The Chinese Takeout

by Judith Cutler

  There seemed no sign of Andy, ready to usher them out. I’d better do the honours, especially as after all that drinking chocolate I needed a loo. Not necessarily the loo with my film. As for that, some deep taboo operated against handing over such sensitive material to anyone so low in the pecking order, so I waved them off empty-handed. I didn’t really want to entrust it to anyone in the police, to be honest. Mrs T used to say, There is no alternative. And I didn’t see one now. What about Burford? He wouldn’t exactly be putty in my hands, but show me a vain man who always thought with his brain, never lower down. Especially when he already fancied a woman. None of this need Andy know, however.

  In search of the cloakroom, I pushed gently on all the downstairs doors. At last one gave, but not the one I wanted. This was Andy’s office, though he probably called it a study. He was kneeling with his back to the door, his hand clasped on his desk. The knuckles were white in the light of a solitary standard lamp.

  I didn’t disturb him. I’d done enough damage already.

  If this was his standard breakfast fare, no wonder he liked my food. Stale bran cereal and skimmed milk, rounded off by ordinary tea or Fairtrade decaff – not at all bad, as it happened, and something to research further. If the White Hart was green, maybe it ought to be ethical, too.

  The hire car people responded to my request for pub-side assistance with complete disinterest, though that might change if the Focus were returned to them before I’d put it through a carwash. ‘No racing, no rallying’ indeed: did the exclusions cover running for your life?

  The team they sent even brought their own little vac to suck up smashed glass. I was so impressed with their thoroughness I gave them a handwritten note promising them a free White Hart main course each. With some amusement, they also pointed out that carwashes didn’t exactly grow on trees round here, and since they didn’t have another shout they’d give the Focus a going over with Bob’s hosepipe. A bottle of house wine was added to their IOU.

  I still had to get back to Taunton to change the now spruce vehicle, of course. I took possession of the camera and the film, none the worse for its spell in the cistern; I would be dropping the film off at a Supersnap or whatever.

  ‘Shall I drive along behind?’ Andy asked, without enthusiasm.

  I shook my head emphatically. ‘You’ve got work to do. You did what was right last night,’ and, judging by his pallor and the bags under his eyes, had spent a long time doing it ‘but now you must do what your boss tells you.’ I didn’t specify a capital letter or not. ‘Just remember to keep the doors locked: use that peep-hole before you open.’

  He was certainly acting on my advice when I next saw him. I waved encouragingly at the eye peering at me.

  ‘What the—?’

  ‘Your new transport of delight, Andy. A bit down market, but it has the virtue of being nothing like yours.’

  An exchange of cash had found Sean, the brightest of the lads at the car hire depot, all too happy to follow me back here driving a pea green Nissan. Mine was a pretty blue Fiesta. No suggestion of His and Hers to offend him or the bishop.

  And then home.

  Which was mercifully all in one piece. And smelt richly of home-baking.

  I’d probably had just enough sleep not to worry the lads with my appearance at our daily meeting. Pix went off for the morning shop with instructions to bring home as many samples of Fairtrade products as he thought relevant.

  When Annie presented herself at the back door for today’s scones, I asked her in. It wasn’t just news of Abby I wanted. It was any fears or suspicions she might have. I prompted her with a highly edited account of my doings the previous night, stressing Andy’s positive role as clergyman offering hospitality, rather than any carnal temptations he might be prey to.

  ‘Such a decent man. But the ladies of his parish – let’s just say they’re not like us, Josie. They all seem to spend all their time having their nails fixed. Have you seen the strange designs on some of their claws? They all think they’re Victoria Beckham, far too posh to turn out and clean the vicarage.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ I agreed, ‘we need a working party to make the rectory habitable for the next incumbent. We can’t leave it as it is. If we could get some ex-display kitchen units and bathroom fixtures, it shouldn’t cost too much.’

