The Price of Butcher's Meat

13

After interviewing Sidney Parker, Hat Bowler had planned to drive down North Cliff Road to call on the next witness on his list, a woman called Lee who lived near the bottom of the hill in a house with the suggestive name of Witch Cottage.

But what Parker had told him, plus some further information extracted during the course of an enjoyably flirty fifteen-minute chat with the hotel receptionist, made him change his mind. The way these country folk gossiped, it wouldn’t be long before everyone on the team knew that Hen Hollis, who’d designed the hog roast machinery, was a notorious hater of the victim. So no point hanging around if he wanted to be ahead of the pack, by which of course he meant Shirley Novello.

According to the receptionist, Hen lived in a cottage just off the coast road a couple of miles south of the town. Her directions proved less than helpful. She assumed that everyone knew when she said first left, she didn’t include a tarmacked lane that quickly turned into a boggy track leading nowhere. And what need to mention what surely everyone was aware of, that the first cottage he’d come to was occupied by a reclusive smallholder with a pack of underfed hell-hounds?

Finally, feeling like the pilgrim at the end of his progress, he reached his destination, only to confirm what his ill-divining heart had been telling him for half an hour, that Hen Hollis was not at home.

Now was the moment to put it all down to experience and get back on track by retracing his steps and calling at Witch Cottage, saying a prayer that Wield wouldn’t notice the lost time. But seeing that he could reenter Sandytown by South Cliff Road, he decided to vary his interview route and call in on Alan Hollis at the Hope and Anchor. Never miss a chance of going into a pub, that’s what Andy Dalziel once said in his hearing. Also it might give him a lead on Hen Hollis.

He had no problem finding the pub. On the main street, freshly painted, with a colorful sign showing a scantily clad, curvaceous blonde (presumably Hope) sitting on a rather priapic anchor, it had an inviting look about it, an impression confirmed when he opened the barroom door. In some Yorkshire pubs, the appearance of a stranger cuts off conversation like a toad in the blancmange, but the atmosphere of the Hope and Anchor wrapped itself around you like a comfortable old coat.

The room was busy with family parties enjoying such delicacies as fish and chips or steak and kidney pie, no Mediterranean salads here despite the warm weather. The cooking smells caressed Hat’s taste buds and for a moment he was tempted.

But professionalism won and when a young barwoman, who could have modeled for Hope, asked him what he fancied, he said he was looking for Alan Hollis.

“He’s next door in the snug,” she said, sounding faintly disappointed. “Sure you won’t have a drink?”

Hat hadn’t bothered much with girls since an earlier relationship had ended in tragedy, but he’d enjoyed his chat with the girl at the hotel, despite its unsatisfactory outcome, and now found himself smiling at this one and saying, “Later, maybe.”

By contrast with the main room, the snug wasn’t quite so welcoming. There were only two customers here, one in a corner, his head buried in a copy of the Mid-York News, and one leaning on the bar talking to the barman.

On Hat’s approach, the standing customer, a man rising seventy, lean and unshaven, with a faint odor of the farmyard about him and an ill-tempered face whose sharp angles were accentuated rather than concealed by an ill-kept beard, glared at him as if not best pleased at being disturbed.

By contrast, the man behind the bar gave him a pleasant, perhaps even relieved, smile and said, “What can I get you, sir?”

“Mr. Hollis, is it?” said Hat.

The two men exchanged glances, then the barman said, “Alan Hollis, yes.”

Hat showed his ID and said, “Wonder if I might have a quick word, sir.”

The other man raised his glass to his lips, downed the last gill, then made for the door, lighting a cigarette as he exited so that he was illegal for a good couple of seconds.

An act of courtesy? wondered Hat. Or simply nicotine starvation?

“It’s about poor Lady Denham, is it?” said Hollis.

“That’s right,” said Hat. “We want to talk to everyone who was at the party.”

“Naturally, though I don’t think I’ll be able to help you much.”

“It all helps build a picture, sir. So what time did you arrive at the hall?”

“I had to be there early-about half twelve, I think it was. You see, the drink had all been supplied through the pub, and I needed to set up the bar tables-”

“But you were there as a guest, not just as a supplier?” interrupted Hat.

“Right. The hog roast weren’t just social. Idea was to bring all the elements of Sandytown’s development plan together: commerce, tourism, the authority, and so on.”

“And as well as an invite, you were lucky enough to get the drinks concession?”

Hollis smiled.

“Luck hardly came into it,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“You don’t know? Lady Denham is…was my landlord. She owns…owned the Hope and Anchor. I’m just her manager. Owt to do with drink, she made sure the profit came the pub’s way.”

“But, as the hostess, she’d be paying for it anyway, right?”

“Wrong. Consortium were paying. Consortium’s the private-investment side of the development, mainly her and Tom Parker, plus a couple of others.”

“Then she’d still be paying as a leading partner?”

