The Price of Butcher's Meat (37 page)

Hollis laughed and said, “Aye, he were in here an hour ago, mebbe a bit longer. You could have saved yourself a trip if you’d only thought on!”

“Excuse me,” said Hat, “but who’re we talking about?”

The sergeant looked at him with distaste and said, “This is police business, sir. I’d be grateful if you didn’t interfere.”

Hat said, “Yes, I know it’s police business, Sergeant,” and produced his ID.

The man studied it carefully, then said, “You’ll be one of Ed Wield’s lads?”

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 7 1

“That’s right. Bowler. Hat Bowler.”

“Oh aye. I’m Whitby. If you work for Ed, I suppose you’re all right.

What are you doing here then?”

Hat explained and in return learned there was yet another Hollis in the offing, Ollie the hog roast man. As this exchange took place, the landlord drew two pints of beer. Whitby downed most of his in a single draft. Hat saw no reason not to follow superior example.

The door from the main bar opened and the curvaceous girl came in.

“Running out of Buds, Alan,” she said. “How do, Sergeant Whitby.”

“How do, Jenny,” said Whitby.

“I’ll bring some up,” said Hollis. “Here, take these to be going on with.”

He plucked half a dozen bottles from the refrigeration unit.

“So, Alan,” said Whitby, “did Ollie say which direction he were heading in when he left? If I’ve got to drive all the way out to Lowbridge again, I’ll kill him.”

Hollis’s brow furrowed as if in the effort of recollection. Jenny paused on her way out, clutching the armful of bottles to her bosom.

That will take the chill off them, thought Hat longingly. The chat with the receptionist seemed to have raised his blood temperature a couple of degrees.

She said, “You’re looking for Ollie? Oh, he were in a bad way, weren’t he, Alan? Not surprising after what happened up at the hall.

Any excitement and it brings on one of his attacks. He could scarcely breathe, I thought it might be an ambulance job, but he sucked on that device of his and when he got a bit better, he said only thing that would put him right were a session with Miss Lee.”

Alan Hollis said, “That’s right, Jug. I was just going to say, if you’re looking for Ollie, your next stop should be Witch Cottage.”

Witch Cottage. Miss Lee. Whom Hat had pushed down his list.

Couldn’t make that much difference. Could it?

2 7 2

R E G I N A L D H I L L

“Should have thought of that meself,” said Whitby, fi nishing his beer. “Seeing that poor woman dead’s stultifi ed me brain. I’ll get myself up there and hope he’s not left.”

“Hang on, Sarge, I’ll come with you,” said Hat.

“If you like,” said Whitby without enthusiasm.

As the door closed behind them, the customer in the corner lowered his paper, finished his drink, and took the glass to the bar.

“Same again, sir?” said Hollis.

“Better not. Lovely pint, but I’m driving,” said Sammy Ruddlesdin.

“See you again sometime.”

He went through the door.

Ahead of him as he walked to the car park, Hat was saying to Sergeant Whitby, “This Miss Lee, she does what exactly?”

“Acupuncturist. One of Tom Parker’s funny buggers. Don’t see how sticking needles into folks works, mesel’,” said Whitby. “But the proof of the pudding’s in the eating, and there’s no doubt Ollie’s a different man after a session at Witch Cottage.”

Any expectations roused by the name were disappointed a few minutes later when Hat got his first clear view of the cottage. Okay, it looked pretty ancient, but not very
witchy
. In fact, it looked extremely well kept and rather attractive in an olde worlde kind of way. Of course, appearances could deceive. Perhaps the little garden contained exotic herbs, one sprig of which could put you in a trance or make you fall madly in love or cure you of the quinsy. If so, they were well hidden by the hollyhocks and mesembryanthemums.

At the very least there should have been a door knocker in the form of a skull. Instead there was a modern bell push that Whitby ignored, pushing open the door that stood slightly ajar.

They stepped into a tiny hallway, and the sergeant shouted, “Hello!

Miss Lee!”

There was the sound of movement behind a half-open door to the left.

Being the closer to it, Hat pushed it fully open and said, “Miss T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 7 3

Lee?” brightly, because that’s what his lips were programmed to say, even though his mind was already calculating the odds against Miss Lee having a grizzled black beard. Still, in this day and age, especially when you were investigating the death of an elderly titled lady roasted in her own hog basket, it would be silly to rule anything out.

