The Wine of Angels (44 page)

Howe leaned towards Jane across the pine table.

‘What exactly did Colette say when she invited everyone to go to the orchard?’

‘Well, she just ... I don’t know. I don’t remember.’

‘Let me remind you then, Jane. We have several witnesses who say Colette shouted something like, “Follow me. Or Janey. Follow Janey. She knows.” Would that be you she was talking about, Jane? Is that what she called you?’

‘Yeah.’ Jane blinked. The first sign of nerves. Merrily gripped the Aga rail. What was this about?

Annie Howe said, ‘Yeah, that’s what she called you, or yeah, it was you she meant?’

‘Both, I suppose.’

‘Good. All right.’ Howe leaned back. ‘Why would Colette have suggested they follow you? Why would she have said, “she knows"?’

Jane didn’t hesitate. ‘Because we got a bit pissed the other weekend and some boys were chasing us and that’s where we wound up. In the orchard.’

‘With the boys?’

‘No, we’d shaken them off.’

‘Did you and Colette often get pissed?’

‘Just that once. It was only cider. I mean, I thought it was only cider. I’d never had it before. It was stupid.’

Annie Howe smiled. ‘It’s all right, we aren’t going to charge you with under-age drinking.’

‘Thanks.’

Howe frowned. ‘But you didn’t go with her into the orchard last night, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because ...’ Jane looked at Merrily. ‘Because my mum wasn’t very well, and I didn’t want to stay out too late.’

‘You didn’t think two a.m. was already a little bit late?’

Jane shrugged, looked at Merrily again. Annie Howe, obviously suspecting eye signals, said, ‘Ms Watkins, why don’t you come and sit at the table with us?’ And Merrily, not wanting to give the icy bitch any reason to suspect anything, reluctantly left the meagre comfort of the stove and went to sit down next to Jane.

‘So,’ Howe said, ‘you watched her go off into the orchard, and then what did you do?’

‘Just sort of wandered around.’

‘You didn’t talk to anyone?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure about that, Jane?’

‘Yeah. Oh ... Well, I did talk to Lloyd Powell’ Jane sighed. ‘I asked him to go and get them out of the orchard. He owns it. His family.’

‘Mr Powell seems to think you were worried about Colette.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Because you thought she might be attacked?’

‘No. I mean—’

‘Then why?’

‘Because ... Colette’s kind of headstrong. She gets like carried away.’

‘You’re saying you were more worried about what she might do than what might happen to her?’

‘Yeah. I suppose I was.’

‘What did you think she might do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘All right, let’s go back to the party. Did you know there were drugs about?’

‘I think so.’

‘You knew the people who were supplying them?’

Jane didn’t reply. Oh no, Merrily thought. Oh, surely not. I’d have known. Wouldn’t I?

‘Do you know Mark Putley?’

‘Not really. We go to the same school, that’s all. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him.’

‘What about Colette?’

‘I don’t think she knew him at all. She’d have no reason to. She goes to a different school.’

‘Then why was he at her party?’

‘Gatecrashed, I suppose. Him and a couple of others.’

‘As far as you know, Colette hadn’t invited them.’

‘No. I mean ... No.’

‘Were you going to say something else there, Jane?’

Jane trailed her finger through some spilled tea on the tabletop. ‘I suppose I was going to say not officially.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I ...’ Jane hesitated. ‘Oh hell ... She thought the kids her parents approved of – because they knew the kids’ parents and everything – she thought they were all going to be a bit like safe. She wanted to kind of spice things up a bit. So like, yeah, she might have made it easier for the local guys to get in. Like that’s the sort of thing she does. I mean, you never really know what she’s going to do.’

‘Or who with?’ Annie Howe stood up. ‘Thank you, Jane. You won’t be going out, will you? We may want to talk to you again. Thank you, Ms Watkins.’

Merrily saw Jane blow out her cheeks in some kind of relief, and in the middle of it, Howe suddenly turned back to her.

