by Simon Brett
“No. They didn’t ask me for them. And, anyway, until you asked just now, I had completely forgotten about them. The police do not talk to me for very long. They just ask me what I am doing in the pub till the fight starts. I tell them that I am serving behind the bar all the time. I had forgotten I went to do the lights and took the photographs. Do you think I should ring the police and tell them?”
Jude was faced by a dilemma that had occurred more than once during her amateur investigations.
The correct answer to Zosia’s question was yes. If not necessarily a crime, it was certainly unethical to withhold evidence from the police. On the other hand, Jude desperately wanted to follow up the new information herself.
Without too much of a pang in her conscience, she replied airily, “Oh, I don’t think you have to, Zosia. I’m sure the police are busy with their investigation and have got lots of leads to follow up. I mean, if they get back to you and actually ask whether you took any photographs, then obviously you must tell the truth. Otherwise, if I were you, I wouldn’t bother them.”
Zosia seemed quite content to accept this advice. “Was there anything else, Jude? Because this project I’m working on has to be delivered by the end of next week and – ”
“Yes, there is something else, actually. I know I sound like a complete Luddite, but could you explain to me how I can send the photographs you sent me on to someone else?”
With great forbearance – and not a little amusement – Zosia spelled out the procedure, which was second nature to her generation.
Jude followed the instructions to the letter and sent all four photographs to Kelly-Marie’s mobile. The accompanying text read: “DID ANY OF THESE PEOPLE COME TO SEE RAY IN THE LAST FEW WEEKS?” Jude was glad there was no one watching as she composed the message. She didn’t do much texting, and it was a laborious process for her.
Then, because she was rather impressed by her new skill, she also sent the photographs to Carole’s mobile.
Only ten minutes later Kelly-Marie rang back. “I’m sorry. I’m clumsy with text.”
Join the club, thought Jude. “But do you recognize any of the people? Have you see any of them at Copsedown Hall?”
“Yes, I have seen one,” Kelly-Marie replied carefully.
“Which one?”
“The one with the bad face.”
“You mean the scarred face?”
“Yes.”
“And are you saying he came to Copsedown Hall to see Ray?”
“No,” said Kelly-Marie. “He came here to see Viggo.”
Twenty-Five
When she went round to coffee at High Tor on the Sunday morning, Jude could see that her neighbour’s time with her granddaughter had gone well. There exuded from Carole an air of satisfaction, the feeling of a job well done. And when asked about her babysitting, she couldn’t restrain herself from enthusing about Lily’s charms. “She really responds to me, you know – she definitely knows who I am.”
Jude was always pleased to witness another step in what she had come to regard as the ‘thawing’ of Carole Seddon. But the proud grandmother’s anec-dotage would have to wait for another occasion; there were more urgent things for them to talk about. Quickly Jude brought Carole up to date with the progress she had made the previous day.
“Yes, I got the photographs you sent to my mobile.”
“Lucky Zosia had taken those, wasn’t it, Carole?”
“A very useful record. And you think Viggo’s modelled himself on that man with the scarred face, that that’s his latest incarnation?”
“Yes. It fits with everything that Sally Monks said about his personality.”
“Does that mean you think he killed Ray?”
“I’m not sure. But I am sure that Viggo and the scarred man have information that’ll help us get closer to a solution.”
Carole nodded. “Now I come to think of it, I didn’t see either of them that night at the Crown and Anchor after the fight had started.” Jude looked at her curiously. “I remember looking out for them.”
“So either of them could be in the frame for stabbing Ray?”
“Perhaps. Mind you, in all that chaos it was fairly difficult to see anyone.” Carole shook her head in frustration, then said, “So all we have to do is to find out who the man with the scarred face is.”
“Yes, that’s all we have to do. And I’ve a feeling it may not be easy.”
“Well, come on, what do we know about him?”
“Beyond his physical description – the scarred face, the missing fingers – not a lot.”
