by Ann Granger
"Course I remember! He had the cheapest thing on the menu. That was the arrangement I had with Miss Oakley. He had the pasta with basil, tomato and mozzarella. There was nothing wrong with that.' Her eyes narrowed. 'What did he die of?'
'We think he was poisoned,' admitted Pearce.
'Poisoned!' yelled Mrs Forbes into his face and this time Pearce did dodge back. The Jack Russell, which had retreated under the nearest table as the landlady approached, now scuttled out of the open front door. Pearce wished he could do the same.
'No one,' Mrs Forbes was breathing heavily, her splendid bosom bouncing up and down like a couple of marker buoys on a choppy sea, 'no one in my entire life has ever accused me of poisoning anyone with my cooking or with any food served in any establishment I've run. I've been in this business since I was nineteen! DarrenV
The cleaner rushed forward obediently. 'Yes, Dolores?'
'Tell this copper what you had for your supper last night,' she ordered.
T had the pasta,' said Darren. 'It was very nice, too. I like pasta.'
'See?' demanded Mrs Forbes. 'How are you feeling today, Darren?'
'I'm fine,' he said.
'You've not got the guts-ache? Don't feel sick? Didn't have the runs during the night?'
Darren denied suffering any of these medical symptoms.
'Darren's got a delicate stomach.' said Mrs Forbes to Pearce. if there'd been anything wrong with the pasta, he'd have been the first to know it. wouldn't you, Darren?'
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'Yes, Dolores. I can't touch a curry but pasta is all right.'
'I'm not interested in Darren's stomach!' shouted Pearce, overriding this united defence. 'I'm interested in Jan Oakley's! What else did he have? Just the pasta?'
'He had a couple of pints of lager. It was bottled lager, so you can't blame the pub for anything to do with that. Not that there's anything wrong with the draught lager here. All the pipes are washed out regular. Same goes for my kitchen. It's cleaned top to bottom every day, isn't it, Darren?'
Darren, who presumably did the cleaning, agreed gloomily that it was.
'Spotless!' snapped Mrs Forbes. 'You come and see for yourself.'
'I don't need—' began Pearce, but found himself propelled into a white-tiled kitchen which did, he agreed, look spotless.
'Fridge!' snapped Mrs Forbes. Pearce was hauled to the fridge which was thrown open and his head almost thrust inside to enable him to inspect it. 'Cupboards!' Doors flew open and clashed shut above his head. 'Floor!' Mrs Forbes pointed imperiously downwards.
Pearce wondered whether he was expected to kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness at having cast aspersions on the kitchen of The Feathers.
'I've had the environmental health bloke here, checking,' went on the landlady, still in full flow, 'and he said it was a shining example, didn't he, Darren? He said he wished all the kitchens he saw were like this one.'
'We got a certificate,' added Darren.
'And there it is, on the wall. See?' Mrs Forbes flung out a scarlet-tipped finger. 'We got an award from the council! And in case you're wondering,' she concluded, 'that dog never sets a paw in here, does he, Darren?'
'I bet he doesn't,' said Pearce, getting a word in edgeways at last. 'All right, your kitchen's a ruddy marvel. Wish my kitchen at home was the same.' (Good job Tessa couldn't hear him say that. He'd find himself in the divorce court before he knew it.) 'Can we get back to this fellow, Oakley?'
'What else do you want to know about him?' Dolores Forbes sniffed. 'Not that I can tell you anything, apart from the fact he wasn't my cup of tea. I felt sorry for those two old dears. She was paying the bill for all the food he ate here, you know, was Miss Oakley. A scandal, I call it. I don't suppose she's got anything much but the old age pension for all she and her sister live in that big house. It's in a terrible state inside and the
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garden only looks decent because Ron Gladstone comes over and keeps it nice, just out of the kindness of his heart.'
'Was Oakley always alone when he ate here?' Pearce refused to be sidetracked.
'He didn't know anyone,' Mrs Forbes pointed out. 'The only time I ever saw anyone sitting with him at his table was one evening when Superintendent Markby came in with a woman and they went and talked to that Oakley for a few minutes. Then Oakley got up and left.' She frowned in memory. 'And the superintendent and his lady friend left, too, just after. Don't think they ate here.'
