The Food Detective (15 page)

Chapter Fifteen

I might have been flippant in my request for police help first thing next morning, but someone was taking it seriously. I’d hardly finished what would have to pass for breakfast – all last night’s calories were already congregating round my belly – when someone applied a remorseless digit to my doorbell. The front one. I flung it open to greet a silver four by four as monstrous as Nick’s and a couple of miserable looking men who could only have been plain clothes policemen. Two of them, one round Nick Thomas’s age, the other a lad looking scarcely older than Lucy, showed their IDs as one.

‘DCI Mike Evans,’ said the older one, a Cornish burr to his voice. He might once have been a carrot head, but the colour had faded to rust. With his pale skin, he was weathered rather than tanned, and you could have passed him in a supermarket without giving him a second glance. For my money, that dozy stolidity was a front. His eyes, blue, if you had a romantic tendency, as a summer sky, narrowed as the smell of the guts wafted along the dogleg of corridor, but he didn’t remark on it. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Scott Short.’

Scott Short. Whatever had his parents been thinking if? He was dressed so sharply he’d have to be careful not to cut himself when he pulled his trousers on, and his hair was fashionably spiked. Was it coming from the Smoke that gave him his swagger, a metropolitan amongst all us bumpkins? Whatever it was, I
didn
’t take to him, especially when I showed them into my lovely living room and he appraised it with a pronounced sneer. A man for Habitat beech and beiges, no doubt. And a weekly manicure. Interesting.

I was very impressed that they’d taken my incident so seriously, and was about to tell them so.

But Evans coughed portentously, and began, ‘You may be aware that Mr Fred Tregothnan has been reported missing.’

I swear I felt Tony’s hand on my shoulder, pressing me down, warning me not to say anything yet about my incident. I almost patted it reassuringly. ‘There’s still no sign of him?’ I asked,
pouring 
both of them some of my excellent coffee and adding more fuel to an already bright and warming fire. ‘This must be very worrying for his family.’ I was as well aware as they that he
didn
’t have any, but I was hardly going to let on I knew him so well.

‘Indeed,’ agreed Evans.

It was clear they were waiting for me to say something. The question was, what? And how? I wasn’t going to go all weepy on this pair: I didn’t think Evans would buy it, anyway. What about wrong-footing them altogether with news of the red stream and the shed so illicitly fenced off? I could keep Nick out of the story, but that might backfire if it later came out that we’d explored it together. Blast the man for pushing off precisely when he was needed here. But that might be why he’d gone. After all, he had had a row with Fred – perhaps he had actually had something to do with his disappearance.

No: Nick was a victim if ever I saw one, not a murderer.

But rats turned vicious if cornered – what about mice?

Clearly the less I said about Nick and our activities the better.

Time to be the dumb blonde, then. Dumb as in silent. I put on my listening landlady face, a half smile and slightly tilted head, as if I was interested, just like a kindly counsellor. And waited.

Yes! It was Scott who broke first. ‘You had a disagreement with Mr Tregothnan.’

‘I did. He goosed one of my employees. Lindi Taylor. Sexual assault, in other words. I told one of your colleagues in Taunton.’

‘Ms Taylor denies all knowledge of the incident. So do all the other people in the bar at the time. And she says that when you spoke to Mr Tregothnan, you threatened to kill him.’

All the years I’d practised, I’d never been able to stop myself going pale when I was accused of anything. In the discreet
lighting
of my living room, the change might not be detectable; if I flushed afterwards, they might have thought it was my age and my hormones. Certainly my voice would give nothing away: Tony had coached me for far too many long hours. ‘No, of course I didn’t. Nothing like as tame. I cursed his soul to eternal
perdition
and one or two variants of that. Although in general I don’t swear, when I curse, constable, I curse good and proper. I
wouldn
’t
bother with a mere death threat, believe me.’ Was that why I’d been cold-shouldered in the shop on Friday morning? Because they genuinely thought I’d done him in?

