Читать книгу Blood at the Bookies - Simon Brett - Страница 12

Jude went into the betting shop the following morning, the Tuesday, at around eleven, thinking it would be a good time to talk to the manager before the main racing fixtures started. But Ryan wasn’t there. His place had been taken by an older man of uncongenial appearance. Jude’s immediate thought was that the police had spotted the same inconsistency in Ryan’s statements that she had, and he was ‘helping them with their enquiries’. But a question to the vacuous Nikki provided a much less dramatic explanation. Ryan was laid up with the ‘nasty flu’ that had been going round.

At a loose end, Jude decided that she and Carole should have lunch at the Crown and Anchor. Her neighbour initially opposed the idea – she opposed anything that smacked of self-indulgence – but was persuaded. She was, after all, in a convalescent state after her own bout of flu. She wasn’t yet up to cooking for herself. A meal out would be a necessary part of her recovery.

Carole was secretly pleased at the plan. All morning she’d been putting off ringing her daughter-in-law. After the postponement of the weekend, she needed to fix another date to meet up with Lily and her parents. But Carole didn’t feel up to the challenge of such a call. She was always shy of Gaby, and she knew that any discussion of rescheduling their meeting would also involve mention of David. She wasn’t sure she felt strong enough to state the truth: that she didn’t want to see her granddaughter with her ex-husband present.

So going off to the Crown and Anchor gave her the perfect excuse to put off her difficult phone call till the afternoon.

‘Heard you’d been out of sorts,’ said Ted Crisp when they arrived at the pub. ‘Still looking a bit peaky, aren’t you?’

Carole had to think about her response. Every fibre of her being revolted against the idea of ever ‘making a fuss’, but then again she didn’t want anyone to underestimate how ghastly she had felt for the previous few days. So she contented herself with a brave, ‘Getting better, but it’s been a really nasty bug.’

‘Tell me about it. Everyone in the pub seems to have had it. Can’t hear yourself speak in here for all the coughing and spluttering. And my latest barmaid’s using it as an excuse for not turning up.’

‘Poor kid,’ said Jude.

‘I’m not so sure about that. Quite capable of “taking a sickie”. She’s a right little skiver, that one. Most of them seem to be these days, certainly the youngsters. Whatever happened to the concept of “taking pride in your work”? This lot all seem to want to get paid for doing the absolute minimum. Bloody work ethic’s gone out the window in this country, you know.’

Jude was once again struck by how right-wing Ted was becoming. Ironic how almost all of those who had derided the establishment in their youth came round later in life to endorsing its continued existence.

‘The younger generation are all hopeless,’ he went on. ‘But round here older people are too well-heeled to bother with bar work. Hey, you wouldn’t like to be a barmaid, would you, Jude? You’d bring lots of custom in, someone like you.’

She grinned. ‘I have a sneaking feeling the word “buxom” is about to be mentioned.’

‘I wasn’t going to say it.’

‘But you were thinking it, Ted.’

‘Well, maybe.’

‘I’ll consider your offer. If I run out of clients for my healing services. It’s not as if I haven’t done it before.’

Carole, reminded of this detail from her neighbour’s past, shuddered to the core of her middle-class heart.

Ted Crisp grinned at her discomfiture. ‘Anyway, I’m the one in charge of the bar for the time being. So, what are you ladies drinking? Is it the old Chilean Chards again?’

‘I should probably have something soft,’ said Carole. ‘You know, I’m not a hundred per cent yet.’

‘All the more reason why you need a proper drink,’ Jude assured her. ‘You should probably be having a quadruple brandy.’

‘Oh, I think that would be excessive. But all right, a small Chilean Chardonnay, if you insist.’

‘I insist,’ said Ted Crisp, ‘that it should be a large one.’

‘But—’

‘You pay for a small one. I’ll top it up to a large one. Landlord’s privilege.’ Carole didn’t argue. ‘And I assume a large one for you, Jude …?’

‘Please. And what’s good to eat? Healthy nutritious fare to help restore Carole to her old self?’

‘You won’t go wrong with the Local Game Pie. Served with Special Gravy.’

‘Two of those then, please.’

‘Though I don’t actually think I’ve got much of an appetite,’ said Carole. ‘I probably won’t be able to eat it all, given the size of your usual portions.’

‘You’ll manage,’ said Ted, writing down the order.

‘By the way,’ Carole asked, ‘what is the Local Game today?’

