Mud Pie

by Emma Lee Bole

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cole

  When I jogged up to the Woolpack, eight hours later, snow was starting to fall. The sky was a close, damp, grey ceiling shedding flakes of plaster. Wet snow stung my cheeks and made the sheep clump together grouchily, turning their backs on me.

  Manchester had occasional snow and grey skies and wind (plenty of that, and multi-directional), but seemed better able to keep them under control. Here, the weather was in charge, and the earth. I felt the tarmac was only a fragile skin that might suddenly explode in an apocalyptic volcano of mud, bones and sheep.

  Rhoda did not reprove my lateness, simply touched me on the shoulder and got on with carving the roast beef for the Sunday lunches.

  “Terrible news,” said Brendan sombrely. “Dreadful to think that… Bastard. Poor Becki. Some wicked people…” He heaved deep sighs as he moved around the near-empty bar, picking glasses up and putting them down again absently. We served only four dinners, to a group of damp hikers who kept glancing disconsolately through the window at the path they must soon continue on.

  As they trudged out, the detectives walked in: Cole and Grimshaw. I introduced them to Brendan, who at once turned into Mine Host and began to gush jovially.

  “Can I interest you in lunch? We have a very fine beef roast, Yorkshire pudding, all the trimmings.”

  “No, thank you,” said DI Cole. “Though coffee would be nice. And a quiet place to sit. We’d like to speak to both you and your wife in a little while. But right now, Miss Herron?”

  “I’ll clear the snug for you,” said Brendan. A moment later, Arthur was ejected, his disgruntlement mollified by Brendan mouthing “Police” at him.

  “I’ll want the low-down later,” he told Brendan in a stage whisper. The police pretended not to hear.

  Settling herself in Arthur’s seat, DI Cole took a swig of coffee and said “Mm” to it doubtfully. Our coffee machine leaked grounds. She sat back in the chair, Auntie come out for Sunday lunch in her best jacket and warm woollen trousers. Her heels were a little high for Auntie, though: DI Cole was really quite fashionable for her age and size, which were both around forty.

  More fashionable than me, that was for sure. I sat opposite with my hands on my apron which I kept on as a proof of my chefness, and tried to ignore DI Grimshaw who was pinning me to the stool with his elegant gimlet of a stare.

  “You didn’t tell me,” said DI Cole, without accusation.

  “No. That’s why I told him.”

  “I’ve had a word with Manchester CID.” She shuffled pages in a folder. “John Higson, drugs squad. He remembered you directly, Miss Elanor Herron. ‘Commendable,’ he said. ‘Very public spirited, very brave.’”

  I stared at her boots, feeling like I’d been summoned to see the headmistress.

  “He spoke to you about the witness protection scheme.”

  “Yes.” I’d been blasé at the time. “I didn’t think I needed protection. They weren’t such big fish after all, not really. They weren’t major players.” I should have realised that that didn’t mean that they weren’t deadly.

  “Did you encounter any intimidation at the time of the trial?”

  I shrugged. The shouts across the courtroom lobby. The whispers, the looks, the stones thrown, the paint daubed on the door. “Nothing major. Nothing actually physical, not until afterwards. Some of them chased me across Piccadilly. And they found my flat and broke a window.”

  “And then they arrived at Tzabo’s.”

  “Yes. And Charlotte’s shop got fire-bombed.”

  “Manchester CID aren’t convinced that’s a connection,” said DI Cole. “Why waste effort attacking your friend’s shop, weeks after the trial? And why would they wait all this time before coming down to the rugby club to find you?”

  “Maybe they didn’t know where I was before.”

  “Who might have told them?”

  “I don’t know. Anyone Charlotte or Hugh might have mentioned me to. I saw a waiter in Manchester last week who knew me.” I related the trip to Ute. Clueless was weighing heavily on my mind. Or perhaps even Alison...

  “Mm-hm.” I couldn’t tell if she was impressed by my reasoning or not.

  She looked down at her notes, then glanced at DS Grimshaw. At once he slid off his barstool and went out into the main bar. I heard him, indistinctly, talking to Brendan.

  “It’s just one line of enquiry,” DI Cole said to me, “and one we will continue to pursue, but not the sole one, obviously. What can you tell me about your employer?”

  “Which one? Brendan?”

  “Mr Egan, at the rugby club.”

  “Niall? He’s… He’s OK.” But I had to say more than that; she was waiting. “He’s a traditionalist,” I said. “A pie and peas man, nothing fancy. Does a lot for the club, apparently. Likes to be involved. His kids play mini-rugby. He’s got a wife.”

  “So I should imagine,” said DI Cole, faintly amused.

  “I mean, you should ask her.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Well, I hardly know him.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  I raised an eyebrow, not following her logic. “He’s a great talker,” I said.

  “What was his relationship like with Becki?”

  “It was good. She seemed to like him. He seemed to like her.”

  “So much so,” said DI Cole, consulting her notes, “that on New Year’s Eve they were seen to be – ah – ‘practically shagging on the dance floor.’”

  “Who told you that?”

  “That’s irrelevant. Is it true?”

  “I wasn’t there,” I said.

