The Chinese Takeout (17 page)

‘So this is really the White Hart?’
Disappointment
oozed from his voice.

‘Yes.’ I made it a flat affirmative, keeping any challenge from my reply.

‘Oh,’ she said. They looked at each other. ‘I was expecting something—’

‘Bigger,’ I supplied, to save her from herself. ‘I don’t suppose you’re Mr and Mrs Martin, by any chance?’

‘Dr and Dr Martin.’

Since I’d not long since corrected DI Lawton in the same tone, I suppose I couldn’t argue, but I found it hard to smile as hospitably as I should. However, transferring my watering can to my left hand, I stuck out my right. ‘Welcome to the White Hart. I’m Josie Welford. I was so fond of your son – I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

He put forward a reluctant hand in response.

‘So awful for you – having been so far away when the news came through.’

Nil response. What on earth was Andy doing to let this couple come unannounced and unattended? It didn’t square with his usual solicitous behaviour. I smiled warmly at the chilly female Dr Martin, suppressing a guffaw as I realised I had acquired a pair of famous boots. Wouldn’t Tony have loved it?

The male one hadn’t parked very considerately for a city street, and very badly for what was little more than a country lane, frequented by the sort of monster tractor currently approaching – the sort with bigger wheels and more spikes and other lethal looking pieces of metal than you can imagine off the set of a futuristic film.

‘Would you care to pull your car round to the back?’

He cast an eye at the Behemoth and at his paintwork. He did as I suggested, briskly.

Which left me and his other half. ‘Andrew Braithwaite must have told you that although this is officially an inn, with sleeping accommodation, the bedrooms are currently occupied by a homeless family.’

As I’d expected, all her prejudices flitted before her wide-open eyes.

‘Since I’ve already upgraded staff accommodation, which is in a separate building, I thought you might be more comfortable there. It’s designed for communal living, with a sitting-room, kitchen and so on, but my chefs have moved back into the main building for as long as you wish to stay.’ The Gay Children had had to double up, something their eldest sister assured them would be good for them. Like spring greens, I suppose. ‘Would you care to see it? It’s more direct if we simply follow your husband into the car park.’ I closed the front door behind me. I didn’t want any surprise visitors awaiting me when I returned.

Since the rooms were meant for permanent occupation, they were both spacious and very well appointed. But clearly there was something missing – olde-worlde charm? And rather too clearly they were disappointed. How such a pair could have bred sweet unassuming Tim I’d never know. There
was a physical resemblance to his mother, who I rather suspected of having been under the knife, but none to his father.

Ah! No tea trays. A peep into the kitchen, however, showed Lucy hadn’t let me down. Everything was laid up beautifully, with an assortment of teas and coffees, and fresh milk in the fridge, along with bottled Exmoor water, sparkling and still – a total extravagance since the same liquid issued
ad lib
from the tap. A biscuit barrel contained some of Pix’s finest. Lucy had even popped budding wild daffodils in one of my better vases.

‘Please make yourselves at home. Use whichever rooms you please.’ I explained how to use the coffee-maker.

Their polite interest told me they wanted only one thing: my absence. So I speedily obliged.

‘You’d better hop back to your deanery and change,’ I greeted Andy. ‘They’ll expect gaiters at very least.’ Not the shoes he sported with a dark charcoal suit. If he looked good in something so obviously not top-of-the-range, what would he be like in the efforts of Tony’s tailor? And bespoke shoes, too?

Today his shirt was a consciously deanish black.

To my surprise, he slung an arm round my shoulders as I led him round to the staff quarters. Briefly, true, but very friendly, with a little squeeze that indicated as clearly as if he’d said out loud that
he’d got my measure. The whole thing was so natural I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d given my bum a valedictory pat. Or, of course, I his.

As it was, I made formal introductions, an emphasis I was sure he would notice on their titles, and bowed out.

