For Sue hadn’t arrived in Exeter till it was too late – for Mr Gay, at least. He’d done a very thorough job of blowing himself up, and it was truly a mercy he’d not survived long, even though Lucy would have loved him to receive the Last Rites. She might have refused confirmation for herself, and thought the kids’ time better spent on homework than at Sunday school, but after the mess that her father had always been she’d wanted something as a full stop if not an opening to Eternal Life. And Sue had let her down. Her car, according to Sue herself. But Lucy had the same views of car maintenance as she did of family maintenance and I doubted if she’d bought the excuse any more than Nick had. A modern car not starting, indeed.
‘When did she last have it serviced?’ she’d muttered to me as we hung round in the hospital waiting area.
Sue, dragging me into the ladies’, had been quite stern with me. ‘Are you sure this…this hospitality…of yours isn’t just an attempt to rehabilitate yourself in the village?’ she’d asked in a stage whisper. ‘Molly told me she’d had to spell things out to you this morning.’
‘At the moment the only thing I care about is that the kids need to live where they’ve always lived,’ I hissed back. ‘As for the villagers, the narrow-minded –’ I let out a stream of profanities that had shocked her as much as it would have shocked Tony. ‘Bloody motes and sodding beams,’ I concluded, my inventiveness having dried up.
Sue had swallowed and disappeared. It would be hard for her to get back from Exeter to the village, but just at the moment I didn’t care. I’d make it up to her in the next Benefice Sunday collection.
Now from my living room we could just hear the sounds of Lucy organising the children into bed, her routine being even more rigid in view of their father’s death. She’d locked the en suite bathrooms, not trusting any of the kids alone with water lest it overflow into the rooms below. I’d been more afraid of their drowning.
There was no noise from the bar, of course. Lucy had put up a large sign on the door: CLOSED – FAMILY BEREAVEMENT. I didn’t comment. Everyone would know what she’d meant, after all.
So now it was just the four of us: the two police officers, Nick and me. I sensed we were all walking on conversational eggshells, but wasn’t entirely sure why. To my mind, we’d not done a bad day’s work between us.
Nick, disconcertingly relaxed, opened the batting. ‘What I can’t understand is why my predecessor said the rending plant – Wetherall’s – was up to standard. I’d have closed down the place on the spot.’
Evans regarded him limpidly. ‘Are you sure you’ve no idea, Mr Thomas?’
Nick shrugged, miming the passing of money.
‘I’m sure you’re right. Was any such approach made to you?’
‘Not by the rending plant people. But Fred Tregothnan, the missing vet, talked about…activities…which shouldn’t be too closely looked into. I said I’d been as straight as a die all my life and didn’t intend to change now.’
I nodded. ‘Ah – that Friday morning conversation I saw you two having.’
Nick nodded. ‘It was clear after that we weren’t going to become best buddies. There was something else about the guy I didn’t like, too – can’t quite put my finger on it.’
‘He put his finger on Lindi, all right. A whole handful of fingers. What’s happened to her, by the way?’ It was clear from the others’ blank looks I was going to have to explain.
‘You’re talking twenty-first century England here! Jesus Christ!’ Short exploded.
‘You’re talking about a community with roots older than we townees can imagine,’ Nick corrected him.
Evans nodded. ‘Quite: I wouldn’t be surprised if that Ted Gay’s funeral involved all sorts of things you don’t get at the average crematorium.’
‘Nothing too outré, I hope – I’m holding his wake here! I promised Lucy,’ I added, aware of a frisson passing between the two officers.
Before I could say anything, Evans said, ‘Maybe some sin-eating? It’s where you get someone to eat some cake passed across the body. That way the corpse is absolved of its sins, which go to the one eating the cake. They used to do it up your way. Hereford, Forest of Dean, round there.’
Knowledgeable maybe, but geographically-challenged, certainly.
‘Brummies,’ Nick said with finality. ‘Both of us. City folk.’
‘This Lindi,’ Short said, referring to his notes. ‘You’re sure you don’t know what eventually happened to her?’
