Sins of the Fathers by Patricia Hall Page A

have a talk about Linda Christie.’
    Foster was as tall and as broad as Thackeray himself but his expression was difficult to read behind the dark beard, which hid his mouth and gave him a slightly piratical air of menace. His eyes remained deeply unfriendly as he surveyed his visitors.
    ‘Oh, aye?’ he said. ‘And what about Linda Christie?’
    ‘Are you married, Mr Foster?’ Thackeray asked.
    ‘I am,’ the landlord said. ‘You can’t run a place like this on your own. My wife takes care of the catering. We’re not one of these poncey gastro-pubs, but we do sandwiches and snacks. You have to these days. Folk want to eat while they drink in case you lot catch’em over the limit on the way home.’
    ‘Is your wife in?’ Thackeray asked. The question was straightforward but Mower knew from the tension that it generated that it carried a heavy weight. There was a battle of wills going on between the other two men which he did not quite understand yet.
    ‘She’s gone to the cash and carry,’ Foster said. ‘Won’t be back for an hour.’
    ‘You’re in luck, then,’ Thackeray said.
    Foster said nothing but Thackeray merely waited as the silence between them grew electric. In the end, thelandlord shrugged in surrender and ran a hand across his mouth and beard.
    ‘Some beggars been gossiping, have they? We thought we’d been pretty careful.’
    ‘You were having an affair with Linda Christie?’ Thackeray asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.
    ‘If you could call it that,’ Foster said bitterly. ‘It was hardly Footballers’ Wives. It was pathetic really, looking back. We got to know each other a bit last summer when we were both involved at the school. For me, it was more like running a branch of the Samaritans than owt else, as it goes. She was desperate for someone to talk to about Gordon and at first that’s all we did. She’d come in here for a lemonade or summat after the meetings, something he wouldn’t pick up on her breath, and I’d walk her back up the lane to see she got home safely.’
    ‘But it went further than that?’ Thackeray persisted.
    ‘In the end, yes. We went up on the moors in the car, like a couple of teenagers. I knew it was stupid, I knew Gordon Christie was a stroppy bastard and he’d go ape if he found out. And my missus wouldn’t have been best pleased, neither. But you know how it is. Two unhappy marriages and the chance offers? You take it, don’t you?’
    ‘Did you not think that you were putting Mrs Christie at risk?’ Thackeray found it hard to keep the contempt he felt for Foster out of his voice. He bunched his fists inside the pockets of his coat until the nails dug into the palms.
    ‘I didn’t think he was such a mad beggar as he turned out to be, no,’ Foster said. ‘No one could have known that.’
    ‘And you didn’t think that this was something you should have told us when the worst happened up at MoorEdge cottage? Two dead, two missing and another life hanging in the balance and you said nothing when the village was full of police asking questions. Did you really not think it was relevant to Linda’s murder?’
    ‘It wouldn’t have helped you find Gordon, would it?’ Foster flashed back. ‘He was an evil-tempered bastard. Summat like this could have happened any road, whatever I did. Whatever Linda did, for that matter. I told her to leave him. I told her to take the kids and get out. But she wouldn’t listen. The man was paranoid. He was running from something, though she never let on what – if she even knew. He’d sit in here of an evening wi’ his back to t’wall, twitching every time the door opened. Strangers came in and he’d be off, not even finishing his pint half the time. He was a nutter, was Gordon Christie but nothing I said could persuade her to get out while she could.’
    Foster shrugged, his face putty coloured and drawn beneath the beard.
    ‘I tried to persuade her, believe me, I did,’ he said,