by Kate Adams
‘Did you recognise him?’ Joe had pulled out a notepad and pen.
‘No, but he seemed to know quite a few of the locals. No one wanted to bother with him.’
‘That’s great, Tina. I’ll have a catch up with Sophie, then I’ll arrange for you to make a formal statement. Thanks for letting me know.’
Tina stood as the drinks were brought to our table. ‘Not a problem, you know where to find me.’
Once we were alone, Joe grinned at me. ‘Well that helps my theft theory.’
‘So you still think that’s what happened? Ben was the victim of a robbery?’
‘Maybe. I really don’t have much to go on. Everyone else who was in the area has a pretty solid alibi.’
‘Even the angry gardener?’
‘What angry gardener?’
‘Oh sorry, I thought Mark would have told you. He barged into me on Friday afternoon, shortly before confronting Ben, and he was seriously mad. I’m afraid he was too far away for us to hear what he was saying to Ben.’
‘Ah, that angry gardener. Yes, Lucy told me he nearly sent you flying. He’s called Elliot Forrester and he was working with Robin, his supervisor, when Ben was killed. Robin’s a fan of spreadsheets, so he knows exactly what’s being worked on when, where and who’s doing it.’
‘What about Kyle and Guy?’
He shook his head. ‘All spoken for. Kyle was having breakfast at the Black Swan and was seen by the landlord, and Guy was meeting Malcolm De Witt up in his room.’
‘The Duke’s friend? What was Guy doing in his room? A secret assignation?’ I couldn’t imagine anything less likely, but people could surprise you.
‘Ha! Hardly – what a thought. No, Guy was giving him advice on investing in restaurants. Apparently that’s Guy’s background and he sometimes works as a consultant. Malcolm is thinking of investing in a new restaurant in London.’ I must have still looked a bit nonplussed, because Joe added, ‘Malcolm has a separate sitting room to himself, they weren’t having a meeting on the bed.’
I laughed. ‘I was starting to picture that. What about Kathy from the Signal Box?’
Joe took another mouthful of coffee and put the mug down. ‘What about her?’
I explained what Mark had seen and the theory that was knocking around my head.
‘A crime of passion?’ Joe looked thoughtful. ‘That’s a damn sight more interesting than a robbery, it would certainly liven things up. I’ll double check her alibi and keep it in mind, but I don’t think we’re going to get a “made for TV” sex and murder special out of this. It’ll be something much more mundane.’
‘Mundane? A murder at Charleton House? You’re kidding, right? You could be fishing bodies out of the Manchester Ship Canal, but instead you’re in the glorious surroundings of one of the country’s finest historic houses. Don’t start taking it for granted.’
I peered at him over the top of my glasses, looking for signs of a twinkle I really didn’t want to find. Bloody Mark, putting thoughts into my head. I needed a distraction so gathered up our empty mugs.
‘Any word on the thefts, are they related?’
Joe was straightening his tie and tucking in his shirt. He always had a slight air of a dishevelled schoolboy.
‘You need to stop asking me questions I can’t answer.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Well, one happened long enough after the other that they could have been done by the same person, but the Berwick theft was during public opening hours and was a miniature painting that could have been slipped into someone’s bag. Charleton was a private event, and you would have had a hard time sneaking the bowl out unless you had a decent sized holdall to put it in. And everyone with a big bag was checked as they left, guests and staff.’
‘So it was an inside job?’
‘No, I’m not saying that, but I reckon it was planned. I’m sure that Berwick was the work of an opportunist who saw a chance and took it. Sadly they’re both on the backburner now; the murder comes first and we haven’t got the resources to focus on the robberies too. I’m still technically on the Berwick case and I’ll do my best, but it’s not a priority right now.’ It looked as if his two days of dead ends were getting to him. ‘But I’ve been really lucky. Most new detectives would be shuffling papers back at the station, checking statements, doing background checks, that sort of thing. DS Harnby only has me out and about because we’re short of feet on the ground, and she knows that people are used to seeing me around here so are likely to open up. I need to come up with something useful, though, or she’ll have me chained to a chair again.’
