The Food Detective (5 page)

I bobbed a curtsey. ‘Whenever you ask me, Sir, she said.’ An evening
à trois
with them was an invitation to be cherished. While – with a huge flourish designed to set every old codger’s teeth on edge – he unzipped his handbag, I glanced round. No sign of Nick, or of young Lucy.

No. Surely not. I’d got him down as a decent man, for all he was an ex-cop. If he started messing round with the young, Tony’s threats to my young lover would pale into insignificance beside my actions.

‘Sue said she’d got an extra recruit for you – Mr Thomas, who’s staying on Bulcombe’s campsite. Didn’t he turn up?’

‘Indeed he did. And provided a moment of drama.’ Aidan leaned forward confidentially.

‘He never broke a bell!’

He shook his head, his face serious. ‘I was afraid he was having some sort of attack. One minute he was chatting away, if not
easily
then with due social enthusiasm, the next he was ashen white and literally speechless. I was quite concerned. And what poor Lucy must have thought, goodness knows.’

‘Lucy?’ I asked sharply.

Aidan raised an eyebrow. ‘That poor child has borne more than her share of burdens, Josie, but having a strange man look at you as if he’d seen a ghost can’t have been pleasant. However, he pulled himself together and joined in –’

‘We heard!’

‘– and has promised to come next week, work permitting. Have you any idea what his line of business might be?’

‘Some sort of civil servant, he said.’

‘Totally respectable, then. Which is fortunate, since he insisted on walking Lucy home. He said he wouldn’t let his own
daughter
walk around after dark on her own.’

‘You think that was a good idea?’

‘Lucy seemed to think so. She was asking for some
information
for one of her school projects. But you can ask him yourself
– here he is!’

Ron Snow was on his feet faster than I’d ever seen him move. ‘Well, young Nick, it’s time for your scrumpy. Tradition, isn’t it, missus, that we wet a new ringer’s head. Come on, pull him a pint. And then it’s down in one, isn’t it, boys?’

I did as I was told. After all, it was his fuss to make, not mine. Then I had an idea. ‘We’ve got this all wrong. It should be a yard of ale.’

He might get drunk, but at least ale might be kinder to that ulcer of his. Imagine, tipping a pint of pure acid on to an open sore. His throat worked as he swallowed saliva. Or it might have been one of those clever tablets of his. With a wonderful
impression
of nonchalance, he reached for the vile liquid and downed it in one.

He acknowledged the cheers and stamps of the little group of regulars, and looked as if to join them. But they returned to their allotted chairs, any gap seamlessly closed. Was it their rudeness or his ulcer that turned him ashen white? He waved a perfunctory hand in farewell, and, whatever his hopes or intentions might have been, turned and left the bar.

Chapter Five

They’d gone! My brand new Portaloos had gone! When the hell had that happened? And why? I was on the phone before you could say urinal, before I was even dressed, staring down at the spot where they’d been while I was still mother naked.

‘Collected! Why should they have been collected?’

‘You phoned yesterday morning, or your barman did.’

It was hard to stay furious when the old guy had such a gentle Mummerset burr. But I did my best. ‘I shall have to speak to my barman,’ I lied tartly. ‘In the meantime, I want them replaced, and – are you listening? – I want you to write in big letters on my file that they will not be removed again except on my personal request. In writing. With my signature, which you will check against the signature on my contract. Yes, of course service them regularly. But don’t take them away. Or I’ll ram you head first down one before it’s emptied. Understand?’

He understood.

I was due for a talk with Dominic Webster, my architect, so I had to forego my early walk. Calories apart, it wasn’t much loss. The hills and the sky were both the same leaden grey, and the roads awash. Definitely a day for headlights. I picked my way slowly into Taunton, slashing through puddles halfway across the road. At last I parked on the far side of the cricket ground, which was convenient for the architect’s office if not for shopping.

Only to have Dominic’s receptionist telling me, in that singsong delivery so beloved of estate agents and flight
attendants
, that his car
had
broken
down
, but that she was sure that Dom
would
be with me
as
soon as
possible
.

‘How soon is soon?’

We established that his diary was clear for the rest of the
morning
, flooded foundations preventing him from making the
scheduled
site visit to somewhere near Exeter that had necessitated my early appointment. So I might slip to the shops for an hour. Actually I wanted to go to the library and have a root round. After all, if Mrs Greville owned the area, that barbed wire would be on her land, and it would no doubt give Sue enormous
satisfaction
if I could make the old bat remove it. OK, not with her own bare hands. But it would be a peace offering.

Head down, umbrella up, I ran slap into Nick Thomas, in a brand new Barbour. Was this the sincerest form of flattery? More likely the only practical choice. ‘Not working, Copper?’

