by Simon Brett
“Well, scallops are seafood…”
“Yes.”
“…and seafood shouldn’t be left out in the hot weather.” He sounded as though he were parroting something he had been told.
“No, I agree. It can go off very quickly.”
“Which the scallops must have done. They must have gone off. Got poisoned by flies landing on them or…” he ran out of steam “…something like that.”
“Except,” Jude reasoned, “that the scallops last Monday had only been delivered that morning. Ed Pollack took the delivery and signed for them.”
“But they were the bad ones.”
“They can’t have been. They’d come directly from the supplier. In a refrigerated delivery van.”
“They were the bad ones,” Ray insisted.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
For the first time in their conversation Ray became furtive. He looked uneasily through the kitchen door towards the hall, as though he expected someone might be eavesdropping. Then, lowering his voice, he said, “Someone was trying to poison the people in the Crown and Anchor.”
“Yes, that’s rather what I was thinking.”
“But I should have stopped that happening.”
“You should have stopped that happening?”
“Yes. By taking away the bad scallops and putting the good ones in the fridge.”
Jude didn’t let the excitement she was feeling show in her voice, as she asked, “Are you saying that you took out the tray of scallops that Ed had put in the fridge and replaced them with another tray?”
“Yes.” The bewilderment grew in Ray’s face, as he mumbled, “It shouldn’t have happened. What I did should have stopped the poisoning. But it didn’t.” He looked almost tearful. “And Ted shouted at me.”
“Ray…” said Jude very softly, “who told you to change the trays of scallops around?”
Alarmed, he looked directly into her eyes for the first time. “It wasn’t Ted!” His voice was suddenly loud.
“I never thought it was Ted.”
“No. Ted didn’t know about the people going to be poisoned.”
“But someone else did?”
He nodded. “And they told me I could stop it happening by changing the trays round. I could save Ted from getting into trouble.”
“Who told you that, Ray?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by the sound of another door opening in the hall. He turned, and Jude looked up to see the kitchen doorway filled by the frame of a large man in jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. In spite of the heat he also wore a black leather jacket, rubbed grey at the seams. He had a dark beard and hair combed greasily back; in his nose there was a silver stud. His eyes were as black as two olives.
“Football’s on, Ray,” he announced. The words sounded too big for his mouth.
Ray had risen to his feet the moment he saw the man. His expression showed respect with a strong undercurrent of fear.
“But the football doesn’t start till twelve,” said Jude desperately.
“There’s other stuff on earlier.”
The man made no pretence to be addressing her, and Ray responded to his cue. “Yes, Viggo.” And without a word or a look back to Jude, he scuttled across the hall to the open door of the television room.
Viggo didn’t say anything more. Ignoring Jude’s questions and entreaties, he watched her rise from the table and cross to the front door. Immediately she had passed through, he slammed it shut behind her, and followed his friend to watch the football build-up.
Jude’s excitement at getting so close to the truth was replaced by total frustration. And also, from her short encounter with Viggo, a sense of menace.
∨ The Poisoning in the Pub ∧
Ten
On the Saturday night the Crown and Anchor again did good business. Though again it probably wasn’t the kind of business Ted Crisp was looking for. Carole and Jude didn’t go to the pub, but from their bedrooms they both heard the late-night roaring procession of bikes up Fethering High Street. Greville Tilbrook’s task of signature-gathering must have been getting easier by the minute.
And still the Sabbath-breaking Dan Poke evening lay ahead.
♦
The event was billed to start at eight o’clock, but when Carole and Jude arrived just before seven-thirty, the Crown and Anchor already seemed full to the gunwales. A large heavy-drinking crowd had spilled out into the garden area and car park. If all of them were planning to watch the show, the pub threatened to burst at the seams.
Judging from the people standing outside, the presence of Dan Poke had certainly brought out a mixed clientele. A few aged pub regulars had been drawn by curiosity to witness their local’s new venture. There were also a surprising number of couples in their forties, whom Carole and Jude recognized from the streets of Fethering, but whom they’d never seen before in the Crown and Anchor. A lot of really young people were there too, talking loudly and swigging from beer bottles. They were dressed as for a night’s clubbing, the girls revealing acres of firm brown flesh, the boys in voluminous shorts and sleeveless T-shirts.
