The Poisoning in the Pub (13 page)

‘But had the double-glazing salesman got money?’

‘You betcha. He was a very successful double-glazing salesman – got a big spread out near Chelmsford. Sylvia liked that, liked being the lady of the manor, liked giving up work,
liked spending his money. So she wasn’t bothered about getting a divorce. I was as poor as a church mouse. She wouldn’t get anything out of me, just be a waste of solicitor’s
fees.’

‘So what’s changed?’

‘Two things have changed. One, Mr Double-Glazing Salesman suddenly took a look at the woman who’d been sharing his bed for the last however many years and decided she was beginning
to show signs of wear and tear. And since they weren’t married, there was nothing to stop him replacing her with a younger model. Which he did with remarkable alacrity and gave Sylvia the old
heave-ho. So she’s out in the cold cruel world the wrong side of forty, and she hasn’t got anything, not even the tiniest toehold on the bottom rung of the old property ladder.’
He spoke almost with satisfaction, and took a sip of the coffee which must have gone cold long before.

‘You said two things had changed.’

‘Yes, well, the other thing of course is that I’m no longer the old church mouse, am I? I’ve built up the Crown and Anchor, haven’t I? And though the actual finances
there are very shaky, to my greedy little ex-wife it looks like I’m coining it. So suddenly divorce becomes a rather more attractive idea.’

In the cause of fairness, Carole felt she should point out that Sylvia also had a new man in her life. ‘She does actually want to remarry.’

‘Yes, but I reckon marrying Matt is relatively low on her priorities. What she really wants to do is stitch me up.’

‘Sure you’re not being a bit paranoid?’

‘No. This is not a fantasy. Sylvia’s out to get me!’

Carole refrained from commenting that she’d never heard anyone sounding more paranoid, instead asking, ‘And presumably Matt hasn’t got any money?’

‘You’re bloody joking. Like I said, he’s a delivery driver. Very much a step down for our Sylvia.’

‘Then how’re they going to pay the bill at a place like Yeomansdyke?’

‘On her credit card, I imagine – and their prospects of getting half the proceeds when I finally have to sell up at the Crown and Anchor.’

‘Oh, Ted, it won’t come to that.’

‘No? After the couple of weeks I’ve just had, I wouldn’t put money on it.’

‘But you’ve built up that place on your own. Sylvia made no contribution at all. She has no rights on the business.’

‘Not what her lawyer says.’

‘Really?’

‘She’s got one of these really sharp feminist solicitors. Real man-hater. All men are rapists – let’s squeeze every last penny we can out of them.’

‘And what’s your solicitor like?’

Ted Crisp shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I’ve hardly met the guy. He dealt with the purchase of the Crown and Anchor, that’s about it.’

‘And was he any good?’

‘How can you tell with a lawyer? The paperwork came in. Followed by the bill. Par for the course, isn’t it?’

‘But does he specialize in divorce?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Ted had become listless now. Cataloguing the history of his marriage had depleted his last resources of energy.

‘Don’t you think you ought to get someone who does specialize in divorce?’

‘I think what I ought to do, Carole,’ he said as he rose from the table, ‘is to thank you for the coffee – and your concern – but to tell you once again that this
is my bloody mess and it’s down to me to get out of it.’

He turned and shambled away. His jeans and scruffy T-shirt looked out of place amidst the bright beachwear, and the cheerful shouts of children splashing at the edge of the sea seemed only to
accentuate his misery.

‘Where are you going?’ Carole called across to him.

‘Back to the Travelodge.’

And, no doubt, to the bottle of Famous Grouse.

The healing had worked. The woman with the dodgy hip had left Woodside Cottage walking more easily and in a lot less pain. As always at such moments, Jude felt a mix of
satisfaction and sheer exhaustion. Only someone who has done healing can know how much the process and concentration involved drains one’s energy.

She was infusing a restorative herbal tea when the phone rang. It was Sally Monks, the social worker who had provided Ray’s address for her. Her voice sounded tense. ‘I’ve only
just heard the news.’

‘About Ray?’

‘Yes. Obviously I knew that there had been a death down at the Crown and Anchor, but I’ve only just heard that it was Ray who died. Wondered if you knew any more about it.’

