The Poisoning in the Pub (12 page)

‘Any names?’

‘No,’ he replied brusquely.

‘Ted, there’s a man I’ve seen a couple of times at the pub . . .’

‘Not recently you haven’t. The bloody place is closed.’

‘A man,’ Carole persisted patiently, ‘who drives a pale blue BMW. He was watching Dan Poke’s act – and he spoke to Dan afterwards. I thought I recognized him. Tall,
running to fat, thick-rimmed glasses, black hair that has to be dyed and—’

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

‘But he was in the pub and—’

‘OK, so he’s a guy who was in the pub. People like that are called “customers”. They come in, they buy a drink, they drink it, they go out. I don’t bloody
know
all of them!’

Carole had a feeling that Ted Crisp was hiding something. He knew the man she was referring to, but he wasn’t about to give that information to her. With Ted sarcasm was always the
precursor of sheer bloody-mindedness. No point in antagonizing him further. Her tone was more gentle as she said, ‘You won’t have to sell the Crown and Anchor, you know. Things’ll
turn round for you.’

‘Oh yes?’ He let out the sigh of a man at the end of his tether. ‘In some ways it’d be a relief just to get shot of the bloody place. The pub business is
tough.’

‘But you love it.’

‘Don’t know. Maybe there was a time when I loved it. I’m not so sure I’ve loved it much during the past few months.’

‘Are you saying there’ve been problems before the last couple of weeks?’

‘Yes. Financial problems, certainly. The economics of a place like the Crown and Anchor are always going to be pretty dicey – particularly if you borrowed as much to buy the place as
I did. You’re always on a knife edge of profit and loss in this business. It doesn’t take much to push you down the wrong way. And there are always sharks out there, ready to snap up a
business that’s on the downward slide. A lot of pubs may be closing, but there’s always demand for the ones in prime sites. Like the Crown and Anchor.’

‘You mean you have actually had offers?’

‘There are always offers. None of them offering anything like what I reckon to be the market value of the place. Like I say, there are plenty of sharks out there. The business is getting
tougher every day. No two ways about it, the smoking ban has cut down the number of punters, then you get another hike in interest rates so I’m paying more on the bloody mortgage and . .
.’ Listlessly, he concluded, ‘Yeah, maybe I should just cut my losses and sell up.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘At the moment I bloody do!’ He tried to sound rough and dismissive, but he just couldn’t do it. Beneath the beard his mouth trembled and there was even a gleam of moisture in
his eye. ‘I just feel so bloody responsible for Ray. I was meant to be helping him. The Crown and Anchor was one of the few places where he felt vaguely secure and . . . look what I let
happen to him.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, Ted.’

‘No? At the moment I feel that everything that’s wrong in this bloody world is my bloody fault. Ray never knowingly did any harm to anyone in his life, and then I went and shouted at
him, and . . .’

Carole had been about to move the conversation on to what Jude had told her about Ray’s involvement in the substitution of the dodgy scallops, but Ted’s expression of total defeat
gave her pause. And the opportunity passed all too quickly. The next thing she heard was a nasal voice saying, ‘So this is where you’re hiding out, Ted. With your girlfriend.’

It was Sylvia. Her tall boyfriend had his arm protectively resting on her tight-shorted buttocks. He was again wearing black leather trousers, and his biceps bulged out of a sleeveless
T-shirt.

Ted Crisp looked up with the expression of a man who didn’t think his day could get any worse, and had suddenly found out that it could.

In his diminished state Ted Crisp seemed incapable of speech. Carole stood up and said, ‘Sylvia, I’m Carole Seddon. We met briefly in the Crown and Anchor last
week.’

She felt herself being appraised, then Sylvia said, ‘This is a new thing for you, Ted – going for the older woman.’

Carole was so unused to direct insults on that scale that the words took a moment or two to register. Probably just as well. The delay prevented her from coming back with an equally sharp
response. Ted Crisp didn’t need more grief that morning.

‘And this is Matt.’ Sylvia flicked her head towards the boyfriend. ‘My fiancé.’

Matt acknowledged them with a curt nod. He didn’t seem to think words were necessary. His physical bulk made enough of a statement, and clearly Sylvia was articulate enough for the two of
them.

‘We know each other,’ said Ted, without enthusiasm.