'Why wasn't Jan Oakley your cup of tea?' Pearce thought that Markby and Miss Mitchell had probably got the same impression of this place that he and Tessa had received. It wasn't what you might call welcoming.
T can tell 'em,' said Mrs Forbes darkly. 'Wouldn't have trusted him an inch. He was quite a nice-looking feller, I'll give you that, and always spoke very politely. But the old ladies didn't want him there, you know, at the house. He was sponging off them and they knew it. They didn't like him one bit.'
It now struck Pearce that Mrs Forbes seemed to know rather more about the internal affairs of Fourways House than might be expected.
'How do you know?' he asked. 'How do you know the house is in such a bad state of repair and they didn't want Oakley there?'
'Our Kenny told me all about it.' In explanation, she added, 'He runs a taxi service, see. He takes them shopping regular, every Saturday, and anywhere else they need to go during the week, as and when they need it. Kenny says the house fair gives him the creeps but he likes the old ladies. Anyhow, he could see they didn't care for that Jan. Ron Gladstone, he didn't like Jan neither.'
'Then perhaps I'd better speak to Kenny,' said Pearce. 'What's his other name?'
'Joss,' said the landlady. 'He's a cousin of mine.'
So the battling Dolores was a Joss. Pearce knew the Joss clan well, both from experience and by reputation. He eyed Darren. 'Is he a Joss, too?'
'Course he's not!' Mrs Forbes looked quite shocked. 'He's my partner, Darren Lee.' She paused and added more mildly, 'Charlie Forbes and I didn't last long. I was only twenty when I married him. You don't know what you're doing when you're twenty, do you?'
Charlie Forbes certainly hadn't.
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Markby had left the chief constable on civil if frosty terms. He felt angry, perhaps unreasonably so. He knew Winsley was probably right. Jan's complaint of police harassment, even if proved unfounded, would cast a shadow over investigations. Add to that Markby's own long acquaintance with the Oakleys, plus Meredith's involvement with Jan, the additional ingredient of the Painters in the mix and yes, a fresh pair of eyes should be looking at this case. But cool logic didn't help, nor that the replacements were to come from London, of all places! The fact was, to outside eyes, Markby had been deemed unsuitable. It reflected upon him and would be remembered.
But Markby's team remained on the case. Minchin and Hayes wouldn't be able to investigate the case entirely on their own. They'd call on all the support and help within Regional HQ they could get. That meant Pearce in particular would have to act as their guide and interpreter. Markby used the last phrase advisedly. Not only would the newcomers need someone who knew the case and its background, but a more important aspect to the new arrangement was that it disregarded the personalities in the case. The Oakleys, for example: how would they react to the man from the Met? They'd hardly unburden themselves to him. He'd be a stranger and they didn't chat about personal affairs to strangers. That it was a police matter wouldn't make a jot of difference to this. And Meredith?
He drew into the entrance to a field and took out his mobile phone. She was at her desk.
'Listen,' he said, 'perhaps you should take a few days off. The CC has asked for a couple of heavies from the Met to come down and take over. They're bound to want to interview everyone at length. That's going to include you, I'm afraid.'
'They've taken you off the case, then?' She sounded depressed and furtive. That fellow Adrian was probably listening in. Another reason for her to stay o
ut of her office.
'I've been left technically in overall charge. That's a sop to keep me quiet. But,' added Markby quietly, 'as long as I'm at Regional HQ I am in charge - and the CC and the pair of city slickers he's calling in will find that out!' More briskly, he went on, 'Superintendent Minchin and an Inspector Hayes are to arrive tomorrow. I'm to find them accommodation.' He paused. T thought they might have your place. It's empty.'
'My house?' She sounded startled.
'Why not? It's either that or The Crown. Your place has been fixed
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up. Everything's new in there, carpets, the lot. It's furnished. The Force will pay the usual rate for temporary renting. They'll be more comfortable and one of us will get something out of this."
'This isn't like you, Alan,' came the surprised voice down the line.
