Breaking Point (6 page)

Tregalles thanked him, but before moving off, asked him what sort of man Doyle was.

‘He's a good man at his trade, I'll say that for him, and he's the sort who will always give you a hand if you need it. But it's the drink that gets him into trouble. He'll go along for weeks, sometimes months, having a quiet pint down at the Red Lion, and then all of a sudden he goes on a bender, and he's gone for days. He usually lands up in the nick, dries out, pays his fine, and comes back broke. I don't know how many times Cutter has threatened to chuck him out because he hasn't paid his rent on time. Cutter is the owner-manager here, not that he does much managing; the only time we see him is when it's time for the rent. But Mickey always manages to slide in under the wire, somehow, and things go on as they were before.'

Goodale plucked the butt of his cigarette from where it clung to his lip and pinched it out between thumb and forefinger before dropping it on the ground. He put his foot on it, and glanced up at the sky. ‘Enjoyed talking to you,' he said as he began to edge away, ‘but they were forecasting rain this morning, and I'd like to get the garden dug before that happens. Go over there and talk to Mary. If anyone knows where Doyle is, she will, and you'll probably get a cup of tea out of it.' He winked. ‘Or more,' he said, ‘if she happens to fancy you. She's a widow, and she likes 'em young, does Mary.'

Molly Forsythe stood at the end of the main village street, not quite sure what to do next. She had spent more than half the morning talking to people, yet she had absolutely nothing to show for it. The trouble was, with Wisteria Cottage being on its own half acre at the very end of the village, there weren't many houses in the immediate vicinity, so it was hardly surprising that no one had seen or heard anything that might be considered suspicious.

But they loved to talk, and Molly had found it very hard to get away without giving offence. She'd had three cups of tea, the last one so hot and strong that she felt her mouth would never be the same again. She craved something cool – anything to put the fire out. Purposefully, she set off down the narrow street bordered on both sides by an unbroken line of houses and small shops. It had been many years since she'd been in Whitcott Lacey, but if memory served, there used to be a café about halfway down the street. They sold ice cream in the summer, and she and her father used to stop in there before leaving for home. She hoped it was still there.

It was. Same old sign above the door:
Breakfast, Lunches, Teas
and in faded lettering along the bottom,
Ice cream.

Molly mounted the worn steps and went inside to the warm and welcoming smell of fresh baking. It was like going back in time. The wooden floor was just as scrubbed and uneven as she remembered it; the long counter looked exactly the same; even the heavy cast-iron tables – the ones that wobbled and slopped your tea if you weren't careful – hadn't changed.

Five tables, but only two were occupied, both by women shoppers. Coats open, handbags hanging from the back of their chairs, shopping bags on the floor beside them or on a vacant chair, and tea and scones in front of them.

‘Yes, love, what can I do for you?' The woman behind the counter was short and very, very fat, but she had a warm and friendly smile. ‘Tea or coffee is it? Scones are fresh made. Came out of the oven less than half an hour ago.' She raised her voice. ‘All right, are they, ladies?'

There was a murmur of approval and nodding of heads.

‘They do smell good,' Molly agreed, ‘and I'll have one, but –' she hesitated – ‘I'd like something cold as well. I suppose it's too early in the year for you to have ice cream?'

‘Sorry, love, we don't do that till May. But if it's cold you want, I could do you iced tea.'

‘That would be lovely,' Molly told her. ‘Shall I pay you now or . . .?'

The woman shook her head. ‘You might decide to take something home for your tea,' she said, and chuckled. ‘No, it's all right, love, pay me when you leave.'

Molly sat down at one of the empty tables and set her bag on it. It wobbled dangerously. She tried to turn it, but it was far too heavy and wouldn't budge on the wooden floor.

‘That's a bad one, that is,' one of the woman called to her, indicating the table. ‘Anyway, there's no need for you to sit over there all by yourself. Come and sit here.' She moved a shopping bag off a chair. ‘There's room.'

Molly hesitated. She had the feeling that everyone there knew who she was, or at least
what
she was, and they saw a golden opportunity to find out what was going on in their tight little community. On the other hand, perhaps she could learn something herself.