Concern was scored into the crease across his forehead. I went back to the counter and wrapped up a huge slice of lemon drizzle cake; I couldn’t tell him who had murdered Ben, but I could give him a sugar rush and a reason to loosen his belt a notch!
I angled the bratwurst so the tomato sauce wouldn’t drip onto my skirt, tilted my head back and took another enormous bite. This was no scrawny hotdog, but really good-quality meat from Derbyshire born-and-bred farm stock and I was already thinking about having a second.
Mark and I were sitting facing the Great Pond, soaking up the sun and watching a family of ducks swim in single file across the water. The gardens team had installed little ramps on either side of the pond’s concrete base to make it easier for the ducks, who were clearly considered part of the family, to climb in and out. I watched the crowds of visitors as they shuffled from stall to stall, countless different languages and accents filling the air along with the sweet scents of freshly baked cookies and breads. A gentle breeze could change everything and the smells of sizzling bratwurst or melting cheese would take over. I shuffled along the bench a little; I seemed to be in prime position for getting my knees bashed by shopping bags as people passed by.
On the opposite side of the pond was a gap where the Airstream had been, and the immediate area remained closed off. A few visitors were milling around looking at the gap, no doubt speculating as to what had happened, but the majority weren’t paying it any attention. For those not immediately involved, Ben’s murder was quickly becoming yesterday’s news, and that didn’t feel right. I couldn’t stop picturing the gentle-looking man who had seemed so dejected when Elliot Forrester had confronted him.
‘There you are.’
I looked up for the source of the voice and found myself face to face with a wall of navy and white checked fabric that turned out to be a summer dress clinging to Joyce’s various curves. She had adorned it with every fuchsia pink accessory you could think of: a wide belt with an enormous buckle; a cluster of bangles on each wrist; a chunky necklace that could be mistaken for a string of child’s toy bricks. Fuchsia-pink sunglasses were balanced on the top of her head and a pair of fuchsia pink stilettos made me wonder how she didn’t get vertigo. I also couldn’t understand how she wasn’t sinking into the grass, so I took a closer look and saw she had an ingenious plastic plug on each heel that stopped them acting like sharp blades.
‘Brilliant!’ I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
‘What’s that, dear?’ Joyce followed my eye line. ‘Oh yes, stops me looking like a drunk guest at a garden party. Also means I can come and find you two and not miss out on all the fun. Budge up.’ She had a plastic flute of prosecco in her hand; she shouldn’t have been drinking while at work, but I couldn’t think of anyone brave enough to confront her. Settling herself next to me, she looked across the water at the gap in the stalls.
‘So sad. I’m really struggling to picture someone wanting to kill the boy I remember at the school gates all those years ago.’ She stared off into the distance, I assumed picturing Ben as a kid in his school uniform.
‘Did you ever hear of him getting involved in anything? I know about the debt, but anything else? He seemed like such a nice, mild-mannered man, but he must have been involved in something.’
Joyce shook her head. ‘Like I said, love, it’s been years since I last saw him. I’ve certainly not heard of anything. Tom might know
more.’ She was looking across the crowds in the direction of the stall we’d got our bratwursts from. ‘Tom Bidwell, the butcher. He was one of those Ben owed money to for a while. He might know more about what was going on with him. Tell him how much you liked your sausage and I’m sure he’ll talk to you.’
‘Will he give us a couple more of these?’ asked Mark. I’d almost forgotten he was there. He took the last bite of his bratwurst, a large drip of mustard making a bid for freedom and landing on his tie.
I had a better idea. ‘How about I get a serving of haggis, neeps and tatties for us all to share instead?’
I felt two sets of eyes swivel in my direction. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Joyce sounded horrified.
‘Haggis, neeps and tatties. Haggis is traditionally served with mashed swede – neeps – and potatoes – tatties.’