'Let's say, I'm not my usual self. Shall I offer them your place, then -or just drop them off at The Crown?'
They can have my place with pleasure. I'll leave the details to you. and I'll arrange time off. See you tonight.' A pause. *Don*t take it to heart, Alan. It's just a question of the circumstances and you knew it was a distinct possibility - you told the Oakleys so. I don't suppose Winsley really wants these London men down there. It makes it look as if we can't manage in the country. I'm sure he'd rather it was you. He's probably worried about publicity.'
'That's more or less what Winsley said.' Markby added, 'Knowing someone is right doesn't always make it easy to accept an unwelcome judgement.'
He returned to his car and drove slowly and thoughtfully back to his office. Pearce was there.
'I've been to The Feathers, sir,' he greeted Markby. 'What a place! I thought the landlady was going to run me out by the scruff of my neck. It seems unlikely Oakley was poisoned there, unless the atmosphere got him!'
Markby managed a faint grin. 'Yes, I've met Dolores. Well, Dave, you'll be making your report to someone else from tomorrow.' He explained about Minchin and Hayes.
Pearce looked glum. 'Bit off, that.'
T can't comment. I'm sure Superintendent Minchin knows his stuff. You'll be the officer providing the necessary link between them and this office. I don't need to say that you should provide them with every assistance. They will depend on you to a great extent. Cheer up, Dave. There's no reason why things shouldn't run smoothly.'
Markby suspected he sounded less than convincing. Pearce certainly looked as if he feared the worst.
Detective Constable Ginny Holding put her head round the door. 'Sir? There's a chap here from the Polish Embassy. His name's -' She glanced at a business card in her hand '- Landowski. Tadeusz Landowski.' She stumbled over the pronunciation.
'That was quick.' Markby observed. 'Well, show him in. I'm presumably to carry on until Minchin gets here.'
He wasn't sure what to expect from a Polish consular officer.
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Landowski, when he bounced in, proved to be a chunky, aggressive young man in a leather jacket, polo-neck sweater and chinos. He seized Markby's outstretched hand, pumped it furiously and then sat down abruptly in the chair indicated.
'I have come at once,' he said. 'As this is a matter of murder.'
'We appreciate it,' said Markby.
Landowski nodded acknowledgement of his gratitude. 'I have sent a report back to Poland by diplomatic bag. It should be there in the morning. We shall, naturally, pass on to you any information we can find concerning this man Oakley. But I have to say, not only is it not a Polish name, but the man does not appear to have made his mark, as you say, in any other way. We shall, of course, check police records.'
'His great-grandfather was an Englishman, William Oakley,' said Markby.
Landowski, after the first outburst of energy, had relaxed slightly. Ginny Holding appeared with coffee. She was an attractive girl. Landowski, sidetracked, gave her a seductive grin and thanked her in noticeably more mellow tones.
Wasting your time, chum! thought Markby with satisfaction. She's got a boyfriend and he's a copper.
Landowski set down his coffee on Markby's desk and leaned forward confidentially. 'I'm a fan, you know, of the British whodunnit. It will be very interesting to see your police force at work in a murder enquiry. Real life, eh?'
'Enquiries,' said Markby, 'will be conducted by a Superintendent Minchin. He arrives tomorrow from London.'
'Scotland Yard!' cried Landowski in glee. 'It is like the good old John Dickson Carr, the much admired Ngaio Marsh!' He rubbed his hands together briskly.
'I think,' said Markby mildly, unwilling to dispel this innocent assumption, 'that you'll find we've moved on a bit since those days.'
Landowski contemplated him and then, with a sudden return to his businesslike manner, said, 'I understand he had English relatives, this Oakley.'
'Yes, two elderly women, sisters.'
'They will meet the funeral costs?'
Taken aback, Markby confessed he hadn't thought about Oakley's funeral.
'We must think about it,' said Landowski reproachfully. T should prefer it did not fall as a cost on the Polish state.'
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'Perhaps,' ventured Markby, 'there is someone back home who'd like his body returned - when the time comes.'
Landowski was shaking his head. 'That will be unlikely. To return a body is a very expensive business and covered by many regulations. There must be a certain type of coffin. It must be conveyed in a refrigerated hold. It all adds to the cost.'
