The Poisoning in the Pub (2 page)

Gradually, but quite quickly, the Crown and Anchor emptied. Customers who’d ordered other dishes finished them up quickly. Most who had ordered the pan-fried scallops with spinach and
oriental noodles just stopped eating. Zosia and her waitresses showed no emotion as they repeatedly asked, ‘May I clear that?’ In every case the answer was yes.

Carole Seddon had finished her plateful before the vomiting began, and she felt extremely uncomfortable. Her stomach churned. She knew the sensation was probably just psychosomatic, but she
still wasn’t enjoying it. Carole had always had a terror of disgracing herself in a public place.

The ambulance arrived and its practised crew got Bettina Smiley wrapped in blankets and onto a stretcher. They had virtually to prise away her husband’s hand, then gently led him out to
accompany her to the hospital.

An anxious-looking Ted Crisp emerged again from the kitchen just in time to see their departure. Carole and Jude were about the only customers left. Carole looked on edge; Jude’s brown
eyes beamed sympathy to the troubled landlord.

‘Maybe it wasn’t the scallops,’ she suggested hopefully.

‘Bloody shouldn’t be. I’ve used the same supplier for my seafood ever since I’ve had this place. Never had any trouble before.’

‘And everything in the kitchen’s OK . . . you know, from the Health and Safety point of view?’

‘Yes, it bloody is! Only had our annual inspection last week. Passed with flying colours. They couldn’t find a single thing to criticize . . . which always makes them bloody cross.
They like to find some little detail to pick you up on.’

‘Will you have to report this?’

‘Perhaps not, but I’m going to do everything by the book. Since the old girl’s gone to hospital, I should report it under RIDDOR.’

‘RIDDOR?’ Jude looked puzzled. Carole looked increasingly uncomfortable.

‘“The Reporting of Injuries, Diseases and Dangerous Occurrences Regulations 1995,”’ Ted parroted. ‘And I’ve just called them. Done everything by the bloody
book, like I said. Rang through to their Incident Contact Centre.’ He looked even more troubled. ‘But when I did, there was something odd . . .’

‘Excuse me,’ Carole announced suddenly, ‘I must go to the ladies’ room!’ And she rushed off.

Jude passed no comment on her friend’s disappearance, but gave the landlord a sympathetic grin. It didn’t seem to raise his spirits. ‘You said there was something odd . . .
?’

‘Yes. When I got through to the Incident Contact Centre . . .’

‘Hm?’

‘They knew about what’d happened. Someone had rung them only minutes before. Less than twenty minutes after the old girl got sick and the authorities had already heard about
it.’

Ted Crisp might have said more, but he was interrupted by the ringing of the phone behind the bar. ‘Crown and Anchor, Fethering,’ he answered automatically. Under the beard his mouth
contorted with anger as he responded, ‘No, I bloody haven’t got anything to say to you!’

He slammed down the phone and looked at Jude. His face showed a mixture of puzzlement and fury as he said, ‘
Fethering Observer
. Wanted to know if I had any comment to make about the
outbreak of food poisoning in my pub.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘How did they know?’ asked Ted Crisp, almost to himself. ‘How did they know so quickly?’

Jude had hoped she might escape the effects of the scallops, but it was not to be. She had escorted a very wan-looking Carole back to her house, High Tor, and returned to the
adjacent Woodside Cottage. Her plan to clear her mind with some yoga exercises was thwarted by the sudden metallic taste of nausea in her throat. Fortunately she just managed to make it to the loo
before losing her lunch down the bowl.

She was sick twice more before deciding that the day was a write-off and going to bed. Once there, she fell instantly into a deep sleep, from which she woke about eight thirty, feeling
distinctly more human. She had a hot bath, drank a lot of water and went downstairs. It was still light and the day’s heat stayed in the air. There was not enough breeze to stir the
windchimes that hung by her open windows.

Jude thought about the attack of food poisoning at the Crown and Anchor and reckoned she had got off lightly. The two people who’d actually been sick in the pub had been pretty frail,
which was probably why they were affected so quickly. She wondered how many other customers had spent the afternoon laid up like her. She rang Carole.

‘The scallops got me too,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering if you were feeling any better?’

‘No,’ replied the strained voice from next door.

‘Have you been sick?’

