by Simon Brett
Jude couldn’t help herself from bursting out, “Ted Crisp’s standards of hygiene cannot be faulted. He sees to it that that kitchen is kept spotless.”
Will Maples gave her a patronizing smile. “I’ve heard exactly the same thing from every landlord I’ve ever encountered…often in the teeth of the evidence. On occasions even when I have heard the cockroaches being crunched underfoot. Publicans, Jude, are not, generally speaking, the most truthful of individuals.”
“All right,” said Carole. “Let’s put the food-poisoning on one side and move on to the bikers.”
“Bikers?” Will Maples echoed.
“Yes, you know what bikers are?”
“I certainly do.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s rather strange that, just after the Crown and Anchor’s reopened after the food-poisoning business, it suddenly gets invaded by a horde of bikers.”
“I gather,” said Will Maples with a little self-congratulatory smile, “that bikers go where they choose. The life of the open road is what they seek, and which particular drinking hole they favour…well, I’d have thought that was up to them.”
“These particular bikers were an organized rent-a-mob.”
“Organized? By using that word, Mrs Seddon, you imply that there must have been someone doing the organizing.”
“There was.”
“And I don’t suppose by any chance you’ve got a name for that person, have you?” His patronizing tone was now on the verge of being downright rude.
“As a matter of fact, I do. He is an ex-soldier invalided out of Iraq, who lives in Fratton. His name is Derren Hart.”
This time Jude saw an unmistakable twitch of recognition from Dan Poke. And Will Maples too seemed momentarily taken aback by the mention of the name. But he was quickly back into his smooth insolence. “And are you telling me, Mrs Seddon, that this Mr…Hart, was it…has admitted to his involvement in organizing wrecking crews of bikers?”
Carole was forced to admit that he hadn’t.
“So, as with the food poisoning, what you have is a supposition, but no proof to back it up?” He smiled across at the solicitor. “Not the kind of case that would stand up in court, would it, Melissa?”
She agreed, with a pitying look at the two women, that it wouldn’t.
Will Maples’s smile grew broader. “I must congratulate you on the power of your imaginations, ladies. Were there any other allegations against Home Hostelries that you wished to make?”
“I am certain,” said Jude, “that the fight at the Crown and Anchor after Dan Poke’s gig was started deliberately.”
The Acquisitions manager’s neatly suited shoulders shrugged. “Aren’t all fights started deliberately? Someone takes offence at something another person has said or done, they throw a punch. The punch is returned, a fight ensues. I’d say that was deliberate.”
“I mean that Derren Hart and his bikers deliberately started the fight to give the Crown and Anchor a reputation for rowdiness.”
“And, once again, the small matter of proof…? Did your Mr, er, Hart come to you on penitent bended knee to confess his anti-social behaviour?”
Again, Carole could not pretend that he had.
“We seem to be shooting down your allegations at a rate of knots, don’t we, Mrs Seddon? Is there anything else you wish to raise?”
“Just the fact that what’s happening at the Crown and Anchor is a carbon copy of what had happened at the Cat and Fiddle a few months previously.” There was momentary eye contact between the two men at this, but they quickly covered it up. “Shona Nuttall definitely believes that she was bullied into selling her pub at a reduced price.”
“Does she?” said Will Maples.
“And would she be prepared to stand up in court to make that allegation?” asked Melissa Keats.
“No. I think she’s too demoralized by the whole business.”
“Ah,” said the solicitor with something that wasn’t far from satisfaction. She then looked sternly at the two women. “I think, if you have nothing further to add, I should clarify the legal position to – ”
“We do have something further to add,” protested Jude. “We haven’t yet mentioned the biggest allegation of all – the murder of Ray Witchett.”
Will Maples raised a languid eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that one of us stabbed him?”
“No. The murder was done by a friend of his called Viggo.”
“Well, maybe you should be looking for a confession for this Viggo, rather than from us.”
“Viggo is dead.”
“Oh, how unfortunate.”
“As you well know.”
Will Maples gave another shrug, neither confirming nor rebutting her assertion.
“But we believe,” Jude went on, “that Viggo was put up to the stabbing by Derren Hart, who was acting on orders from you!”
That did it. The floor was handed to Melissa Keats, who gave Carole and Jude a very thorough dressing-down. She quoted at them from the laws of slander and defamation. She spelled out to them the dire consequences of their repeating any of their allegations in any forum, public or private. And she left them in no doubt that, if the situation were ever to come to a court of law, the not inconsiderable resources of the Home Hostelries group would be deployed against them.
Carole and Jude left the building feeling like schoolgirls who’d just had many strips torn off them by their headmistress.
Silence reigned in the Renault for the first twenty minutes of the journey back to Fethering. Then Jude announced, “I’m more certain than ever that they did it.”
“I agree,” said Carole. “But how on earth are we going to prove it?”
Thirty-Seven
In the rush to Horsham that morning Jude had omitted to pick up her mobile, which had been on its charger in her bedroom. Presumably Zosia had tried that first, before leaving a message on the Woodside Cottage landline.
It was short and to the point. “Please call me. Ted has decided he’s going to sell the Crown and Anchor.”
