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Authors: Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
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tell you, though I expect it was her that said no. Selfish, she was. Spiteful, too,’ she added, looking towards Slider with an old grievance plainly bursting to get out. ‘She changed the flower rota at the church so that I lost my turn, because the week she changed me to I was on holiday. She
knew
that. She just wanted another turn herself; thinks she’s God’s gift – her with her dead sticks and dandelions and runner beans! Load of rubbish! I mean, who wants to look at that ugly stuff instead of proper flowers? I do a nice arrangement, roses and pinks and pretty things like that.But she says, Oh, Pat, she says, that’s so old-fashioned! Nobody does that sort of thing any more! Never mind if they don’t, I said, it’s what people want to look at that matters, and they don’t want to look at your rubbish, modern or not. It’s like that modern art, dead cows in fish tanks and all that stuff. It’s just plain ugly, I said to her. But you might as well talk to the cat. And, of course, Mr Tennyson backs her up. That’s why he gave her the rota – thinks the sun shines out of her eyes, and no wonder, the way she makes up to him. Making up to a reverent! It’s disgusting to my mind. But she’d flirt with anything in trousers, that one.’
She stopped abruptly, remembering the occasion, and what was required of it. She sipped her tea again, and then said, ‘Oh, well, they say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I speak as I find, and it has to be said, she was a right cow.’
Outside in the sunshine, having seen her off, Slider turned to Atherton.
‘De mortuis?’
‘At least.’
‘I’ve heard things can get pretty fierce at those flower-arranging classes.’
Atherton snorted. ‘And this from the man who thinks oasis is a band!’
‘At least we’ve got a motive now,’ Slider said.
‘The old green-eyed monster: an oldie, but a goodie. And we’ve bust Andrews’ story wide open. Mrs Prattlebury left the house clean yesterday morning, and there’s not so much as a builder’s footmark to be seen, so he couldn’t have gone home after work last night.’
‘Unless he cleaned up after himself.’
‘Hoover ye lightly while ye may? But he wouldn’t, would he? If that’s his alibi, he’d want it to look as if he’d been there. He wouldn’t cover his tracks. It’s not as if there were oceans of gore to clean up.’
‘No, you’re right, of course. I have to admit that it looks as if he didn’t go home.’
‘Crikey, if Mr D. Thomas is convinced, it must be so! Where next, guv?’
‘I think we should pay a little visit to the Goat In Boots.’
‘Ah,
nunc est bibendum.’
‘Come again?’
‘I said, it’s a fruity notion. Lay on, McDuff. I’m right behind you.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Shorts And Whine
The pub was not open yet, and Slider and Atherton walked in on an argument about whether it should be. Jack Potter, the landlord, was in favour of staying closed for the day, out of respect for the dead.
‘It’s not as if we’ve got the brewery to please,’ he said. He was a wiry, flexible-looking man with a slight and incongruous paunch. He looked in his late forties, with thick black hair brushed back and slightly too long, bulging eyes, and a loose mouth. They came upon him bottling up behind the bar, shifting plastic crates of light ale about with the absent, practised strength of a circus juggler. He was wearing denim shorts, because of the heat, and a dark red polo shirt, which left his stringy, muscled arms bare. They were obviously strangers to the sun, for they were gleamingly white, and so generously veined and tattooed they looked like Stilton.
‘It doesn’t seem right to me to open up when Jen’s – you know,’ Potter went on, with syrupy tact.
‘She’s not “you-know”,’ his wife Linda said irritably. ‘She’s dead. It’s not an indecent word.’
He glanced at her, hurt, and then appealed to Slider. ‘Well, it doesn’t seem respectful, anyway. What do
knew
that. She just wanted another turn herself; thinks she’s God’s gift – her with her dead sticks and dandelions and runner beans! Load of rubbish! I mean, who wants to look at that ugly stuff instead of proper flowers? I do a nice arrangement, roses and pinks and pretty things like that.But she says, Oh, Pat, she says, that’s so old-fashioned! Nobody does that sort of thing any more! Never mind if they don’t, I said, it’s what people want to look at that matters, and they don’t want to look at your rubbish, modern or not. It’s like that modern art, dead cows in fish tanks and all that stuff. It’s just plain ugly, I said to her. But you might as well talk to the cat. And, of course, Mr Tennyson backs her up. That’s why he gave her the rota – thinks the sun shines out of her eyes, and no wonder, the way she makes up to him. Making up to a reverent! It’s disgusting to my mind. But she’d flirt with anything in trousers, that one.’
She stopped abruptly, remembering the occasion, and what was required of it. She sipped her tea again, and then said, ‘Oh, well, they say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I speak as I find, and it has to be said, she was a right cow.’
Outside in the sunshine, having seen her off, Slider turned to Atherton.
‘De mortuis?’
‘At least.’
‘I’ve heard things can get pretty fierce at those flower-arranging classes.’
Atherton snorted. ‘And this from the man who thinks oasis is a band!’
‘At least we’ve got a motive now,’ Slider said.
‘The old green-eyed monster: an oldie, but a goodie. And we’ve bust Andrews’ story wide open. Mrs Prattlebury left the house clean yesterday morning, and there’s not so much as a builder’s footmark to be seen, so he couldn’t have gone home after work last night.’
‘Unless he cleaned up after himself.’
‘Hoover ye lightly while ye may? But he wouldn’t, would he? If that’s his alibi, he’d want it to look as if he’d been there. He wouldn’t cover his tracks. It’s not as if there were oceans of gore to clean up.’
‘No, you’re right, of course. I have to admit that it looks as if he didn’t go home.’
‘Crikey, if Mr D. Thomas is convinced, it must be so! Where next, guv?’
‘I think we should pay a little visit to the Goat In Boots.’
‘Ah,
nunc est bibendum.’
‘Come again?’
‘I said, it’s a fruity notion. Lay on, McDuff. I’m right behind you.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Shorts And Whine
The pub was not open yet, and Slider and Atherton walked in on an argument about whether it should be. Jack Potter, the landlord, was in favour of staying closed for the day, out of respect for the dead.
‘It’s not as if we’ve got the brewery to please,’ he said. He was a wiry, flexible-looking man with a slight and incongruous paunch. He looked in his late forties, with thick black hair brushed back and slightly too long, bulging eyes, and a loose mouth. They came upon him bottling up behind the bar, shifting plastic crates of light ale about with the absent, practised strength of a circus juggler. He was wearing denim shorts, because of the heat, and a dark red polo shirt, which left his stringy, muscled arms bare. They were obviously strangers to the sun, for they were gleamingly white, and so generously veined and tattooed they looked like Stilton.
‘It doesn’t seem right to me to open up when Jen’s – you know,’ Potter went on, with syrupy tact.
‘She’s not “you-know”,’ his wife Linda said irritably. ‘She’s dead. It’s not an indecent word.’
He glanced at her, hurt, and then appealed to Slider. ‘Well, it doesn’t seem respectful, anyway. What do
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