‘That's very kind of you,' she said, picking up her handbag and moving to join them.

‘Joyce Chandler, Ivy Sloane,' the woman said, introducing herself and her friend. She was a tall, angular woman with deep-set eyes and a friendly smile. Grey hair, fiftyish, Molly guessed, and reasonably well off if her clothes were anything to go by. Her friend, Ivy, was a smaller woman, probably about the same age, but she looked younger with her dyed blonde hair and plumper face. ‘And you are . . .?' Joyce Chandler enquired pleasantly.

‘Molly Forsythe.' Molly placed her handbag on the floor between her feet. It wasn't because she didn't trust the people she was with, but rather force of habit.

‘Visiting, are you?' enquired Ivy innocently.

Before Molly could reply, Joyce Chandler chuckled and put a hand on Molly's arm. ‘No need to answer that,' she said. ‘You can't keep secrets here. We all know who you are.' Her glance included everyone in the room. ‘At least, we know that you're a policewoman, and we know that something is going on at Wisteria Cottage, and we're all simply dying to know what's happened there.'

Everyone at the next table had stopped talking.

Molly smiled ruefully. Even now she was still amazed at how fast news could spread through a village such as this. She'd only been in the place a couple of hours, but it seemed the word was out from one end of the village to the other. But then, it only took one telephone call to get things started.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her tea and scone.

‘We are curious,' Joyce Chandler prompted gently, as Molly concentrated on cutting the scone in half and applying a liberal amount of butter.

‘Perhaps we can “help you with your enquiries”?' said someone at the next table, lowering her voice to emphasize the words of the phrase so often used by the police, and everybody laughed.

Why not? thought Molly as she sipped the ice-cold tea. The situation was unusual, but it might be an opportunity to gain some local knowledge.

‘Perhaps you can,' she said as she set the tall glass mug aside. ‘Do any of you know the people in Wisteria Cottage?'

M
ary Turnbull was eighty-seven, and she managed to work that into the conversation within seconds of inviting Tregalles inside. ‘And call me Mary,' she told him when he'd asked if she was Mrs Turnbull. ‘Everybody does.' She was a big woman, and she moved with difficulty, leaning heavily on a stick for support. ‘It's the osteoparalysis,' she told him, mispronouncing the name of the complaint. She wheezed when she talked. ‘It's the cat,' she explained, ‘I'm allergic, but what can you do, eh?'

Get rid of the bloody cat was one solution that came to mind, but Tregalles refrained from voicing the thought.

‘Well, don't just stand there; come in and close the door,' she said impatiently. ‘This old caravan is draughty enough without leaving the door wide open. It's the rheumatics, you see. I have to stay out of draughts. You'll be wanting a cup of tea, I expect, being a policeman. They all do, don't they – on television I mean. Do you know any of them on the tele?'

‘Not personally, no,' he said as closed the door behind him and surveyed the cramped interior of the caravan. With Mary Turnbull filling the narrow aisle between stove, sink and cupboards, and with almost every available surface piled high with books, papers, rumpled bedclothes and several bin bags filled with God knows what, he didn't see how it was possible for him to ‘come in'.

The woman heaved one of the bin bags toward the back of the caravan, which partially cleared the way, then edged sideways to settle into a seat facing a narrow table still bearing the remains of her breakfast. A ginger cat appeared as if from nowhere and jumped up on the seat beside her. Mary stroked it as it put its front paws up on the table. ‘Looking for your treat, are you?' she said in a little girl voice. She put her finger in her mouth then popped it into the open sugar bowl and offered it to the cat. ‘There's a good puss,' she murmured as the cat licked her finger clean, then settled down beside her.

‘She's a good puss,' she wheezed as she stroked the cat. ‘This is Willow,' she told Tregalles. She began to chuckle, but had to stop to catch her breath. ‘Pussy Willow,' she panted. ‘It's Mickey's little joke. Willow's his cat, but I think she prefers it here.'

Tregalles wasn't surprised; the cat knew when it was on to a good thing.

