by Oliver Tidy
‘I’m not.’
‘But you said...’
‘What she needed to hear. If I hadn’t put her mind at rest over that, she would have shown us the door.’
I said, ‘Isn’t that unethical? Immoral? Dishonest? What about all that “if I don’t keep my gob shut I’m finished” guff?’
‘I had my fingers crossed.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Listen, David, if I find out that some serious crimes have been committed it’s my civic responsibility to report it.’
‘Who decides if they’re serious?’
‘I do. What if we uncover a paedophile ring they were both involved in? Would you expect me to keep that to myself?’
‘No, of course not, but...’
‘No buts. Besides, in my new line of work I’m going to need friends in the local law and if they know I can help them out from time to time with something then my life will be made easier.’
‘You’d shop your clients to the police?’
‘No, dummy. That wouldn’t be very smart, would it? There are ways and means.’
‘I’m a bit disappointed.’
‘Tough.’
We motored on past the falling down ragstone barn and the kennels.
‘Do you think it’s a possibility?’
‘What?’
‘A paedophile ring?’
‘Didn’t you see photos of naked children in his room?’
I sat up straighter. ‘No.’
‘Me neither. No, I don’t think they were involved in a paedophile ring. It was an extreme example.’
We rounded the bends at Rushfield and Jo had to throw out all the anchors for a tractor.
‘Why didn’t you tell her what he said?’
‘Because I didn’t tell the police, and if she talks to them again and mentions that I did have a recollection of him saying something comprehensible that night then it would make me look bad.’
‘But she might have had an explanation or a suggestion for what he meant by, he made me.’
‘She may have.’
I waited.
Jo didn’t elaborate.
I said, ‘You gave her a bit of a grilling. Did you forget she’s just lost the only two ‘real’ people in her life in tragic circumstances?’ I felt my funny thought was worth sharing. ‘Hey, what do you think that makes Joan? An android?’
Jo didn’t even blink. ‘Which reminds me: in future maybe you should leave the questions to me.’ Jo mimicked my voice: ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs Swaine, but was Sigmund all right in the head? What kind of a question was that for a grieving woman?’
‘Did you meet a grieving woman? Who was that then?’
‘Good point.’
‘It was a legitimate question. You saw him. All pony-eyed. The bloke was nearly frothing at the mouth.’
‘Yes, I know, but if you want a client to confide, to open up to you, you have to be more... subtle and sensitive.’
‘Sensitive? Are you winding me up?’ It was my turn to mimic her: ‘You didn’t share a bed with your husband? I nearly died of embarrassment.’
‘Sometimes you have to just be straight with them.’
‘That’s what I was doing.’
‘No, you were insulting her dead brother and pissing in the family gene pool.’
I huffed. There were some arguments I could never hope to win with Jo. They were usually the ones where my opinion differed from hers.
Jo said, ‘I wouldn’t underestimate our Mrs Swaine. Underneath that rather neutral, haughty exterior I reckon there’s one tough-hearted, hard-headed woman. She looked like she could take it and I had things to find out. Cases don’t solve themselves.’
I said, ‘That could be your strap line.’ And then, with a heavy Hollywood accent, ‘Jo Cash, P.I. Because cases don’t solve themselves.’
To shut me up, Jo floored the accelerator. The car leapt forward.
‘OK, OK. Calm down.’
She eased off.
I said, ‘So what did we learn?’
‘You tell me.’
‘You mean you didn’t learn anything?’
‘No, I mean let’s hear what you think you learned.’
‘Joan doesn’t like her boss and her boss knows it.’
Jo gave me a sidelong glance. ‘So we’re not doing this in order of importance. Or maybe we are, but the order is reversed.’ I think they call it dry wit. ‘Go on.’
‘Didn’t you catch it in that exchange over the tea things? And look at the way she presented the biscuits to us. She served up crappy own brand plain ones still in their packet. She was trying to embarrass Rebecca.’
‘Since when has it been Rebecca?’
‘It’s her name, isn’t it?’
‘Not for us. Not if we want to remain thinking objectively. As soon as you start getting personal or emotionally involved you’re finished as an investigating officer.’
That was too close to home, the bone and the truth, and I think it was accidental.
I said, ‘Moving swiftly on, what do you think of my surmising?’
‘About the biscuits?’
I grunted.
‘You read too much Sherlock Holmes. They were just biscuits.’
‘My point exactly. But if I’m right, and Joan doesn’t like her mistress, maybe she’d be worth speaking to privately.’
‘Maybe. What else?’
‘The husband didn’t tell her he’d lost his job.’
‘And what does that tell us?’
‘That he didn’t want her to know he’d lost his job.’
Without taking her eyes from the road, Jo said, ‘Are you sure you’ve never done this before?’ I think she was being sarcastic. ‘What else?’
‘She thinks he was working. We know that’s not true.’
‘Which part?’
‘Both. She thinks he was working because she said he was coming and going from work. And we know he didn’t have a job because your maid Marion said he hadn’t been taken on anywhere else.’
