The Fethering Mysteries 02; Death on the Downs tfm-2

by Simon Brett

  “With a splash of soda, that’s right. Hello, Nick.”

  This latest arrival had received a nod of acknowledgement from the lager drinker by the Snug. Carole got the feeling that, had the offer been made, Nick might have accepted a drink from the man called Graham, whose manner was easily superior and didn’t carry the patronizing overtones of Freddie’s. The newcomer to Weldisham was too eager to please, too eager to be thought generous. Someone like Nick would take his time before accepting charity from such a source.

  As he looked across to the Snug, Graham caught Carole’s eye. He smiled courteously. The eyes had been brown but were now faded in his lined face. He was quite old, probably well into his seventies.

  “Graham Forbes, isn’t it? We met in here last week.” Freddie seemed anxious to receive his own acknowledgement. There was an air of power about the older man, something that, as a new boy in Weldisham, Freddie needed to tap into.

  “Did we?” It wasn’t said rudely, but without a great deal of interest.

  “Yes. Freddie Pointon. I was in last Friday with my wife, Pam. Had dinner in the restaurant.” This did not seem to be a sufficient aide-memoire. The old eyes concentrated on tamping down tobacco in the pipe bowl. “We’ve recently moved into Hunter’s Cottage.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Graham flashed a smile of professional charm. “The Pointons. Irene and I were only just talking about you. You must come to dinner with us at Warren Lodge.”

  “We’d enjoy that very much.”

  “I’ll get Irene to give a call to…er…”

  “Pam.”

  “Pam, yes, of course. So are you settling in all right?”

  “Not bad. Having problems with the people who’re putting in our bloody kitchen, mind.”

  “Ah.”

  The older man did not feign interest in the problems of kitchen-fitting. Carole suddenly identified the strange tension in his manner. It was excitement. Graham had news to impart. And he was waiting his moment, timing the revelation for when it would have maximum impact.

  He took a long sip from his drink, made sure that Will had turned back from putting his money in the till and decided that the moment had come. “Anyone see the police cars?” he began casually.

  “I’ve been in here all day,” the manager replied. “Bloody paperwork.”

  Graham looked at Nick, who gave a curt shake of his head.

  “I saw one at the end of the lane,” said Freddie, “when I was on my way back from the station. Presumably they wait there to catch the poor buggers who’ve had a skinful in London and shouldn’t be driving home.”

  “That’s not why they’re there today.”

  “Oh?”

  “A rather nasty discovery has been made on Phil Ayling’s land.”

  Carole tensed. Surely he couldn’t be talking about what she had found. It was too soon after the event. And the police wouldn’t be volunteering information on the subject.

  Graham Forbes played the scene at his own pace. He waited for a prompt of “What?” from Will Maples before continuing. “In South Welling Barn it was.”

  Nick had his back to her and she couldn’t see any reaction from him, but Carole was quick enough to catch a momentary narrowing of the manager’s eyes. He seemed over-casual as he asked, “What’s been found then, Graham?”

  “Bones. Human bones.” There was silence in the pub. Graham Forbes didn’t need any prompts now. He had their full attention. “A complete set,” he said lightly. “That’s why the police are here. Any number of them over at the barn. Lights, photographers, the whole shooting match.”

  “But…” Will Maples licked his lips as if to moisten them. “Have they any idea whose bones they are?”

  Graham Forbes let out a dry laugh. “Give them time. I know your chum Lennie Baylis is a bright boy, but I don’t think even he could provide a complete life history from one look at a skeleton.”

  “No.” The landlord chuckled, but he didn’t sound amused. “I wonder where they’ll start their investigations…”

  “You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out. Presumably they’ll start right here in Weldisham. Check out whether anyone’s gone missing from the village recently.”

  Will Maples was thoughtful for a moment. Then he hazarded, “The Lutteridge girl?”

  “That’s a thought, Will.”

  The old head nodded insecurely on its thin neck. “The Lutteridge girl.”

