A Very Private Murder (8 page)

‘In what way did he upset them?’

‘The usual. Paying too much attention to one or two of the ladies. You know how it is.’

‘I thought that came under the heading of country pursuits,’ I said.

‘Ha ha! You’re right. Perhaps it was the ones he neglected who were upset. Let’s say he rubbed some of the husbands up the wrong way. Not the best behaviour in a small community. And then there was the stable. He bought his way into a small stable when Jonty Hargrave retired, wanted to become a trainer, but it burnt down. A horse died; it was all very unpleasant.’

A car with a sporty exhaust drove by the window with a crunch of gravel and stopped out of sight. The engine blipped and fell silent. ‘That sounds like Grizzly,’ Curzon said, twisting in his seat. ‘I wasn’t expecting her.’

‘It looked like an Audi TT,’ I told him.

‘Mmm, that’s her. His Royal Nibs must have engagements elsewhere.’

Doors opened and closed and a few seconds later I was rising to say hello once more to the woman who could easily be on the cover of
Vogue
in the near future. I made a mental note to look out for it, for the office wall.

‘Inspector,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise. Have you found the graffiti artist or is it a social call?’ She didn’t
sound
surprised, as if she’d expected the dumb-struck yokel policeman to come back to stalk her, like so many before him.

‘Charlie’s been walking,’ her father explained, sensing the suspicion in her tone. ‘I caught him in the tea shop; insisted he come down here for a cup. We’ve been chatting about the Threadneedles. You’re home early – I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘I’m working this evening,’ she replied.

Curzon turned to me and explained. ‘Grizzly helps out at the cottage hospital when she can,’ he told me. ‘Accident and Emergency tonight is it, darling?’

‘Hmm, and talking to the old dears about Edward VIII.’

‘I imagine they love that,’ I said.

‘Yes, they do.’

‘The graffiti artist is on the back burner,’ I told her. ‘We have a fingerprint, so we’ll catch him one day.’

‘I’m surprised the good citizens of Heckley could spare an inspector for the enquiry. It’s not exactly the Great Train Robbery, is it?’

‘They couldn’t,’ I replied, ‘but I’m officially on holiday, so I came cheap.’

The steak and kidney pie lived up to its reputation, and there was blackberry and apple crumble with custard to follow. I pushed my empty bowl away with a heartfelt ‘Phew’ and wiped my lips on my napkin. Phyllis cleared the table and asked if I’d like tea or coffee in the front room. I opted for tea and invited her to join me.

‘Will you be in the Whore’s Bed, later?’ she asked.

I smiled. ‘Is that what you call the Boar’s Head?’ We were sitting in deep armchairs in the front room, where an antique long-case clock measured out the seconds with oiled precision.

‘No, the Whore’s Bed is Mrs Smethick at number 22.’ She threw her head back with a laugh that sounded like a greenhouse collapsing until it turned into a coughing spell.

‘I don’t mind if you smoke,’ I said as she calmed down and regained her equilibrium. My parents were smokers and they paid the price, but I try to avoid coming on heavy with the sanctimony.

‘Well you should,’ she reprimanded me. ‘It’s a filthy habit. What did you think of your meal?’

‘The meal?’ I replied. ‘I think you are an impostor. I’d have been happy with something homely and wholesome, straight from your country kitchen. Instead, I got top-notch cordon bleu cookery. Like I said, you’re an impostor.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘All this,’ I replied, waving a hand in the direction of the dining room. ‘The linen, the cutlery, the
first-class
ingredients. The subtle use of spices and herbs. Just enough to enhance the natural flavours without overwhelming them. You, Phyllis Smith, have done this before.’

‘Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated, but you make it sound as if I’m trying to seduce you.’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘When I said you could park your car in my driveway it wasn’t a metaphor,’ and the greenhouse came crashing down around her ears again.

‘Damn. I’d rather hoped it was.’

Apparently Friday night was karaoke night at the Boar’s Head, and the single street through the village was usually gridlocked for the evening.
Knocked-off
mirrors and dented doors were the norm. Mr Curzon had forewarned me and suggested I leave my car in their car park overnight, which was an offer I gratefully accepted. It was a half-mile walk from the house to the village, and, he told me, the hospital where Ghislaine worked was another mile beyond that. I explained the arrangement to Phyllis and said I’d probably be in the pub for the last half-hour. As I left to take my car back to Curzon House I shouted: ‘Number 22 was it?’ to Phyllis in the kitchen, and was rewarded with her giggle again.