‘Did you say, maid?’
‘I meant mate.’
‘No, we don’t. And she didn’t. My contact Marion said he hadn’t been able to find a position with another financial institution. That’s not the same as not working.’
‘OK. So maybe he had a job flipping burgers at the Golden Arches and maybe he didn’t.’
‘They don’t strike me as having been a close couple.’
‘Well, if he didn’t have a job, but did have a shit marriage, and money was a problem and he was fearing investigation from the authorities for financial irregularities then that would make a good motive for suicide, wouldn’t it?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘But?’
‘But, how does Siggy fit into that theory?’
‘Maybe the men were lovers and ‘Siggy’ just couldn’t go on without Nigel.’
‘If there weren’t other factors to consider, like the demand note, Sigmund’s odd behaviour and that he made me, which is really bugging me, I could buy that idea. If you ask me, there’s something quite odd about that ‘family’.’
After she’d negotiated a blind bend a little too fast for my liking, I said, ‘Obviously, Sigmund had an idea why the husband topped himself. He wouldn’t have asked her to call off the dogs otherwise.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘You know what I mean. And so it would be reasonable to assume that if Sigmund didn’t want Nigel’s death investigated there must be something to hide and that something must involve him in some way and that something is probably not very legal.’
‘No such thing as not very legal. Either it is or it isn’t.’
‘Hair-splitter.’
‘No. It’s called the law. Look it up on that fount of all knowledge you’re always referring to and relying on.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Wikipedia.’
‘Apart from the fact that any Tom, Dick or Harry can post anything they like
on it and call it fact. Maybe that’s where you got your idea things can be not very legal.’
I didn’t want the ‘Wiki’ argument again, so I said, ‘What do you think of my reasoning?’
‘Generally, over Wikipedia, or with the case?’
‘The case, of course.’
‘I think you might be on to something.’
‘Really?’ That was good to hear from the professional.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Joan might be an android.’
***
27
There was a car parked up on my pea-gravel when we got back. The architect had arrived and my interest in Rebecca Swaine and her lost loved ones shrivelled up, like a singed nose hair.
I asked Jo if she’d like to join us, see what was what with the plans. She said (a) some people had to work for a living and (b) she was sure she’d hear all about it lots of times soon. With an attitude like that I wasn’t particularly sorry or hurt when she pushed off to get on with something ‘more pressing’.
The concrete panel fence that had once divided the old builders’ yard from my relatives’ property had been one of the first things to go when I got on with things. A JCB and a few empty ten tonners had made pretty quick work of the detritus of Flashman Builders’ occupancy after the vultures had been in and picked it clean.
I’d had a pretty clever idea to get rid of a lot of the stuff that I had no use for and didn’t want to pay to cart away and dump. After Flashman had let me know there was nothing left in the yard he wanted I put word around that I was going to have a giveaway. For one weekend I’d throw open the rusting metal gates to the yard and anyone who felt the desire to come and help themselves to whatever they wanted was welcome – no charge.
Other than Harrods on New Year’s Day, I’ve never seen anything like it. They were queuing up around the block in their lorries, vans and family cars before daylight. There were even a couple of hopeful old men waiting on the grid with wheelbarrows. All because of the magic word – free.
The local PCSO had got me out of bed and asked if I wouldn’t mind opening up earlier than I’d advertised because the highway was becoming congested and dangerous to navigate. I’d obliged. As soon as I had the chain off the gates I had to stand back to avoid being trampled to death in the stampede of steel toe-capped work boots.
Having seen the numbers of those in front of them, a couple of vans at the back had dispatched their passengers to get into pole position on foot with the idea that they’d get into the yard quickly and stake claim to what they were after before someone else got their calloused and grubby mitts on it.
This did not go down well with those who had been out of bed a bit earlier to ensure their places at the front of the grid. There was some name calling. Some pushing and shoving. A punch was thrown. Then a few more. The PSCO called for reinforcements. The cavalry arrived and calmed things down. And all the while men – young, middle-aged and old – crawled over the yard like ants: ferreting, inspecting, grabbing and claiming. It was like a little gold rush. It was like the January sales in hobnails.
I didn’t need to keep the gates open for the second day. The yard had been picked clean of anything anyone could possibly have had a use for or sell or scrap for profit by lunchtime on day one. Job done.
Now the land had been properly cleared. Only the trees around the boundary had stayed. The old ship’s containers had been removed – they’d all been leased. The ramshackle collection of temporary structures had been demolished. All the scrub had been torn up. It was now a flattened, bare patch of brown and it looked twice the size it had when it had been overgrown and cluttered.
Some grotesque memories had gone, too. The worst kind. And I had to let them go or one day I’d have gone crazy out there.
I spent most of what remained of the daylight with the architect. He seemed in no great hurry with his measuring and sketching, his questions and suggestions, and with what he was charging an hour I wouldn’t have been either.