‘Lucy’ll know. She’s probably smuggled her out of the county to a stray cousin in Newton Abbot or Ottery St Mary or some other polysyllabic place.’ I got to my feet. And then sat down again. I didn’t want to disturb the kids’ bedtime and Lucy knew the police wanted to talk further to her.
‘We’ll need to interview her –’ Short chimed in.
‘Yes.’ Evans agreed. ‘Though I can’t imagine she’d dare make a complaint. She’s still got to live in the place when we’ve gone home. Assuming she ever comes back, of course.’
‘I can give names,’ I said. ‘And those I can’t name I can identify their faces.’
‘But you’ve still got to live in the place too,’ Evans said. ‘Assuming you’re going to. And I wouldn’t blame you if you packed up and left tomorrow.’ Again he seemed to change the subject with some abruptness.
Perhaps it was the booze, but I felt we were getting nowhere fast. If I was hungry, what was Nick’s stomach doing? Grabbing my phone pad, I scrawled a checklist.
‘OK. Now, that abattoir is illegal. Yes? So it’ll be closed down?’
Hijacked, Evans had the grace to laugh. ‘Yes. But may spring up again in another village at the back of beyond. It’s a combination of ill-explained legislation and genuine hardship. Plus a desire to make money out of vulnerable people.’ His voice hardened.
‘In my book those who make money out of the vulnerable tend to be the rich and the most powerful,’ Nick put in. ‘Josie’s had dealings with the landowning family round here – the Grevilles. Luke Greville, as I’m sure you recall, resigned with no explanation from one of the safest seats in the country and shot off to become an MEP. We also saw him emerging from Fred Tregothnan’s house first thing on Sunday morning. The stream that runs through the village rises on his land. It ran pink the other week. Complaints to the water company from a member of the public failed to make any difference –’
Evans smiled grimly. ‘Let me guess – Ms Josie Welford.’
‘I prefer Mrs. I was married long enough.’
‘– so I put my official hat on this morning and demanded action,’ Nick concluded. ‘I think after this afternoon we have a very good idea why the water turned pink. The rending plant was dealing with far more carcases than it was licensed for and spillage from those vats entered the water table.’ He stared at the floor swallowing hard in what looked like an effort not to vomit.
He wasn’t the only one trying to keep their stomach under control. I chipped in quickly. ‘Mrs Greville knew about the pink water because I mentioned it when I was helping arrange flowers in church. Almost before you could say “flood” I saw Reg Bulcombe in water gear heading off with a large spade. Within twenty-four hours the village stream was reduced to a mere trickle, despite the rain. What had been an ordinary steep path had become a torrent and – by coincidence! – the field on which Nick’s mobile home was parked became a lake. His home – like the others – floated away. Unlike the others, his was stove in first.’
‘So you’re saying the Grevilles and a lout like Bulcombe are somehow connected!’ To my amazement Short sounded outraged. Surely a young urban officer like him wouldn’t still be a forelock-tugger!
‘Since when did the rich hesitate to get their tenants to do their dirty work?’ Nick again. ‘I’d be knocking on the Grevilles’ door first thing tomorrow. Sorry.’
Evans grinned. ‘There may still be time this evening.’ He shook a resigned head as he checked his watch. ‘Funny – you’d think nothing of cha
rging into a council maisonette at nine at night, but that long drive and that imposing front door demand a civilised hour.’
Short clearly didn’t know what his boss was on about.
‘Not to mention the fuss their brief would make,’ Nick added, sotto voce.
‘On to Wetherall, then, if I may,’ I said, in full chair-of-meeting mode. ‘I don’t suppose we know who actually owns it?’
‘It’s a subsidiary of a Midlands based company registered in the Isle of Man. All of which may well be a tax dodge I’m not up to,’ Nick began. A smile he’d not quite managed to suppress surfaced. ‘I do know the name Luke Greville when I see it, however – and he’s a major shareholder. As is his mother.’
‘I’d hoped she’d be on the side of the angels,’ I said. ‘She’s anti-hunting.’
Evans snorted. ‘Not her! She’s big in the Countryside Alliance. She was one of those promising civil disobedience if the government ever gets round to banning hunting.’
