free?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Maggie. “What time?”
“Eight o’clock, and I forgot to give Fell the address. It’s number 5, Malvern Lane.”
“Thank you,” said Maggie again. “Very kind of you.”
“See you both then. ‘Byee!”
“Who was it?” called Fell from his bedroom as he heard Maggie mounting the stairs again.
“Melissa.”
He shot out of his bedroom and confronted Maggie on the landing. “Is she still on the phone?”
“No, she called to invite me to dinner as well.”
She averted her eyes quickly, but not before she had seen the look of dismay on Fell’s face.
“How kind of her,” he said bleakly.
“You’re disappointed,” said Maggie. “I’ll tell her I’ve got a headache and can’t go.”
Fell looked at her hopefully and then his mouth drooped at the corners. “She would think it odd if you don’t come.”
“Like I said, I could make an excuse.”
“No, she’s probably not interested in me anyway. How could she be?”
Maggie wanted to shout out that any woman with half a brain would be interested in Fell, but kept quiet. Perhaps it would be better to go after all and study the enemy at close quarters. “Let’s get some sleep,” she said instead.
¦
Fell rushed out the next morning to buy the local paper. The murder was on the front page. A man, said the report, was helping police with their inquiries.
“I want to know who this man is,” said Fell, after reading the paper.
“We could go back and ask that editor,” suggested Maggie. “Gosh, it’s so hot already. Your dandelion summer’s come back.”
Maggie was wearing a cool sky-blue cotton dress. The days when she felt she could breakfast in a dressing gown were over. She never confronted Fell in the mornings without being fully dressed and made up. “I’ll make us some breakfast and then we’ll go,” she said, moving towards the kitchen.
“Only toast for me,” Fell called after her. “I couldn’t eat a full breakfast.”
They set out half an hour later, walking in the blinding sunshine. The air was close and humid. Outside the newspaper offices, Fell, who had been carrying his jacket over his arm, put it on.
The bored receptionist, to their request, said that Mr. Whit-taker was at the court. “Not far,” said Fell. “Let’s walk round there and see if we can find him.”
As they approached the Georgian courthouse in the centre of the town, they saw the portly figure of the editor. He was talking to a young woman. They stood a little way off, summoning up the courage to interrupt his conversation, when he turned and saw them. He said goodbye to the woman and hailed them with, “Sorry I had to dash off the other day. Got time for a drink?”
Fell looked at his watch. It was quarter to ten in the morning. “Bit early. They won’t be open yet.”
“Follow me. They’re always open for Tommy Whittaker.”
He marched up to the doors of a pub called the Red Lion. The pub was an old Tudor building, black and white and leaning so crazily towards the street, it seemed a miracle it hadn’t fallen over like some of its drunken customers. Tommy Whittaker rapped loudly on the door, which opened a crack. “Oh, it’s you,” said the landlord grumpily. “You may as well come in.”
“What’ll you have?” asked Tommy.
“Orange juice,” said Maggie, and Fell said he would have the same.
“Nonsense; have a real drink.”
Intimidated by his overbearing manner, Fell changed his order to a gin and tonic, and Maggie weakly said she would have the same. The landlord said ungraciously that he hadn’t any ice.
“I’m surprised he let you in,” said Fell as Tommy downed a large whisky and then attacked a pint of beer.
“He knows what’s good for him,” said Tommy. “The newspaper runs a Best Pub of the Year Award.”
“I shouldn’t think this place would qualify,” said Fell, looking around. Like a lot of English pubs which looked charming and quaint on the outside, the inside was a disappointment. A fruit machine flickered in one corner. The floor was covered in green linoleum, scarred with cigarette burns. The ceiling between the low beams, which had once been white, was now yellow with nicotine. Some of the tables still had dirty glasses on them from the night before.
“No, but he lives in hope.”
“What we wanted to ask you,” said Fell, squeezing his hands together, “is about the murder of Andy Briggs.”
“Oh, that. No great mystery there. Drunken fight.”
“Was the man who killed Andy connected with the railway?”
Tommy laughed and took another pull at his pint. “You’re a conspiracy theorist. Bet you’re one of those ones who surf the Internet trying to find out if the American government is hiding aliens from us.”
“I haven’t even got a computer,” said Fell defensively.
“If you’re writing a book, you’d better get one and take one giant leap into the twenty-first century. Where was I?”
He drained his glass of beer. “Ready for another?”
“I’ll get them.” Fell ordered a pint and a double whisky for Tommy and another gin and tonic for himself and Maggie.
“Thanks,” said Tommy, loosening his tie when Fell returned to the table with the drinks. “God, it’s hot. Drink up.”
Fell and Maggie obediently gulped down their first gin and tonic and started on the second.
“So who have the police got for the murder of Andy Briggs?” asked Fell.
“Pete Murphy, out-of-work villain. He picked a fight with Briggs. Murphy’s a small ratlike creature. Briggs is a big chap, or was, rather. So Briggs tells him to come outside and is ready to beat the shit the life out of him. Pete pulls a knife and sinks it into Briggs. Surrounded by witnesses at the time, because everyone had followed them out of the pub to watch the fight. They all jump on Pete and sit on him until the police arrive. End of story.”
Maggie and Fell exchanged brief, happy looks of relief. Nothing to do with the robbery. No villain to come looking for them.
“So how are you getting on with the robbery?” asked Tommy.
“Not very far,” said Fell. “I would like to clear my father’s name. Do you know where Terry Weal lives?”
“I wouldn’t bother with him.”
“Why?”
“He’s a bit crazy. He lives just out of town, near the railway. Before you get to the station, halfway over the bridge, there’s a lane off to the right. He lives down there, second cottage from the end.”
“We’ll try anyway,” said Fell. “Can you remember much about the robbery?”
“Course I can. I was a reporter covering it. Well, let me see…What is it?” An office boy had come into the pub and right up to Tommy.
“Lady Fleaming’s in the office.”
“Oh, blimey!” Tommy got to his feet. “She’s the proprietor. See you!”
“We’ll get this story one of these years,” said Fell. “I’m not used to drinking this early in the day. But what a relief Andy’s gone and his death is nothing to do with us.”
“Have you thought of getting a dishwasher?” Maggie asked.
“You mean a dishwashing machine?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth?”
“I struck Andy on the head with that rolling pin. Even though he died of a knife wound, there’ll be an autopsy and they’ll start wondering about that blow to the head. What if I caused brain damage? What if the autopsy proves that the stabbing didn’t actually kill him but some sort of brain haemorrhage?”
