The Chinese Takeout (30 page)

‘Sorry, Josie,’ Claire Lawton said, dabbing the last crumb of cheese from her plate, ‘not if my information is correct. A quick scan of Michael Rousdon’s accounts suggests he owed a huge amount to a Chinese guy in Plymouth, a chef, as it happens, who in turn is trying to finger Nigel Ho. But there seems to be no direct link. Not an obvious one, anyway.’

I shook my head sadly. ‘Nigel it may be. He said someone had approached a chef in his Plymouth restaurant with cheap chicken. He could have been bluffing.’

‘Or he could be telling the simple truth.’ Did I detect the flicker of a blush cross Claire’s cheek? ‘Nigel could charm the ducks off the water, couldn’t he? And I’d never trust a man who oozes honesty and good advice from every pore as he does. But it’ll take more than half a morning for our forensic accountants to nail him.’

‘In the meantime,’ Nick said meaningfully, though whether to me or to Claire it wasn’t clear, ‘a man to be kept at arm’s length.’

There was a tiny pause.

Andy filled it. ‘So Malins is just a miserable bugger who likes sticking his terribly pious nose in other people’s business? The sort of man who gets Christianity a bad name?’

Mark looked taken aback, but Nick gave me a sly wink.

I jumped in. ‘The sort of man who cadges free meals with the bishop and later makes sly remarks about people who cadge even bigger freebies. How did you describe him, Andy? As a Pharisee?’

‘I think “miserable bugger” is accurate enough.’

‘But not evil, like Rousdon and his boss,’ Nick reflected.

Andy, his voice a little less secure, said, ‘Evil indeed. Evil enough for Tang to be driven to kill someone and take to his heels. Evil enough to pursue Tang and kill two young men. May God forgive him.’

‘Rousdon may have to wait till the hereafter for his forgiveness,’ Mark said dryly. ‘I can’t see the English justice system being compassionate.’

‘The words “locking” and “throwing away” seem to fit naturally in the same sentence as “the key”,’ Nick said. ‘And though I never was a cop who advocated long jail sentences as a matter of principle, I don’t want people like him wandering round.’

Mark shook his head. ‘After the disgrace of being found out, he won’t survive long, not if I know Chinese gang leaders.’

‘Where did he bring the slaves in, by the way?’ Andy asked. ‘The ports have got all this clever equipment for checking vehicles, I thought.’

Mark moved slightly so that the sun no longer
shone directly into his eyes. ‘Right on his doorstep. He had a reputation, Josie tells me, for freshly caught local fish and made a point of being seen in his boat pottering in and out of Cockwood at all times of the day and night. Most times he’d be alone; others he’d have company. So there it all is. My colleagues and I will move mountains of paperwork, see if we can finally nail a Mr Big, and move on to the next case.’ He got to his feet. ‘Can I give you a lift, Claire?’

‘No thanks. I’ve got my car parked round the corner, ready for when I’ve sobered up. And I’d have thought you were over the limit, too.’

And just to make absolutely sure everyone was, Nick produced another bottle of bubbly.

‘Hot work, cricket,’ Nick declared, sinking into a deckchair in my private garden, not the pub one, and reaching for the cold beer he still preferred to cider, even though his long-term stomach ulcer was now officially healed. He’d been coaching the Gay kids, all of them, not just the boys, in the hope that Lorna and Dean would make it to the village club’s colts eleven.

I wasn’t sure whether he’d taken it up for love of the game, for love of the kids, or in the hope that it would trim his figure and keep love burning in Claire Lawton’s eyes. Personally I thought the age gap – fifteen years – too wide, but for once I said nothing and let him get on with it, especially as both his children were now regular visitors and always ready to give him grief over his love life.

I sipped my champagne and we lapsed into companionable silence, until he said, ‘Are you expecting any visitors tonight?’

That was his way of asking if Mark or Andy would be round. ‘I should think they’re both
working,’ I said idly, swatting a midge. I appeared to have settled into a sort of friendship with them both.

Bishop Jonathan had found a whole series of vitally important tasks for Andy to do, including liaising with an African bishop – it seemed you could twin sees, like twinning towns. This particular bishop was known for his hard-line views about everything from women priests to gay marriages, and was no doubt expected to stiffen Andy’s moral fibre. Andy did what he was told, each time returning to the White Hart to be cosseted. I made sure I always tempered the extravagant food and drink with a cash donation to one of the underfunded schools in the desperately poor African country. What poor Andy’s conscience made of it all, I never asked.

Mark had been promoted to superintendent in Yeovil, and was working as many hours as I did, more when there was a murder on his patch, although technically he was supposed to be an administrator, not a hands-on cop. When he came for a meal, however, it was always alone, and usually in my flat, where he’d talk through his day as if we were Derby and Joan and always leave at chucking out time.

Before he’d moved to Yeovil, he’d tidied what he always called the St Jude’s case as best he could. The forensic accountants were still beavering away trying to link everything to Nigel Ho. I never asked
how they were getting on, but had never quite got round to renewing my relationship with Nigel, nor had he been in touch with me.

