Fethering 02 (2001) - Death on the Downs (3 page)

All of these artefacts were genuine, but bore the same relationship to reality as the log-effect gas fire did to real flames. They had no natural affinity with their environment; they had been carefully selected to create an instant ambience.

Some of them also raised logical anomalies. For a start, everything that wasn’t firmly screwed to the wall was in a glass-fronted cupboard or on a shelf out of reach. Suppose someone came into the pub and fancied reading a chapter of E. R. Punshon? They couldn’t do much about it while the volume remained three feet above their head.

The piscatorial exhibits prompted the same kind of questions. The Hare and Hounds was a good five miles from the nearest river, the Fether, which reached the sea at Fethering. So it couldn’t really be counted as a fisherman’s pub. The eel trap looked quaint and out of place. There probably were eels in the Fether, but Carole wondered whether they had ever, at any stage in history, been caught by the contraption fixed on the wall. And, though she didn’t know much about fish, she thought it unlikely that a pike would ever have lived in such a fast-flowing tidal river.

On the dot of six, Will Maples unlocked the pub’s one exterior door, and was only just back behind the bar before his first customer of the evening arrived. Red-faced, in his fifties, ginger hair turning the colour of sand. Everything about the man seemed self-consciously to breathe the words ‘pub regular’, from his bottle-green corduroy trousers, deceptively clumsy shiny brown brogues, Guernsey sweater and over-new-looking Barbour to his cheery, “Evening, Will, old man. Pint of the usual.” It was a voice that had been to the right schools, or learned to sound as if it had been to the right schools.

The man shook himself like a dog, as if to remove stray raindrops, though in fact there were none on the waxed shoulders of his jacket. He gave a quick nod to Carole through in the Snug, though with an air of puzzlement, almost of affront. How did she come to be there? He had the look of a man who prided himself on being first into the Hare and Hounds at six every evening.

“Evening, Freddie,” said Will Maples with automatic bonhomie. “How’s your week been?”

Carole corrected her surmise. It wasn’t every evening that the regular made his appearance. Perhaps just Friday evenings.

“Bloody awful,” the man called Freddie replied. “Up in the Smoke, dealing with bloody idiots all the time. Wonderful to be back down here. Minute I get off the train at Barnham, I feel my lungs opening up for the first time in a week. Bloody great to be back in Weldisham.”

On a day like this, thought Carole, in pitch darkness?

“Oh, it’s a beautiful village,” the manager agreed, in a tone that made not even the smallest attempt at sincerity. “There you are.” He placed the pint on the counter. “In a jug, as per usual.” But his next words went even further to undermine his customer’s status as a genuine ‘regular’. “Settling in all right then, are you?”

The man called Freddie raised his hand dramatically to freeze the conversation and took a long swallow from his tankard. He smacked his lips in a cartoon manner and licked the little line of froth from the upper one. “Sorry, old man. Best moment of the week. Can’t talk till I’ve done that, eh?”

He chuckled fruitily. Will Maples joined in, a meaningless echo.

“Oh, we’re getting there,” Freddie went on. “Pam has the worst of it, of course. She’s been up and down from town like a bloody yo-yo this week. Trying to stop the builders treading wet footprints all over the bloody kitchen. Waiting in for deliveries of fridges and what have you from men who never bloody turn up when they say they’re going to.”

“Still, early days.”

Carole was beginning to wonder whether Will Maples had a stock of bland responses to every kind of customer’s remark and moved a mental dial round to the right one as required. Maybe it was a skill all landlords had to develop. She wondered whether Ted Crisp, owner of the Crown and Anchor in Fethering, had a similar range of programmed responses. Not for use with her, of course, but with the general run of his customers. Though she wasn’t by nature a ‘pub person’, Carole Seddon tentatively liked to think of Ted Crisp as a friend.

“Oh yes,” Freddie agreed. “Less than a month since we moved in. Rome wasn’t built in a day, eh?” Once again the ‘eh?” cued a fruity laugh, and a dutiful echo from the landlord.

The duologue was then opened up by the arrival of another regular, though this one’s credentials seemed more authentic than Freddie’s. Dressed in jeans and a thick plaid workshirt, the newcomer had a thin face, scoured red by exposure to the elements, over which hung a hank of tobacco-like hair. The fingernails of his large hands were rimmed with black. His mouth was a lipless line that didn’t look as if it opened more than it had to. His age could have been anything between thirty and fifty.

