‘You’re not going to get the accounts book?’ I prompted when he returned.
‘You’ve been careful with it, Mrs Welford: I can’t imagine you’d want us to be any less so.’
‘But I wouldn’t necessarily expect you to take my precautions seriously.’
‘I couldn’t take them any other way, circumstances being what they are.’
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared. ‘You sound as if you’re preparing for a murder case.’ I suppressed a nervous smile, still more a nervous giggle. Tony would have been proud of me. So would any one of his counsel.
Evans was equally serious. ‘Have you, Mrs Welford, any reason to believe we’re not?’
Chapter Eighteen
It was time to get Nick Thomas back. I’d managed perfectly well without him, true, and he might actually prove an added hazard. But if he stayed away, there was little doubt that Evans and Short would want to bring him back. Always better to return under one’s own steam than be dragged kicking and screaming: that was my motto. Plus, apart from being my wheels should I need a quick getaway, Nick had a right to be sniffing round that rendering plant, if and when I could at last get it into his thick skull that he should.
The question was, how could I get hold of him?
There was dear old 1471, of course, provided that his was the last call to my number. And I couldn’t remember any others. But – Sod’s Law – someone who had withheld their number, some double-glazing salesperson, no doubt, had tried on Sunday evening, when I’d been too busy juggling for the media even to notice.
Directory Enquiries? For a mobile?
The Food Standards Agency? There wasn’t a local number in the phone book. Even if I phoned the London headquarters number (even one of the new phone number call centres should have that, even one in Mumbai!) I couldn’t see them dishing out an employee’s phone number to a casual enquirer – even I wouldn’t divulge personal information and I didn’t have all sorts of civil service regulations to enforce a privacy code. My best hope was to tell the appropriate person there was an urgent personal problem. Getting through to the said appropriate person would probably be like flying to Mars, and I might get as lost as the poor UK Beagle spacecraft.
I did. I got passed to so many people I felt like Jonny Wilkinson’s winning Rugby ball. But no cups, world or otherwise, for me – I just got dropped into some black hole with canned music and, when I’d heard the tape three times, I dropped the handset back so hard I might have damaged it. No, a quick shake confirmed it was all right.
Plonking my bum down on the stairs, I sat inhaling the smell of disinfectant and picked a hangnail that had had the cheek to appear, despite my regular expensive manicure. No, not acrylic nails, nothing like that – imagine them in a kitchen – just a decent tidying up of the cuticles and a massage. Drat it. And – this was clearly not my day – one of the workmen had left something behind on the tatty hall table my predecessor had left behind. Some sort of ring file.
I heaved myself to my feet – this prolonged damp weather and the lack of decent exercise recently had got to my joints. No, it wasn’t a workman’s file, not unless one of his kids went to the local school. One of Lucy’s. The poor kid had left her homework here! But I wouldn’t have to leg it down to the school, pronto: there was nothing in it but two sheets of paper. The first, in her thickest felt tip, carried the legend
THE WHITE HART
GUEST REGISTER
The second comprised several columns, the headings of which were NAME, CAR REGISTRATION NUMBER, ADDRESS, PHONE NUMBER. In the columns, in what was presumably Nick’s writing, was all the information I needed. He’d given his office address in Taunton and in addition to the phone line there, his mobile number. I could picture Lucy, head bowed, mouth slightly open (all that smoke in the bar gave her catarrh), doing her best writing and then standing over Nick while he solemnly did her bidding.
I could have hugged them both. Though when I found Nick had switched his phone off I’d have preferred to box his ears. However, even he would surely respond to the message I left: Get your arse down here now. And for God’s sake phone if you can’t. Words to that effect, anyway.
A glance at my watch told me it was time to get lunch preparations underway. No time even to nip to the shop for my Guardian. There’d be blood for supper if they didn’t keep it for me.
Trying to hide behind the walkers, whose packs and boots seemed larger than ever, a couple of locals lurked on their regular settle. Not Reg Bulcombe, that would have been too much to hope for, but some of his cronies. They engaged in tentative conversation with Robin, who’d done no more than dump his gear in the first available bedroom – he said he’d make a more informed choice when he had time – and don an apron. I’d have preferred him to arrive a little earlier, but couldn’t fault him on his management of the bar itself. He was happy to gather dirty plates as well as glasses, and recommended specials with as much gusto as if he’d actually tasted them.
