Fethering 02 (2001) - Death on the Downs (4 page)

“Yes, you’re right, Graham. They’ve had it easy.”

“You got children, Freddie?”

“No. Pam and I…No, we haven’t…” He seemed about to add something. “Sadly…” Carole wondered. Or ‘Thank God’? It was hard to tell from Freddie’s manner.

Will Maples seemed over-casual as he asked, “You haven’t heard definitely that it was Tamsin’s body they found?”

“Not body, Will. Bones.”

“Comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? Either way, the person in question’s dead.”

“True enough. No, no, obviously not been confirmed it’s anyone. Police have to do all their forensic stuff, off to the labs, what have you. But since you’ve mentioned Tamsin, I wonder…Could be right. She’s the only person in the village who’s gone missing recently.”

“How long’s she been missing?” asked Freddie, eager to make up lost ground on village gossip.

“She disappeared round the end of October. The parents haven’t a clue where she went. But she’d been funny for a while. Gave up a perfectly good job in publishing…Couldn’t cope, like I said.

“No, I think this discovery’s pretty ominous. lamsin was always a bit loopy, wasn’t she? Quite capable of wandering off, high on drugs, falling asleep in the barn and dying of hypothermia. That’s what I reckon happened.” Graham Forbes spoke with the manner of someone whose opinions were rarely contradicted.

“Do you actually know she was into drugs?” the landlord asked cautiously. “Hasn’t been any mention of it from the police, has there?”

“Hasn’t been time for that. But I’m sure Tamsin was. Dressed like a hippie, didn’t she? And she was certainly into all kinds of alternative therapies and what have you. Only one step from herbal remedies to herbal cigarettes. And only one step from them to the hard stuff, in my view.” Again, his view was presented as incontestable.

Carole was having difficulty keeping her mouth shut.

She knew more about the subject under discussion than anyone else present. She knew Graham Forbes was wrong. Whether or not the remains belonged to Tamsin Lutteridge, his theory of how she’d died was way off beam. The girl hadn’t just curled up in the corner of South Welling Barn. Somebody had left her bones there in two fertilizer bags.

For a moment Carole was tempted to speak, to share her knowledge. But she stopped herself, surprised that she’d even contemplated the idea. It would have been out of character for her to have put her oar in. And she realized the reason why her inhibitions had been relaxed. She was drunk. The two large brandies, reacting with her state of shock, had gone straight to her head. She felt distinctly woozy. There was no way she could drive back to Fethering, particularly given the heavy police presence along the Weldisham Lane.

She had a sudden mental image of Gulliver by the Aga, feeling sorry for himself and his wounded paw. She looked at her watch. After six-thirty. She must get back.

Catching Will’s eyes in a conversational lull at the bar, she asked, “Is there a phone I could use?”

He pointed to a payphone by the entrance to the toilets. On a board above it were pinned cards from three local taxi firms. Carole tried them all. None could do anything for an hour. Friday evening was a busy time. The trains at Barnham were full not only of the usual daily commuters but also of second-home owners making the weekly journey to their country retreats.

Carole stood by the phone, undecided. She had a thought that wouldn’t have come into her mind without the brandy. Making a quick decision, she dialled the number of the Crown and Anchor.

Ted Crisp answered. He seemed unsurprised by her request. Yes, he’d pick her up. He’d got two bar staff in. They could manage for half an hour. Friday nights didn’t get busy in Fethering until after seven-thirty.

Carole put the phone down, slightly stunned by her audacity, but also pleased at what she’d done. Throughout her life she’d hated being dependent on other people, hated asking for favours. The fact that she’d asked Ted Crisp to help gave her a feeling of a slight mellowing in her character.

And, since the driving was sorted out, she felt like another drink. On her way back past the bar, she asked Will Maples for a large brandy. As she reached for her handbag, he said, “No. It’s on Lennie’s tab.”

“Are you sure?” But then why not? If it was ever charged, it’d be on police expenses. Carole accepted graciously.

Her movement across the pub had made her aware again of how soaked through she was. It would be good to get home and into a hot bath.

Little more was said at the bar about the bones. Graham Forbes left soon after Carole had made her phone call. He downed the remainder of his whisky in a gulp and, pipe clenched between his teeth, announced, “Better get back. People for dinner. Irene no doubt needs help with the seating plan.”

