Read Online A Very Private Murder by Stuart Pawson - Free Book Online

Yorkshire in Bloom competition. Near the end of the walk I called in the Boar’s Head for a ham sandwich and a pint, apparently arousing the displeasure of the landlord who was in a deep discussion with a woman sitting on a bar stool with what could have been a gin and tonic before her. It could equally have been a glass of water, although the portion was rather small for a water. She was furtively dragging on a cigarette, her enjoyment enhanced by the knowledge that in another six weeks the anti-smoking bill would come into force and she’d have to go outside for her nicotine fix.
    ‘Your sandwich’ll be ’ere in a couple of minutes,’ the landlord told me as he returned from placing the order with someone in a back room. He gave me my change and topped up my drink.
    ‘Is there a B&B in the village?’ I asked and the woman cleared her throat in readiness to speak. He beat her to it.
    ‘Phyllis ’ere runs one,’ he told me. ‘Don’t think she’s rushed off ’er feet at the moment, are you, Phyl?’
    ‘Not at the moment. Brad and Angelina only stayed the one night. It’s twenty-five pounds, if you’re interested. En suite bathroom and full English breakfast included.’ She stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, pressing the butt next to her two earlier ones. A spiral of blue smoke climbed from it and I thought that the ban couldn’t come soon enough for me.
    ‘Sounds fine,’ I said. ‘Book me in.’
    ‘Just the one night?’
    ‘For the moment.’
    ‘Will you need an evening meal?’
    I hesitated, but the landlord stepped in with his three pennyworths: ‘Phyl’s the best cook this side o’ Market Weighton. Her steak and kidney is worth dying for.’
    I wasn’t too sure about the recommendation, but I placed my order for seven-thirty. I had a feeling that – what was the expression? – they’d seen me coming and ganged up on me, and I’d fallen for the drop of York , as my dad would have put it. Never mind, I thought, Phyllis’s cooking would no doubt be better than I’d find in a pub, and more wholesome, and I was partial to a decent steak and kidney.
    ‘You’re with the press?’ the landlord hit me with as I lifted my pint of Copper Dragon to my lips. I took a slow sip, considering my reply.
    ‘Ah, you keep a decent pint. The press? No, not me.’
    ‘You’re wearing good gear. A bit over the top for these parts, if you don’t mind me saying.’
    I looked down at my three-season boots, my Tog 24 shirt and my rucksack leaning on the wall just inside the door. He was right: it was a warm day and I was overdressed for a summer’s lowland walk.
    ‘Do you get many press people in the village?’ I asked.
    ‘A tidy few.’
    ‘What’s the attraction?’
    ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
    ‘How about a certain Miss Curzon?’
    ‘Curzon? Curzon?’ he mused. ‘New one on me. Mean anything to you, Phyl?’
    ‘Never heard of her,’ she replied.
    ‘Your loyalty is commendable,’ I told them, knowing that their loyalty was as substantial as the blossom on the trees that lined the village and, like that blossom, would go whichever way the wind took it. I decided to play a high card. ‘I’m police,’ I said, reaching for my ID, ‘and I’m here for the walking. And the beer.’
    The landlord took hold of my card and studied it. ‘A detective inspector,’ he read. ‘Detective Inspector Priest.’
    I eased it from his grasp and replaced it in my pocket. ‘I’ll sit over in the corner, and …’ I nodded towards the ashtray ‘… enjoy it while you can.’
    The sandwich was made from locally raised ham cut straight from the bone, which meant it was edged with a thick layer of fat. I prefer it in sanitised slices exactly the same shape as the bread. It came with a selection of chutneys, which helped it go down, but it wasn’t the culinary experience I’d hoped for.
    The intention was to do another loop walk in the afternoon, but when I arrived back at the car I decided that a