Later he realized these irrelevant thoughts were the smoke screen his subconscious was trailing across his conscious mind in an effort to soften the full grotesquerie of what he was seeing.

The bearded man had half turned toward the door, his face a picture of guilt surprised. He was standing next to a table with a padded top. On it, facedown, lay a man, stripped to the waist, his head resting on his crossed arms. From his naked back and shoulders protruded perhaps half a dozen of what looked like quills, four or fi ve inches long, stripped of their feathers, leaving just a touch of color at the tip.

Except for one.

This one, in the middle of the back near the top of the spine, only protruded a couple of inches at most and the bearded man’s right hand was still clasped tight about it.

Hat felt himself shouldered aside as Whitby shoved by him.

“Right, you bugger, let’s be having you,” he shouted.

The man put up no resis tance as Whitby forced his hands behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. He then pushed the prisoner toward Hat, saying, “Watch him!” and turned his attention to the figure on the table.

The bearded man looked straight into Hat’s eyes. He seemed to be trying to say something, but no words came.

Whitby had raised the prone figure’s head. His fingers ran down the neck, seeking a pulse. Finally he replaced the head gently on the crossed arms.

“He’s dead,” he said disbelievingly.

“Is it Hollis?” demanded Hat fearfully.

“Aye, it’s Ollie. He’s dead!”

2 7 4

R E G I N A L D H I L L

It was as if saying it a second time brought home the truth of the situation.

He spun round, thrust his face close to the prisoner’s, and said with quiet savagery, “You bastard! If there were any justice left in this soft bloody country, you’d hang for this!”

Then to Hat, in a voice full of a frustration that rang in the young constable’s ears like accusation, “Five minutes! If only we’d got here five minutes earlier!”

VOLUME THE THIRD

Yes, Yes, my Dear, depend upon it, you will be thinking of the price of Butcher’s meat in time—

1

FROM:

[email protected]

TO:

[email protected]

SUBJECT:

more

madness!

Disaster!!

Theyve arrested Mr Godley! I cant believe it—they must be mad—& not just for 1 murder but 2! It was in the News this morning—all the details of Lady Ds death—plus another murder last eve ning. Ollie Hollis—the gate man at the pig farm—who was in charge of the hog roast—killed on Miss Lees treatment couch—& the article says Mr Godley was caught in the act—sticking one of Miss Lees acu puncture needles into Ollies back!

Its got to be a mistake. OK—hes a nutter—but his nuttiness is believing he has the power to cure people—not to kill them! But the News piece is emphatic—goes on about the guy in charge—some plod called Pascoe—& how we can all rest safe in our beds with brains like his on the police payroll. Must be bollocks—stake my professional reputation on it—when I get one!

But—as usual—Im way ahead of myself.

Significant events since my last.

First—this woman cop turned up to take statements from Tom & Mary & me—theyre doing everyone who was at the hog roast—natch.

She seemed all right—bit understated—no makeup—drab gear—could be one of the sisterhood—butch end—but Im not sure. Name of Novello—rang a bell—some old b&w musical mum once made us watch on the box I think—do you recall?

Anyway—I quite liked her—gave her my statement—using my e to you—hot off the press—to double-check memory—& seeing this she asked if she 2 7 8

R E G I N A L D H I L L

could read it—& next thing Im running off copies of all the stuff Ive sent you with my impressions of Sandytown!

Once she went I soon started wondering if it had been such a good idea.

She promised for her eyes only—more or less—but I started thinking of all the crime soaps where the cops idea of a good time is lager & chips while they drool over the latest confi scated porn videos! But she seemed OK—& if us girls cant trust each other—who can we trust?

Pause for mocking laughter!

Anyway—my worries soon pushed to the back of my mind when Mary appeared with a new development. Dear kind Tom had got to worrying about Clara—the poor relation—or maybe not so poor now—who knows?!—down at the hall all by herself. So hed phoned her & invited her to stay here at Kyoto—& shed accepted. No problem about bedrooms—even with me staying they still have a couple

spare—but Mary wondered whether—in the

circs—putting Clara into a strange room in a strange house was a great idea & it had occurred to her that maybe sharing with someone her own age—ie me—might not make more sense—no pressure on me to agree.

