Blood at the Bookies. Simon Brett

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      SEVEN

      Jude went into the betting shop the following morning, the Tuesday, at around eleven, thinking it would be a good time to talk to the manager before the main racing fixtures started. But Ryan wasn’t there. His place had been taken by an older man of uncongenial appearance. Jude’s immediate thought was that the police had spotted the same inconsistency in Ryan’s statements that she had, and he was ‘helping them with their enquiries’. But a question to the vacuous Nikki provided a much less dramatic explanation. Ryan was laid up with the ‘nasty flu’ that had been going round.

      At a loose end, Jude decided that she and Carole should have lunch at the Crown and Anchor. Her neighbour initially opposed the idea – she opposed anything that smacked of self-indulgence – but was persuaded. She was, after all, in a convalescent state after her own bout of flu. She wasn’t yet up to cooking for herself. A meal out would be a necessary part of her recovery.

      Carole was secretly pleased at the plan. All morning she’d been putting off ringing her daughter-in-law. After the postponement of the weekend, she needed to fix another date to meet up with Lily and her parents. But Carole didn’t feel up to the challenge of such a call. She was always shy of Gaby, and she knew that any discussion of rescheduling their meeting would also involve mention of David. She wasn’t sure she felt strong enough to state the truth: that she didn’t want to see her granddaughter with her ex-husband present.

      So going off to the Crown and Anchor gave her the perfect excuse to put off her difficult phone call till the afternoon.

      ‘Heard you’d been out of sorts,’ said Ted Crisp when they arrived at the pub. ‘Still looking a bit peaky, aren’t you?’

      Carole had to think about her response. Every fibre of her being revolted against the idea of ever ‘making a fuss’, but then again she didn’t want anyone to underestimate how ghastly she had felt for the previous few days. So she contented herself with a brave, ‘Getting better, but it’s been a really nasty bug.’

      ‘Tell me about it. Everyone in the pub seems to have had it. Can’t hear yourself speak in here for all the coughing and spluttering. And my latest barmaid’s using it as an excuse for not turning up.’

      ‘Poor kid,’ said Jude.

      ‘I’m not so sure about that. Quite capable of “taking a sickie”. She’s a right little skiver, that one. Most of them seem to be these days, certainly the youngsters. Whatever happened to the concept of “taking pride in your work”? This lot all seem to want to get paid for doing the absolute minimum. Bloody work ethic’s gone out the window in this country, you know.’

      Jude was once again struck by how right-wing Ted was becoming. Ironic how almost all of those who had derided the establishment in their youth came round later in life to endorsing its continued existence.

      ‘The younger generation are all hopeless,’ he went on. ‘But round here older people are too well-heeled to bother with bar work. Hey, you wouldn’t like to be a barmaid, would you, Jude? You’d bring lots of custom in, someone like you.’

      She grinned. ‘I have a sneaking feeling the word “buxom” is about to be mentioned.’

      ‘I wasn’t going to say it.’

      ‘But you were thinking it, Ted.’

      ‘Well, maybe.’

      ‘I’ll consider your offer. If I run out of clients for my healing services. It’s not as if I haven’t done it before.’

      Carole, reminded of this detail from her neighbour’s past, shuddered to the core of her middle-class heart.

      Ted Crisp grinned at her discomfiture. ‘Anyway, I’m the one in charge of the bar for the time being. So, what are you ladies drinking? Is it the old Chilean Chards again?’

      ‘I should probably have something soft,’ said Carole. ‘You know, I’m not a hundred per cent yet.’

      ‘All the more reason why you need a proper drink,’ Jude assured her. ‘You should probably be having a quadruple brandy.’

      ‘Oh, I think that would be excessive. But all right, a small Chilean Chardonnay, if you insist.’

      ‘I insist,’ said Ted Crisp, ‘that it should be a large one.’

      ‘But—’

      ‘You pay for a small one. I’ll top it up to a large one. Landlord’s privilege.’ Carole didn’t argue. ‘And I assume a large one for you, Jude …?’

      ‘Please. And what’s good to eat? Healthy nutritious fare to help restore Carole to her old self?’

      ‘You won’t go wrong with the Local Game Pie. Served with Special Gravy.’

      ‘Two of those then, please.’

      ‘Though I don’t actually think I’ve got much of an appetite,’ said Carole. ‘I probably won’t be able to eat it all, given the size of your usual portions.’

      ‘You’ll manage,’ said Ted, writing down the order.

      ‘By the way,’ Carole asked, ‘what is the Local Game today?’

      Deliberately misunderstanding, Ted replied, ‘The Local Game in Fethering is still trying to work out who killed that poor Polish bloke. Tell you, I’ve heard more theories in this pub than you’ve had hot lunches here.’

      ‘Any that sound convincing?’

      The landlord shook his shaggy head. ‘Not unless you’re a big fan of Cold War spy fiction, no. I think the trouble is, nobody knows what the poor bloke was doing in this country, anyway.’

      ‘Bar work, I gather.’

      ‘Yes, Jude, that’s what he was doing, but СКАЧАТЬ