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.
Chapter Five
‘Not my idea of a pub, that Hare and Hounds,’ Ted Crisp grouched.
His presence seemed to fill the car. He’d arrived in the pub, looking as ever, hair and beard both in need of trimming, paunch in need of slimming. The usual grubby jeans, trainers and sweatshirt, with a zip-up hooded sweater over the top in deference to the February weather.
He’d nodded to Will Maples, but refused Carole’s offer of a drink. ‘No. Got to pace myself. Be drinking later at the Crown. Friday nights get frenetic. All the old farts and their doxies in, the air heavy with the scent of Germolene.’
At seven the Hare and Hounds had suddenly become busy. The ‘Reserved’ tables in the bar were quickly filled with people who were going to eat bar snacks, and diners started going through to the restaurant. Will Maples and his newly arrived staff had not a moment to turn round. But, Carole observed, it was an efficient operation. Will was a good manager.
He was too busy for her to catch his eye when she left. Never mind. It was Lennie Baylis she had to thank for the drinks, after all. With unexpected chivalry, Ted Crisp had picked up her Burberry. ‘What you been doing?’ he asked as he felt its sodden fabric. ‘Auditions for Singing in the Rain?’
Carole had never been in his car before, but it was in character. An old Nissan Bluebird estate, its back seat and luggage space piled up with boxes. There was a stale whiff of beer and smoke. In fact, Carole realized as she got in, the car smelled exactly like the Crown and Anchor. So did Ted. He was a non-smoker, but he always smelled of cigarette smoke. An occupational hazard. His customers’ smoke clung to his clothes, to his hair and to his beard.
‘No, not my idea of a pub,’ he repeated. ‘Everything too neat, too calculated. No real character.’
This chimed in exactly with what Carole had thought. ‘But you know Will, do you? I saw you nod at him.’
‘In this job, you know most of the opposition, to talk to anyway. He used to manage clubs in Brighton, only recently moved into the pub trade. He’s a bright boy, though. He’ll go far.’
‘How long has he been landlord there?’
‘He’s not the landlord, Carole. Just the manager. Works for the chain. Home Hostelries, they’re called.’
‘But they’re just a small chain, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but owned by one of the big breweries. Like everything else these days. I don’t like places like that. A pub should have its own identity, not be part of a
