by Chris Simms
‘Rick Bestwick Ltd, Chesterfield. Wild and natural rabbit.’
‘Genuine agent for Macsween Haggis.’
‘High Peak Lamb. From the farmer, to the butcher, to you.’
‘Lyme Park venison.’
Jon examined the logo: a pair of antlers that curled round the National Trust’s oak leaf emblem. Further up the high street was the first restaurant, Grumble Tum’s. He let himself in and a table of four watched him in silence as he approached the small bar at the far end.
‘Good evening,’ the elderly man behind it announced, placing the glass he was polishing to the side. ‘A table for one?’
‘Could I have a quick look at your menu first?’
‘Of course.’ He retrieved one from next to the till.
Jon flicked it open and scanned the contents. Bangers and mash, fish and chips, a few pasta dishes and some steak. ‘I was hoping to try some of the Lyme Park venison I’ve heard so much about.’
‘Ah.’ The man gestured to his left. ‘The Tor, or before that, Hugo’s.’ He leaned forward and winked. ‘Hugo’s is the better bet, by all accounts.’
‘Many thanks.’
Jon stepped back out onto the street. More dark shop fronts separated him from a lit sign. Hugo’s. The lettering was in loose and stylised brushstrokes, as if casually daubed by a painter. Almost opposite was a pub, the door lintel topped by a green sign, bold letters hovering above an undulating skyline. The Tor.
As Jon approached Hugo’s, he noticed an Aston Martin parked outside. William Beaumont, Jon thought. And no one seems to be breaking into your car. The dimly lit restaurant was quiet, except for a braying group in the corner. Jon spotted a couple of champagne buckets and several wine bottles on the table. Well, the young aristocrat had to blow his week’s allowance somehow.
Jon took a seat on the leather sofa, plucked a menu from the coffee table and started scanning. This was more like it.
Grilled fillet of local trout, crushed potatoes and braised leeks. Roast breast of Goosnargh duck, mulled red wine and pear and
celeriac.
Cumbrian salt-marsh lamb with caper sauce, carrot and turnips. Fillet of Lyme Park venison with wild mushrooms and mozzarella.
An elegant-looking lady in a long apron bearing the Hugo’s signature approached. She was in her late twenties, too old to be a student waiting on tables for a bit of spare cash. ‘Hello there, sir. Would you care for a drink while you decide?’
‘Actually, I’m interested in the venison. Is it freshly prepared?’
‘Absolutely. Simon, our chef, drives to the estate every week to personally select his cuts. I can check which he has, if you wish?’
Jon stood, sliding his warrant card out from his back pocket as he did so. He kept it by his side, using the waitress to screen it from the rest of the restaurant. ‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. I’d prefer a quick word with him in person, if I may.’
She stepped back, having to tilt her head to maintain eye contact. ‘Erm, you want to speak with him now?’
‘If I could.’ He stepped into the main part of the room. ‘Let’s be quick and avoid a fuss.’
She smoothed her apron, a touch of irritation in the gesture.
‘Please follow me.’
Jon trailed her to the rear of the restaurant, round the corner of the bar, through a pair of swing doors and into the kitchen area beyond. The glare of stainless steel hit him. Massive extractor fans, a couple of large hobs, wall units and work surfaces – everything seemed to shine.
‘Simon, I have someone from the police.’ She glanced back.
‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’
‘DI Spicer,’ he replied, stepping round her, warrant card raised once again.
The chef was leaning over an island unit, playing a small blow torch across a row of ramekins. He glanced to the side. ‘How can I help?’
‘Just a quick enquiry, sir. You serve venison from Lyme
Park?’
The chef turned a wheel on the blow torch and the flame vanished. ‘They’re good to go.’
The waitress moved round to the island, lifted the tray and made her way back to the double doors.
‘I do,’ he replied, adjusting a headband that held a mass of black curls in check. ‘Is this a health and safety thing?’
‘Hopefully not, sir. Could I see a sample of the venison you have?’
He wiped his fingers on a tea towel hitched into the belt loop of his blue trousers. ‘OK. Am I the only place you’re checking?’
