The Fethering Mysteries 10; The Poisoning in the Pub tfm-10

by Simon Brett

  A note of caution came into Shona Nuttall’s eyes. “I didn’t deal with anyone in particular. The sale of the Cat and Fiddle was all done through my solicitors.”

  “But you mentioned there had been offers for the pub from Home Hostelries before. Were none of those direct to you?”

  She shook her head and reiterated, “All through the solicitors.”

  Carole and Jude both had the instinct that she was lying, but they couldn’t see any way of making her reveal information she was determined to withhold. In both their minds the same thought arose: that whoever Shona Nuttall had dealt with at Home Hostelries, he or she had really put the frighteners on her. The ex-landlady wasn’t going to risk further trouble by giving them a name.

  But there was one other detail that could be checked. Jude got out her mobile and found the photograph Zosia had taken on the comedy night at the Crown and Anchor. “About these bikers who came…” she held out the picture of Derren Hunt “…was this man with them?”

  Shona Nuttall looked at the image with distaste. “Yes, he used to come. Was one of the ringleaders, I think.”

  “Did you ever find out his name?”

  “Good heavens, no!” The very idea shocked her.

  “Or speak to him?”

  “I may have served him a drink. I certainly never had a conversation with him.”

  Jude clicked on to another photo, the one which featured Viggo, and proffered it to Shona. “Do you recognize him?”

  The ex-landlady shrugged. “Looks vaguely familiar. But I couldn’t be sure. That lot in their leather gear…” she shuddered at the recollection “…they all looked alike to me.”

  “And what about the small man beside him?”

  No, she had never seen Ray Witchett before. She hadn’t seen photos of him on television or in the papers either. Carole and Jude got the impression that not much news filtered through into the velvet fastness of that Southwick bungalow.

  There was a silence. Shona puffed away at her cigarette as though her life depended on it. She looked pathetic, broken and alone. Neither Carole nor Jude had warmed to her in her former brassy mode, but it was sad to see any human being so reduced. The Cat and Fiddle had not just been her business; it had been her family, her whole existence.

  There was one more question Carole wanted to ask, though. “Did you ever do comedy nights at the pub?”

  “No,” came the reply. “Our country and western evenings were very popular. And our quiz nights. But I never liked the idea of comedy nights. Comedians these days are so vulgar, aren’t they? Scattering four-letter words about like nobody’s business. That wasn’t the sort of thing that would have appealed to the kind of clientele I wanted to frequent the Cat and Fiddle.”

  “But did anyone ever suggest to you that you might do a comedy night?”

  “Well, it’s funny you should ask that, actually. I did have a call…oh, last autumn I suppose it was…from quite a well-known comedian, offering to start a series of comedy nights for me. I said no, because I’d seen him on television and he was rather vulgar there, so what he might have been like in a pub I really didn’t like to imagine. But I was surprised by the call, because he really was quite a big name.”

  Carole and Jude both felt pretty sure they knew the answer, but they still had to ask the question.

  “His name,” Shona Nuttall replied, “was Dan Poke.”

  ∨ The Poisoning in the Pub ∧

  Thirty-Three

  Surprisingly, it was Carole’s idea to Google Home Hostelries. When they got back to Woodside Cottage from Southwick, their tiredness had gone and they were both keen to get on with their investigation.

  “I mean, we do now have a direct connection,” said Jude excitedly. “The campaign against Shona Nuttall at the Cat and Fiddle started in exactly the same way as what’s happened to Ted at the Crown and Anchor.”

  “But it didn’t lead to murder there.”

  “That might just be because Shona Nuttall cracked earlier and accepted the reduced offer.”

  “I’d put any money on the fact that Ted’s also had approaches from Home Hostelries. If only he’d talk to us…”

  “We need to find out more about the company.”

  And it was then that Carole had suggested using Google. Jude was amazed that Carole Seddon, who had at times almost made a religion of her techno-phobia, was actually suggesting using a computer as a resource. What’s more, she appeared familiar with both the language and the use of computers. Jude grinned inwardly. She had known the moment would come; it had only been a matter of time. But she made no comment, as she booted up her laptop and found the Google screen. “Would you like to take over?” she offered.

