The Food Detective (17 page)

Chapter Seventeen

No doubt about this one. Not for Nick or Robin. The label made that clear. For Mrs Josie Welford, The White Heart, Kings Duncombe. Damn it, you’d have thought he’d have got the spelling right. All he’d have to do was look up and see the sign. Or maybe he couldn’t spell, like the author of the note on the detectives’ vehicle. Or maybe he wasn’t from the village, though at least he’d spelt that right. Maybe he was an outsider and someone had told him to take the eyes to the interfering bitch at the pub and he’d heard the name as
heart
, not
hart
. It was as good a theory as any: you got cross with someone and picked up the phone and gave your orders. That was the way Tony worked. You didn’t do your dirty work yourself; you got someone else to do it. The lower orders. ‘See to it,’ he’d say. And if anyone queried anything, he’d snap, ‘Just see to it, I said.’

You’d think that after all this time I’d give up aching to hear his voice. I tried replacing it with someone else’s voice. Mrs Coyne’s. I’d have loved King Duncombe’s Mr Big to be Mrs Coyne. Such a nice Dickensian name for a money-grubbing villain. The money-grubbing villain round here was supposed to be Mr Luke Greville, however, son and heir of the lady who’d poached my bar staff from me. Interesting, that. The owner of the land from which the pink water rose. And much other land round here. She wouldn’t by any chance own the land on which the dodgy
slaughterhouse
sat, or the rending plant? It was worth checking out. I might even float the idea to DCI Evans when I phoned him to tell him about my gift. I could always invite him round and dish them up as a Middle-Eastern delicacy. No, that was sheep, wasn’t it? And I couldn’t see him sitting cross-legged on my floor while, houri-like, I served him. Lucy’d make a better houri, of course. I wondered how she’d get on with Robin. Which reminded me – I’d better clear at least a space for his motorbike, if not the whole outhouse, which, as he’d said, he could always tackle himself if business were slack. Correction: when business was slack.

The eyes could wait till I’d changed into my gardening clothes and got a spade with which to carry them. Hell! How stupid
could I get? I’d dressed fowl, paunched rabbits, gutted fish. I wasn’t going to let a few dead orbs faze me. I picked up the bag, carrying it as if it contained no more than a dozen eggs, and deposited in the food preparation sink in the pub kitchen. I phoned through a message for DCI Evans. And only then did I get changed and prepare to tackle that outhouse.

People left keys under flowerpots down here. They didn’t lock things like sheds. Or rather, not till Aidan, the ducky one of the bell ringers, brought his latest squeeze down here, a rent boy with kleptomaniac tendencies. The boy went, and Aidan stayed, now with what looked like a long-term partner, and the system went back to normal. As far as I knew, there wasn’t a key for the door. And if there had been, the frame was so warped a good heave would have got you inside anyway. I’d buy a big padlock and chain next time I went into Taunton.

Propping the door wide open – no one had ever got round to installing lights – I surveyed the scene. A little of the mess was mine – one day I really ought to return those packing cases to the removal firm and get my deposit back. Most, however, had been bequeathed to me, as it were, by generations of previous
landlords
. There were garden implements I didn’t even know how to use, and nets and seed boxes and twine and my gardening gloves and —

I moved closer. A notebook? An A4 notebook, card covers and cloth spine. Where the hell had that come from? And why was it nestling under my gloves? I lifted a corner. Accounts. Not mine. Without a closer look I was only guessing. And I wasn’t going to take a closer look, because I didn’t want my dabs and my DNA all over the missing vet’s property. I had to face it. Someone was framing me. And even as my mind raced, a salient fact obtruded: I’d phoned the police and they might well be on their way.

Now what?

Whoever had put it there had wanted it to be found, and not by me. By the police. So if I left it there I’d be incriminated; if I moved it, I’d be writing my arrest warrant, because, as sure as God made little apples, they’d have grassed me up.

Leaving everything exactly as it was, I withdrew, closing the door behind me. The fewer signs of disturbance the better – forensic scientists would be able to check, for instance, on how many pairs of feet had walked in that aeons old dust. But then I started second-guessing: if someone wanted to entrap me, they might well come in again and disturb what I was now beginning to think of as a crime scene. Bar sitting on my now pristine
back-door
step, how could I preserve it? I was upstairs and back, clutching my trusty camera before you could say Fox Talbot.

And then I phoned the police again. Urgent, I said. Dead urgent.

So I could hardly ask them to stop on the way and collect my paper from the shop.