  She tipped her head on one side. ‘I know you, Josie. You’ll say they’re ex-display, but somehow top of the range stuff will appear, beautifully fitted. You can shake your head all day, but I know you. Anyone who saw you hand over that exquisite coat jacket of yours to poor Tang without so much as a wistful sigh will know too. Generous to a fault. But if an old lady can give you advice, take care.’ Grinning, I looked round ostentatiously for one. ‘People can get jealous of anything, even someone else’s generosity. Make sure there are at least some fund-raising activities, even if you go on to cook the books as well as you cook these scones.’

  ‘Those are Robin’s this morning. We all take it in turns. Lovely boys.’

  She laid a kind hand on my arm. ‘They couldn’t do you more credit if they were your own, Josie. Now, I must be off. We’ve got a nursery to paint before the teashop opens. I got Mr Trowbridge on it, and Mrs Walker’s stocktaking in the shop. And before you say you ought to be down there too, I tell you we fall over each other enough as it is!’

  ‘So long as it’s only each other you fall over. You’re sure, absolutely positive, there’ve been no suspicious visitors? And you promise to dial 999 if there’s so much as a frisson of fear? Annie, don’t smile at me like that! Think what happened to Tim!’

  ‘Mr Trowbridge is on the best of terms with those two Hounds of the Baskervilles. They lie at his feet like slippers by the fire. They don’t even growl if I come near, not any more. It’d take a brave man to annoy them.’ Her smile was less certain. ‘But don’t remind me about the geese’s last end, will you?’

  Burford phoned to say he was on his way back from Surrey and would hope to drop in about two, A303 permitting.

  ‘In that case, why don’t you pick up something I organised earlier?’ I gave him the receipt number. It would get him one set of prints. The other set would have a different docket. He didn’t need to know that. Yet.

  After the miserably cold night, it was warm enough for me to don a spring outfit. I had a couple more years before I need worry whether a décolletage showed crepe, not firm flesh, so I’d make the most of them. Today at least. The sheerest of stockings, which I preferred to tights, and my lovely new shoes. What a waste.

  He arrived a little after two, just as lunchtime was over. But I kept him waiting at the reception desk a few seconds longer than necessary so that he could savour delicate traces of what he’d officially missed. As I led him to the office I asked about his journey and his photographic mission.

  ‘So you haven’t eaten then?’ I concluded, wide-eyed. One look at my innocent face and Nick would have been telling him to watch his back. I could hear Tony chortling. I laid a solicitous hand on the detective’s sleeve. ‘Oh, dear. Look, there must be something I can find for you. A drink while you make up your mind? I do a lovely non-alcoholic punch.’ Casually I plucked today’s menu from the desk.

  I could see the words, ‘Just a sandwich,’ forming themselves in his mind but his mouth refused to utter them.

  Clearly I couldn’t let him eat in my office, so soon he was ensconced in my living room, halfway down his second punch, which was as delicious as it was virtuous. A cheese ploughman’s was on its way, with fresh bread, home-made green tomato chutney and a sliver of home-made quince paste. It was taste-heaven or calorie-hell, depending on your point of view.

  While he ate, I gave him an account of my doings, enjoying the narrowing of his eyes as I talked him through the forest part. ‘Being chased by a dog is one thing, Mr Burford; being chased by a white Merc. van another. Without being vindictive, I do hope a random rock took out his sump.’

  He gave a muffled chuckle.

 
‘You’ll no doubt have seen from the photos that all it looks like is an innocent scrapyard. So why all the fuss? And why the smell of rotting meat?’

  ‘I’ll get on to it. I promise. This is wonderful, Josie. OK, just half a glass, please.’

  Since he was driving, I wouldn’t offer any more anyway. Some people would only drink a big red with cheese. Others thought a fruity white went better. This was what I’d offered him. ‘Now, tell me all about your adventures in Surrey. Who wins the bet? What’s the Martins’ house like?’

  ‘Expensive bland. Like a very posh hotel.’

  ‘Very impersonal? Like the rectory, in other words?’

  ‘Different worlds, Josie, but yes. No sense of it being home. Not even a well-used study like Father Martin’s.’

  So he’d clocked that, had he? Well done. ‘DCI Burford – I can’t keep using that mouthful, can I? Mark, is that OK? There’s a little treacle tart left. Not really a full portion. And you’ll be able to work it off in the gym, won’t you?’ My smile implied there were other places than the gym to exercise. ‘Clotted cream?’

