A Very Private Murder

by Stuart Pawson

  I eased it from his grasp and replaced it in my pocket. ‘I’ll sit over in the corner, and …’ I nodded towards the ashtray ‘… enjoy it while you can.’

  The sandwich was made from locally raised ham cut straight from the bone, which meant it was edged with a thick layer of fat. I prefer it in sanitised slices exactly the same shape as the bread. It came with a selection of chutneys, which helped it go down, but it wasn’t the culinary experience I’d hoped for.

  The intention was to do another loop walk in the afternoon, but when I arrived back at the car I decided that a pot of tea in the house’s tea shop was a more attractive proposition. I’d been the first to arrive that morning, but now there were ten or fifteen cars sharing the huge parking area. Needless to say, one of them had managed to squeeze in about six inches from mine. I checked for dents, changed into my trainers and wandered off to see what was on offer.

  I settled for a wedge of fruit cake with a slice of Wensleydale cheese and was dabbing up the last few crumbs when I saw a familiar figure come into the tea room, look around and head in my direction. I stood to welcome him and we shook hands.

  ‘Hello, Mr Curzon,’ I said. ‘Just thought I’d check out your fruit cake. It’s a weakness of mine.’

  ‘Toby saw you from her window. You should have rung ahead. Have you been walking?’

  ‘Hardly, but knowing when to quit is a sign of maturity.’

  ‘The least we could have done is feed you.’ He leant forward conspiratorially and added: ‘Especially at these prices.’

  ‘They are a bit steep,’ I agreed, sotto voce.

  We chatted for a while about global warming, the economy, weapons of mass destruction and other lightweight topics until I asked how the girls were and the curtain came down. After a few seconds’ silence he said: ‘Come up to the house, the bit we live in, and we’ll have a chat and another pot of tea. That is … if you’re not wanting to be away.’

  ‘Actually,’ I began, ‘I’ve booked in to a B&B in the village, so I’m in no hurry to be off. I’m not sure if I was wise, but the deed’s done, now.’

  ‘Phyllis Smith’s? Phyllis will look after you. And tell you all the gossip. Take most of it with a pinch of salt – you know what villages are like. Her pies are legendary.’

  We sat in the same kitchen as before, which, I learnt, had originally been meant for the staff. The main kitchen, which was elsewhere, was now a feature of the Stately Home Experience and open only to ticket holders.

  ‘You asked about my daughters,’ he began. ‘Toby’s not very well: having a bad day. Grizzly’s gone to see … you-know-who … her boyfriend. She was driving up to Catterick and then flying down to Sandringham. She’s certainly moving in influential circles, these days.’

  I said: ‘It can’t have been easy, bringing up two girls and looking after this place.’

  He smiled. ‘We had our moments. Grizzly was fourteen when her mother died but Toby was only three. We could’ve gone under but the Country Homes Association saved us. Grizzly took charge: did most of the negotiations; looked after both of us. She’s … amazing. I only hope …’ He let it hang there for a while, then went on: ‘I only hope she’s aware of what she’s doing, that she doesn’t get hurt.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, then realised it would sound as if I was prying, so I closed it again. We sat in silence for a moment until he said: ‘I’m sorry. What were you going to say?’

  ‘I was going to say that you sound as if you disapprove, but I’m trying not to ask anything too personal. I appreciate that your daughter has a price on her head these days. Sections of the public think she’s their property. You’re living in a topsy-turvy world, can’t possibly know who you can trust and who you can’t. Let’s change the subject, eh? We’ve found a fingerprint on the paint tube the graffiti artist used, but haven’t made a match. If he steps out of line in the next sixty years, we’ll have him.’

  ‘Disapprove?’ he echoed. ‘Would you approve, Inspector?’

  ‘Probably not. And it’s Charlie.’

  ‘Hello, Charlie. Call me James. Sixty years? I’ve heard about the wheels of justice being ponderously slow, but that’s ridiculous.’ He was smiling as he said it.

  ‘We have a long memory,’ I explained.

  ‘On Tuesday,’ he began, ‘I believe you said you’d talked to Threadneedle. Did you happen to see his wife, Jan?’