Or because they felt guilty for shoving the blame on to me?

Evans managed a wry smile; Scott blinked.

‘Is there anyone else he might have argued with?’ Evans asked.

‘Being a landlady’s rather like being a priest,’ I said. ‘You hear and see things you can’t repeat.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ Scott demanded.

‘I know he had disputes with a number of people, but I never heard a death threat. I think he was owed money – but I gather that’s the usual scenario for vets in these hard days for farmers. His paperwork would show that.’

‘And where would that be?’

I allowed myself a raised brows blink. ‘Why ask me? I have enough trouble with my own paperwork, let alone anyone else’s.’

‘You were seen leaving his house, Mrs Welford.’

Hell’s bells! Was there anywhere this village that didn’t conceal eyes?

I smiled smoothly. ‘Yes. With the Reverend Sue Clayton. I’m sure she’s told you. When we heard Fred hadn’t turned up for surgery we thought someone ought to check he wasn’t lying ill in his house. So we used his spare key to gain access. We didn’t find him. And – I’m also sure she’s told you – she hunted for his address book and so on but couldn’t find them. So we gave up. I presume she contacted you?’

‘Were you with Ms Clayton all the time?’

‘I left her downstairs while I went to check upstairs.’

‘So she could have removed items without your knowing.’

‘Or I without her knowing. But I didn’t. And Sue’s not that sort of woman –’

‘What sort, Mrs Welford?’

‘The sort to be anything less than a hundred per cent honest. If she’d taken anything, it would have been for safekeeping. She’d probably even have asked me whether she should. And she’d
certainly
have told you.’

‘So we can’t impugn
her
honesty. What about
yours
, Mrs
Welford?’

I took a calculated risk. If they wanted to check up on me they’d find out soon enough, so I produced an embarrassed smile. ‘This won’t go any further, will it? I mean, I have a reputation in the village –’

Short gave a crack of laughter. Evans frowned him down.

‘You’re implying I have a reputation for something I don’t know about, Mr Short?’ I opened indignant eyes wide. ‘Whatever that may be – and I trust you’ll enlighten me – I’m sure it’s not for what I am. I’m the widow of a man who at one point was the most wanted man in England. I was his child bride, and he was in prison for some twenty-five of the thirty years I was married to him. Tony Welford. Ended his days in Long Lartin for a heist that went wrong. Maximum security prison,’ I added, as if Short were a kindergarten kid who needed things spelling out. ‘Suffice to say my own record is immaculate, or I’d hardly have got an alcohol licence, would I? And yes, the authorities do know about Tony.’ Had someone’s sister or cousin or aunt seen the confidential
documentation
and split? May they rot if they had. It was only then it occurred to me who could easily have dropped it out – so why hadn’t I immediately suspected Nick Thomas? ‘So what do they say about me in the village?’

‘That you’re –’ Short stopped dead. I kept my eyes full on him. He flushed scarlet. ‘A witch,’ he mumbled.

‘Twaddle and bilge,’ I said, drawing a grin from Evans. ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t mind being one, not just at the moment. All my staff have mysteriously disappeared, gentlemen. I could magic them back again. Abracadabra!’

‘Why should they have disappeared?’

‘Given the choice, would you work for a witch?’ I asked as lightly as if I didn’t care.

‘No notice?

I shook my head.

‘No word since?’

Another shake. When I was young, my hair had been long and heavy and silky enough to flop from side to side when I did that. It had made me feel a million dollars. Then I’d reached the age
when long hair doesn’t work – mutton pretending to be lamb, and looking all the worse for trying. The hairdresser actually picked up a lock for me to keep, but I slung it down when he wasn’t looking. No point in clinging on to a past life.

‘How are you managing?’ Evans looked genuinely interested.