‘So why can’t I use the outhouse for my bike yet?’ he asked as he dropped a selection of empty soup bowls by the dishwasher.
‘That missing vet I told you about – some of his property’s turned up in there and –’
‘In your shed! That’s weird.’
‘Not as weird as the postal delivery I had this morning.’ I explained. ‘Robin, I’d be much happier if you told me to stick my job and went back to the wicked city. You’d be safer on Death Row than out here.’
He shook his head. ‘I really need the money, Mrs W. And if you told the DSS I’ve left the job voluntarily, I’d lose my dole.’
‘I don’t grass,’ I snapped.
‘But the agency might. Come on, the locals know I’m just a temp. They haven’t any axe to grind with me, surely.’
‘Not unless it’s guilt by association, I suppose,’ I conceded, reluctant to get rid of a potential asset. ‘But promise me you’ll be more careful than makes sense. No buzzing around the back lanes at night after work. Or even after dark. Come on, let’s go and check out those bedrooms. I’d have thought the big one at the back.’
This time his look was amused. ‘So I can watch what the police get up to and hear if anyone does try to get into the shed.’
I grinned. ‘Exactly.’
But the window rattled, the curtains hardly closed and it was clear he’d be much better off where he was.
As luck would have it the SOCOs arrived just as I was setting out for my post-prandial stroll. Much as I’d have liked to hang around watching, I still went for the walk: I hoped it would give me an air of disinterested innocence. Actually, I’d have preferred a real zap through the village. The faster the feet, the faster the calories flee. But looking furtive was not on my agenda, and I took care to meet and greet as many folk as I could. Pensioners with tartan trolleys, mothers with pushchairs, none was spared the warmth of my smile. Or the news that I was trying out a temporary barman, just for a few days until Lindi could come back. OK, Robin was worth a dozen Lindis, at first glance, at least. But her value as a hauler in of locals was beyond pearls.
My newspaper sat in solitary state behind the counter. As Jem passed it to me, he leaned forward to say something confidentially. But a gang of school kids exploded into the shop and he had to abandon me to ride shotgun. Clearly I’d have to come at a quieter time tomorrow.
Meanwhile, my journey wouldn’t be wasted. Sue Clayton was just getting out of her car, parked with the front nearside wheel squashed halfway on to the kerb. We exchanged waves, though she didn’t seem particularly keen to see me. Then, she never did. For my part I cursed under my breath. Sue and I needed to have a long conversation involving hunched up raincoats, Fred Tregothnan’s desk and my shed. And the village street wasn’t the best place for it. On the other hand, the grapevine being what it was, the whole village would know about the activities in my shed and the reason for them, so I might as well confront her now.
Before I could open my mouth, she was all
over me with a jolliness that I was sure masked a deep anxiety.
‘I meant to phone you! Have you heard from Nick? Will he be back in time for practice tomorrow? We really can’t do without him, you know.’
‘I’ll let you do as soon as I hear anything,’ I said, equivocally. Hoping my deep breath wouldn’t show, I continued, ‘Sue, when we checked Fred’s house to see if he was ill or something … I suppose …’ How could you accuse a woman of God of theft and planting evidence? ‘Did you see anything at all that … You know, the police are turning my place upside down at this very moment.’ It didn’t need her face to tell me I wasn’t making a very good fist of this. I tried an outright lie. ‘I’m afraid they may try to plant something and if you saw it when we were there, I’ll be able to say I’ve got a witness that –’
‘No, you won’t. You could have gone back any time yourself once I’d shown you where the key was.’
I didn’t know if she was simply being logical or if she was telling me I was on my own. So where did that leave me? Could I snitch on her?
‘Have they checked your place yet?’ I ventured.
‘Why should they?’