He gave courteous farewells to Will and the two men, a polite nod to Carole, and left. She took in his lack of overcoat, which must mean that he lived very close to the Hare and Hounds.

Conversation at the bar trickled away to nothing. Two girls arrived to start their seven o’clock shift at the bar and, since it was the first day for one of them, Will Maples was kept busy giving her instructions. Freddie made a couple of attempts to engage Nick in conversation, but met with no success.

Carole snuggled into her damp cocoon, brandy balloon reassuringly in her hand, and pondered what she had just heard.

Did the remains she’d found really belong to Tamsin Lutteridge?

But the more puzzling question was how on earth Graham Forbes had found out so quickly about the discovery of the bones at South Welling Barn.

“Not my idea of a pub, that Hare and Hounds,” Ted Crisp grouched.

His presence seemed to fill the car. He’d arrived in the pub, looking as ever, hair and beard both in need of trimming, paunch in need of slimming. The usual grubby jeans, trainers and sweatshirt, with a zip-up hooded sweater over the top in deference to the February weather.

He’d nodded to Will Maples, but refused Carole’s offer of a drink. “No. Got to pace myself. Be drinking later at the Crown. Friday nights get frenetic. All the old farts and their doxies in, the air heavy with the scent of Germolene.”

At seven the Hare and Hounds had suddenly become busy. The ‘Reserved’ tables in the bar were quickly filled with people who were going to eat bar snacks, and diners started going through to the restaurant. Will Maples and his newly arrived staff had not a moment to turn round. But, Carole observed, it was an efficient operation. Will was a good manager.

He was too busy for her to catch his eye when she left. Never mind. It was Lennie Baylis she had to thank for the drinks, after all. With unexpected chivalry, Ted Crisp had picked up her Burberry. “What you been doing?” he asked as he felt its sodden fabric. “Auditions for
Singing in the Rain?
”

Carole had never been in his car before, but it was in character. An old Nissan Bluebird estate, its back seat and luggage space piled up with boxes. There was a stale whiff of beer and smoke. In fact, Carole realized as she got in, the car smelled exactly like the Crown and Anchor. So did Ted. He was a non-smoker, but he always smelled of cigarette smoke. An occupational hazard. His customers’ smoke clung to his clothes, to his hair and to his beard.

“No, not my idea of a pub,” he repeated. “Everything too neat, too calculated. No real character.”

This chimed in exactly with what Carole had thought. “But you know Will, do you? I saw you nod at him.”

“In this job, you know most of the opposition, to talk to anyway. He used to manage clubs in Brighton, only recently moved into the pub trade. He’s a bright boy, though. He’ll go far.”

“How long has he been landlord there?”

“He’s not the landlord, Carole. Just the manager. Works for the chain. Home Hostelries, they’re called.”

“But they’re just a small chain, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but owned by one of the big breweries. Like everything else these days. I don’t like places like that. A pub should have its own identity, not be part of a bloody olde English drinkers’ theme park.”

“And what do you reckon gives a pub its identity?”

Ted Crisp chuckled wryly. “Got to be your landlord, hasn’t it? Reason, I’m afraid, why the Crown and Anchor is like it is. A reflection of me—a bloody-minded, cussed ex-stand-up comic. And people who don’t like that can bloody well lump it.” He sighed. “Trouble is, I don’t know how much longer the independent landlord can keep going. What did I read in the paper the other day? Six village pubs closing every week. It’s like the supermarkets killing off the village shops a few years back, isn’t it? Only the big boys can afford the investment to keep a pub going.”

“Have you had approaches from some of the chains?”

“Oh yes, plenty.”

“From Home Hostelries?”

“Not yet. The Crown and Anchor’s not quaint enough for them. They prefer something a bit older, more rustic. But other groups have been sniffing around. Not a great building architecturally, but the Crown’s got a good position in Fethering. Someone with half a million could turn it into something
extremely bijou
.” He shuddered at the thought and was silent. Then he asked, “What’s the matter, Carole?”

“Matter? What do you mean?”

“You’re upset. Something’s upset you.”

Not for the first time, she was surprised at his perception. Ted Crisp’s aggressive manner masked an unexpected sensitivity to the people around him.

