Blood at the Bookies

Twenty-Four

“But surely, Jude, it suggests that she lives down by the river.”

“It could do.”

Carole found herself infuriated by her neighbour’s reaction. “It must do. Look, she walks up River Road to the High Street, does her shopping in Allinstore, then walks back down towards the river. She must live down there.”

“I agree, she might do, but we don’t know that for certain. She could have just parked her car down by the river.”

“Why would she do that? She could have parked a lot nearer to Allinstore. And Gerald said she was weighed down by two quite heavy bags. She wouldn’t have done that, unless she lived down by the river. If you’ve got heavy bags, you take the shortest route between where you’ve been shopping and where you want to get to.”

“Yes, usually.”

“Jude, why are you being like this? Normally I’m the one who’s the wet blanket on everything.”

“I just thought I’d see what it felt like.”

“Oh, now you’re being tiresome.”

“No, I’m not. I’m playing devil’s advocate.”

“Well, it isn’t a role that suits you,” said Carole grumpily and flopped back on one of Jude’s draped sofas. She felt something hard through the bedspread that covered it, and pulled out a plastic potato masher.

“Oh, I wondered where that had got to,” said Jude.

Which didn’t improve Carole’s mood. As she looked round the soft curves of the Woodside Cottage sitting room, she longed for the antiseptic right angles of High Tor. But even as she had the thought, she knew that Jude’s home had a warmth and welcome hers would never achieve.

“I think you’re feeling grumpy because you’re still not over that flu.”

“I am quite over that flu, thank you very much. And I am not feeling grumpy,” said Carole grumpily.

“Look, I agree with you that it is most likely that Melanie Newton lives somewhere down by the river.”

“She must do, because if she lived further along, you know, near Marine Villas, that area, then her quickest route to Allinstore wouldn’t be along River Road.”

“Carole, I’ve said I agree with you. The question is how we find out exactly where she lives.”

Carole looked shame-faced, “I did sort of…lurk about a bit down there this afternoon, just to see if there was any sign of her.”

“‘Lurk about’?” Jude was intrigued and amused by the image. “Were you in disguise?”

“Don’t be silly, of course I wasn’t. I just…well, I took Gulliver down by the river for his walk. And I…made the walk rather longer and slower than I normally would. You know, I let Gulliver sniff at anything along the towpath that he wanted to. And then later…”

“What did you do later, Carole?” asked Jude, trying to keep the smile off her face.

“I drove down in the Renault and…parked there for a while.”

“You mean you did a ‘stake-out’?”

“I don’t think there’s any need to call it that, but I did kind of…well, look out to see who was coming and going.”

“How long did you stay there?”

“Till it got dark. Then I came back home.”

“Good. Because I wouldn’t like to think of you being arrested for kerb-crawling.”

“Jude, I don’t know why you’re being so childish this evening.”

“No, nor do I. Sorry.”

“You may have lost interest in this murder investigation, but I haven’t.”

“Nor have I. I promise, I promise.”

“Good.” Carole sighed. “Oh, it’s so frustrating! We’ve got this woman’s name, we’ve got her mobile number, we know what she looks like, we have strong reason to believe she lives in Fethering, but we can’t find her.”

“I’m sure, if we worked out the right thing to say, we could leave a message on her mobile that would make her ring us back.”

“What? “Hello, we’re from the Reader’s Digest and we’re ringing to tell you you’ve won a quarter of a million pounds in our prize draw.””

“No, it’s got to be something she’ll believe. Nobody believes it when the Reader’s Digest says they’re going to win a quarter of a million pounds – they know they’re just being sold some rubbish CD. Maybe, if we just leave a message saying it’s in connection with the death of Tadeusz Jankowski…?”

“If Melanie Newton’s got anything to do with that, then there’s nothing that would frighten her off quicker.”

“No, I take your point. Well, we can ask around in Fethering, about new people who’ve just moved in.”

“Let’s be logical about it, Jude. If Melanie Newton only moved out of the Fedborough house in November and she moved into a new house of her own, surely her husband would have known about that. He’d have to, unless she’s got a lot of money of her own, which he implied she hadn’t. So that probably means she’s currently renting. We don’t have an in with any of the local estate agents, do we?”

“Well, perhaps we do. I was given a lift back here on Friday by Ewan Urquhart. Yes, I could give them a call.”

“I don’t think estate agents are meant to give out details of their clients, but I suppose he might respond to your ‘feminine wiles’.” Carole knew that Jude had these. She suspected that she herself didn’t.

“I’ll see how I go. And I think that’s probably all we can do at the moment. Are you going to continue your stake-out of the towpath of the River Fether tomorrow, Carole?”

“No, of course I’m not.”

“Well, Zosia should be able to contact Tadek’s friend Marek tomorrow. I’m pretty sure it was Tuesday he was due back. Let’s hope he knows something.”