  ∨ Death on the Downs ∧

  Four

  “Oh, I’ve met the Lutteridges,” said Freddie, eager to be part of things. “Met them at a drinks party we were invited to first weekend we arrived. Miles and Gillie, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” Graham Forbes’s manner towards the newcomer was diplomatically balanced. He was polite, but kept his distance.

  “So this is their daughter you’re talking about?”

  “Tamsin, yes.”

  “They didn’t mention her when we met.”

  “Probably wouldn’t have done. She’s hardly covered the family name with glory.”

  “Oh?”

  “Had a perfectly good job in London, working on some magazine or other, then chucked it just like that and came back to sponge off her parents.”

  “I heard she was ill,” Will Maples interceded cautiously.

  “Ill?”

  “Some allergy or something.”

  “Allergic to hard work, if you ask me.” Graham Forbes was clearly saddling up a hobbyhorse. “Trouble with kids these days, they’re cosseted. Cotton-woolled through school, subsidized by the state to laze around for three years at university. They don’t even read, you know, just waste their time on videos and computer games. Then after university they come out into the real world, and is it any wonder they can’t cope?

  “I think drugs have a lot to do with it too. In my young day, everyone drank themselves silly, but drugs were for the really depraved. Nowadays, the kids seem to think no more of taking drugs than blowing their noses. And it’s all over the place, you know, not just in the inner cities. Police stopped some kids in a car on the Weldisham Lane only a couple of weeks ago and found they were under the influence of drugs. God knows where they got them from.”

  There was a silence. Will Maples looked studiously at the counter. If Graham Forbes was suggesting anyone had got drugs in the Hare and Hounds, it wasn’t an accusation he wished to discuss.

  “This is the Excuse Generation, you know. Whatever happens, whatever weaknesses of character kids show, there’s always some excuse, some psychological reason for it. Father didn’t show enough affection to them, mother showed too much affection to them, they’ve got an allergy.” The word was marinated in contempt. “In my young day, we just got on with things.”

  This statement, delivered with finality, seemed to require some endorsement. Carole couldn’t say anything, Nick clearly never said more than he had to. Will Maples still seemed to be working round his mental dial, finding the right cliché rejoinder, when Freddie came in with the necessary response.

  “Yes, you’re right, Graham. They’ve had it easy.”

  “You got children, Freddie?”

  “No. Pam and I…No, we haven’t…” He seemed about to add something. “Sadly…” Carole wondered. Or ‘Thank God’? It was hard to tell from Freddie’s manner.

  Will Maples seemed over-casual as he asked, “You haven’t heard definitely that it was Tamsin’s body they found?”

  “Not body, Will. Bones.”

  “Comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? Either way, the person in question’s dead.”

  “True enough. No, no, obviously not been confirmed it’s anyone. Police have to do all their forensic stuff, off to the labs, what have you. But since you’ve mentioned Tamsin, I wonder…Could be right. She’s the only person in the village who’s gone missing recently.”

  “How long’s she been missing?” asked Freddie, eager to make up lost ground on village gossip.

  “She disap
peared round the end of October. The parents haven’t a clue where she went. But she’d been funny for a while. Gave up a perfectly good job in publishing…Couldn’t cope, like I said.

  “No, I think this discovery’s pretty ominous. Tamsin was always a bit loopy, wasn’t she? Quite capable of wandering off, high on drugs, falling asleep in the barn and dying of hypothermia. That’s what I reckon happened.” Graham Forbes spoke with the manner of someone whose opinions were rarely contradicted.

  “Do you actually know she was into drugs?” the landlord asked cautiously. “Hasn’t been any mention of it from the police, has there?”

  “Hasn’t been time for that. But I’m sure Tamsin was. Dressed like a hippie, didn’t she? And she was certainly into all kinds of alternative therapies and what have you. Only one step from herbal remedies to herbal cigarettes. And only one step from them to the hard stuff, in my view.” Again, his view was presented as incontestable.

  Carole was having difficulty keeping her mouth shut.

  She knew more about the subject under discussion than anyone else present. She knew Graham Forbes was wrong. Whether or not the remains belonged to Tamsin Lutteridge, his theory of how she’d died was way off beam. The girl hadn’t just curled up in the corner of South Welling Barn. Somebody had left her bones there in two fertilizer bags.