  ‘Yes. I had an interesting chat with her.’

  ‘How is she?’

  This is more like it, I thought. I’d been wondering how to steer the conversation towards Threadneedle. ‘She’s not very happy. I’d say she drinks too much and she’s discovered that he’s having an affair.’

  He looked downcast. ‘The bastard,’ he said. ‘I always said she was too good for him.’

  ‘How well did you know them?’

  ‘Oh, you know. They lived near Malton and we had mutual friends. He enjoyed entertaining and our wives enjoyed comparing furnishings and suchlike. He was a bit of a pest, if the truth’s known, but Jan was delightful. She was a concert flautist, but gave it up when she married him. She played like an angel.’

  It sounded as if Threadneedle had negotiated his way into the country set behind his wife’s talent, on the heels of his new money, but they hadn’t taken to him. I could imagine why. I decided to dive in with the big one. ‘She was a bit under the weather when I spoke to her, but she claimed that you and Threadneedle had shares in Shergar. Tell me that she was rambling, please.’

  Curzon gave a chuckle but it came from deep down and sounded forced. ‘Shergar! I remember it well.’ The kettle boiled and he jumped up to deal with it. Moments later he returned with mugs and teapot on a tray and lowered them onto the table.

  I waited until he’d done the mother thing with the teapot then reminded him that he was in the middle of telling me about Shergar, but he had little to add. He told me about the Aga Khan and the stud fees, stating that Threadneedle had wanted him to join a syndicate for a share, but there was no way he could have afforded to. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘the pleasure is in watching your horse race, not rutting someone else’s mare.’

  ‘Did Threadneedle go ahead with it?’

  ‘Of course not. We used to meet for a meal after a meeting and fantasise about winning a classic. It was my wife’s hobby, not mine. She was unwell, and I went along with things to please her. That’s all it was: juvenile fantasies. He upset a few people and moved away. To Heckley, I presume. Our loss was your gain.’

  ‘In what way did he upset them?’

  ‘The usual. Paying too much attention to one or two of the ladies. You know how it is.’

  ‘I thought that came under the heading of country pursuits,’ I said.

  ‘Ha ha! You’re right. Perhaps it was the ones he neglected who were upset. Let’s say he rubbed some of the husbands up the wrong way. Not the best behaviour in a small community. And then there was the stable. He bought his way into a small stable when Jonty Hargrave retired, wanted to become a trainer, but it burnt down. A horse died; it was all very unpleasant.’

  A car with a sporty exhaust drove by the window with a crunch of gravel and stopped out of sight. The engine blipped and fell silent. ‘That sounds like Grizzly,’ Curzon said, twisting in his seat. ‘I wasn’t expecting her.’

  ‘It looked like an Audi TT,’ I told him.

  ‘Mmm, that’s her. His Royal Nibs must have engagements elsewhere.’

  Doors opened and closed and a few seconds later I was rising to say hello once more to the woman who could easily be on the cover of Vogue in the near future. I made a mental note to look out for it, for the office wall.

  ‘Inspector,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise. Have you found the graffiti artist or is it a social call?’ She didn’t sound surprised, as if she’d expected the dumb-struck yokel policeman to come back to stalk her, like so many before him.

  ‘Charlie’s been walking,’ her father explained, sensing the suspicion in her ton
e. ‘I caught him in the tea shop; insisted he come down here for a cup. We’ve been chatting about the Threadneedles. You’re home early – I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘I’m working this evening,’ she replied.

  Curzon turned to me and explained. ‘Grizzly helps out at the cottage hospital when she can,’ he told me. ‘Accident and Emergency tonight is it, darling?’

  ‘Hmm, and talking to the old dears about Edward VIII.’

  ‘I imagine they love that,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  ‘The graffiti artist is on the back burner,’ I told her. ‘We have a fingerprint, so we’ll catch him one day.’

  ‘I’m surprised the good citizens of Heckley could spare an inspector for the enquiry. It’s not exactly the Great Train Robbery, is it?’

  ‘They couldn’t,’ I replied, ‘but I’m officially on holiday, so I came cheap.’