‘Oh ... one last thing, Jane ... Did you see anyone else around after the party? Anyone you didn’t know. Or perhaps someone you knew hadn’t been invited?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

Annie Howe said, ‘How well do you know Laurence Robinson?’

Jane was caught out. She looked startled. Even Merrily thought she looked startled.

‘I ... I’ve met him a couple of times,’ Jane said. ‘He sometimes helps out at Ledwardine Lore. I’ve seen him there.’

‘Have you ever been to his house?’

‘No. Not really. I’ve been ... sort
oipast
his house.’

‘And Colette. Does she know Mr Robinson?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, yes. We all kind of know him, because he used to be a kind of rock star. Sort of.’

‘When you say we
all
know him, who do you mean? Other girls?’

‘No, just Colette and me. And Lucy Devenish.’

‘When did you last see Mr Robinson, Jane?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You can’t remember all the way back to last night? When you were seen talking to Mr Robinson in Church Street?’

‘Was I? Oh. Yes. I think I met him on my way to the party. Yes, I did.’

‘But he didn’t go to the party. Or did he?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

Howe smiled her ice-maiden’s smile. ‘Well, thank you again. As I say, we may come back. Or if there’s anything you or your mother want to tell us, there’ll always be someone at the Country Kitchen. Until we find Colette.’

Merrily followed them numbly to the door, where Annie Howe said, ‘Do
you
know Laurence Robinson, Ms Watkins?’

Merrily said, ‘I may have met him. I don’t really know him.’

‘He lives alone, doesn’t he?’

‘So I believe. He had a girlfriend. She left, I’m told.’

‘And you felt ... all right ... about Jane seeing him. A man twenty years older, living on his own.’

Merrily said softly, ‘Is there a problem?’

‘He’s just someone we need to eliminate from our inquiries. I suppose I can tell you. As a clergyperson. I know it’ll go no further.’

‘You have my word,’ Merrily said.

‘Mr Robinson isn’t at home, but his cottage is in rather a mess. It may be a break-in, it may be a burglary – because there certainly isn’t much furniture in there. But there are signs of what might have been a struggle. The stereo left on. A damaged vinyl record on the turntable. There’s no sign of the owner or anybody else. And Mr Robinson – this is the confidential part, at this stage – has a history. A record.’

‘He made records,’ Merrily heard herself saying, ridiculously.

‘
Our
type of record, Ms Watkins. We believe he likes young girls.’

‘What?’

‘Laurence Robinson was convicted of having sex with a minor. Girl. Under-age.’ Howe’s smile was steely and barbed, like a safety pin opening up.

29

Cogs

B
Y NINE O’CLOCK
, they were putting up the last of the bunting and the fancy lights, Gomer Parry lifting Lloyd Powell in the bucket of his pet digger, Gwynneth, and not happy about this – a bit dangerous, it was, see, with no insurance to cover it and all these coppers around.

For once, though, the police never even noticed Gomer. Too busy trying to find the Cassidys’ promiscuous daughter. Or was it precocious? No, this time Gomer reckoned he had it about right.

Got to feel sorry for them, though, the Cassidys. Moved out here to get away from the big bad city. Wound up somewhere
little
and bad.

Gomer watched Lloyd Powell up in the bucket, attaching a string of wooden lanterns to a wrought-iron hook on the right-hand gable of the Black Swan. No coloured lights, this wasn’t Christmas; these were Middle Ages-style lamps, handmade by this blacksmith bloke, from Croydon, had a workshop bottom of Old Barn Lane. Feller provided the lanterns free in the hope of picking up a few orders.

Take more than a few wooden lanterns to light up this place, though.

Little and bad.

Now why did he think that? It was a decent village, in many ways. Friendly, on the whole, nobody complaining about the newcomers. Not as it would make much difference if they did, mind, seeing as how the newcomers were now well in the majority, or maybe it just felt like that, on account of they ran everything, with their superior knowledge of marketing and public relations, fancy stuff like that.