The bikers, who had shattered the evening calm of Fethering for the last two nights, were also present in numbers. In spite of their chain-bedecked leather uniforms, close to they looked pretty harmless, but still incongruous in a place like the Crown and Anchor.
There was one surprise component in the Sunday evening crowd. At the entrance to the car park, some distance from the rest, stood Greville Tilbrook and three of his lady acolytes. In spite of the warmth of the evening they were all wearing suits, rather old-fashioned Sunday best. What was more, they carried banners. KEEP THE LORD’S DAY FOR THE LORD, NO FILTH IN FETHERING, BATTLE AGAINST BLASPHEMY and, rather incongruously, KEEP OUR STREETS CLEAN.
As he saw Carole and Jude approaching, Greville Tilbrook favoured them with a thin smile. “Good evening, ladies,” he said. “It’s still not too late to change your minds.”
“About what?” asked Jude, deliberately obtuse.
“About attending the blasphemous performance in the Crown and Anchor tonight.”
“How do you know it’s blasphemous?”
At that moment a girl walked past them. On the black T-shirt across her ample bosom was printed one of Dan Poke’s catchphrases: FANCY A POKE?
Furious, almost losing control of himself, Greville Tilbrook spluttered and pointed to the slogan. “Look, does that answer your question? What could be more blasphemous than wearing that slogan on the day that is dedicated to the Lord? People who behave in such an offensive way are insulting Almighty God!”
“It seems to me,” Jude responded mildly, “that you have a very idiosyncratic definition of ‘blasphemy’. In what way do the words ‘Fancy a Poke?’ have anything to do with God?”
“This is the Lord’s day and the Lord should be afforded the respect that is his due! T-shirts of that kind are an abomination and those who wear them should be cast into the outer darkness! Along with this evil man who calls himself a comedian!”
He was almost manic now in his denunciation. His group of geriatric cheerleaders looked very excited. They clearly loved seeing their idol in passionate mode.
“Excuse me, Mr Tilbrook,” said Carole, “but have you ever seen Dan Poke perform, either live or on television?”
He seemed shocked by the suggestion. “No, of course I haven’t.”
“Don’t you think your argument might have more validity if you had actually seen the performance you are protesting against?”
Now it was the turn of his female acolytes to look shocked. Also distressed that their crusading hero should be taken to task in this way. One, the youngest of the three, a fluttery woman in her early sixties dressed in Black Watch tartan, looked positively mortified.
But they needn’t have worried. Greville Tilbrook could be relied on to come up with the argument wielded by opponents of free speech down many centuries. “I don’t have t
o immerse myself in filth to know that it’s filth!”
“Possibly not immerse yourself,” suggested Jude, “but maybe just dip a toe in. At least then you would have some knowledge of the subject you’re talking about.”
“I will not watch a so-called entertainment whose only purpose is to deprave and corrupt!” The eyelashes of his female acolytes fluttered. They loved it when he talked like that. He was magnificent. The eyes of the one in Black Watch tartan narrowed in ecstasy.
“You must be very insecure about the strength of your own personality,” observed Carole Seddon, “if you’re worried that watching a stand-up comedian is going to corrupt and deprave you.”
And she and Jude moved magisterially towards the door of the Crown and Anchor.
Inside, the pub already seemed almost full to capacity. Some customers were crowded round a table selling Dan Poke merchandise, T-shirts, DVDs, books and so on. But most were gathered at the bar. The crowd through which Jude elbowed her way was four-deep. Ted, Zosia and three extra girls brought in for the evening were rushed off their feet. Catching Jude’s eye, Zosia quickly produced two large Chilean Chardonnays and mimed, “Pay later.”
