Shades of Murder (30 page)

She gazed at them with a return of her uncertain manner. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but I really can’t see why they sent you all the way from London.’

‘Ours not to question why,’ said Minchin in tones which were a little too placatory.

Damaris gave him a quelling look. ‘Quite. Though I for one certainly hope there won’t be any more dying.’

The two London men look at her, startled. ‘You expect another death?’ Minchin asked.

‘No, of course I don’t. I didn’t expect the first one. One doesn’t,’ said Damaris with asperity. ‘I was referring to the verse you quoted. It is, of course, “theirs” not “ours”, as you probably know.
Theirs not to question why, Theirs but to do or die
. The Charge of the Light Brigade. My father was very fond of quoting Tennyson.’ She paused and reflected. ‘Now I see things in that poem I never saw when I read it as a girl. Someone should have asked why, shouldn’t he? Doing and dying doesn’t help anyone. We shall look forward to seeing you again, Superintendent.’

She departed.

‘Is she bonkers or what?’ asked Hayes.

‘No . . .’ An appreciative smile spread over Minchin’s face. ‘She’s a canny old bird.’

‘Think she’d murder someone?’

‘What? Oh yes,’ said Minchin. ‘If she decided on it, she’d do it. She might even see it as her duty, if he was a threat. That generation is very keen on duty. Well, let’s get back to that pub we passed on the way here and see if we’re not too late to get something to eat.’

They drew into the car park of The Feathers a few minutes later and climbed out of the car to subject the pub to the kind of scrutiny they’d given Fourways.

‘Quite a nice old place,’ said Hayes approvingly. ‘Say what you like about the country, they’ve got some decent pubs.’

They approached the building. As the day was warm, some drinkers had established themselves outside at trestle tables. They appeared to be members of a ramblers’ club, judging by their stout boots. Minchin and Hayes threaded their way through them to reach the door and stepped inside.

As if possessed of extra-sensory perception, Dolores Forbes materialised immediately in front of them, arms folded.

‘More cops,’ she said belligerently. ‘As if I haven’t had enough of answering questions. At least the other bloke came before we opened. What do you two want?’

‘Just a spot of lunch, darling,’ replied Minchin, taking this reception in his stride.

Dolores mellowed and unfolded her arms, giving them a better view of her magnificent bosom. ‘That’s all right, then. Why don’t you go over there in the corner, give yourselves a bit of privacy? I’ll fetch a menu. The special today is chilli con carne.’

‘No bangers and mash?’ asked Hayes wistfully.

‘Course I can do you bangers and mash!’ Dolores told him. ‘Darren!’

Their attention was directed to the subdued individual behind the bar.

‘Give these gents a drink on the house!’

At this Darren looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. He blinked nervously, ‘Yes, Dolores.’

Dolores smiled benignly on Minchin. ‘Be with you in a jiff.’

‘She’s a bit of all right,’ commented Hayes as they settled themselves in the corner as directed, having been served with a couple of pints by Darren, who still looked in a state of shock.

‘Chatty type,’ said Minchin. ‘Let’s see what she’s got to say about that house.’ He jerked his head in the general direction of Fourways.

Their food arrived promptly and they set about it. First things first. Only when they’d eaten, and declined lemon meringue pudding, did Minchin turn to official matters. He betook himself to the bar where
Dolores now presided. Darren had been demoted to some kitchen duty.

‘Lovely grub,’ said Minchin. ‘We’ll have another couple of pints. Have one yourself, whatever you drink.’

‘Thanks,’ said Dolores. ‘I’ll have a rum and Coke. Sure you won’t have the lemon meringue? I made it myself.’

‘I’m tempted, believe me,’ lied Minchin with impressive sincerity. ‘But I’ve got to watch the old figure.’ He patted his stomach.

‘Go on,’ said Dolores, ‘fine-looking bloke like you? You don’t have to worry. I like a man with a bit of meat on his bones myself.’

Perhaps unfortunately Darren chose that moment to reappear in all his weediness. ‘Dolores? The bakery’s on the phone about those baguettes you sent back.’

‘Well, deal with it, Darren!’ she ordered tetchily, and he scurried away.

‘My former husband,’ continued Dolores to Minchin, ‘was a big bloke. He used to work out at the gym. We didn’t last long as a married couple, me and Charlie. He was a Londoner. I always say Londoners have got style. Not like this lot,’ she concluded resentfully as one of the ramblers ventured to approach the bar.