‘I know very well what it’s served with. You could serve it with caviar and a jeroboam of Dom Pérignon and you’d still not get me anywhere near it. I’m stunned that you’d suggest I’d consume peasant food. You do know what it’s made from?’
‘I do, it’s fantastic stuff. I’d choose it as my last meal if I found myself on death row.’
‘Bring it anywhere near me and you might have that opportunity.’
‘Ladies.’ Mark had found the nerve to come between my love for haggis and Joyce’s strong feelings. ‘Don’t worry, Joyce. Sophie is going to wait until we have both gone before she goes anywhere near that stall.’
‘Of course she is,’ agreed Joyce, ‘she knows what’s good for her.’ She peered into the distance again, distracted by something. ‘Bugger. Well I guess my break has come to a sudden end. Those two are meant to be looking after the courtyard gift shop while I’m in meetings.’
We followed her eye line to a couple of young women on the other side of the pond.
‘What meetings?’ Mark was clearly feeling brave.
‘This meeting, Mark, this meeting. You can call it cross-departmental integration and development if you like, but whatever it is, it’s over. I need to go and round up my errant staff.’ She swallowed what was left of the prosecco in one gulp and handed the empty flute to Mark. ‘Make sure you recycle it, we can save the planet one drink at a time.’ Then she tottered off, slowly but with fierce determination.
Tom Bidwell was taking a break at the back of the stall, sitting on top of a wooden box, writing a message on his phone as I came round the corner.
‘Tom?’
He didn’t look up. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Sophie, I’m a friend of Joyce’s.’
‘Who?’
‘Joyce Brocklehurst, I work at the house with her.’
He stood up and looked at me for the first time. ‘Any friend of Joyce is a friend of mine. Fine woman. How can I help you, Sophie?’
‘It’s about Ben, the man who…’
‘Died, I know. Bloody awful. What about him?’
I was unsure about talking to a stranger about their financial affairs, but I got the impression that mentioning Joyce hadn’t just unlocked a door for me, it had firmly wedged it open.
‘Sorry for being quite so personal, but I believe that he used to owe you money.’
He stared at me. ‘Joyce told you, I assume. Yes, he did. Why are you interested?’
I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer that, so I decided to be honest. ‘I don’t know. I was there when his body was found and I can’t stop thinking about it. I guess I need to make sense of it.’
‘Isn’t this in the hands of the police?’
‘Yes, but… well, I’m here onsite. Maybe I’ll find something that can help them.’
Tom laughed. ‘I don’t know what your job is, but it must leave you with a lot of spare time on your hands. Either that or you’re management and have a talent for delegation.’
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. He read my response perfectly.
‘Management, eh? Well, I better not waste your time. Have a seat.’ He removed a bag of bread rolls from the top of another box and gestured towards it. I sat down. ‘I had a lot of time for Ben. He worked for me and was a real grafter. I had no problem lending him money when he asked a few years back; I trusted him, but not long after that, he just stopped coming into work. I’d see him cross the road to avoid me. If I did catch him, he always promised I’d get the money back and then made an excuse, so after a while I gave up. It was only a couple of hundred quid; it wasn’t worth making a fuss.’
‘When was this?’
Tom closed his eyes. ‘Hmm, about three years ago. Yeah, three years ago. I remember because it was the year we had that awful summer and it didn’t stop raining. A couple of times I ran into him and he was wearing sunglasses, which was ridiculous because we barely saw the sun that year. I eventually realised he was hiding one hell of a black eye.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘The daft sod, should have just claimed that the other guy looked a lot worse. Turned out he owed some bloke down the pub fifty quid and he was more worried about getting the cash back than I was.’
Tom didn’t sound like a man who was bitter. In fact, he didn’t seem to bear Ben any ill will at all.
‘What happened to him after that? Did you hear any more about him?’
