drop off after a while – but Sylvia had never gone to my gigs, anyway. She’d heard it all before.”
“One question, Ted?”
“Hm.”
“Had Sylvia met Dan Poke before last Sunday?”
“I’m not sure. As I say, she didn’t go to any of my gigs. Though, actually, now I come to think of it, she must’ve met him. When. Dan finished the gig on Sunday, she was all over him, saying how good it was to see him again, introducing him to Neanderthal Man.”
“Neander – ?”
“Her fiance.”
“Matt, the biker.”
“Don’t know whether he’s a biker or not. I do know that he’s a delivery driver.”
“Ah. Sorry, go on. You were talking about your marriage…”
“Or the Third World War, as it was affectionately known.”
“But why has Sylvia suddenly reappeared in your life?”
“Money. It always was money with Sylvia. Maybe working in the building society all day made her obsessed with the stuff. That’s what a lot of our arguments were about when we were married. She said I was off every night, boozing away anything I made from the bloody gigs – which wasn’t a million miles from the truth – and we ought to be saving a deposit for a house and getting a foot on the property ladder…Oh, it went on and on…”
“But had the double-glazing salesman got money?”
“You betcha. He was a very successful double-glazing salesman – got a big spread out near Chelmsford. Sylvia liked that, liked being the lady of the manor, liked giving up work, liked spending his money. So she wasn’t bothered about getting a divorce. I was as poor as a church mouse. She wouldn’t get anything out of me, just be a waste of solicitor’s fees.”
“So what’s changed?”
“Two things have changed. One, Mr Double-Glazing Salesman suddenly took a look at the woman who’d been sharing his bed for the last however many years and decided she was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. And since they weren’t married, there was nothing to stop him replacing her with a younger model. Which he did with remarkable alacrity and gave Sylvia the old heave-ho. So she’s out in the cold cruel world the wrong side of forty, and she hasn’t got anything, not even the tiniest toehold on the bottom rung of the old property ladder.” He spoke almost with satisfaction, and took a sip of the coffee which must have gone cold long before.
“You said two things had changed.”
“Yes, well, the other thing of course is that I’m no longer the old church mouse, am I? I’ve built up the Crown and Anchor, haven’t I? And though the actual finances there are very shaky, to my greedy little ex-wife it looks like I’m coining it. So suddenly divorce becomes a rather more attractive idea.”
In the cause of fairness, Carole felt she should point out that Sylvia also had a new man in her life. “She does actually want to remarry.”
“Yes, but I reckon marrying Matt is relatively low on her priorities. What she really wants to do is stitch me up.”
“Sure you’re not being a bit paranoid?”
“No. This is not a fantasy. Sylvia’s out to get me!”
Carole refrained from commenting that she’d never heard anyone sounding more paranoid, instead asking, “And presumably Matt hasn’t got any money?”
“You’re bloody joking. Like I said, he’s a delivery driver. Very much a step down for our Sylvia.”
“Then how’re they going to pay the bill at a place like Yeomansdyke?”
“On her credit card, I imagine – and their prospects of getting half the proceeds when I finally have to sell up at the Crown and Anchor.”
“Oh, Ted, it won’t come to that.”
“No? After the couple of weeks I’ve just had, I wouldn’t put money on it.”
“But you’ve built up that place on your own. Sylvia made no contribution at all. She has no rights on the business.”
“Not what her lawyer says.”
“Really?”
“She’s got one of these really sharp feminist solicitors. Real man-hater. All men are rapists – let’s squeeze every last penny we can out of them.”
“And what’s your solicitor like?”
Ted Crisp shrugged. “Don’t know. I’ve hardly met the guy. He dealt with the purchase of the Crown and Anchor, that’s about it.”
“And was he any good?”
“How can you tell with a lawyer? The paperwork came in. Followed by the bill. Par for the course, isn’t it?”
“But does he specialize in divorce?”
“I’ve no idea.” Ted had become listless now.
Cataloguing the history of his marriage had depleted his last resources of energy.
“Don’t you think you ought to get someone who does specialize in divorce?”
“I think what I ought to do, Carole,” he said as he rose from the table, “is to thank you for the coffee – and your concern – but to tell you once again that this is my bloody mess and it’s down to me to get out of it.”
He turned and shambled away. His jeans and scruffy T-shirt looked out of place amidst the bright beachwear, and the cheerful shouts of children splashing at the edge of the sea seemed only to accentuate his misery.
“Where are you going?” Carole called across to him.
“Back to the Travelodge.”
And, no doubt, to the bottle of Famous Grouse.
? The Poisoning in the Pub ?
Fifteen
The healing had worked. The woman with the dodgy hip had left Woodside Cottage walking more easily and in a lot less pain. As always at such moments, Jude felt a mix of satisfaction and sheer exhaustion. Only someone who has done healing can know how much the process and concentration involved drains one’s energy.
She was infusing a restorative herbal tea when the phone rang. It was Sally Monks, the social worker who had provided Ray’s address for her. Her voice sounded tense. “I’ve only just heard the news.”
“About Ray?”
“Yes. Obviously I knew that there had been a death down at the Crown and Anchor, but I’ve only just heard that it was Ray who died. Wondered if you knew any more about it.”
“A bit. Not a lot.”
“Well, look, I can’t talk now. I’m on my way to an appointment and talking in the car – which I know I shouldn’t be – but I’ve got to drive through Fethering later this afternoon. Might you be around then?”
“Sure. What sort of time?”
“I can never be quite sure because my visits can get complicated, but hopefully fourish. That be OK?”
“Fine,” said Jude.
¦
In fact it was after five when a black Golf parked outside Woodside Cottage and Sally Monks came bustling out. She was a tall redhead of striking looks. All Jude knew of her private life was that she didn’t wear a wedding ring, but someone who looked like that couldn’t lack for masculine attention. Jude had come across a good few social workers in the course of her working life, and found they fitted into three main categories. There were the ones who were simply bossy and always knew better than their clients. There were the ones who got so personally involved with the people they were meant to be looking after that they almost ended up needing social workers themselves. And there were the buck-passers, dedicated to the covering of their own backs, so that wherever
