Fatlands (17 page)

We ate early, in an oak-panelled dining room. I don't remember the food, except that I compromised with scallops and Nick had a radicchio and bacon salad, which he claimed was so delicious that I wondered what the pig must have been fed on to make it so tasty. He drank more than I did, but then he usually does, even when I'm not committed to keeping my wits about me.

When we finished, we decided it would be nice to go for a walk, seeing as it was such an unexpectedly balmy evening and the perfect time to celebrate the coming of summer. It was a mutual decision. What was less mutual was our route, not that he noticed being guided. Halfway there it struck me I hadn't taken Frank's advice. They weren't exactly high heels, but they weren't Doc Martens, either. But then whoever heard of Doc Martens with a Jean Muir dress? (Thank you, Sister Kate, a woman of wealth, dress sense and family charity.)

We reached the pub just after nine. ‘Oh,' I said, with
delighted surprise. ‘This must be the village local. Do you fancy a nightcap?'

To me it sounded about as convincing as Ruby Wax auditioning for Juliet, but Nick was a happy bunny, filled with good food and even better wine, and I was his for the weekend. Off duty. A bad thing to happen to a therapist, really.

We chose the lounge bar. It was cosy and not too crowded. I looked around. In the far corner Duncan, the wiry little farmer from three days ago, was sitting with a middle-aged woman and a couple of men. But he didn't notice me and, casually, I picked a table where I could sit with my back to him.

The man at the bar had turned into a girl, which was a good deal more promising when it came to remembering the faces of pretty young men. But I could hardly go up and shove the photo under her nose, particularly with Duncan sitting there harbouring memories of animal rights sympathizers.

While Nick was buying the drinks, I checked out the public bar: a lot more fellas, with a lot more beer and what looked like a serious game of darts in progress. A couple of them glanced up at me. I tried to look local and feminine. They looked away. It was hard to tell whether that meant I had failed or succeeded. I stood there for a while. There was something uncomfortable about the atmosphere. Maybe it was just the relentless masculinity of it all. One thing was for sure. Nobody there had ever had their photo taken in the garden of a girls'school.

When I got back, Nick, with his cognac and my Guinness, was already at the table. ‘Where've you been?'

‘Just looking around.'

We sat and drank in silence for a while, listening to the chatter of other people: TV programmes, spring gossip,
village business. It would have been relaxing had it not been for work.

‘Another world, country living, isn't it? Did you ever want to try it, Hannah?'

‘Uh-uh. Not me. I don't know enough about Agas. And I'm scared of the dark.'

He smiled. ‘Ever thought you might be in the wrong job?'

‘All the time.'

To the right of us a woman started to laugh, a great, peeling blast of sound, joyful, very unselfconscious. It made me want to laugh with her. I watched her. Maybe she would recognize the photo. Her or the man next to her. There had to be somebody here who knew more than I did. As I turned back, I noticed that Duncan had left his seat. I wondered whether it was worth worrying about.

‘You seem preoccupied.'

‘No. No, I'm fine. Just a little tired. Must be the country air.'

‘Hmm. You know, when I first met you, I used to wonder whether it was the work that made you so self-contained or the other way around.'

‘You mean all private eyes are natural misanthropists?'

‘Something like that.'

If I hadn't had so much else on my mind, I might have found it an interesting idea. Maybe I should have just referred him to my family. He'd get a clear enough answer from them. I was, apparently, always a secretive child. Kate says it used to drive everyone crazy. The way I remember it, it was just a defence mechanism from being the youngest and needing to carve out a world of my own. Guarding my own secrets. So, now I'm grown up, I just go ferreting for other people's. ‘And what did you decide?'

‘I decided you just hadn't met the right man yet.' He said it with an impeccably straight face, but then that was his speciality. When I came to think about it later, it struck me that he may have been hiding behind the humour to say more than he intended. But that was then, and this was now.

I dipped my finger into the top of the Guinness froth and flicked it at him. ‘I can't believe they let you loose on children.'

He shrugged. ‘Well, you know my views on political correctness. Death to the imagination.'