‘Only that he was in and out of work, owed a few others money, and then I got wind of this coffee job and I started to see him at some of the food events in the area. Far as I know, he didn’t pay off any of his debts, but he seemed to sort himself out. You know, he was always working, and he had that money he’d borrowed off folks and not repaid, yet he was always in the same jeans and rugby shirts, and drove an old car his mother had given him years ago. Still lived with her too. Most blokes his age would get themselves a flash car or fancy watch, but there was nothing like that. I don’t know what he was doing with his money, but he wasn’t spending it on himself, that’s for sure. I can’t tell you much else, I’m afraid. He was a good lad; I don’t know what he got himself mixed up in, but I’m sure he didn’t deserve this.’
I thanked Tom. It had been a brief but incredibly helpful conversation, and I was starting to build up a picture of Ben. Not a detailed one, but enough to give me a slight sense of him. I’d also ended up with even more questions to answer, and a couple of free bratwursts.
It had definitely been a fruitful ten minutes.
After lunch and a wander round the gardens to work off the sweetcorn and honey ice cream we’d had for dessert, Mark and I went our separate ways. I needed to get on top of my budgets, and while the festival was still on and the cafés were quiet, it was the ideal chance to lock myself away in my office and get them out of the way. If the heat inside my office caused me to sweat off a couple of pounds, then that was an added bonus.
I was pulling up the spreadsheets on my computer when Chelsea stuck her head around the door.
‘Sophie, there’s a bloke to see you. Bruce someone.’
‘Thanks. Er, Chelsea…’ I picked up the waste basket from under my desk and held it out to her. ‘Chewing gum.’
She rolled her eyes and removed the gum from her mouth. I didn’t say anything else; she’d get the idea. I stretched my back out as I stood and took a deep breath; I still wasn’t in the right frame of mind to talk to Bruce about ending our business relationship, and anyway, I needed to know exactly what I was going to use instead before I did anything. The last thing I needed was our final few deliveries being late, or being sent the wrong stuff because Bruce was annoyed or just focusing on the customers who were sticking with him. Added to that, I was a coward and was choosing to avoid what was likely to be a difficult conversation.
Bruce Keen from the Northern Bean Company was sitting at the end of a table, tapping his foot madly and picking at a label on the side of the box he had brought with him. He stood up when he saw me coming.
‘Sophie, hi, hope I’m not disturbing something.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’m just surprised to see you, you don’t normally make deliveries. Plus it’s a Bank
Holiday, aren’t you meant to be taking the day off?’
He glanced around the room. ‘No, no, too much to do, you know how it is. I’ve brought you the samples I was telling you about.’ He patted the box. ‘We’ve added another Ethiopian farm to our list, so I’ve brought you some of the beans I’m getting from them, both a single and a blend, and then there’s a couple of flavoured ones that are kind of fun. A cinnamon and rum one and a toasted coconut.’ He pushed the box towards me. ‘So how are things here? Are the police still around or have they moved on?’
‘A couple of them are still here, but the festival is doing OK.’ I wanted to get back to my budgets, so I hoped that short answers would help encourage him out of the door.
‘Have the police any idea who did it?’
I shook my head. ‘They’ve not made any arrests as far as I know.’
Bruce nodded. ‘Have you heard if they’ve got any leads? Are they hopeful?’
This was quickly becoming an odd conversation. No chitchat, no talk about the coffee, just straight into the murder. It wasn’t like we knew each other well and regularly exchanged gossip.
‘I’ve really no idea, Bruce. I know they’ve interviewed some of the staff here and a lot of the stallholders, but I’m unlikely to find out what they’ve discovered, if anything.’ That wasn’t strictly true. Give him a piece of cake and a coffee, and I could probably wheedle the information out of Joe, but I wasn’t planning on telling Bruce that.
‘OK, well, I just wondered. I should be going.’ He stood and moved the box even closer to me. ‘Let me know what you think. We’re roasting all this week, so if you like them, I can get a few more boxes out to you by the end of the week.’ He paused and I thought for a brief moment that he was going to shake my hand, but instead he turned and walked out. I’d avoided a difficult conversation, but got rather a strange one instead.