‘No, it’s part of a wider enquiry.’
The man walked to a large fridge and pulled its door open. The upper shelves contained assorted clumps of vegetables, the middle ones a variety of tubs and pots. The chef squatted, pulled out a lower compartment and rummaged among the vacuum packed contents within. ‘Here you go, Lyme Park venison. Sold on Friday, fifteenth April. Is this what you’re looking for?’
Jon took the compressed lumps of dark brown meat. The label bore the same logo as at the butcher’s, complete with the printed date. ‘That’s fine. Sorry to have bothered you.’
The chef looked bemused. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’
My younger brother, Jon thought. Whoever killed him knows exactly how the poaching arrangement in this town works. So I intend to find the poacher. ‘Sorry, sir. You’ll probably hear in due course.’
*
Somewhere nearby, a burglar alarm was ringing out, two notes repeating over and over again. A single car was making its way down the deserted high street, music thudding away inside. Two young men were in the front and Jon watched the vehicle pass before crossing over. The Tor was first and foremost a pub, but one obviously trying to increase business by offering
‘Traditional English Fayre’, according to the blackboard by the door. He slipped inside and looked about. A few drinkers were perched on their stools at the bar. A large table in the corner was taken by a group of adults. Jon noticed their fleeces and outdoor trousers as they talked about enjoying the views from Kinder Scout earlier that day. Football played on a silent screen at the far end of the bar. Jon sauntered over to the middle-aged woman standing behind the row of beer pumps.
‘What can I get you, love?’
He scanned the blackboard at the end of the bar. Steak and ale pie, fish and chips, gammon and pineapple, roast chicken. Towards the end of the list he spotted venison pie. Turning to the beer pumps, he saw she had Black Sheep in. ‘Half of that, please,’ he said, nodding at it.
As she worked the pump, he glanced around once again.
‘This your pub, then?’
‘Yes. For the last two years, anyway.’
He picked up a menu. ‘Still serving food?’
‘We are. Let me know what you’d like.’
‘The venison pie looks interesting. Do you make it yourself ?’
She placed his half pint on the beer mat and his hand was on it immediately. ‘We do, in a lovely rich gravy. Delicious it is.’
He felt the creamy foam press against his top lip before the cool beer broke through from beneath, flooding his mouth with a bitter-sweet taste. He savoured it for a moment before gulping. ‘Cheers.’ The drink was placed back on the beer mat, first two inches now gone. ‘Venison? I’ve never tried it before.’ The beer had tasted so good, he didn’t want to leave it now. The glass rose again and he took two more good pulls, feeling a slight lift as the first wisps of alcohol entered his blood stream. Jesus, he thought, that was fast. He realised he had forgotten to eat since breakfast.
She gave a tired smile. ‘Is that your order? Venison pie, with chips or mash?’
Another gulp, another surge in his blood. He couldn’t put the question off any longer. ‘Actually, I’m making enquiries into the supply of venison round here.’ He slid his open warrant card across the polished wooden surface. ‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. Could I have a word with your chef ?’
‘Tony? He’s not done anything.’
/> Too defensive, Jon thought. ‘He orders in your meat, I take it.’
‘Yes.’
‘So could I have a word, then? Two minutes, that’s all.’
‘About the venison?’ Her mouth was set tight.
‘About the venison.’
‘Hang on then.’ She turned away and started reaching for the till.
Ringing in my drink first, Jon thought, lifting his drink and knocking the last of it back. He kept the glass tipped up, watching the blob of foam at the bottom detach itself and slowly slide towards his open mouth. He looked over the rim of the glass. She’d picked up the receiver of a little wall-mounted phone by the side of the till and was speaking rapidly into it. Sneaky cow! Jon was off his stool and round the bar. A door at the end read, Kitchen. Private.
She was waddling towards him, arms outstretched. ‘You’re not allowed round here.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Jon yanked it open and nearly fell up the stairs immediately beyond. Taking them two at a time, he raced up. First floor kitchen, cramped and stuffy. A skinny man was on his knees in the far corner, scooping paper-wrapped lumps from the base of a fridge and dropping them into a plastic crate. Strands of brown hair failed miserably to mask a bald spot that had taken over the top of his head.
