The Chinese Takeout (23 page)

He nodded, as if that wasn’t quite the response he’d hoped for. ‘He’s got quite an empire, hasn’t he?’

‘You know these Chinese businessmen,’ I said. ‘At least, the stereotype! Incredibly hardworking, driving others hard – and being, above all, totally inscrutable.’

‘Is he any of those things?’ He sat down again.

‘He’s a very suave restaurateur – that’s all I know. And he was concerned enough to contact me from New York in an effort to help Tang.’ I tossed a metal coin, which came down on the side of being frank with Burford. ‘One email I didn’t give you was one from him. I was waiting for permission to: he’s that sort of person.’

‘Dominant? Controlling? I wouldn’t have thought either of those qualities would wash with you, Mrs Welford.’

Head on one side, I reflected. ‘No, neither would I. Tell you what, I’ll forward it to you if you give me your email address.’ I was half-tempted to reward his percipience by an invitation to lunch, but decided I had too much work to do. However, just as I was showing him out, I decided that there was one more name I might give him: Michael Rousdon’s. Just in case. There were chicken connections, after all.

Burford’s eyes asked uncomfortably clearly whether there’d been other connections – and I didn’t think he meant the samphire one.

As he drove away I realised it was time I checked on Nick. I couldn’t believe there was anything seriously wrong, but you never knew. He was a mate, after all, and the least I could do was express decent interest.

His voice told me: he had a stinking cold. ‘Just
dripping. Couldn’t drive for sneezing,’ he said, demonstrating.

‘You just look after yourself,’ I said, assuring him that everything was fine, even though he hadn’t actually got round to asking.

For the next twenty-six hours all I had time for was work: we were fully booked for dinner on Saturday and for Sunday lunch, and already people were pouring into the place for a Saturday lunchtime snack before going on their walks. I didn’t even have time to envy them.

Sunday lunch over, half of me wanted a snooze. However, a quick cup of green tea convinced me I could stick to my resolve to walk to St Peter’s in the Combe for Evensong. It was only about seven miles, after all. Andy could give me a lift home, in return, perhaps, for a cold supper. I could stow gear more appropriate for church in my lightweight rucksack – probably an extra-heavy fleece, given the obvious lack of central heating.

Although I made no claim to be as good a navigator as Andy, I could read maps well enough – and better than most, given the amount of walking I’d packed in since I’d discovered exercise as an essential adjunct to my diet. At first I’d panicked, because the weight not only remained stationary, it actually went up. But then I read about the difference in weight between muscle and fat and got on with it. At first it was deeply unpleasant, my
inner-thighs chafing as I strode. I even needed a sports bra. Giving up, however, wasn’t an option. Joints creaked, muscles screamed, and lungs announced flatly that up that hill they would not go. And I ignored the lot. Thank goodness, all that pain was in the past now, and I swore a good walk was better than sex. Well, better than bad sex. It was so long since I had any of the other sort I could hardly judge. Purely in the interests of research, I wouldn’t have minded experimenting. Until I’d heard Corbishley’s comments, of course.

There were two alternative routes to St Peter’s. One was longer, but flatter; the other was markedly shorter, but had several steep gradients. I flipped a coin. The latter, then. So a stout walking stick was called for, and boots, rather than shoes. The plastic map cover; fleece; cagoule. Drat! What about the camera? I ran back upstairs for it. And realised I’d chosen the wrong route. If I followed the other, I passed reasonably close to one of the sites Andy had circled.

It wouldn’t do any harm just to walk past, would it?

So why would a scrapyard pong? Cars and broken washing machines might be an affront to the eye, but they shouldn’t smell like the worst butcher’s you’ve ever passed. I drifted closer. Yes, definitely something rotten in the place. Flies, too. And a couple of white vans, anonymous, by the look of
them. Everything to attract a perambulating Miss Marple.

But I had given a tacit promise not to take risks, and with the destination I was heading for I felt uneasy about breaking it.

I hadn’t promised not to take photos, though. And, with the lens that Andy so derided, I could do it from a safe distance.

Or could I? That strolling figure, dressed like me, with an innocent dog on a retractable lead – he was just a walker, wasn’t he? He was certainly heading purposefully towards me. But instead of the neutral smile most walkers exchange, he offered me a penetrating scowl. Getting no response, he slowed to a halt. I was clearly being seen off. Ostentatiously, I reached for my map, as if all I’d been doing was getting my bearings. The camera stayed put. But since I had six inches of serious optical equipment sticking out from my chest, I had to look very lost indeed to look convincing. Thank goodness there was a path about three hundred metres back. To retrace my steps to it meant passing the hound of the Baskervilles, but I spread my hands helplessly.