“Aye, but just a share and indirectly, whereas all the pub profits go to her. That’s why the bubbly were proper champagne, not the cava she usually feeds her guests. She were a careful lady.”

This wasn’t offered in a recriminatory tone. In Yorkshire being careful was not regarded as a failing.

“Now take me through the party as you saw it, sir. Naturally, any contact you had with Lady Denham would be particularly interesting.”

In fact it wasn’t. Hollis said he’d only spoken to the woman once and that was fairly early on, to reassure her there was plenty of drink in reserve. As for noticing any behavior that might be pertinent to the murder, he was a blank.

“I were at it nonstop serving drink for the first couple of hours. Them councilors were putting it away like camels heading out into the Gobi. If it hadn’t been for that cousin of Lady Denham’s helping me, I doubt if I’d have managed.”

“That would be Miss Brereton,” said Hat.

“Aye. Young Clara. Then when the storm started, the pair of us were scuttling around shifting the drinks table into the house before it got washed away.”

“But not the food?” said Hat, remembering the sight of all that soggy grub resting forlorn on the long trestle tables in front of the house.

“Not my concern,” said Hollis. “Any road, food spoilt’s the same as food eaten, drink undrunk is returnable.”

After the discovery of the body, when he saw people were beginning to leave, he had collected any unopened bottles, loaded them into his van, and driven back to the pub.

“I’d always planned to be back early anyway. This is a busy time of year for us.”

Not so busy you didn’t feel able to shut yourself in the snug having a tête-à-tête with your shabby friend, thought Hat.

“Your name, sir,” he said. “Hollis. Wasn’t Lady Denham married to a Mr. Hollis?”

“That’s right. Her first husband. I’m a cousin, once removed. We’re a large family.”

“And close,” said Hat. “Her taking you on as manager here, I mean.”

“It was Hog, that was her first husband, as gave me the job. But Lady D were happy for me to carry on. She rated family loyalty, so long as it were two way.”

“Like with you, right? But not with her brother-in-law, Mr. Hen Hollis, I gather. Wasn’t there some tension between them?”

The man looked at him quizzically and said, “Mebbe there was, mebbe there wasn’t. Pity, if he hadn’t shot off, you could have asked him yourself.”

Hat digested this, then said, “That was Hen you were talking to when I came in.”

“Oh aye. Didn’t you know? No, I suppose you wouldn’t have done.”

Shit! thought Hat. I had him in my sights. Wait till Novello hears about this!

“So what were you talking about, sir?” he asked. “I mean, I’d guess the murder must have been mentioned. What did Mr. Hen Hollis have to say about it?”

“Not a lot.”

“Wasn’t he pleased?”

Hollis looked shocked.

“Now hold on! All right, they didn’t see eye to eye, and I doubt if Hen’ll go into deep mourning, but in these parts we know how to behave. We don’t go around gloating when folk we don’t like get murdered.”

“Sorry,” said Hat. “All I meant was-”

He was saved from having to explain what he meant by the sound of the door opening behind him and Hollis’s expression turning from indignant reproach to a broad smile as he said, “Can’t find a copper anywhere, then two come along at once. Usual, Jug?”

Hat turned to see a uniformed sergeant coming into the room. A stockily built man in his late forties, he looked red faced and harassed.

“Aye, and I reckon I’ve earned it. I’ve been running around like a blue-arsed flea for two hours now, looking for yon daft cousin on thine. I trailed all the way out to Lowbridge, but he’s not been home all day. So I went up to the Lonely Duck to see if he’d fetched up there, and the beck in Bale Bottom had overflowed in the storm, and I got stuck and had to get Jimmy Kilne to haul me out with his tractor. And when I finally made it to the Duck, they’d seen nowt of him, so I came on round by the moor road, not wanting to risk the Bottom again, and thought I might as well try the Black Lamb, but he weren’t there either, so here I am back where I started from. You’ve not seen owt of him, have you, Alan?”

Hollis laughed and said, “Aye, he were in here an hour ago, mebbe a bit longer. You could have saved yourself a trip if you’d only thought on!”

“Excuse me,” said Hat, “but who’re we talking about?”

The sergeant looked at him with distaste and said, “This is police business, sir. I’d be grateful if you didn’t interfere.”

Hat said, “Yes, I know it’s police business, Sergeant,” and produced his ID.

The man studied it carefully, then said, “You’ll be one of Ed Wield’s lads?”

“That’s right. Bowler. Hat Bowler.”

“Oh aye. I’m Whitby. If you work for Ed, I suppose you’re all right. What are you doing here then?”

Hat explained and in return learned there was yet another Hollis in the offing, Ollie the hog roast man. As this exchange took place, the landlord drew two pints of beer. Whitby downed most of his in a single draft. Hat saw no reason not to follow superior example.

The door from the main bar opened and the curvaceous girl came in.

“Running out of Buds, Alan,” she said. “How do, Sergeant Whitby.”