There was a little silence. The door to the lounge bar opened and a bevy of young men, obviously fresh from the triumph of the bull's-eye, muscled their way in. None of them was the one I was looking for.

‘Do you think it'll make any difference if you find them?'

I pulled myself back to the table. ‘Who?'

‘The people who killed her?'

It gave me quite a shock, my thoughts being so transparent. ‘I don't know. I'll tell you when I've got there.'

‘Well, anyway, I'm glad you're off duty tonight.' And he put his hand over mine. I smiled, then froze. Over the top of his head I saw a couple come through the main door. She was stocky, early to mid fifties. He was a little older, although always hard to tell the exact age with Van Morrison. I bent down to scratch my ankle and kept on scratching. He wouldn't recognize me. I looked too different.

I sat up and ran straight into his stare. Clearly it needed more than a Jean Muir dress and a dab of Clinique mascara to turn this swan into a princess. His wife had spotted some friends and was making her way over to the other side of the bar. He was making for me. I dragged my eyes back and smiled hastily at Nick. If we had world enough and time … but I didn't.

‘I thought we made it clear we didn't like your sort around here?' he said with the kind of projection that would bring the dog back from a couple of fields away. The hubbub level around us dropped significantly.

I looked up at him. ‘I'm sorry,' I said, ‘have we met before?'

‘I'd get out of here, if I were you. Before somebody puts you out.'

Nick was on his feet before I could stop him. He was taller than Brayton, but nowhere near his girth. ‘Excuse me,' he said in a tone that could best be described as firm but fair, ‘I think you must be mistaken. This lady is with me.' Oough. Hard to know which was more embarrassing really, the attack or the defence.

Brayton snorted. ‘Then you should watch your company, laddie.' You could almost hear the clash of their antlers. Men. It's got to be hormones. No other explanation. I was on my feet trying to get between them. But not quite fast enough. Brayton was already in for the kill. ‘Or maybe you don't know that this lady, as you call her, is one of the reasons that Tom Shepherd's daughter was blown to bits.'

The hush was now complete. I closed my eyes. ‘Nick,' I said, ‘it's OK. I do know this man.' He stared down at me, uncomprehendingly. ‘I've been here before. Mattie's father worked near by. I was hoping someone might be able to help me.'

His face made a rapid emotional journey, leaving confusion and arriving at insult via injury. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Oh, Christ, Hannah.'

‘I was going to tell you,' I said quietly, trying to keep it private.

‘Like hell you were,' he said, blowing a bloody great hole in my intentions.

By now most of the bar was waiting for my reply.

‘Listen, could we go outside. I—'

‘No. No, I've got a better idea. How about
I
go outside? Then you can just stay here and get on with your “investigating” . ' Great. Why don't you say it a bit louder, Nick? I don't think quite everybody in the village heard that.

He saw my look. ‘Sorry. Was that one of your secrets? I don't know why you bother with other people, Hannah. They just get in the way. I assume you can find yourself another chauffeur back to London.'

Well, it was no more than I deserved. Except how was I to know this was meant to be the weekend when we broke through to a deeper level? I watched him go. We all watched him go. Even Brayton knew when he had been upstaged. The door slammed behind Nick and the audience turned back to me. Free entertainment. Well, at least I had everyone's attention. I took a deep breath. I addressed myself to Brayton, but I was really playing to the gallery.

‘I know what you think, but I'm not animal rights, OK? I'm a private investigator, looking into Mattie Shepherd's death. And I'm here because I need to find someone. He goes by the name of Malcolm Barringer or Tony Marriot, or someone else. Young, good-looking chap, fairish hair, used to work at Vandamed. I think he rides a motorbike. I've got a picture of him if anyone wants to see it?'

But nobody did. Trouble was, of course, I didn't have their confidence. You could see that. It was the way they were staring at me. Could be my manner. Or my dress. Or my accent. Take your pick.

Brayton shook his head. ‘Whoever you are, lady, we don't like being taken for a ride.'