It was kerb-to-kerb cars outside, with more arriving by the second. Every make and price range was represented – karaoke night was the social highlight of the week for anyone within twenty miles who was only marginally brain damaged. Cars and 4x4s were parked on the footpaths and verges, double-parked in the lay-by and heaped on top of each other in the pub’s tiny yard. I couldn’t have put mine in Phyllis’s drive if I’d wanted to, but I managed to extricate it from a Land Rover sandwich and thread my way out of the village.

I parked it in front of the house but far enough away for my slamming doors not to disturb them, and sat there for about half an hour, listening to the radio while the darkness closed in. I didn’t want to get back to the pub too early. A swift glass of red before retiring was all I needed, and I didn’t think East Yorkshire was ready for my Leonard Cohen impression.

Two windows were illuminated upstairs, and remained so while I waited. No silhouettes fell on to them, nobody came or went and nothing disturbed the perfect darkness – not even a shooting star. At a quarter to ten I gently closed the car door and set off on the fifteen-minute amble back to High Ogglethorpe and the grand finale of the karaoke. All around me tiny eyes in the undergrowth would be watching my departure, resenting the intrusion, before resuming their normal nocturnal preoccupations of feeding, fighting and … fornicating. It was that time of year.

It was that time of year in High Ogglethorpe, too, and the activity had spilt out of the pub into the road. ‘Eye of the Tiger’ was throbbing the walls as some overweight diva from Pocklington enjoyed her three minutes of fame, and a youth in a hooded top sat on the roadside, holding his head and moaning. He looked to be bleeding.

‘Wurz fuckin’ ’ospittle?’ his companion demanded as I walked by, skirting his damaged friend.

I looked at the sign on the telegraph pole, dimly illuminated by light spilling from the Boar’s Head. It said
Hospital 1
, with an arrow pointing straight ahead.

‘Ah said wurz fuckin’ ’ospittle? Am fuckin’ torkin’ to you.’

‘Work it out,’ I told him, and turned towards the pub doorway. Before I laid a hand on it someone inside kicked it open and three more youths staggered out, cans clutched in fists, testosterone coursing through their bloodstreams like February fill dyke. I decided that a glass of cheap red was not what I required and turned away. One of the youths fetched a Vauxhall Corsa that sounded like a DC3 Dakota with a dodgy magneto and they bundled the bleeding youth into it, with the driver imploring his friends not to get blood on the seats. They roared off in the direction of the hospital while I wondered where DI Priest of Heckley CID fitted in to this everyday story of country folk.

Up to his neck was the answer. Every day we come across certain misdemeanours that make the blood boil but we appear powerless to do anything about them. Throwing stones at firefighters is one; causing mayhem in hospitals is another. Half the village knew I was a cop, so I couldn’t plead invisibility, and the nearest panda car was probably parked outside a kebab shop twenty miles away. Trouble was, I’d no car and no phone. I took a deep breath, turned my back on the pub and started jogging back towards Curzon House, the strains of ‘Simply the Best’ chasing me up the road.

The furry beasts in the undergrowth paused again in their activities and wondered what the world was coming to. I resisted the temptation to spin the wheels in the gravel and eased the car out onto the lane as silently as possible. Both windows were still illuminated in the house. I wondered if one of them was Toby’s.

I arrived at the hospital about twenty minutes after the youths but I hadn’t missed the action. Four people were in the waiting room, cowed in a corner like hostages. One man had a heavily bandaged foot; a woman sat with a small boy who looked decidedly green and another woman sat with her leg across a chair. It had been an average night in a country cottage hospital up to the youths arriving. I could hear them, somewhere further inside, berating the triage nurse because they’d been kept waiting.

I followed the noise and found myself in a small room with them all. The patient was sitting in a chair, two youths were sitting on the trolley and the male triage nurse, who looked about fifteen, was trying to examine the wound on the patient’s head. The other two yobs were leaning on the wall, smoking, cans of beer in hand. All eyes turned to me and the room fell silent.

‘Whose is the Corsa?’ I demanded. Nobody replied.

‘I said, whose is the Corsa?’

‘Wot the fux it got to do wi’ you?’ one of the seated youths replied.

