mentioned one. And no Polish word that he might have been trying to get out seemed to have any relevance.
“You ask me when I last see Tadek…Of course I did not know it was the last time I would see him, but it was in Warsaw in September. Just before he come to England.”
“Why did he come to England?”
“I do not know. He would not tell me.”
“What was he doing in Warsaw?”
“He finish a year ago a degree in music. He want make a career in music. He write songs, play piano, guitar. He love playing his guitar. Now he will not do that any more.” These reminders of her brother’s absence did not seem yet to cause sadness to Zofia. Her reaction was more one of bewilderment, an inability to take in the sheer scale of what had happened.
“So did Tadek have a job?”
“Small jobs. Temporary work. Like me. He wanted to buy time to write his songs.”
“Do you think he came to England because he thought there would be better opportunities in the English music scene?”
The girl shrugged. “Maybe. But I don’t think so. He was enjoying his music in Warsaw. He was in a band with some friends, it all seemed to be going well. Then suddenly he tell us all he is going to England.”
“And you’ve no idea why he might have done that?”
“No. Tadek was not very…I don’t know the word…not good at details of life, doing things that needed to be done every day.”
“You mean he wasn’t practical?”
“I think this is the word, yes. He lived in the clouds. He had wild ideas which, were not easy to make happen.”
“He was a romantic?”
“Yes. And an optimist. He think everything will come good some time. But of course he was wrong.”
“When you say he was a romantic,” asked Jude, “does that extend to his emotional life? Was he romantic about women?”
Zofia nodded vigorously. “Yes, even after growing up with me and our mother, Tadek still put women…up high…I don’t know…”
“On a pedestal?”
“That is good word. Often he want to be with women who are not right for him. Too old for him sometimes. But he still…yes, put them on a pedestal.”
“So do you think it might have been a woman who brought him to England?”
“It is possible. But he did not say anything to me about a woman. Usually he tell me who is the new one he has fallen in love with. And tell me when it has broken up – as they all did.”
“Did your brother have any friends in England? Was there someone he could have stayed with when he first arrived?”
“I do not know of many. Tadek had not been to England before. I do not know of any English friends of him. But it is possible he meet people. He travelled a lot in Europe. To music festivals and such events, with his band. But again it is unusual for him not to tell me about people he meet.”
“Did the police ask you about his friends?”
“Of course. I cannot help them much – like I cannot help you much. But they do tell me where he was living.”
“Littlehampton, I gather.”
“Yes, they give me address. I will go there. After seeing you, this must be the next place I go. Maybe I find out something.”
“Well, if you do, please let me know.”
The girl’s hazel eyes sought out Jude’s brown ones. “You also are wanting to find out how Tadek died?”
“Yes,” Jude replied simply.
¦
After Zofia had left, Jude was tidying up in the kitchen when she heard the rattle of something coming through her letterbox. Too late for the post (even though that did seem to be getting later and later). She managed to get to the front window just in time to see the person who’d made the delivery moving on next door to High Tor.
Through the encroaching dusk, she recognized him from the previous week in the Crown and Anchor. Dressed in a Drizabone coat and tweed cap, it was Hamish Urquhart. Running errands for his father. Jude looked down at the that to see what he had delivered.
The envelope was addressed to ‘The Occupier’. From, as she might have guessed, Urquhart & Pease, the estate agents. They were always looking for new properties in the ‘much sought-after’ location of Fethering. Anyone looking to sell could not do better than engage the services of the long-established, efficient and courteous firm of Urquhart & Pease, who would be happy to offer a free valuation.
Normally Jude would have shoved such a letter straight into the bin. But that day, given her earlier restlessness, it had a pertinence for her. Maybe it was a psychic nudge, telling her she should be moving out of Fethering. The timing was interesting. And Jude was a great believer in synchronicity.
? Blood at the Bookies ?
Nine
Shortly after Carole had put her flyer from Urquhart & Pease straight in the recycling bin, she had a phone call from Ted Crisp. He wasn’t good at remembering numbers, but hers had stayed stuck in his head from the time of their brief affair, so he rang her rather than Jude.
“Been doing my bit on the old Licensed Victuallers grapevine,” he announced. “Found out where the dead man did his bar work.”
“Oh, really? Well done.”
“Pub on the Fedborough road out of Littlehampton. Just by the river bridge. Cat and Fiddle. Do you know it?”
“No,” said Carole unsurprisingly. The Crown and Anchor was about the only pub she did know. Carole Seddon still didn’t think of herself as a ‘pub person’.
“Run by a woman called Shona Nuttall. Known in the trade as ‘The Cat On The Fiddle’. One of those self- appointed ‘characters’, of whom there are so many in the pub business.”
“Your tone of voice suggests that she’s not your favourite person.”
“Does it?” He neither confirmed nor denied the impression.
“And what about the pub? How does she run that?”
“Not the way I would,” Ted Crisp replied eloquently.
¦
The Cat and Fiddle’s perfect riverside position ensured continuous trade throughout the summer, but it wasn’t so busy on a cold Tuesday evening in February. Even before Carole and Jude entered, they were aware of why it wasn’t the sort of pub Ted Crisp would have liked. The inn sign was a Disneyfied version of a cute cat with bulbous eyes playing the fiddle to a group of goofy-toothed square-dancing rabbits. Notices in the vast car park bore the same motif, as did the signs on the children’s play area. Whether the Cat and Fiddle was a one-off business or not, it gave the Impression of being part of a franchise.
This was intensified by the interior, open-plan with lots of pine divisions which were reminiscent of some immaculate stable-yard, an image encouraged by the romantic country music that filled the air. Pointless rosettes were pinned to pillars; halters and unused riding tack hung from hooks. The narrow awning over the bar was thatched, and the bar staff, male and female, wore dungarees over red gingham shirts. On the wall-mounted menus another incarnation of the goggle-eyed cat pointed down to a sign reading ‘Good Ol’ Country Cookin’.
The few customers did not sit on their show-home pine stools with the ease that identifies the true pub regular. Suited businessmen at single tables worked silently through meals piled high with orange chips. An unspeaking couple in a stable-like booth looked as if they were mentally checking through the final details of their