‘Well, for Mattie Shepherd's sake I just hope not everybody feels the same way,' I said loudly, picking up my bag
and coat. ‘If anyone wants to take it further, I'm staying at the Hortley Hotel, OK?' It was a weak exit line, made even weaker by the fact I had nowhere to exit to. I was afraid of meeting Nick in the car park: unless I knew what I was going to say to him it would be better to leave him there. Which left me no option but the back door.

I found myself in an inner courtyard with a few benches and tables. And opposite, two doors, a stick figure on each, one with a skirt on. And so it was I did what ladies always do when covered with embarrassment. I went to powder my nose.

The place was empty. I slid into one of the cubicles and locked myself in. Once on the loo seat I found to my fury that my legs were shaking. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself. Bloody stupid. All of it. All of them. Me. Me most of all. Maybe Frank was right. I should just have given what I knew to the police and let them get on with it. At least they would have had the proper resources to look for this guy. All I was getting was nowhere fast. A clear case of hubris over justice. What did it matter to Mattie who found her killer? Just so long as someone did. I wondered what Frank would have done. Well, not cower in a toilet, that's for sure. But then faced with Frank's physique Brayton might have thought twice before throwing his weight around. I tell you, sometimes it sucks being a girl. It was time I had more courage.

I was still hauling myself out of the slough of despond when the outside door creaked open. Then someone pulled at the cubicle door. I made with the loo paper, just to give a sense of business as usual when a man's voice said quietly but clearly: ‘Down by the stream at the back of the pub after closing time. And don't bring your boyfriend.'

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? So someone had something to tell me. Maybe my Sarah Bernhardt act hadn't been such a bad idea after all. Of course, by the time I got
the cubicle unlocked the man had gone. And by the time I had catapulted myself out into the courtyard, the door to the public bar was already closing. I pushed my way in, but it was a rugby scrum in there with sixty, maybe seventy people, at least twenty of whom could just have come through the door. I looked at my watch. Just after ten o'clock. Boy, did I need a drink. But I also needed to make pax with Nick. And I only had an hour to do it in.

I
had expected to find him in the car park, kicking up the gravel and trying hard not to cool off. But he wasn't there. I stood about for a bit waiting. Then I made my way back to the hotel. The walk took thirteen minutes, which if I was to make my closing-time appointment left thirty-five minutes for the reconciliation. I could sort of see it wasn't going to be enough.

But maybe it was as well I didn't have to try. He wasn't in the bar and he wasn't in our room. Neither was his suitcase. I changed my shoes, repacked my handbag and headed downstairs. And there was something else missing, I realized as I looked out over the car park on my way to the front desk. The receptionist told me he'd checked out ten minutes before, then tried to soften the blow by saying he'd settled the bill before he went. There was no message. Well, I suppose he'd said everything he wanted to say. Ten minutes, eh? He hadn't given me much time to come crawling back.

Ah well, face the facts: I was a woman without a lover. The hotel bar looked warm and inviting: dark wood, comfy chairs and a fire in the grate. I could sit until the early hours and cry into my handkerchief. Except I never carry one. I went up to the bar and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. I stood and watched as the man poured it, enjoying the cracking of the tiny icebergs and the dark,
rich swirl of the liquid. Then I picked up the glass and, in homage to a hundred other private eyes more experienced and charismatic than I, downed it in one. Never mind the vintage, feel the fire in your belly. I gave the easy chair a brief salute, and headed for the front door. I had another mile to walk tonight, there and back. I prevailed upon the girl at the front desk to lend me a torch. You could see she was worried about me. Maybe she had Ophelia fantasies. I gave her a big grin and went out into the night. Shame about Nick. Even more of a shame about his car.

It was just before eleven when I got to the pub. As I walked round the back, I heard the bell for last orders ring twice. The garden was benign enough: a little pond, a rusty climbing frame, a few tables caught in the thin light of a half-moon between clouds. At the bottom my torch picked up a gate leading to a narrow, sloping strip of land, below which I assumed to be the stream. Behind me the noise of closing-time was a comfortable companion—doors slamming, people's footsteps, car engines, laughter, talking. I opened the gate and made my way down to the water's edge. With the torch and the sneakers I felt like a professional.