Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand by Ann Cleeves

read it to him.”
    “Did it cheer him up?”
    “No. He didn’t seem to find it funny at all.”
    They left Ella and Jack’s warm kitchen reluctantly. George was more eager to go than Molly, who was enjoying the conversation. She always felt at home and relaxed there. George felt restless, uncertain. All the information he had gained during the day led in circles. The frustration and helplessness were returning. It was his fault. He should have asked different questions of different people. The only person to claim to see the body was mentally defective; and they had allowed him to run away!
    But now, at least, he had some information. He had something to work on. He knew that he would sleep badly. Even in sleep his mind would be working, sorting through the information. He could feel already the tension of insomnia.
    It was to put off the moment when he would have to attempt to sleep that he went into the bar. It was very near to closing time. The bar had been unpleasantly modernized and there was a lot of noise. George regretted the restlessness which had made him leave Ella’s kitchen. A large young man, with long greasy hair tied back in a pony tail, still wearing the check trousers which identified him as a member of the kitchen staff, was sitting at the bar. He seemed to be telling a rude, unfunny joke to the barman. The barman, who had seen George enter and seemed inclined to serve him, motioned to the big man to stop.
    “Now now, Den. Tell me later.”
    George looked with renewed interest at the other customer. Dennis. The chef who had gone drinking with Tom. He ordered a drink for himself, then with an exaggerated politeness asked if he could buy Dennis a drink. The young man expressed surprise at his good fortune rather than thanks, but allowed himself to be taken to a corner where they would not be overheard.
    “I’m interested in finding out how Tom French died,” George said. He was in no mood for subtlety. “ I understand that you were a friend of his.”
    “Well, I don’t know about a friend. We used to have a few drinks together after work.” He had a West Country accent. He was very suspicious.
    “I was talking to Terry this evening. He seemed to imply that you and Tom were friends.” George was at his most pompous.
    “Terry!” Dennis’s derision was directed not only at Terry, but at George for being so gullible. “You don’t want to listen to him.”
    George was goaded into direct attack.
    “Someone working at this hotel smokes cannabis. Is it you?”
    Dennis was frightened.
    “Don’t you talk like that. If anyone hears you I could lose my job.”
    “So you admit that you do?”
    “No, of course I don’t.”
    “Where did you get it from? From Tom French?”
    “Tom? Tom never smoked.” The astonishment in that reply at least seemed genuine to George.
    Dennis had answered the questions despite himself, but after his last outburst he seemed to realize what he was doing. He stood up, levering his huge body off the chair by leaning on the table. He thrust his face towards George.
    “You leave me alone,” he said. “You hear. You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
    With a swagger, he left the room.
    The next day Molly went to find Terry. She waited until the receptionist was answering the telephone before going through the door marked “Staff Only.” The corridor was dirty and untidy, cluttered with furniture awaiting repair, tools, overalls. Terry was alone in the kitchen. He was leaning over a huge sink. His hair was long in the front, and he was peering through it, concentrating hard on the pan he was cleaning. He heard Molly close the door behind her.
    “You get out of here,” he said. “You’re not allowed in here. Dennis, he’ll have a fit if he sees you in here.”
    “You promised to tell me all about Tom. Look, I’ve brought you some cigarettes.”
    She held the packet towards him. But he was very nervous because she was in the kitchen, and it was forbidden