Hell, I could understand why people wanted a fag with their coffee. It gave the hands and mouth something to do. My
substitute
was the ballpoint I held to my lips while I was doing the crossword. The easy one, of course. There were days when I
congratulated
myself on having done two clues in the serious one, the one Tony had always done. I used to clip a week’s supply for him so he wouldn’t have to spend his cash on buying papers he could read in the prison library. And no, he never got a chance to do the crossword in the library
Guardian
– one of the screws spotted how much it meant to him and started filling it out
himself
. Fast. As if he were Mensa level. One day Tony got to look at it – the bastard had filled in letters at random. The whole exercise had been just to get under Tony’s fingernails.

So who was framing me? Who’d planted Fred Tregothnan’s account ledger? I needed to work out how much to say to the police, who’d be sure to ask me. It was a bit subtle for Reg Bulcombe, though he’d have enjoyed the guts and eyes game. The person in charge of the ad hoc slaughterhouse? It couldn’t have been Nick, having obscure revenge for never having traced Tony’s fortune? There’d been no call from him since he’d bolted, after all. No, I didn’t buy that. What did worry me was a pair of images I couldn’t get out of my mind – Sue rifling Fred’s desk, and Sue clutching her raincoat together as she left the cottage. Not Sue. Surely not Sue. I’d much rather blame the Mr Big who
favoured me with offal – and that certainly wouldn’t be Sue’s style. And it was the obvious theory. I’d been sniffing round his enterprises, seen by what I suspected were at least two of his associates, however far down the pecking order they might be. Even the lowliest driver had eyes and ears he might find it profitable to put at his employer’s disposal.

The question came back to the identity of the man at the top. And whether his minions might even include the detectives even now pulling up outside the pub. Tony had managed to suborn several in the course of his long career: the now defunct West Midlands Serious Crimes Squad hadn’t get their bad reputation for corruption for nothing.

These two Somerset cops weren’t fools. This time they came in a much humbler vehicle and they parked in the back yard. But were they honest and decent and above corruption? Before I answered the door, I tucked my camera well out of sight.

‘Do you want to see my gift?’ I asked as I gestured them in through the nice clean rear hall. ‘Actually, maybe DS Short should stay here. We don’t want a repeat of yesterday.’

Scarlet to the ears, he mumbled and chuntered.

‘The nearest loo’s that Portaloo there,’ I said, cutting him short. ‘Come this way, Mr Evans. This is the pub kitchen, as you can see. When you’re ready, the better coffee is upstairs.’

Evans looked rather more revolted by the eyes than by the intestinal ooze. Short didn’t even attempt to look, merely holding open an evidence bag for Evans, who, with finicky fingers, slipped off the address label.

‘Is there – where would you – er –?’

‘There’s a trade refuse bin out there. You can’t miss it. Or if you prefer, I’ll get my chef to deal with it. Me,’ I added, as Evans opened his mouth. ‘But while we’re down here, there’s something else I want you to see.’ Still not sure whether I was doing the right thing, I led the way to the outhouse, pulling open the door but gesturing them to stay back. Even I could see my trail of wet prints across the otherwise dry floor, to the bench and back again.

Short thought it was time for a spot of bravado. ‘Opening up a museum of country life, are you?’

Evans muttered something. Short blushed.

‘I think you might want to be the curator,’ I said quite kindly. ‘You see where my footsteps lead. To that bench, with my gardening gloves on it. Can you see what’s underneath? A sort of large exercise book? It looks to me as if it’s Fred Tregothnan’s missing accounts, gentlemen. And, before you ask, I’ve no idea how it got there.’

The men looked at it, each other and then at me.

‘Why did you leave it there?’

‘What would you have thought if I’d suddenly “found” it?’ I asked, my fingers making little quotation marks for them. ‘You’d have thought it was all a bit too convenient, wouldn’t you? So I left it there for you. You’ll find my prints on the corner where I lifted it up. There shouldn’t be any others. Because, as I told you, I’ve never seen it before.’

‘Some people would say it was weird for you to be taking so many precautions – an admission of guilt, say?’ Short chipped in. ‘
The lady doth protest too much
, and all that.’

Hamlet!
And of course that was where the phrase
lugging the guts
came from too. Well done, the OU.

As for Short, I lifted a silent but expressive eyebrow. ‘I’m a woman living on my own, Sergeant. Someone is sending me fairly unsubtle hints.’

‘I thought they were for your civil service friend.’

‘The guest in my pub. But today’s gift was certainly for me, wasn’t it, Chief Inspector?’ I risked a twinkle of amusement at his underling’s expense. ‘It’s all right,’ I added to Short, ‘the label’s not bloodstained.’

He looked at me and bolted for the Portaloo.