“We also know that he’s one of the bikers – or at least he knows the bikers. In fact, from the way he was behaving he seemed like the ringleader of the bikers.”
“Yes, OK, I’ll go along with that. But where did he arrive from? Come to that, where did the rest of the bikers arrive from? Just suddenly they were in Fethering, at the Crown and Anchor, in something that almost felt like an orchestrated plan of sabotage, whose sole purpose was to destroy Ted Crisp’s business. Where did they come from?”
Carole smiled triumphantly as she announced, “Portsmouth.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“You were there at the same time. You should be able to work it out too.”
“Oh, stop being infuriating, Carole. Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Dan Poke’s performance…routine…show…whatever the right word is.”
“‘Act.’”
“Act, all right. Dan Poke’s act. Don’t you remember, he went into a whole sequence about Portsmouth?”
“Yes, it’s coming back to me.”
“And he started by saying he knew there were some people in from Portsmouth, and when he said that there was a big roar from the bikers.”
Jude’s brown eyes sparkled as she caught up with her friend’s train of thought. “Yes, and he talked about some pub, didn’t he? Some rough pub – what was it called?”
Carole’s brow wrinkled. “I can’t remember. Don’t worry, it’ll come to me. Try to remember what else he said in the act about Portsmouth.”
“He said he lost his virginity there, and he said something about the hookers, and…ooh, he did the old ‘arsehole of the world’ joke.”
“Oh yes.” Carole lips pursed into an expression of prim disapproval.
“But you’re right,” said Jude excitedly. “They did respond when Dan mentioned Portsmouth. So that narrows it down. The man with the scarred face comes from Portsmouth.”
Carole smiled beatifically as the memory came back to her. “And he drinks in a pub called the ‘Middy’.”
“Yes, that was it!”
“And a ‘Middy’, of course,” Carole went on with authority, “in a town with naval connections like Portsmouth is almost definitely an abbreviation for ‘Midshipman’.”
“So all we have to do is find the address of the Midshipman pub in Portsmouth.”
“What’s the best way to do that? Directory Enquiries?” asked Carole.
“Be quicker to do it on the Internet.”
“Oh,” said Carole, infusing the monosyllable with the instinctive note of disapproval that came to her whenever computers were mentioned. Then she remembered how much of the previous evening she’d spent on her inherited laptop.
But she didn’t mention her new acquisition to Jude. When Carole Seddon changed – which was something she strongly resisted throughout her life – she did so very gradually. She was embarrassed by revealing the workings of her mind to outsiders. Until she felt absolutely confident and competent in her computer skills, she was determined to maintain her stance of contempt for all such technology.
So the two women went next door to Woodside Cottage, where Jude switched on the laptop she had inherited from a former lover called Laurence Hawker. Carole peered over her shoulder with a mixture of censure and fascination as her friend connected to the Internet and Googled: ‘Midshipman Portsmouth’. In seconds they h
ad an address: Midshipman Inn, Hood Lane, Fratton, Portsmouth.
“See?” said Jude. “Quick, isn’t it?”
Grudgingly Carole agreed that it was indeed quick. Jude grinned. She was way ahead. Though she didn’t know about the laptop already sitting in High Tor, she reckoned it would be a relatively short time before her friend finally succumbed to the magic of the computer. And, once Carole started, there’d be no stopping her.
“Well, Jude, what do we do now?”
“I would say we get to the Midshipman Inn as soon as possible.”
“When?”
“Right this minute.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to go and visit a healer friend this evening, so if we don’t do it now we’ll have to wait till tomorrow.”
Carole looked sceptical. “So what do you propose we do? We drive to Portsmouth, we arrive in the pub on a Sunday afternoon, on the off chance that this scarred man is drinking there. We walk through the crowd of aggressive bikers surrounding him and – then what? Are we accusing him of something? What? Starting last Sunday’s riot at the Crown and Anchor? Having a hand in the killing of Ray Witch-ett? Being a role model for Viggo? I think we need a more definite agenda than that, you know, Jude.”
