‘Don’t worry, Sandy,’ I said, tiredly teasing him. ‘I won’t compromise you. I’ll drive Jogger’s old van. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.’
He did want to, however. We drove in convoy to Jogger’s boozer and I gave the landlord a heavy cheque. The landlord was well pleased with the trade and had done his best with the signatures, which filled a sheet of paper the size of a tabloid newspaper and were accompanied by encouraging comments. ‘Poor old Jogger, jogged his last.’ ‘Up the apples and pears to the pearlies. Go for it, Jog.’
‘Upstairs to the pearly gates,’ Sandy interpreted, reading with me.
‘Gone to the great oil change in the sky,’ the landlord said, pointing. ‘That’s mine.’
‘Most appropriate,’ I assured him.
Half of Pixhill seemed to have signed their names but unfortunately all over the place, not in the tidy columns I’d envisaged. Most of my drivers were there, including Lewis, who had been in France collecting Michael’s two-year-olds on that Saturday night. I commented on it. The landlord agreed that more people had signed the memorial than had been with Jogger on his last evening. ‘They wanted to pay their respects,’ he explained.
‘And to drink the free beer,’ Sandy said.
‘Well... old Jogger was a good mate.’
‘Mm,’ I agreed. ‘So which of these people were actually here on Saturday? Sandy, you were here. You’ll know.’
‘I was off duty,’ he protested.
‘Your eyes were still working.’
Sandy looked at the crowded names and pointed out a few with a stubby finger.
‘Of your drivers, Dave definitely, he pretty well lives here. Also Phil and his missus, and Nigel who was chatting her up to Phil’s disgust, and Harve looked in. And Brett, the one who drove that dead man, Ogden, he was there definitely, even though he was supposed to have left Pixhill. He was grousing about you having got shot of him.’
His gaze moved over the names.
‘Bruce Farway! He’s signed it. I didn’t see him here.’
‘The doctor?’ The landlord nodded. ‘He often comes in with those book people who sit in that far corner putting the world to rights. He drinks Aqua Libra.’ He concentrated on the sheet, reading upside down. ‘A whole bunch of Watermead’s lads were here and some from half the stables in Pixhill. That new lady, Mrs English, some of her lads came. New faces. Not a bad bunch. And John Tigwood, he’s always in and out with those collecting boxes. And Watermead’s son and daughter, they were here Saturday, but they haven’t been in since so their names aren’t down, see?’
I asked, surprised, ‘Do you mean Tessa and Ed?’
‘Aye.’
‘But they’re under age,’ Sandy said pompously. ‘They’re not eighteen.’
The landlord took mild offence. ‘I’d only serve them soft drinks. They both like diet Coke.’ He glanced at me slyly. ‘She likes that Nigel, too. That driver of yours.’
‘Does he encourage her?’ I asked.
The landlord laughed. ‘He encourages anything with tits.’
‘You’ll be in trouble serving them without an adult,’ Sandy said.
‘She said Nigel was buying.’
‘You’ll be in trouble,’ Sandy repeated.
‘They didn’t stay long,’ the landlord said defensively. ‘They’d probably gone before you got here.’ He sniffed. ‘I daresay some of those lads aren’t eighteen either, if the truth be told.’
‘You be careful,’ Sandy warned. ‘You can lose your licence faster than blink.’
‘How early did Jogger get drunk?’ I asked.
‘I don’t serve drunks,’ the landlord said virtuously. Sandy snorted.
‘How early, then,’ I rephrased it, ‘did Jogger start talking about aliens, little green men and lone rangers?’
‘He was here from six o’clock until Sandy drove him home,’ the landlord said.
‘What rate of pints per hour?’
‘Two at least,’ Sandy said. ‘Jogger could knock ’em back with the best.’
‘He wasn’t drunk,’ the landlord maintained. ‘Maybe not fit to drive his van, but not drunk.’
‘Reeling a bit,’ Sandy said. ‘He was on about the aliens before I got here at eight or thereabouts. And telling the world, he was, about Poland having five on a horse last summer.’
‘Why?’ the landlord asked me. ‘What does it matter?’
‘Yes,’ Sandy said, ‘and what did Jogger mean?’
‘Heaven knows.’
‘Jogger knows in heaven.’ The landlord was delighted with his own wit. ‘Hear that? Jogger knows in heaven.’
‘Very good,’ Sandy said heavily.
‘Did anything else happen?’ I asked. ‘Who stole the tools out of his van?’
The landlord said he hadn’t a clue.
‘Dave told Jogger to shut up,’ Sandy said.
‘What?’
‘Jogger was getting on his nerves. Jogger just laughed so Dave took a swipe at him.’
The landlord nodded. ‘He knocked Jogger’s drink over.’
‘He hit Jogger?’ I said, astonished. Jogger, because of his fancy footwork, had been instinctively quick on his feet.
‘He missed him,’ Sandy said. ‘You have to get up early to hit Jogger.’
We all listened in silence to what he’d just said.
‘Yes, well...’ Sandy said, stirring. ‘Time I reported back on duty. Are you staying, Freddie?’
‘Nope.’
I followed him out, leaving the memorial with the landlord for framing and hanging on the wall.
‘That Tessa,’ Sandy said, putting on his official hat, ‘she’s a wild one. Not high-spirited, I don’t mean. I mean, well, borderline delinquent. I’d not be surprised if she ends up in court.’
I thought he exaggerated, but I took his estimation seriously. He spent his life with minor offenders: every local bobby did in villages, but he was particularly good at prevention as opposed to retribution. ‘I don’t suppose you could warn Michael Watermead, could you?’ he asked.
‘Difficult.’
‘Try,’ he said. ‘Save Mrs Watermead’s tears.’
I was startled by his imagery. ‘OK,’ I said.
‘Good.’
‘Sandy...’
He stopped in mid-step. ‘Yes?’
‘If someone killed Jogger... if he didn’t just fall... well, catch the bugger.’
He listened to the commitment in my voice. ‘And catch the bugger who took you to Southampton? Catch the bugger who smashed your car and your house and your sister’s little wings?’
‘If it’s possible.’
‘But you don’t trust my colleagues. You don’t help them.’
‘If they treated me as an ally, not a suspect, we’d get on better.’
‘It’s just their way.’
We looked at each other peacefully, long-time friends up to a point. Alone together, we’d have been allies in any investigation. With his colleagues taking charge, the professional fence rose between us like dragons’ teeth. No-man’s-land would keep him loyally in the opposing trenches, though surreptitiously he might send me semaphore messages. I’d have to settle for that. So would he.
I drove Jogger’s old van back to the farmyard and parked it again beside the barn. Its two rear doors were still unlocked and inside there was still nothing but some reddish grey dust. I drove my fingers through the dust and looked at them, not in the least happy with what I saw. The reddish particles among the grey were, to the unmagnified eye, suspiciously like rust.
Brushing the dust off my fingers I went into the barn and stood looking at the floor there, especially at the edges of the pit. There was grease in plenty, and general dirt. There would certainly be rust embedded in it. Steel and damp weather infallibly shed ferric oxide. Rust would be there.
All the same, in memory I surveyed Jogger’s lost tools; the old slider, the sharp axe, the jumbled small spanners, the loops of wire... all those, and the tyre lever. An old strong tyre iron, as long as one’s arm. Ferrous metal, a wide open invitation to rust.