“Evening, Will.” The words were the minimum politeness required, and were delivered with a nasal West Sussex twang.

“Nick, hi.” No order was given, but the landlord reached instinctively to a tall glass which he started to fill with Heineken lager.

“Hello, Nick.” Freddie’s voice was full of common touch. “Now let me get you that drink.”

“I buy my own, thanks.”

Freddie’s face got even redder in the silence that continued until the pint of lager was placed on the counter. The man called Nick put down the right money, picked up his drink and moved to a stool as far away from Freddie as possible, at the end of the bar nearest to the Snug. He showed no signs of having seen Carole.

She looked across at Will Maples as Freddie embarked on a monologue about how careful you had to be with companies who did fitted kitchens. “Always offer you special offers and discounts, but when you come down to it, you end up paying through the bloody nose for all kinds of extras, things they never actually thought to mention until it’s too late for you to tell them to get packing.”

On the manager’s face, too thin to be quite handsome, Carole could identify an expression of deep boredom. That, coupled with the young man’s smart suit and metropolitan manner, suggested that he didn’t see the future of his career in pulling pints. The Hare and Hounds was a temporary measure, a stopgap, or perhaps an essential staging post to the next promotion.

The disguised gas fire and the brandy were having their effect. Carole still felt sodden, but it was now a warm dampness. Though she could see no sign of it, she felt as though she were quietly steaming. Drowsy, but more as though she were drugged than about to fall asleep. Sleep, she knew, would not come easily that night. She would keep waking to the image of bones in fertilizer bags, a picture made more disturbing by its simplicity and anonymity. She would be haunted not by what she had seen, but by the implications of what she had seen. Detective Sergeant Baylis had been right. Carole Seddon was in shock.

The pub door clattered open again. The new arrival was thin and so tall that he had to stoop under the low entrance. He wore a three-piece suit in greenish tweed. It had cost a lot when collected from the tailor’s. But that had been many years before. The elbows and the cuffs were protected with leather patches.

“Evening, young Will.” It was the patrician, slightly lazy voice of someone who didn’t think he had anything to prove. But there was also tension in the voice, even a kind of suppressed excitement. Ungainly as a giraffe, the man propped himself on a tall bar stool and pulled a pipe out of his jacket pocket.

“Evening, Graham. Large Grouse, is it?”

“With a splash of soda, that’s right. Hello, Nick.”

This latest arrival had received a nod of acknowledgement from the lager drinker by the Snug. Carole got the feeling that, had the offer been made, Nick might have accepted a drink from the man called Graham, whose manner was easily superior and didn’t carry the patronizing overtones of Freddie’s. The newcomer to Weldisham was too eager to please, too eager to be thought generous. Someone like Nick would take his time before accepting charity from such a source.

As he looked across to the Snug, Graham caught Carole’s eye. He smiled courteously. The eyes had been brown but were now faded in his lined face. He was quite old, probably well into his seventies.

“Graham Forbes, isn’t it? We met in here last week.” Freddie seemed anxious to receive his own acknowledgement. There was an air of power about the older man, something that, as a new boy in Weldisham, Freddie needed to tap into.

“Did we?” It wasn’t said rudely, but without a great deal of interest.

“Yes. Freddie Pointon. I was in last Friday with my wife, Pam. Had dinner in the restaurant.” This did not seem to be a sufficient
aide-memoire
. The old eyes concentrated on tamping down tobacco in the pipe bowl. “We’ve recently moved into Hunter’s Cottage.”

“Oh yes, of course.” Graham flashed a smile of professional charm. “The Pointons. Irene and I were only just talking about you. You must come to dinner with us at Warren Lodge.”

“We’d enjoy that very much.”

“I’ll get Irene to give a call to…er…”

“Pam.”

“Pam, yes, of course. So are you settling in all right?”

“Not bad. Having problems with the people who’re putting in our bloody kitchen, mind.”

“Ah.”

The older man did not feign interest in the problems of kitchen-fitting. Carole suddenly identified the strange tension in his manner. It was excitement. Graham had news to impart. And he was waiting his moment, timing the revelation for when it would have maximum impact.