The DNA the forensic scientists had extracted from poor Tang’s clothes had confirmed links with the meat-processing hut: try as we might, we could think of no other term for it. The scientists had also managed to pick up traces on Tang’s clothes that matched DNA from a missing worker’s clothes. The interpreters – nothing to do with Nigel Ho! – discovered that Tang had indeed broken free of his fetters, strangled the overseer and shoved him into the industrial mincer. Naturally Andy had not dwelt on this fact when he’d taken the memorial service to the lads, the bishop in attendance, at St Faith and St Lawrence. The choir had done us proud, an old friend of Tim’s now an organist at a Midlands cathedral had played and every last one of the villagers had turned out, both the shop and the pub being closed for the event. I’d offered to provide the wake, but the village hall committee would have none of it. It was village tradition that every family coming would provide enough food and drink to share. I could underpin the offerings if I wished.

I did. As unobtrusively as I knew how. As I would the church fund.

Somehow I’d been coopted on to a committee to decide the future of poor St Jude’s. Building inspections had shown the fabric to be irretrievably
damaged. I was all for pulling the place down – the altar removed to another church! – and leaving a simple cairn to record what had happened. The insurance money would pay for a parish minibus, which could ferry any parishioners without transport to another church in the benefice, probably St Faith and St Lawrence. The remaining money could rescue St Peter’s in the Combe.

Not everyone saw it that way. Not by any means. But for once I had the bishop’s support, and I suspected that after a summer of haggling at many meetings, to many of which I had sent my apologies, Corbishley and Malins would accede to the will of the majority. I almost found it in me to be sorry for Corbishley, given all the circumstances of his life: imagine having been locked in furious dispute with a young man you only discovered after his hideous death was your son. I tried, anyway.

‘Have you thought any more about opening another restaurant?’ Nick asked, dragging me back to the present.

‘I’m torn,’ I admitted. ‘Without a pub or a church, there’s no heart in a village. But the sort of place I’d want to run would hardly cater for locals and would bring a whole lot of disruption to the place. When the St Jude’s business dies down, Robin, Pix and I will discuss it all with the villagers.’

‘Is that what Tony would have done?’

Nick was the only person to mention Tony in that way; I could never tell if he was serious or mocking me.

‘He’d have done exactly what he wanted and ridden rough-shod over those who were unwise enough to object.’

He nodded, not needing to point out I was moving on. ‘The lads are committed for another year?’

‘Maybe longer now they’ve got girlfriends in the village. And they’re both starting courses at Exeter Uni in October. They’ll only be able to work for me part-time, but even that will help with their fees.’ And of course, they wouldn’t have to worry about paying for their accommodation, though I didn’t tell anyone that. To supplement the staff I was taking on a couple of young women with their baby: what had been temporarily the Martins’ quarters would house a proper family.

‘You won’t get bored, will you?’

‘Not with the christening coming up!’

There was no need to be unobtrusive for the forthcoming christening of Violet and Tom, Abigail and Dan’s twins, at which Andy would be officiating. I would even breach my free Sunday evening rule so they and their family and friends could hold the post-ceremony party at the White Hart. It wouldn’t be just me and the lads cooking: all the people who still kept the farm shop and tearoom afloat wanted to support the babies in
whom they took the proprietorial interest of
quasi-grandparents
.

‘Have you made up your mind about being one of Violet’s godmothers?’ he asked. He’d agreed to sponsor Tom.

‘Well, there’s a snag, of course. Only baptised and confirmed members of the church can be godparents.’

‘Oh, I’m sure the rules are broken all the time! Think of all those
Hello!
christenings.’

‘Sure. But a dean could hardly condone it, could he?’

‘Surely there’s a way round it? You know nothing would give Andy greater pleasure than to baptise you.’

‘It’s the thought of Bishop Jonathan’s greasy hands on my head to confirm me afterwards that puts me off.’ It was also the thought of what I was committing myself to. Not the godmotherly duties: everyone knew I’d make sure little Violet never shrank, official godmother or just friend. It was Andy himself.

‘Come on – there are worse things than a pair of bishop’s hands, aren’t there, even if they are greasy?’ Nick pursued.

But he didn’t wait for an answer. He heard the footsteps approaching the gate, took one look at my face and knew when to make himself scarce.

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Prize-winning short-story writer J
UDITH
C
UTLER
is the author of nearly thirty novels, including the successful crime series featuring Fran Harman, police woman extraordinaire. Judith has taught Creative Writing at Birmingham University, and has run writing courses elsewhere, including a maximum-security prison and an idyllic Greek island. She now lives in the Cotswolds with her husband, fellow author Edward Marston.

www.judithcutler.com

The Chief Superintendent Fran Harman series

Life Sentence

Cold Pursuit

Still Waters

The Josie Welford series

The Food Detective

The Chinese Takeout

The Tobias Campion series

The Keeper of Secrets

Shadow of the Past

Scar Tissue

Drawing the Line