The Polish girl did indeed speak to her brother’s friend the following morning. He was working in a cafe⁄bar⁄restaurant in Hove. His shift started at twelve, but if they could be there by eleven, he could spare time for them. He wanted to talk to Zofia; he still hadn’t taken in the news of his friend’s death.

“If we leave Brighton by twelve, can we be back in Fethering by one o’clock?” she had asked Jude.

“Certainly if we go by car. I’m sure Carole would be happy to drive us. But why do you need to be back by one?”

The girl had grinned. “Ted wants me to do another shift.”

“Ah, coming round to the idea of employing foreigners, is he?”

“You would not think so, the way he speak. It is only short term, he tell me, just till he gets his proper staff back. He has not said anything yet that he is pleased with me, with how I work for him.”

“The fact that he keeps asking you back means he must be.”

“But he do not say so.”

“God, Ted can sometimes be so curmudgeonly.”

“I’m sorry? I do not know this word.”

“I’m not surprised. Well, it means…” Jude had been perplexed as to how to explain it. “It means the way it sounds, really. Think of Ted, think of any other grumpy old man and yes, you know what curmudgeonly means.”

“Oh, thank you.”

That morning Jude put into practice a plan that she had been nursing for a while. Remembering the circular letter she’d had from Urquhart & Pease, she rang the office and asked to have her home valued. She spoke to Hamish Urquhart, who sounded surprisingly efficient, and they made an appointment for him to come to the house on the Thursday morning at ten. Jude thought, with the young man actually on her premises, she could easily question him about rentals in the area. And maybe get a lead to Melanie Newton.

Carole readily agreed to take on the role of driving to Hove, because that meant she would be part of the next stage of the investigation. And so at a quarter to ten on the Tuesday morning (Carole always left more time than was needed and she knew that parking in the Brighton conurbation was notoriously hard to find) the three women set off in her immaculate Renault. As it turned out, they found an empty meter easily and so reached their destination nearer half-past ten than eleven.

The place where Marek Wisniewski worked was in Church Road, Hove, which ran parallel to and up the hill from the sea front. Virtually every business there seemed to be a restaurant of one ethnicity or another. Hove had always had the image of being more staid and geriatric than its louche neighbour Brighton, but that was changing and its plethora of restaurants and clubs suggested that young people could thrive there too.

The ethnicity of Marek’s place of work had nothing to do with Poland. A glance at the menu suggested a more Mediterranean flavour, a mix of Italian, Greek and Turkish cuisine. But it was very much open for business at that hour in the morning – and indeed had been since seven-thirty – serving a variety of breakfasts and coffees to a predominantly youthful clientele, none of whom seemed in a great hurry to leave their conversation and newspapers to engage in the world of work. It felt a bit young to Carole, the kind of place she might have thought twice about entering on her own; she was glad to have Jude and Zofia with her.

The girl ordered for them, because she recognized the waitress also to be Polish and had a quick incomprehensible exchange with her. She would have a latte, Jude a cappuccino and Carole a ‘just ordinary coffee, black, thank you’. Zofia also established from the waitress that Marek was not in yet. Another exchange in Polish followed, which left both the girls laughing.

“She says,” Zofia explained, “it is good we fix to meet Marek at eleven. That means he will be in time for his twelve o’clock shift. He is not a good…what do you call it?”

“Time-keeper?” suggested Jude.

“Yes, that is it. So I know Marek has not changed. Always when Twarz are going to play some place, the other ones in the band are waiting for Marek.”

He finally put in an appearance round twenty past eleven. When he took off his anorak, he was wearing black trousers and a black shirt with the logo of the café embroidered on its short sleeves. Tall with a shaven head and mischievous blue eyes, Marek Wisniewski was greeted by Zofia with a kiss, immediately followed by what was clearly a dressing-down. Neither Carole nor Jude could understand a word of it, but the tone of voice and the body language made the nature of what the girl said absolutely clear.

When she had finished, Marek looked sheepish but not really cowed. “I tell him,” said Zofia, “it is bad to not be good time-keeper. It is bad for the image of Polish people here in England. Already people worry about us taking jobs. They call us ‘spongers’. We must show we are efficient and hard workers, so people cannot criticize us for that.”

Then Marek, completely unsubdued by his carpeting, was introduced to Carole and Jude. He smiled, shook hands and greeted them in English which was adequate, though his accent was much thicker than Zofia’s. He said how desolated he had been to hear of Tadek’s death. “He was good friend of me. I not really good musician, but he support me when I in band with him.”

Zofia had got out her blue notebook and was poised to record any information they got from Marek. Carole, too, was eager to get on with the business of investigation. “Did you see a lot of Tadek since he came to England?” she asked.

“A few times I see him. We are both busy with work. It is not always easy to meet. But we stay in touch…messages, texts on phone.”