  The steak and kidney pie lived up to its reputation, and there was blackberry and apple crumble with custard to follow. I pushed my empty bowl away with a heartfelt ‘Phew’ and wiped my lips on my napkin. Phyllis cleared the table and asked if I’d like tea or coffee in the front room. I opted for tea and invited her to join me.

  ‘Will you be in the Whore’s Bed, later?’ she asked.

  I smiled. ‘Is that what you call the Boar’s Head?’ We were sitting in deep armchairs in the front room, where an antique long-case clock measured out the seconds with oiled precision.

  ‘No, the Whore’s Bed is Mrs Smethick at number 22.’ She threw her head back with a laugh that sounded like a greenhouse collapsing until it turned into a coughing spell.

  ‘I don’t mind if you smoke,’ I said as she calmed down and regained her equilibrium. My parents were smokers and they paid the price, but I try to avoid coming on heavy with the sanctimony.

  ‘Well you should,’ she reprimanded me. ‘It’s a filthy habit. What did you think of your meal?’

  ‘The meal?’ I replied. ‘I think you are an impostor. I’d have been happy with something homely and wholesome, straight from your country kitchen. Instead, I got top-notch cordon bleu cookery. Like I said, you’re an impostor.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘All this,’ I replied, waving a hand in the direction of the dining room. ‘The linen, the cutlery, the first-class ingredients. The subtle use of spices and herbs. Just enough to enhance the natural flavours without overwhelming them. You, Phyllis Smith, have done this before.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated, but you make it sound as if I’m trying to seduce you.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘When I said you could park your car in my driveway it wasn’t a metaphor,’ and the greenhouse came crashing down around her ears again.

  ‘Damn. I’d rather hoped it was.’

  Apparently Friday night was karaoke night at the Boar’s Head, and the single street through the village was usually gridlocked for the evening. Knocked-off mirrors and dented doors were the norm. Mr Curzon had forewarned me and suggested I leave my car in their car park overnight, which was an offer I gratefully accepted. It was a half-mile walk from the house to the village, and, he told me, the hospital where Ghislaine worked was another mile beyond that. I explained the arrangement to Phyllis and said I’d probably be in the pub for the last half-hour. As I left to take my car back to Curzon House I shouted: ‘Number 22 was it?’ to Phyllis in the kitchen, and was rewarded with her giggle again.

  It was kerb-to-kerb cars outside, with more arriving by the second. Every make and price range was represented – karaoke night was the social highlight of the week for anyone within twenty miles who was only marginally brain damaged. Cars and 4x4s were parked on the footpaths and verges, double-parked in the lay-by and heaped on top of each other in the pub’s tiny yard. I couldn’t have put mine in Phyllis’s drive if I’d wanted to, but I managed to extricate it from a Land Rover sandwich and thread my way out of the village.

  I parked it in front of the house but far enough away for my slamming doors not to disturb them, and sat there for about half an hour, listening to the radio while the darkness closed in. I didn’t want to get back to the pub too early. A swift glass of red before retiring was all I needed, and I didn’t think East Yorkshire was ready for my Leonard Cohen impression.

  Two windows were illuminated upstairs, and remained so while I waited. No silhouettes fell on to them, nobody came or went and nothing disturbed the perfect darkness – not even a shooting star. At a quarter to ten I gently closed the car door and set off on the fifteen-minute amble back to High Ogglethorpe and the grand finale of the karaoke. All around me tiny eyes in the undergrowth would be watching my departure, resenting the intrusion, before resuming their normal nocturnal preoccupations of feeding, fighting and … fornicating. It was that time of year.

  It was that time of year in High Ogglethorpe, too, and the activity had spilt out of the pub into the road. ‘Eye of the Tiger’ was throbbing the walls as some overweight diva from Pocklington enjoyed her three minutes of fame, and a youth in a hooded top sat on the roadside, holding his head and moaning. He looked to be bleeding.

  ‘Wurz fuckin’ ’ospittle?’ his companion demanded as I walked by, skirting his damaged friend.

  I looked at the sign on the telegraph pole, dimly illuminated by light spilling from the Boar’s Head. It said Hospital 1, with an arrow pointing straight ahead.

