Shades of Murder (25 page)

‘Police!’ called Pearce above the grind of the vacuum and the yapping of the dog. He held up his warrant card and edged his trouser-legs away from the Jack Russell’s teeth.

The cleaner switched off his machine. ‘He don’t bite,’ he said.

In fact, the Jack Russell had stopped barking as soon as the vacuum’s roar ceased. It now stood watching Pearce with bright-eyed interest, ears cocked. Its manner indicated it thought the visitor was about to do something exciting.

‘I’d like to see the landlady, Mrs Forbes,’ said Pearce.

‘What’s it about?’ the cleaner demanded.

‘Is she here?’ asked Pearce in a tired voice. ‘Just go and get her, will you?’

‘She’ll want to know why you’re here,’ retorted the cleaner, standing his ground. The Jack Russell uttered an impatient yelp.

‘Enquiries,’ snapped Pearce.

‘It’s not likely to affect our licence, is it?’ persisted the cleaner. ‘We haven’t had any trouble here. Dolores won’t allow it.’

‘I’m making enquiries into the death of Mr Jan Oakley,’ Pearce admitted at last. He could see himself standing here all day arguing with this pipsqueak. The information had the desired effect.

‘Gawd,’ said the cleaner in awe. ‘I’ll go and get Dolores.’ As he hastened towards a door in the further wall, he turned his head and called back, ‘She’s not going to like this, you know.’

Pearce realised he was being given fair warning. He braced himself. Even so, he was almost bowled over by the force with which Mrs Forbes erupted through the door and into the bar. She presented a fearsome
sight. Her blonde hair was tortured round large rollers which studded her head like some sort of helmet. She wore a tight black sweater and tighter black trousers and was balanced on four-inch heels. She looked like an avenging Valkyrie.

‘What’s all this?’ she demanded, descending on Pearce who managed, just, not to step back. ‘Darren says you’re asking about that fellow Oakley. I heard he’d died. What’s it got to do with us?’

‘I understand, Mrs Forbes,’ Pearce quavered, ‘that he ate here every evening.’

‘So what?’ snarled Mrs Forbes.

Pearce pulled himself together and tried to take charge of the conversation. ‘We’re trying to trace his last movements and we’re particularly interested in what he ate during that day. He ate here every evening. So you can help us if you tell us what he had that Saturday, if you remember.’

“Course I remember! He had the cheapest thing on the menu. That was the arrangement I had with Miss Oakley. He had the pasta with basil, tomato and mozzarella. There was nothing wrong with that.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What did he die of?’

‘We think he was poisoned,’ admitted Pearce.

‘Poisoned!’ yelled Mrs Forbes into his face and this time Pearce did dodge back. The Jack Russell, which had retreated under the nearest table as the landlady approached, now scuttled out of the open front door. Pearce wished he could do the same.

‘No one,’ Mrs Forbes was breathing heavily, her splendid bosom bouncing up and down like a couple of marker buoys on a choppy sea, ‘no one in my entire life has ever accused me of poisoning anyone with my cooking or with any food served in any establishment I’ve run. I’ve been in this business since I was nineteen!
Darren!
’

The cleaner rushed forward obediently. ‘Yes, Dolores?’

‘Tell this copper what you had for your supper last night,’ she ordered.

‘I had the pasta,’ said Darren. ‘It was very nice, too. I like pasta.’

‘See?’ demanded Mrs Forbes. ‘How are you feeling today, Darren?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘You’ve not got the guts-ache? Don’t feel sick? Didn’t have the runs during the night?’

Darren denied suffering any of these medical symptoms.

‘Darren’s got a delicate stomach,’ said Mrs Forbes to Pearce. ‘If there’d been anything wrong with the pasta, he’d have been the first to know it, wouldn’t you, Darren?’

‘Yes, Dolores. I can’t touch a curry but pasta is all right.’

‘I’m not interested in Darren’s stomach!’ shouted Pearce, overriding this united defence. ‘I’m interested in Jan Oakley’s! What else did he have? Just the pasta?’

‘He had a couple of pints of lager. It was bottled lager, so you can’t blame the pub for anything to do with that. Not that there’s anything wrong with the draught lager here. All the pipes are washed out regular. Same goes for my kitchen. It’s cleaned top to bottom every day, isn’t it, Darren?’

Darren, who presumably did the cleaning, agreed gloomily that it was.

‘Spotless!’ snapped Mrs Forbes. ‘You come and see for yourself.’

‘I don’t need—’ began Pearce, but found himself propelled into a white-tiled kitchen which did, he agreed, look spotless.

