Tableland (26 page)

Remembered that I had been hoping to see Geoff Savoury with the Price-Potters on Saturday night but he had not turned up. Perhaps we ought to have a little wine and cheese party soon. After all, we know so many people in the area now and it would be a good opportunity to renew contacts and widen our circle of friends even more.

Also feel I must appear to carry on as normal. Can't allow anyone to suspect I may know more than is good for me.

Made arrangements for a local garage to service my car next week and decided to take a couple of days' holiday, which I have due to me, at the same time. I feel very much in need of them, what with having so much on my mind at this present moment.

P.H. mentioned the roof trusses again. I asked him to be more specific and he said, ‘I've heard on the grapevine that Remnants are doing a housing estate out at Little Ditton – work due to commence shortly. I think we could do ourselves a lot of good in that direction if someone was to chat up the builder. There's bound to be keen competition but – you never know your luck. We could do with a good order just at the moment, especially after that last fiasco.'

Still don't know how Lumberjobs managed to underprice us on that one – thought I had pared the estimate to the bone. This last little dig of P.H.'s made me all the more determined to get out there and secure the roof trusses order for I.C.T.

Jotted down the address and telephone number and made an appointment to see Remnant next Friday.

‘Friday the 13th?' he checked.

‘Yes, that's right,' I replied, looking in my diary. It's a good job I'm not superstitious.

Trev has been hoarding a box of fireworks so we took them up to the park for the display this evening. Julie and Eric, both heartily disliking bangs of any sort, stayed home and kept each other company.

The night was dry and cold. The huge bonfire gave off quite a heat and I caught sight of one or two familiar faces in the glow including the Price-Potters, but by the time I had edged my way over to where they had been standing, they had vanished.

A good time was had by all. Trev lit a sparkler as we walked back down Springcroft Meadow, which suddenly illuminated the silhouette of a grotesque figure hobbling down the road in front of us. Trev clutched my arm and even I felt shaken, ‘It's the hunchback of Notre Dame,' he hissed. We were ready to run when we recognised a familiar voice.

‘Evening, squire.' It was only Steve shrouded in a huge woolly scarf and leaning heavily on a walking stick. I replied cheerily enough but seemed to see him in a new light.

‘Steve's limp seems to be getting worse instead of better,' I remarked to Julie as we watched him climbing into his car this morning.

‘I overheard the Gropes on Saturday night telling Steve how they'd heard about his bravery in rescuing a cat from up the tree and what a fall he must have had,' Julie said, ‘and he didn't actually deny it!'

Bought a beer-making kit while out shopping this morning, with a view to making some for our cheese and wine party. It should prove economical. Had to buy large plastic bucket as well, as part of the equipment.

Felt in the mood for my beer-making enterprise after breakfast and started to assemble everything necessary. Eventually found my plastic bucket in the corner of the garage containing soil and worms. Tipped them back into the garden, to Trev's annoyance. ‘Those worms have got to be fresh for when I go fishing,' he complained but I was adamant.

‘How can I get this properly clean now? It says on the instructions everything must be sterile,' I said to Julie, showing her the bucket.

‘Oh some strong disinfectant's the answer,' she said and handed me a large bottle. I used quite a lot of the stuff and it took quite a while to get it clean. I made my beer with very little trouble and left it in a corner of the kitchen with a large tea towel over it. Eric went over to have a sniff but walked away again.

Had a certain feeling of satisfaction as I thought of all that beer fermenting away nicely in the kitchen – I don't think it would take much to turn me into one of these self-sufficiency chaps with an allotment, solar panels on the roof and a windmill making electricity. Julie and I talked about it as we ate a very good Indian takeaway from the new chip shop.

‘I hear Lumberjobs have got the contract for Chester Cheap Canning Consortium's new factory,' Gordon Brimcup announced as he breezed in this morning. ‘That firm is certainly going places.'

‘Well, there's no need to sound so cheerful,' I said.

‘Keep it under your hat, but yours truly is seriously considering joining them.' And before I could say anything he had breezed out again.

Had Gordon's threat on my mind as I walked home from the garage this morning. Glad to have a couple of days' breathing space from the office.

It will give me an opportunity to chew things over and consolidate my thoughts on Les Crow's vanishing act, in particular how to proceed with any investigations and what action, if any, to take.

It will also give me a chance to plan my campaign re the trusses and redouble my efforts to bring in some good orders.

Was thinking along these lines when I bumped into Nina Price-Potter on her way to her playgroup and, almost without thinking, heard myself say, ‘We're giving a little wine and cheese party at the end of the month. Hope you and Neville will honour us with your presence, and, by the way, could you let me have Geoff Savoury's telephone number? We'd like to ask him too.'

Inspected my beer. On lifting the tea towel, a strong whiff of disinfectant assailed my nostrils but Julie said not to worry it would all be absorbed.

Thought I would get down to some “serious probing” and went to look for the gardening glove, only to be told by Julie that she had found a disgusting object in the pocket of my jeans when taking them to the launderette yesterday and had thrown it in the bin. All was well, however, as the bin men hadn't been and, after rooting around, I found it under some potato and onion peelings. Some tea leaves and a piece of lamb fat were stuck to it and felt worried in case these might take off some of the necessary scent but I told Julie I was going for a walk in Barton Woods with Eric and set off optimistically. A little “recce” there might be just the job, I thought.

By the quarry, I took the glove out of a plastic bag and bent down to present it to Eric, in the way I'd seen done on a TV programme. I patted his head and gave him his orders. Can't remember my exact words but in effect he was to follow the scent – may even have mentioned the name Les Crow and that it was a matter of life and death – serious stuff but lots of encouragement thrown in.