‘Ingredients for your special pie?’ Jon announced, feeling his heart pumping in his chest.
The man’s head half turned and his shoulders slumped.
The landlady called up from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Tony?’
‘We’re having a chat.’ Jon shut the upper door behind him.
‘Where did you get that meat?’
The chef struggled to his feet, a package still in his hand. Now upright, Jon could see the bloke sported a large beer belly. Solid and round, it looked stuck onto his thin frame. ‘A local butcher’s.’
‘My arse.’ Jon stepped over and took it from his hands. Greaseproof paper, roughly folded over. He opened up a flap. The lumps of dark meat had been hacked up, some marbled with fat and gristle. ‘This has been poached. Where did you get it?’
‘Poached? No way.’
The whites of the man’s watery eyes were tinged with yellow and the end of his bulbous nose was an angry purple. Alcoholic, Jon thought. ‘Right, Tony. You’re coming with me back to Manchester. A night in the cells in Longsight. There’s no booze there, my friend.’
The other man’s face lit up with alarm.
‘This place.’ Jon waved a forefinger. ‘Looks filthy to me.’ He pointed to the corner where the fridge met the wall. Brown stains ran down it and scraps of something long dried out dotted the lino floor. ‘I’ll be putting in a call to environmental health. Or you can tell me where this meat came from and I’ll stop ruining your life.’
The man sighed. ‘It’s a guy who lives here in Haverdale.’
‘Name?’
‘Flynn.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Ian Flynn.’
‘Where can I find him?’
He gave a weak shrug. ‘The Spread Eagle?’
The Spread Eagle, Jon thought. Mallin mentioned the landlord there had suspected Dave was dealing from his pub. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Back across the high street. First left is Bent’s Lane and it’s fifty metres up. It’s a locals’ pub.’
So I’ll stick out then, Jon thought. ‘What does this Flynn look like?’
‘Around your height. Probably an inch shorter and a couple of stone lighter.’
‘Age?’
‘I don’t know. Late twenties?’
‘Hair?’
He shook his head. ‘Shaved.’
‘Anything else?’
‘An earring.’ He touched his left lobe.
‘Does he flog this meat to other places in the town?’
‘Yeah. At least he always has a load more in his bag when he pops in.’
‘OK, we’ll play it like this. I don’t mention this visit to anyone and you don’t either. Especially to this Flynn. When I talk to him – maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after – no one makes a connection to you. Understood?’
The chef licked his lips. ‘Can you leave it a week or so?’
Jon paused. The guy was nervous. ‘Anything else I should know about him, Tony?’
He scratched at an ear. ‘He’s got a reputation for having a bit of a temper. I don’t know what he does for a living – but he always seems to have something for sale.’
Jon picked up on his choice of words. ‘What sort of something?’
‘You know – this and that.’
‘No, I don’t.’
The chef squirmed. ‘Illegal stuff.’
‘What? Knocked-off phones? Pirate videos? Is that what you mean?’
‘That too, but . . . other stuff as well.’
Jon went through the options. ‘You’re talking about drugs?’
‘He’s only mentioned it. I’ve never actually seen anything.’
‘What sort of drugs?’
‘I have no idea. What would I want with that nonsense? He said once he could get me anything. Pills, whatever that means.’
Poaching and now dealing, Jon thought. I can’t wait to meet this guy.
‘I don’t want any trouble from him.’
Jon laughed. ‘You mean he’s Haverdale’s bad boy?’
‘I suppose so.’
Good, Jon thought, tossing the package of venison back. If he tries something with me, I can rip his bastard arms off.
Eleven
The street lighting didn’t extend up Bent’s Lane and Jon picked his way carefully along the dark and narrow street, eyes sweeping the cramped terraces on either side. The road curved to the right and a glow spilled out across the pavement ahead. The Spread Eagle. Above the doorway hung a small sign depicting a bird of prey with vast, outstretched wings.