  For a moment Carole was tempted to speak, to share her knowledge. But she stopped herself, surprised that she’d even contemplated the idea. It would have been out of character for her to have put her oar in. And she realized the reason why her inhibitions had been relaxed. She was drunk. The two large brandies, reacting with her state of shock, had gone straight to her head. She felt distinctly woozy. There was no way she could drive back to Fethering, particularly given the heavy police presence along the Weldisham Lane.

  She had a sudden mental image of Gulliver by the Aga, feeling sorry for himself and his wounded paw. She looked at her watch. After six-thirty. She must get back.

  Catching Will’s eyes in a conversational lull at the bar, she asked, “Is there a phone I could use?”

  He pointed to a payphone by the entrance to the toilets. On a board above it were pinned cards from three local taxi firms. Carole tried them all. None could do anything for an hour. Friday evening was a busy time. The trains at Barnham were full not only of the usual daily commuters but also of second-home owners making the weekly journey to their country retreats.

  Carole stood by the phone, undecided. She had a thought that wouldn’t have come into her mind without the brandy. Making a quick decision, she dialled the number of the Crown and Anchor.

  Ted Crisp answered. He seemed unsurprised by her request. Yes, he’d pick her up. He’d got two bar staff in. They could manage for half an hour. Friday nights didn’t get busy in Fethering until after seven-thirty.

  Carole put the phone down, slightly stunned by her audacity, but also pleased at what she’d done. Throughout her life she’d hated being dependent on other people, hated asking for favours. The fact that she’d asked Ted Crisp to help gave her a feeling of a slight mellowing in her character.

  And, since the driving was sorted out, she felt like another drink. On her way back past the bar, she asked Will Maples for a large brandy. As she reached for her handbag, he said, “No. It’s on Lennie’s tab.”

  “Are you sure?” But then why not? If it was ever charged, it’d be on police expenses. Carole accepted graciously.

  Her movement across the pub had made her aware again of how soaked through she was. It would be good to get home and into a hot bath.

  Little more was said at the bar about the bones. Graham Forbes left soon after Carole had made her phone call. He downed the remainder of his whisky in a gulp and, pipe clenched between his teeth, announced, “Better get back. People for dinner. Irene no doubt needs help with the seating plan.”

  He gave courteous farewells to Will and the two men, a polite nod to Carole, and left. She took in his lack of overcoat, which must mean that he lived very close to the Hare and Hounds.

  Conversation at the bar trickled away to nothing. Two girls arrived to start their seven o’clock shift at the bar and, since it was the first day for one of them, Will Maples was kept busy giving her instructions. Freddie made a couple of attempts to engage Nick in conversation, but met with no success.

  Carole snuggled into her damp cocoon, brandy balloon reassuringly in her hand, and pondered what she had just heard.

  Did the remains she’d found really belong to Tamsin Lutteridge?

  But the more puzzling question was how on earth Graham Forbes had found out so quickly about the discovery of the bones at South Welling Barn.

  ∨ Death on the Downs ∧

  Five

  “Not my idea of a pub, that Hare and Hounds,” Ted Crisp grouched.

  His presence seemed to fill the car. He’d arrived in the pub, looking as ever, hair and beard both in need of trimming, paunch in need of slimming. The usual grubby jeans, trainers and sweatshirt, with a zip-up hooded sweater over the top in deference to the February weather.

  He’d nodded to Will Maples, but refused Carole’s offer of a drink. “No. Got to pace myself. Be drinking later at the Crown. Friday nights get frenetic. All the old farts and their doxies in, the air heavy with the scent of Germolene.”

  At seven the Hare and Hounds had suddenly become busy. The ‘Reserved’ tables in the bar were quickly filled with people who were going to eat bar snacks, and diners started going through to the restaurant. Will Maples and his newly arrived staff had not a moment to turn round. But, Carole observed, it was an efficient operation. Will was a good manager.

