by Simon Brett
“Anyway, enough about masculine inadequacy. And, talking of masculine inadequacy, you may have gathered from that crap introduction I was given by Ted Crisp that I am Dan Poke. Poke by name…” he leered “…and if any of you fit young chicks’d like to put it to the test by coming round the back afterwards you’ll find out I’m also Poke by nature. So anyone…” he timed the pause expertly “‘…Fancy a Poke’?”
The catchphrase brought in its predictable harvest of delirious recognition. Jude, as the recipient of one of his come-on cards, wondered whether he did actually get many offers of sex backstage after gigs. Comedy had been described as ‘the new rock ‘n’ roll’, so maybe it had its groupies too.
As the laughter and applause began to die, the comedian went on, “It’s no fun, you know, being born with a name that’s a four-letter word.” His face took on an expression of piety. “Now I hope nobody out here is offended by four-letter words…” Then looked round at his audience in dismay and said, “Oh, fuck!” The younger and more drunken contingent gave an automatic laugh at the word. The older Crown and Anchor regulars were silent.
Carole and Jude exchanged looks. Carole was trying not to look shocked, but she couldn’t help herself looking disapproving. Jude, who wasn’t particularly bothered by the language, found herself musing on the development of comedy, and how endlessly it could regenerate itself. The ‘alternative’ comedians of the nineteen seventies, though seeming revolutionary with their political stances, their four-letter words and their opening-up of taboo subject matter, were in a direct line of descent from the music-hall comics they so derided. When young, many of that new wave had studiously removed the traditional element of charm from their acts, but with age most of them softened into lovable quiz-show hosts. Someone like Dan Poke traded on his reputation as an enfant terrible, in just the same way that Max Miller had done for an earlier generation. Any affront that he caused was now a very safe kind of affront.
Jude recognized exactly the kind of man Dan Poke was, brash on the exterior, a mass of anxieties and paranoia inside. She had once had a long relationship with a comedian. It had been the most dispiriting part of what had been generally speaking an upbeat life.
“Actually,” the comedian went on, “I was talking to my old mate Ted Crisp about this gig earlier this evening, and he asked me if I could moderate my language for the fine folk of Fethering. He said, ‘Dan, Dan, cut out all the four-letter words.’ I said to him, ‘Ted, if I cut out all the four-letter words, I won’t have any fucking act left!’” Another knee-jerk laugh from the young.
“You all know Ted Crisp, don’t you? He’s the guy who gave me that crap introduction – you know, looks like a brush that’s been down the toilet a few times too often. Last time I saw something that furry round the edges, it was bit of cheese I’d left in the fridge for a month.
“I’ve known led since we were on the stand-up circuit together. He saw the light, mind you, and gave it up – good thing too. God, you think my act’s crap – you should have heard Ted’s. There’ve been funnier lines than his queuing up in chapels of rest.
“So Ted became a publican – here in the Crown and Anchor, in Fethering – the Jewel of the Costa Geriatrica. Do you know, there’s only one day of the week when you can tell if a resident of Fethering is alive. Thursday – yeah, some of them move then. And if one doesn’t go and collect his pension, then you know he’s snuffed it.
“Still, Ted’s done wonders with this pub. He’s made it one of the premier tourist destinations on the south coast – ’ Dan Poke paused and grinned wickedly – ’ …for people who want to get food poisoning…”
Carole and Jude glanced nervously across to the landlord. He looked as if he’d been slapped in the face.
“Actually,” Dan Poke continued, “I haven’t had food poisoning for a long time – not since I last had a meal cooked by Ted Crisp, as it happens. Ooh, how embarrassing that was. ‘Cause I got lucky that night and I got this girl in bed with me…like I said, ladies, Poke by name and…Anyway, I was at it with this chick and suddenly…the food poisoning hit me! Honestly, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going!
