“Oh aye. Is that all?”
“It’s a lot. Gets me served quick in pubs,” she said, smiling.
“Not all bad then. Take care, luv. And ring if there’s owt worrying you.”
He left and made for the car park. In his car he didn’t make for the exit straightaway but drove slowly round till he spotted the Thunderbird.
“Enjoy your lunch, Sergeant,” he said. And drove away.
Back in the conservatory Kay Kafka pressed a key on her mobile. She had to wait a few moments before she got a reply. She said, “Hi, Tony. It’s me. Have I disturbed your lunch?”
“Not as much as it’s disturbing me,” said Kafka. “You should see this place, except you can’t because they don’t let women in. I sometimes think it’s a movie set, or something they hire from the National Trust to keep foreign riff-raff in their place. So what’s new with Mr Blobby?”
“Everything’s fine. Any mention your end?”
“Not yet, but they don’t get on to matters of substance till the soup’s been served. Soup! If you’re looking for a weapon of mass destruction, look no further!”
“Tony, you are being careful what you say?”
“You know me. Soul of discretion. Anyway, I’m outnumbered.”
“I thought it was just Warlove.”
“He’s brought that guy Gedye along. The one who looks like a high-class mortician, always measuring you up with his eyes.”
“Tony, don’t go neurotic on me.”
“Just because I’m neurotic doesn’t mean the bastards aren’t creepy. Joke. Now tell me about your chat with Mr Blobby. And the twins, have you been to see them this morning? How do they look in the bright light of day?”
They talked for several minutes more. When the conversation was done, Kay stood up and went through an inner door leading to the spacious hotel lobby, one wall of which was almost filled by a seventeenth-century fireplace in which a twenty-first-century fire looked sadly inadequate. In a deep armchair by the fire, either reading or sleeping behind the Daily Mirror, sat a man. Kay approached the reception desk where two young women, one blonde, one brunette, otherwise so alike they could have been clones, were working. The blonde greeted her brightly.
“Hello, Mrs Kafka. And how are you today?”
“I’m fine,” said Kay. “I’m just going up to the suite. I’ll be doing some work on my laptop, so would you like to send some sandwiches up?”
“Of course, Mrs Kafka,” said the young woman, reaching for a key. “Any special filling you’d like today?”
“A selection will be fine. Thank you.”
As Kay walked away the blonde raised her eyebrows at her fellow worker who mouthed, “Any special filling. You cheeky cow!” They both giggled.
Edgar Wield lowered his newspaper and watched Kay get into the lift. As it ascended, alongside it the door to the bar swung open, giving him a glimpse of Edwin Digweed sitting with a group of rather dusty, slightly foxed men. Then the door closed again behind a young waiter with golden skin, jet-black hair, sultry brown eyes and a face to turn Jove languid.
The blonde receptionist called, “Hey, Manuel. Job for you.”
“What job? I’m very busy,” he replied without slowing his graceful step.
“Too busy for Mrs Kafka?”
Now he slowed and went to the desk.
The girls spoke to him in voices too low for Wield to catch. After a moment he laughed and moved away, calling over his shoulder, “Never mind. Your turn will come.”
“Loves himself, doesn’t he?” said the brunette.
“And why not? Wouldn’t mind giving him a helping hand, how about you?” said the blonde.
She glanced towards the fireplace and saw Wield watching her. A smile lit up her face and she gave a little wave. He gave a wave and a smile back.
“Not thinking of going les, are we?” said Digweed who’d emerged from the bar unnoticed.
“It’s Doreen, Tom Uglow’s lass from the village,” said Wield.
“Yes, I do know that,” said Digweed a little tetchily. “Let’s see if we can get her to rustle up some sandwiches.”
He went to the desk and spoke to the girls.
When he returned he said, “They’ll be along shortly. The waiter’s rather busy at the moment.”
“I bet he is,” said Wield.
Twenty minutes later Wield had finished his beer and, with an afternoon’s work ahead of him, had moved on to cranberry juice, which if his partner was to be believed would help him grow up into a big healthy boy. He was thinking if the food didn’t arrive soon he would have to leave without it.
“What on earth are they doing with these sandwiches?” grumbled Digweed. “Churning the cheese? There’s the manager. I think I’ll have a word.”
A portly man in a pinstripe suit had appeared behind the desk and was talking to the receptionists. Digweed began to rise but before he was out of his chair, the lift door slid open and the handsome young waiter erupted looking like an advertisement for the Wrath of Achilles. The manager glanced towards him, pursed his lips and called, “Manuel, I’ve told you before. Use the service lift.”
The waiter didn’t even look his way but as he strode towards the main exit made a gesture whose meaning was as unmistakeable in rural Mid-Yorkshire as it was in urban Spain or even Homeric Greece.
Digweed subsided into his chair.
“Not from Barcelona, is he?” said Wield.
“Valencia, I believe,” said Digweed, pronouncing it correctly. “I think our sandwiches may be some little time.”
“Probably just as well if there’s something wrong with your teeth,” said Wield.
Moscow House in the clear light of day no longer looked like it had strayed out of a Poe short story. True, it was a bit run down, but nothing that a pressure gun and a paint brush couldn’t put right in a couple of days. And though the garden could certainly have done with a short-back-and-sides, Pascoe rather liked the wild-meadow look, with brassy daffs trumpeting their triumph over a wilderness of grasses.
He was surprised to find Constable Jennison on guard duty at the front door.
“You still here?” he said.
Jennison, happy to be here in broad daylight, did a comic take to left and right, then said, “Oh me, sir? Yes, I’m still here. Leastways I was last time I looked.”
Novello, who’d not been a member of Joker Jennison’s fan club ever since he’d affected to mistake her for part of a drag act booked to do a turn at the Welfare Club, grimaced at this weak attempt at humour. When I’m DCI, any plod taking the piss will wish he’d stayed in bed with a broken leg that day, she promised herself.
Pascoe grinned broadly and said, “I mean, you haven’t been here since last night, I take it?”
“No, sir. Got relieved about one. Came back on an hour ago and Bonk-Sergeant Bonnick told me I was off the cars today and back down here. I think he blames me for letting that lot up the drive last night.”
Pascoe said, “Even if you’d checked them, I think we’d have had to let them up to the house. They were family, after all. Anyone been around today?”
“Not since I came on, sir. And the guy I took over from said it had been dead quiet too.”
“A master of the apt phrase. Come on, Shirley. Let’s take a look inside.”
As they stepped into the house, Jennison said, “Sir, can I have a word?”
“Of course,” said Pascoe, turning back to him.
“It’s probably nowt, but last night when I were on the gate, I got talking to one of the working girls. Dolores, she said her name was. Sounded foreign. Long black hair, dead white face, but I think she were just a kid really. It’s a crying shame. Lovely figure, but. Bum to die for, and legs you could wrap twice round your neck and still