‘No!’ Carole’s voice shuddered with horror at the very idea.

‘You’ll feel better if you are.’

‘That I doubt.’ From childhood onwards, Carole Seddon had been terrified by the very idea of vomiting. She hated losing control in any area of her life, and throwing up seemed to her
the ultimate loss of control. She would do anything to avoid it happening, tensing her body with iron – and painful – willpower.

‘Have you slept?’

‘No. It’s daytime. I’m not in the habit of going to sleep in the daytime.’

‘It’s different when you’re ill.’

‘I’m not ill. Just a touch of food poisoning.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ Jude knew the answer to the question before she posed it. There were times when she got frustrated by her neighbour’s unwillingness ever
to be beholden to anyone else, but she rarely voiced her reaction. Like most people, Jude reasoned, Carole Seddon was a complex bundle of illogicalities, which anyone who wanted to be her friend
must just take on board.

‘Well, ring me if you do need anything.’

‘I can’t imagine there will be anything I need, thank you.’

‘I’ll call in the morning to see how you are.’

‘I will be fine in the morning,’ said Carole icily, daring her body to do anything other than mend itself overnight.

To her surprise, when she had come off the phone Jude almost felt hungry. Her ready vomiting must have thoroughly cleared all the poison out of her system. Maybe she fancied a little soup? Or
even something more substantial? But just the mental image of food prompted another wave of queasiness.

She decided she’d better check how things were with Ted Crisp and was surprised by how long it took for the Crown and Anchor phone to be answered. Perhaps just busy in the bar, she
thought, about to hang up.

But then she heard Ted’s voice. And there was no background noise of a busy bar.

‘Sorry it took me so long. I was upstairs in the flat.’

‘I thought you were just busy.’

He let out a hollow laugh. ‘Can’t be busy when the pub’s closed, can you?’

‘What?’

‘Someone made a complaint . . . you know, after what happened at lunchtime. I’ve been closed down by Health and Safety until they do an inspection.’

‘And when are they going to do that?’

‘Hopefully tomorrow. They may not be able to do it for a few days though. God, and I’ve got this Dan Poke gig set up for Sunday. It’s the bloody limit! The longer a place like
the Crown and Anchor’s closed, the longer it’ll take to build up my trade again. And this is my busiest period. What I take this time of year offsets those endless winter nights when
I’ve just got three old farts nursing one half of bitter all evening.’

Ted Crisp sounded so gloomy that Jude couldn’t resist inviting him round for a drink. An offer that he took up with considerable alacrity.

He refused her offer of soup or anything else to eat. The fact that he asked for Scotch to drink and the despatch with which he downed it were measures of how upset he was. Ted
had never succumbed to the temptation that has ruined the health of so many publicans. He didn’t normally sample his wares during the day, contenting himself with a single pint at closing
time.

Jude had never seen him quite so desolate. She tried desperately to think of anything that might cheer him up. She sipped her water – her stomach didn’t yet feel up to anything
stronger – and asked, ‘Are you worried what the Health and Safety inspectors will find?’

‘No, they were only there last week. And I’ve never had any trouble with them before. Place is as clean as a whistle. Standards are higher then ever since I’ve had Zosia
keeping an eye on things.’

‘She’s worked out well.’

‘Yeah.’ He was always slightly grudging in any praise he gave to his bar manager. ‘Even though she is Polish.’

‘Presumably the Health and Safety people will be checking your seafood supplier as well?’

He nodded and scratched his scruffy beard. ‘Which isn’t exactly going to make me popular with them.’

‘Scallops are notorious . . . you know, if they’re slightly off . . .’

‘I’m sure it’s not from the supplier. They’re a big company, and they’ve always had the most exacting hygiene standards.’

‘Then how come you got a dodgy delivery from them?’

‘I can’t work it out,’ Ted Crisp replied wearily. ‘I’ve been through all the possibilities and . . .’ he sighed ‘. . . I don’t know what to
think.’

‘It’s incredibly bad luck.’

‘You can say that again. And I just don’t know how much more bad luck the Crown and Anchor can take.’

‘How do you mean?’