‘I’ve run out of milk.’

‘Don’t you have a minion?’

‘I work on my own. I told you.’

‘I didn’t realise it was as alone as that. Come on, I know a place where we can get a decent cup of coffee. I want to pick your brain. And you can get your milk on the way back. And some water biscuits – they’re supposed to be good for bad stomachs.’

‘So what did you want to know?’ he asked warily, as we sat at right angles to each other in the bay window of a café that wanted to be chic but ended up chi-chi. Our waterproofs, dripping on to the floor beneath the curly hat stand, didn’t help the ambience.

‘Land law. Can a landlord just block a public right of way if he feels like it?’

‘You know as well as I do that he can’t.’ Was I meant to take that as a compliment? ‘But it’s not land law. It’s an offence under the Highways Act of 1980. Section 137 as I recall. The same
legislation
we used to make demonstrators move on, as it happens. You report the obstruction to the county council, who’ll have some sort of team devoted to such offences. Their officers will serve notice requiring the obstruction’s removal with a specified, suitable time. Failure to comply will result in prosecution at a magistrates’ court, the maximum fine being £1000.’

I sat back, mouth agape. ‘Well, I’m blessed. You know, you almost grew back your white shirt and epaulettes before my very eyes. Sir!’ I gave a mock-salute. ‘So all I’ve got to do is go to the council and they shift it. Pouff!’

‘In time.’ He returned to his washed out self. ‘It rather depends on what else they’ve got on their plate. And in this weather they may have other fish to fry. Or other obstructions in the form of fallen trees to worry about. Do you know who owns the land? Sometimes a simple face to face request is sufficient.’

‘I’m averse to curtseying. And grovelling in general. And that’s
what Mrs Greville would want before she even consented to see me. Aristo of the old school, according to Sue Clayton. The sort whose
noblesse
obliges others to do things. She owns your
campsite
, by the way. Bulcombe’s just the manager.’

‘I’ll practise my underwater bowing, then. Wasn’t there a Greville in some sort of political scandal?’ Ah, would that explain Sue’s ire? ‘Luke Greville? Must be twenty years ago. Would they be related?’

‘I’ve no idea. What sort of scandal?’ And why didn’t I
remember
anything about it? What was I doing twenty years ago that would blot out something like that? Ah. Dealing with Tony’s threats to have Mike’s wedding tackle removed and used as
stuffing
.

‘I can’t remember. I had other things…’ He shook his head, like a dog disliking water. He managed a grin. ‘Oh, some sort of grubby little hands in till scandal, I dare say.’

‘Not sex? No bondage and S and M with half the Cabinet? How disappointing.’

‘Not that particular scandal, not as far as I remember. In any case, if they were Maggie’s favourites they seemed to be able to get away with a few sexual peccadilloes. Money would be my bet. Anyway, he got deselected, and then they found him a safe
Euro-constituency
, and he’s off there now, legislating from Brussels.’

‘Perhaps they went on the same principle as Claudius’s for shipping the mad Hamlet off to England – one other bit of
corruption
wouldn’t be noticed in the shambles of European
administration
.’

His eyebrows shot up. He needed to trim them – four or five hairs, already old men’s tufts, were growing wild and unruly. ‘Since when did you read Shakespeare?’

‘Since I did my Open University course. You never asked how I qualified to run a pub, Copper. I’ll tell you. The hard way. When I’d done my first course with the OU, I thought it’d be more fun to study full-time, so I became a mature student. So if there’s a catering qualification going, I’ve got it. I practically took root at the College of Food. Waitressed, maitre d’h’d, administrated – oh, and cooked. There.’

‘Well, good for you. I have to hand it to you, Josie – you’re a woman of parts, aren’t you?’

‘Most of them much smaller than they were. Come on, Copper, just because I’m not going to eat one of those gorgeous cakes doesn’t mean you can’t. Good for the stomach, I’d say.’

He hesitated.

‘You took a risk, sinking that muck last night.’

‘Had to, didn’t I?’ He took a chocolate shortbread.

‘You men and your face-saving.’

‘Fortunately the stench in that open sewer of yours was enough to bring it all back without it hanging around. Hell, Josie, I’ve smelt some vile things in my time, but nothing like that.’

‘That’s why I had those Portaloos installed.’

‘Had.’

‘Hmm. They seem to have disappeared, don’t they?’

‘Dead cats; disappearing loos. Are the villagers usually like this?’

‘I wouldn’t know. It’s the first time I’ve crossed one of them.’