“Tell you, it’s hard to maintain the old romantic atmosphere when you’ve got this great spout of shit coming out your arse. Also it was in her bed. Dead embarrassing. I always like to feel I’ve left my mark on a woman, but not like that. I met the same girl again at a club quite recently. I said, ‘Do you remember me?’ She said, ‘Oh yes. I may not be any good with names, but I never forget faeces!’”
This joke was a bit too subtle for the younger audience. The older ones, who got it, didn’t laugh. But that didn’t slow down the irrepressible Dan Poke. He was into his riff about the poisoned scallops, and nothing was going to deflect him from it. “Nasty business, food poisoning, though, isn’t it? Like a seriously unfunny version of a woman-in-bed-with-two-men sandwich – getting it both ends. The shits and the vomiting. You have to be a bloody contortionist to sit on the lav and bend over it at the same time!
“Ooh – bit of advice about vomiting. Serious bit – ‘author’s message’.” He paused and took on an expression of mock-seriousness. “‘Never throw up into the wind…’ though, mind you, it is a way of getting your own back!
“Anyway, enough about food poisoning…” Thank God, thought Carole and Jude. But, of course, he couldn’t leave it there. “Food poisoning – which is of course the Crown and Anchor’s signature dish – followed of course by a signature dash to the loo!”
Under his beard Ted Crisp’s face was contorted with fury.
Dan Poke looked around at his audience as if for the first time. “So who’ve we got in tonight? Well, I know we’ve got some people from Fethering, I can recognize them by that look on their faces – it’s called rigor mortis. You know how you can tell the corpse from the guests at a Fethering funeral? The answer is: you can’t.
“And I know we’ve got some people from Portsmouth in tonight.” His words were greeted by a raucous roar from the leather-clad brigade. “Bloody Middy crowd. I used to drink there. Used to be very rough – tell you, the tarts were so dirty they didn’t carry condoms for their punters – just masks. And God knows what the landlord did to the beer, but you’d get waterlogged there before you got drunk.”
The bikers continued to guffaw as the comedian went on. “Ah. Portsmouth. Happy times. You know, I lost my virginity in Portsmouth…Well, I say ‘lost it’ – I think, being Portsmouth, it got nicked. Of course, Portsmouth is a naval town. Funny word, isn’t it? When you hear it, you think of belly buttons. Mind you, I’ve never heard Portsmouth described as the navel of the world…though I have heard it described as the arsehole of the world!” Those members of the audience for whom rude words didn’t need to have jokes attached roared their appreciation. “Actually, that’s not my view, it was said to me by some git I met at a gig in Portsmouth. He said, “Portsmouth is the arsehole of the world.” I said to him, “Oh yes, and are you just passing through?””
It took some of the crowd a moment or two to get that one, but when they did, they screamed and burst into applause. Jude, who’d heard the line many times before, reflected again on comedy as the perfect examplar of recycling. No joke was too old to be pressed into service. Dusted down, freshened up with a topical reference, given extra punch by a four-letter word, and there was still going to be someone out there who hadn’t heard it before. Anyway, for fans of comedy, originality is often less important than familiarity. Many school playgrounds have echoed to bad impersonations and lines from The Goon Show, Monty Python, Blackadder, The Office or whatever the hit of the moment happened to be. And the people who buy all those comedy CDs and DVDs clearly have a taste for endlessly rewatching their favourites.
So Jude wasn’t at all surprised when at one point in his set, Dan Poke did a riff on dogs that could have been delivered by any comedian of the past fifty years – and probably longer. “I had a dog once,” he began. “Not a complete dog, you understand.
No, he’d been neutered. Oh, come on, I believe in calling a spayed a spayed. And I took my dog for a walk in the woods – stopped between four trees. He was so confused he didn’t have a leg to stand on. But my dog liked walks – nothing he enjoyed better than going for a tramp in the woods. Made all the tramps bloody furious, though.”
And so Dan Poke’s gig at the Crown and Anchor, Fethering, continued.
Twelve
“Any time I can help out an old mate,” said Dan Poke unctuously, thrusting out his hand to Ted through the back window of the limousine, “you know I’m more than happy to.”
