“My friend Carole. And Carole, this is Donal.”
Jude would treasure for always the expression on her friend’s face, seen through the open passenger door, as Carole grimaced a smile and said, “Very nice to see you, Donal.”
He didn’t think this greeting worthy of more acknowledgment than a curt nod. Donal had changed now he was parted from Chieftain; he was jumpier, on edge. The element of danger that Jude had noticed in the Cheshire Cheese had returned.
“You sit in the front,” she said, only for the mischievous pleasure of seeing Carole’s reaction. The thought of Donal’s filthy clothes touching the Renault’s pristine upholstery would be bad enough, but to have this creature in such immediate proximity to her, well, it would take Carole a long time to get over that.
Suppressing a grin, Jude got into the back of the car and said they were going to take Donal to Fethering.
“Erm…,” said Carole, for all the world like her ex-husband, “are you going to put on your seat belt?”
“No,” said Donal.
Unwilling to take issue with him, she started the engine, and drove out of the Long Bamber Stables car park. They drove along the Fethering Road in silence for a while.
“So tell me, Donal,” said Carole eventually, “where do you live?”
“Nowhere.”
“Ah.”
“According to the police, I am ‘of no fixed abode.’”
“Ah. Ah.” Carole was rather thrown for a genteel Fethering response to that. “It must be nice not to have the responsibility of a house.”
Donal didn’t think this worthy of comment. He was growing even more fidgety. From her seat in the back, Jude could see the tensing of his neck muscles and a slight gleam of sweat on his temple. She diagnosed that he was suffering from a hangover. He’d held himself together for healing the horse; now he was in desperate need of a drink.
“So,” Carole went on, still battling to maintain polite middle-class conversation, “are you Irish, Donal?”
“No, I’m bloody Serbo-Croat! What do you think?”
Though clearly offended, Carole didn’t rise to the rudeness. “And I’m sorry, Donal, I didn’t get your second name…?”
“No, you didn’t, because nobody’s bloody mentioned it.” But, after that put-down, to Jude’s surprise, he volunteered the name. “Geraghty. Donal Geraghty. Is that enough of the central-casting Irishman for you?”
Belatedly, Carole decided she had expended sufficient conversational effort on him. After a silence, Jude said, “Donal cured Sonia Dalrymple’s horse, where I failed. I’m going to buy him a drink to say thank-you. You will join us, won’t you?”
Carole was torn. The potential of actually getting some useful information about the case had to be weighed against the shame of being seen around Fethering in the company of this uncouth ragamuffin. Her detective instinct triumphed. “Yes, that’d be very nice, thank you. I’d love to join you for a drink.”
“Talking of drink,” said Donal edgily, “I’m dying for a drop. You wouldn’t happen to have some with you, would you?”
“Alcohol?”
“Yes.”
“Alcohol in my Renault?”
Jude was sorry she couldn’t at that moment see Carole’s face full on. But what she could glimpse in the driving mirror was satisfying enough. She swallowed down an incipient giggle.
It was rather terrifying to see how quickly the first large Jameson’s restored Donal Geraghty. One moment he was sweating, twitching and as jumpy as a kitten; a few sips later his body was still, and there was even a sardonic smile playing around the corners of his mouth, as he looked around the snug interior of the Crown and Anchor.
“Carole and I are going to have lunch here. Maybe you’d like to have something too?”
He laughed. “I don’t, as they say, ‘do lunch.’ I’m restricted to a liquid diet.”
“Is that on doctor’s orders?” asked Carole, misunderstanding.
“The only order the doctor’s ever given to me was to get the hell out of his surgery. His view was that he couldn’t help me, unless I was prepared to make certain changes in my lifestyle.”
“Which you weren’t,” said Jude.
“Take away the lifestyle, you take away the life. Take away the life, you take away the man.” He downed the remains of his glass, and looked at it rather wistfully.
Jude took the hint and went for a refill from the nose-pierced girl at the bar. Ted Crisp was either out in the kitchen or having a rare day off.
Left alone with Donal Geraghty, Carole’s upbringing forced her to forget the earlier snubs and continue to prosecute her conversational campaign. “I hope you don’t mind my mentioning your recent encounter with the police…”
“Why should that bother me?” asked Donal, mellowed by the first drink. “It’s no secret they grilled me. The entire country knows, and no doubt when some other crime occurs locally, the police’ll drag me in even quicker after this.”
“But you did know Walter Fleet, didn’t you?” Carole persisted.
“Oh yes, I knew him.”
“And, I believe, had a disagreement with him?”
“It wasn’t a disagreement-it was a fight I had with him.” He looked up to see Jude approaching with his refill, took it without a word and downed a long swallow. “And the fight happened in this very pub,” he added mischievously.
The two women exchanged horrified looks. Preoccupied by their opportunity to do a private grilling of the police’s first suspect, they had both forgotten about Ted Crisp having banned the man from the Crown and Anchor. Thank God the landlord didn’t appear to be about that day.
Donal Geraghty understood exactly what they were thinking. He had knowingly let them bring him into a pub where he was banned, and the fact that they had done so gave him great satisfaction. He giggled gleefully. “Smart ladies like you should be a bit more careful about the company you keep.”