'The women in question,' Markby told him, 'are in their eighties and not very well off financially. The deceased was a thorough nuisance to them during his entire visit. They only discovered his existence recently. To pressurise them to find money they can ill-afford to pay for his funeral ... Let's say, technically you might be able to do it. Decency, however
Landowski looked glum. T sympathise. But I am obliged to do my job, as you say. However, perhaps there is some closer relative in Poland? Although, frankly, they'd probably have no money, either.' He considered this and added hopefully, 'Or there is your social security?'
'He'd only been in the country a couple of weeks,' said Markby crossly. 'And to put it bluntly, he's one of yours.'
Landowski recognised an impasse. 'Well, when the body is released, we shall see what can be done. May I know the cause of death?'
'Certainly. He was poisoned with arsenic'
Landowski's face lit up. 'Arsenic!' he breathed. 'Just like the good old days.'
Well, that was one way of putting it.
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that, she did get a dentist to pull the tooth.'
'You recommended her to get the tooth pulled out,' Mr Green leaned forward. 'Why?'
'Why, sir, because she was in pain and a toothache like that, it doesn't go away!' Baxter exclaimed.
'And for no other reason?'
Baxter swallowed, his Adam's apple rising and falling in his throat. 'I didn't like her taking so much laudanum, and that's a fact. I've known people get dependent on it. Not so much now as in the old days, before the Act. Why, in my father's day - he was a pharmacist in Bamford before me - people did get addicted to it. Opium's like that and laudanum is, after all, a tincture of opium.'
'You feared the lady was becoming dependent?'
'To tell the truth, sir,' admitted the pharmacist, 'I did. Had it been anyone else, I'd have had a word with her husband, but I don't like to interfere in matters concerning gentlefolk. I - well, I depend on their good will. Any tradesman does. Suppose I was wrong? How would Mr and Mrs Oakley take that?'
'So you dispensed regular small amounts of laudanum to this lady and you said nothing. Tell me, suppose a person became addicted in the way you have described, how would this manifest itself?'
'Difficult to tell, sir. But opium, it plays tricks on the mind. Sometimes people see things which aren't there. Or things which are there, look different to them. Sometimes the imagination is exciting. I've heard of poets and such who've wr
itten wonderful lines under its influence. But sometimes, it's more in the nature of a nightmare. After a while, the person becomes listless, loses interest, can't organise himself.'
'And would such an addicted person be likely to misinterpret what he or she saw around him?'
'Very likely,' said Baxter, adding, 'but I don't know it was so in Mrs Oakley's case, sir.'
'No, you don't, but I'm asking you for your opinion in a general way. Would such a person be inclined to clumsiness?'
'They might be, sir. Of course, after they'd taken a dose, they'd be drowsy and not able to organise their movements, as you might say.'
'So, if a person who had taken laudanum on retiring, were then to attempt to get out of bed, what would happen?'
'They'd fall over,' said Mr Baxter simply.
'Thank you, Mr Baxter,' said Mr Green.
He looked rather as though he expected a round of applause and Stanley
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Huxtable was half surprised he didn't get it.
When he summed up his defence for the jury. Mr Green radiated even more confidence.
'Gentlemen of the jury, we are here in a British court of law. It is a basic rule of British justice that an accused person is judged not upon gossip or innuendo, but upon evidence, tested and found reliable.
'Let us consider the evidence in this case. It seems largely to consist of the testimony of a dismissed servant, Martha Button. Mrs Button has claimed that her employer was improperly involved with the nursemaid, Daisy Joss. But Daisy is walking out with a respectable young man and hoping to be married. She is saving for her bottom drawer. Is it likely she would jeopardise her future happiness? The prosecution has drawn attention to the fact that since Mrs Oakley's death, Daisy has remained employed at Fourways with an increase of wages. But surely it is right of Mr Oakley to minimise, as far as is possible, the upset to the daily routine of his son, a child who is now motherless? As for the gift of earrings, they were in the nature of a small memento and coral is hardly the most expensive substance used in jewellery. In fact, the earrings may more properly be described as a trinket.
