was the last time we met.’
‘Maybe cancer,’ she said. ‘Why would anyone suffering from cancer go for a long trip to Colombia? He looked like shit in the film. Wasted. You know what a wonderful physique he had. A rower’s build. But in that film . . . Maybe he needed treatment.’
‘Whether he was ill, or not, has nothing to do with the coroner’s court. Our business is to establish the cause of death, not what someone might die from if they’re lucky enough to live to eighty.’
‘You know, Tony, I think you’re full of it. You come over as this self-effacing guy, this bachelor who eats on his own, a little disappointed maybe, down-trodden.’
‘I’m divorced, of course I’m bloody well disappointed and down-trodden. ’
‘But I know you’re different than that.’
‘In this country educated people still say different f rom , not different than.’
‘And I know you’re smarter than you’re letting on. In my job I see a lot of men come into the room and throw their weight around. I never pay any mind to them. The ones I’ve learned to watch are the people like you. I know you, Tony. I know you asked all these questions yourself and you’ve gotten more answers than you told them because nobody of your intelligence could have failed to ask them.’
He looked up and shook his head. ‘You just said all that in near-perfect American idiom. You know, you could pass for an American. Look, I wish I was the man you describe but I’m not.’ His eyes flicked to the door. She turned to see a slim black man looking in their direction. Swift gave a tiny shake of his head and the man vanished.
‘A friend?’ she asked.
‘An associate,’ he said. ‘It can wait.’
‘Maybe Eyam’s other friends can help me. Was there anyone special in his life?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘What about his interest in the bell ringers? Did he do any kind of work? Diana Kidd says not, so what the hell did he do out here for two years?
‘Why are you asking all this?’
‘No more diversions - just tell me about his friends,’ she said and then she realised that along the way she had struck a nerve because Tony Swift’s expression had become several degrees more resistant. ‘I met some people at the wake today - Chris Mooney, Evan Thomas and Alice Scudamore. Know any others?’
He began to reel off the names. She looked in her bag for some paper, ignored the envelopes containing the will and the letter, and withdrew the list for the Eyam dinner. On the back she wrote the names of Danny Church, picture framer and sometime journalist; Michelle Grey, a divorcee who lived with the town’s best restaurateur; Andy Sessions and Rick Jeffreys, partners in a web design business; Penny Whitehead, a former probation officer now a local councillor and Paul Sutton, a retired publisher who with Diana Kidd was involved in the Assembly Rooms. He told her that Chris Mooney was a portrait photographer and Alice Scudamore a writer.
The contrast between the list for Eyam’s dinner and the people he mixed with in High Castle couldn’t have been starker. On one side of the piece of paper Mermagen had handed to her during the wake were some of the most powerful people in the land, all of whom knew Eyam well enough for them to travel to his funeral and attend a dinner in his memory; on the other side were his new friends, people you’d find in any provincial town in England making their lives in decent, humdrum obscurity.
Finally Swift wiped his mouth with a napkin and gazed at her with his tongue searching some particle of food lodged in his upper gum.
‘What is it? What do you want me to ask you?’ she said.
‘Anything. It’s not often that I am out with such a beautiful woman.’
‘These people: I know it sounds snobbish but they all seem a bit, well, underpowered for Eyam.’
‘They’re good people,’ he said firmly. ‘And nearly every one of them is suffering because they were friends with
‘Maybe cancer,’ she said. ‘Why would anyone suffering from cancer go for a long trip to Colombia? He looked like shit in the film. Wasted. You know what a wonderful physique he had. A rower’s build. But in that film . . . Maybe he needed treatment.’
‘Whether he was ill, or not, has nothing to do with the coroner’s court. Our business is to establish the cause of death, not what someone might die from if they’re lucky enough to live to eighty.’
‘You know, Tony, I think you’re full of it. You come over as this self-effacing guy, this bachelor who eats on his own, a little disappointed maybe, down-trodden.’
‘I’m divorced, of course I’m bloody well disappointed and down-trodden. ’
‘But I know you’re different than that.’
‘In this country educated people still say different f rom , not different than.’
‘And I know you’re smarter than you’re letting on. In my job I see a lot of men come into the room and throw their weight around. I never pay any mind to them. The ones I’ve learned to watch are the people like you. I know you, Tony. I know you asked all these questions yourself and you’ve gotten more answers than you told them because nobody of your intelligence could have failed to ask them.’
He looked up and shook his head. ‘You just said all that in near-perfect American idiom. You know, you could pass for an American. Look, I wish I was the man you describe but I’m not.’ His eyes flicked to the door. She turned to see a slim black man looking in their direction. Swift gave a tiny shake of his head and the man vanished.
‘A friend?’ she asked.
‘An associate,’ he said. ‘It can wait.’
‘Maybe Eyam’s other friends can help me. Was there anyone special in his life?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘What about his interest in the bell ringers? Did he do any kind of work? Diana Kidd says not, so what the hell did he do out here for two years?
‘Why are you asking all this?’
‘No more diversions - just tell me about his friends,’ she said and then she realised that along the way she had struck a nerve because Tony Swift’s expression had become several degrees more resistant. ‘I met some people at the wake today - Chris Mooney, Evan Thomas and Alice Scudamore. Know any others?’
He began to reel off the names. She looked in her bag for some paper, ignored the envelopes containing the will and the letter, and withdrew the list for the Eyam dinner. On the back she wrote the names of Danny Church, picture framer and sometime journalist; Michelle Grey, a divorcee who lived with the town’s best restaurateur; Andy Sessions and Rick Jeffreys, partners in a web design business; Penny Whitehead, a former probation officer now a local councillor and Paul Sutton, a retired publisher who with Diana Kidd was involved in the Assembly Rooms. He told her that Chris Mooney was a portrait photographer and Alice Scudamore a writer.
The contrast between the list for Eyam’s dinner and the people he mixed with in High Castle couldn’t have been starker. On one side of the piece of paper Mermagen had handed to her during the wake were some of the most powerful people in the land, all of whom knew Eyam well enough for them to travel to his funeral and attend a dinner in his memory; on the other side were his new friends, people you’d find in any provincial town in England making their lives in decent, humdrum obscurity.
Finally Swift wiped his mouth with a napkin and gazed at her with his tongue searching some particle of food lodged in his upper gum.
‘What is it? What do you want me to ask you?’ she said.
‘Anything. It’s not often that I am out with such a beautiful woman.’
‘These people: I know it sounds snobbish but they all seem a bit, well, underpowered for Eyam.’
‘They’re good people,’ he said firmly. ‘And nearly every one of them is suffering because they were friends with
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