‘Well, sit yourself down, then,' she said. ‘There's plenty of room for a little 'un. But be a love and put the kettle on before you do. I could do with another cup of tea myself.'

Directed by ‘Call me Mary', Tregalles filled the kettle, set it on the propane burner, then slid into the seat facing her across the table. He made a show of looking at his watch and frowning. ‘I'm afraid I'm a bit pressed for time,' he said regretfully – he wasn't, but after seeing the condition of the mugs beside the sink, there was no way he was going to be drinking tea, especially not with sugar in it – ‘so I'll get right to it, if you don't mind, Mary. As I said, I'm looking for Mr Doyle, and I'm told you might be able to tell me where I can find him.'

‘Is he in trouble again?' It seemed to be an automatic question when Doyle's name was mentioned. ‘He's not a bad boy, you know,' Mary continued. ‘He made those shelves for me.' She pointed to a set of three small shelves above the sink. ‘Never charged me. He knows I'm on the supplement, and I keep an eye on things when he's away. And then there's puss.' She stroked the cat, who was purring softly.

Tregalles shook his head. ‘He's not in any trouble as far as I know,' he assured her. ‘But I do need to talk to him. I'm trying to find a friend of his, and I'm hoping he can help me.'

‘Ah, well, that's all right, then, but I don't think you'll be seeing him for a while. He's gone to Ireland, at least that's what his friends said when they came to pick him up.'

‘When was this?'

Mary thought. ‘Last Friday,' she said. ‘Yes, that's right, it was Friday. Early in the morning, it was. They were so anxious to get going, they forgot all about puss. I had to go over and see to her after they'd gone.'

‘You say a friend came to pick up Mr Doyle; have you seen this friend before?'

Mary shook her head. ‘Two of them, there were, in a car,' she said. ‘I heard them drive in. It must have been before seven; it was still dark, and I hadn't been up long. Can't sleep in like I used to.' Mary lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘It's the bladder,' she confided. ‘And once you're up you might just as well stay up, mightn't you? Anyway, I heard this car, then a banging on Mickey's door. It went quiet for a bit, but then I heard Mickey shouting something, so I went out to see what was going on.'

‘And what was going on, Mary?'

The kettle let out a piercing whistle. ‘Be a love and make the tea,' she said, ignoring Tregalles's question. ‘Puss is having her nap, and I don't want to disturb her.'

Dutifully, Tregalles slid out of the seat and made the tea, but when Mary told him to bring the pot and two mugs to the table, he only brought one. ‘I'm afraid I can't,' he told her sorrowfully as he sat down again. ‘Mouth's still sore from having a tooth out, and I'm not supposed to drink anything hot.'

‘Shame,' she said. ‘I remember what it was like when I had my tonsils out. I was just a girl, of course. Back then they took your tonsils out for any old reason, but you never hear of it now, do you? Talk about a sore mouth – I remember what it was like trying to—'

‘I'm sorry, Mary,' Tregalles broke in, looking at his watch again, ‘but I really am pressed for time. You were going to tell me about these men. You said you went out to see what all the noise was about . . .?'

‘That's right. Like I told you, I'd only just got up, so it took me a few minutes to get my coat and slippers on, so they were leaving by the time I got outside. I heard Mickey arguing about something, and I called out to him to ask where he was going, but the man behind him sort of pushed Mickey into the back before he had a chance to answer, and it was him who told me that Mickey was off to Ireland to visit somebody. I didn't quite catch it, because he was in ever such a hurry. Said Mickey's alarm never went off, and he wasn't ready when they came to pick him up to take him to the station, so it was a good thing they'd come a bit early, or he'd have missed his train. Then he got in the back with Mickey, and they drove off.'

She paused for breath, wheezing heavily now. ‘Just like Mickey, that was,' she continued. ‘In such a hurry to be off he forgot all about puss, here,
and
he left his door open. I suppose he knew I'd look after her and lock up, but he might've told me. Mind you, it must have come up sudden like, because he never mentioned going away at all last time I talked to him, let alone to Ireland. It all happened so fast I didn't even have time to find out when he'd be back.'

‘You say one man got in the back with Mickey. Did you see the other one? The driver?'