'Meaning what?' Micky demanded belligerently.
'My God, can't you two stop bickering for once? Have some respect for the dead,' Tamar shouted. Her shameless hypocrisy left me gasping, but no one else seemed to notice. Micky mumbled an apology and walked over to the window to watch the rain falling.
'You on the payroll, then?' Neil asked me sotto voce. I nodded. He smiled conspiratorially. 'Glad I'm not the only one making a shilling out of Moira's death.'
I'd only been there an hour and already I was heartily sick of the lot of them. Some jobs should come stamped with a government health warning. Something like: 'You lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.'
I decided it was time to start asking questions. But in the great tradition of the best-laid plans, I was thwarted by the arrival of Inspector Jackson and his merry men. Jackson marched in as if he'd taken a long lease on the place. He'd found time for a fresh suit and shirt, though the tie was the same. Maybe it held some Masonic significance I didn't recognise. Hot on his heels was an older man, who moved to Jackson's side and announced, 'Good day, ladies and gentlemen. I am Detective Superintendent Ron Arbuthnot and I will be in overall charge of this inquiry. I know some of you have given my officers initial statements, but we will be requiring you for further interviews in the course of the day. Please arrange to keep yourselves available.' The Royal Command having been delivered, Arbuthnot wheeled his tubby body round past Jackson and left us.
As soon as he'd gone, Jackson turned on me. 'Have you got some kind of death wish, Brannigan?' he hissed as he took me by the arm and led me to the door. 'I've already thrown you out of here once. Is business so bad you've got to come touting?'
'I was invited here,' I told him through clenched teeth. 'Get your hands off me. Now.'
He reluctantly let me go, then opened the door and tried to usher me through it. I stood my ground. Jett called, 'You OK, Kate? The lady's a friend, Inspector. I want her here.'
Jackson turned to Jett and flashed an insincere smile. 'I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr Franklin. We have some questions for Miss Brannigan, and after that, we'll be needing to talk to you again. Perhaps it would be better if she came back tomorrow.'
Jett glared at Jackson. I wasn't sure if that was on my account or because Jackson had used his real name. Jett doesn't like to be reminded of its patriotic overtones. Let's face it, which of us outside the Tory Cabinet would like to be saddled with Winston Gladstone Franklin?
'It's OK, Jett,' I said reassuringly. 'I'll come back tomorrow morning, OK?' There were things I wanted to do, and none of this lot were going anywhere. They would keep. Maggie Rossiter might not be so keen to talk if I waited till she'd got her emotions under control.
16
I was in the Colcutt Arms by half-past twelve. It turned out that the only questions Jackson had for me related to what I was doing back at the manor and what I'd done for Jett in the past, nudge nudge, wink wink. I didn't like his innuendoes, and suspected he was trying to needle me into an admission of some sort. Obviously, he'd got no more change out of Bill than he had out of me. At least he wasn't challenging my version of the discovery of the body yet. It wasn't just relief that drove me to the local pub. I was after information. I spotted the members of Her Majesty's Gutter Press in the lounge bar, and gave it a body-swerve. What the saloon bar lacked in creature comforts it made up for by the complete absence of journos. If I was going to go into my chatty passing-motorist act, I didn't want an audience.
The harried barmaid who served me seemed as glad to escape from them as I was. She bustled through from the lounge when I pressed a bell on the bar and pushed a strand of bottle blonde hair from her forehead. She was in her forties, and looked shell-shocked to find herself in the throes of a lunchtime rush.
'Busy today,' I said sympathetically as she poured me a St Clement's.
'You're not wrong,' she replied. 'Ice?' I nodded. 'Last time we were this busy of a dinner time was Boxing Day.'
'Bad business up the road.' I remarked as I sipped my drink. She was happily leaning against the bar, relieved to escape the clod-hopping probings of the press. I hoped my questions fitted in the category of Great British Pub Gossip.
'That poor woman!' she exclaimed. 'Do you know, she was in here last night with a friend of hers, sitting in a corner of my lounge bar! And next thing you know, she's murdered in her own home. You're not safe anywhere these days. You'd think with all the security they've got up there they'd be all right. I said to my Geoff, it's like Fort Knox up there, and they're not safe. Makes you wonder.'
My ears pricked up at the news of Moira's meeting in the pub, but I didn't want to pounce too eagerly. 'I sometimes wonder if it's all the security that attracts them,' I responded, playing along with the Passing Vagabond theory. 'You know, like a challenge or something.'
'Well, all I can say is we've never had any trouble in this village 'til we had so-called rock stars living here.' Her mouth pursed, revealing a nest of wrinkles she'd have been mortified to see in a mirror.
'Do they come in here much?' I asked casually.
'One or two of them. They've got a journalist living up there, writing some book about Jett, he's never out of here normally. I don't know when he gets his writing done. He's in here for a couple of hours most dinner times and he gets through half a dozen pints every session. Not that I'm complaining – I'm glad of the custom in the winter months. Sometimes I wonder why we bother opening up in the middle of the day. What we take across the bar hardly covers the electricity,' she grumbled.
'Nice place, though,” I complimented her. 'Been here long?'
'Five years. My husband used to be a mining engineer, but we got tired of living abroad, so we bought this place. It's hard work, especially doing the bed and breakfast, but it's better than living with a load of foreigners,' she replied. Before I could ask more, the bell from the lounge summoned her.
To ensure her return, I called, 'Do you do food?'
'Just sandwiches.'
I ordered a round of roast beef, and when she returned, I said, 'It must have been a shock for you, one of your regulars getting murdered.'
'Well, she wasn't exactly a regular. She's been in a few times the last couple of days when her friend was staying here. But she'd only been in the once before that, with a crowd of them. The only way I knew it was her was with her being black. Not that I'm racist,' she added hastily. 'It's just that we don't get many of them round here.'
I could believe her. I remembered only too well how the police inspector in one of the nearby Cheshire towns had defended his policy of arresting any blacks he saw on the street by announcing, 'None of them live around here so if they're walking our streets they're probably up to no good.'
'Her friend must have been in a hell of a state when she heard the news,' I tried, checking the gender of the friend. I was pretty sure it must have been Maggie, but it would be nice to make sure. I took a bite out of the sandwich. Even without the information about Moira's visit, the trip had been worthwhile. The bread was fresh and crusty, the meat pink, sliced wafer thin and piled thick, with a generous smear of horseradish. I nearly choked on it when I heard her reply.
'I don't even know if she has heard the news,' the landlady replied. 'When I got up this morning, there was an envelope on the hall table with the money she owed and a note saying she'd had to leave early. I knew she was checking out today, but I didn't expect her to be off at the crack of dawn.' She sounded slightly aggrieved, as if she'd been done out of a good piece of drama.
'You mean she just cleared off in the middle of the night? Funny, that,' I remarked, trying not to sound like a private eye who's one happy step ahead of the police.
'No, not the middle of the night. She didn't actually leave till about half past six. Our bedroom's at the back, you see. The car woke me up, and I got up because I thought she might have gone off without paying. I didn't even know about the murder myself then.' She clearly saw nothing suspicious in Maggie's behaviour, and I was grateful for that. There would be at least one suspect I'd get to before the police.