  He nodded absently. ‘You know how most homes, there are pictures of the kids? Little Jimmy doing this, little Jane doing that? Nothing. The daughter – she’s now big in some US corporation – got a first in History at Oxford. No photos, though. Father Martin – the son—’

  ‘Tim. Ridiculous for a kid that age to call himself father.’

  ‘Kid? He was thirty-two. Anyway, he was top of his year at theological college, which you’d think also merited the odd photo.’

  ‘Do they assess coming top in terms of academic achievement or of goodness? All this is such a surprise, Mark. His sermons were awful. Sub GCSE.’

  ‘I can’t comment about that.’

  But I knew a man who could, didn’t I? ‘So how do they make their money? Share deals? Salaries? Something illicit?’

  ‘If only I could get a crumb of evidence, I could get the forensic accountants to go through their bank statements. But you can’t do that with a pair of bereaved parents.’

  ‘I can’t imagine anything worse than losing a child,’ I said. ‘Tony and I never had any kids, but… Losing Tim was…’ My voice started to quiver, not part of any act, believe me. I’d better shut up.

  He looked at me shrewdly. ‘Is this why you’re so bound up in the inquiry? Because you and he were close?’ He realised the other implication of his words. ‘I mean—’

  ‘I’m sure a shrink would say that he and Tang brought out my latent maternal instincts.’ I changed the subject. ‘Now, would you like to try some coffee for me? It’s a new line I’m trying.’

  ‘Only if you’ll join me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  When I came back, he was looking at one of my pictures. ‘That’s lovely.’

  ‘A David Cox. Supposedly. There were a lot of imitations and School Of versions. Black or white?’

  He wandered round while I poured. Looking out of the window, he said, as if embarrassed by the revelation, ‘I’ll put them under surveillance. Nothing heavy. Just a record of people coming and going, basically. Surrey Police will enjoy the overtime, no doubt.’

  ‘Mark, that’s brilliant!’ I meant to smile coquettishly, but it came out as a frank grin. ‘I suppose I couldn’t see any photos – you know, a sort of quid pro quo?’ I waved at the collection he’d picked up.

  ‘Legally, absolutely not.’

  ‘But you might just happen to have them on you if you dropped round for a quick bite after work.’ We exchanged a quizzical – but highly ambiguous – smile.

  Hardly had his exhaust fumes thickened the wisps of mist sinking into the village than I was back in jeans and trainers. Before I hit the road, however, I had a phone call to make. The hire car people. Had they valeted the Focus yet? Because I’d left a piece of glass in the boot: would they hold on to it until I could pick it up?

  By now they knew I was out of my mind, so the lad – it sounded like Sean – agreed to pop it in a jiffy-bag for me.

  The boys in the kitchen assured me all was fine and dandy, so I might just as well go and pick it up now. Why not? I ought to thank Bob of the Queen’s Head for the trouble I’d caused. I could do that on the way back. How? I could hardly give him a bottle! And I always felt awkward about giving a man flowers. So I raided the larder for some local organic honey, some lemon cheese and a small pot of quince jelly. Laid in a pretty basket and covered in cling-film, it made a gift fit for a prince.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The piece of mirror from the broken van wing-mirror stowed safely in the blue Fiesta’s boot, I drove on to the Queen’s Head. Bob accepted the offering graciously, and said his wife had been grateful for the upheaval since it meant she could give the place a good clean. He walked me back to the car. This might have been a gentlemanly gesture or because, as nosy as I’d have been in his situation, he wanted to see if Andy would suddenly emerge. Once outside, however, with no Andy in view, he seemed uneasy, as if unsure what to say to me.

  Perhaps the bishop had paid an inquisitorial visit and dragged off Andy, kicking and screaming, to have his toenails ripped out.

  ‘Had a man come off his motorbike here quite badly this morning,’ he said at last. ‘Didn’t harm himself, but he might have. Reckoned there was oil on the road, see. And I reckon he might be right. A bit of a trail, see.’