I miss lapels. You can’t get a good grip on a T-shirt, but I did my best. I heaved him off the trolley and slammed him against the door jamb. ‘I’m your best friend,’ I told him. ‘Now give me the keys.’

‘The keys?’

‘Yes. You’re not fit to drive.’

He handed them over without another murmur.

‘Right. Now clear off.’

‘But …’ow do I get ’ome?’

‘You phone for a taxi. I’ll leave your keys behind the front desk. You can pick them up tomorrow.’ I watched him slink off, through the waiting room, and turned to the others, who’d all been struck dumb. ‘Before you follow him,’ I told them, ‘there’s something you have to do. I want you all to apologise to this young man who is trying to help your friend.’ I turned to the nearest, who had acne like raspberry ripple. ‘You first.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘That’s not good enough. Have another try.’

‘I’m … very sorry. I’m a bit drunk. I’m sorry for being a nuisance. It won’t happen again.’

‘That’s more like it. Now you.’

They all apologised, with varying degrees of sincerity, and staggered out into the cold clear air, which, if the folklore were correct, would have hit them like an uppercut.

It still wasn’t closing time and the village was crowded, so I drove back to Curzon House and parked in the place I was beginning to regard as my own. The animals in the undergrowth thought:
Jeez! It’s like Piccadilly Circus in here
, and waited for the night to close in on them again.

Mrs Smith cooked me an excellent breakfast and asked if I’d been in the Boar’s Head when the fighting started. I said I’d missed it and didn’t explain my role in things. I carried my boots and rucksack back along the lane to Curzon House and was putting them in the car when I heard the rustle of footsteps behind me. I’d risen early, told Phyllis I wanted a prompt start, and the sun hadn’t burnt off the dew yet. Its rays were catching the facade of the house and Ghislaine was walking towards me, casting a long shadow.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘You’re up and about early. Your father suggested I leave the car here overnight.’

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she stated with a grin. Her face was in shadow but I could tell she was smiling.

‘What was me?’

‘At the hospital. You sorted out the yobs.’

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Naseem was most impressed. He said you just stood there like Wyatt Earp and told them to apologise. Actually, he said Wyatt … effing Earp. But he didn’t say effing.’

I said: ‘Can I quote you on that?’ and pretended to write it on my cuff.

‘Well, on behalf of the hospital I just wanted to say thank you. You could easily have stayed out of it, but we’re all grateful you didn’t.’

‘Very graciously delivered,’ I told her. ‘And much appreciated, but it was no trouble.’ I glanced towards the house and slammed the boot lid. ‘How’s Toby?’

‘She’s up and about, much better today, thank you.’

‘Am I allowed to know what’s wrong with her?’

‘Pneumonia. She’s prone to it. Antibiotics work most of the time. Are you going walking again today?’

‘Mmm. I was thinking of Robin Hood’s Bay, from Ravenscar. It’s one of my favourites.’

‘I know it well, from long ago. I’d …’

She let her words trail off. ‘You’d what?’ I asked.

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘You’d like to come? I don’t mind waiting while you fetch your gear. We could take Toby if it would do her good. It’s going to be a beautiful day.’ I opened the car door, slid in and lowered the window.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I have other arrangements. Thank you for asking, though. It sounds delightful.’

‘Fish and chips for one, then,’ I said, starting the engine. ‘Say goodbye to Toby for me, please.’ She said she would and I eased the clutch in. Five yards from her I stopped and waited for her to catch up. Now I was looking up into her sunlit face. ‘Best wishes for the future, Ghislaine,’ I said. ‘I hope everything turns out well for you.’

She thanked me, called me Charlie, and I drove out of her life. Well, I tried to.

The fish and chips were nigh on perfect but my appetite had gone and I couldn’t eat them. I was outside the café in Robin Hood’s Bay, surrounded by hikers and holidaymakers and hungry seagulls the size of hang-gliders, with beaks like chainsaws. I ate a few chips, picked at the batter on the fish and left most of the meal. The tide was going out and I was able to walk on the beach all the way back to Ravenscar, eyes down, looking for fossils, or up, watching the cliffs for rockfalls. I was hot and bothered when I arrived, so I called in the hotel and a Polish waitress took pity on me and made me a pint of shandy. I drank it outside, overlooking a view that never fails to thrill me, sitting on a seat that was a memorial to a young man who had died while scuba diving in the bay.