‘Fridge!’ snapped Mrs Forbes. Pearce was hauled to the fridge which was thrown open and his head almost thrust inside to enable him to inspect it. ‘Cupboards!’ Doors flew open and clashed shut above his head. ‘Floor!’ Mrs Forbes pointed imperiously downwards.

Pearce wondered whether he was expected to kneel at her feet and beg forgiveness at having cast aspersions on the kitchen of The Feathers.

‘I’ve had the environmental health bloke here, checking,’ went on the landlady, still in full flow, ‘and he said it was a shining example, didn’t he, Darren? He said he wished all the kitchens he saw were like this one.’

‘We got a certificate,’ added Darren.

‘And there it is, on the wall. See?’ Mrs Forbes flung out a scarlet-tipped finger. ‘We got an award from the council! And in case you’re wondering,’ she concluded, ‘that dog never sets a paw in here, does he, Darren?’

‘I bet he doesn’t,’ said Pearce, getting a word in edgeways at last. ‘All right, your kitchen’s a ruddy marvel. Wish my kitchen at home was the same.’ (Good job Tessa couldn’t hear him say that. He’d find himself in the divorce court before he knew it.) ‘Can we get back to this fellow, Oakley?’

‘What else do you want to know about him?’ Dolores Forbes sniffed. ‘Not that I can tell you anything, apart from the fact he wasn’t my cup of tea. I felt sorry for those two old dears. She was paying the bill for all the food he ate here, you know, was Miss Oakley. A scandal, I call it. I don’t suppose she’s got anything much but the old age pension for all she and her sister live in that big house. It’s in a terrible state inside and the
garden only looks decent because Ron Gladstone comes over and keeps it nice, just out of the kindness of his heart.’

‘Was Oakley always alone when he ate here?’ Pearce refused to be sidetracked.

‘He didn’t know anyone,’ Mrs Forbes pointed out. ‘The only time I ever saw anyone sitting with him at his table was one evening when Superintendent Markby came in with a woman and they went and talked to that Oakley for a few minutes. Then Oakley got up and left.’ She frowned in memory. ‘And the superintendent and his lady friend left, too, just after. Don’t think they ate here.’

‘Why wasn’t Jan Oakley your cup of tea?’ Pearce thought that Markby and Miss Mitchell had probably got the same impression of this place that he and Tessa had received. It wasn’t what you might call welcoming.

‘I can tell ’em,’ said Mrs Forbes darkly. ‘Wouldn’t have trusted him an inch. He was quite a nice-looking feller, I’ll give you that, and always spoke very politely. But the old ladies didn’t want him there, you know, at the house. He was sponging off them and they knew it. They didn’t like him one bit.’

It now struck Pearce that Mrs Forbes seemed to know rather more about the internal affairs of Fourways House than might be expected.

‘How do you know?’ he asked. ‘How do you know the house is in such a bad state of repair and they didn’t want Oakley there?’

‘Our Kenny told me all about it.’ In explanation, she added, ‘He runs a taxi service, see. He takes them shopping regular, every Saturday, and anywhere else they need to go during the week, as and when they need it. Kenny says the house fair gives him the creeps but he likes the old ladies. Anyhow, he could see they didn’t care for that Jan. Ron Gladstone, he didn’t like Jan neither.’

‘Then perhaps I’d better speak to Kenny,’ said Pearce. ‘What’s his other name?’

‘Joss,’ said the landlady. ‘He’s a cousin of mine.’

So the battling Dolores was a Joss. Pearce knew the Joss clan well, both from experience and by reputation. He eyed Darren. ‘Is he a Joss, too?’

‘Course he’s not!’ Mrs Forbes looked quite shocked. ‘He’s my partner, Darren Lee.’ She paused and added more mildly, ‘Charlie Forbes and I didn’t last long. I was only twenty when I married him. You don’t know what you’re doing when you’re twenty, do you?’

Charlie Forbes certainly hadn’t.

* * *

Markby had left the chief constable on civil if frosty terms. He felt angry, perhaps unreasonably so. He knew Winsley was probably right. Jan’s complaint of police harassment, even if proved unfounded, would cast a shadow over investigations. Add to that Markby’s own long acquaintance with the Oakleys, plus Meredith’s involvement with Jan, the additional ingredient of the Painters in the mix and yes, a fresh pair of eyes should be looking at this case. But cool logic didn’t help, nor that the replacements were to come from London, of all places! The fact was, to outside eyes, Markby had been deemed unsuitable. It reflected upon him and would be remembered.