  I had to squint a bit, but at last I followed the line of his finger.

  ‘Tried following it in the car. Lost it. But I thought maybe on a push bike? Come on, Josie, what do you say?’

  ‘They say riding a bike’s something you never forget, don’t they?’

  Five minutes later I had to peel my fingers from the grips, one by one, I’d white-knuckled so much. And that was going uphill. And until I’d had to dismount and push. I’d already dismissed running as a civilised mode of movement: cycling had never been in with a chance. Never would be. Wouldn’t live long enough. Any moment my heart would burst, and my lungs explode.

  Bob laughed. ‘Only another couple of hundred yards, and then you can free-wheel.’

  ‘I might as well try to bloody cartwheel.’

  At interminable last we reached the top of the hill, which gave us the sort of panorama artists might willingly die for. I was more concerned with a more limited sort of view, one featuring a damaged white van, preferably abandoned well away from dogs and thugs alike. I’d look when I could raise my head, currently collapsed on the handlebars.

  And there was Bob, fat as a flounder, breathing as easily as if he’d just walked to the post. Was there no justice?

  ‘Over there!’ he said, pointing. ‘That lay-by. What are you waiting for?’ Suffice to say we arrived. Missing from the van, a great deal of oil apart, was a chunk of the driver’s door mirror. Fancy that. Unfortunately the number was a perfectly legitimate one, looking nothing like FOWL, whichever way I squinted.

  It struck me that Bob was no longer looking at his prize. Hand shielding his eyes, he was staring up the next hill – the one further away from the village. The twin of the damaged van was heading our way. More than heading – almost on us.

  ‘Company,’ he said. ‘Come on, woman: on your bike.’

  He might as well have told me to fly. In any case, how could a cyclist outstrip a van?

  But Bob was certainly going to try. ‘Just pretend you’re out for a nice country ride,’ he said, between his teeth.

  ‘If they stop us, no heroics. Just go on. Take to the fields if you have to. Get help. Promise?’

  It might have been the urgency of my voice, or the expression on the face of the van driver, but Bob did just that. As for me, as the van juddered to a halt in the lay-by, I waited till the driver emerged, and threw the bike at him full on. Then I took to my heels too, nipping over the stile and loping across a newly-sown crop. My target was another stile about a hundred and fifty yards away. With luck it might get me into a lane with houses: we weren’t all that far from the villa
ge.

  If I’d had time or energy to think, I’d have urged myself on with thoughts of non-runners who’d managed to get themselves into sufficient shape to finish marathons. But I wasn’t about to pop the London event into my diary.

  By now I could hear my pursuer’s breathing. It sounded as if he was out of condition too. But he had legs long enough to clear the stile with a vault, as opposed to my clumsy scramble.

  I was still ahead. Just. He could have me in a rugby tackle, though, and I didn’t think I’d bounce. I might even get run over, the rate that car was coming towards us.

  If I could just get the car between him and me. Then I could – I don’t know what. My legs were burning rubber, from the thighs down. My chest was on fire. The car horn blared, the tyres squealing. Missed me. Just.

  Not just missed. Had stopped, the passenger door open. Andy’s hand dragged me in as soon as I’d crawled close enough. We set off, me kneeling on the seat facing the wrong way, with the door flapping.

  Shut it. I must shut it. At least hold it so it wasn’t damaged. The hire firm didn’t mind replacing a windscreen. But I fancied they’d take exception if he lost a door.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I gasped, as we shot through the village, waving at a bemused Bob. At last he twigged and gave me a huge thumbs up.

  ‘Taunton, of course. To change this car. I never did like green anyway.’

  I tapped his wristband. ‘A man for Good Samaritans, your Boss.’

  ‘You didn’t get the number of either vehicle,’ a policewoman said disbelievingly.

  ‘Nope. All I know is that one had a dodgy sump leaving a trail like a slug’s and a mirror with a bit missing like one that I found at the scene of an unreported accident.’ I threw my hands in the air. In exasperation, I continued, ‘Tell me, is it absolutely impossible to speak to DCI Burford? He knows all the background.’