‘A bit. Not a lot.’

‘Well, look, I can’t talk now. I’m on my way to an appointment and talking in the car – which I know I shouldn’t be – but I’ve got to drive through
Fethering later this afternoon. Might you be around then?’

‘Sure. What sort of time?’

‘I can never be quite sure because my visits can get complicated, but hopefully fourish. That be OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Jude.

In fact it was after five when a black Golf parked outside Woodside Cottage and Sally Monks came bustling out. She was a tall redhead of striking looks. All Jude knew of her
private life was that she didn’t wear a wedding ring, but someone who looked like that couldn’t lack for masculine attention. Jude had come across a good few social workers in the
course of her working life, and found they fitted into three main categories. There were the ones who were simply bossy and always knew better than their clients. There were the ones who got so
personally involved with the people they were meant to be looking after that they almost ended up needing social workers themselves. And there were the buck-passers, dedicated to the covering of
their own backs, so that wherever responsibility ended up, it wasn’t with them.

Sally Monks was an exception who didn’t fit into any of the categories. She was the ultimate pragmatist. The moment she encountered a problem, she started thinking of solutions to it. But
she didn’t impose these solutions, she worked with her clients, so that they felt part of the process of finding a way forward. She was also very direct, she didn’t dress up the truth
with vague reassurances. This characteristic, as well as an allergy to paperwork, frequently brought her into conflict with her employers. She had been the subject of any number of disciplinary
meetings and reprimands, but the social services always stopped short of sacking her. They couldn’t afford to lose anyone who was that good at her job.

‘Sorry to be late,’ she said as she came through the front door (which Jude had left open to get some air moving round the house). ‘Client was an old boy who’s just moved
into a nursing home, and who hates watching television in the communal telly room. I’ve tracked down his son to get a set into the old guy’s bedroom.’

‘Are the residents allowed to have their own televisions?’

‘No.’ Sally Monks grinned. ‘But I’ve fixed that with the managers of the place.’

She put down her leather bag and flopped on to one of Jude’s heavily draped sofas, glowing not only with the heat, but also with another small victory over bureaucracy. She wore a black
linen shirt and trousers, creased from too long spent in the car, but still looking pretty damned elegant.

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Love one.’

‘Virtuously cooling or alcoholic?’

Sally Monks glanced at the watch on her slender wrist. ‘Oh, go on, you’ve twisted my arm. I was full of honourable intentions to write up three weeks’ backlog of case notes
tonight, but . . . what the hell?’

‘White wine be OK?’

‘White wine would be perfect. Pinot Grigio for preference.’

‘Sorry, don’t have that. Can you make do with a Chilean Chardonnay?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sally with a grin. ‘I’ve always been prepared to slum.’

As she got the drinks, Jude reflected how easily she and Sally always slipped back into relaxed banter. They didn’t really know each other that well, but there had never been any strain in
their relationship. And some things – like their love lives – they just never discussed.

Jude also felt a slight guilt at how much less relaxed the atmosphere might have been had Carole been there. Much as she loved her neighbour, she knew there was always a necessary period of
awkwardness when Carole was introduced to someone new. So it had been some relief to hear that that afternoon had been earmarked for one of her neighbour’s monthly Sainsbury shops. (Carole
had forgotten her fabricated excuse of doing a big shop the previous Saturday.)

The sitting room of Woodside Cottage felt as warm as the day outside. There was no doubt the weather was getting hotter. Fethering residents mumbled darkly about global warming, with a
complacent ignorance and the comfortable feeling that they’d probably be dead before it got really bad.

The two women sipped their wine gratefully. ‘So . . .’ said Sally, ‘anything you can tell me that isn’t the usual Fethering inflated gossip?’

‘Perhaps a bit. Carole and I were almost the first people to see the body.’

‘Almost?’

‘The chef at the Crown and Anchor, Ed Pollack, I think he probably saw Ray dead before we did.’

Sally Monks shook her head in pained disbelief. ‘I’m still having a problem taking it in. Ray, of all people. I can’t think of anyone who’s done less harm in his
life.’

‘That’s what everyone seems to say about him. Incidentally, what was his surname? I never heard anyone refer to him as anything other than “Ray”.’