My emails included a request from the wife of a disgraced African finance minister to help her retrieve millions, only needing complete details of my bank account in return for a fifty percent cut of her profits. And there were still people who got sucked in by such scams. No, I didn’t need Viagra, and I didn’t need an improved mortgage. Waste of bloody money my spam-block was proving. But there were some genuine messages, notably from Nick, telling me he’d be back on Friday and he’d like to be fed royally – from the vegetarian menu. No need for details about what he’d been up to, then. Then there were a couple headed CHICKEN, one from an old mate in Topsham, an oasis of good eateries, and another from someone I’d never heard of. The first told me she’d been offered heavily discounted chicken breast fillets by her usually reputable supplier; the other, who’d come via my website, was offering meat at amazingly low prices, provided I paid in cash. A month ago and my response would have been that my meat had to have come with all the certification going and to go away and do unnatural things. And perhaps it
should still be: I know I was supposed to be scouring the West for dodgy poultry, but that was me going to them, on my own terms. Perhaps DI Lawton was right: perhaps I should leave things to the pros. Except the pro wasn’t going to be back till Friday, damn him. All the same, he ought to know, so I forwarded the message to him, with a couple of covering question marks. It was the nearest I could get to asking advice. As for the message itself, I sent an automatic, out-of-the-office reply, saying I’d get back after a (mythical) week’s break.

As for my other respondent, the obvious questions were had she tried it and was it any good?

Then – and I embraced it almost as a refuge – it was back to the kitchen to see the results of Pix’s marketing and to see if we needed to revise the specials board. With rhubarb as pink and sweet as the bunch he waved in triumph, we certainly did. Bearing my dairy-free clients in mind, I wanted individual little jellies, possibly made with champagne; Pix was asserting his inalienable right to produce an old-fashioned fool when the
back-door
bell pinged.

Andy and the Doc Martens. OK. Fool it was.

In a whisk of the apron I was mine hostess again.

The Martins’ eyes widened appreciably – and possibly appreciatively – when Andy ushered them into my flat. I wasn’t at all sure of the etiquette of offering bereaved parents a pre-lunch drink. If I
drank at midday it was only ever champagne, but that was altogether too frivolous. Had I not known Andy better I’d have thought sherry a more ecclesiastical choice. And somehow being the licensee made matters worse: they’d expect some sort of expertise, even if, since I’d promised Andy that all this was gratis, they wouldn’t be paying for it.

Gratis. When I made the offer, I’d expected the pair to be down-trodden, possibly slightly down at heel, in the manner of schoolteachers in my youth. I was aware that things had rightly changed in education – apart from anything else, you’d need danger-money to face today’s kids, high on all those vicious additives. But these two were not just well off, they were rich. They oozed the sort of money you didn’t get working for other people. The sort of money that didn’t need subsidies from
hard-working
people like me.

I told them the possibilities of where they might eat while they were here, adding the proviso that I really would need to pencil in a time if they wanted to eat in the dining room, even at lunchtime. They seemed to approve rather than otherwise my business-like approach, saying they’d lunch downstairs now with Andy, but would rather visit the rectory on their own.

Urbanely, Andy asked if I had time to join them at their table: clearly they hadn’t thought of that, so I declined – I was on duty, I lied. They polished off
the very good white burgundy they’d accepted and toddled downstairs to the dining room, where I commended them to the care of a work experience kid, this one adept and conscientious. One kind word to me and they’d have had my full attention, but I didn’t skivvy for people who ignored me. And whose son had not wanted them contacted when he was under siege, and who had lied about their occupation.

Although I was sure Andy would have repeated his offer to accompany them, the Martins still insisted on going to the rectory alone. Sighing, Andy got up as if to leave.

‘I need a cup of tea if you don’t,’ I breathed into his ear, a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Upstairs.’ Strange, it sounded more like a threat –
Boy, see me in my study after school
– than an invitation to my boudoir. I hadn’t meant it as the latter, true, but I certainly hadn’t meant it as the former.

Nonetheless, he trotted quite guiltily to my quarters. ‘I know, I know,’ he protested. ‘What miracle produced Tim from such unpromising parents?’

‘Quite a big one. You can understand his desire to keep them at a distance. And they seem to be keeping their grief remarkably well under control.’