  “Oh, very well,” said Carole, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  She keyed in Home Hostelries and looked at the options thrown up. There were plenty of links to individual pubs, pub guides, restaurant and tourism sites. “What we really need is their home page. See if we can get any relevant names.”

  “What, Carole? Are you planning to confront their managing director with accusations of planning a wrecking campaign against Shona Nuttall and Ted Crisp?”

  Carole took no notice of the irony in her neighbour’s voice as she replied, “If necessary.”

  Their search took quite a while, and they went up many blind alleys into promising websites which all recommended – ‘The Home Hostelries hospitality experience – graceful drinking and gourmet dining – both available in our personally selected character pubs. Special occasion, family celebration or just a friendly drink to unwind at the end of the day – whatever it is you’re looking for, you’ll find it in a Home Hostelries pub.’

  But eventually they got to a home page for the company. Carole clicked on the ‘About Us’ tab and found a potted history of Home Hostelries. It was a tale of continuing growth over a relatively short period. Founded in Horsham by two young entrepreneurs who had bought up three West Sussex pubs in the early 1990s, they had continued to add to their portfolio at an accelerating rate. Soon it was not just individual premises they were buying up, but other small chains and breweries. Shona Nuttall had mentioned Snug Pubs and the Foaming Flagon Group, but they were only two of many. Though its headquarters remained in Horsham, the Home Hostelries brand had spread from West Sussex to adjacent counties, and was now expanding into the West Country and East Anglia. New purchases were even taking its reach north of London and into the Midlands. They were also moving away from their base of country pubs and into urban premises (of which presumably the Middy in Fratton was an example). The website left no doubt that Home Hostelries was rapidly becoming one of the country’s largest hospitality chains.

  The names of the two successful entrepreneurs from Horsham who had set the whole thing in motion were unfamiliar to the two women crouched over the laptop. “Let’s see if we can find a list of directors somewhere,” said Carole.

  It didn’t take long. Again, most of the names meant nothing. One did, though.

  Richard Farrelly.

  The real name of the comedian Dan Poke.

  “Of course, the name under which he wrote his autobiography.” Carole sounded disappointed, illogic-ally feeling that she should have made the connection before. “But how’re we going to contact him? Through his agent?”

  “I’ve got his number,” said Jude.

  “How on earth have you got that?”

  “When I first met him in the Crown and Anchor, he gave cards to me and Zosia.”

  “Why?”

  “I think the implication was that if either of us fancied him, we should give him a call and he would be generous enough not to kick us out of bed.”

  “What?” Carole looked appalled. “Surely no men actually behave like that, do they?”

  “Some do. The thick-skinned type who don’t care what people think of them. It’s partly a joke, partly trying it on. A persona they’re trying to project. Particularly in showbiz. There are a lot of wo
men out there who’re…turned on by celebrity.” Jude had been going to use a less decorous phrase, but avoided it out of consideration for Carole’s sensibilities. “And men like that do get their offers taken up just often enough to make it worth their while. Happens a lot in the music world too…Encourages the bad-boy image. You know, there are still groupies out there looking to add a famous name to their list.”

  “Are there?” Carole pondered this. “Erm…you’ve never been a groupie, have you?”

  “Not exactly,” replied Jude, simply for the devilment of watching her neighbour’s reaction. And maybe adding one more to the manifold mysteries of her past.

  Awkwardly, Carole moved the subject on. “Well, I find it most odd. I thought celebrities were meant to guard their privacy, not give out their home phone numbers to all and sundry.”

  “The number I’ve got won’t be his landline. It’s probably a mobile he keeps just for the purpose of women ringing him. His totty hotline.”

  That drew a predictable wince from Carole.

  “Anyway,” Jude announced, “I’m going to ring him. See if he does want to meet.”

  “Isn’t that rather dangerous…I mean, if he’s involved in the kind of thing we think he may be involved in?”