And so to the library. It was such fun to be rooting around again. One of the best bits of all those years of study was going through the archives of a Midlands stately home and finding Elizabethan recipes and cross-referencing them with herbals to find the appropriate ingredients. I wouldn’t end up with highly-spiced mince pies (made with minced meat, not mincemeat); I might end with a spicy bit of gossip about Mrs Greville’s son. And I might find out why Nick stumbled when he referred to the
scandal
. Something that had affected him. Something that had given him his ulcer, stopped in its tracks the career of a highly talented police officer (yes, as Tony always used to say, praise where praise is due, and you don’t get to be a DI before you’re thirty, not without something between the ears) and now occasionally
paralysed
him. Like in front of all those TVs. And, from what Aidan said, in the middle of bell ringing practice.

Who’s Who
didn’t go into Luke Greville’s deselection, of course. It did confirm that he’d been born Lucas Cornelius Hetherington Greville in 1958 in Somerset, and had been
educated
at Eton. He hadn’t gone on to Oxford or Cambridge,
however
,
or any other British university, but to a place in Germany I’d never heard of. His hobbies were cricket, polo and philately. He’d been an MP in a safe as houses Tory constituency from 1988 to 1993. In 1996 he’d become a Euro MP. Three years for the
scandal
to die down. It must have been a big one – had he stolen a Penny Black?

Or the cricket or polo equivalent?

OK. Microfiche time.

My decision about which story to pursue first, Greville’s or Nick’s, was made for me. The library had only national
newspapers
on microfiche, and in particular the
Times
. If Nick’s case hadn’t been prominent enough to reach that, I’d have to get one of my Birmingham cronies to do digging for me. Almost rubbing my hands with glee, I started on Greville. Only to find my mobile chirping illicitly away. Dominic had arrived at the office.

‘Go to a library!’ Nesta screeched loud enough for Dominic’s receptionist to raise an eyebrow. I held the mobile away from my ear for safety’s sake.

‘Not just any library, Nesta. The Central Reference Library. Failing that, the
Evening Mail
offices. And ask to see copies for 1984 to 1988. You’re looking for the biggest police stories – front page news.’

‘Anything in particular?’

‘Good girl – you always did give in gracefully. No. I’ve got one or two ideas but I want you to come up with the biggest. And report back to me. Friday?’

‘Make that a week on Friday. I’ve got a new fella and –’

‘New fella! Tell! Hell, Dominic’s ready for me. Talk to you soon!’

I spent the afternoon talking to my new meat suppliers, Dan Troman and Family. At least, they’d be my suppliers if the test run proved satisfactory. The prices were very much higher than those I’d been used to, a fact I floated across our negotiating table, which was, incidentally, a refectory table dating from the year dot in the middle of a huge kitchen in the family farmhouse. If I’d been them I’d have used a photograph of it in my publicity
material; I might well in my own, provided all went well.

‘How much did you say?’ Dan’s eyebrows headed for what had once been his hairline. He might have been a caricature of a farmer, big and broad with hams for hands and a ruddy outdoors complexion emphasising the blue of his eyes.

I repeated the figures.

He shook his head. ‘Even with conventional farming I
couldn
’t do it for that. Here, Abigail!’ He summoned his wife, a rangy woman who looked as if she’d be more at home in a classy
solicitor
’s office than in a farmyard. ‘No wonder we only cater for niche markets.’

She looked long and hard at me. For a moment I was reminded of Nick in his keen young days, sniffing out a lie. ‘Is this some loss leader? Does his poultry cost twice as much as usual?’

‘I’ve never used him for chickens.’ They came free-range from a neighbour, who also supplied me with eggs.

‘Pork?’

I might have been on a witness stand. ‘I’ve not used it enough to have a regular supplier.’

‘Has he ever offered it to you?’

‘Look, I’m only asking you to price up a regular delivery of beef. If you can offer pork and bacon – yes, I’d kill for good
old-fashioned
bacon, the sort that doesn’t leave white goo in your pan – then let’s talk about that too. Meanwhile, let’s stick to this particular issue, shall we?’

Over a cup of Earl Grey, served by Abigail in a china cup after we’d come to an agreement, I asked, ‘Why were you so concerned about my original supplier’s price?’ But I knew the answer already.

‘If it’s not off the back of some lorry,’ she said, despite Dan’s warning cough, ‘I’d say it was old stock illegally slaughtered and put into the food chain.’

‘There’s no call to make accusations,’ Dan protested.

‘Oh, there is,’ I said. ‘The thought had crossed my mind, too – why do you think I’ve come to you? Yes, just to celebrate, just this once, I will have one of those scones, please.’ It came with clotted cream, and jam. In my mind’s eye I could see the judder of the scales. But it was worth it. Every last gram.