Course, Gomer, he was a newcomer too. Not so much of one, like, on account of he only moved about twenty miles and he talked near enough the same, and he’d done a lot of work in these parts, over the years, so knew quite a few people before he moved in. Like Bull-Davies, whose fields he’d drained. Like Rod Powell, whose new cesspit he’d dug when Lloyd was no more than a babby and ole Mrs Powell, Edgar’s missus, had been alive to terrorize Rod’s wife. Drove her away in the end. Fearsome woman, Meggie Powell.

Aye, it was a hard place all round, was Ledwardine, when Gomer first come here. Lucy Devenish’d been right about that. Them days, some poor bloke with a Mr Cassidy accent ventured into the Black Swan, there’d be a red-cheeked, stone-eyed young farm-labourer, pissed-up on cheap scrumpy and just itching to punch his lights out for the fun of it. And for resentment’s sake. Nobody hereabouts was rich, see, save for the Bulls, and they always punched back. Except when they punched first.

Sawdust on the floor of the Black Swan, them days, to make it easier cleaning up the blood and the puke.

There was an exhibition of posh watercolours opening in the Swan this evening, with a recital by a string quartet.

At the new tourist information office (once a butcher’s shop, with slaughterhouse behind, blood and offal running down Church Street on Fridays) there was a display of local crafts, crafted by folk from London and Birmingham. On Monday evening, a poetry reading.

Gomer looked up at a movement. Out of Church Street strode the Bull-Davies floozy, a little smile on her mouth. Now that was a funny business, the big Bull penned up by a woman came out of nowhere. Who was she, what had she got in mind for James, and where had she been this not-so-fine morning?

‘OK, Gomer?’

The chubby face of Child, the organist, up at the window.

‘Aye,’ Gomer said. ‘Have him all dressed up by eleven, the ole square, sure t’be. Some o’ the little flags got pulled down last night, see, but we put ’em back, no problem.’

‘Good man,’ said Child. ‘By the way, for my sins, I’ve been coopted as festival coordinator for the duration of the present crisis. Poor old Terrence being hardly in the mood for public conviviality, as you can imagine.’

‘Aye,’ Gomer said. ‘Wondered if they might call it off, under the circumstances.’

‘We did think about it, but we’ve all put a lot of work in, and as it’s going to go on for the whole season, postponing the opening ceremony would hardly seem like a good precedent. Besides, people coming from miles away, no way of letting them know. Anyway, it’s not as if she’s dead. She’ll be on somebody’s settee in Hereford, sleeping it off with her mouth open and her knickers round her ankles, what d’you say, Gomer?’

‘Mabbe,’ Gomer said, noting the relish in Child’s voice. ‘And mabbe not. ‘Scuse me a sec’

Lloyd Powell having given him the thumbs-down sign from the bucket, Gomer set about bringing him to the ground. Got to do it smoothly; one jerk and he’d be pitching the boy through the window of the public bar, and it was a good few years since anybody done that. Harry Morgan, the feed supplier, had probably been the last, slammed through the glass by John Bull-Davies, James’s ole feller, for putting it around as the Bulls never paid their bills.

Hard men, the Bulls, always had been, and now here was James being led around the square and back again by the blonde floozie like there was a ring through his nose. Power of sex, eh?

‘Leave you to it, Gomer.’ Dermot Child busied off towards the Tourist Info. Lloyd clambered out of the bucket. Gomer leaned out.

‘All finished then, is it? Good boy.’

‘What did Child want?’

‘Oh, he’s in charge now, boy, is Mr Dermot Child. Cotter do what he says, see.’

‘All we need,’ said Lloyd. ‘Got me in his choral thing, he has.
Auld cider.
Plus, we gotter do this barbershop kind of thing at the opening. Followed by a Cider Tasting.’

‘That’d be for folk as dunno what cider tastes like, would it?’