14 The Turk’s Brew

A discussion in a cafe

WORDS MEAN DEATH

“Miss Plumb didn’t know anything about what happened to her boss in his home, but things are rather odd in this neck of the woods,” muttered Dorothy to her DS. “I would swear that black was white that it was all quite new to her, you can tell, can’t you…?” They were sitting in the Turk’s Brew, a small café on the outskirts of Newhaven a couple of miles from where the late lamented Mike Copperly had lived. She had decided they needed something wet and refreshing before the drive home.

It was quiet in there, which was why she had decided to call into the place. If they needed to converse about their case there were only two elderly men sitting several tables away and certainly out of range of even the loudest whisper.

Then she thought, and looked concerned for a moment. “I didn’t think she would be in any danger being just a humble rather pretty secretary, but she admitted that she’s read some of the manuscript, and look what’s happened to those who might have done just that so far.” she said thoughtfully.

“Maybe someone ought to keep an eye on her, make sure the knife-wielding maniac doesn’t have a stab at her,” suggested DS Rogers.

“And why’s that, Ian?” asked Dorothy.

“Well, as you said, she’s seen the manuscript that this seems to revolve around and that seems to be a common factor. First, the author gets cut up and then his agent. But what about the vicar bloke, the one married to a lady with bad legs?” asked Ian Rogers.

“I’ve asked Constable Overton to do a bit of digging into his past,” smiled Dorothy, “Hazel’s pretty good at things like that whilst the rest of us don’t seem to have the concentration to find our way through layers of facts and figures. But give her a computer with a keyboard and she’s priceless.”

“The more I think about it the more I question his nearly killing that wife of his before they got married, and then, as a sort of apology for putting her in a wheelchair, marrying her and sticking by her for ever and a day.” frowned Ian, “I mean, how likely is that?”

Dorothy nodded. “And apparently living in Newhaven as well as having a nice semi in Brumpton. That doesn’t add up to me, especially when you throw a possibly disabled wife into the mix.”

Ian Rogers nodded his head. “That crossed my mind as well,” he said slowly, “and what’s more, sit a woman in a wheelchair and everyone at once assumes she needs to be in it because nobody would enjoy spending their lives in such a thing unless they had to. So seeing her like that we take it as a given that her story is as true as I’m sitting here.”

“It’s been looking to me, Ian, as if we’ve been led up the garden path, and with our first murder to start solving before the Super thinks we’ve had too big a bite at the cherry, the truth, Ian, is we’ve been easily led astray.”

“And talking of cherries, do you fancy a bite at the cherry cake I spotted on the counter when we got out cups of tea? It looks mighty good, and I missed my breakfast in order to get here at the crack of dawn.” grinned Ian.

“We only left Brumpton at what should be our normal starting time,” pointed out his DI, “but a bite of cherry cake does sound appealing.”

The DS returned to the counter and asked for two sliced of cherry cake, cheekily adding “for two world-wear coppers like me and my boss,” and returned to his DI carrying two plates.

“They look good,” approved Dorothy as he sat down.

The cafe shop door opened with a clang and Dorothy, who was sitting with her back to it took no notice, but Ian, just about to sit back down, tensed as he saw who had walked in.

“Boss, don’t turn round and look now but guess who’s just walked in, and this time she looks sprightly and has left her wheel chair at home.”

“You mean…?” she hissed.

He nodded, and whispered,. “That I do. And she’s on her own, no vicar in tow helping her on her way and a great big smile on her face.. oh, now she’s looked this way and noticed us, and,,, it’s so obvious what’s on her mind because she’s lost that beguiling grin and turned on her heels and run away…” And his words were confirmed by second clang of the door.

Before Dorothy could say or do anything in response her phone rang. She clucked with annoyance and but whispered first to Ian, “go after her if you can, see what she’s up to and if necessary arrest her.”

Then she returned to her phone.

“It’s constable Overton already,” she hissed at Ian as he started for the door, and before he could respond she answered the phone.

“Oh, Hazel are you having problems… what’s that, you had no trouble… you’ve searched and can find no trace of a wedding between the Reverend Paul Wolf and anyone… as far as you can tell he’s never been married… and there’s no mention anywhere of a fruit pie being so toxic it’s put a woman into a wheelchair… as far as you can tell it’s all a fiction, never happened… thanks Hazel, you’re a gem… and the Reverend Paul Wolf hss just been promoted back to being to our chief suspect… when we get back I’ll pull him in for questioning, if I can find him, that is… no, Hazel, leave it to me, he’s quite possibly a very dangerous man and it might well need the sergeant’s muscle on top of mine… thanks so much… we’ll be back in under an hour...”

Then she smiled at DS Ian Rogers’ empty seat and crammed the last bit of cherry pie into her mouth.

Ian returned and shook his head. “No sign of her,” he told the DI, “and I didn’t think I’d gain much looking for her in a town I don’t know much about.”

“You’re quite right there, lad, ” she said, her eyes gleaming, “Come on, cherub, things are moving and we’ve got to catch up with more than a suddenly uncrippled woman. So eat up and we’ll see how long it takes to drive to Brumpton.”

© Peter Rogerson 23.01. 24