The Chinese Takeout Page 27

  ‘He’s in a meeting,’ she replied, her mouth like a hen’s backside.

  ‘OK. The two lads who responded to my call last night.’

  ‘They won’t be back on duty till ten, Josie.’

  ‘Mrs Welford. OK. I’ve got a pub to run. I’d best be on my way.’ I cocked my head and checked her number, which I wrote down on the back of my hand.

  ‘I’ll just check what time DCI Burford’s meeting will finish,’ she said, not very coincidentally.

  ‘He’ll know where to find me.’ I didn’t have much to gather, apart from my dignity, but I swept out: think Mrs Thatcher late for a Europe-bash.

  Andy was waiting for me, like an empty milk-bottle. ‘Another car change?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘What colour would you prefer?’

  He shrugged. ‘Something truly invisible.’

  ‘How about bright red?’

  Was the silence companionable or strained? In my case, at least, exhausted.

  Just as we arrived at the car hire depot, my legs decided to get cramp. Not just a little bit. A lot. I gritted my teeth and rubbed and rubbed. I wouldn’t cry out.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Every muscle’s awash with the stuff that bugs athletes – lactic acid,’ I groaned.

  ‘I thought that was what they used to make cheese,’ he objected.

  ‘It is. Oh, my God.’ I’d managed to get out but now both legs gave up entirely. I sank painfully and ungracefully to the tarmac. Not cramp any more – should I be pleased? – but pure physical weakness. Was I going to have to crawl into the office? Now I knew why folk took to wheelchairs.

  Sean came dashing out, dismay all over his designer-stubbled face. ‘Mrs Welford? Are you all right?’

  ‘Too much exercise,’ I managed to grind out.

  ‘Packet of crisps and a lot of water. Here, do you think you can walk if that clerical bloke and I help you?’ Beneath his cheap suit he was whippily strong, and easily hoicked me upright. ‘Here, mate, give a hand, will you?’

  Anxious to spare the poor man, I breathed into Sean’s ear, ‘Leave him be. He’s got heart problems.’

  Andy still had to drive me back to Langworthy, of course.

  Five minutes into the journey he caught me looking at my watch.

  ‘The evening sitting will wait for no one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Surely you can’t be—’

  ‘Of course I’ve got my team to call on, but there’s such a thing as exploitation. I pay them to do their work, not mine.’

  ‘All the same.’

  I turned to him. ‘You do two jobs, Andy. At least two. You make no bones about it.’

  ‘I don’t dash around the countryside nearly getting killed.’ He tempered the statement with a rueful laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry it was your wheels I nearly landed under. But you didn’t panic. Thanks for saving my life.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, and you know it. Josie: could you spare me ten minutes of your frantic twenty-four hours to talk? I owe you an explanation of – of… Of why I’ve let you down,’ he finished in a rush.

  If I’d been a counsellor I’d have asked why he felt that way, but I wasn’t, so I blundered in. ‘I’m sorry you see it that way. I don’t. I see you as a man under enormous pressure trying to do a new, tough job, still probably mourning his dead wife, whatever the state of the marriage at the time, and trying to live up to a set of rules far tougher than I could imagine. With a worse – an eternal! – penalty if you fail. Come on, Andy: your Boss is always on about forgiveness. Try a bit on yourself. And on me,’ I added, as an afterthought. ‘Because up to now you’ve been judging me by rules I didn’t even know existed, setting me a standard I don’t know I want to reach. That’s why we get so angry with each other, isn’t it? When we just muck in as mates, we’re fine.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ he said, slowing down to turn the car into the vicarage drive, ‘good as that is, I’m not sure about our being just mates.’ He parked, pulling up the handbrake.

  Talk about unconscious symbolism. What next? Would he want to continue the conversation in the car? No, he was getting out, so I’d better too. At least I didn’t fall flat this time, thanks to young Sean and his instant cramp cure. Now, if ever a lad was wasted doing a routine job like that, it was him. How would he fancy joining my team? If I had an administrator I could spend more time in the kitchen. And I’d certainly need one if I took on the Abbot’s Duncombe pub.