He let out another deep sigh. ‘Licensed Victuallers’ trade’s always been an up-and-down business. Every week you hear of more pubs closing – or being bought up by the big
boys, the chains. Gets increasingly difficult to make a profit – particularly if you borrowed as much as I did to get the Crown and Anchor in the first place. And there are constantly new
problems. Another government clampdown on drink-driving and your trade drops off. Then the smoking ban didn’t help. Been a long time since you could make a living just by pulling pints, so
you have to organize other attractions to get people through the doors. Darts, quiz nights, wall-to-wall football – though I don’t want to go down that route myself. Just like I
don’t want to have that CCTV so many pubs have these days – looks like you don’t trust your customers. Then of course I used sometimes to get the punters in with live music,
though that’s got hideously more expensive with the new entertainment licences the government saw fit to bring in a few years back. I tell you, Jude, it’s a bloody nightmare.’

‘I’m sure it is.’ She was good at supplying sympathy. ‘And you’ve got this Dan Poke comedy night coming up. That should bring them in, shouldn’t
it?’

‘Yes, assuming I’m open by then. But that’s a one-off. Dan’s just doing it as a favour, only charging expenses, because he’s a mate from the days when I was on the
stand-up circuit. Ye ah, I’m sure – if I’m allowed to open by then – Sunday’ll be fine. Dan says I’ll be able to judge from how it goes whether it’s worth
having a regular comedy night, but that’s going to cost. No other comedians are going to do it for free, are they?

‘So what you come back to is the food. You got to do food that’s better than the local competition. Which means you need a good chef . . . and they’re like gold dust round
here. And you have to pay them as much as if they were bloody gold dust.’

‘But I thought your new chef was very good. Word of mouth about the Crown and Anchor’s food has been great.’

‘Yes,’ Ted Crisp agreed gloomily. ‘I thought I’d turned the corner with him. And I had until those bloody scallops came in.’

‘Who is the chef? I haven’t met him.’

‘Boy called Ed Pollack. Trained at catering college in Chichester. Used to moonlight here a bit while he was finishing his course.’

Jude vaguely remembered Ted mentioning the young chef before, while she had Carole had been enquiring into an unexplained death at Hopwicke Country House Hotel. ‘But he’s fully
trained now?’

‘You bet. Been working in a very snazzy restaurant up in Soho, but his mum’s got ill, so he wanted some work down here to keep an eye on her. Sounds to me like the old girl’s
on the way out, so I doubt if I’ll keep him long.’ He sighed. At that moment every trouble in his life seemed insuperable. ‘Which means I’ll have to start looking for
another chef . . . God, and what a nightmare that can be.’

‘You don’t think Ed Pollack could have had anything to do with the dodgy scallops?’

‘No, that generation are really picky about hygiene stuff.’

‘How often do you have seafood deliveries?’

‘Every day. Has to be every day, if you say you’ve got “fresh seafood” on the menu.’

‘And do you check in the deliveries yourself, Ted?’

‘Depends what I’m doing. They deliver round the back. If I’m in the kitchen when they come, I’ll sign for the stuff. If someone else is there, they’ll do it. Not a
big deal, happens so often.’

‘And did you sign for the delivery this morning?’

‘No, and obviously I’ve checked out who did. It was Ed. Van arrived just after ten. I was out front fixing a duff light switch in the bar.’

‘And Ed didn’t notice anything odd about the scallops?’

Ted Crisp shook his head wearily. ‘If he’d thought there was anything odd with them, he wouldn’t have cooked them. Like I said, he knows his hygiene regulations inside
out.’

‘And the scallops would be delivered frozen?’

‘No, Jude,’ he replied patiently. ‘“Fresh seafood” means “fresh seafood”. They’re chilled for transportation, but not frozen.’

‘So what did Ed do with them after they’d been delivered?’

‘Put them in the fridge in a tray with a light lemon-juice-and-soy-sauce marinade. That’s what he always does for that recipe.’

‘And was there anyone else around the kitchen that morning?’

‘Well, Zosia would have been there . . .’ Jude looked at Ted quizzically. She knew he had been less than welcoming when the Polish girl had started working for him. The landlord had
a rather unappealing thread of xenophobia in his make-up. But now he could find nothing in his bar manager to criticize. ‘Mind you, she’s about the most trustworthy staff member
I’ve ever had.’ He still couldn’t quite make the compliment sound whole-hearted.

‘No waitresses around at the time of the delivery?’