to do was sleep when at last I got back to the White Hart. That, and pop aspirin for a vicious headache. But I had scarcely ten minutes before I had to be on duty. The bookings file showed we were pretty full again, and this only a Thursday. Friday and Saturday evenings were already booked out, and not even Jamie Oliver would get a table for the next three Sunday lunches. We’d have to get more staff. No argument. At very least someone we could call on for emergencies. It wasn’t fair to put pressure on Lucy, not when she had exams to worry about.

  There were a couple of messages on the answerphone, and my mobile had a couple of calls I hadn’t taken. Damn it, they could wait till I’d had a cup of tea.

  Better still, a stiff gin and tonic. A very stiff gin and tonic.

  Crazy. You start drinking on your own in this business and you might as well book in for the next session of AA.

  Green tea, then, and the quickest shower going.

  Just as I’d undressed, the phone rang. Nick.

  I never thought I’d say it, albeit strictly under my breath: ‘Thank goodness you’re coming back!’

  But he wasn’t. He was ringing to say he’d picked up some bug. He was sure it was flu, but since he’d been in contact with all that vile meat, Elly had insisted he stay put. I never argued with Elly and this wasn’t the time to begin.

  ‘Everything’s absolutely fine down here,’ I insisted. ‘And Elly’s right: if you’re not better in the morning, you get into A and E and insist you have the proper tests.’

  ‘OK. I will.’

  His docility worried me: he must really be ill. Ebola Fever! All those zoonoses – animal diseases that could attack humans – I’d read about on the Internet! What if he didn’t make it through the night? If only Andy and I were on speaking terms, and I could ask him to have a quiet word with his Boss.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Andy smiled. ‘So we’re on our own, then?’

  I took it that he referred to our amateur sleuthing, rather than the absence of a third party from my flat. Having Friday breakfast together we might be, but that was because he wanted to ma
ke an early start to our combined hunt for the chicken plant, not because of any joint nocturnal activity.

  Despite the seriousness of it all, the weather was glorious enough to impart a holiday air; had I not been on duty for lunch, I’d even have suggested we take a picnic and do the thing properly.

  ‘How ill is Nick?’ he pursued.

  ‘He’s never one to underestimate his illnesses,’ I said. ‘Except when they’re truly serious, like a stomach ulcer he insisted on neglecting. Like most men, I suppose. Tony would worry about gangrene when the tiniest splinter punctured his skin, but he was stoicism itself when confronted by cancer.’ And then I remembered Andy’s wife and her illness, and stopped short.

  He was too preoccupied with his full English breakfast to argue. I treated myself occasionally, especially when, as today, I wanted to try a new type of sausage. I loved extra-meaty sausages for the dinner menu, but worried that they’d be overpowering at any other time. They weren’t. And they were gluten-free, a real bonus for my poor allergy sufferers. As for the bacon, that was organic, traditionally dry-cured – none of that white gloop in the pan, and a piece of shrunken something or other on your plate that tasted of nothing but salt. Organic eggs from my neighbour. Bread baked in my own kitchen. A feast.

  ‘First of all,’ I continued, ‘we’ll pick up a hire car in Taunton. It’s booked – won’t take a minute.’

  ‘A hire car?’

  I wilfully misunderstood. ‘All the choppers are booked on Fridays.’

  He shook his head dismissively. ‘But we’ve got two perfectly good vehicles outside.’

  ‘There aren’t a lot like mine round here – look how easy it was for our two friends to pick up our trail the other day. And they may have noted yours when I dropped you off. So we’ll go incognito. I wonder if it’s too warm to wear my party wig? And if you don’t mind my saying so, I know your shirt’s a nice blue, but the dog-collar gives the game away. So you could try this.’ It wasn’t just nighties I’d found in Taunton the previous day. I’d had to guess at the size, of course, but any taking back was my job: there was no way he’d discover the price. Before he could argue, I continued. ‘If it fits, you might want to iron out the creases. The ironing board’s in the kitchen. Now, give me five minutes to brief the lads, and we’ll be off.’

  ‘A nice anonymous silver Fiesta,’ I said, patting it affectionately. ‘The only trouble is, it’s towards the bottom of the range, so it won’t have as much poke as I like. Still, I can use the gear box to get us out of trouble.’ He was looking at me sideways. ‘Well, you’ve got the navigating skills.’

  ‘Dare I ask how you learned to drive?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. One of my husband’s getaway drivers. He’d learned in the Met. Now that’s one thing I don’t like – a bent policeman.’

  Our eyes met.

  ‘You don’t suppose—’ He coughed. ‘Didn’t Nick say these people smugglers might have infiltrated the law enforcement agencies? That could explain the police’s singular lack of obvious progress.’

  ‘I wonder… They’ve changed the investigating team. Which may or may not be a good thing.’ He didn’t need to know about the mild flirtation Burford seemed to be initiating. But Andy, chic in that new shirt, which he’d ironed, to do him justice, very well, was still distinctly more intriguing. Largely, I suppose, because he wasn’t attempting to intrigue. ‘Have they updated you regularly?’ I pursued.

  ‘No. But I don’t really have any rights.’

  ‘More than I do. His parents?’

  ‘As you know, they refused to have a family liaison officer. If they have had any information from the police, I can’t imagine either of us being persona grata – popular enough—’

  ‘It’s OK. Tony had GCSE Latin, although I never quite got round to it.’ I might have added that I didn’t take the exam because he’d had to put the frighteners on me for embarking on an unsuitable affair.