So, thought Carole, Sylvia must have introduced them on the Sunday evening before Dan Poke’s act. Just to add to Ted’s embarrassment. Still, although she didn’t warm to either
Sylvia or Matt, Carole remembered her manners and indicated two empty chairs. ‘If you’d like to sit down . . .’

‘Won’t be necessary. We’re not staying,’ snapped Sylvia. She was looking very sexy that morning and knew it. Her arms, legs and cleavage – of which there was plenty
on view – were a rich honey colour. Matt also had a high tan, though because of the number of tattoos on his arms, his didn’t show so much.

They made an attractive couple (in what Carole couldn’t help thinking of as ‘a rather downmarket style’). Sylvia must have been quite a bit younger than Ted. Ten years, perhaps
. . . though it was difficult to know precisely how old he was. The ragged beard and hair didn’t help, but Carole felt certain Ted was younger than she was. She recalled the subject coming up
during their brief affair. He must be approaching the fifty mark. In Sylvia’s and Matt’s body language there was an element of flaunting themselves, rubbing Ted Crisp’s face in
the fact of their youth and togetherness. But Carole felt sure that wasn’t the only reason why they’d accosted him.

So it proved. ‘My solicitor’s been phoning you and phoning you for the last couple of days,’ said Sylvia accusingly. ‘You never rung her back.’

‘That’s because I haven’t been in the pub. In case you hadn’t realized, the Crown and Anchor’s still being treated as a crime scene.’

‘Yes, that’s not going to do much good for its image, is it?’ Sylvia smiled an infuriatingly satisfied smile. ‘Anyway, she’s left messages on your mobile too. You
haven’t answered any of them either.’

‘That might be because my mobile’s still in the flat above the pub. The police wouldn’t let me take it.’

‘Oh, come on, Ted, you’re not going to make me believe that. The cops must’ve let you pick up some stuff before they took you off the premises.’

Carole had also thought this odd, that the police should not have allowed him even to take his most basic necessities. But Sylvia caught on to the reason quicker than she did. ‘Oh, I get
it, Ted. You’d put their backs up so much they weren’t going to do you any favours. Drunk, were you? Have a bit of a shouting match with the cops when they wanted to question
you?’

The way her ex-husband hung his head showed that Sylvia had scored a bull’s eye. The satisfaction in her expression grew. ‘So you’ve alienated the local police too, have you?
Another triumph for your Crown and Anchor public relations campaign.’ Her voice became hard and businesslike as she went on, ‘Anyway, ring my solicitor. Or get your solicitor to ring
mine. I’ve had enough of this faffing around. Matt and I want to get married as soon as possible.’ She looked up at her fiancé. He grinned like a huge stallion being offered a
carrot. ‘If you need to contact us, well, you’ve got my mobile number. And we’re not far away. Staying at Matt’s place in Worthing. Though we may go away to a hotel next
weekend. Yeomansdyke I’ve heard is nice.’ She referred to about the most expensive hotel in the area. ‘For a nice bit of a premarital honeymoon . . .’ Sylvia concluded,
delivering another stab of sexual one-upmanship.

She tugged at Matt’s arm, indicating it was time they moved on. ‘Right, Ted,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you with your somewhat gnarled floozy.’ And again, before
Carole had time to react to such an overt insult, Sylvia went on, ‘Don’t envy you, love. Dealing with the drinking, apart from anything else. Still, it’s not my problem, thank
God.’ And she led away her massive fiancé like a docile dog.

Ted Crisp seemed to have caught some of Matt’s dumbness. He had shrunk into himself. This time Carole didn’t curb her instinct to reach across the table and put her hand on his. Ted
made no attempt to resist the gesture, but there was no answering pressure from his hand. Carole wanted to wrap her arms around him, just to protect him from any future blows. In a sudden memory of
the kind she usually tried to repress, she recalled the surprising softness and vulnerability of his naked flesh.

‘That talk of solicitors . . .’ she began gently, ‘that’s about a divorce, is it?’ He gave the briefest of nods. ‘But, Ted, I thought you were already
divorced. You always talked as if you were, even made lots of jokes about what divorce was like for a man.’

‘Old rule of stand-up,’ he said with a sigh. ‘If something really upsets you, put it in the act. Other old rule of stand-up: never let the truth get in the way of a good
line.’