Jude grinned and raised her glass of Chilean chardonnay to him. “I’ve known worse.” That won a chuckle, so she pursued her advantage. “Carole, Donal was telling me he thought the murderer of Walter Fleet was definitely a woman.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes,” Donal confirmed. “Using that knife-it’s a woman’s crime if ever I saw one.”
“So who would that make a suspect for the murder?” asked Carole.
He snickered. “Well, Lucinda and Walter’s wasn’t the epitome of an happy marriage.”
Again his choice of words betrayed a much better education than was promised by his exterior blarney.
“So you think she might have done away with him?”
“Usual rule of police investigation: if the victim has a live-in partner, haul them in for questioning-that is, of course, after they’ve hauled me in for questioning. But if they can’t pin it on me, then they go for the partner.”
Carole was thoughtful. “Lucinda certainly doesn’t seem to be making any pretence of being upset by having lost her husband.”
“Maybe she didn’t do it herself,” Jude speculated. “Paid someone else actually to do the deed, while she established an alibi for herself.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Donal in mock affront. “So that’d bring the accusation back to me, would it? ‘Donal Geraghty’s always helping Lucinda with odd jobs round the yard at Long Bamber. I’m sure he’d be only too glad to top the lady’s husband for her.’ Is that what you’re suggesting?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, be very careful. Don’t forget you’re dealing with a very dangerous paranoid Paddy who has a lot of form for acts of violence.” Yet again he demonstrated an ironical awareness of his image, the fact that he could choose when he wanted to live up to it.
“Putting Lucinda on one side,” said Carole, “who else might be in the frame?”
“Ah.” Donal squinted at her. “I didn’t have you down as a racing woman, Carole.”
“What do you mean? I’ve never been to the races in my life. I’m certainly not a racing woman.”
“No, but you use racing talk.”
“I’m sorry?”
“‘In the frame.’ Now isn’t that a reference to horses in a photo finish?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
“Well, what else could it be?”
“I thought it had something to do with pictures, or photographs, that kind of frame.”
“No, no, I’ve done my research. The phrase definitely comes from the racing world.”
“It’s funny, Donal,” said Jude. “I wouldn’t have had you down as an expert on semantics.”
“Which just shows how wrong you can be. Never judge a book by its cover.”
“No. Well, you are a dark horse.”
“Ah, you see now, Jude. You’re a racing woman too.”
Jude chuckled. “I have been racing, and I love it, but I wouldn’t say I was a racing woman.”
“Well, I think you both are racing women.” Donal looked down at his empty glass. “Mind you, you don’t seem to be very fast-drinking women.”
Jude’s eyes flashed a quick message to Carole, who stood up and said, “Let me get this one. You still all right, Jude?”
“Nearly ready for another.” Her glass was half full, but she reckoned drinking with Donal might make him more relaxed and communicative.
With Carole at the bar, Jude plunged straight back into interrogation mode. “We did hear something about the circumstances of your being banned from this pub, actually.”
“Oh yes?”
“Your having a fight with Walter Fleet…”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t seem upset by her line of questioning, just waiting to see where she was really heading.
“Presumably the police knew about that?”
“Of course. Another reason for them to make me their first suspect.”
“We did also hear about something you said when you were arguing with Walter…”
“Well, you have been doing your research, haven’t you?” he commented sardonically.
“Apparently you said, ‘You’re not worthy of her! She’s beautiful and you don’t deserve her!’”
“What if I did?”
“To the casual listener, that could make it sound as if your argument with Walter was about a woman.”
“I suppose it could.”
“So was it about a woman?”
“You’re a nosey cow, aren’t you, Jude?” But it was said without malice; he was still feeling the benefits of two large Jameson’s and a third in prospect.
“Yes, I am a nosey cow, which is why I would quite like an answer.”
“And why should I give you one?”
“Why not?”
She had taken the right approach; he appeared tickled by her response. “So you’re reckoning maybe I was having a bit of the old illicit sex with Lucinda. Is that where you’re coming from?”
“It’d fit the known facts.”
“But it might fail rather badly to tie in with the unknown facts, mightn’t it?” He smiled teasingly, as if weighing up what kind of answer to give her-and indeed whether to give her an answer at all. Eventually he said, “Suppose I was talking about a horse.”
“The ‘she’ who Walter was ‘not worthy of ’?”
“Why not? It could have been a horse.”
“I think the odds are against it.”
Donal Geraghty chuckled. “You’re doing it again. You are a racing woman, you know.”
“Maybe,” Jude conceded with a smile. “But is the horse answer the best I’m going to get?”
“It is so,” he replied, affecting an even heavier brogue. “That’s the best you’ll have from me. And, as it happens, it’s God’s honest truth. The owner of the stables and the mad Irish tinker had words about a horse-that’s all there was to it.”
“But surely-”
“Here are the drinks,” said Carole.
Donal smiled at Jude, as if he’d engineered the end of their previous conversation. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you,” he said, reaching for his glass, without any thanks, and taking a long swallow.