Pausing on the front step, Jon listened to the muffled sound of music and laughter inside. Coats were piled on the row of pegs in the porch area. Battered waxed jackets, moth-eaten overcoats, a ski jacket spattered with flecks of different coloured paint. Locals’ pub all right, Jon thought, pushing the inner door open.
The place was half full and several heads turned. He felt himself being looked over, conversations halting for a beat before resuming once again. Jon could guess their conclusions. Tourist, ventured off the beaten track. A quick pint and hopefully he’ll bugger off back to the high street where he belongs.
A side room housed a wide screen TV. The same football match was playing as in The Tor, but this one was being watched by a group of lads. Jon made his way across the flagstone floor, careful to dip his head as he passed under a couple of low beams. As he reached the bar, a customer placed his empty pint glass on a beer mat. ‘Cheers, Trevor. See you tomorrow.’
Trevor Curtis, Jon thought. So you’re the man who tipped the police off that my brother was a dealer.
The bloke had a bushy mop of brown hair hanging down, a long nose, thick moustache and eyes that drooped. Overweight and slow in his movements, he made his way over. ‘Evening.’
‘Evening,’ Jon answered, glancing at what was on. The Black Sheep had left him with a slightly sticky mouth. ‘Pint of Stella, thanks.’
He flicked the tap. ‘Here on business?’
‘Yeah. Well, Sheffield actually. I’m getting the train in.’
‘Well, there’s a fair few of them passing through,’ he replied, failing to inject any interest into his voice. ‘Two quid, please.’
Jon fished out a couple of pound coins, realising he’d never paid for his drink in the last pub. Serves her right for selling poached venison. The landlord took his money, dropped it in an open till and didn’t come back. Jon looked around. There was a corner table tucked in by the fruit machine. That gives me the best view of the pub as a whole, he thought. As he sat down the final whistle sounded on the TV screen.
A couple of minutes later the lads started filing towards the door. Jon kept an ear cocked, eyes on the fruit machine�
�s bank of flashing lights.
‘Cheers, Trevor,’ the chorus rang out.
‘Night, lads,’ the landlord replied, slowly making his way to the tables of empty glasses.
‘No Flynn then.’
The comment was murmured between the two at the rear of the group.
‘Yeah, he popped in earlier.’
‘Owt on him?’
‘Tomorrow, he said.’
They passed through the door and were gone. Tomorrow, Jon thought. Selling what? Youngsters like that were hardly in the market for a brace of poached grouse. Each sip of cold lager felt like it was bouncing off the bottom of his stomach and Jon glanced at his watch. Shit, almost ten and I still haven’t eaten. With Flynn not in until tomorrow, there was no point in hanging around. He sank the rest of his drink, relishing the effect he knew it would soon have.
He stood, ready to nod his thanks at the landlord. The man studiously avoided his look. Cheers for making an out-of-towner feel so welcome, Trevor, Jon thought. I’ll be back for the same friendly reception tomorrow.
Heading back down the road, he felt the booze powering his step. The pleasant numbness in his head built in strength and by the time he’d got to the high street, the desire for more alcohol had taken hold.
The convenience store next to the police station looked like it was still open and Jon hurried up to its doors. A member of staff was standing at the end of the aisles, arms crossed. Jon passed him with a nod, heading straight for the booze section. As he grabbed a bottle of Famous Grouse, he could see the staff member had moved to the top of his aisle. Jesus, he thought, how much stuff are you having nicked to warrant that kind of suspicion?
The man at the till eyed him warily. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, thanks.’
Back on the empty street, he listened to the sound of his footsteps and began to think about his younger brother. What were you up to, mate? Staying in a soulless little hotel room, escaping out for a pint in the evening. He looked down at the pavement, watching each foot as it swung out. Left, right, left, right. Did you walk back to the hotel on this side of the street? Did you tread on this exact slab? Suddenly he wanted Dave to be standing there before him. More than a desire to know what happened, it was a need to know how his brother had been feeling in his last few hours.
