CHAPTER 7
Outside in the fresh air, Pat got into her moss-mobile and drove the four miles back to Westlinke.
She needed air, and she needed to think.
She parked at Ivy Cottage, then marched with a barely discernible limp towards the village green with its flagpole, its Union Jack flag hanging listless in the lack of wind, and the nearby war memorial: a stone obelisk surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence, painted a shiny black.
She walked along the path that bisected the green towards the village hall, where a busy community noticeboard advertised pottery classes, computing for the elderly, and a mums and toddlers drop-in coffee morning every Tuesday and Thursday, as well as detail-freak Jacqui’s weekly art classes, which Pat and Prichard attended.
She paused by the wooden bench in the middle of the green, which had an expansive view over the South Downs in all their majestic glory, and, on a good day, of the silvery shimmer of the sea.
She contemplated sitting down, but the oak slats looked wet, and they would play havoc with her hip.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of Bev twitching her curtains in her pretty flint and brick cottage, its front door painted the uniform Farrow he looked as though he wouldn’t be out of place strumming a guitar in a side street. ‘I can’t resist workout gear, or more truthfully the lure of free champagne.’ It wasn’t hard to believe.
‘Are you a gym sort of person then?’ It wasn’t really a question. His toned bicep emerged from his T-shirt as he leant forward, elbow resting on the bar.
‘I have my moments.’ He smiled again and knocked back the shot in his glass. For an alcoholic, he did look quite well, Pat thought.
There was another explosion of laughter from the other side of the bar. The man glanced across in annoyance.
Pat extended her hand. ‘I’m Pat.’
He stood up and shook it, his handshake firm but clammy. Must be the booze, she thought.
‘Marcus. Good to meet you.’ The Greek chorus of businessmen began clapping and shouting again. Marcus rolled his eyes, then offered Pat an apologetic smile. ‘Forgive me, I’m afraid I must go. The noise.’
‘More than understandable,’ she replied.
As he walked away, she reached across the bar to pick up a poorly folded, well-thumbed local newspaper.
Anything to distract herself from the cacophony behind her.
Were they really celebrating that wretched golf club development?
Prichard had been at the preliminary planning meeting and had reassured her that there was no way it would go ahead; the Downs had always been protected.
But then, after Mal and Fi’s drinks party and the sign that she’d seen by the barn, right on her doorstep, it was all looking a lot more likely.
And now this. Dorna’s smug, shiny face, flushed with booze in the bright, unforgiving light of the window, and the circle of fawning suits surrounding her.
Pat shook her head, turned over the newspaper and stopped.
There he was. Henry. Or at least his photograph.
On the front page. Tragedy of young man washed up on beach, read the headline.
Below were more details. The reporter had spoken to DS Stevens, and even PC Footer had got a mention, but the last line of the story was what upset Pat most. The police are not looking for anyone to help them with their enquiries.
‘Of course they’re not, the lazy bastards!’ she mumbled, and pushed the newspaper to one side.
‘I saw him,’ said Johnno as he handed over Pat’s fake gin and sausage roll.
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘Saw who?’
‘That bloke.’ He nodded at the newspaper. ‘He came in here before … you know.’
‘Before he died? What? The night before?’
Johnno shook his head. ‘Oh no. It was two weeks ago. He’d come in with some other bloke. They looked like they were friends, if you know what I mean.’
Pat took a large gulp of her fake gin; strangely, it seemed to give her a warm glow. Must be a placebo effect, she thought. The taste was not dissimilar to something Prichard might brew in his utility room, although hopefully less lethal.
‘They sat over there.’ He looked across to Dorna’s corner. ‘It’s the cosiest part of the bar.’
‘What did his friend look like?’
It was odd that Henry hadn’t mentioned coming to Westlinke before. Perhaps it wasn’t in the forefront of his mind during their sessions, or maybe he just hadn’t registered that she lived here.
‘Blonde, with very blue eyes. I remember the eyes. They were quite striking – not that I’m a bloke who notices other blokes’ eyes,’ Johnno added hastily.
‘I only really remember the two of them because they had a fight, well, an argument that they took outside. They had words, as we say at home. Words that then developed into some pushing and shoving on the green. Not very dramatic. They were both wearing posh shoes. You know, with leather soles. You can’t get much purchase with a leather sole.
If you want to fight, like properly fight, you need trainers.
’ He paused and looked at Pat. ‘Not that I’m that sort of bloke either. ’ He smiled.
‘Of course not,’ said Pat, taking another slug of her drink. ‘D’you know what they were arguing about?’
‘I try not to listen to these things.’
‘Of course not,’ she said again.
‘To Boho Golf!’ came a shout from the corner.
Again?! Pat bit the inside of her cheek and resolutely did not turn around. Instead, she drained her glass and set it down on the bar.
‘I didn’t catch much of it,’ said the barman, leaning in; he smelt of roll-ups. ‘But the blonde one was upset because the dark one was involved with some environmental group; he didn’t like him mixing with hippies. And I think maybe the dark one said something about debts mounting up.’
‘To progress!’
Pat turned around just as Dorna leant over and picked up an empty bottle from the slushy ice bucket.
‘Barman!’ she called, waggling the bottle from side to side. ‘Another one of these!’