  I waited. At last he flashed a ghost of his former smile. ‘Another ten minutes another day? If you’ve got to run the White Hart, I’ve got back to back confirmation classes, followed by supper with the cathedral hierarchy.’

  ‘Another ten minutes another day,’ I confirmed.

  I set off to pick up the blue Fiesta, pristine in the pub car park – Bob had found a bit of gardening to do as an excuse to guard it. Not for anything would I turn back, but I was certain that Andy watched me out of sight.

  The mist came down again very thickly with the dusk, and I had to concentrate on my driving. At least, that was my excuse, and I was glad of it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday morning, and my cycling muscles, whichever they were, were still fiercely indignant about their treatment, and were ready to bring others out on strike too. It took every stretch I knew, and a few more, to get them moving. Robin baked and biked down the scones, though he reported so many other cakes in the farm kitchen he’d been hard put to find a space on the table for them.

  ‘You ought to have a talk with Annie,’ he said, perching on my office desk. ‘They’ve really transformed the place, by the way. Think National Trust tearoom – it’s that sort of cute.’

  ‘So all the volunteers are pulling their weight?’

  ‘Going well over the extra mile, I’d say. Feeding the five thousand, but only a couple of hundred turning up.’

  Andy would be impressed. Twang. ‘Like the cake-stall at a church fête?’

  ‘Exactly. They’re beginning to have to throw stuff away.’

  ‘Surely someone would take it into the Taunton Sally Army! Robin, do you think we should pull out of the scone supply chain? Our egos aren’t involved, after all.’

  ‘It’d make the early baker’s task easier.’

  ‘That’s a good enough reason – I’d best get on the blower now.’

  ‘I’ll fix you a double espresso while you do it, shall I?’

  ‘So long as it comes with a body transplant.’

  While I waited for the coffee, I phoned Annie. Our conversation about food quickly over, Annie said carefully, ‘I’d rather you heard this from a friend. They were circulating a petition in the parish about…about the rural dean.’

  ‘And his unsuitable friendship with me?’

  ‘It suggested rather more than friendship. I don’t think they got enough names to make it into a petition, not without looking foolish. But that wouldn’t stop them altogether, would it?’

  ‘No.’ If I let on I knew I’d be compromising Andy even further.

  ‘Shall I let you know if I hear any more?’

  ‘I’d be very grateful – forewarned is forearmed, as they say. Not that you can stop a rumour: it always makes things worse. I suppose we haven’t a couple of men who ought to know better to thank for this?’ We! How about that for a Freudian slip?

  But she seemed to think I’d meant her and me. ‘And men always accuse women of gossiping. And of being old women.’

  ‘Pots calling kettles black! I wish I knew why they had it in for me, Annie. They never seemed to object to my envelope on the collection plate until the Tang affair.’

  ‘Strong women scare a lot of men. Especially ones who’ve shed their own power.’

  ‘Which was?’ I wouldn’t tell her about my Internet searches or my village shop pryings.

  ‘No one really knows. Malins was a civil servant – Min of Ag and Fish, before it became DefRA, or whatever its current incarnation might be. Reasonably high up, but n
ot a ministerial adviser. And Corbishley was something in industry. A captain, no doubt! As you’d expect, he always used to rabbit on about teachers having long holidays, that sort of cliché, never doing a decent day’s work,’ she added with a snarl.

  If only she could tell me something new, something to make my ears prick. I reached gratefully for the coffee Robin parked within reach. He was mouthing something.

  ‘Burford?’ I mouthed back.

  ‘In your living room.’

  ‘They’ve always had this uneasy relationship – reluctant friends, allies, at least. I guess they knew each other from their working days,’ Annie was saying.

  Burford would just have to spend another couple of minutes in front of the David Cox.

  ‘So Malins might have put Min of Ag and Fish contracts Corbishley’s way?’

  ‘I’d never thought of that,’ Annie said, sounding worried. ‘It’s a big assumption to make.’