“Oy, come on, darling! Get your Polish ass over here! I want some service!” The speaker, pressed close against Jude, was a tall man whom she had noticed at the centre of the bikers’ group. But he wasn’t wearing their leather livery. He had on khaki combat trousers, heavy Caterpillar boots and a camouflage-pattern sleeveless T-shirt. He was surrounded in the strong, animal scent of a hot day’s sweat. The man’s hair was shaved almost to baldness, one side of his face was heavily scarred, and the hand with which he rapped the counter had two and a half fingers missing. As Jude moved away from the bar, he turned suddenly towards her. His hazel eyes were already glazed with alcohol, or maybe drugs. “Weren’t queue-jumping, were you, darling?” His tone bleached all warmth out of the word.
“No, no, just getting a drink.” The man gave her an evil look for a moment, then turned back to continue shouting at Zosia for service.
Jude found Carole still marooned in the middle of the room, looking round for a place to sit. All of the dining alcoves appeared to be full, at least all of the alcoves that would get a view of the entertainment. A small black-painted stage had been set up at the far end of the bar. Hired spotlights, currently switched off, but focused on the area, left no one in any doubt that that was where Dan Poke would be doing his act.
Fortunately, just as they were looking for a seat, a short man appeared from the kitchen, weaving his way through the crowd with a pile of chairs held up in front of him. Only when he put them down could Jude see his face and recognize Ray. He was wearing a black T-shirt, so new its packing creases were still visible. On its front was printed the inevitable catch-phrase: FANCY A POKE? Clearly, as with Lyra Mackenzie, he liked buying merchandise connected with his idols.
“Ray, can we grab a couple of those?” asked Jude, lifting two of the chairs off the pile.
She desperately wanted to talk further to him, but Ray looked busy and harassed. “Got to get some more chairs,” he said, on his way to the kitchen. Then he turned back. “Could you save a seat for me, and all? I want to have a good view of Dan Poke.” His voice dropped as he confided to Jude, “He’s off the telly. I’m going round the back to get his autograph after.”
Jude appropriated a third chair before they were all snatched up. She and Carole sat down and placed Carole’s handbag firmly on the empty one. Jude grinned. “That’s a bit of luck, getting him sitting next to us.”
“You going to pick up where you left off with him yesterday?”
“Do my best. Have to choose my moment, though. I think this could be rather a rowdy occasion for intimate interrogation.”
She was right. The noise level was by now very high. There was a buzz in the Crown and Anchor of something about to happen. The customers from outside were pressing in, squeezing up against each other. The room was steamy with odours of sweat and beer. Thank God, both women thought, smoking was no longer allowed in pubs.
Thank God, too, that they’d been lucky enough to get seats. It was a real problem hanging on to the one they’d saved for Ray. People kept coming up and asking if it was taken. One man unceremoniously removed Carole’s handbag and was only just prevented from plonking down his large backside. Eventually Jude just raised her legs and laid them across the chair.
Carole looked around, still surprised to see so many faces in the Crown and Anchor that she didn’t recognize. There were a couple, though, that she had seen before. One was the tall man she’d recently observed getting into his BMW in the pub car park. Black hair was still swept back from his chubby face, and he had thick-rimmed glasses like the young Michael Caine. Maybe as a concession to the weekend, he wore no jacket, but he still contrived to look as though he was wearing a suit. He sat at a table with a group of equally well-tailored young men. They were all drinking Belgian beers from the bottle. The atmosphere amongst them was raucous, but the tall man seemed removed from the action, observing, not missing anything that was going on.
Again, he looked very familiar, but again, frus-tratingly, Carole couldn’t recall the context in which they had previously met.
The other person Carole recognized was over by the bar. Ted Crisp’s ex-wife Sylvia had taken up position on a tall stool near the stage area. She was dressed in tight jeans and a skimpy white blouse, showing a deep cleavage and distinct signs of intoxication. The way she draped herself over the tall man on an adjacent stool looked proprietorial, but whether he was a long-term partner or that evening’s pick-up Carole could not guess. He wore black leather jeans and had a black leather jacket slung over his T-shirted shoulder, so maybe he was one of the bikers.
