The Chinese Takeout Read online

  He shrugged on a jacket – Armani, by the look of it – and headed my way. It would have been nice to wait for my staff to announce him. But it was lie-in day for Pix, and Robin was at farmers’ markets, running down the best ingredients. So I was my own staff. I thought it best to let him knock. I didn’t want to look too eager, lest he misinterpret it. Nonetheless, I showed him up into my apartment.

  Providing water and a couple of redundant scones, with enough clotted cream to send his cholesterol levels skywards and great gouts of homemade strawberry jam, I smiled expectantly. At least this guy was doing his duty and keeping us informed, though I did think a junior officer would have done just as well as a senior one.

  If he was doing his duty, I was prepared to do mine. I gathered the sheaf of colleagues’ emails I’d printed off. For some reason I kept back Nigel’s: I hadn’t told him I’d be making it public knowledge, after all. Nor had I deleted the personal references.

  ‘So where are you now?’ I asked, as if entitled to: such a brazen approach often seemed to work.

  ‘This is a murder investigation, Mrs Welford: all my information is confidential.’ His serious expression was rather undercut by a dab of cream at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Of course. I was just wondering if any of these emails might be useful. But I wouldn’t want to hand over personal communications if they were irrelevant.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Mrs Welford, we don’t take kindly to members of the public withholding information. In fact, obstructing the police is – as I’m sure you’re well aware – an offence.’

  My eyes were open to their widest extent. ‘DCI Burford, surely you misunderstand me deliberately.’

  ‘On the contrary, I understand you all too well. What’s your game, Josie?’

  ‘Mrs Welford. I do not have a game. I have lost a very dear friend and another young man has died too. Don’t friends have rights? If not as many as uncaring parents, enough to be told if you have a killer in your sights?’ My voice broke with passion. Tony gave a silent round of applause. For good measure I flung down the emails. ‘All I ask is that you respect my correspondents’ confidentiality – and that means, DCI Burford,’ I continued, my voice turning steely, ‘that you don’t send to interview them stupid plods in clearly marked cars. Not unless you want a re-run of the warning goings on at the Tromans’ farm. Careless talk costs lives, remember – and so do careless actions.’

  ‘We have instituted regular patrols in the vicinity,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Gee, how reassuring. And round this place too? I can sleep soundly at nights.’

  ‘No need for sarcasm.’

  ‘As I told DI Lawton, this is the country, not a town. If I dialled 999, how long would it take for help to reach me? Quite.’ Without warning, I changed direction. ‘What did you make of Father Martin’s parents? Weird, or what? You don’t suppose he was killed to get at them in some way?’

  In his confusion he embarked on the scone he’d left half-eaten. ‘Why should you think that?’

  ‘Have you met them? No? You should. In fact, I’d prioritise it. Seriously, Mr Burford, they are weird. Either in complete denial or deliberately concealing something.’

  ‘Or simply weird?’

  ‘Whatever. Don’t just rely on DI Lawton’s notes. Check them out. Better still, ask them to come down here again: I’ll happily offer accommodation but they’ll bloody well pay this time.’

  ‘They didn’t last time?’ He jotted.

  I explained, delivering my account in a self-mocking tone that had him roaring with laughter.

  ‘The biter bit, eh?’ he asked.

  I frowned. ‘All I did was offer charity to those I thought needed it – profit didn’t enter my mind.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I meant the opposite, that it was your turn for revenge. But you may not get it: it’d be cheaper for me to go to them.’

  ‘And very revealing, I hope. There’s nothing like seeing someone in their own territory, is there? I suppose I couldn’t go along as your navigator?’

  ‘Absolutely not. But I know what you mean. What do you imagine we’ll find?’

  ‘Stockbroker Tudor, phenomenally ugly. And inside – either total ostentation or minimalist chic of the most expensive order. Even money. But I do know they priced this room item by item.’

  ‘So they know their antiques. OK, do you want a fiver on it?’

  ‘Boring. No, I never bet for money anyway: I’ve seen too many lives ruined.’

  ‘How about something more interesting? If I’m right, you give me all your information, not just selected snippets?’ He rose to go. But then changed his mind. ‘Just how well do you know this Nigel Ho guy?’

  Nigel Ho? Why him specifically? I could hardly say I knew Nigel just well enough to have sex with him; even the less circumspect, younger me would have drawn the line at such honesty. So I said, fairly, ‘We’re the sort of casual mates who could become friends, circumstances permitting. I trusted him enough to want his help providing a translator so we could communicate with poor Tang, and to act on his advice when he said Tang was in imminent danger.’

  He nodded, as if that wasn’t quite the response he’d hoped for. ‘He’s got quite an empire, hasn’t he?’

  ‘You know these Chinese businessmen,’ I said. ‘At least, the stereotype! Incredibly hardworking, driving others hard – and being, above all, totally inscrutable.’

  ‘Is he any of those things?’ He sat down again.

  ‘He’s a very suave restaurateur – that’s all I know. And he was concerned enough to contact me from New York in an effort to help Tang.’ I tossed a metal coin, which came down on the side of being frank with Burford. ‘One email I didn’t give you was one from him. I was waiting for permission to: he’s that sort of person.’