  “I won’t agree to meet him anywhere except a public place of my choosing. Treat it like it was a blind date, you know, meeting someone through online dating.”

  “Have you ever actually done that, Jude?” asked Carole, her eyes owlishly large behind the rimless glasses.

  “Not very often,” came the mischievous reply.

  “Oh. Well, I think you’ll be taking a big risk meeting Dan Poke – or Richard Farrelly or whatever he’s called. And if it’s sex he’s after, as you suggest, though he may agree to meet you in a pub, he’s not going to want to stay in the pub, is he? He’s going to want to take you back to his place.”

  “Carole, I am quite capable of saying ‘No’ to men. It’s something in which I have had a lot of experience.”

  “Have you?” said Carole rather wistfully. She had always felt that with most men her looks had said ‘No’ long before any verbal response had become necessary.

  “Anyway, come on, Carole, we both want to get to the bottom of what’s been going on. We want to find out if there really has been an organized campaign of harassment against the Cat and Fiddle and the Crown and Anchor. We also want to know who killed Ray and Viggo. And do we have any other leads at the moment apart from talking to Dan Poke?”

  Carole was forced to concede that they didn’t.

  “Then I’ll call him.”

  “Yes. Erm…Jude, you don’t think you should suggest that I should come and meet him as well, do you?”

  “For the kind of encounter he’s envisaging, I don’t think he’d want a gooseberry there, no.”

  Carole Seddon blushed.

  ♦

  Dan Poke didn’t answer the phone, but he rang back later in response to the message. Yes, he remembered Jude. If she wanted to meet up with him – “That could be quite enjoyable.” He was starting ‘a little mini-tour of gigs’ on the Wednesday, but he would be free the next evening. He’d got a flat at Notting Hill. If she got out of the tube station and went along Pembridge Road –

  Jude interrupted him and suggested they meet in a bar she knew just near the tube station. He came up with predictable lines about how difficult he found being in public places, how ordinary people regarded celebrities as common property. Jude insisted; they would meet in the bar or not at all. Dan Poke seemed eventually to be amused by what he took as a show of coyness on her part, but he did agree to meet her there at six-thirty the following evening.

  As soon as she had finished that call, she rang through to the bar which was to be their rendezvous. It was a place she had often frequented in the company of an actor with whom she’d lived in Notting Hill for a couple of years. She was relieved when the phone was answered by a voice she recognized. Yes, it was Garcia, and he was still running the place. And of course he remembered Jude. Was she still with…? Silly man, said Garcia, always was rather immature, didn’t realize what he was giving up.

  It would be wonderful to see her the following evening. Jude was always welcome at Garcia’s place. And yes, though they weren’t the same individuals, his bouncers were as tough as they had ever been.

  Jude put the phone down, confident that her security was in place for the following evening’s meeting.

  ∨ The Poisoning in the Pub ∧

  Thirty-Four

  Jude was going to catch the first cheap train up to Victoria the next morning. When she heard this plan, Carole had objected, “But you’re not meeting him till the evening.”

  “No, but there’s some shopping I want to do.”

  “What? Clothes?” In Carole’s view, it wouldn’t hurt if her neighbour bought some different clothes, to make herself look a bit less of a hippy. Though, mind you, she didn’t have to go up to London to do that. The Marks & Spencer’s in Worthing would, in Carole’s view, have been perfectly adequate.

  But no, Jude said it wasn’t clothes. What then? It was with an impish grin that Jude revealed that there were some shops round Covent Garden she wanted to look at. They specialized in crystals.

  “Oh,” said Carole dismissively. “Well, I suppose if you want to spend a steaming hot day traipsing round Covent Garden looking at crystals…”

  In her neighbour’s absence, Carole felt restless. As a result, Gulliver got an extra walk, which he was almost too hot to appreciate. And he had the dressing changed on his leg, which had nearly healed. But Carole still felt ill at ease. Even though she had found a rather good free online computer course, her attention kept straying from the screen. She was keen to learn more about the mysteries of the laptop, which she no longer even pretended to resist, but she just couldn’t sustain her concentration.