‘Why should they be checking mine?’ But I couldn’t keep it up. ‘Sue, just put my mind at rest. When you came out of Fred’s house you were clutching your coat round you as if you were trying to hide something. Were you? And no, I’ve not breathed a word to the filth.’
‘How dare you! I was trying to keep warm and dry, Josie Welford! It was raining – remember?’
I held up a pacifying hand. ‘OK, OK. That’s what I wanted to hear. And I believe you. It’s just that we need to sing from the same hymn sheet, Sue, and be careful not to incriminate each other with a careless word. Which is why, I promise you, I’ve not said a word to Evans and Short.’
She wasn’t completely mollified, I could see that. But she said, ‘You’re right. Careless talk costs lives, and all that. But you’re not a very good liar, Josie – you know why they’re checking your place, don’t you?’
A couple of kids came bounding up, daft as red setters on speed, hotly followed by their mothers, who simply sailed into the conversation as if I wasn’t there. And there too was Lindi – talk about being saved by the belle.
I didn’t try calling after her; I simply outpaced her, then slowed to fall into step.
‘Are you feeling better?’ I said, just as kindly as if she’d been laid low with flu.
Her eyes opened so wide I was afraid she might bolt. But not in those shoes. ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered.
‘Good. Now, I wanted to assure you, Lindi, that as sure you feel up to it, you can come back to work any time you want.’ Maybe I projected my voice a little: I wasn’t averse to the odd witness. ‘This Fred Tregothnan business must have been very upsetting for you. Now, you’ll have heard I’ve got a new barman, but he’s only temporary. He knows that. Now you know it.’ I gave the sort of reassuring smile the nurse gives as she’s about to shove a hypodermic into your bum.
She had to respond somehow, of course. And you could see from the little furrows about her forehead and mouth that she’d put her brain into gear. ‘Um, I’ve – well, you see, Mrs Welford …’ The clutch slipped a little. She tried again. ‘Mrs … Well, there’s someone else offered me a job. And it’s a bit better paid, see.’
‘And is it as many hours?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Could you not work for us both? I’m sure we could make the hours fit in if we tried.’ Mrs Greville would scarcely be entertaining every lunchtime and every evening.
She was wavering.
‘And you’re due a pay rise. Another couple of months and you’d have been entitled to sick and holiday pay.’ Clear as if he was standing beside me, I could hear Tony’s voice: Play on people’s greed. That’s the way to get them on your side. But don’t push too hard. Smiling, I added, ‘Now as soon as you feel up to it, just let me know. Look after yourself, now.’ There. Soon she’d have woven a comfortable myth that she was a poor soul with tender sensibilities, and would be back with me. With luck, that is.
They’d only brought in one of those mobile home sized caravans, so big it almost dwarfed the White Hart. All right, I exaggerate. But it really didn’t enhance the beauty of the place. Any moment now the TV cameras would roll in and Nicola and her chums would be interviewing me as a possible murder suspect. Great.
I made a show of opening up, and made sure everything was ready to roll in the kitchen. And hey presto, customers arrived. No, not the normal clientele – in your dreams! Forensic scientists and police officers. Hungry, all of them. It might have had something to do with the discount I offered on the specials, of course, but I felt sorry for them with nothing but the official issue of sandwiches and coffee to keep them warm on what was becoming a pretty cold night. It wasn’t cold enough to keep away the locals, however: there was another pair on the settle this evening. You could almost feel the draught from their ears as the grockles talked shop. It didn’t go unnoticed, of course; I could hardly keep a straight face when a couple of them, not older than Lucy, it seemed, started discussing in penetrating voices a case in which a man’s head had come off as soon as the SOCO had touched it.
‘All on your own?’ Evans put his head round the kitchen door.
‘For a few minutes. I didn’t think it would do either of them any harm if Robin walked young Lucy home. They’ve both worked their socks off.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ve worked my shoes off, but that’s all.’ The floor felt pleasantly cool as I padded round. ‘Well, am I going to have to bake myself a cake with a file inside? Hey, I am, aren’t I?’ I sat down rather harder than my lower back liked.
‘We may want a DNA sample.’
‘The old gob swab? OK. But why?’ There was a bottle of wine within reach. I poured a couple of glasses and pushed one across to him.
