If I was going to go into my chatty passing-motorist act, I didn’t want an audience.
The harried barmaid who served me seemed as glad to escape from them as I was. She bustled through from the lounge when I pressed a bell on the bar and pushed a strand of bottle blonde hair from her forehead. She was in her forties, and looked shell-shocked to find herself in the throes of a lunchtime rush.
‘Busy today,’ I said sympathetically as she poured me a St Clement’s.
‘You’re not wrong,’ she replied. ‘Ice?’ I nodded. ‘Last time we were this busy of a dinner time was Boxing Day.’
‘Bad business up the road,’ I remarked as I sipped my drink. She was happily leaning against the bar, relieved to escape the clod-hopping probings of the press. I hoped my questions fitted in the category of Great British Pub Gossip.
‘That poor woman!’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you know, she was in here last night with a friend of hers, sitting in a corner of my lounge bar! And next thing you know, she’s murdered in her own home. You’re not safe anywhere these days. You’d think with all the security they’ve got up there they’d be all right. I said to my Geoff, it’s like Fort Knox up there, and they’re not safe. Makes you wonder.’
My ears pricked up at the news of Moira’s meeting in the pub, but I didn’t want to pounce too eagerly. ‘I sometimes wonder if it’s all the security that attracts them,’ I responded, playing along with the Passing Vagabond theory. ‘You know, like a challenge or something.’
‘Well, all I can say is we’ve never had any trouble in this village till we had so-called rock stars living here.’ Her mouth pursed, revealing a nest of wrinkles she’d have been mortified to see in a mirror.
‘Do they come in here much?’ I asked casually.
‘One or two of them. They’ve got a journalist living up there, writing some book about Jett, he’s never out of here normally. I don’t know when he gets his writing done. He’s in here for a couple of hours most dinner times and he gets through half a dozen pints every session. Not that I’m complaining – I’m glad of the custom in the winter months. Sometimes I wonder why we bother opening up in the middle of the day. What we take across the bar hardly covers the electricity,’ she grumbled.
‘Nice place, though,’ I complimented her. ‘Been here long?’
‘Five years. My husband used to be a mining engineer, but we got tired of living abroad, so we bought this place. It’s hard work, especially doing the bed and breakfast, but it’s better than living with a load of foreigners,’ she replied. Before I could ask more, the bell from the lounge summoned her.
To ensure her return, I called, ‘Do you do food?’
‘Just sandwiches.’
I ordered a round of roast beef, and when she returned, I said, ‘It must have been a shock for you, one of your regulars getting murdered.’
‘Well, she wasn’t exactly a regular. She’s been in a few times the last couple of days when her friend was staying here. But she’d only been in the once before that, with a crowd of them. The only way I knew it was her was with her being black. Not that I’m racist,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s just that we don’t get many of them round here.’
I could believe her. I remembered only too well how the police inspector in one of the nearby Cheshire towns had defended his policy of arresting any blacks he saw on the street by announcing, ‘None of them live around here so if they’re walking our streets they’re probably up to no good.’
‘Her friend must have been in a hell of a state when she heard the news,’ I tried, checking the gender of the friend. I was pretty sure it must have been Maggie, but it would be nice to make sure. I took a bite out of the sandwich. Even without the information about Moira’s visit, the trip had been worthwhile. The bread was fresh and crusty, the meat pink, sliced wafer thin and piled thick, with a generous smear of horseradish. I nearly choked on it when I heard her reply.
‘I don’t even know if she has heard the news,’ the landlady replied. ‘When I got up this morning, there was an envelope on the hall table with the money she owed and a note saying she’d had to leave early. I knew she was checking out today, but I didn’t expect her to be off at the crack of dawn.’ She sounded slightly aggrieved, as if she’d been done out of a good piece of drama.
‘You mean she just cleared off in the middle of the night? Funny, that,’ I remarked, trying not to sound like a private eye who’s one happy step ahead of the police.
‘No, not the middle of the night. She didn’t actually leave till about half-past six. Our bedroom’s at the back, you see. The car woke me up, and I got up because I thought she might have gone off without paying. I didn’t even know about the murder myself then.’ She clearly saw nothing suspicious in Maggie’s behaviour, and I was grateful for that. There would be at least one suspect I’d get to before the police.
‘Perhaps she had a phone call or something,’ I hazarded.
‘Not while she was here,’ the landlady replied positively. ‘I’d have known. I think she probably just woke up early and decided to get an early start. To be honest, I was surprised she wasn’t staying at the manor. Their friends don’t usually put up here.’
I could have come up with a couple of good reasons why Maggie Rossiter hadn’t been willing to accept Jett’s hospitality, but I wasn’t about to share them. I finished my sandwich, exchanged a few routine complaints about the weather, and set off for Leeds.
It was still drizzling when I pulled up outside Maggie’s terraced house. Crossing the Pennines hadn’t worked its usual trick of transforming the weather. Through the drift of rain, the house looked miserable and unwelcoming. There were no lights on to combat the gloom. Mind you, if my lover was lying dead in a morgue somewhere, I don’t think I’d feel like a hundred watt glare.
Maggie took her time answering the door. I’d just decided she wasn’t home when the door opened. When she saw me, she started to close it again. I moved forward quickly enough to insinuate my shoulder in the gap.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ she demanded feebly, her voice cracked and shaky.
‘We need to talk, Maggie,’ I said. ‘I know it’s the last thing you feel like, but I think I can help.’
‘Help? You do resurrections?’ Her voice was bitter, and tears shone in her red-rimmed eyes. My professional satisfaction at getting to her first withered in the face of her obvious grief.
‘I’m trying to find out who killed Moira,’ I told her.
‘What’s the use? It’s not going to bring her back, is it?’ Maggie rubbed her eyes impatiently with her free hand, as if she hated showing me her humanity.
‘No, it’s not. But you’ve got to grieve. You know that. And finding out what happened is the first step in the process. Maggie, let me come in and talk to you.’
Her straight shoulders seemed to sag and she stood back from the door. It opened straight on to her living room, and I sat down before she could change her mind. Behind me, Maggie closed the door firmly and went through to the kitchen. I could hear the sound of a kettle being filled. I took the chance to take stock of the room. It was large, occupying most of the ground floor of the house. One of the alcoves by the chimney breast held an assortment of books, from science fiction to sociology texts. The other held a small TV and a stereo system with a collection of tapes, CDs and LPs. The only decoration on the walls was a large reproduction of Klimt’s Judith. The room contained two sofas and, in the bay, a small pine dining table with four chairs. It looked like home, but only one person’s idea of it.
She came through with a pot of tea on a tray with two mugs, a bottle of milk and a bowl of sugar. ‘I’ve got this terrible thirst. I can’t seem to stop drinking tea,’ she said absently as she poured. Her hair looked dishevelled, as did the sweatshirt and jeans she was wearing.