Ray scuttled out of the kitchen and claimed his seat next to Jude. He was sweating heavily and jittery with excitement. “They’re going to start,” he said, “any minute. I actually saw Dan Poke back in the kitchen there. He’s on the telly. I’m going round to get his autograph later.”
He looked up as a huge figure in black leather elbowed his way through the crowd to stand behind him. Jude recognized Viggo from Copsedown Hall. Though the man moved with a swagger, his pose didn’t look quite convincing. He lacked the raucous ease of the other bikers. None of them took any notice of him. He was not part of their gang. But his presence could still impress – or possibly frighten – Ray, who stopped talking and kept looking up towards his housemate, as if searching for approval.
Viggo, like most of the men in the pub, had a pint in his hand. He raised it in a toasting gesture towards the scarred man, who was now in the centre of the group of bikers, but he received no acknowledgement. Viggo looked momentarily hurt by the lack of reaction.
Carole could see Zosia worming her way through the churning crowd – and a barrage of sexist banter – towards the light controls. Though the spotlights were on a dimmer, the pub’s ordinary lighting could only be snapped off. But when Zosia pulled the switches, the blackout was far from complete. It was one of those July evenings that never got properly dark. The crowd, aware of the lighting change, shouted and barracked as they tried to nestle themselves into slightly more comfortable watching positions, craning towards the stage area.
Slowly Zosia faded up the spotlights to reveal Ted Crisp.
∨ The Poisoning in the Pub ∧
Eleven
The landlord of the Crown and Anchor was sweating heavily, no surprise perhaps in a crammed-full pub on a July evening, but to Carole the sheen on his forehead looked more like nerves. And when he spoke, it was with nothing like his usual fluency. He seemed inhibited by the presence of his more successful former colleague. Or maybe of his ex-wife and the man she was nuzzling?
“Good evening,” Ted began, “and welcome, all of you, to the Crown and Anchor, Fethering, for a very special evening. Yes, tonight is the very first Crown and Anchor Comedy Night!”
“It’s not the first! Bloody place has always been a joke!”
shouted a heckler whom Ted couldn’t identify because of the lights in his eyes. His bearded jaw set firm as he continued, “And I’m very lucky to have here, to entertain us this evening, someone I used to work with back in my days as a stand-up comic. Back then they used to say about me that I was…” He spoke the words as a set-up to a joke, but then seemed to lose his nerve and trickled away into confusion. “Er, that is to say…anyway, the bloke I’m going to introduce has come a long way from those early days when…he, um, he’s done a lot of television, he’s – ”
“Oh, get on with it, for God’s sake!” a voice called out from the darkness somewhere behind the bar. “We haven’t got all bloody night!”
The audience roared their appreciative recognition of Dan Poke’s distinctive tones. Ted Crisp looked even more wretchedly uncomfortable. Carole felt an uncharacteristic urge to rush across the room and give him a big hug.
“Yeah, anyway,” Ted stuttered on, “he’s now a big star on the television, he gets paid for single gigs more than most of us earn in a year, but he’s agreed to be here tonight, just for the price of his travel expenses.”
“Don’t forget the merchandising!” Dan Poke’s voice bellowed again, to the audience’s delight.
“Ah, no, sorry,” Ted Crisp floundered. “You can buy lots of Dan Poke merchandise, if you want to. Badges, T-shirts, CDs, DVDs…so if any of you – ”
“Don’t forget the book!” came the prompt from its author.
“Yes, of course. Not forgetting Dan’s book. I don’t know if you call it an autobiography, but it had massive sales a few Christmases back. And the book’s called – inevitably – A Poke in the Eye! So, as I say, you’ll be able to buy all that stuff at the table over there. And in fact, halfway through Dan’s set there’ll be a break to give you an opportunity to charge up your glasses – and also buy some of the merchandise. So…” Ted Crisp looked off into the murk. “Anything else I’ve forgotten, Dan?”
“No just introduce me and get off the bloody stage!”