“Help out?” thought Carole, who was standing defensively close behind the landlord in the milling crowd. ‘Stitch up’, more like. She looked around for Jude, but they’d got separated in the mass of sweating bodies.
Ted looked very uncomfortable as he took the proffered hand. “No, it’s been great, Dan. Can’t thank you enough. We’ll meet up again soon for a relaxed beer, eh?”
The comedian detached his hand with a dismissive, “Sure, sure.”
“Hard to get at you through all your panting fans.” The new voice belonged to the tall man who was so infuriatingly familiar to Carole.
Dan Poke grinned. “Saw you in the audience, William, but didn’t get a chance to say anything.” At least she now had a first name for him.
The man called William chuckled. “Having heard what you said about other people, I think I got off lightly.” The line seemed so obviously a reference to Ted that the landlord looked even more wretched.
“Anyway, great show, as ever,” the tall man continued, oozing automatic bonhomie. “I must be on my way, but we’ll be in touch. Eh?” And he melted away towards his pale blue BMW.
“I’d better get moving too.” Dan Poke leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of this shithole. And be careful you don’t run over any screaming fans on the way out. That really would be bad publicity.” He grinned his crooked grin back at Ted. “Almost as bad as everyone getting food poisoning.” And the limousine’s electric window moved upwards as the car glided gently away from the Crown and Anchor.
Ted Crisp couldn’t hold in his feelings any longer. “Bastard!” he whispered on a long breath of pain. “Bastard!”
“I agree,” said Jude, who had caught up with them through the milling throng, “but look on the bright side.” She indicated the huge crowd, who still seemed unwilling to make their way home. None of the motorbikes in the car park had moved. It was as if their owners were biding their time until the moment of maximum annoyance for the residents of Fethering. “At least you’ll have made some money, Ted, from all this lot.”
“Oh yes?” he asked cynically. “I don’t think there’ll be much left when I’ve paid off Dan.”
“But I thought he was doing the show for nothing,” Carole objected.
“Oh yes, the show. No, the generous-hearted Dan Poke, television’s Mr Lovable, didn’t ask for any fee. Just expenses…”
Jude caught on to the implication of this before Carole did. “You mean, the limousine?”
Ted Crisp nodded savagely and turned towards her. Jude got a blast of Famous Grouse into her face. Oh no, had he tried to anaesthetize his humiliation with whisky? “Yes,” said Ted. “Mind you, the limousine’s only taking him to Brighton, where he’s booked in overnight at the Hotel Du Vin – apparently he’s got some woman set up there – and then the limousine will take him tomorrow morning back up to his pad in London. All that on expenses.”
“But how much is it all going to cost?” asked Carole, appalled.
“Certainly more than I’ll get for all the pints I’ve pulled this evening. And, of course, he’s cleaned up on selling all his books and DVDs and other tat. No, our Mr Poke is a very smooth operator.”
It was not Carole Seddon’s custom to use strong language, but she couldn’t help herself from echoing Ted’s “Bastard!”
They might have got further into the perfidious economics of charity work, but they were interrupted by the sound of a beer bottle smashing. Before they had had time to react, there was another smash and a great welling of feral shouting from the crowd. A fight had started. The bikers were pushing to get as near as possible to the action, and the Fethering residents as far away. They bumped into each other and more drunken blows were thrown. The steamy heaviness of the July day had erupted into full-scale violence.
“God, this is all I bloody need!” said Ted Crisp, before throwing himself into the mêlée. His intention was to separate the combatants, but the tensions of the day – not to mention the large amounts of Famous Grouse he had ingested – meant that he swung his fists as ferociously as any of them.
“No,” murmured Carole. “If Ted gets himself arrested for being in a fight, he’s finished.”
It was almost impossible to see what was going on. The outside coach lamps of the Crown and Anchor had been smashed as soon as the violence started, and into the strips of light thrown out by the open doors heaving masses of bodies swayed and rushed to and fro, arms, beer bottles and chairlegs flying. Windows had been smashed, window-boxes ripped from their fittings and hurled about. Shouting, grunting filled the air. Shafts of light revealed splashes of blood on summer T-shirts. Knives had been drawn.