He took a long sip from his drink, made sure that Will had turned back from putting his money in the till and decided that the moment had come. “Anyone see the police cars?” he began casually.

“I’ve been in here all day,” the manager replied. “Bloody paperwork.”

Graham looked at Nick, who gave a curt shake of his head.

“I saw one at the end of the lane,” said Freddie, “when I was on my way back from the station. Presumably they wait there to catch the poor buggers who’ve had a skinful in London and shouldn’t be driving home.”

“That’s not why they’re there today.”

“Oh?”

“A rather nasty discovery has been made on Phil Ayling’s land.”

Carole tensed. Surely he couldn’t be talking about what she had found. It was too soon after the event. And the police wouldn’t be volunteering information on the subject.

Graham Forbes played the scene at his own pace. He waited for a prompt of “What?” from Will Maples before continuing. “In South Welling Barn it was.”

Nick had his back to her and she couldn’t see any reaction from him, but Carole was quick enough to catch a momentary narrowing of the manager’s eyes. He seemed over-casual as he asked, “What’s been found then, Graham?”

“Bones. Human bones.” There was silence in the pub. Graham Forbes didn’t need any prompts now. He had their full attention. “A complete set,” he said lightly. “That’s why the police are here. Any number of them over at the barn. Lights, photographers, the whole shooting match.”

“But…” Will Maples licked his lips as if to moisten them. “Have they any idea whose bones they are?”

Graham Forbes let out a dry laugh. “Give them time. I know your chum Lennie Baylis is a bright boy, but I don’t think even he could provide a complete life history from one look at a skeleton.”

“No.” The landlord chuckled, but he didn’t sound amused. “I wonder where they’ll start their investigations…”

“You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out. Presumably they’ll start right here in Weldisham. Check out whether anyone’s gone missing from the village recently.”

Will Maples was thoughtful for a moment. Then he hazarded, “The Lutteridge girl?”

“That’s a thought, Will.”

The old head nodded insecurely on its thin neck. “The Lutteridge girl.”

“Oh, I’ve met the Lutteridges,” said Freddie, eager to be part of things. “Met them at a drinks party we were invited to first weekend we arrived. Miles and Gillie, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Graham Forbes’s manner towards the newcomer was diplomatically balanced. He was polite, but kept his distance.

“So this is their daughter you’re talking about?”

“Tamsin, yes.”

“They didn’t mention her when we met.”

“Probably wouldn’t have done. She’s hardly covered the family name with glory.”

“Oh?”

“Had a perfectly good job in London, working on some magazine or other, then chucked it just like that and came back to sponge off her parents.”

“I heard she was ill,” Will Maples interceded cautiously.

“Ill?”

“Some allergy or something.”

“Allergic to hard work, if you ask me.” Graham Forbes was clearly saddling up a hobbyhorse. “Trouble with kids these days, they’re cosseted. Cotton-woolled through school, subsidized by the state to laze around for three years at university. They don’t even read, you know, just waste their time on videos and computer games. Then after university they come out into the real world, and is it any wonder they can’t cope?

“I think drugs have a lot to do with it too. In my young day, everyone drank themselves silly, but drugs were for the really depraved. Nowadays, the kids seem to think no more of taking drugs than blowing their noses. And it’s all over the place, you know, not just in the inner cities. Police stopped some kids in a car on the Weldisham Lane only a couple of weeks ago and found they were under the influence of drugs. God knows where they got them from.”

There was a silence. Will Maples looked studiously at the counter. If Graham Forbes was suggesting anyone had got drugs in the Hare and Hounds, it wasn’t an accusation he wished to discuss.

“This is the Excuse Generation, you know. Whatever happens, whatever weaknesses of character kids show, there’s always some excuse, some psychological reason for it. Father didn’t show enough affection to them, mother showed too much affection to them, they’ve got an
allergy
.” The word was marinated in contempt. “In my young day, we just got on with things.”

This statement, delivered with finality, seemed to require some endorsement. Carole couldn’t say anything, Nick clearly never said more than he had to. Will Maples still seemed to be working round his mental dial, finding the right cliche rejoinder, when Freddie came in with the necessary response.