‘I should have turned west up there. Your dog’s all right with strangers, is he?’

The man gave a curt nod at variance with the rumble coming from deep in the Alsatian’s chest. ‘Just keep walking with your eyes down. You should be all right.’

It took me all my will power not to break into a run once I was past it. All. Dogs can smell fear, can’t they? This one certainly had plenty to sniff. But I did as I’d been told, head down, eyes averted, and I made it. Then the bugger let out some of the slack in the lead. The dog’s jaws snapped perhaps an inch from my heels. And again. And again.

At last he judged I’d gone far enough, and I was left alone. Half way up a hill I didn’t know, with a footpath little more than a sheep track to follow, and evensong in less than an hour.

Well, I told myself with a brightness belied by my shaking and sweating hands, weak knees and pounding heart, if God wanted me there, He’d get me there.

The St Peter’s congregation were well into the first hymn before my pulse settled to anything approaching a normal pace. My route had taken me nearly a mile out of my way, and what should have been a pleasant stroll down into the hamlet had degenerated into an ungainly scramble. I always walked very fast, but running used a different set of muscles altogether, ones that would far rather have remained dormant. Scarlet in the face, chest heaving asthmatically, I’d managed to collapse into the back pew just as the hand-pumped organ wheezed into action. It and me both, eh? The light was so dim I might just have escaped Andy’s scrutiny, especially as his mind was on more important things.

Eventually I could look at the rest of the congregation – the backs of their heads, at least. There must have been about thirty, mostly elderly people but a couple or so in their twenties, plus a choir led by a really good tenor, who didn’t quite make up for the others’ deficiencies: decidedly evensong had been a poor choice of service.
Something with only the spoken word would have been kinder all round. It even threw up Andy’s only perceptible fault so far – he led the responses with a very uncertain baritone, his pitch wandering round all over the place. I’d never been any good with sung psalms, not knowing when to go up or down or what, so I just mouthed hopefully.

The sermon was short. One of the readings had been from Corinthians, Paul telling us not to be childish: it was good to be as innocent as babes, but essential to be grown-up in our thinking. Andy soberly developed the idea, drawing, he freely admitted, on a piece on choices from the previous day’s
Guardian
. It had me metaphorically punching the air in agreement in a way poor Tim’s had never managed. Of course, the comparison was unfair, as if our local soccer team were judged against Chelsea’s standards. It would be good to talk about the points he’d raised over supper.

I joined the rest of the congregation trailing out for the formal handshake with him to end the service. Perhaps his eyes didn’t light up because I hadn’t had time to spruce myself up properly? No, it was more as if something had been switched off. He’d definitely dropped them in something horribly like embarrassment.

Although I was alarmed and puzzled, I could hardly ask there and then what the problem was. Instead I asked, polite as if we were no more than priest and parishioner, ‘I wonder if you’d be kind
enough to give me a lift back to Kings Duncombe?’

He checked his watch with a very strange expression. ‘I suppose…is there a problem with your car?’

‘Not that I know of. I walked, that’s all.’ As a quick glance at me would have confirmed.

Another glance at his watch. ‘OK. I’ll finish up here in – what? Five minutes? Don’t keep me waiting, please.’

When someone speaks to me like that my immediate response would normally be to tell them to cancel the request. Perhaps not in those terms. But my limbs informed me that walking back to the White Hart was a pretty poor option. In any case, the road route was far longer than the cross-country one. It was already dark, and the countryside doesn’t go in for streetlights. The torch in my rucksack was an emergency affair, and might not hold out for a solid two hours’ walking. As for simply retracing my steps, that wasn’t an option. There was too much of the city-dweller in me ever to be happy in the open on my own after dark. I saw rapists behind every tree. Not to mention that slavering dog…

‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you out,’ I snapped.

Members of the congregation were noticeably warmer. They saw me only as a lone walker, a woman without history, hoping I’d pass this way again to enjoy their lovely church.

‘Not that we usually get a sermon like that – what an honour, to have the rural dean addressing us. Such
a lovely man. Such a tragedy the way he lost his wife. They say they were devoted – that’s why he moved down here, to get away from sad memories…’

I nodded, expressed decent interest and gratitude for their kindness, and set off towards Kings Duncombe without a backward glance. Eight miles wasn’t far. It was a wonderful starlit night, and if someone didn’t wish to favour me with his company I wouldn’t impose it on him.