  Partly, she knew that she was a little jealous of Jude. Carole Seddon had amazingly sensitive antennae for slights, particularly in the area of criminal investigation. Although she fully accepted the logic of Jude’s meeting Dan Poke on her own, she didn’t like feeling excluded from any part of their enquiry.

  There was also an unease in her mind, similar to that which Jude had felt over the weekend, a sense that there was something obvious she wasn’t seeing. There was another connection to be made somewhere in relation to the deaths of Ray and Viggo, but she couldn’t for the life of her work out what it was.

  It was in the early evening, after a long, hot and frustrating day, that the lightbulb finally came on in Carole Seddon’s brain. She had once again Googled Home Hostelries and was ploughing through the endless links offered when she came to a reference to another local pub.

  The Hare and Hounds in Weldisham. Of course! That had been made over in exactly the same way as the Middy in Portsmouth. And in fact it had been in the Hare and Hounds that she’d first heard the words Home Hostelries some years before. It must have been one of the first pubs bought by the chain.

  Carole decided that she would take Gulliver for yet another walk, this time on the Downs near Weld-isham. And then she would have a drink in the Hare and Hounds. She didn’t know what she was expecting to find there, but it was the nearest place with a Home Hostelries connection. And going there would give her the illusion of contributing as much as Jude to their investigation.

  ♦

  The bar run by Garcia had been exclusive before Notting Hill attained maximum trendiness, and it had become more exclusive as the area became richer. The decor hadn’t changed in all that time; it was still predominantly black, the contours broken up by darkly tinted mirrors and the gleaming steel of the bar.

  A famous television actress was sharing a bottle of wine – and by the appearance of their intimacy would soon be sharing more – with a very recognizable Newsnight anchor. They were relaxed; they knew no publicity stories ever made their way out of the club. Jude congratulated herself on her choice of venue.

  Garcia gr
eeted her like a long-lost sister and, once she had caught up with news of his very extended family, Jude took her drink to a shadowy corner table and sat down to wait for Dan Poke.

  ♦

  While she was walking an ecstatic Gulliver on the Downs near Weldisham, Carole asked herself why she had come there. And the only answer she could come up with was the feeble one of ‘instinct’. Oh dear, she was beginning to think like Jude. Next thing she’d be talking about the ‘auras’ and ‘atmospheres’ of places, about ‘synchronicity’ and other mumbo-jumbo.

  But something still told her she was right to have come to the village. Going to another Home Hostel-ries pub might provide some clue, some connection to ease the confusion of her speculations. The trip was a form of research.

  There were already quite a few customers at the pub, but because of the heat most of them were sitting at tables outside. The wine list was, of course, identical to that they had consulted in the Middy, so Carole once again ordered Maipo Valley Chardonnay. She went for a small one this time, righteous because she was driving.

  The girl who served her, purple-haired, nose-studded and wearing a mulberry shirt with grey logo across the breast, was perfectly friendly, but not much use as a research source. She handed over the change and Carole had just started on, “I used to come to this pub a long time ago…” when the girl said, “Sorry, I must serve that customer over there.” Carole took her drink to a table near the bar.

  ♦

  “Hello, darling.” Dan Poke arrived in the bar and, as he kissed Jude full on the lips, he squeezed the flesh of her waist. He confirmed she was all right for a drink – she had hardly touched hers – and moved towards the bar.

  “One of the girls will take your order,” said Jude.

  “Oh. Right.” He came to sit opposite her. Jude felt she had scored a small victory. Dan Poke clearly hadn’t been to the club before, and he did look slightly ill at ease in the unfamiliar environment. Jude had a minimal territorial advantage.

  He was dressed in grubby jeans and T-shirt. The grey ponytail hung lankly, greasy with sweat, and there was thick stubble round the square of his beard. He’d certainly not made any effort to smarten himself up for her. Once again, Jude was struck by what an unattractive man he was.