  ‘Ah said wurz fuckin’ ’ospittle? Am fuckin’ torkin’ to you.’

  ‘Work it out,’ I told him, and turned towards the pub doorway. Before I laid a hand on it someone inside kicked it open and three more youths staggered out, cans clutched in fists, testosterone coursing through their bloodstreams like February fill dyke. I decided that a glass of cheap red was not what I required and turned away. One of the youths fetched a Vauxhall Corsa that sounded like a DC3 Dakota with a dodgy magneto and they bundled the bleeding youth into it, with the driver imploring his friends not to get blood on the seats. They roared off in the direction of the hospital while I wondered where DI Priest of Heckley CID fitted in to this everyday story of country folk.

  Up to his neck was the answer. Every day we come across certain misdemeanours that make the blood boil but we appear powerless to do anything about them. Throwing stones at firefighters is one; causing mayhem in hospitals is another. Half the village knew I was a cop, so I couldn’t plead invisibility, and the nearest panda car was probably parked outside a kebab shop twenty miles away. Trouble was, I’d no car and no phone. I took a deep breath, turned my back on the pub and started jogging back towards Curzon House, the strains of ‘Simply the Best’ chasing me up the road.

  The furry beasts in the undergrowth paused again in their activities and wondered what the world was coming to. I resisted the temptation to spin the wheels in the gravel and eased the car out onto the lane as silently as possible. Both windows were still illuminated in the house. I wondered if one of them was Toby’s.

  I arrived at the hospital about twenty minutes after the youths but I hadn’t missed the action. Four people were in the waiting room, cowed in a corner like hostages. One man had a heavily bandaged foot; a woman sat with a small boy who looked decidedly green and another woman sat with her leg across a chair. It had been an average night in a country cottage hospital up to the youths arriving. I could hear them, somewhere further inside, berating the triage nurse because they’d been kept waiting.

  I followed the noise and found myself in a small room with them all. The patient was sitting in a chair, two youths were sitting on the trolley and the male triage nurse, who looked about fifteen, was trying to examine the wound on the patient’s head. The other two yobs were leaning on the wall, smoking, cans of beer in hand. All eyes turned to me and the room fell silent.

  ‘Whose is the Corsa?’ I demanded. Nobody replied.

  ‘I said, whose is the Corsa?’

  ‘Wot the fux it got to do wi’ you?’ one of the sea
ted youths replied.

  I miss lapels. You can’t get a good grip on a T-shirt, but I did my best. I heaved him off the trolley and slammed him against the door jamb. ‘I’m your best friend,’ I told him. ‘Now give me the keys.’

  ‘The keys?’

  ‘Yes. You’re not fit to drive.’

  He handed them over without another murmur.

  ‘Right. Now clear off.’

  ‘But …’ow do I get ’ome?’

  ‘You phone for a taxi. I’ll leave your keys behind the front desk. You can pick them up tomorrow.’ I watched him slink off, through the waiting room, and turned to the others, who’d all been struck dumb. ‘Before you follow him,’ I told them, ‘there’s something you have to do. I want you all to apologise to this young man who is trying to help your friend.’ I turned to the nearest, who had acne like raspberry ripple. ‘You first.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘That’s not good enough. Have another try.’

  ‘I’m … very sorry. I’m a bit drunk. I’m sorry for being a nuisance. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘That’s more like it. Now you.’

  They all apologised, with varying degrees of sincerity, and staggered out into the cold clear air, which, if the folklore were correct, would have hit them like an uppercut.

  It still wasn’t closing time and the village was crowded, so I drove back to Curzon House and parked in the place I was beginning to regard as my own. The animals in the undergrowth thought: Jeez! It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here, and waited for the night to close in on them again.

  Mrs Smith cooked me an excellent breakfast and asked if I’d been in the Boar’s Head when the fighting started. I said I’d missed it and didn’t explain my role in things. I carried my boots and rucksack back along the lane to Curzon House and was putting them in the car when I heard the rustle of footsteps behind me. I’d risen early, told Phyllis I wanted a prompt start, and the sun hadn’t burnt off the dew yet. Its rays were catching the facade of the house and Ghislaine was walking towards me, casting a long shadow.