He looked at me quizzically. ‘They certainly got up your nose. I’ve never seen you so polite to anyone. Except perhaps to Bishop Jonathan. At first
I thought it was because you were intimidated by him – people often are, by bishops. But now I’ve changed my mind. No one would intimidate you, would they?’

He sounded amused rather than amorous, so I grinned back.

‘So what do they do, these not teachers?’ I prompted. ‘They own—? They run—?’

‘They play their cards even closer to their chests than you do. But they’re bright, Josie – very, very bright.’

I twitched an eyebrow. Too many people like Andy seemed to regard being bright as a virtue in itself.

‘Unpleasantly so,’ he continued, apparently without a pause. ‘Intellect untempered by wisdom.’

‘Or their blood by the milk of human kindness.’ I held up my tea caddy. ‘Green?’

He nodded.

As the kettle boiled, I said slowly, ‘I hate to introduce a red herring, but you don’t suppose – no, it doesn’t make sense.’

‘Left-brain stuff often doesn’t. Try me. I’m up for it.’

If only he’d been referring to something other than weird ideas. I was often at my most creative after a good bonk, but perhaps between the unmarried that, in ecclesiastical terms, was an oxymoron. In any case, he’d heard all too clearly that the locals regarded me as the village bike. I
didn’t want to be bedded on the assumption that I was easy. I wanted – I wasn’t at all sure what I wanted, a rare and unpleasant state I could only blame on the recent upheavals.

‘Could there…could there be any possible reason why… No. Crazy.’

‘Why someone should want to take out their own son? It’s not an idea I’d care to put to DI Lawton, but… No, surely it’s got to have been Tang the murderers were after. The snakeheads who brought him here. His employers. People avenging something he’d done. No one could have anything against poor Tim. Who, in God’s name, could be more innocent?’ He mixed exasperation with despair.

I busied myself with the tea. Any more emotion and I’d cry, not a good option. Once I cry, I never know when to stop, which was why I had kept myself so stern and busy since the boys’ deaths.

He sat on the sofa, sighing again but soon looking around him. ‘This is one of the most restful rooms I’ve ever encountered.’

‘It certainly had the docs. pricing it by the item,’ I agreed. ‘And unsettling them.’

‘Which is something you like to do,’ he said. He sipped his too hot tea. ‘Am I prejudiced against them simply because of their money?’

I hoped not. Some response was called for. I cocked my head inquiringly.

‘You know, green eyes? I don’t want riches, Josie,
and it’s certainly wrong to envy people with them. But am I quicker to judge the rich than the poor? None of whom I should be judging in any case!’ He pressed his hands to his face, but compromised by rubbing it vigorously as if he were trying to wake up.

‘Grief. It’s unsettling. But I don’t think you took agin’ them because they’re loaded. It’s just that they didn’t seem very nice people. Or – let’s be charitable to them too! – perhaps grief and shock have closed them down.’ I sat in the easy chair at right angles to him. ‘Did they say anything about what sort of funeral they wanted? And where?’

‘To take your line, perhaps they were too shocked to have made any real decisions. Quiet. They wanted it to be very quiet. Which rather rules out the cathedral.’

‘It would be more…more seemly here,’ I said. ‘And the villagers would much prefer it on home territory. The choir’s already putting in extra practice, they tell me. But what about Tang? A shared or a separate service?’

‘The Martins aren’t exactly paid up members of the Tang fan club. In any case, I’ve got one of my colleagues on to the Chinese Embassy for advice.’

‘Whatever they say, there’s nothing wrong with holding a memorial service, surely? For him and Tim?’

‘At St Faith and St Lawrence? Or maybe in the St Jude’s graveyard?’

‘A bit symbolic, all those ashes and the smell of burning?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Exactly. Yes, I’d quite like it there. I wonder what the St Jude’s people would say. I suppose you haven’t had a chance to talk to them?’

My turn to cover my face – with shame. ‘I’ve not even been in touch with Annie!’