A blaze of light announced the approach of a large vehicle from behind me, so I pressed myself into the bank, nuzzling the spring flowers and being embraced by brambles. It was a good job there was so much less of me than there used be, or there might not have been room for the two of us, especially as the other one was a Mercedes van, the sort that tailgates you apparently by instinct. It passed with inches to spare: the driver might not even have registered my presence had not the door mirror caught me a glancing blow on the rucksack. Better the rucksack than me, at least.

The driver of the next certainly did. This time it was a car that came up beside me, the driver yelling furiously through the half-open window, ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘What does it look like? Walking home.’

‘I said I’d give you a lift.’

‘You were ashamed of me. Either of my gear or
me myself. That’s why I chose to walk.’

‘Just get in.’

‘No thanks.’

‘You – for goodness’ sake, I’m blocking the road here.’

‘And there must be fifty cars stacked up behind you,’ I agreed affably.

‘Just get in. Please. I have an – a – there’s something I have – I —’

Through his gibberish, I picked up the sound of another van. ‘OK. Just as far as the next crossroads. Then you can drop me, turn right and head for home.’

True to form, the van – another big white one – virtually pushed us for the next two miles. Had there been any proper passing places, Andy could have pulled over – would have, I’m sure. But there was simply no room, even if he’d pulled right into the banks, towering ten feet high along here. Perhaps he didn’t speak because he was concentrating on his driving. Perhaps I didn’t because I didn’t want to disturb him.

The crossroads at last. Andy signalled right, and the van sped past us towards my village.

‘You can pull in over there. Carry straight on for about five hundred yards, then turn left and immediately right. Someone’s removed the fingerposts. Just there, please.’

And he did! No arguments about not letting me walk. He stopped: just like that.

‘Thanks.’ I released the seatbelt and opened the door.

The interior light showed him shaking his head, as if to clear cobwebs. Perhaps the sharp click of the door helped – no, I very definitely did not slam it.

He wasn’t a good enough driver to go sharply into reverse. He got out slowly, and stood helplessly in the road – I presume, because although I heard his door slam, I didn’t turn round, but kept walking. By this time I wasn’t sure what was happening in either of our heads. I was being foolish in the extreme, a middle-aged woman walking with a dodgy torch through lanes so deep even the growing moonlight couldn’t penetrate. As for him, I presume he really did have some appointment he’d forgotten to tell me about, but there was no doubting something had happened to dent our friendship. Maybe St Paul had intervened, the old misogynist. All that stuff about marriage and fornication and burning.

At last I heard running feet and turned: there was no point in inflicting a heart attack on him.

‘Please – just get in the car and let me run you safely home. I’m sorry if I gave—’

I obeyed. ‘Just drive. Then you can go wherever you have to. OK? So carry on down here, turn left, and instead of turning immediate right, keep going up the hill.’

He drove in silence. I didn’t speak except to give further instructions. What a pair of fools.

Scones are satisfactorily sticky, but there’s nothing like making bread to vent emotions you’d rather not have. Pummelling and pulling are wonderful therapy, plus good exercise for the poor old neglected triceps. When this was all over I might just enrol in a gym.

So what was the
this
I wanted to be over? The damned murder investigation, so we could literally lay Tim and Tang to rest? Or my stupid, stupid entanglement with Andy? How crazy could I be, to be falling in love with a priest, for God’s sake? Wrong expletive, Josie. I managed a dry laugh. The driest thing I’d done for about nine hours, come to think of it. That was why I never cried, of course: now I’d started I didn’t know how to stop. The prospect of the lads seeing me was the best cure. Sympathy, kind questions, or, worse, tactful avoidance of tricky areas were not about to appear on the menu.

There! Bread proving and scones ready to be fished out of the oven. They’d better be up to Pix’s standards. And I could walk them down to the Tromans’ farm, just to blow away the last of the self-pity.

Dan was busy in the yards, calling his baying security guards to heel and quickly muzzling them, an encouraging sight should I ever want to pay a chance visit.

‘Early bird, aren’t you?’ he greeted me.

‘Early to bed, early to rise
…’ I said, offhand. No
point in saying I’d not actually got between the sheets. ‘How’s Abby?’