‘So why should she bother to tell me she wasn’t? I know, I know – so I’d think she was kosher. Silly me. And there I was sorry for her dog when she couldn’t find Fred Tregothnan to treat it. OK. I know we touched on Fred Tregothnan, but there’s no actual evidence that he did end his days at Wetherall, I suppose?’
Evans shook his head. ‘Not yet. It can only be a presumption of death at this point. The SOCO team, poor buggers, will have to give it the going over of its life in the hope of finding human as opposed to animal tissue. I don’t envy them the task, especially as I reckon it’s hopeless. But before we close the case, I’d like a reason for him to disappear – and/or his vehicle.’
‘You said you’d seen Mr Greville coming from Tregothnan’s house,’ Short said slowly, to be rewarded with the sort of stare you give a child you thought was asleep. ‘Why were you there, Mrs Welford?’
I beamed. ‘I was going to use the key under the flowerpot to let myself in. I wanted another sniff round. In his surgery in particular.’
Short spluttered but Evans held up a calming hand.
‘There has to be some reason for the whole Tregothnan thing,’ I continued. ‘I know vets aren’t well paid, but look at his house, for goodness’ sake. No mortgage – it was his family home; not a penny spent on it in all the years he’d had it. He dresses like a tramp. His Land Rover’s one that Noah sent to the scrapyard. What does he spend his money on?’
‘So how would trespassing on Tregothnan’s property have helped?’ Short pursued.
‘I was looking for evidence, same as you people. But sort of thinking sideways. Anyway, I gave up because Mr Greville pocketed the key when he left,’ I added with a rueful smile. I had a nasty feeling I was going to have to involve Sue in all this.
‘What would you have been looking for?’ Evans had joined in.
Heavens, I was so hungry. What was the etiquette of producing sandwiches in what seemed to be a cross between a debriefing and parlour game? ‘Gentlemen, if I don’t eat soon, I shall drop. Why don’t we adjourn till at very least I’ve made us a plate of sandwiches?’
Nick looked like a dog promised a muddy walk followed by a marrowbone. Even Short perked up. But Evans abandoned his laidback style and leaned forward, raising a warning finger. ‘Just a minute, Mrs Welford. Answer my question, if you don’t mind. What would you have been looking for? After all, you must have guessed that we’d take everything we thought relevant.’
‘Yes,’ I mused, ‘like bank statements and so on. Truly, I was going to think on my feet. But I’d have looked where I couldn’t before, because it was locked – the surgery. Things in locked cupboards.’
‘Poisons!’
I shook my head. ‘I was thinking more of restricted drugs – won’t a vet use things like morphine? Pethidine?’
‘Maybe even ketamine,’ Evans mused. ‘Are you thinking he was a user? Were there any signs?’
‘Not physical ones, I don’t think. No tracks up his arms, things like that. Not that I ever saw. But wouldn’t he have to keep a record of what he bought and what he dispensed and make sure the two balanced?’
‘Not physical?’ Evans pressed.
‘As a personality he was as inconsistent as they come. My theory, for what it’s worth, is that someone found out he was popping whatever and blackmailed him. And because he was hard up he got involved with this bad meat brigade – I don’t know, perhaps at one time they wanted him to forge paperwork, only to find people didn’t care two hoots where the meat had come from so long as it looked and tasted good – and was cheap. But all this is supposition, isn’t it? Since I couldn’t get in for a fossick round.’
‘You did before, though.’
‘Yes. And scarpered like a guilty schoolgirl caught scrumping. OK if I get some food now? Soup? Or sandwiches? Or something more substantial? Go on, it’ll be better than your canteen fare.’
While they considered, the phone rang. I answered. It was Sue, almost gibbering. ‘Josie – Josie. About Fred. Do you think I ought to confess?’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
However much I hunched over the phone and cupped my hand round the mouthpiece, I wasn’t going to stop Evans and Short hearing our conversation. Sue’s phone volume was always moderate to loud; now she was stressed, it was fortissimo.
They’d probably hear the word ‘confess’ anyway. All the same, I urged her, ‘Don’t do anything without taking legal advice. Please.’ Having no idea what else I could say, I cut the call. ‘Sandwiches?’ I repeated brightly.