‘Witchett. Ray Witchett. He was one of the gentlest men I ever knew. I mean he was never going to be playing with a full deck, he’d got serious problems, but they didn’t
manifest themselves in violence. I suppose he had a mental age of, I don’t know, under ten, but so long as he had his football and his television and all his magazines about people from the
telly, he was fine. And that independent living scheme up at Copsedown Hall seemed to work very well for him. For all the people there. No, it’s a great set-up . . .’ her brow darkened
‘. . . for as long as it lasts.’

‘Oh?’ asked Jude, picking up the hint.

‘Funding threatened there, as well as everywhere else. Central government and local government both trying to close down places like that. Get more people out “into the
community” . . . regardless of the fact that most of the people in places like that can’t cope “in the community”.’ The social worker sighed with frustration.
‘Oh, don’t get me started on that. I’m afraid I very quickly lose my sense of proportion.’

‘All right,’ said Jude hastily. ‘Let’s not go there. Tell me, what actually was wrong with Ray? Is there a technical term for what he had?’

‘Yes, there are lots of technical terms, lots of “syndromes” describing various aspects of his condition, but basically he suffered the effects of being deprived of oxygen at
birth. That’s where it all sprang from, his stunted growth, impairment of his motor functions and the mental incapacity.’ Sally shook her head again. ‘I can’t believe
he’s dead. Still, from all accounts it was total chaos up at the Crown and Anchor on Sunday. In that kind of mêlée anything can happen. I guess poor Ray was just in the wrong
place at the wrong time.’

‘I’m not so sure . . .’

Sally Monks looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean? Are you suggesting it wasn’t just a ghastly accident?’

‘Well, there are a few odd facts about what happened. For a start, all of the fighting was round the front of the pub, and Ray’s body was found round the back. Carole and I looked,
but there was no trail of blood. He hadn’t been moved. His body was lying where he had been killed. Also the weapon used was one of the knives from the pub’s kitchen. Well, all right,
in the chaos it’s possible that some of the fighters out the front had raided the kitchen for weapons, but I don’t think it’s likely.’

‘So you’re saying that Ray was deliberately murdered?’

‘It looks that way.’

‘But why?’ Sally Monks’ pretty forehead wrinkled with confusion. ‘As I said, he hadn’t got an enemy in the world. He wouldn’t have knowingly done anything to
upset anyone.’

‘But he might have known something that somebody wanted kept quiet. I can’t imagine that Ray was the most discreet person when it came to keeping secrets.’

‘No. He’d blurt out anything to anyone.’

‘You seem to know him very well, Sally.’

‘Yes, he was part of my caseload while he was still living with his mother. I used to visit them a lot. But she was getting so infirm that the situation couldn’t continue. So I
arranged for him to go to Copsedown Hall, which, after a few initial hiccups, suited him very well. I thought I’d really got a result there, you know, giving him some independence before the
old girl did finally pop her clogs. Copsedown Hall comes under another social worker’s remit . . . you wouldn’t believe the tangles of bureaucracy in our world . . . so I stopped seeing
Ray on a regular basis, but I gather it was really working out for him.’ She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, suddenly teary. ‘And now this has happened.’ But she
quickly halted any potential slide into melancholy. ‘Anyway, Jude, you implied Ray might have known something that someone wanted to keep quiet. Am I allowed to know more?’

Briefly Jude filled Sally Monks in on her visit to Copsedown Hall the previous Saturday.

‘So he admitted changing the trays of scallops round?’

‘Yes. But he thought he was doing good. Whoever persuaded him to make the switch convinced him that he would be saving the Crown and Anchor from an outburst of food poisoning.’

‘Whereas in fact he was doing the exact opposite. God, what kind of person would take advantage of someone like Ray in that way? Must have been someone who knew something about his
character. The bastard was appealing to one of Ray’s most basic instincts. Ray was always trying to help out, trying to make things better. If he had a fault, it was his desire to please
everyone. Which is why he hated it so when people lost their tempers with him. That used to upset him terribly.’

‘And when he got upset, he went to his mother’s?’ said Jude, thinking of the effect of Ted Crisp’s uncharacteristic outburst against Ray.