Her friend looked disappointed. “It’s the only lead we’ve got. There has to be some connection between him and Viggo.”
“Then maybe a better approach might be through Viggo. You’ve at least met him.”
“That’s true. Maybe we’d do better to – ” Jude was interrupted by her mobile ringing. “Oh, hello. How nice to hear you. It was good to see you yesterday. Oh, is he? Well, thank you for the warning. Enjoy your Sunday lunch with your parents. Hope to see you soon. Bye.”
In response to Carole’s interrogative eyebrows, Jude explained, “Kelly-Marie. She rang to tell me that Viggo is coming to see me.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
Jude grinned, knowing how much her answer would annoy Carole. “Synchronicity.”
Twenty-Six
Viggo looked very big amidst the clutter of the Wood-side Cottage sitting room. The loss of his beard and long hair did not seem to have diminished his bulk. His new uniform of camouflage T-shirt and combat trousers made Jude even more aware of his similarity to the scarred man whose photograph she had been looking at so recently. He held his new mobile phone like a badge of office.
Carole had stayed. After all, Jude was not supposed to be expecting her visitor. Besides, she did not particularly want to be alone with Viggo. Though Sally Monks had thought it unlikely that he would be violent, there was still something threatening in his demeanour.
He refused the offer of a drink, and there was a long silence after he sat down. It seemed as though he had only planned as far as getting to Woodside Cottage. What he did when he got there was still being processed in his slow brain.
Eventually he said to Jude, “You came to Copse-down Hall. To see Kelly-Marie.” The accent he used was strange, with a slight American twang, as though it had been borrowed from one of his favourite action movies. It certainly wasn’t the voice he had used when Jude had first met him with Ray in the Copse-down Hall kitchen.
“Yes, I did.”
“You shouldn’t take advantage of her. She’s not very bright.”
Jude was affronted. “I have not taken advantage of her.”
“Then why did you come to see her?”
“Why shouldn’t I come to see her?”
“Was it to talk about Ray?”
“It might have been,” said Jude with an unhelpful smile. She was unwilling to give out any information until she had worked out what had brought him to Woodside Cottage.
“You know Ray died?” said Viggo.
“I don’t think anyone in Fethering could avoid knowing that, Viggo.”
He raised his hand in a gesture borrowed from some movie. “Not Viggo. Call me ‘Chuck’.”
Jude pretended she hadn’t seen the look of exasperation on Carole’s face, as she said, “Very well, Chuck.” She reckoned the new name had probably been lifted from Chuck Norris, star of many martial arts movies.
“Ray had to die,” Viggo⁄Chuck announced portentously.
“What on earth do you mean by that?” asked Carole, who thought she’d been kept out of the conversation far too long.
“Don’t ask questions. Accept reality. Ray’s dead. That’s all there is to it.” His delivery was staccato, but without spontaneity. The words sounded as if they had been practised in front of a mirror.
Carole spoke again. “And do you have any idea who killed him?”
“Lady,” said Viggo, “I told you not to ask questions.”
“Why have you come here?” asked Jude.
“I’ve come to tell you not to meddle in things that don’t concern you.” The menace of what he said was again let down by his delivery. The learned quality of his words diminished the threat they embodied.
“And who’s told you to tell us that?”
“Nobody. Nobody tells Chuck what to do.” He smiled a strange smile which only seemed to work on one side of his face.
“So if you’ve come here on your own initiative, what’s your reason for telling us not to meddle?”
This question patently confused him. Again he gave the impression that he hadn’t prepared fully for this encounter. It was a moment or two before he said, “Don’t meddle. You don’t need to know why.”
“And if we do meddle, as you call it,” asked Carole, “what will happen to us?”
“Don’t go there,” he replied,, “if you want to keep breathing.”