  He flushed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to patronise you. My parishioners were always telling me they didn’t understand the Latin and Greek tags I kept using.’

  ‘You can use Greek if you want to baffle me. As one of the hoi polloi,’ I added, with a twinkle. Dear me, he could be so uptight. I knew of only one cure for the condition, but I’d probably ruled that out even before Annie dropped her hint, hadn’t I? ‘Anyway, let’s return to our moutons.’ Thank you, Tony’s A level French. ‘Which site do you want to check out first?’ I’d better let him think he was in charge, hadn’t I?

  ‘As I said when I went hunting on my own, if a business looks legitimate, it probably is. You aren’t going to go round in a van blazoned with the firm’s phone number and address, are you?’

  ‘So it’s white van territory we’re searching for, those anonymous bullies of the road. OK. Hang on: just in case.’ I donned sunglasses, and silently passed him a pair. And then I pulled on my wig. Patting the white blonde bubble curls, I asked, pouting my lips and slapping on cerise gloss, ‘How do I look?’

  This time his flush must have hurt, and he dropped his eyes. I adjusted the mirror. ‘Hell’s bells, I look like a tart! Well, thank goodness you don’t look like a vicar!’

  We’d parked in a lay-by on a gently winding B road, the trees greening nicely and the verges already plumping up. It carried so little traffic that in any other part of the country it would never have been classified. Off it to our right, about a mile away, we thought, lay our first yard. What I saw in my rear-view mirror made me fling myself at him as if in a passionate snog. Repeat: as if. Bowling merrily up behind us was a van bearing a name I recognised: that of my samphire-pickling colleague Michael Rousdon, from Starcross. Now what was he doing so far from home? Before Andy could gasp, ‘Goodness, I didn’t know you had feelings for me,’ or words to that effect, I had the car in gear and pulled out, ready to tail him at a discreet distance.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be a bit closer? Following him, I mean? You might lose him.’ Top marks for realising what I was up to.

  ‘Think ex-Met instructor,’ I said. ‘And trust me.’

  Andy snorted with laughter. ‘I think that’s asking a bit too much of me! Look, he’s turning. Into that farmyard.’

  ‘I’m going to drive past slowly. Mark it on the map. I’m not going to risk getting in close. I know him, you see. A fellow restaurateur.’ One who still appeared to carry a torch for me, and I’d briefly fancied enough to contemplate sex with. Did I regret not indulging? No: I really hoped my taste hadn’t been bad enough for me to fancy a possible criminal. And then I thought of Tony, and it was my turn to blush. Painfully.

  I pulled into a gate.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Andy demanded.

  ‘Going for a quick shuftie.’

  ‘Uh, uh. You say he knows you. You may have – considerably! – changed your appearance, but you still walk and talk the same.’

  In spite of myself, my chin went up. ‘You want a bet?’

  ‘No. This one’s my call. I shan’t take any risks. And my camera’s less obtrusive than that huge phallic symbol of yours.’ He flourished a snazzy mobile phone. ‘Why, I could just be trying to get a signal in this benighted place. And if necessary, I can take a pee in the hedge.’

  I didn’t argue. Instead, as soon as he was out of the car, I edged it nearer the road and prepared for a rapid exit. Had the road been wide and straight I wouldn’t have stood a chance of outrunning anyone; in fact, I’d increase the odds by taking to the real lanes. The OS map showed a satisfactorily winding, narrow track first left: I’d plunge into that. Of course, that risked our being entirely scuppered should a heavy vehicle or a flock of sheep be heading our way.

  Through the mirror I could see Andy returning at a leisurely pace, apparently doing up his flies. Once out of sight of the farm, however, he broke into a canter and flung himself breathlessly into the car.

  ‘They may have seen me. But I don’t think there was anything to worry about. It all looked legit. Want to see the ph
otos on my new toy?’

  ‘Only when we’re well clear. Just in case.’

  For no reason but that it seemed attractive, I took the lane I’d planned, pulling at last under a tree. ‘Let’s see.’

  ‘I only hope I’ve got it right. The guy at the shop said it was foolproof, but that might mean foolproof if you’re under twenty. Wow. Look!’

  ‘Well done. Next?’

  He thumbed his way through a pretty series of shots, all including cars with nice clear plates and people’s faces.

  ‘That one there – could you bring it up a bit?’

  He ostentatiously crossed his fingers before applying a thumb to the pads. ‘So long as I don’t lose it – no, there we are.’

  ‘Nope. Sorry to raise your hopes, but it doesn’t ring any bells. I hoped for a minute it might be one of the other night’s visitors, but he’s much younger. But maybe you should send it through to my computer anyway?’ I paused while, breathing heavily, he pressed buttons. ‘Is there another place within range?’

  For reply he checked his watch. ‘What time do you have to be back?’

  ‘Twelve fifteen latest.’

  He refolded the map and traced a route with his index finger. ‘The next place is over here – see? Half an hour on these roads. So it’d be cutting it a little fine. Tell you what, there’s the most marvellous little church in the next hamlet. I’d love you to see it.’

  Well, he had a day job, too.

  He opened the door as shyly as if he were a lad bringing home a girlfriend. Now wasn’t the time for brash remarks. Nor indeed was it the place. The graveyard was one side of a deep lane, the church the other. Even smaller than St Jude’s, St Peter’s in the Combe was so dark inside it took long moments for the eyes to get accustomed.

  ‘No, no electricity,’ Andy said, in an ordinary unhushed voice. ‘I could light an oil-lamp? But it’d ruin the effect of the sun on the stained glass. Very early medieval.’