‘So what happened? That is, if you don’t mind telling me . . .’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t mind. Not much to tell. I dropped out of university to do the stand-up stuff. Met Sylvia at a gig – she was there for a hen night. I was in my late
twenties by then. She was about nineteen, working for a building society. We got together. I took her out a few times . . . and the sex, well . . .’ He was embarrassed to be discussing the
subject with a former lover. ‘Anyway, it all seemed to come together. It was quite fun. I was working late so many nights that we didn’t see that much of each other, really, which made
the times we did see each other feel more important, more precious, I don’t know . . .’

He ran his hand through his sweat-damp hair. He wasn’t enjoying the effort of recollection. ‘Then, after a few months, Sylvia thought she was pregnant . . .’

‘You mean she trapped you into marriage?’

‘No, no, I wouldn’t say that. But it made me kind of think that I should may be show a bit of responsibility, you know, if there was a nipper on the way, so I asked her to marry me.
Pretty soon it turned out there wasn’t a nipper on the way, but the idea of marriage stuck. And yes, there was a bit of pressure from her parents, but not that much. Don’t think they
ever really approved of me. But at the time I really thought it was a good idea. Very nomadic life doing the stand-up circuit, I needed to have a base somewhere. And the idea of kids later, I
didn’t mind the thought of that. No, I wasn’t trapped into the marriage.’

‘But it didn’t work out?’

‘It was all right for a couple of years, but then . . . And I have to take some responsibility for things going wrong. You know, you’re out late every night, you want to lie in in
the mornings, but you’ve got a wife who’s got to check in nine o’clock sharp at the building society. It puts a lot of stress on a relationship.’

‘As did your drinking?’ asked Carole rather beadily.

‘Yes, OK, I’ll own up to that. Stand-up, you’re always in bars and pubs. And it’s scary stuff. You never know what the audience is going to be like, what they’re
going to throw at you. And I don’t mean just heckling – in some of the rougher clubs it was bottles and glasses too. So you have a couple of bevvies to calm your nerves before you go
on, and then you have a couple more to wind down after you’ve finished. And then you have a couple more for the road, and a long drive home. And you’re still wide awake when you get
back home, but of course your wife’s fast asleep and . . . Well, it’s not conducive to a great relationship.’

‘Did you have affairs?’ asked Carole, uncharacteristically direct, given the intimate nature of the question.

He blushed. ‘Nothing major, but you know, away from home so much . . . a lot of booze flowing . . . there’s bound to be the odd skirmish . . . only human nature.’

‘Really?’ said Carole coldly.

‘So all right, there were faults on both sides. Perhaps more on my side, I don’t know. But when things started to go wrong, Sylvia just clammed up on me. Shut me out, wouldn’t
talk, wouldn’t discuss anything. It was never going to go the distance.’

‘But when it did end, she was the one who left you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You once said she went off with a double-glazing salesman, but I never knew whether that was one of your jokes or—’

‘Bloody true. My wife went off with a double-glazing salesman. Didn’t seem much of a big deal at the time. We’d made a mistake. I wasn’t making her happy, she’d
found someone who did – fine. We didn’t really have any possessions, lived in a rented flat. After a few months I hardly noticed Sylvia had moved out. Not having her around didn’t
make much difference to ninety per cent of my life. I was still doing as many gigs – though that did begin to drop off after a while – but Sylvia had never gone to my gigs, anyway.
She’d heard it all before.’

‘One question, Ted?’

‘Hm.’

‘Had Sylvia met Dan Poke before last Sunday?’

‘I’m not sure. As I say, she didn’t go to any of my gigs. Though, actually, now I come to think of it, she must’ve met him. When Dan finished the gig on Sunday, she was
all over him, saying how good it was to see him again, introducing him to Neanderthal Man.’

‘Neander—?’

‘Her fiancé.’

‘Matt, the biker.’

‘Don’t know whether he’s a biker or not. I do know that he’s a delivery driver.’

‘Ah. Sorry, go on. You were talking about your marriage . . .’

‘Or the Third World War, as it was affectionately known.’

‘But why has Sylvia suddenly reappeared in your life?’

‘Money. It always was money with Sylvia. Maybe working in the building society all day made her obsessed with the stuff. That’s what a lot of our arguments were about when we were
married. She said I was off every night, boozing away anything I made from the bloody gigs – which wasn’t a million miles from the truth – and we ought to be saving a deposit for
a house and getting a foot on the property ladder . . . Oh, it went on and on . . .’