But Markby’s team remained on the case. Minchin and Hayes wouldn’t be able to investigate the case entirely on their own. They’d call on all the support and help within Regional HQ they could get. That meant Pearce in particular would have to act as their guide and interpreter. Markby used the last phrase advisedly. Not only would the newcomers need someone who knew the case and its background, but a more important aspect to the new arrangement was that it disregarded the personalities in the case. The Oakleys, for example: how would they react to the man from the Met? They’d hardly unburden themselves to him. He’d be a stranger and they didn’t chat about personal affairs to strangers. That it was a police matter wouldn’t make a jot of difference to this. And Meredith?

He drew into the entrance to a field and took out his mobile phone. She was at her desk.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘perhaps you should take a few days off. The CC has asked for a couple of heavies from the Met to come down and take over. They’re bound to want to interview everyone at length. That’s going to include you, I’m afraid.’

‘They’ve taken you off the case, then?’ She sounded depressed and furtive. That fellow Adrian was probably listening in. Another reason for her to stay out of her office.

‘I’ve been left technically in overall charge. That’s a sop to keep me quiet. But,’ added Markby quietly, ‘as long as I’m at Regional HQ I
am
in charge – and the CC and the pair of city slickers he’s calling in will find that out!’ More briskly, he went on, ‘Superintendent Minchin and an Inspector Hayes are to arrive tomorrow. I’m to find them accommodation.’ He paused. ‘I thought they might have your place. It’s empty.’

‘My house?’ She sounded startled.

‘Why not? It’s either that or The Crown. Your place has been fixed
up. Everything’s new in there, carpets, the lot. It’s furnished. The Force will pay the usual rate for temporary renting. They’ll be more comfortable and one of us will get something out of this.’

‘This isn’t like you, Alan,’ came the surprised voice down the line.

‘Let’s say, I’m not my usual self. Shall I offer them your place, then – or just drop them off at The Crown?’

‘They can have my place with pleasure. I’ll leave the details to you, and I’ll arrange time off. See you tonight.’ A pause. ‘Don’t take it to heart, Alan. It’s just a question of the circumstances and you knew it was a distinct possibility – you told the Oakleys so. I don’t suppose Winsley really wants these London men down there. It makes it look as if we can’t manage in the country. I’m sure he’d rather it was you. He’s probably worried about publicity.’

‘That’s more or less what Winsley said.’ Markby added, ‘Knowing someone is right doesn’t always make it easy to accept an unwelcome judgement.’

He returned to his car and drove slowly and thoughtfully back to his office. Pearce was there.

‘I’ve been to The Feathers, sir,’ he greeted Markby. ‘What a place! I thought the landlady was going to run me out by the scruff of my neck. It seems unlikely Oakley was poisoned there, unless the atmosphere got him!’

Markby managed a faint grin. ‘Yes, I’ve met Dolores. Well, Dave, you’ll be making your report to someone else from tomorrow.’ He explained about Minchin and Hayes.

Pearce looked glum. ‘Bit off, that.’

‘I can’t comment. I’m sure Superintendent Minchin knows his stuff. You’ll be the officer providing the necessary link between them and this office. I don’t need to say that you should provide them with every assistance. They will depend on you to a great extent. Cheer up, Dave. There’s no reason why things shouldn’t run smoothly.’

Markby suspected he sounded less than convincing. Pearce certainly looked as if he feared the worst.

Detective Constable Ginny Holding put her head round the door. ‘Sir? There’s a chap here from the Polish Embassy. His name’s –’ She glanced at a business card in her hand ‘– Landowski. Tadeusz Landowski.’ She stumbled over the pronunciation.

‘That was quick,’ Markby observed. ‘Well, show him in. I’m presumably to carry on until Minchin gets here.’

He wasn’t sure what to expect from a Polish consular officer.
Landowski, when he bounced in, proved to be a chunky, aggressive young man in a leather jacket, polo-neck sweater and chinos. He seized Markby’s outstretched hand, pumped it furiously and then sat down abruptly in the chair indicated.

‘I have come at once,’ he said. ‘As this is a matter of murder.’

‘We appreciate it,’ said Markby.

Landowski nodded acknowledgement of his gratitude. ‘I have sent a report back to Poland by diplomatic bag. It should be there in the morning. We shall, naturally, pass on to you any information we can find concerning this man Oakley. But I have to say, not only is it not a Polish name, but the man does not appear to have made his mark, as you say, in any other way. We shall, of course, check police records.’

‘His great-grandfather was an Englishman, William Oakley,’ said Markby.