Deliberately misunderstanding, Ted replied, ‘The Local Game in Fethering is still trying to work out who killed that poor Polish bloke. Tell you, I’ve heard more theories in this pub than you’ve had hot lunches here.’

‘Any that sound convincing?’

The landlord shook his shaggy head. ‘Not unless you’re a big fan of Cold War spy fiction, no. I think the trouble is, nobody knows what the poor bloke was doing in this country, anyway.’

‘Bar work, I gather.’

‘Yes, Jude, that’s what he was doing, but surely that wasn’t why he was here. As I know all too well, it’s a crap job, bar work. That’s why I can’t get any decent staff. The pay’s not good enough.’

‘No, but for him it was still probably more than he’d get paid in Poland,’ said Carole.

‘He was living in Littlehampton,’ said Jude. ‘You know most of the pubs and bars around, Ted. You haven’t heard where he was working, have you?’

‘No. I could ask around, though.’

‘Be grateful if you did.’

‘All right,’ said the landlord. ‘But we’re rather starved of information, aren’t we? Nobody really knows anything about the bloke, what he was like, what he wanted from life. Those are the kind of things you want to know if you’re going to find out why someone was murdered.’

Carole and Jude were already far too aware of the truth in Ted’s words. After a little more desultory banter, they adjourned to one of the pub’s alcoves with their drinks.

‘What about the girl?’ Carole asked suddenly.

‘What girl?’

‘You said there’s also a girl who works regularly in the betting shop.’

‘Oh yes, Nikki.’

‘Well, maybe she’s seen the mysterious woman Tadeusz Jankowski spoke to. Maybe she knows who it is.’

‘Possible. Nikki doesn’t come across as the most observant of people – or indeed the most intelligent – but I suppose it’s worth asking her. She can’t be as dim as she appears.’

The Local Game Pie lived up to Ted Crisp’s recommendation. And the Special Gravy was delicious. In spite of her prognostications, Carole finished every last morsel, but the food – and a second glass of wine – left her feeling very sleepy. ‘But I can’t sleep during the daytime,’ she told Jude. Sleeping in the daytime – like watching daytime television – was a slippery slope for retired people, so far as Carole was concerned. Go too far down that route and you’ll stop bothering to get up or get dressed in the morning. Then you’ll start to smell and ‘become a burden’. Carole’s mind was full of imagined slippery slopes to cause her anxiety.

‘You go straight back to bed,’ said Jude, ‘and have a nice long sleep. You’re still washed out. Sleep’s nature’s way of making you better.’

Carole didn’t argue any more. Sleeping during the day for health reasons was quite acceptable. But such indulgence must stop the minute she was fully fit again.

Before she took to her bed, she felt sufficiently buoyed up by the Chilean Chardonnay to ring Gaby. And, to her delight, her daughter-in-law suggested coming down to Fethering that Friday. Just her and Lily. The perfect configuration, and no mention of David. Exactly what Carole would have wished for. Heartened by the conversation, she was quickly nestled under her duvet and asleep.

Jude felt restless when she returned from the pub. Although she had a presence that spread serenity, inside her mind all was not always serene. She had had a varied life in many different places. Sometimes the quietness of Fethering soothed her, but at others it rankled and she felt a surge of wanderlust. There was so much world out there, so much yet to be seen. Maybe it was time that her wings were once again spread.

Normally she would ease such moods by yoga. The familiarity of the movements, the relinquishing of her thoughts to a stronger imperative, could usually be relied on to settle her. But that afternoon she’d had two large glasses of wine and she knew her concentration would not be adequate to the demands of yoga.

So she lit a fire and then sat down to read the manuscript of a book written by one of her healer friends. It was about control, not controlling others, but taking control of one’s own life, developing one’s own potentialities. Jude, who had read and been disappointed by more than her fair share of self-help books, thought this one was rather good.

But her mind kept straying. The pale image of the dying Tadeusz Jankowski recurred like an old reproach. What had happened to him? Why did he have to die? She hoped she would soon have answers to those questions.

The phone rang. Jude answered it.

‘Hello. Is this, Jude, please?’ The voice was female, young, heavily accented.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It was you who found the body of Tadeusz Jankowski?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please, I like to meet you.’

‘I’m sorry, who am I talking to?’

‘My name is Zofia Jankowska. I am the sister of Tadeusz.’