  He was too busy for her to catch his eye when she left. Never mind. It was Lennie Baylis she had to thank for the drinks, after all. With unexpected chivalry, Ted Crisp had picked up her Burberry. “What you been doing?” he asked as he felt its sodden fabric. “Auditions for Singing in the Rain?”

  Carole had never been in his car before, but it was in character. An old Nissan Bluebird estate, its back seat and luggage space piled up with boxes. There was a stale whiff of beer and smoke. In fact, Carole realized as she got in, the car smelled exactly like the Crown and Anchor. So did Ted. He was a non-smoker, but he always smelled of cigarette smoke. An occupational hazard. His customers’ smoke clung to his clothes, to his hair and to his beard.

  “No, not my idea of a pub,” he repeated. “Everything too neat, too calculated. No real character.”

  This chimed in exactly with what Carole had thought. “But you know Will, do you? I saw you nod at him.”

  “In this job, you know most of the opposition, to talk to anyway. He used to manage clubs in Brighton, only recently moved into the pub trade. He’s a bright boy, though. He’ll go far.”

  “How long has he been landlord there?”

  “He’s not the landlord, Carole. Just the manager. Works for the chain. Home Hostelries, they’re called.”

  “But they’re just a small chain, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but owned by one of the big breweries. Like everything else these days. I don’t like places like that. A pub should have its own identity, not be part of a bloody olde English drinkers’ theme park.”

  “And what do you reckon gives a pub its identity?”

  Ted Crisp chuckled wryly. “Got to be your landlord, hasn’t it? Reason, I’m afraid, why the Crown and Anchor is like it is. A reflection of me – a bloody-minded, cussed ex-stand-up comic. And people who don’t like that can bloody well lump it.” He sighed. “Trouble is, I don’t know how much longer the independent landlord can keep going. What did I read in the paper the other day? Six village pubs closing every week. It’s like the supermarkets killing off the village shops a few years back, isn’t it? Only the big boys can afford the investment to keep a pub going.”

  “Have you had approaches from some of the chains?”

  “Oh yes, plenty.”

  “From Home Hostelries?”

  “Not yet. The
Crown and Anchor’s not quaint enough for them. They prefer something a bit older, more rustic. But other groups have been sniffing around. Not a great building architecturally, but the Crown’s got a good position in Fethering. Someone with half a million could turn it into something extremely bijou.” He shuddered at the thought and was silent. Then he asked, “What’s the matter, Carole?”

  “Matter? What do you mean?”

  “You’re upset. Something’s upset you.”

  Not for the first time, she was surprised at his perception. Ted Crisp’s aggressive manner masked an unexpected sensitivity to the people around him.

  Carole’s instinctive reaction would normally have been to deny there was anything wrong, but the brandy had lowered her guard. Besides, she did want to talk about what she’d seen. Ideally, she wanted to talk about it to Jude, but Ted’s large bulk felt reassuringly trustworthy.

  “I found some human bones in a barn,” she said. The rest of her narrative didn’t take long. There wasn’t really much to say. Indeed, the smallness of the initial incident seemed disproportionate to the shock she was feeling. She included what she had heard from Graham Forbes in the pub and his potential identification of the victim. “Do you know anyone in Weldisham, Ted?”

  He shook his head. “Hardly ever go up there. I think Jude’s got some friends in the village, though…”

  “Has she? Did she mention any names?”

  Another shake of the head. “When is it she’s back?”

  “Early next week? I’m not sure.” Suddenly Carole couldn’t wait to see Jude. There was so much she needed to discuss. “Did she tell you where she was going, Ted?”

  She’d felt a sudden pang of jealousy at the thought Ted might have received confidences denied to her. But it was quickly dissipated by his reply. “No. Never gives away much about what she’s up to, does she?”

  “Do you think that’s deliberate?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think Jude deliberately withholds information? That she’s secretive?”

  In the oncoming headlights Carole could see his face screw up as he tried to get the right words for his answer. “No, it’s not deliberate. It’s not devious, certainly. I’m sure if you asked a direct question, she’d give you a direct answer. I think it’s more that Jude has a lot of different parts of her life and she doesn’t really see the necessity for them to overlap.”