Ran the glove over his nostrils and he seemed to get the message… then it happened.

A voice from behind me said, ‘Hello, hello, hello – what are you up to?' At this, Eric seized the glove and ran off with it. When I turned round, I saw that Sue and Cordelia Uppe were standing there with their arms full of kindling. How long they'd been there I don't know and the thought at once occurred to me that they'd been spying on me.

‘Just a spot of dog training,' I said and I think I sounded quite natural. All the while though, had the nagging thought that she'd recognised the glove, startled Eric on purpose after overhearing my commands and would be rushing back to tell Alan, who would then suspect that I'd guessed something of the truth and would alert the other Wheelers.

She just said, ‘Cordelia's getting over the mumps.' I moved back a couple of paces and said I'd better go and find Eric. He answered my whistle eventually and returned minus the glove, which I'd hoped somehow to return to the Crows' porch. My one good chance of discovering something and, as Trev would say, I've blown it.

Back to work. After drawing a blank in the woods yesterday and knowing in my bones that another confrontation with Anita would definitely be a “no-go area”, I gave myself a stern talking to, along the lines that no-one could have done more in the circumstances. I'd done my bit – more than my bit really, considering my dislike of the party involved – and I now owed it to myself, and my family, to try and forget the whole nasty business, put it behind me, concentrate my mind on my career and assemble my figures etc. for tomorrow's visit to Remnants.

Neither of us felt like beekeeping this evening. Feel more drawn towards a “Train Your Dog to Respect You” class which we've heard about.

George Remnant was sitting in the site office studying some plans as I went in.

After introducing myself, we looked at the drawings of the houses for some minutes.

There are sixteen houses to be built, of a simple design, and it should be a quick job to work out the quantities and price.

We went on to talk of other things – inflation, the Pope, the general unreliability of people these days and lack of pride in their work and his holiday cottage in Anglesey.

We parted on good terms and I was whistling as I drove off the site. The whistle froze on my lips, however, as I spotted Avery in his Jaguar a hundred yards down the road speeding along in the direction of Remnants.

Have decided on the 28th for our wine and cheese party. This will give us a fortnight to organise things.

Julie and I drew up a list of ten couples plus Geoff Savoury.

‘What about your colleagues at work?' Julie asked. ‘Gordon Brimcup, for example'.

‘I think it's better to keep home and office life in separate compartments,' I told her. ‘And anyway, if you ask one, you have to ask them all.'

In a stationery shop in Weston, we spotted some attractive invitation cards. Couldn't decide between a tipsy-looking Santa Clause weaving his way between the rooftops clutching a bottle of whisky, or a rather humorous card announcing:

We invite you to:

a wedding

a Wake

a Drinks Party

an All-in Wrestling Match

Etc. etc., the idea being to tick the appropriate one. So, in the end, bought a packet of each.

Cold and wet. Wrote out invitation cards in the afternoon while watching Match of the Day.

As I addressed the Spicers' card, I said to Julie, ‘I suppose it's alright asking the Spicers and the Uppes. I don't think they've been on speaking terms since their holiday. It must be very awkward living next door.'

‘Well, perhaps it will bring them together. There's nothing like a convivial drink round Christmas time for healing a breach. A spot of bonhomie will work wonders,' she replied.

‘You're probably right,' I gave Trev some extra pocket money to deliver some of the cards and I took Steve's round myself after tea.

‘Come in, come in, what's your poison?' Steve asked as he limped his way into the lounge.

Was it just my imagination or was there a slight accent on the word “poison” tonight? Had Alan Uppe put the word around about the glove already? Do I now pose a threat to them? But he was giving nothing away. I quickly reminded myself that I've got quite enough on my mind and steered all thoughts away from his fish pond.

As he switched the light on, over his mantlepiece, I spotted something new. A small wooden shield on which was painted something that looked like a moulting duck.

‘I hear the Blades are still eating boeuf bourginon,' Steve said, handing me a beer. ‘Una,' he shouted, ‘could you fetch my desk diary? Leg's playing me up a bit today,' he explained as Una appeared with a large, important-looking book.

He thumbed through the pages ‘Yes, it's on the 27th – date not to be missed – Wheelers' annual general meeting, when you may hear something to your advantage.' He snapped the book shut. I could hardly suppress my excitement. I am nearly there. I drank my beer and walked home in a happy daze. Only later did I realise that I had forgotten to deliver the invitation.

Checked over my estimate for Remnants this evening and have thought about little else all day.

Spent a sleepless night last night and was glad to get the estimate in the post and on its way.

When Julie said that she had bumped into Una in the supermarket this morning, I realised, to my horror, that I still hadn't delivered their invitation to our wine and cheese party and I hastened over to explain my lapse of the other evening. Steve greeted me with a cross smile. ‘Ah, I thought perhaps we were persona non grata,' he said.

My gaze was once again held by the moulting duck and I quickly said, by way of explanation, ‘I had this invitation to our small seasonal gathering ready to give you the other evening but the sight of this splendid shield drove it right out of my mind.'

Think I had said the right thing as his face cleared and he consulted his diary. ‘Yes, I think we can squeeze that in. Won't be able to stay too long though as we may have to… So you like our family crest, do you? Yes, I'm into an ancestor tracing situation at the moment – roots and all that. Our Coat of Arms,' he explained, ‘is an eider duck rampant showing his down.' He pointed to the scattered feathers. Apparently the Downes once had a large estate where they bred rare water fowl.

‘Perhaps they stuffed eiderdowns,' I suggested but sensed I had said the wrong thing.