‘Is he ever going to make it?’ I asked, serious as an elderly aunt. ‘I mean, you have to see some nasty sights in the force, don’t you? Or is he all right with human corpses?’

He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Maybe he could do with some of that excellent coffee of yours. See you upstairs!’ he yelled at the Portaloo.

‘And leave your shoes on the door step,’ I added. ‘No, not you, Chief Inspector. But I’d be grateful if you’d wipe them
thoroughly
, this yard being as muddy as it is.’

Seeing me remove mine, he followed suit. He had nice feet, from what I could see. And his personal hygiene was adequate – a risk you always run in such situations.

He leaned against my kitchen wall, an ironic smile on his face. ‘Shoes, stockings – what else are you going to remove, Josie? Sorry, only joking! Honestly! I’m sorry, Mrs Welford. That was quite out of order.’

‘Yes, it was.’ I nodded curtly. But was tickled pink. So they used that damned expression in real life, not just on fictional police programmes. ‘Are you all right, son?’ I asked over his shoulder. ‘Would you like some brandy in your coffee?’

Short shook his head. Despite myself I felt sorry for him, and at infinite risk to my diet fished in the freezer for some
home-made
rock buns. I defrosted a few and set them on a plate. ‘Go on. Help yourself. And you, too, Chief Inspector. To a cake.’

He obligingly choked. Short didn’t know what the hell was going on.

I gestured them through to the living room, leaving the cakes on the table next to Short. Excusing himself, Evans stepped into the hall, where I could hear him using his mobile phone. Scene of crime team, eh? I wasn’t at all sure how I felt about that. But I suppose that that was why I’d preserved the scene.

‘You’re not going to get the accounts book?’ I prompted when he returned.

‘You’ve been careful with it, Mrs Welford: I can’t imagine you’d want us to be any less so.’

‘But I wouldn’t necessarily expect you to take my precautions seriously.’

‘I couldn’t take them any other way, circumstances being what they are.’

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or scared. ‘You sound as if you’re preparing for a murder case.’ I suppressed a nervous smile, still more a nervous giggle. Tony would have been proud of me. So would any one of his counsel.

Evans was equally serious. ‘Have you, Mrs Welford, any reason to believe we’re not?’

Chapter Eighteen

It was time to get Nick Thomas back. I’d managed perfectly well without him, true, and he might actually prove an added hazard. But if he stayed away, there was little doubt that Evans and Short would want to bring him back. Always better to return under one’s own steam than be dragged kicking and screaming: that was my motto. Plus, apart from being my wheels should I need a quick getaway, Nick had a right to be sniffing round that rendering plant, if and when I could at last get it into his thick skull that he should.

The question was, how could I get hold of him?

There was dear old 1471, of course, provided that his was the last call to my number. And I couldn’t remember any others. But – Sod’s Law – someone who had withheld their number, some double-glazing salesperson, no doubt, had tried on Sunday evening, when I’d been too busy juggling for the media even to notice.

Directory Enquiries? For a mobile?

The Food Standards Agency? There wasn’t a local number in the phone book. Even if I phoned the London headquarters number (even one of the new phone number call centres should have that, even one in Mumbai!) I couldn’t see them dishing out an employee’s phone number to a casual enquirer – even I wouldn’t divulge personal information and I didn’t have all sorts of civil service regulations to enforce a privacy code. My best hope was to tell the appropriate person there was an urgent personal problem. Getting through to the said appropriate person would probably be like flying to Mars, and I might get as lost as the poor UK Beagle spacecraft.

I did. I got passed to so many people I felt like Jonny Wilkinson’s winning Rugby ball. But no cups, world or otherwise, for me – I just got dropped into some black hole with canned music and, when I’d heard the tape three times, I dropped the handset back so hard I might have damaged it. No, a quick shake confirmed it was all right.

Plonking my bum down on the stairs, I sat inhaling the smell
of disinfectant and picked a hangnail that had had the cheek to appear, despite my regular expensive manicure. No, not acrylic nails, nothing like that – imagine them in a kitchen – just a decent tidying up of the cuticles and a massage. Drat it. And – this was clearly not my day – one of the workmen had left something behind on the tatty hall table my predecessor had left behind. Some sort of ring file.