‘Not much business this last week, what with the rain. You may have seen me on the TV news on Friday, talking with passion about the problems of the poor farmers and tradespeople round here. No? Your heart would have bled. In any case, I planned for a fairly fallow period while the restaurant was being set up. A few sulking rustics won’t kill me. Could that be what happened to Fred Tregothnan?’ I speculated aloud, almost as if I were talking to Nick. ‘Vets don’t earn that much, do they, in rural practices? Far more money in overfed city pets. Some folk take things hard – he might have topped himself.’

‘The possibility isn’t lost on us, Mrs Welford. Very well.’ Evans pulled himself to his feet, not quite suppressing a wince as his knees straightened. ‘Thank you for your time. And for the
excellent
coffee. Is that what you’ll be serving in your new restaurant?’

It struck me that the news of the pub’s transformation hadn’t come to him as any surprise. He’d obviously done his homework – or simply listened to villagers all too ready to fill him in on the news. I outlined the plans briefly, leading them down the stairs – to the back door this time.

‘Now you’re here, Mr Evans,’ I said, pointing to the stinking ooze, ‘perhaps you could tell me what you’re going to do about that.’

Scott Short took one look and spewed, all over my feet. Well, he’d go far in the police, wouldn’t he?

‘It must be the shock, poor lad,’ I said kindly, kicking off my shoes all the same, and wondering how he’d take it if I stripped off my spattered stockings. The trouble with vomit is that the tiniest spec stinks for ever, and makes me want to heave in
sympathy
.

Despite his gabble of apologies, Short goggled – hadn’t he ever seen a woman wearing stockings for anything except seduction? I wasn’t about to give him a lecture on the causes and prevention
of vaginal thrush, however. Hopping from one foot to the other, I flung the offending items on to the floor. ‘I’m sorry – I shall have to go and wash this off.’ What else would Tony have
considered
the bidet was meant for except feet?

I left plenty of time, while drying between my toes and pulling on fresh stockings, for them to ponder more calmly my unexpected gift. I pondered from afar, amid the smells of lavender and rose. Entrails. Intestines. Guts. A lot of them. Never having seen the innards of a cow or whatever, I’d no idea how much to expect. Had I had the contents of one beast or more? No, I hadn’t
actually
counted the hearts or lungs or livers, any of which could have appeared on my menu later that week – if I’d had any idea of their provenance, of course.

Of course, I had a damned good idea where they might have come from. The animals I’d seen being delivered to the makeshift slaughterhouse. Pity I’d resolved not to implicate Nick by reporting it – at this stage anyway. The first question they’d now have to ask, of course, was who might have it in for me. Well, I had a good alternative theory, which came out equally pat when, pale about the gills himself, poor kid, Short sat on my sofa again, knees tightly together as if he was afraid I might flash my
suspenders
at him. After a good swallow, he managed to stutter out a direct question. Evans, meanwhile, was barking into his phone.

‘As a matter of fact there is one person who might have a grudge against me – the sort of grudge you might express that way. Trouble is, I don’t know his name.’

Short groped for his superior expression, missing horribly.

‘Look, have another of these biscuits – they’ll settle that poor stomach of yours. The man was my meat supplier till quite recently. You might say I inherited him when I took over the pub. But I only ever contacted him through a third party. You need to ask Mr Bulcombe, the guy who runs the campsite recently under several feet of water: he’d know. It was he who did the deals.’

Short wrote assiduously.

Evans, over his head, asked, ‘Why did you stop getting your meat from him?’ He snapped his phone shut as if to emphasise the question.

‘No paperwork’ I told him. ‘See, I told you what a law-abiding citizen I was compared with my late husband.’ I swallowed hard, not entirely for show. ‘No matter how many times I asked, an invoice, a receipt would always come next time – honest, Mrs Welford. And then I did a spot of research about BSE and how it can affect humans and decided to go organic instead. Apart from anything else, it’ll add cachet to the restaurant when it opens.’

Evans joined Short on the sofa, leaning forward to ask, ‘Did you have any reason to believe that the meat you were buying might be infected?’