round here.’
‘Well, today’s your lucky day,’ said Dave. ‘You’ve found two now.’
‘Oh! That’s nice.’ Yvonne served our drinks. ‘I’ll see if the guv’nor’s about.’
Moments later, a dapper individual appeared behind the bar. He was short, slightly built, and his black hair was heavily greased so that it lay flat on his head, giving him the appearance of a gigolo rather than a pub landlord, an impression enhanced by his pencil-thin moustache. He certainly had the look of a sickeningly enthusiastic ballroom dancer.
‘I’m the licensee, gentlemen. Yvonne tells me you’re from the police. There isn’t any trouble, I hope.’
‘We haven’t found any yet, Mr . . .?’ Dave opened his pocketbook and waggled his pen.
‘Mr Butler.’
‘First name?’
‘Reginald. Reginald Butler.’
‘I understand that Kerry Trucking holds its Christmas party here, Mr Butler.’
‘Yes, that’s right, every Christmas Eve, but they’re never any trouble.’
‘I don’t much care if they are, Mr Butler,’ I said, taking a sip of my beer. ‘D’you know any of the people from there?’
‘Oh, yes. They’re a nice bunch. Their Mr Bligh is the one who makes all the arrangements. They invite all the staff every year: office people, drivers, everyone. And that Mrs Hammond always comes. She’s the boss, you know. Mind you, she wasn’t here this Christmas just gone.’
‘She wouldn’t have been. She was murdered on Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh, good grief, surely not?’ Butler fingered his moustache. ‘I didn’t see anything about that in the papers.’
‘That’s because it hasn’t been released to the press,’ said Dave, ‘and we’d be obliged if you’d keep it to yourself for the time being. Otherwise you’ll find that your pub is suddenly full of journalists, and they’re notorious for not buying a drink.’
‘What a terrible shock,’ said Butler, clearly stunned by the news. ‘Who would’ve wanted to murder Kerry?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish,’ I said. ‘Mr Bligh has told us that he was here on Christmas Eve, with his wife and Mr and Mrs Thorpe. D’you know if that’s the case?’
Butler glanced at his barmaid. ‘Yvonne, you were looking after the Kerry party on Christmas Eve. Perhaps you can answer these officers’ questions.’ He glanced down the bar, and then back at me. ‘D’you mind if I serve those customers?’ he asked, indicating a couple of thirsty-looking men.
‘No, you carry on, Mr Butler.’ I’d already come to the conclusion that Yvonne was likely to know more about the party than her boss.
‘It’s always a big do,’ said Yvonne. ‘Must’ve been about a hundred of them all told. The staff bring their partners, and I think there’s one or two of their clients who get invited. But Kerry Hammond wasn’t here this year, or her husband, but now that I hear she’s been murdered, I know why.’
‘They’d planned a holiday in New York,’ I said, ‘but only Mr Hammond got there.’
‘What a bleedin’ tragedy, her getting killed,’ said Yvonne, shaking her head. ‘Life and soul of the party, that girl was.’
‘Really?’ said Dave. ‘In what way?’
‘Well . . .’ Yvonne leaned forward, resting her folded arms on the bar and revealing an inch or two more of cleavage. ‘The Christmas before this one just gone, she turned up in the skimpiest Father Christmas outfit you’ve ever seen. Nothing to it, there wasn’t. Short skirt, bare midriff and a low-cut bra, all in red furry stuff, and she was wearing black tights and heels the height of Blackpool Tower. Left nothing to the imagination, I can tell you, love. Not something I’d wear. Mind you, I might’ve done twenty years ago.’ She sighed and her face assumed a wistful expression. ‘And she wasn’t above putting herself about.’
‘Meaning what?’ I asked.
‘Flirting with all the men, and at one stage she disappeared for about half an hour with her
‘Well, today’s your lucky day,’ said Dave. ‘You’ve found two now.’
‘Oh! That’s nice.’ Yvonne served our drinks. ‘I’ll see if the guv’nor’s about.’
Moments later, a dapper individual appeared behind the bar. He was short, slightly built, and his black hair was heavily greased so that it lay flat on his head, giving him the appearance of a gigolo rather than a pub landlord, an impression enhanced by his pencil-thin moustache. He certainly had the look of a sickeningly enthusiastic ballroom dancer.
‘I’m the licensee, gentlemen. Yvonne tells me you’re from the police. There isn’t any trouble, I hope.’
‘We haven’t found any yet, Mr . . .?’ Dave opened his pocketbook and waggled his pen.
‘Mr Butler.’
‘First name?’
‘Reginald. Reginald Butler.’
‘I understand that Kerry Trucking holds its Christmas party here, Mr Butler.’
‘Yes, that’s right, every Christmas Eve, but they’re never any trouble.’
‘I don’t much care if they are, Mr Butler,’ I said, taking a sip of my beer. ‘D’you know any of the people from there?’
‘Oh, yes. They’re a nice bunch. Their Mr Bligh is the one who makes all the arrangements. They invite all the staff every year: office people, drivers, everyone. And that Mrs Hammond always comes. She’s the boss, you know. Mind you, she wasn’t here this Christmas just gone.’
‘She wouldn’t have been. She was murdered on Christmas Eve.’
‘Oh, good grief, surely not?’ Butler fingered his moustache. ‘I didn’t see anything about that in the papers.’
‘That’s because it hasn’t been released to the press,’ said Dave, ‘and we’d be obliged if you’d keep it to yourself for the time being. Otherwise you’ll find that your pub is suddenly full of journalists, and they’re notorious for not buying a drink.’
‘What a terrible shock,’ said Butler, clearly stunned by the news. ‘Who would’ve wanted to murder Kerry?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish,’ I said. ‘Mr Bligh has told us that he was here on Christmas Eve, with his wife and Mr and Mrs Thorpe. D’you know if that’s the case?’
Butler glanced at his barmaid. ‘Yvonne, you were looking after the Kerry party on Christmas Eve. Perhaps you can answer these officers’ questions.’ He glanced down the bar, and then back at me. ‘D’you mind if I serve those customers?’ he asked, indicating a couple of thirsty-looking men.
‘No, you carry on, Mr Butler.’ I’d already come to the conclusion that Yvonne was likely to know more about the party than her boss.
‘It’s always a big do,’ said Yvonne. ‘Must’ve been about a hundred of them all told. The staff bring their partners, and I think there’s one or two of their clients who get invited. But Kerry Hammond wasn’t here this year, or her husband, but now that I hear she’s been murdered, I know why.’
‘They’d planned a holiday in New York,’ I said, ‘but only Mr Hammond got there.’
‘What a bleedin’ tragedy, her getting killed,’ said Yvonne, shaking her head. ‘Life and soul of the party, that girl was.’
‘Really?’ said Dave. ‘In what way?’
‘Well . . .’ Yvonne leaned forward, resting her folded arms on the bar and revealing an inch or two more of cleavage. ‘The Christmas before this one just gone, she turned up in the skimpiest Father Christmas outfit you’ve ever seen. Nothing to it, there wasn’t. Short skirt, bare midriff and a low-cut bra, all in red furry stuff, and she was wearing black tights and heels the height of Blackpool Tower. Left nothing to the imagination, I can tell you, love. Not something I’d wear. Mind you, I might’ve done twenty years ago.’ She sighed and her face assumed a wistful expression. ‘And she wasn’t above putting herself about.’
‘Meaning what?’ I asked.
‘Flirting with all the men, and at one stage she disappeared for about half an hour with her
Similar Books