I heaved myself to my feet – this prolonged damp weather and the lack of decent exercise recently had got to my joints. No, it wasn’t a workman’s file, not unless one of his kids went to the local school. One of Lucy’s. The poor kid had left her homework here! But I wouldn’t have to leg it down to the school, pronto: there was nothing in it but two sheets of paper. The first, in her thickest felt tip, carried the legend

The second comprised several columns, the headings of which were NAME, CAR REGISTRATION NUMBER, ADDRESS, PHONE NUMBER. In the columns, in what was presumably Nick’s writing, was all the information I needed. He’d given his office address in Taunton and in addition to the phone line there, his mobile number. I could picture Lucy, head bowed, mouth slightly open (all that smoke in the bar gave her catarrh), doing her best writing and then standing over Nick while he solemnly did her bidding.

I could have hugged them both. Though when I found Nick had switched his phone off I’d have preferred to box his ears. However, even he would surely respond to the message I left:
Get your arse down here now. And for God’s sake phone if you can’t
. Words to that effect, anyway.

A glance at my watch told me it was time to get lunch preparations underway. No time even to nip to the shop for my
Guardian
. There’d be blood for supper if they didn’t keep it for me.

Trying to hide behind the walkers, whose packs and boots seemed larger than ever, a couple of locals lurked on their regular settle.
Not Reg Bulcombe, that would have been too much to hope for, but some of his cronies. They engaged in tentative conversation with Robin, who’d done no more than dump his gear in the first available bedroom – he said he’d make a more informed choice when he had time – and don an apron. I’d have preferred him to arrive a little earlier, but couldn’t fault him on his management of the bar itself. He was happy to gather dirty plates as well as glasses, and recommended specials with as much gusto as if he’d actually tasted them.

‘So why can’t I use the outhouse for my bike yet?’ he asked as he dropped a selection of empty soup bowls by the dishwasher.

‘That missing vet I told you about – some of his property’s turned up in there and –’

‘In your shed! That’s weird.’

‘Not as weird as the postal delivery I had this morning.’ I explained. ‘Robin, I’d be much happier if you told me to stick my job and went back to the wicked city. You’d be safer on Death Row than out here.’

He shook his head. ‘I really need the money, Mrs W. And if you told the DSS I’ve left the job voluntarily, I’d lose my dole.’

‘I don’t grass,’ I snapped.

‘But the agency might. Come on, the locals know I’m just a temp. They haven’t any axe to grind with me, surely.’

‘Not unless it’s guilt by association, I suppose,’ I conceded, reluctant to get rid of a potential asset. ‘But promise me you’ll be more careful than makes sense. No buzzing around the back lanes at night after work. Or even after dark. Come on, let’s go and check out those bedrooms. I’d have thought the big one at the back.’

This time his look was amused. ‘So I can watch what the police get up to and hear if anyone does try to get into the shed.’

I grinned. ‘Exactly.’

But the window rattled, the curtains hardly closed and it was clear he’d be much better off where he was.

As luck would have it the SOCOs arrived just as I was setting out for my post-prandial stroll. Much as I’d have liked to hang around watching, I still went for the walk: I hoped it would give
me an air of disinterested innocence. Actually, I’d have preferred a real zap through the village. The faster the feet, the faster the calories flee. But looking furtive was not on my agenda, and I took care to meet and greet as many folk as I could. Pensioners with tartan trolleys, mothers with pushchairs, none was spared the warmth of my smile. Or the news that I was trying out a temporary barman, just for a few days until Lindi could come back. OK, Robin was worth a dozen Lindis, at first glance, at least. But her value as a hauler in of locals was beyond pearls.

My newspaper sat in solitary state behind the counter. As Jem passed it to me, he leaned forward to say something confidentially. But a gang of school kids exploded into the shop and he had to abandon me to ride shotgun. Clearly I’d have to come at a quieter time tomorrow.

Meanwhile, my journey wouldn’t be wasted. Sue Clayton was just getting out of her car, parked with the front nearside wheel squashed halfway on to the kerb. We exchanged waves, though she didn’t seem particularly keen to see me. Then, she never did. For my part I cursed under my breath. Sue and I needed to have a long conversation involving hunched up raincoats, Fred Tregothnan’s desk and my shed. And the village street wasn’t the best place for it. On the other hand, the grapevine being what it was, the whole village would know about the activities in my shed and the reason for them, so I might as well confront her now.

Before I could open my mouth, she was all over me with a jolliness that I was sure masked a deep anxiety.

‘I meant to phone you! Have you heard from Nick? Will he be back in time for practice tomorrow? We really can’t do without him, you know.’

‘I’ll let you do as soon as I hear anything,’ I said, equivocally. Hoping my deep breath wouldn’t show, I continued, ‘Sue, when we checked Fred’s house to see if he was ill or something … I suppose …’ How could you accuse a woman of God of theft and planting evidence? ‘Did you see anything at all that … You know, the police are turning my place upside down at this very moment.’ It didn’t need her face to tell me I wasn’t making a very good fist of this. I tried an outright lie. ‘I’m afraid they may try
to plant something and if you saw it when we were there, I’ll be able to say I’ve got a witness that –’

‘No, you won’t. You could have gone back any time yourself once I’d shown you where the key was.’