“How do, Jenny,” said Whitby.

“I’ll bring some up,” said Hollis. “Here, take these to be going on with.”

He plucked half a dozen bottles from the refrigeration unit.

“So, Alan,” said Whitby, “did Ollie say which direction he were heading in when he left? If I’ve got to drive all the way out to Lowbridge again, I’ll kill him.”

Hollis’s brow furrowed as if in the effort of recollection. Jenny paused on her way out, clutching the armful of bottles to her bosom. That will take the chill off them, thought Hat longingly. The chat with the receptionist seemed to have raised his blood temperature a couple of degrees.

She said, “You’re looking for Ollie? Oh, he were in a bad way, weren’t he, Alan? Not surprising after what happened up at the hall. Any excitement and it brings on one of his attacks. He could scarcely breathe, I thought it might be an ambulance job, but he sucked on that device of his and when he got a bit better, he said only thing that would put him right were a session with Miss Lee.”

Alan Hollis said, “That’s right, Jug. I was just going to say, if you’re looking for Ollie, your next stop should be Witch Cottage.”

Witch Cottage. Miss Lee. Whom Hat had pushed down his list. Couldn’t make that much difference. Could it?

“Should have thought of that meself,” said Whitby, finishing his beer. “Seeing that poor woman dead’s stultified me brain. I’ll get myself up there and hope he’s not left.”

“Hang on, Sarge, I’ll come with you,” said Hat.

“If you like,” said Whitby without enthusiasm.

As the door closed behind them, the customer in the corner lowered his paper, finished his drink, and took the glass to the bar.

“Same again, sir?” said Hollis.

“Better not. Lovely pint, but I’m driving,” said Sammy Ruddlesdin. “See you again sometime.”

He went through the door.

Ahead of him as he walked to the car park, Hat was saying to Sergeant Whitby, “This Miss Lee, she does what exactly?”

“Acupuncturist. One of Tom Parker’s funny buggers. Don’t see how sticking needles into folks works, mesel’,” said Whitby. “But the proof of the pudding’s in the eating, and there’s no doubt Ollie’s a different man after a session at Witch Cottage.”

Any expectations roused by the name were disappointed a few minutes later when Hat got his first clear view of the cottage. Okay, it looked pretty ancient, but not very witchy. In fact, it looked extremely well kept and rather attractive in an olde worlde kind of way. Of course, appearances could deceive. Perhaps the little garden contained exotic herbs, one sprig of which could put you in a trance or make you fall madly in love or cure you of the quinsy. If so, they were well hidden by the hollyhocks and mesembryanthemums.

At the very least there should have been a door knocker in the form of a skull. Instead there was a modern bell push that Whitby ignored, pushing open the door that stood slightly ajar.

They stepped into a tiny hallway, and the sergeant shouted, “Hello! Miss Lee!”

There was the sound of movement behind a half-open door to the left.

Being the closer to it, Hat pushed it fully open and said, “Miss Lee?” brightly, because that’s what his lips were programmed to say, even though his mind was already calculating the odds against Miss Lee having a grizzled black beard. Still, in this day and age, especially when you were investigating the death of an elderly titled lady roasted in her own hog basket, it would be silly to rule anything out.

Later he realized these irrelevant thoughts were the smoke screen his subconscious was trailing across his conscious mind in an effort to soften the full grotesquerie of what he was seeing.

The bearded man had half turned toward the door, his face a picture of guilt surprised. He was standing next to a table with a padded top. On it, facedown, lay a man, stripped to the waist, his head resting on his crossed arms. From his naked back and shoulders protruded perhaps half a dozen of what looked like quills, four or five inches long, stripped of their feathers, leaving just a touch of color at the tip.

Except for one.

This one, in the middle of the back near the top of the spine, only protruded a couple of inches at most and the bearded man’s right hand was still clasped tight about it.

Hat felt himself shouldered aside as Whitby shoved by him.

“Right, you bugger, let’s be having you,” he shouted.

The man put up no resistance as Whitby forced his hands behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. He then pushed the prisoner toward Hat, saying, “Watch him!” and turned his attention to the figure on the table.

The bearded man looked straight into Hat’s eyes. He seemed to be trying to say something, but no words came.

Whitby had raised the prone figure’s head. His fingers ran down the neck, seeking a pulse. Finally he replaced the head gently on the crossed arms.

“He’s dead,” he said disbelievingly.

“Is it Hollis?” demanded Hat fearfully.

“Aye, it’s Ollie. He’s dead!”

It was as if saying it a second time brought home the truth of the situation.

He spun round, thrust his face close to the prisoner’s, and said with quiet savagery, “You bastard! If there were any justice left in this soft bloody country, you’d hang for this!”

Then to Hat, in a voice full of a frustration that rang in the young constable’s ears like accusation, “Five minutes! If only we’d got here five minutes earlier!”