We knocked some little stakes into the ground and strung some pretty red and white tape between them so we could form an idea of how things were going to look space-wise. It felt like progress.
***
28
I was back upstairs stirring a wok of meat and vegetables, sipping boxed promotional wine and listening to Radio Four when I next saw Jo. I was in a fairly good mood. I put this down to the chilly winter afternoon’s groundwork outside and the chilled evening’s booze inside.
‘Smells good,’ she said from the doorway.
I pointed at the fridge and she helped herself to a glass of Chateau Blanc-de-Blanc. Blankety-Blank as she liked to call it.
‘How did it go with Archie?’ she said.
‘Who’s Archie?’
‘Archie Tect.’
I groaned. ‘Does your sudden interest in my project mean you want some dinner?’
‘Am I that transparent? Now you mention it, there looks a lot there for one. What’s the meat?’
‘I found a litter of young hedgehogs in the yard. They didn’t take much drowning and skinning.’
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘You think so? You know what goes to make up that elephant’s leg in the kebab shop you’re so fond of?’
‘No and I don’t want to.’
‘Lips and arseholes from whatever they happen to be slaughtering at the abattoir that week.’
‘I hate you sometimes.’
I laughed. ‘Find out anything new and interesting on the ‘Swines’?’
‘Post-mortems of both have not made the police suspicious regarding foul play: no evidence of third party involvement, substance abuse or aliens.’
‘So they were both in their right minds?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. If all you needed to commit suicide was a right mind there’d be people queuing up for the lampposts all the way up the A259. Well, maybe not on Romney Marsh,’ she said, dodging the daggered look I threw her way.
I said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’
She said, ‘Is that wise? I mean thinking and cooking at the same time? You are a man.’
‘Don’t worry: I wasn’t holding anything sharp or hot. You should have a word with Joan.’
‘The android?’
‘Yes. I got the feeling she doesn’t have undying loyalty for her employer. She looked like she enjoys a good gossip.’
‘Really? And what do those people look like, Watson?’ I noted that Jo had already assumed the leading role of Holmes.
‘Er... Joan. I’m pretty sure she lives in the village.’
‘Where?’
‘Don’t know, but I know a woman who might.’
‘One of your local condiments?’
Jo found it amusing to refer to ‘sources’ as condiments, even after I pointed out that’s not how you spelled it.
‘Yes. We can go see her after dinner if you like?’
‘Joan?’
I shook my head. ‘The condiment. I’ll stand you a pint.’
‘Pam over the road?’
I nodded, tried the food off the spatula and said, ‘This seems ready.’
***
29
Pam was the landlady of The Ocean, my closest local hostelry. It was so adjacent; I could read the specials board on the opposite pavement from my lounge window without binoculars. But not at night, of course.
Cold and damp January weekday nights did not generally attract a great many punters out for expensive beer. Like most businesses in the village, the pubs made their money in the summer when the hordes of grockles descended on the Marsh and the caravan parks, the amusement park and the beach for the seasonal wind and rain.
In my old life, Pam had always been a landlady to exchange pleasantries with, but since I’d lost my aunt and uncle – both regular and valued customers as well as friends of hers – and become a local business owner we had more in common and greater empathy for each other. I liked her. I think she liked me. Jo and she got on well enough.
While Jo took a table near the fire, I got us a couple of drinks. After enquiries about how we were each doing, I said, ‘If I ask you about someone can you not ask me why I’m asking?’
Pam laughed at me and said, ‘Who?’
‘Do you know a woman called Joan who works up a Goldenhurst? Domestic help, I think.’
‘She doesn’t come in here often. But she’s a regular up at the Legion. Likes her bingo.’
‘What night is bingo night?’
‘Friday.’
I thanked her and shared my intelligence with Jo.
‘Today is Friday,’ I said.
Jo said, ‘I know.’
‘Fancy a game of bingo?’
‘Not while I can still choose when I go to the toilet. I’d rather tattoo my face with a quill and Quink.’
‘Look,’ I said, with mock seriousness, ‘if you want to fit in around here, sooner or later you’re going to have to get involved in the local community. You know: mingle, socialise.’
‘How about I just don’t, and see what happens?’
‘Don’t you want to talk to her?’
‘She might be worth a whirl. I’ll think about it. In any case, I wouldn’t go barging into God’s waiting room...’ Jo’s name for the British Legion ‘...asking awkward questions of a confidential nature with someone who you have pegged for a gossip and who would probably be tipsy on cherry brandy or whatever’s flavour of the month up there. Things likely wouldn’t stay confidential for long, would they?’
‘Fair point,’ I said, and drank some more beer. ‘What are you going to do next?’
‘I might take my coat off. It’s hot in here.’
‘You’re not always funny.’
‘Nigel Tate lost his job weeks ago. He’s been going out of the house every morning and coming back late at night pretending he’s been working.’
‘Or working.’
‘True. Or working.’
‘I think I should find out where he’s been spending his time.’
‘How do you propose to do that?’