The Death on the Downs. Simon Brett
No order was given, but the landlord reached instinctively to a tall glass which he started to fill with Heineken lager.
‘Hello, Nick.’ Freddie’s voice was full of common touch. ‘Now let me get you that drink.’
‘I buy my own, thanks.’
Freddie’s face got even redder in the silence that continued until the pint of lager was placed on the counter. The man called Nick put down the right money, picked up his drink and moved to a stool as far away from Freddie as possible, at the end of the bar nearest to the Snug. He showed no signs of having seen Carole.
She looked across at Will Maples as Freddie embarked on a monologue about how careful you had to be with companies who did fitted kitchens. ‘Always offer you special offers and discounts, but when you come down to it, you end up paying through the bloody nose for all kinds of extras, things they never actually thought to mention until it’s too late for you to tell them to get packing.’
On the manager’s face, too thin to be quite handsome, Carole could identify an expression of deep boredom. That, coupled with the young man’s smart suit and metropolitan manner, suggested that he didn’t see the future of his career in pulling pints. The Hare and Hounds was a temporary measure, a stopgap, or perhaps an essential staging post to the next promotion.
The disguised gas fire and the brandy were having their effect. Carole still felt sodden, but it was now a warm dampness. Though she could see no sign of it, she felt as though she were quietly steaming. Drowsy, but more as though she were drugged than about to fall asleep. Sleep, she knew, would not come easily that night. She would keep waking to the image of bones in fertilizer bags, a picture made more disturbing by its simplicity and anonymity. She would be haunted not by what she had seen, but by the implications of what she had seen. Detective Sergeant Baylis had been right. Carole Seddon was in shock.
The pub door clattered open again. The new arrival was thin and so tall that he had to stoop under the low entrance. He wore a three-piece suit in greenish tweed. It had cost a lot when collected from the tailor’s. But that had been many years before. The elbows and the cuffs were protected with leather patches.
‘Evening, young Will.’ It was the patrician, slightly lazy voice of someone who didn’t think he had anything to prove. But there was also tension in the voice, even a kind of suppressed excitement. Ungainly as a giraffe, the man propped himself on a tall bar stool and pulled a pipe out of his jacket pocket.
‘Evening, Graham. Large Grouse, is it?’
‘With a splash of soda, that’s right. Hello, Nick.’
This latest arrival had received a nod of acknowledgement from the lager drinker by the Snug. Carole got the feeling that, had the offer been made, Nick might have accepted a drink from the man called Graham, whose manner was easily superior and didn’t carry the patronizing overtones of Freddie’s. The newcomer to Weldisham was too eager to please, too eager to be thought generous. Someone like Nick would take his time before accepting charity from such a source.
As he looked across to the Snug, Graham caught Carole’s eye. He smiled courteously. The eyes had been brown but were now faded in his lined face. He was quite old, probably well into his seventies.
‘Graham Forbes, isn’t it? We met in here last week.’ Freddie seemed anxious to receive his own acknowledgement. There was an air of power about the older man, something that, as a new boy in Weldisham, Freddie needed to tap into.
‘Did we?’ It wasn’t said rudely, but without a great deal of interest.
‘Yes. Freddie Pointon. I was in last Friday with my wife, Pam. Had dinner in the restaurant.’ This did not seem to be a sufficient aide-memoire. The old eyes concentrated on tamping down tobacco in the pipe bowl. ‘We’ve recently moved into Hunter’s Cottage.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Graham flashed a smile of professional charm. ‘The Pointons. Irene and I were only just talking about you. You must come to dinner with us at Warren Lodge.’
‘We’d enjoy that very much.’
‘I’ll get Irene to give a call to . . . er . . .’
‘Pam.’
‘Pam, yes, of course. So are you settling in all right?’
‘Not bad. Having problems with the people who’re putting in our bloody kitchen, mind.’
‘Ah.’
The older man did not feign interest in the problems of kitchen-fitting. Carole suddenly identified the strange tension in his manner. It was excitement. Graham had news to impart. And he was waiting his moment, timing the revelation for when it would have maximum impact.
He took a long sip from his drink, made sure that Will had turned back from putting his money in the till and decided that the moment had come. Anyone see the police cars?’ he began casually.
‘I’ve been in here all day,’ the manager replied. ‘Bloody paperwork.’
Graham looked at Nick, who gave a curt shake of his head.
‘I saw one at the end of the lane,’ said Freddie, ‘when I was on my way back from the station. Presumably they wait there to catch the poor buggers who’ve had a skinful in London and shouldn’t be driving home.’
‘That’s not why they’re there today.’
‘Oh?’
‘A rather nasty discovery has been made on Phil Ayling’s land.’
Carole tensed. Surely he couldn’t be talking about what she had found. It was too soon after the event. And the police wouldn’t be volunteering information on the subject.
Graham Forbes played the scene at his own pace. He waited for a prompt of ‘What?’ from Will Maples before continuing. ‘In South Welling Barn it was.’
Nick had his back to her and she couldn’t see any reaction from him, but Carole was quick enough to catch a momentary narrowing of the manager’s eyes. He seemed over-casual as he asked, ‘What’s been found then, Graham?’
‘Bones. Human bones.’ There was silence in the pub. Graham Forbes didn’t need any prompts now. He had their full attention. ‘A complete set,’ he said lightly. ‘That’s why the police are here. Any number of them over at the barn. Lights, photographers, the whole shooting match.’
‘But . . .’ Will Maples licked his lips as if to moisten them. ‘Have they any idea whose bones they are?’
Graham Forbes let out a dry laugh. ‘Give them time. I know your chum Lennie Baylis is a bright boy, but I don’t think even he could provide a complete life history from one look at a skeleton.’
‘No.’Thelandlordchuckled,buthedidn’tsoundamused. ‘I wonder where they’ll start their investigations . . .’
‘You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out. Presumably they’ll start right here in Weldisham. Check out whether anyone’s gone missing from the village recently.’
Will Maples was thoughtful for a moment. Then he hazarded, ‘The Lutteridge girl?’
‘That’s a thought, Will.’ The old head nodded insecurely on its thin neck. ‘The Lutteridge girl.’
Chapter Four
‘Oh, I’ve met the Lutteridges,’ said Freddie, eager to be part of things. ‘Met them at a drinks party we were invited to first weekend we arrived. Miles and Gillie, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ Graham Forbes’s manner towards the newcomer was diplomatically balanced. He was polite, but kept his distance.
‘So this is their daughter you’re talking about?’
‘Tamsin, yes.’