‘We need to ask the Superintendent if he knows whether or not his son bought expensive jewellery for Iris,’ Trudy said. ‘And speaking of my superior officers, I need to use the phone box to tell Inspector Jennings about the woodworm in the ladder.’
Clement nodded amiably, and they walked down the lane, to where they’d spotted the bright red village phone box. As they approached it, two young girls playing hopscotch on the pavement paused in their game to watch them go by. No doubt, within the last week the village had been inundated with strangers – both police and press – which would have been a rare occurrence indeed. And whilst the police presence had probably dwindled now that most of the evidence had been collected, and any witnesses found and interviewed, she suspected the press would be less keen to desert a good story. Although, with the inquest into David Finch over, she supposed eventually the story would fade out of the immediate spotlight and the village could return to normal.
Well, for everyone but the Carmody and Finch families anyway.
Trudy duly fed some pennies into the slot, pressed the right button, then dialled the station number and reported in, finishing up by asking DI Jennings if he knew about the murder victim’s unexplained jewellery. The Inspector ignored this, but was very definitely interested to hear about the state of the stepladder, though as usual, didn’t give her any praise for her sharp eyes or quick thinking. Instead he reminded her to dodge any reporters that might still be hanging around the village and leave the Carmody case to him, before ringing off abruptly.
When she stepped out of the phone box, she saw Dr Ryder sitting on a low garden wall, the two little girls sneaking curious looks at him.
Around twelve or so, one was wearing two bright pink hair slides in her mousy brown hair, whilst the other, smaller and darker, was busy with her stick of chalk, robustly marking out further hopscotch squares and numbering them assiduously.
Clement smiled as she approached. ‘All done?’
Trudy nodded. ‘Where to now?’
‘It’s getting on for five. Time we called it a day, I think.’ He called a cheerful farewell to the two girls, who waved at him in response. ‘Can you come to my office about noon tomorrow? We’ll have lunch here in the Horse and Groom and see what the male contingent in the village have to say for themselves. Their perspective on Iris is bound to be somewhat different, I think, from what we’ve heard from the women. Pretty girls can usually wrap any man around their little fingers,’ he added, eyes twinkling. ‘It’ll be interesting to see who she bothered with, and who she slighted.’
Trudy nodded happily. However, her smile abruptly faltered as she wondered if she could get away with claiming expenses for a pub lunch. If she had to pay for it herself, she’d be short for the weekend! Then she realised that Dr Ryder, gentleman that he was, would probably insist on paying the bill anyway.
Chapter 9
The Horse and Groom looked a little busy for a weekday lunch hour, and as Trudy and Clement stepped inside and looked around, it didn’t take long for them to realise why. At least three, if not more, of the men sat at the bar jawing away were reporters.
True, now that the inquest into David Finch was over, and with the Iris Carmody case generating no new information, the members of the press weren’t out in as great a force as they had been when the May Queen’s dead body had first been discovered. But still, Trudy and Clement prudently made their way to a table at the back and kept their heads down. Luckily, the pub was one of those low-ceilinged, small-windowed pubs that didn’t let in a lot of daylight, and they were careful to stick to the darkest part of the room.
Once seated, they consulted the blackboard menu on one wall, which obliged with the usual ploughman’s lunch and assorted sandwiches, and choices made, Clement made his way cautiously to the bar. He was careful to stand at the farthest end of the bar from the reporters and waited to attract the landlord’s attention, before giving their choices for food. He also bought a half-pint of the local beer for himself, and a glass of lemonade for Trudy.
Even from where he was standing, he could see that most of the reporters were rather the worse for drink, which might have helped him somewhat in going unrecognised.
He said as much to his companion when he returned with their drinks, but muttered, ‘I don’t suppose our luck will last for much longer though. Sooner or later, someone is bound to rumble us.’
Trudy sighed. ‘I know. Let’s just hope it’s later.’ She took a sip of her lemonade and glanced around. There was no way they could chat to the locals until the reporters left, and she had a feeling they were not likely to be going anywhere fast, which made the pub a bit of a lost cause right now. She made a mental note to come back another time.
When their sandwiches came, they ate slowly, ears on the alert for any stray titbits of information that might come their way. On the next table over to their right, two men dressed in well-worn trousers, knitted jumpers and solid work boots, played dominoes. They looked like farm labourers taking a rest from their tractors, but they played with a silent intensity that spoke of a long-time rivalry.
Seated behind them, however, was a rather florid-faced, middle-aged man dressed rather more respectably, and an older man who was busy chomping his way through some cheese and pickle. They seemed to be rather more vocal, and luckily for Trudy and Clement, weren’t
