Chapter 26 - Birdy
BIRDY
I stop reading the transcript and close my laptop because my drink has arrived.
I rather like my new “office.” The Smuggler’s Inn is one of the oldest pubs in the country.
I only know this because there is a sign on the wall behind the bar that says ONE OF THE OLDEST PUBS IN THE COUNTRY and yet they do not know how to mix a mojito.
The pub is indeed very old, but it has been redecorated recently—I can still smell the paint—and the new soft furnishings are tasteful if a little twee.
There is another framed print behind the bar that says STRANGERS ARE FRIENDS YOU HAVE NOT YET MET.
What a crock of shit that is.
Friends are strangers in waiting if you ask me.
Aside from the signage I like the place, with its old-fashioned bar, open fire, and low ceilings with wooden beams. I also like that I’m the only person here.
I take a sip of my drink and text Carter:
SEE ME IN MY OFFICE.
“You called?” he says, walking into the pub five minutes later.
“Technically I texted, but thank you for coming so quickly.”
He stares at Sunday and I’m starting to think Carter does not like dogs.
“I thought you didn’t drink?” he says, eyeing my cocktail.
“What a good memory you have, and you’re right, I don’t.
I know, a teetotal detective, whatever next?
This is a virgin mojito, or at least an impression of one.
I’d offer to buy you a cocktail but you have work to do.
I’m only halfway through the transcript of your interview with the husband, and I needed to ask you something.
What’s all this about a woman pretending to be Eden Fox yesterday? ”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you. Last night I was called to Spyglass—”
“You mean my grandmother’s old house?”
“Yes. Harrison Woolf and Eden Fox live in the house your family used to own.” He pauses to let that news sink in then asks, “Did you ever meet them? They must have bought the house from you.”
“No. It was a probate case, so I had very little to do with it. The solicitors and the estate agent dealt with everything. They hired a house clearance company, put the place on the market, and it all happened very fast. Sad how quickly an entire lifetime can be tidied away.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, they did a lovely job renovating the place,” he says.
“You’ve been inside?”
“A few times. Yesterday evening Harrison Woolf dialed 999 to report that another woman was claiming to be his wife, and trying to break into their home.”
“Was she?”
“Yes. I saw her when I responded to the call, and again when I apprehended her later last night at the art gallery in the village. She insisted that she was Eden Fox, and that the woman inside the gallery was an impostor pretending to be her husband’s wife.”
“How do you know she wasn’t?”
He stares at me as though I might be a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
“Because I had already met the real Eden—half the village had—and then there was Harrison. Why would a husband lie about who his wife was? I interviewed this other woman and she seemed a bit crazy and possibly dangerous.”
“Crazy and dangerous. But you let her go?”
“Not in so many words.”
“How many words does it take to explain she got away from you twice? And the woman who Harrison claims was his wife. You said you met her?”
“Everyone who met the real Eden Fox liked her. She made a real effort from the moment they moved here to be friendly to people in the village. She would often visit the bakery, or the butchers, supporting local businesses, which always goes down well in a place like this. And we all saw her at her exhibition last night; the whole village was there.”
“The whole village went to an art exhibition? Do people here not have Netflix?”
“I think people here are perhaps more community-minded than people in the city.”
“Is that so? Fascinating insight. When did you first meet her?”
“Who?”
“Eden.”
He shrugs. “At the gallery last night.”
I wait for him to say more but he doesn’t. “Then that’s where I want you to go now. I need you to speak to the owner of the gallery while I finish reading the transcript of your chat with the husband. Find out how the exhibition came about, whose idea it was.”
“Why?” he asks.
“Yours is not to reason why, your job is to just do what I tell you.”
“Fine. Guess I’ll go interview the black widow.”
“Why do you call her that?”
“Everyone in the village calls her that, behind her back at least. Diana has had three husbands and outlived them all—she paid for the gallery with the inheritance—and rumor has it she’s on the lookout for husband number four.
Apparently she keeps the ashes of her last husband on the mantelpiece in her flat, and puts a teaspoon of his ashes in her tea once a day.
She drinks him so she can keep him with her always. ”
Blimey.
“Well, if she offers you a cup of tea say no,” I tell him. He just stares at me. “What are you waiting for? Off you fuck.”
Carter shakes his pretty head then leaves the pub.
I can understand if his nose is a little out of joint about me being his boss.
And I appreciate it might be awkward, for him, that we slept together.
But what I’m most curious about is why he just said what he said.
I know Carter didn’t meet Eden Fox for the first time at the exhibition; they met before that.
What I don’t know is why he lied.