I didn’t know if she was simply being logical or if she was telling me I was on my own. So where did that leave me? Could I snitch on her?

‘Have they checked your place yet?’ I ventured.

‘Why should they?’

‘Why should they be checking mine?’ But I couldn’t keep it up. ‘Sue, just put my mind at rest. When you came out of Fred’s house you were clutching your coat round you as if you were trying to hide something. Were you? And no, I’ve not breathed a word to the filth.’

‘How dare you! I was trying to keep warm and dry, Josie Welford! It was raining – remember?’

I held up a pacifying hand. ‘OK, OK. That’s what I wanted to hear. And I believe you. It’s just that we need to sing from the same hymn sheet, Sue, and be careful not to incriminate each other with a careless word. Which is why, I promise you, I’ve not said a word to Evans and Short.’

She wasn’t completely mollified, I could see that. But she said, ‘You’re right.
Careless talk costs lives
, and all that. But you’re not a very good liar, Josie – you know why they’re checking your place, don’t you?’

A couple of kids came bounding up, daft as red setters on speed, hotly followed by their mothers, who simply sailed into the conversation as if I wasn’t there. And there too was Lindi – talk about being saved by the belle.

I didn’t try calling after her; I simply outpaced her, then slowed to fall into step.

‘Are you feeling better?’ I said, just as kindly as if she’d been laid low with flu.

Her eyes opened so wide I was afraid she might bolt. But not in those shoes. ‘I’m fine,’ she muttered.

‘Good. Now, I wanted to assure you, Lindi, that as sure you feel up to it, you can come back to work any time you want.’
Maybe I projected my voice a little: I wasn’t averse to the odd witness. ‘This Fred Tregothnan business must have been very upsetting for you. Now, you’ll have heard I’ve got a new barman, but he’s only temporary. He knows that. Now you know it.’ I gave the sort of reassuring smile the nurse gives as she’s about to shove a hypodermic into your bum.

She had to respond somehow, of course. And you could see from the little furrows about her forehead and mouth that she’d put her brain into gear. ‘Um, I’ve – well, you see, Mrs Welford …’ The clutch slipped a little. She tried again. ‘Mrs … Well, there’s someone else offered me a job. And it’s a bit better paid, see.’

‘And is it as many hours?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Could you not work for us both? I’m sure we could make the hours fit in if we tried.’ Mrs Greville would scarcely be entertaining every lunchtime and every evening.

She was wavering.

‘And you’re due a pay rise. Another couple of months and you’d have been entitled to sick and holiday pay.’ Clear as if he was standing beside me, I could hear Tony’s voice:
Play on people’s greed. That’s the way to get them on your side. But don’t push too hard
. Smiling, I added, ‘Now as soon as you feel up to it, just let me know. Look after yourself, now.’ There. Soon she’d have woven a comfortable myth that she was a poor soul with tender sensibilities, and would be back with me. With luck, that is.

They’d only brought in one of those mobile home sized caravans, so big it almost dwarfed the White Hart. All right, I exaggerate. But it really didn’t enhance the beauty of the place. Any moment now the TV cameras would roll in and Nicola and her chums would be interviewing me as a possible murder suspect. Great.

I made a show of opening up, and made sure everything was ready to roll in the kitchen. And hey presto, customers arrived. No, not the normal clientele – in your dreams! Forensic scientists and police officers. Hungry, all of them. It might have had something to do with the discount I offered on the specials, of course, but I felt sorry for them with nothing but the official issue of sandwiches and coffee to keep them warm on what was becoming
a pretty cold night. It wasn’t cold enough to keep away the locals, however: there was another pair on the settle this evening. You could almost feel the draught from their ears as the grockles talked shop. It didn’t go unnoticed, of course; I could hardly keep a straight face when a couple of them, not older than Lucy, it seemed, started discussing in penetrating voices a case in which a man’s head had come off as soon as the SOCO had touched it.

‘All on your own?’ Evans put his head round the kitchen door.

‘For a few minutes. I didn’t think it would do either of them any harm if Robin walked young Lucy home. They’ve both worked their socks off.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ve worked my shoes off, but that’s all.’ The floor felt pleasantly cool as I padded round. ‘Well, am I going to have to bake myself a cake with a file inside? Hey, I am, aren’t I?’ I sat down rather harder than my lower back liked.