‘Who hasn’t been in touch with you, either. Don’t take all this on yourself, Josie. You’ve been rocketing round doing your thing. Other people have their own lives too. Sure, Tang touched Annie’s, but she was going on holiday anyway, and didn’t see any need to change her arrangements. Corbishley and Malins seem to have gone to ground. No one can do more than their best. And how—’ he looked pointedly at the bruises clearly visible now I was wearing a skirt ‘—you managed to clean the rectory when you must have been in real pain, only you and God know.’

‘And He’s not letting on either,’ I confirmed. ‘Andy, why did they want to go to the rectory alone?’

He looked at me as if I were three. ‘It was his home, Josie – personal things, family things…’

‘Did you see any personal or family things? When you were cleaning up? Quite. It was more like a hotel – a very tatty motel, then – than a home.’

‘All the same…’

‘And have they asked to see St Faith and St
Lawrence, which he really loved? Or any of his other churches? Especially the one where he died?’

‘I think you may be reading too much into the situation,’ he said gently. ‘There again,’ and he was on his feet as swiftly as a man half his age, ‘you may not. What if I just drop in on them? Offer to pray with them.’

‘And report back to me?’

‘Would I dare not?’

Any other man I’d have twisted my head so that his kiss landed not lightly on my cheek, but full on my lips. And there’d have been nothing light about it by the time I’d finished. As it was, I made sure my smile was as conspiratorial as his as he turned to leave, his tea only half-drunk.

Though I really should have had a long hard walk, not just the ambulatory equivalent of a cold bath, but a means of keeping the scales on my side, I was lured to the computer, ready to Google their names as fast as my fingers would tap them. Except, of course, I didn’t know their first names. Either of them. Because they weren’t technically paying guests, not staying as customers, I hadn’t made them sign the White Hart register. Big mistake. I’d shove it under their doctored noses the moment they returned.

Meanwhile, the excuse for not taking a walk had dwindled, and, camera as always to hand, I set off in the opposite direction from the rectory. OK, not at my usual speed, nor anything like. But at least I
was moving: I’d keep at it for ten minutes.

I never carried the camera for any special purpose, not unless I was on a jaunt like yesterday’s. Which reminded me: I hadn’t asked Andy for the photos. At least he’d had the sense not to flash them round in front of other people, as if they were holiday snaps. And he would have stowed the sets of copies where I’d asked.

It was nice being able to trust someone.

Touch wood.

‘Health and Safety regulations,’ I said blithely, having a nasty feeling the Drs T H and C M Martin knew I was lying. Did they also know I’d wanted to check them out? ‘If there were a fire I’d need to account for every one.’ Hell, that hadn’t been very tactful. ‘Name and address there. And car reg. too. Just in case. Thanks.’

I’d laid the register on the table in their quarters – a very official-looking one it was too, thanks to Lucy, who’d once had to improvise with a school folder and had subsequently given me this handsome specimen her family’s first Christmas here. All the kids had given me Christmas presents too, which would have reduced me to a quivering pulp of tears, had not turkeys demanded to be basted. But before I disappeared to the kitchen I made sure I saw their faces, as they opened not just the sensible presents of clothes Lucy had suggested but silly extravagances. They’d never be my blood
family, but at least I could pretend to be a favourite aunt.

Since no comment was forthcoming, I asked what time the Martins wanted to dine. Or, when that elicited no immediate response, if they would prefer me to phone ahead to one of Taunton’s excellent brasseries.

‘We’ll let you know, shall we?’ she said dismissively. When I didn’t dismiss, she added, ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Only for you,’ I said, definitely not servile, ‘if they happen to be full.’ But I wouldn’t give even the appearance of soliciting custom, and retreated to my own sanctum.

Where Andy was waiting, kettle poised over a couple of mugs. ‘They were looking through his theological textbooks,’ he reported without preamble. ‘They declined my offer of tea – I’d taken the sort of precaution I associate with you, Josie, of buying supplies at the village shop – and accepted my invitation to go to St Faith and St Lawrence.’ He sounded disappointed.

‘Which they looked at as emotionally as if they were Japanese tourists,’ I suggested.