  ‘Almost as big as suggesting there’s anything untoward between a dean and a restaurateur,’ I retorted. ‘Annie, the police are here again. I suppose you couldn’t stir the rumour pot down at the farm, could you? It’s just I’d like to know where all this hostility is coming from, that’s all,’ I added lamely, not even hoping she’d believe me.

  As I’d predicted, Burford, a natty laptop in his hand, was eyeballing the David Cox when I let myself into my flat.

  ‘It’s the sort of thing you can live with for years and still find new things in,’ he said. ‘Like a human being, I suppose.’

  I stood beside him. ‘You’re right: all those subtleties…’ Eventually I prompted him, ‘But you’ve not come to discuss art, I presume. Maybe to sample a scone, however?’

  ‘And some more of your excellent water,’ he grinned.

  ‘Give me a moment and I’ll get both.’ But it took more than a moment to work my way down the stairs – for some reason descent was even worse than ascent. After all that effort I deserved a scone myself. Maybe even jam and cream.

  He must have registered the pain involved simply in setting down the tray on a side-table, and would, I swear, have helped me into my favourite chair as carefully as if I’d been a pensioner on a rocking bus.

  ‘You’ve had another accident?’ There was an ironic curl of the tongue round the word.

  ‘Unwonted exercise, that’s all. Oh, and a bit of a fall.’

  ‘Enough to demand to see me yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, that sort of fall. I was being chased, you see.’

  ‘By White Van man?’

  ‘Indeed. I can see your colleague’s brought you up to speed, despite my inefficiency in the matter of number-plates.’

  ‘I gather from Bob Page of the Queen’s Head you had a lot to make you inefficient.’

  ‘Bob? He’s spoken to you?’ Had he said anything about Andy?

  ‘Of course. All about the great white van chase, the oil slick on the road, and your rugby dive under the wheels of some elderly clergyman’s car.’ Elderly! But he was younger than me! ‘He even got a partial number for one of the vans. Not quite enough for us to go on, however, but it doesn’t necessarily matter. We wanted to talk to this Reverend Braithwaite, but haven’t got hold of him yet.’

  Should I offer to try his mobile? Or try it myself later? Elderly, indeed!

  ‘Anyway, I thought the least I could do was bring you up to speed. We are working hard on this case, Josie, even though it may seem that we’re taking our time.’ And was still, chasing a last crumb of scone around his plate.

  ‘So there’s something interesting on your laptop then?’

  ‘A couple of photos of the scrap yard. Old tyres, Josie? Or something else?’ He opened it and passed it over.

  ‘Hell’s bells! Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘Absolutely. You said the place stank. And there you are. Chicken carcases. Birds that have died on the way to the slaughterhouse, rather than being slaughtered. Clearly unfit for human consumption, even animal consumption, most of them.’

  ‘Isn’t unfit poultry dyed blue at the slaughter-house so people will know it mustn’t get into the food chain?’

  ‘Exactly. The carcases should have been disposed of by incineration or by rendering at a proper site, definitely not a scrapyard! And they were just left lying there, in the open.’ They’d been photographed from a variety of angles, none more appetizing than another. No wonder he’d wanted to finish his scone before he’d got down to business.

  I said slowly, ‘So if they’re dyed blue and you want to sell them on you’ve got to get the dye off somehow. One of my mates said the chicken supremes she bought smelt of some scent or other. And they always came ready prepared – off the bone and skinned.’

  He leaned closer. ‘Exactly: the dyed chicken fillets must have been bleached before being sold as decent meat. We think. We’ve got no hard evidence yet. Except a couple of white vans.’

  ‘Has one of the vans lost a sliver of wing-mirror? It’s in my hire car, if you want to check – belongs to a van that nearly ran me down.’

  He made a note. ‘We found a beat-up old Mazda at the back of the yard. Does that ring any bells?’

  I struggled to the vertical. ‘There are copies of photos taken of the guys who started the rumpus in my dining room in my office.’

  ‘Shall I nip down? Give your bruises a rest?’

  I eyed him narrowly. ‘What, and give you the chance to search my filing system for pots of gold? They’re in the second tier of the tray,’ I added, using my common sense.