Jude summoned Carole, and the two women went down to the pub straight away. No further tidying had been done to the frontage. The place looked boarded-up and condemned. Most lunchtime customers had kept their distance too, like animals steering clear of a dying member of their pack. The only ones who had visited the plague spot were sitting at the tables outside.
Which at least meant Carole and Jude could talk to Zosia in the bar without fear of eavesdroppers. The Polish girl looked exhausted; she had the expression of someone who had tried everything, and none of it had worked. Ed Pollack, who had dealt with the very few lunch orders, lolled against the bar, looking equally dispirited.
Carole’s first question was: “Where is Ted?”
Zosia shrugged. “I don’t know. He was here when we both arrived at ten thirty. That’s when he told us he was selling up.”
“Did he give you any details as to why?” asked Jude.
“He said he’d been fighting a losing battle for too long, and he was sick to death of the whole business. He said there had been an offer on the table for a while, and it was time for him to cut his losses and accept.”
Carole and Jude both felt certain that they knew where the offer had come from, but neither said anything.
“So that’s it,” said Zosia, and a tear glinted in her hazel eye.
Carole tried to reassure her. “Both you and Ed are highly qualified. I’m sure you won’t have any difficulty finding other jobs.”
“That’s not the point,” said the chef gloomily. “I came back down here because my mother was ill. But now she’s on the mend I’m going to stay. Zosia and I like working here. We like working for Ted.”
“Yes,” Zosia agreed. “He’s a…what’s that word you taught me, Jude? Curmudgeon? Yes, Ted’s a curmudgeon and he’s sexist and he’s a bit racist too, but his…what do you say? ‘His heart is in the right place’?” Jude nodded. “I do not like to see him being destroyed like thi
s.”
“And, Zosia, you’ve no idea where he is now?”
“No.”
“He just told us the news,” said the chef, “and then said he had to go out. For a business meeting, I think he said.”
Carole and Jude exchanged looks, knowing that in both of their minds was the same image. Ted Crisp in the gleaming Horsham office of Will Maples, signing over the ownership of the Crown and Anchor to Home Hostelries.
“And you don’t know why suddenly he made the decision?” asked Carole. “Had anything changed? There hadn’t been any new trouble in the pub?”
Zosia shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything.
“It wasn’t anything new,” said Ed Pollack. “At least I don’t think it was. Just an accumulation of all the old stuff. I think mostly he was under pressure from his ex-wife about the divorce. That’s what he implied to me.”
Zosia looked at him curiously as he explained, “He said it this morning while you were putting the chairs out. He said, “She wants her pound of flesh, and the only way I can give it to her is by selling the Crown and Anchor.” I assumed he was talking about his ex-wife.”
“Sounds like it,” said Carole glumly. Then she sighed in exasperation. “All the effort we’ve put in, and we’ve got nothing to show for it. Ted’s going to sell the Crown and Anchor. Oh, I wish there was something we could do!”
“I think the best thing we can do,” said Jude, “is to take advantage of the fact that we’re standing in a pub, and order two large Chilean Chardonnays.”
While they were at it, they decided that they might as well order lunch too. Ed Pollack recommended the Dover sole, ‘nice and light in this hot weather’. They both agreed and went despairingly to sit in one of the shady alcoves. They were silent. Neither of them could think of anything useful to say.
They ate their Dover sole in silence too. It was excellent, but they were both too preoccupied to notice the taste. Another large Chilean Chardonnay each might have lifted their mood, but they both felt too listless to go up to the bar.
Eventually, Carole announced, “So Sylvia has won. She’ll get her divorce settlement – half the proceeds of the sale of the Crown and Anchor or whatever it is – and she’ll be able to marry the odiously boorish Matt, and live happily ever after.”
“Whereas poor old Ted…” Jude didn’t need to finish the sentence.
“Hm. I wonder if Sylvia knows yet about her good fortune…” Carole was thoughtful for a moment, then said, “Maybe I should tell her. Could I borrow your mobile, Jude?”
Her neighbour looked on in astonishment as Carole focused her memory to recall the relevant number and keyed it in.
“Ah, hello, Sylvia. This is Carole Seddon speaking.”
“Carole Seddon?” asked the puzzled, nasal voice.
“The Carole Seddon whom you believe to be the current girlfriend of your ex-husband.”
“Oh yes.” Sylvia contrived to get a lot of contempt into the two syllables.
“I just wondered whether you had heard from Ted.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that he’s decided to sell the Crown and Anchor.”
“Yess!” came the ecstatic hiss from the other end. “A result – hooray! I must tell my solicitor. She’ll be as chuffed as I am.”
“About your solicitor…” Carole began.
“Yes?”
“How did you find her? Personal recommendation? Just going through the Yellow Pages?”
“No. It was a bit of luck, actually. I just had a flyer through my letterbox, saying that there was this solicitor who specialized in divorce where the participants in the marriage have been apart for a long time and, basically, screwing money out of ex-husbands. It came at a time when things were a bit tight financially…”
“When you’d just been kicked out by your double-glazing salesman,” Carole suggested tartly.