‘At least they didn’t see it only through the lens of a posh camera! The flower ladies had done a wonderful job: they’d blown up a photo of Tim taken at someone’s christening, framed it in black, and surrounded it with spring flowers. It was in the porch, of course,’ he added, eyes twinkling.

‘Of course,’ I echoed. ‘It being Lent! Did they want to see the other churches in the benefice?’

‘Only St Jude’s. I expected them to fish some flowers out of the boot and add them to that lovely bank of offerings. No. They talked to the constables on guard, but that was all. They were so cold, Josie, so controlled.’

‘I could tip a nice big bowl of rhubarb fool into their laps tonight.’

‘If I know your food it would be a total waste.’

‘It’ll be Pix’s. And a dream. You’ll be able to try it, anyway.’

‘They very clearly didn’t invite me.’ There was a note in his voice I couldn’t identify when he added, ‘So I shall spend an evening in front of the computer trying to draft some sort of order for his service: they don’t want any input.’

‘Spend it in front of mine and I’ll slip you some rhubarb fool.’

‘Maybe I ought to be getting back… I wish you did take-outs, Josie.’

‘For you, Andy, even that can be arranged. Come and check my emergency freezer – so long as you promise to reheat everything thoroughly.’

He nodded absently.

I repeated the instruction. ‘Bacteria, Andy. You need to kill them. Which reminds me, what about our photos?’

‘So clear you could have them blown up and sold as mementoes to the owners. All safe and sound. I
thought – I was afraid you’d skin me alive if I brought them over here without permission.’

‘So I would. Twice. So when am I going to see them? I want to check them against the map, and then on the ground.’

His face fell. I’d used the wrong pronoun, hadn’t I? He wanted it to be ‘we’.

‘So when are you free to come over?’ I asked.

Mouth corners up again. ‘Let’s think… Early communion tomorrow plus a diocese meeting: Bishop Jonathan wants to be apprised of latest developments.’
Apprised
: just the sort of word I’d expect the bishop to employ. ‘But I could be here by one?’

I shook my head. ‘I shall be tied up till two, at the earliest. And I’d have to be back at five at the latest.’

‘We could knock off a couple?’ he pleaded.

Was it enthusiasm for detecting or for something else? ‘Are you better at driving or navigating?’ I asked, by way of agreement.

‘You know, once or twice I navigated on rallies. Only student things. But I can read maps quite well. And your car’s nicer than mine.’ He produced a smile to die for.

It took me about three minutes to establish that it would take more time and patience than I had at my disposal to check all the responses Google and Jeeves and the rest gave to my inquiry. So I’d do
something else. I’d ask the Martins themselves.

When you’re in my line of business, you can flex your people skills to fulfil the needs of the moment. You can do sycophantic, impassive, helpful, surly – it comes not with mother’s milk but with years of training. Tonight I’d do ditzy inquisitive, thickly disguising ruthlessly inquisitorial. It’d help if they were going to eat in, of course – which required other places to be booked out. If I were the one doing the booking, I could more or less guarantee that, either, if I knew the maitre d’, by telling him he was full, wasn’t he, or simply by lying to the Martins.

In fact the weather came to my assistance, so subterfuge wasn’t needed. If the mist rolled in, filling the valleys or topping the hills, whichever its preferred mode of endangering the motorist, then visibility rapidly dropped to zero. It chose to arrive this evening. Unable to see to the end of the village street, I braced myself for a load of cancellations, only two of which materialised as it happens, and looked solemn when the male Dr Martin presented himself at reception and asked for my advice.

‘There’s no telling, I’m afraid. They could still have brilliant sunshine in Taunton. That’s why we get such terrible pile-ups on the M5: people are bundling along minding their own business and suddenly they need radar to see the car in front.’

‘We’d better eat here, then.’ It didn’t sound like a request.

‘Would you prefer seven o’clock or nine?’

He could have had any time between those, had I really wanted to be accommodating. When he hesitated, I added, tapping the page, ‘There is a table free at eight, as it happens, but there’s a big party arriving at the same time, so service might be slow.’ Which, I added, under my breath, wouldn’t matter since they weren’t exactly going anywhere afterwards.