Jude was beginning to have a problem stopping herself from giggling. The young man’s posturing was so inept, his American accent kept slipping and his B-movie dialogue made him almost pathetic. On the other hand, there still was something dangerous about him. Who could say how far he would go in making his fantasies real? It would pay to proceed carefully.
Carole was not held back by any such inhibitions. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she said. “You sound like a hitman from some second-rate thriller.”
The description seemed to flatter him rather than anything. “Hitman? You could be right,” he responded. “Second-rate – never.”
“Are you telling us you are a hitman then?”
He appraised Carole with narrowed eyes, then said, “If I were, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s not a business you brag about. A good hitman doesn’t stand out from the crowd. He takes his instructions, does the job, gets the money and then sinks back into obscurity. All he does then is keep his gun clean and ready.”
“And do you have a gun to keep clean and ready?”
“I wouldn’t tell you that either. Let’s just say, when it becomes necessary, I’ll be tooled up.”
“Where would you get a gun from?” asked Carole with something approaching contempt. “It isn’t the kind of thing that you can just pick up at Fethering Market.”
Her tone annoyed him. “You can get guns if you know the right people. A lot of military stuff got smuggled out of Iraq.”
Carole’s ‘Huh’ showed how unlikely she thought that was.
“What kind of gun have you got?” asked Jude, more gently.
He smiled a strange half-smile, his mouth only curling up one side of his face. “I favour revolvers. With them you can fill your spare time playing Russian roulette.” He laughed as if he’d just made a rather good joke, then looked serious again. “Anyway, like I say, a hitman always sinks back into obscurity. Till the next job comes along.”
“Is that how you operate?” asked Jude.
He gave her a thin smile. “Like I said, hitmen don’t talk about their work. They just hit – hard, efficient, fast.”
“And is it your work as a hitman that makes you worried about my having visited Kelly-Marie yesterday?”
“Just lay off the kid. Ray’s dead. Talking won’t bring him back.”
“No, but it might help find who murdered him.�
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He let out a little cynical laugh he’d heard from some film star. “People who try to find murderers often get murdered themselves.”
“Well, I think that’s a risk we might be prepared to take. Are you actually threatening us?”
“Not threatening. Warning.”
“And if we don’t heed your warnings,” said Carole who was getting a bit sick of Viggo’s play-acting, “what are you going to do to us – go into hitman mode, get out your gun – which you have of course been keeping clean and ready – and blow us away?”
“Don’t joke, lady. You could be playing with fire.”
This got the harrumph it deserved from Carole, but Jude started on another line of questioning. “The thing about hitmen is that they work to order…” Viggo nodded in acknowledgement of this self-evident rule of the profession. “Contracts are taken out on people, and the hitmen fulfil the contracts. Is that how you work, Chuck?” She made the name sound as phoney as it was.
“I didn’t say I was a hitman.”
“No, but you’d like to be one, wouldn’t you?”
This question threw him. His façade of cool dropped just for a moment as he hissed, “Yes. I could do it. I could do that kind of stuff. I have done that kind of stuff.”
“Have you?” asked Carole contemptuously.
“I…I…” He looked confused for a moment, then rescued himself with an old line. “If I had, I wouldn’t tell you. Like I said, hitmen keep quiet about their work.”
“You said earlier,” Carole went on, “that nobody told you what to do.”
“That’s right.”
“Which, if it’s true, must mean that you’re not a hitman. Hitmen, as we’ve established, do exactly what they’re told.”
He was silent for a moment, trying to work out the logic of that. Jude, who had been fiddling with her mobile phone, joined the attack. “So who would you take orders from? It’d have to be someone you respect, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t take orders from someone you didn’t respect, would you?”
“No,” he said cautiously, still not sure where this was all leading.
“So what kind of a man would you respect?”
“Someone who’s tough. Someone who stands up to people. Someone who wouldn’t give away any secrets even under torture.” As he itemized it, this wish-list, so far from Viggo’s own character, sounded pitiful.