Cant say I really fancied it—but—like we all know—theres no pressure like no pressure—so of course I said yes—fine with me—if Clara herself was OK

with it.

I was glad Id agreed when she turned up—she looked wrecked! I reckon all the activity around the hall when the police arrived had kept her going—but now she was able to relax & take in what had actually happened she was sinking fast through the first stages of shock.

Mary had put her idea to her & shed said yes—but I got the impression that if theyd suggested she slept in the greenhouse shed have agreed. I took her up to my room—Id cleared all my junk off the other bed & she sat down on it. She hadnt spoken a word on our way upstairs—& I didnt know what to say—me—the great psychologist!—so I said Id leave her to sort her stuff out—& I did.

Downstairs Tom & Mary were deep in conversation—with little Miss Minnie in a corner—pretending to read a book but taking everything in. The other children were already in bed—but Min—whos big on rights—like having her T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 2 7 9

own room—insists on staying up half an hour longer.

Tonight—in the

excitement—shed drawn it out much longer by keeping a low profile—but Mary finally spotted her & said—Minnie you should be in bed.

Looking for a diversion—shes good at diversions—Min burst out—they should have interviewed me & Paul & the others too—we were there—we were witnesses!

Technically she was right—I thought. Tom & Mary exchanged glances—

then Tom said—yes—but I dont think you witnessed anything dear—

—yes I

did—said

Min—loving center

stage.—I saw people wandering

around during the storm—at least I think I did—

—did you dear?—said Mary—but I dont suppose thats very important—

—that policewoman thought it was!—riposted Min.

That got their attention.

Tom said—she spoke to you? she asked you questions?—

This was in a quiet scary sort of voice I hadnt heard from him before—& I began to feel sorry for Novello.

—yes—sort of—said Min—she said Id need to do it again properly—on tape—for the record—

She spoke in a different voice too—a bit subdued—like she recognized her dad was really annoyed.

Mary

said—all sweet

reason—if Minnie wanted to talk to the young woman—thered be no way of stopping her dear—

—perhaps not—but she should have sent for one of us straightaway—said Tom unappeased. Then in his normal tone with a big smile to Min—all right darling—give me a kiss—time you were in bed I think—

This resumption of normal service was clearly a great relief to Min. She hugged him tight—then her mum—then me—saying—will you come & tuck me in Charley?—

I looked at Mary who smiled & nodded.

What Minnie the minx wanted—of course—was a chance to pump me—but when I let her see I wasnt in a pumpable mood she changed tack & said—I wish I could share your room too Charley—Im really scared being by myself tonight—all plaintive enough to melt a glacier!

2 8 0

R E G I N A L D H I L L

I said—thats terrible Minnie—tell you what—Ill ask your mum if you can go in with Paul & the others—

That shut her up—& I got out—but not before shed made me promise to take her swimming at the hotel tomorrow! Must think Uncle Sid—being a man—is more pumpable! God—they start young these days!

Before I went down I looked in on Clara to see how she was getting on.

She was lying facedown on the bed—long pale legs sprawled wide—& Im shamed to admit at first all I could think of was the barts Halloween apple buttocks bob- bob- bobbing between them.

Then I realized she was crying—no—weepings the word—sobs coming up from deep deep down—like Icelandic geysers.

I sat down beside her & put my arms around her—thinking I might have been a bit simplistic casting her & Lady D as Sara & Miss Minchin in A Little Princess. This was real grief. Or if it wasnt—she deserves a barrowload of Oscars!

I said—there there—& other subtly consoling phrases known only to us professionals—but it didnt help that pretty soon I was sobbing away too—interesting form of mimetic reaction—remember how we always used to set each other off?—mum too—like that time she took us to see The Bridges of Madison County—& we got asked to leave!

Finally we dried up—& dried off—& with the barriers down—for a moment at least—she told me that she really owed Lady D whod picked her up at a v low point—just been dumped by her boyfriend (that brought loathsome Liam into my mind first time in days!)—& not getting on with her mums new partner (dad had done a runner before she was born). Then Lady D showed.