The Death on the Downs. Simon BrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘Oh?’
‘Had a perfectly good job in London, working on some magazine or other, then chucked it just like that and came back to sponge off her parents.’
‘I heard she was ill,’ Will Maples interceded cautiously.
‘Ill?’
‘Some allergy or something.’
‘Allergic to hard work, if you ask me.’ Graham Forbes was clearly saddling up a hobbyhorse. ‘Trouble with kids these days, they’re cosseted. Cotton-woolled through school, subsidized by the state to laze around for three years at university. They don’t even read, you know, just waste their time on videos and computer games. Then after university they come out into the real world, and is it any wonder they can’t cope?
‘I think drugs have a lot to do with it too. In my young day, everyone drank themselves silly, but drugs were for the really depraved. Nowadays, the kids seem to think no more of taking drugs than blowing their noses. And it’s all over the place, you know, not just in the inner cities. Police stopped some kids in a car on the Weldisham Lane only a couple of weeks ago and found they were under the influence of drugs. God knows where they got them from.’
There was a silence. Will Maples looked studiously at the counter. If Graham Forbes was suggesting anyone had got drugs in the Hare and Hounds, it wasn’t an accusation he wished to discuss.
‘This is the Excuse Generation, you know. Whatever happens, whatever weaknesses of character kids show, there’s always some excuse, some psychological reason for it. Father didn’t show enough affection to them, mother showed too much affection to them, they’ve got an allergy.’ The word was marinated in contempt. ‘In my young day, we just got on with things.’
This statement, delivered with finality, seemed to require some endorsement. Carole couldn’t say anything, Nick clearly never said more than he had to. Will Maples still seemed to be working round his mental dial, finding the right cliché rejoinder, when Freddie came in with the necessary response.
‘Yes, you’re right, Graham. They’ve had it easy.’
‘You got children, Freddie?’
‘No. Pam and I . . . No, we haven’t . . .’ He seemed about to add something. ‘Sadly . . .’ Carole wondered. Or ‘Thank God’? It was hard to tell from Freddie’s manner.
Will Maples seemed over-casual as he asked, ‘You haven’t heard definitely that it was Tamsin’s body they found?’
‘Not body, Will. Bones.’
‘Comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? Either way, the person in question’s dead.’
‘True enough. No, no, obviously not been confirmed it’s anyone. Police have to do all their forensic stuff, off to the labs, what have you. But since you’ve mentioned Tamsin, I wonder . . . Could be right. She’s the only person in the village who’s gone missing recently.’
‘How long’s she been missing?’ asked Freddie, eager to make up lost ground on village gossip.
‘She disappeared round the end of October. The parents haven’t a clue where she went. But she’d been funny for a while. Gave up a perfectly good job in publishing . . . Couldn’t cope, like I said.
‘No, I think this discovery’s pretty ominous. Tamsin was always a bit loopy, wasn’t she? Quite capable of wandering off, high on drugs, falling asleep in the barn and dying of hypothermia. That’s what I reckon happened.’ Graham Forbes spoke with the manner of someone whose opinions were rarely contradicted.
‘Do you actually know she was into drugs?’ the landlord asked cautiously. ‘Hasn’t been any mention of it from the police, has there?’
‘Hasn’t been time for that. But I’m sure Tamsin was. Dressed like a hippie, didn’t she? And she was certainly into all kinds of alternative therapies and what have you. Only one step from herbal remedies to herbal cigarettes. And only one step from them to the hard stuff, in my view.’ Again, his view was presented as incontestable.
Carole was having difficulty keeping her mouth shut. She knew more about the subject under discussion than anyone else present. She knew Graham Forbes was wrong. Whether or not the remains belonged to Tamsin Lutteridge, his theory of how she’d died was way off beam. The girl hadn’t just curled up in the corner of South Welling Barn. Somebody had left her bones there in two fertilizer bags.
For a moment Carole was tempted to speak, to share her knowledge. But she stopped herself, surprised that she’d even contemplated the idea. It would have been out of character for her to have put her oar in. And she realized the reason why her inhibitions had been relaxed. She was drunk. The two large brandies, reacting with her state of shock, had gone straight to her head. She felt distinctly woozy. There was no way she could drive back to Fethering, particularly given the heavy police presence along the Weldisham Lane.
She had a sudden mental image of Gulliver by the Aga, feeling sorry for himself and his wounded paw. She looked at her watch. After six-thirty. She must get back.
Catching Will’s eyes in a conversational lull at the bar, she asked, ‘Is there a phone I could use?’
He pointed to a payphone by the entrance to the toilets. On a board above it were pinned cards from three local taxi firms. Carole tried them all. None could do anything for an hour. Friday evening was a busy time. The trains at Barnham were full not only of the usual daily commuters but also of second-home owners making the weekly journey to their country retreats.
Carole stood by the phone, undecided. She had a thought that wouldn’t have come into her mind without the brandy. Making a quick decision, she dialled the number of the Crown and Anchor.
Ted Crisp answered. He seemed unsurprised by her request. Yes, he’d pick her up. He’d got two bar staff in. They could manage for half an hour. Friday nights didn’t get busy in Fethering until after seven-thirty.
Carole put the phone down, slightly stunned by her audacity, but also pleased at what she’d done. Throughout her life she’d hated being dependent on other people, hated asking for favours. The fact that she’d asked Ted Crisp to help gave her a feeling of a slight mellowing in her character.
And, since the driving was sorted out, she felt like another drink. On her way back past the bar, she asked Will Maples for a large brandy. As she reached for her handbag, he said, ‘No. It’s on Lennie’s tab.’
‘Are you sure?’ But then why not? If it was ever charged, it’d be on police expenses. Carole accepted graciously.
Her movement across the pub had made her aware again of how soaked through she was. It would be good to get home and into a hot bath.
Little more was said at the bar about the bones. Graham Forbes left soon after Carole had made her phone call. He downed the remainder of his whisky in a gulp and, pipe clenched between his teeth, announced, ‘Better get back. People for dinner. Irene no doubt needs help with the seating plan.’
He gave courteous farewells to Will and the two men, a polite nod to Carole, and left. She took in his lack of overcoat, which must mean that he lived very close to the Hare and Hounds.
Conversation at the bar trickled away to nothing. Two girls arrived to start their seven o’clock shift at the bar and, since it was the first day for one of them, Will Maples was kept busy giving her instructions. Freddie made a couple of attempts to engage Nick in conversation, but met with no success.
Carole snuggled into her damp cocoon, brandy balloon reassuringly in her hand, and pondered what she had just heard.
Did the remains she’d found really belong to Tamsin Lutteridge?
But the more puzzling question was how on earth Graham Forbes had found out so quickly about the discovery of the bones at South Welling Barn.
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