  ‘Dominant? Controlling? I wouldn’t have thought either of those qualities would wash with you, Mrs Welford.’

  Head on one side, I reflected. ‘No, neither would I. Tell you what, I’ll forward it to you if you give me your email address.’ I was half-tempted to reward his percipience by an invitation to lunch, but decided I had too much work to do. However, just as I was showing him out, I decided that there was one more name I might give him: Michael Rousdon’s. Just in case. There were chicken connections, after all.

  Burford’s eyes asked uncomfortably clearly whether there’d been other connections – and I didn’t think he meant the samphire one.

  As he drove away I realised it was time I checked on Nick. I couldn’t believe there was anything seriously wrong, but you never knew. He was a mate, after all, and the least I could do was express decent interest.

  His voice told me: he had a stinking cold. ‘Just dripping. Couldn’t drive for sneezing,’ he said, demonstrating.

  ‘You just look after yourself,’ I said, assuring him that everything was fine, even though he hadn’t actually got round to asking.

  For the next twenty-six hours all I had time for was work: we were fully booked for dinner on Saturday and for Sunday lunch, and already people were pouring into the place for a Saturday lunchtime snack before going on their walks. I didn’t even have time to envy them.

  Sunday lunch over, half of me wanted a snooze. However, a quick cup of green tea convinced me I could stick to my resolve to walk to St Peter’s in the Combe for Evensong. It was only about seven miles, after all. Andy could give me a lift home, in return, perhaps, for a cold supper. I could stow gear more appropriate for church in my lightweight rucksack – probably an extra-heavy fleece, given the obvious lack of central heating.

  Although I made no claim to be as good a navigator as Andy, I could read maps well enough – and better than most, given the amount of walking I’d packed in since I’d discovered exercise as an essential adjunct to my diet. At first I’d panicked, because the weight not only remained stationary, it actually went up. But then I read about the difference in weight between muscle and fat and got on with it. At first it w
as deeply unpleasant, my inner-thighs chafing as I strode. I even needed a sports bra. Giving up, however, wasn’t an option. Joints creaked, muscles screamed, and lungs announced flatly that up that hill they would not go. And I ignored the lot. Thank goodness, all that pain was in the past now, and I swore a good walk was better than sex. Well, better than bad sex. It was so long since I had any of the other sort I could hardly judge. Purely in the interests of research, I wouldn’t have minded experimenting. Until I’d heard Corbishley’s comments, of course.

  There were two alternative routes to St Peter’s. One was longer, but flatter; the other was markedly shorter, but had several steep gradients. I flipped a coin. The latter, then. So a stout walking stick was called for, and boots, rather than shoes. The plastic map cover; fleece; cagoule. Drat! What about the camera? I ran back upstairs for it. And realised I’d chosen the wrong route. If I followed the other, I passed reasonably close to one of the sites Andy had circled.

  It wouldn’t do any harm just to walk past, would it?

  So why would a scrapyard pong? Cars and broken washing machines might be an affront to the eye, but they shouldn’t smell like the worst butcher’s you’ve ever passed. I drifted closer. Yes, definitely something rotten in the place. Flies, too. And a couple of white vans, anonymous, by the look of them. Everything to attract a perambulating Miss Marple.

  But I had given a tacit promise not to take risks, and with the destination I was heading for I felt uneasy about breaking it.

  I hadn’t promised not to take photos, though. And, with the lens that Andy so derided, I could do it from a safe distance.

  Or could I? That strolling figure, dressed like me, with an innocent dog on a retractable lead – he was just a walker, wasn’t he? He was certainly heading purposefully towards me. But instead of the neutral smile most walkers exchange, he offered me a penetrating scowl. Getting no response, he slowed to a halt. I was clearly being seen off. Ostentatiously, I reached for my map, as if all I’d been doing was getting my bearings. The camera stayed put. But since I had six inches of serious optical equipment sticking out from my chest, I had to look very lost indeed to look convincing. Thank goodness there was a path about three hundred metres back. To retrace my steps to it meant passing the hound of the Baskervilles, but I spread my hands helplessly.

  ‘I should have turned west up there. Your dog’s all right with strangers, is he?’

  The man gave a curt nod at variance with the rumble coming from deep in the Alsatian’s chest. ‘Just keep walking with your eyes down. You should be all right.’

  It took me all my will power not to break into a run once I was past it. All. Dogs can smell fear, can’t they? This one certainly had plenty to sniff. But I did as I’d been told, head down, eyes averted, and I made it. Then the bugger let out some of the slack in the lead. The dog’s jaws snapped perhaps an inch from my heels. And again. And again.

  At last he judged I’d gone far enough, and I was left alone. Half way up a hill I didn’t know, with a footpath little more than a sheep track to follow, and evensong in less than an hour.