Whilst the rambler was being served with a round of shandies, Minchin glanced up at the plate screwed to the oak lintel above the bar. It stated the name of the licensee of this establishment to be Dolores Bernadette Forbes. The only Charlie Forbes he knew of had been a bank-robber and was currently serving time in Wormwood Scrubs.

‘Right,’ he said, sipping his pint and exchanging a look with Hayes who was still at the corner table and had lit up. He was already surrounded by a haze of blue smoke.

Dolores had returned. ‘You want to know about him, don’t you, the bloke who was poisoned? He wasn’t poisoned here, you know!’ Her normal combative manner returned.

‘Course not,’ said Minchin easily and Dolores relaxed. ‘He ate here, did he?’

‘Every evening, cheapest thing on the menu. He didn’t pay for it. The old girls were picking up the bill. He was a real sponger. I couldn’t stand him. I know the type, see. Pity he got himself murdered, of course. Still, he probably asked for it.’

‘Yeah, well . . .’ mumbled Minchin.

Dolores, in full flow now, leaned on the bar with the result that Minchin now found himself staring down her cleavage. He closed his eyes briefly.

‘The other copper who was here asked whether I’d seen that Oakley talking to anyone. I told him I hadn’t. Well, only Superintendent Markby
and his ladyfriend. But after he’d left, I remembered.’

Minchin froze with his pint halfway to his mouth. ‘Yes?’

‘See, the other copper asked if I’d seen Oakley talking to anyone in the pub, here.’ Dolores indicated their surroundings. ‘That’s what put me off. Because it wasn’t inside the pub, it was outside, in the car park. It was on the Thursday evening. I remember because that was the first evening this year it had been hot enough for us to have much trade outside at the tables. So I was nipping back and forth in and out of the pub and that’s how I saw him. I thought he’d left, Oakley, and I was surprised to see him in the car park out there, talking to a bloke who’d got out of a car. Now I knew that feller – it was Dudley Newman. He’s a builder, got a lot of money and a big house. Anyway, Newman hadn’t been in the pub or I’d have noticed. So I watched and after a bit of chit-chat, Oakley went on his way but Newman, he got back in his car and drove off. So,’ said Dolores triumphantly, ‘that means he hadn’t come out here to have a drink. He’d come out here to see that Oakley, right? And what could they have to talk about? Monkey business, if you ask me.’

‘Very likely, Dolores, and thanks,’ Minchin raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’

Dave Pearce, meanwhile, was locked in eye-contact with an Alsatian. Since Sergeant Steve Prescott had told him the newcomers had left for Fourways, he’d decided to spend his time checking out Kenny Joss. He’d made his way to Kenny’s home and been directed to the garage. It was a large affair, easily housing two vehicles, and apparently fitted out as a workshop as well. A sign above the door read
K. Joss. Taxi Service
. A telephone number followed. Sounds of work, the scrape of metal against metal, a low tuneless whistling, indicated Kenny was inside. But between them stood the Alsatian.

It was the long-haired sort, dark brown with bright eyes. Its mouth, half-open to pant in the hot sunshine, displayed the tips of a sharp set of teeth. Dave moved a step forward. The Alsatian barked.

‘All right,’ said Dave to it. ‘Have it your own way.’ He raised his voice. ‘Mr Joss?’

The sound of tinkering ceased. Kenny Joss put his head through the doorway. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Don’t mind the dog. He’s just a big softie.’

‘I’d appreciate it,’ said Pearce, ‘if you’d move him out of the way, all the same. Police,’ he added.

‘I know you’re the police,’ said Kenny. ‘Here, Bruce, go and sit down, go on.’

Bruce wagged his tail and strolled to the corner of the garage where a
dirty scrap of blanket had been spread on the ground. He subsided on to it and put his nose on his paws, keeping his bright gaze fixed on Pearce.

‘What do you want, then?’ asked Kenny, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.

‘It’s in connection with our investigations into the death of Jan Oakley,’ Pearce began and was interrupted.

‘I don’t know nothing about that.’

‘You visited the house on the day he died,’ countered Pearce.

‘So what if I did? It was business, not what I’d call a visit. I took the two old women shopping. I take them every Saturday. Took ’em, brought ’em back. End of story. What’s more, I’ve already told one of your blokes this. He wanted to know what time I’d arrived and what time I got back. I told him. He wrote it down.’

Pearce had dealt with members of the Joss clan before and their invariable reaction to any hint of impropriety was instant and blanket denial. He therefore took no notice of any of Kenny’s protestations.