“All you’re going to tell me about that,” Jude countered. “Maybe you’ll tell me more about something else?”
Carole, recognising that Jude might be getting somewhere, sat down quietly with her drink.
“And what might that something else be?” asked Donal.
“Ooh…” Jude teased. “What about blackmail?”
He chuckled. “I don’t think there’s anything I could be blackmailed about by anyone in the world. You see, the one qualification you have to have for being blackmailed is to have something to lose, and”-he shrugged-“that counts me out.”
“I wasn’t meaning you being blackmailed. I was meaning you blackmailing someone else.”
“Oh yes?” He knew exactly what she was referring to, but played deliberately dumb.
“When we were at Long Bamber you spoke of your knowing something about a couple’s marriage, and their being prepared to pay you money to keep you quiet.”
“Did I now?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to tell you who I was talking about?”
“Yes.”
“Well, aren’t you just the nosey one, Jude? I don’t suppose you were thinking of offering me money for the information, were you?”
“No.”
“So let me get it straight what you’re asking me. I have some information that is worth money to me. You want me to give you that information for free. It doesn’t sound like much of a deal.”
“I’ll buy you another drink.”
“Well, that’s exceedingly generous, and yes, I’ll take you up on that deal.” He emptied what was left in his glass, and smiled impudently at Carole. “Maybe you’d like to get me topped up, dear?”
Biting her lip to hold back an interesting variety of responses, she returned to the bar, where she had to take her place behind a queue of anoraked ramblers who had just entered the pub.
“But you could buy me a whole bottle of Jameson’s, Jude,” Donal went on, “-a crate of the stuff-and I still don’t see why I should tell you the secret that will hopefully provide me with a nice little meal ticket for the next few months-my only prospect of a meal ticket, as it happens. Why should I?”
Jude’s charm had been known on occasions to work wonders. Oh, well, it was worth a try. “Because I’m asking you to.”
Donal Geraghty shook his head. “You know it’s a long time since I’ve done something stupid for the sake of a pretty face. I think I could be said to have learnt my lesson there.”
She tried another approach. “Then let me try a bit of guessing.”
“Guess away. It won’t get you anywhere.”
“If you have a secret about a married couple, then it’s probably not something they told you deliberately. It’s more likely to be something you overheard.” He offered no encouragement, but Jude persevered. “So the couple didn’t know you were there, and, given the kind of places where you spend most of your life, it was probably round some stables or other that you heard whatever it was-possibly some stables that you were at the time using as your ‘no fixed abode.’ Not Long Bamber, because Lucinda wouldn’t let you stay there, but somewhere else…round here…? You said at the stables that you needed to come down to Fethering. So if it’s, as you say, your only meal ticket, maybe your secret involves people who live round-”
“Will you shut up!” He was rattled now. It might be something she had said that had so suddenly changed his mood. Or it might be the return of his hangover. His hands twitched and once again there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. He was in desperate need of another infusion of alcohol. “Will you hurry along with that drink, you silly cow!” he shouted.
Carole was prepared to put up with a lot in the cause of criminal investigation, but not to be called names in a public place in Fethering. Whatever would people think of her? She was unable to stop herself from shouting back, “I’ll thank you not to be so appallingly rude!”
The customers who hadn’t been silenced by Donal’s outburst certainly were by Carole’s response. Raised voices were not common in Fethering. It was a very long time since anything so interesting had happened in the Crown and Anchor.
The shouting had another effect too. The door from the kitchen burst open, and framed in it stood the shaggy outline of Ted Crisp. “All right, what’s going on here?” he bellowed.
His eyes moved round the room, and very quickly fixed on the source of the disturbance. “Why, you little swine!” he said, as he moved forward. “Are you too Irish to understand plain English? You’re banned from this pub! Get out!”
Donal rose to his-remarkably steady-feet. For a small man, he carried a lot of menace. “And who’s going to make me get out?”
“I am.” Ted Crisp’s huge body loomed over his opponent. If there was going to be a fight, it looked like an unequal one.
But Donal was fast. Feinting with his right hand up towards the landlord’s face, he flicked a hard left fist straight into the bulging midriff. As Ted folded in the middle, Donal’s bunched right hand caught him full in the nose. Instantly, blood spattered.
But, in spite of his injuries, Ted Crisp was surprisingly speedy in his response. His huge arms swung forward and the hands caught on the shoulders of his retreating assailant. Quickly, they closed together around the stubbly neck.
Donal twisted and wriggled, raining blows into the unprotected stomach in front of him. Dripping blood from his opponent’s nose flecked his face and clothes. But still Ted did not release his grip.
“All right, you asked for it, you stupid bastard!” the Irishman gasped through his constricted throat.
The movement was so fast that none of the appalled audience could have described what happened. Just suddenly there was a small knife in Donal’s right hand. Jerked upwards, the blade disappeared into the folds of Ted Crisp’s fleece.
That did make him release his grip. Tottering backwards, the landlord fell against the support of his bar. His opponent, without even wiping it, slid the bloody knife back into its hiding place. He looked around the silent onlookers with something approaching glee. Then, with a defiant laugh, he rushed out of the pub.