Carole’s instinctive reaction would normally have been to deny there was anything wrong, but the brandy had lowered her guard. Besides, she did want to talk about what she’d seen. Ideally, she wanted to talk about it to Jude, but Ted’s large bulk felt reassuringly trustworthy.

“I found some human bones in a barn,” she said. The rest of her narrative didn’t take long. There wasn’t really much to say. Indeed, the smallness of the initial incident seemed disproportionate to the shock she was feeling. She included what she had heard from Graham Forbes in the pub and his potential identification of the victim. “Do you know anyone in Weldisham, Ted?”

He shook his head. “Hardly ever go up there. I think Jude’s got some friends in the village, though…”

“Has she? Did she mention any names?”

Another shake of the head. “When is it she’s back?”

“Early next week? I’m not sure.” Suddenly Carole couldn’t wait to see Jude. There was so much she needed to discuss. “Did she tell you where she was going, Ted?”

She’d felt a sudden pang of jealousy at the thought Ted might have received confidences denied to her. But it was quickly dissipated by his reply. “No. Never gives away much about what she’s up to, does she?”

“Do you think that’s deliberate?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think Jude deliberately withholds information? That she’s secretive?”

In the oncoming headlights Carole could see his face screw up as he tried to get the right words for his answer. “No, it’s not deliberate. It’s not devious, certainly. I’m sure if you asked a direct question, she’d give you a direct answer. I think it’s more that Jude has a lot of different parts of her life and she doesn’t really see the necessity for them to overlap.”

Ted’s answer had the effect of making Carole feel even more jealous. Not jealous of him, just jealous of the rare serenity that surrounded Jude. They’d been next-door neighbours for nearly four months. Carole felt cautiously that she could describe Jude as a friend; and she was confident Jude would have no hesitation in describing Carole as her friend. But she still knew distressingly little about the’ new arrival in Fethering. She didn’t even know whether Jude had ever been married, for God’s sake. Was she divorced? Did she have a permanent boyfriend? Somehow the cues for such basic questions never seemed to arise. Jude wasn’t evasive, she was very honest; but an air of mystery still clung around her. Mystery and serenity.

Carole would have given a fortune to know the source of Jude’s inner peace.

They’d arrived outside Carole’s house, High lor, in Fethering High Street. “I’d invite you in for a drink or…”

“No. No. Got to get back to the Crown. Before the brawls break out. Doesn’t take much to get the old geezers hitting out with their crutches, strangling each other with the cords of their hearing aids…”

Carole chuckled. “Can’t thank you enough for picking me up.”

“No problem. You going to be all right to get up there for your car in the morning?”

She was tempted to see if he’d actually offer to take her. But no, she’d already presumed too much on his goodwill. “Yes, I’ve got that sorted, thank you,” she lied. Organize a cab in the morning.

He was silent. “And you’re sure you’re all right?”

“Absolutely fine, thanks. Hot bath, early night, be as good as new.”

“Great.” Another silence. “Well, it’s been very good to see you again, Carole.”

Surely she was wrong to detect a reluctance in Ted to let her go. No, that’d be ridiculous. She reached for the door handle. “Good to see you too. And I can’t thank you enough.”

“Keep me up to date,” he called out, as she stepped into the cold February night. “When you find out who owns dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones…”

“Course I will,” said Carole.

She waved as his car drew away. Gulliver, alerted by the click of the garden gate, set up a reproachful barking from the hall. He only did that for her. She never knew how he recognized her step. He never barked for anyone else. Burglars could come and go into High Tor unser-enaded.

But as Carole walked up the path to her front door, she felt strangely elated.

O
n the Saturday morning, the village of Weldisham looked apologetically picturesque, shamefaced about the bad weather of the day before. The sky was a clear pale blue, rinsed clean by the recent rains. Thin winter sunlight glinted off the stone facings of cottages, warmed the green of lichen-covered clay tiles and gilded the outlines of the naked trees.

As her cab drove up the lane from the main A27, Carole could see no evidence of police presence. She looked along the track up which she had walked the afternoon before, but again could see nothing. South Welling Barn itself was out of sight, tucked away in the folds of the Downs. They must still be investigating there, she thought, wondering whether the bones remained where she had found them, or whether they had been spirited off to reveal their secrets under the intense interrogation of a forensic laboratory.