  It took him a minute, no more. ‘These the ones?’

  I nodded. ‘And Dan Tromans might be able to help identify them.’ I didn’t go into the details of Dan’s conversations with me; I had an idea Dan might play fewer games with a man.

  He made another note. It was so nice having someone do my running round for me. And then I felt Tony’s hand on my shoulder. This was a policeman – wasn’t I being altogether too trusting? It was always better to ask questions than volunteer information.

  ‘I suppose you didn’t find a black BMW?’

  He frowned. ‘Was I supposed to be looking for one?’

  ‘Should be in your case notes somewhere. I was tailed by them – I gave them a few verbals for it. Talk to DI Lawton. She sent someone with a little laptop just like yours to help me ID them. Bernie Downs, that’s her.’

  His frown deepened.

  ‘Speaking of which, have you managed to round up any of the scrapyard workers yet?’

  ‘Yes. But they might be Trappist monks for all they’re saying.’

  I scratched my head in disbelief. ‘Tony often said people low in the pecking order outsang canaries. Drat! I hadn’t meant to use that chicken image!’

  He threw his head back and laughed. ‘It could have been worse – lower down the foodchain!’ Then he became serious again. ‘These lads have lost their voices and found highly professional solicitors.’

  ‘I wonder who’s paying for them.’ Good criminal briefs cost a very great deal of money. ‘And maybe who they’re afraid of, too.’ Another theory of Tony’s I didn’t need to spell out.

  ‘Mr Big? Well, maybe if we find an industrial sized bleach tank, we shall find him.’

  ‘And, with my compliments, dump him in it. Surely, though, with your DNA and all your other forensic science skills you can find where the vans have been. Somewhere with illegal Chinese labourers – unless you found any at the scrapyard?’

  ‘No. Nor any signs of hasty exits.’

  ‘Another yard, then. Hell, Nick Thomas must have all this on file in his office. Trust him to have a cold just when we need him.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have left his laptop in his room here?’

  At least he was up to speed on something. And not making any insinuations, either.

  ‘It was nicked.’

  ‘Was it indeed?’ He made a note, which he underlined, twice. ‘From here?’

  I shook my head. ‘The scam where you shunt someone in the r
ear bumper and, as they get out to check, nip round the other side and steal anything going.’

  ‘And what was your take on that?’

  ‘That he was a mug to fall for it. But then, it was in Taunton, not inner-city Brum.’

  ‘You haven’t got his mobile number, have you?’

  Hell: I was being sucked in deeper and deeper. ‘It’ll be in my mobile’s memory.’ I reached for it and brought up the number for him to jot down.

  ‘Thanks. Meanwhile, I’ll try tracing the vans and their movements back through possible chicken sales. Not too tricky, thanks to your list of emails.’ He gave a dazzling smile, somewhat tarnished by a bit of raisin or sultana skin stuck between a couple of teeth. ‘And,’ he added, warming to his subject, ‘we’ve managed to set up surveillance of the Martins, as we promised. Early days, and we can’t afford as many officers as I’d hoped, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve anything to report. I promise,’ he ended, with a flash of his whitened teeth, now minus the skin. He stood in one easy movement, and proffered a well-shaped hand to help me to my feet. ‘Have you had your injuries checked by a doctor?’

  ‘No need. And no time. No, there’s nothing broken, I’m sure of that. Now, I’m afraid I’ve got lunch to think about.’

  Not to mention possible food processing plants. All the same, when on duty, I had to keep the customers to the front of my mind. All my customers on diets – vegan, gluten-free, non-dairy – were there. James, the one with a severe nut allergy, wasn’t, because Robin had produced a lovely Thai beef salad with satay dressing, and had phoned to warn him off. Pix found it hard to believe that the simple presence of peanuts in someone else’s food could lead to James’s death by anaphylactic shock, but I’d sat him down in front of the computer and set him going. Ten minutes’ reading had made him the most convinced scrubber down of the kitchen you could wish to find.

  So how could I find that dodgy processing plant? Nick, of course. If he couldn’t get down here, he could still send his files, surely to goodness.