‘Still lying round in bed all day like a beached whale. Looks fine, mind you. Anyway, those friends of yours are seeing me all right: casseroles here, cold joints there. And that little tea shop’s not doing so bad, either.’ He seemed to be having difficulty framing the word
thanks
.

So I smiled helpfully.

‘This chicken business. I do recall something, Josie – can’t think why it slipped my mind.’

I wouldn’t ever have placed any bets on the adhesive qualities of that organ. True, he was a genius with animals. But – no, perhaps genius in one area was all you could ask. I don’t suppose Einstein would have been too good in the lambing shed.

‘Anyway, this bloke with the chicken. The one at market. He drove one of those great white van things.’

What a surprise.

‘And the funny thing is, though he didn’t have any writing on the side, his number-plate made a word. You know how they muck around with the letters and that. Anyways, his said FOWL, or something like it. How about that?’

‘Dan, that’s brilliant. Wonderful. I could kiss you.’

He went a cheery rose pink under his all-weather tan. ‘What, you
and
them ladies of yours?’

I thought it time to make a tactical withdrawal, but he was scratching his chin again. ‘This wild garlic stuff. I’m running a bit low. What do you think about fat hen?’

Wasn’t it that beer with the fox adverts? ‘What should I think?’

‘Well, I got plenty of that. It’d be a shame not to see if you could cook it, like.’

It would indeed. Funnily enough, a price was not mentioned.

It was a good job the bread was ready for the oven when I got back or I might simply have allowed myself to go to bed. As it was, I had a wonderful time: I hadn’t come top of my bread-making classes for nothing. Much might have to be frozen: after the brilliant dawn and early morning, mist was now rolling purposefully in, as if literally to dampen our spirits.

So I would make soup as the lunch special. My college tutor always reckoned I could have made soup from gravel chippings. This time I didn’t have to raid the car park, but I did use what I happened to have handy, and a damned good Italian peasant soup I made too: unfortunately ribollita is thickened with bread so my coeliac customers would have to give it a miss. So I turned to and produced curried parsnip and apple, just for them.

‘So who’s got up your nose?’ Robin demanded, coming down for the morning meeting half an hour
later. ‘Come on, Josie, you never clean out cupboards unless you’re furious.’

‘Just a hangover from being ripped off by the good doctors Martin last week,’ I said. ‘That new policeman thinks he needs to talk to them, and I was hoping to have them back here and charge them appropriately.’

‘By which you mean enough for last week as well?’

‘I do indeed. But alas, the police Mohammed has gone to the Martin mountain, so I shan’t get the chance.’

‘And what really pees you off is that you can’t go too and have a good poke round their house. I know you, gaffer: don’t try to deny it.’

I didn’t. Instead I reached out the best bacon, patted one of my new loaves, and suggested a breakfast meeting.

At least my lads… I nearly used the L word! But they were like sons to me, and their very joshing and mockery were balm to my heart.

A new email from a contact saying she’d had some chicken that tasted vaguely perfumed prompted me to phone Burford; I’d also give him Dan’s information about the van. The underling I reached – and I knew that now an MIT was involved there would be many beavering away – was not impressed, so I suggested in my frostiest voice that since his boss had thought my inside knowledge
important enough to glean in person he ought to make sure it was properly logged.

There was a muttering the far end: he’d obviously half covered the phone to make a quip to a mate. All I managed to pick up was, ‘That bird that Burford’s got the hots for.’ Or rather more vulgar words to that effect.

I managed not to laugh out loud till I’d ended the call. In vain did I remind myself that Burford had a funny way of showing his interest, and that I didn’t fancy him anyway – my ego was suddenly as plump as a goose-down pillow. Why not settle for a sociable shag?

Because. Nothing more. Just because. In weather like this, the clouds swirling great gusts of rain across the windows, there was no way I’d finish that sentence.

It was my turn to do the basic weekly shop – the staples, as opposed to fresh produce. When I changed for the errand I noticed for the first time the bruises on my back and round my shoulder. For a moment I’d no idea how they’d got there. Then it dawned that the white van’s mirror must be the culprit. It would give me a great deal of pleasure to know that I’d broken it. And what if – very big if – what if the white van were the white van Dan had mentioned? It wasn’t so very long a walk, not compared with the other route marches I’d recently undertaken: I could do it after lunch.

Once the shopping was done, it was time to return the hire car and get a substitute. The one they offered was a Focus, just the same as all the other Focuses (or should it be Foci?) on the road. I signed on the dotted line. Yes, limited business use, no racing, no rallying – you know the system.