  Well, I told myself with a brightness belied by my shaking and sweating hands, weak knees and pounding heart, if God wanted me there, He’d get me there.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The St Peter’s congregation were well into the first hymn before my pulse settled to anything approaching a normal pace. My route had taken me nearly a mile out of my way, and what should have been a pleasant stroll down into the hamlet had degenerated into an ungainly scramble. I always walked very fast, but running used a different set of muscles altogether, ones that would far rather have remained dormant. Scarlet in the face, chest heaving asthmatically, I’d managed to collapse into the back pew just as the hand-pumped organ wheezed into action. It and me both, eh? The light was so dim I might just have escaped Andy’s scrutiny, especially as his mind was on more important things.

  Eventually I could look at the rest of the congregation – the backs of their heads, at least. There must have been about thirty, mostly elderly people but a couple or so in their twenties, plus a choir led by a really good tenor, who didn’t quite make up for the others’ deficiencies: decidedly evensong had been a poor choice of service. Something with only the spoken word would have been kinder all round. It even threw up Andy’s only perceptible fault so far – he led the responses with a very uncertain baritone, his pitch wandering round all over the place. I’d never been any good with sung psalms, not knowing when to go up or down or what, so I just mouthed hopefully.

  The sermon was short. One of the readings had been from Corinthians, Paul telling us not to be childish: it was good to be as innocent as babes, but essential to be grown-up in our thinking. Andy soberly developed the idea, drawing, he freely admitted, on a piece on choices from the previous day’s Guardian. It had me metaphorically punching the air in agreement in a way poor Tim’s had never managed. Of course, the comparison was unfair, as if our local soccer team were judged against Chelsea’s standards. It would be good to talk about the points he’d raised over supper.

  I joined the rest of the congregation trailing out for the formal handshake with him to end the service. Perhaps his eyes didn’t light up because I hadn’t had time to spruce myself up properly? No, it was more as if something had been switched off. He’d definitely dropped them in something horribly like embarrassment.

  Although I was alarmed and puzzled, I could hardly ask there and then what the problem was. Instead I asked, polite as if we were no more than priest and parishioner, ‘I wonder if you’d be kind enough to give me a lift back to Kings Duncombe?’

  He checked his watch with a very strange expression. ‘I suppose…is there a problem with your car?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I walked, that’s all.’ As a quick glance at me would have confirmed.

  Another glance at his watch. ‘OK. I’ll finish up here in – what? Five minutes? Don’t keep me waiting, please.’

  When someone speaks to me like that my immediate response would normally be to tell them to cancel the request. Perhaps not in those terms. But my limbs informed me that walking back to the White Hart was a pretty poor option. In any case, the road route was far longer than the cross-country one. It was already dark, and the countryside doesn’t go in for streetlights. The torch in my rucksack was an emergency affair, and might not hold out for a solid two hours’ walking. As for simply retracing my steps, that wasn’t an option. There was too much of the city-dweller in me ever to be happy in the open on my own after dark. I saw rapists behind every tree. Not to mention that slavering dog…

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you out,’ I snapped.

  Members of the congregation were noticeably warmer. They saw me only as a lone walker, a woman without history, hoping I’d pass this way again to enjoy their lovely church.

  ‘Not that we usually get a sermon like that – what an honour, to have the rural dean addressing us. Such a lovely man. Such a tragedy the way he lost his wife. They say they were devoted – that’s why he moved down here, to get away from sad memories…’

  I nodded, expressed decent interest and gratitude for their kindness, and set off towards Kings Duncombe without a backward glance. Eight miles wasn’t far. It was a wonderful starlit night, and if someone didn’t wish to favour me with his company I wouldn’t impose it on him.

  A blaze of light announced the approach of a large vehicle from behind me, so I pressed myself into the bank, nuzzling the spring flowers and being embraced by brambles. It was a good job there was so much less of me than there used be, or there might not have been room for the two of us, especially as the other one was a Mercedes van, the sort that tailgates you apparently by instinct. It passed with inches to spare: the driver might not even have registered my presence had not the door mirror caught me a glancing blow on the rucksack. Better the rucksack than me, at least.

  The driver of the next certainly did. This time it was a car that came up beside me, th
e driver yelling furiously through the half-open window, ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like? Walking home.’

  ‘I said I’d give you a lift.’

  ‘You were ashamed of me. Either of my gear or me myself. That’s why I chose to walk.’

  ‘Just get in.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You – for goodness’ sake, I’m blocking the road here.’

  ‘And there must be fifty cars stacked up behind you,’ I agreed affably.

  ‘Just get in. Please. I have an – a – there’s something I have – I —’

  Through his gibberish, I picked up the sound of another van. ‘OK. Just as far as the next crossroads. Then you can drop me, turn right and head for home.’

  True to form, the van – another big white one – virtually pushed us for the next two miles. Had there been any proper passing places, Andy could have pulled over – would have, I’m sure. But there was simply no room, even if he’d pulled right into the banks, towering ten feet high along here. Perhaps he didn’t speak because he was concentrating on his driving. Perhaps I didn’t because I didn’t want to disturb him.

  The crossroads at last. Andy signalled right, and the van sped past us towards my village.

  ‘You can pull in over there. Carry straight on for about five hundred yards, then turn left and immediately right. Someone’s removed the fingerposts. Just there, please.’