with the village bobby, or am I?’
He blinked. ‘Village bobby? Is there one?’
‘Of course not. Not in these days of improved service to the community. But there’s a decent sized cop shop in Taunton. There’d be someone there you could talk to, surely to goodness.’
‘Not the most popular people, retired officers trying to tell those still serving what to do,’ he mused, sinking into officialese as if it were a pair of comfy slippers.
‘Not even when you come with evidence?’
‘I have no evidence. Not unless you want me to exhume a dead cat from Sue Clayton’s back garden.’ He changed direction with an almost audible crunching of gears worthy of Sue herself. ‘Isn’t there someone from the church who could help her with that? Dig it over, plant a few low-maintenance shrubs? It’s clear she can’t manage it on her own.’
‘Maybe you should lead the way by offering her driving lessons ,’I said, hoping he’d spot the glint in my eye.
‘I’ll dare if you dare offer to put her car through a carwash first,’ he responded, colour returning to his face. ‘Thanks for the breakfast. Look, Josie, it’s clear you’re not geared up for paying guests at the moment. But if you’re right, and there is something going on round here, it’d make some sort of sense for me to stay where I am. Would it be inconvenient? It’s not as if I want five star service, bed linen and towels changed every ten minutes. And I could eat in the bar. And I’d pay in advance, if you want.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘Until you find your feet, at least.’ Goodness knew what the village would say, the two of us holed up together. Half of me wanted to wave a couple of fingers in the air and tell them to count them. The other half wondered if a bit of chaperonage in the form of Tom’s pregnant Sharon might not be a good idea. I’d phone Tom when he’d had time to wake up – apart from his Sundays with me, Tom worked one of the late night shifts at an M5 service station, a job he was hopelessly overqualified for. ‘And there’s no need to pay in advance. That room of yours is so… Seventies? Sixties, even?… I don’t like charging for it.’
‘You might as well – I shall be chalking it up for my insurance claim,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘And meals, too.’
‘You shall have a bill, then – all properly receipted. That’s why I stopped buying my meat from Reg Bulcombe’s crony,’ I added. ‘No paperwork. All cash in hand.’
He laughed. ‘So you did take some notice of what I was saying about BSE, then!’
‘I had a good surf round the Internet. I came to the conclusion you had to treat this thirty month regulation with respect. And if you don’t know your steak’s birthday, you can’t send it a card, can you?’
‘It’s actually quite bad news for organic farmers,’ he mused. ‘Naturally reared cattle take longer to mature than your average commercial beast. So they’re not past their prime at thirty months – they’re well short of it, in terms of meat per carcass.’
‘The stuff I’m going in for makes up in flavour what it lacks in growth. But I couldn’t get Fred Tregothnan to give an opinionone way or another on organic food. Not in front of Reg Bulcombe, anyway.’ I paused. Had there been real needle over the vet’s bills? Enough for Fred to sit apart from his cronies?
Nick sat down again. ‘Why should you mention Tregothnan in conjunction with Bulcombe?’
‘Well, you saw them – their backs at least – round the fire.’
‘Didn’t you think it odd, a professional man hobnobbing with all those yokels?’
‘
You can tell a man who boozes, By the company he chooses
,’ I quoted.
‘So who
got up and slowly walked away
?’
‘The last meal he had here, he ate on his own. He had this little spat with Reg – something about not spending in the bar money he owed in vet’s bills.’
‘In public? Not very tactful.’
‘Not a man for tact, Fred
He blinked. ‘Village bobby? Is there one?’
‘Of course not. Not in these days of improved service to the community. But there’s a decent sized cop shop in Taunton. There’d be someone there you could talk to, surely to goodness.’
‘Not the most popular people, retired officers trying to tell those still serving what to do,’ he mused, sinking into officialese as if it were a pair of comfy slippers.
‘Not even when you come with evidence?’
‘I have no evidence. Not unless you want me to exhume a dead cat from Sue Clayton’s back garden.’ He changed direction with an almost audible crunching of gears worthy of Sue herself. ‘Isn’t there someone from the church who could help her with that? Dig it over, plant a few low-maintenance shrubs? It’s clear she can’t manage it on her own.’
‘Maybe you should lead the way by offering her driving lessons ,’I said, hoping he’d spot the glint in my eye.
‘I’ll dare if you dare offer to put her car through a carwash first,’ he responded, colour returning to his face. ‘Thanks for the breakfast. Look, Josie, it’s clear you’re not geared up for paying guests at the moment. But if you’re right, and there is something going on round here, it’d make some sort of sense for me to stay where I am. Would it be inconvenient? It’s not as if I want five star service, bed linen and towels changed every ten minutes. And I could eat in the bar. And I’d pay in advance, if you want.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ I said. ‘Until you find your feet, at least.’ Goodness knew what the village would say, the two of us holed up together. Half of me wanted to wave a couple of fingers in the air and tell them to count them. The other half wondered if a bit of chaperonage in the form of Tom’s pregnant Sharon might not be a good idea. I’d phone Tom when he’d had time to wake up – apart from his Sundays with me, Tom worked one of the late night shifts at an M5 service station, a job he was hopelessly overqualified for. ‘And there’s no need to pay in advance. That room of yours is so… Seventies? Sixties, even?… I don’t like charging for it.’
‘You might as well – I shall be chalking it up for my insurance claim,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘And meals, too.’
‘You shall have a bill, then – all properly receipted. That’s why I stopped buying my meat from Reg Bulcombe’s crony,’ I added. ‘No paperwork. All cash in hand.’
He laughed. ‘So you did take some notice of what I was saying about BSE, then!’
‘I had a good surf round the Internet. I came to the conclusion you had to treat this thirty month regulation with respect. And if you don’t know your steak’s birthday, you can’t send it a card, can you?’
‘It’s actually quite bad news for organic farmers,’ he mused. ‘Naturally reared cattle take longer to mature than your average commercial beast. So they’re not past their prime at thirty months – they’re well short of it, in terms of meat per carcass.’
‘The stuff I’m going in for makes up in flavour what it lacks in growth. But I couldn’t get Fred Tregothnan to give an opinionone way or another on organic food. Not in front of Reg Bulcombe, anyway.’ I paused. Had there been real needle over the vet’s bills? Enough for Fred to sit apart from his cronies?
Nick sat down again. ‘Why should you mention Tregothnan in conjunction with Bulcombe?’
‘Well, you saw them – their backs at least – round the fire.’
‘Didn’t you think it odd, a professional man hobnobbing with all those yokels?’
‘
You can tell a man who boozes, By the company he chooses
,’ I quoted.
‘So who
got up and slowly walked away
?’
‘The last meal he had here, he ate on his own. He had this little spat with Reg – something about not spending in the bar money he owed in vet’s bills.’
‘In public? Not very tactful.’
‘Not a man for tact, Fred
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