Jude looked around, wondering whether the scarred man or Viggo had initiated the violence, but she could see no sign of either of them in the struggling mêlée. Like all fights, this one was ugly and incompetent, but that didn’t stop people from getting hurt.
Even before the whine of a police siren was heard, Jude had pulled her neighbour by the hand and whispered urgently, “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“But led…” Carole murmured pitifully. “led…”
Jude dragged her away. By now the police Panda was in the car park, blue lights strobing across the chaos. “Round the back way,” hissed Jude. As they moved, they heard the first roar of a motorbike engine starting. The leather-clad brigade weren’t planning to stay to be interviewed by the police. Other engines roared and throbbed in the night air.
It was a momentary shock to realize that the motorbikes were coming in their direction. Rather than risking being stopped at the entrance to the Crown and Anchor car park, the bikers were going to make good their getaway across the dunes. Carole and Jude shrank against the back of the pub as the cavalcade thundered past. Incongruously, in their midst, also making its off-road escape, was a silver Smart car. Its tiny bubble of a body bounced dangerously on the uneven surface as it surged towards the freedom of the coast road.
From somewhere on the seaward side of the pub came the sound of running footsteps departing across the shingle at the top of the beach.
The door to the kitchen was open, letting out a very white rectangle of light on to the rough dune grass. Approaching, Carole and Jude saw there was someone standing in the doorway. As he turned to rush inside, they saw the anguish on Ed Pollack’s face. And the blood spattered down the front of his white chefs jacket.
Unblocked by his shadow, the shaft of light was stronger still. It illuminated a small body lying on its back.
The T-shirt retained its newly purchased creases, but some of the white letters of ‘Fancy a Poke?’ were now red. From Ray’s still chest protruded the white handle of a kitchen knife.
Thirteen
Carole Seddon was faced with an ethical dilemma which challenged everything she had accepted as gospel when she worked in the Home Office. She and Jude had discovered Ray’s body. They were possibly the first people to discover Ray’s body. And as such, they had a duty to tell the police what they had seen.
On the other hand, part of her – a part encouraged into unethical behaviour by Jude, who didn’t suffer from such niceties of conscience – didn’t want to tell the police anything. This part of her produced the very convincing, but casuistic, argument that the police had got quite enough on their plates with their investigation into Ray’s death. They didn’t need the interfer
ence of two middle-aged women. If someone who’d seen them at the Crown and Anchor had suggested the police should interview them, then that would be different. In those circumstances they would of course cooperate. But she and Jude didn’t want to be responsible for adding to the workload of the investigating officers.
Carole felt considerably relieved – and rather virtuous – when she had reached this conclusion.
When she and Jude discussed what they had witnessed that evening, they found that at every turn they faced unanswered questions.
Where had the bikers come from? Where did they go back to after their getaway across the dunes of Fethering Beach? Come to that, who was in the Smart car that escaped by the same route?
But the most important question of all was: who had killed Ray?
From circumstantial evidence, the obvious conclusion was that Ed Pollack was the perpetrator. The knife was from his kitchen. They had seen him covered in blood. The easy solution would appear to be that Ed Pollack had done it. But surely that couldn’t be true? For a start, what motive did the chef have?
Carole and Jude both had the feeling that the murder was part of a bigger campaign, a campaign that was being waged against the landlord of the Crown and Anchor.
♦
Ted Crisp looked out of place in the Seaview Café. In fact, it struck Carole for the first time, he looked out of place everywhere except behind the counter of his pub. That, she suddenly realized, had been one of the problems with their brief relationship. Ted felt awkward going to restaurants for meals, he’d always rather be at his home base, but sitting at the bar of the Crown and Anchor had never been Carole Seddon’s idea of an evening out. Which was one of the many reasons why the affair was doomed to failure.