‘Did you go in the house?’

‘Not when I called for them, no, I didn’t. I had a word with Ron in the garden and then I went round to the kitchen door because that’s usually open. I stuck my head through and whistled.’

‘Whistled?’ Pearce looked startled.

‘Just to attract attention, you know. Then I called out, “Anyone at home? Taxi’s here,” or words to that effect. They know me. I rag them a bit. They don’t mind. They’re nice old girls.’

‘What happened next?’ Pearce doubted the Oakleys appreciated being whistled up like a sheepdog.

‘Nothing happened next,’ said Kenny irritably. ‘They came into the kitchen. They were all ready to leave, dressed up, both got funny hats on. They followed me to the taxi and I drove them into town. I arranged what time to pick them up and where. It was the usual place, outside The Crown. That’s it.’

Pearce frowned. ‘Did you see if they locked the kitchen door when they left? It’s got an old-fashioned lock as I remember.’

‘Couldn’t say. They were behind me. I doubt it. They weren’t ones for locking up. Used to being there on their own. I used to tell them to be more careful.’

‘Did you see Jan Oakley?’

Kenny hesitated. ‘No, not when I picked them up.’

‘You saw him later?’

A certain unease had entered Kenny’s manner and Pearce didn’t miss
it. ‘When you returned to the house, was he there?’

‘Yeah, he was there,’ admitted Kenny. ‘I didn’t speak to him. I just sort of glimpsed him.’

‘Where?’

‘Going out the door.’

‘Which door?’

‘The kitchen door.’

Pearce felt his head begin to swim. ‘Let’s start this again,’ he said. ‘Talk me through what you did when you brought the Oakleys home.’

Kenny cleared his throat. The Alsatian pricked its ears and transferred its scrutiny from Pearce to its master. Yes, thought Pearce, something’s worrying our Kenny and both the dog and I know it!

‘I drove up to the house,’ Kenny began carefully, ‘and I parked out front by that fountain thing. It hasn’t got any water in it but I suppose it’s a fountain. You know it?’ Pearce nodded and Kenny went on, ‘I always park there. I helped them out of the car. They went ahead of me indoors—’

‘Through the kitchen door again?’

Kenny shook his head. ‘No, they opened up the front door and went in that way. But I used the kitchen door.’

‘You went in?’

‘Of course I went in.’ Kenny sounded more annoyed than defensive. ‘I always carry their bags in. They’re old folk. Anyway, it’s all part of the service. People expect a bit of help from a taxi-driver.’

And the tax-driver expects a tip, thought Pearce, but only said, ‘Go on, then.’

‘Right. I got their bags out of the boot and took them round to the kitchen. I put a couple of perishables in the fridge for them and left the rest on the table.’

‘And you saw Jan Oakley. Was he in the kitchen?’

The dog pricked its ears again. Peace mentally thanked it. It was better than a lie detector was that dog, and doing its master no favours at all.

‘He came out the kitchen door as I went in,’ said Kenny. ‘He just brushed past me. I said hello and he said something similar. That was it. We didn’t what you’d call speak, and that’s the truth.’

That wasn’t quite it. There was something wrong here but Pearce couldn’t work out what it was. He asked, ‘What about the two women? Did you see them again? For them to pay you?’

‘They’ve got an account,’ said Kenny. ‘I tot it up and they pay me once a month. They’re regulars of mine.’

‘So you just went off and didn’t see them again?’

The dog whined softly in its throat. ‘I saw them to say goodbye,’ Kenny said. ‘They were in the hallway, I went through there and just said I’d see them the next week. Then I left.’

‘Thank you, Mr Joss,’ said Pearce. Kenny looked relieved but his relief was shortlived. ‘No doubt we’ll be in touch again,’ Pearce added.

‘Feel free,’ said Kenny, plainly disgruntled. He turned to stride back into his garage but at the entrance paused and looked back. ‘Here!’ he called out.

Pearce, about to get in his car, looked up.

‘Instead of bothering me,’ Kenny called, ‘why don’t you go bothering Dudley Newman?’

‘Newman, the builder?’ Newman was a well-known local figure but this was the first time Pearce had heard his name mentioned in connection with the case. He was curious. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘How should I know? But I saw that Jan bloke in town one lunchtime, chatting to Newman in a pub. It wasn’t The Crown, it was, let’s see . . .’ Kenny frowned, ‘I think it was The George. Don’t ask me exactly which day it was though I fancy it was the Friday.’ He nodded to Pearce and disappeared inside the garage.