“That’s a thought,” said Jude. “What happened to Tadek’s mobile phone? It wasn’t among the possessions that the police gave you, was it, Zosia?”

The girl shook her head. “Perhaps the police keep it still? To check the phone calls my brother make?”

“I should think that’s quite likely,” said Carole.

“Or perhaps,” suggested Marek, “the phone is taken from his room by the person who take his other things.”

“You’re certain that other things were taken from his room?”

“Yes. I go there to meet with Tadek at end of December. His room is like his room always is in Warsaw. Cassettes, CDs all over the place. And of course his guitar. When I go there two weeks ago none of these things is there.”

“So it does sound like someone cleaned them out,” said Jude.

“To avoid incriminating themselves,” added Carole. Then she fixed the focus of her pale blue eyes on the young Pole. “Zofia told us that you had said her brother definitely came over here because of a woman.”

“This is what he tell me, yes. With Tadek it is always a woman.” He and the girl exchanged wistful grins. “Always it is the big romance.”

“Which is not how you treat women, Marek,” said Zofia knowingly.

He grinned with shamefaced cockiness. “No, with me it is always the big sex.”

“So this girl you have just been away with for a week…?”

“It is very good, Zosia. Good sex.” He grinned again. “Now I think over. Time to move on.”

“You do not change, Marek.”

“I hope not. I like women very much, but not one woman,” he explained for the benefit of Carole and Jude.

Carole didn’t think tales of his philandering were really germane to the current discussion. “This woman,” she said, firmly redirecting the conversation, “did you know her name?”

“Tadek do not tell me. But he say she is very beautiful, he has never felt like this before, she is the one.” Again he and Zofia exchanged rueful smiles.

“Did he say where he’d met her?”

“Yes. It was at a music festival last summer. In Leipzig.”

“Ah,” said Jude, pleased to have at least one of her conjectures confirmed. Zofia wrote down the new fact in her notebook.

“Did he say whether the woman was older or younger than him?” asked Carole.

“No, he do not say.” Marek looked at Zofia for endorsement as he went on. “But with Tadek it is always older woman, no?”

The girl nodded. “Well,” said Carole, “there seems a strong likelihood that it was this woman…this older woman who cleared out his room of all his music stuff.”

The boy shrugged. “Perhaps. Do you know who this woman is?”

“We may do.” But Jude didn’t give any more information about Melanie Newton.

“I think,” said Zofia, “that Tadek would have written songs for this woman.”

“Oh yes,” Marek agreed. “Always if he is in love, he write songs.”

“But he didn’t play you any?” asked Jude.

“No. Tadek knows I not very good with music. Only a drummer. When he was asked about the line-up for his band, he always say old joke: “Three musicians and a drummer.” I join Twarz because I like other people, not because I have musical talent. Which is why,” he added philosophically, “the others ask me to leave. So no, Tadek does not play me any songs. If he want to discuss songs, it is always with Pavel.”

“I told you about him, Jude,” said Zofia. Then she explained for Carole’s benefit, “Pavel is the other song-writer in the band. Very close friend of my brother. They write songs together sometimes. If Tadek write a song, he probably show it to Pavel.”

“What, he’d post a copy to him?” asked Carole.

She had turned on her the young person’s stare that is reserved for Luddites and other dinosaurs. “No, he’d email the MP3.”

“Oh. Right,” Carole responded, as though she had a clue what was being said.

“Why didn’t I think of that before?” exclaimed Zofia.

“You speak to Pavel since Tadek die?” asked Marek.

“No, he is playing music in Krakow. But I will email him, ask if he has received anything from Tadek. If my brother had written new songs, I am sure he would have sent them to Pavel.”

“Aren’t the police likely to have been in touch with him?” asked Jude. “They would know the connection between the two of them.”

“Perhaps, The police in Poland maybe are following this up.”

“Speaking of the police,” said Carole severely. “I think you, Marek, should be in touch with them.”

“Oh?” Immediately he looked defensive, guilty even.

“The fact that you had been in Tadek’s room on the afternoon he was killed is something of which they should be informed,” she went on in her best Home Office manner.

“You think so?” the young man pleaded.

“Certainly. It’s your duty to do it. You will, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Marek wretchedly.

As she drove the Renault demurely along the coast road towards Fethering, Carole announced, “I’m very glad that Marek’s going to tell the police what he knows. It may be relevant to their enquiries.”

“Yes,” said Zofia. “I do not think he will do it, though.”

“What?”

“Marek does not want dealings with the police.”

“Why? Is there something wrong with his immigration status?”

“No. He just does not want dealings with the police.”

“You mean you don’t think he will get in touch with them?”

“No. I am sure he won’t.”

Carole snorted with exasperation. Jude didn’t say anything, but she was delighted.