  “How did Mrs Egan like Becki?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “You’ve helped out, I gather, on several Saturdays at the club. You’ve been working in close proximity to Becki. Mrs Egan is a regular on Saturdays. You must have seen how the two got on.”

  “They got on fine, as far as I could tell.” I didn’t see any reason to repeat Becki’s comments about AnneMarie. “Anyway, AnneMarie doesn’t help behind the bar. She doesn’t help with the teas either.” I couldn’t resist that. DI Cole must have heard something in my voice, because she gave me a long look.

  “I mean, I like her fine,” I said hastily, “but she’s, um.”

  DI Cole raised the eyebrow again, but failed to supply a suggestion.

  After a while she said, “And what about Joseph Egan?”

  “Everyone except Niall calls him KK.”

  “He doesn’t get on with his brother,” she said.

  “Doesn’t he?”

  “I gather there was a small fracas last night.”

  I wondered who had been talking so freely. “I didn’t see it.”

  “And on New Year’s Eve.”

  “Well, I didn’t see that either.”

  “Of course not. Let’s stick to last night. Apparently the bar till was short of cash. Niall Egan asked Joseph, rather publicly, if he had borrowed any money from the till, and Joseph took exception. Had there been a problem with the till at any other time?”

  “Why ask me? You’d better ask–” I bit my lip. The only regular barmaid was Becki. “You could ask Samantha,” I said. “The other barmaid. She wasn’t there last night.”

  “Becki mentioned a problem to you.”

  “How did you know that?” Too late, I realised that DI Cole probably didn’t, until now. She’d just phrased her question as a statement. “Becki mentioned it once,” I said reluctantly. “She said she thought KK was robbing the till. I don’t think he would, he’s dead straight. Becki tended to make snap judgements about people.”

  “About you?”

  “What?”

  “What was her judgement of you?” Her voice never altered: she always sounded pleasantly interested. Her voice was very soothing. Musical. I wondered if she had children, imagined them climbing into her lap. She wore a wedding ring, but on the wrong fi
nger.

  “I suppose Becki thought I was OK,” I said. “I think she quite liked me. I wasn’t.” I stopped, realising I’d started to say something I didn’t want to.

  “You weren’t?”

  I shrugged. “I wasn’t a problem.” I’d been about to say, I wasn’t glamorous enough, or interested enough in the younger players to pose a threat to Becki. And of course, there was the nose. But I could see that leading me into questions about Becki’s love-life that I wouldn’t know how to answer.

  She frowned. “What sort of problem might you be?”

  “Um, well, I wasn’t going to take over her job or anything.”

  “I see. Thank you. And your employer here?”

  “Brendan is a good man,” I said, surprising myself with my vehemence. “And his wife has cancer. They don’t need this sort of hassle.”

  “Does she,” said DI Cole, writing in tiny letters.

  “Oh, bloody hell.”

  “Don’t worry. I realise you told me that in confidence. But it’s useful to know.”

  I sat glumly determined to keep my mouth shut from then on.

  “Did you notice anyone leave the clubhouse by the side door between one and one-thirty last night?”

  “Mm,” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Not especially.”

  She studied me for a moment. I kept my mouth resolutely closed.

  “Meaning?” she said at last, with the patience of a good teacher.

  “I didn’t notice especially. I wasn’t watching. People went in and out the side door all the time, to get a breath of fresh air or to get away from the noise. Or to pee round the back. That seemed to be obligatory. For the men.”

  “Did you notice anyone take a particularly long time about it?”

  “I wasn’t timing them.”

  “Why would Becki go round the back?”

  “Taking rubbish out to the bins,” I said. “There was enough of it.”

  “Was there any reason why she might take your knife with her?”

  “I told you where–”

  “Yes, I know you left it beside one of the desserts on the table near the door. Please answer the question.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “unless she just happened to pick it up along with some of the empty plates and stuff.”

  “Did you see anyone else holding your knife at any time?”

  “Lots of people must have. It’ll be covered with fingerprints.”

  She nodded, a touch resignedly. “It is. Mostly smeared. The texture of the handle doesn’t help. We’ll need to take your prints, and unfortunately, a lot of other people’s.” She sighed and pushed back her hair. For the first time, she looked tired. “We will also need to interview a great many people. Did you have a guest list?”

  “Hugh did, I expect.”

  “I daresay, but he’s in no condition to talk to us at present.”

  “Oh God, poor Hugh. What an end to his party. Some people might have turned up who weren’t invited. Somebody did,” I said. “You know, you’re wasting your time interviewing everybody. The only person there that anyone would want to murder was me. This was an outside job.”

  “Does anyone here know about your past?”

  I shook my head. “Only Hugh and Charlotte. I haven’t told anyone else.”

  “Then please don’t mention it to them.”

  “But it might make them feel better,” I said, “to know it wasn’t a member of the club.”

  “We can’t be sure it wasn’t.”

  “We can.” I knew it. And I knew I’d invited him, whoever he was, the bad fairy at the birthday party, wishing horror on Hugh, and on Becki not just a hundred years’ sleep, but a full eternity’s. I turned my face away because I could feel it pulling out of shape.

  “Thank you,” said DI Cole gently. “That will do for now.”