But the three men were already on their feet. Evans and Short I could understand – but Nick?
‘Someone has to be there for her,’ he apologised quietly to me. ‘Find her a solicitor and so on.’
‘At least have a glass of milk before you go. Help yourself from the fridge.’ Out loud I added, ‘Sue’s not going anywhere – you’d do better to accept my offer. Think ulcers,’ I said darkly.
They were tempted, no doubt about that. But even as they dithered, there came the sound of a car driven fast, turning into the back yard. I think we all braced ourselves for the sound of metal on metal. None came. Someone banged furiously on my back door.
‘That’ll be Sue,’ Nick said unnecessarily.
‘She’s come to see me, not the police – or you, Nick,’ I said. ‘You should let me speak to her first. On my own. You lot make yourselves scarce – oh, go and help Lucy read bedtime stories or something – until we’ve finished.’ Impatiently I added, ‘Oh, she won’t get away from you. Think she’d take you on in a car chase? Well, she might,’ I conceded, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on the outcome.’
I ushered Sue into the pub kitchen, dishevelled, her ponytail escaping its elastic band, a torn Tesco’s carrier in her hand. Every bit as wan as Lucy, she didn’t remark on the poor hospitality or the smell of wine on my breath, but did seem relieved when I asked nothing, simply filled the kettle and busied myself with coffee.
I heard movement behind me. She was opening the carrier.
‘These were in Fred Tregothnan’s surgery,’ she said.
Only then did I turn, nodding at an A4 record book I presumed was his drugs ledger or whatever its official name. There was what looked like a receipts book, too, A5 or smaller.
It wasn’t really my job to ask when she’d acquired them, though I’d have liked it to be. Her head hung as if she were one of Tony’s gofers caught with his hands in an off-limits till. Perhaps it would do her good to get it all off her poor concave chest.
‘Under your coat that morning in the rain?’ I prompted, passing sugar and milk.
She nodded. ‘I’d promised him, you see.’
Nodding her to a chair, I sat too. The table between us spoke of decades of hard use, and I loved it for each herb chopped, each apple peeled and turned into pie.
‘Odd promise.’
‘Not at all.’ Her head shot up. ‘I can’t tell you why he wanted them concealed. The confessional.’
‘I never realised –’
&nbs
p; ‘The C of E permits; it doesn’t insist.’
‘OK. But he asked you to hear his confession.’
‘Maybe it was more a confidential heart-to-heart. I don’t know.’
But it would make a lot of difference in a court of law. And to her conscience.
‘And you concealed them. But now you’re giving them to me.’
‘No. Not giving. Showing. You’re a businesswoman. You must understand figures and things like that. Could you glance at them and see why – see if they give any hint why he might have disappeared?’
I sipped my coffee very slowly. Without thinking, I’d used the after-dinner roast and it was too strong and bitter on an empty stomach. Putting my hand on the books as if to keep them closed, I said hesitantly, ‘I can’t be bound by the same promise as you made. If I see he’s been fiddling his books, I’d have to say something. And I think it’s worse than fiddling his books. I suspect he’s been taking illegal drugs and trying to square the entries.’ From her wince I might have scored a direct hit. ‘Is that what he was talking about, drug addiction?’
‘You know I can’t tell you.’
‘It’d be the most likely thing anyone would want to confess. Or an addiction to hard porn, which a police geek would find on his hard disk in five seconds flat. But for either to be a problem, someone would have had to find out and be blackmailing him.’
Stony-faced, she stared at her coffee, as if she found it as unpalatable as the truth she was confronting.
‘One thing I always found strange about Fred,’ I continued, conversationally, but keeping to the past tense, as if to confirm I was sure he was dead, ‘was his tendency to mix with the village lowlife. People like Ted Gay and the other fire-hoggers. The ones who made Nick Thomas’s life such a misery. Fred was a professional man, after all. Middle-class. The sort who’d more naturally mix with GPs or teachers or clergymen, in the old days, anyway. Perhaps we’re just less hierarchical now.’
The Food Detective Page 24