“Look, if you’ve only rung up to bitch at me – ”
Carole realized that she should have restrained herself from making the dig, and quickly said, “No, no, no. All I was ringing to say was…well, I suppose to congratulate you…You’ve got what you wanted.”
“I certainly have.”
“Your solicitor sounds quite a powerful person.”
“She certainly is. Really tough. I didn’t reckon I would ever get much out of Ted, but she amazed me with the sort of sums she was talking about. And she’s pretty sure she can run circles round the kind of solicitor Ted’s going to find. She’s very high-powered.”
“She sounds it. A useful contact to have. By the way, for future reference, what’s her name?”
Sylvia Crisp replied, “Melissa Keats.”
Thirty-Eight
“God, is there no end to their dirty tricks?” asked Carole. “They deliberately targeted Sylvia to put even more pressure on Ted. A flyer through the letterbox – I bet hers was the only house in the street that received that delivery. Why would a hot-shot lawyer like Melissa Keats, who’s probably exclusively retained by Home Hostelries, bother with a sordid little divorce case?”
“In the cause of feminist solidarity?” Jude suggested.
“I’m sure that’s how she presented it to Sylvia, but come on, you don’t believe that’s true, do you?”
Jude admitted that she didn’t really, no.
“Ooh, this is so frustrating!” Carole pressed her knuckles hard against her forehead. “We’ve now got yet another definite link between Home Hostelries and the harassment of Ted Crisp, and yet we still don’t have a shred of proof! I just can’t think of anything else we can do. I suppose we could try to find Derren Hart again, see if we can get anything more out of him, though I very much doubt if he’ll talk to us. He certainly won’t if he’s had a warning call from Will Maples or Dan Poke. But what else can we do?”
“One thing I could do,” said Jude, “is to have a word with Kelly-Marie. I haven’t talked to her since the day Viggo died. She might have some news from Copsedown Hall. I mean, the police must’ve been there investigating Viggo’s death, apart from anything else. It’s worth trying.”
She rang through. Kelly-Marie had done a morning shift at the retirement home that day. She was back at home. And she’d love to see Jude.
♦
“The policemen talked to me a lot about Viggo,” said the girl. They were once again in her neat flat with all its dog pictures and figurines.
Jude had noticed on the landing that the young man’s room was still sealed off with scene-of-crime tape. “Did the police let you stay here while they were investigating?”
“They said it’d be better if I went to my parents. Then they called this morning to say I could come back if I wanted to. And I did want to. I like it here. I like it at Mummy and Daddy’s too, but here I’m more independent.”
Jude was amazed by the girl’s calm. Here she was in a flat right next door to the scene of a particularly messy death, and yet she seemed to have a method of processing shock that would be the envy of other, more traditionally ‘normal’ people.
“Did you get any impression of what the police thought about Viggo’s death?”
“They thought he was playing a game of Russian roulette.” She spoke the words carefully, as if she had only recently learned them.
“But they didn’t say whether they thought he’d been playing it on his own?”
“I didn’t know more than one person could play Russian roulette.” The girl’s broad earnest face looked puzzled. Clearly the idea hadn’t entered her head that anyone else might have been involved in Viggo’s death.
“Did you tell the police about the man with the scarred face coming to see Viggo?”
“Oh yes. I told them about both times he came.”
“Both times? You told me he came here before Ray died, but when was the other time?”
“He came that evening, the evening Viggo died.”
Jude’s brown eyes sparkled with amazement. “Really? And was he still her
e when you heard the shot?”
Kelly-Marie shook her head. “No, he had left about half an hour earlier. I was in the kitchen when he went. He talked to me.”
Jude’s mind was racing as she pieced the scenario together. Derren Hart had come to see Viggo, primed him with beer and put the suggestion of Russian roulette into that most suggestible of minds. He had also perhaps loaded the revolver, telling the poor deluded victim that Russian roulette should be played with all the chambers full, or maybe only one empty. The ex-soldier hadn’t actually done the killing, but he had set it up.
But surely he hadn’t done it off his own bat? Derren Hart must have been obeying orders, just as surely as Viggo had obeyed orders to kill Ray. A trail of orders which had to lead back – though probably not in a way that could be traced – to Will Maples at Home Hostelries.
Suddenly Jude remembered details of Viggo’s rambling fantasies, tough-guy talk about orders arriving by text on a mobile phone, the mobile phone being jettisoned and the job done. Was that how he had received the order to kill Ray? And maybe, after Derren Hart’s visit, it had been another text message that had finally persuaded him to pull the trigger of the revolver pointing at his temple?
Hard on the heels of that came another recollection, of something Kelly-Marie had said, about how Viggo had always been throwing away perfectly good stuff, clothes and things, as he underwent his latest makeover. And how the girl had salvaged some of his cast-offs and taken them to the Oxfam shop.
Scarcely daring to hope that her intuition was right, and yet at the same time robustly confident, Jude asked, “Kelly-Marie, did you ever see Viggo throw away a mobile phone?”
“Yes, I did,” came the most welcome of replies.
“When?”
“It was a Sunday. I remember. Because I’d been to have lunch with Mummy and Daddy and they’d just dropped me back here.”