Almost absentmindedly, he picked it up and drank.
‘Come on, Mr Evans: you want a swab to eliminate me or to put me in the frame. Which is it?’
Chapter Nineteen
I’d hardly fainted with surprise when Evans wriggled out of replying, and then, having sunk the wine far more quickly than it deserved, made his excuses and left. He took, I’m glad to say, his entire crew with him and left my yard in its original state. It was clear he’d rather I found somewhere else to store the motorbike, but finally, taking my point about an employer’s duty of care and the vulnerability of motorbikes, taped off a limited area for Robin’s use. I locked the door, but knew it’d take hardly more than a gentle push to open it.
‘Home, sweet home,’ I remarked to Robin as he strolled up, having taken just about the right amount of time on escort duty.
He heaved the bike into the shed, and, cocking an eye at me, produced a thick chain for its rear wheel, just as if he was parking in a public place. I nodded my approval.
‘She’s a nice kid, that Lucy,’ he said as he came back into the pub, closing the door behind him. ‘I take it you use all these locks?’
‘And the bolts,’ I agreed. ‘So long as you remember she is just a kid. Or could she be the Queen of Sheba and it wouldn’t matter a toss to you?’
‘Nothing like being direct, I suppose,’ he said, taking a step back.
‘Nothing. I don’t care the click of my fingers about your sexual orientation, Robin, so long as it’s for adults. But my late husband once shared a cell with a paedophile who regaled him with his adventures and it rather put me off.’
‘So if I were a paedophile you wouldn’t employ me!’
‘Sure I would, if you’d had treatment and were no longer practising. I just wouldn’t ask you to walk Lucy home, that’s all. Of course,’ I added over my shoulder as I set off upstairs, ‘this may be a case of shutting the stable door. I should have asked before. But I’ve been a mite busy.’
He didn’t follow but turned towards the kitchen. ‘Hey, you’ve tidied up in here.’
‘My job a
s chef,’ I said.
‘I’ve worked in some bars in my time,’ he said, closing the door and following me, ‘where the boss worked hard. But you beat the lot, Mrs W.’
I shook my head. ‘I had support staff tonight. You and Lucy. You should have seen me the other night. Sunday. We were supposed to be closed, but …’ I gave him an edited version. We shared a laugh. But as he went off to his new room and I unlocked my door, I called him back. ‘Young Robin, you never answered my question. Which end of the ballroom do you dance?’
‘I like to wear the tails, not lift them. But young Lucy’s safe from me. I might not say the same of a real looker I passed in the village. Blonde? You know…’ He gestured.
‘Flashing her tits even in this weather? That’s our Lindi, Robin.’
‘You couldn’t introduce me, I suppose. What have I said?’
‘She’s the girl you’re replacing. Trouble is, if she comes back to work here, you may be surplus to requirements.’
‘Is she coming back?’
Closing the door on myself – no point in letting all that nice warm air out – I turned back to him. ‘As a bar worker, she’s a waste of space – not worth your little finger. But she pulls in the locals. She’s currently being used in some game I don’t know the rules of. Probably she doesn’t either. So if she comes back, it could be a good sign as well as being good for business. Who knows, I may be able to afford both of you if trade really picks up. After all, I’m happy to manage without an extra chef, which would save enough for your wages.’
He nodded. ‘It’d save even more if you paid my wages direct, and not to the agency.’
‘Let’s cross bridges like that when we get to them. At the moment you’ve got a wage and a free room. And I’ve got a damned good barman. Whatever forces removed Lindi in the first place may not let her return. Leave the ifs and maybes till tomorrow. I eat breakfast about eight in my kitchen. You’re welcome to join me. Otherwise, you can forage in the main kitchen or get cereal or whatever from the shop. No dirty dishes or plates in your room, ever, by the way: we have a mouse problem. As from tomorrow, work starts at eleven thirty for twelve o’clock opening. I’d be grateful if you’d check the food deliveries I’m expecting. I mean check – they can be dozy bastards. OK? Sleep well. And if you smoke, don’t burn the place down.’
The Food Detective Page 16