They’d gone! My brand new Portaloos had gone! When the hell had that happened? And why? I was on the phone before you could say urinal, before I was even dressed, staring down at the spot where they’d been while I was still mother naked.
‘Collected! Why should they have been collected?’
‘You phoned yesterday morning, or your barman did.’
It was hard to stay furious when the old guy had such a gentle Mummerset burr. But I did my best. ‘I shall have to speak to my barman,’ I lied tartly. ‘In the meantime, I want them replaced, and – are you listening? – I want you to write in big letters on my file that they will not be removed again except on my personal request. In writing. With my signature, which you will check against the signature on my contract. Yes, of course service them regularly. But don’t take them away. Or I’ll ram you head first down one before it’s emptied. Understand?’
He understood.
I was due for a talk with Dominic Webster, my architect, so I had to forego my early walk. Calories apart, it wasn’t much loss. The hills and the sky were both the same leaden grey, and the roads awash. Definitely a day for headlights. I picked my way slowly into Taunton, slashing through puddles halfway across the road. At last I parked on the far side of the cricket ground, which was convenient for the architect’s office if not for shopping.
Only to have Dominic’s receptionist telling me, in that singsong delivery so beloved of estate agents and flight attendants, that his car had broken down, but that she was sure that Dom would be with me as soon as possible.
‘How soon is soon?’
We established that his diary was clear for the rest of the morning, flooded foundations preventing him from making the scheduled site visit to somewhere near Exeter that had necessitated my early appointment. So I might slip to the shops for an hour. Actually I wanted to go to the library and have a root round. After all, if Mrs Greville owned the area, that barbed wire would be on her land, and it would no doubt give Sue enormous satisfaction if I could make the old bat remove it. OK, not with her own bare hands. But it would be a peace offering.
Head down, umbrella up, I ran slap into Nick Thomas, in a brand new Barbour. Was this the sincerest form of flattery? More likely the only practical choice. ‘Not working, Copper?’
‘I’ve run out of milk.’
‘Don’t you have a minion?’
‘I work on my own. I told you.’
‘I didn’t realise it was as alone as that. Come on, I know a place where we can get a decent cup of coffee. I want to pick your brain. And you can get your milk on the way back. And some water biscuits – they’re supposed to be good for bad stomachs.’
‘So what did you want to know?’ he asked warily, as we sat at right angles to each other in the bay window of a café that wanted to be chic but ended up chi-chi. Our waterproofs, dripping on to the floor beneath the curly hat stand, didn’t help the ambience.
‘Land law. Can a landlord just block a public right of way if he feels like it?’
‘You know as well as I do that he can’t.’ Was I meant to take that as a compliment? ‘But it’s not land law. It’s an offence under the Highways Act of 1980. Section 137 as I recall. The same legislation we used to make demonstrators move on, as it happens. You report the obstruction to the county council, who’ll have some sort of team devoted to such offences. Their officers will serve notice requiring the obstruction’s removal with a specified, suitable time. Failure to comply will result in prosecution at a magistrates’ court, the maximum fine being £1000.’
I sat back, mouth agape. ‘Well, I’m blessed. You know, you almost grew back your white shirt and epaulettes before my very eyes. Sir!’ I gave a mock-salute. ‘So all I’ve got to do is go to the council and they shift it. Pouff!’
‘In time.’ He returned to his washed out self. ‘It rather depends on what else they’ve got on their plate. And in this weather they may have other fish to fry. Or other obstructions in the form of fallen trees to worry about. Do you know who owns the land? Sometimes a simple face to face request is sufficient.’
‘I’m averse to curtseying. And grovelling in general. And that’s what Mrs Greville would want before she even consented to see me. Aristo of the old school, according to Sue Clayton. The sort whose noblesse obliges others to do things. She owns your campsite, by the way. Bulcombe’s just the manager.’
‘I’ll practise my underwater bowing, then. Wasn’t there a Greville in some sort of political scandal?’ Ah, would that explain Sue’s ire? ‘Luke Greville? Must be twenty years ago. Would they be related?’
‘I’ve no idea. What sort of scandal?’ And why didn’t I remember anything about it? What was I doing twenty years ago that would blot out something like that? Ah. Dealing with Tony’s threats to have Mike’s wedding tackle removed and used as stuffing.
‘I can’t remember. I had other things…’ He shook his head, like a dog disliking water. He managed a grin. ‘Oh, some sort of grubby little hands in till scandal, I dare say.’
‘Not sex? No bondage and S and M with half the Cabinet? How disappointing.’
‘Not that particular scandal, not as far as I remember. In any case, if they were Maggie’s favourites they seemed to be able to get away with a few sexual peccadilloes. Money would be my bet. Anyway, he got deselected, and then they found him a safe Euro-constituency, and he’s off there now, legislating from Brussels.’
‘Perhaps they went on the same principle as Claudius’s for shipping the mad Hamlet off to England – one other bit of corruption wouldn’t be noticed in the shambles of European administration.’
His eyebrows shot up. He needed to trim them – four or five hairs, already old men’s tufts, were growing wild and unruly. ‘Since when did you read Shakespeare?’
‘Since I did my Open University course. You never asked how I qualified to run a pub, Copper. I’ll tell you. The hard way. When I’d done my first course with the OU, I thought it’d be more fun to study full-time, so I became a mature student. So if there’s a catering qualification going, I’ve got it. I practically took root at the College of Food. Waitressed, maitre d’h’d, administrated – oh, and cooked. There.’
‘Well, good for you. I have to hand it to you, Josie – you’re a woman of parts, aren’t you?’
‘Most of them much smaller than they were. Come on, Copper, just because I’m not going to eat one of those gorgeous cakes doesn’t mean you can’t. Good for the stomach, I’d say.’
He hesitated.
‘You took a risk, sinking that muck last night.’
‘Had to, didn’t I?’ He took a chocolate shortbread.
‘You men and your face-saving.’
‘Fortunately the stench in that open sewer of yours was enough to bring it all back without it hanging around. Hell, Josie, I’ve smelt some vile things in my time, but nothing like that.’
‘That’s why I had those Portaloos installed.’
‘Had.’
‘Hmm. They seem to have disappeared, don’t they?’
‘Dead cats; disappearing loos. Are the villagers usually like this?’
‘I wouldn’t know. It’s the first time I’ve crossed one of them.’
And so to the library. It was such fun to be rooting around again. One of the best bits of all those years of study was going through the archives of a Midlands stately home and finding Elizabethan recipes and cross-referencing them with herbals to find the appropriate ingredients. I wouldn’t end up with highly-spiced mince pies (made with minced meat, not mincemeat); I might end with a spicy bit of gossip about Mrs Greville’s son. And I might find out why Nick stumbled when he referred to the scandal. Something that had affected him. Something that had given him his ulcer, stopped in its tracks the career of a highly talented police officer (yes, as Tony always used to say, praise where praise is due, and you don’t get to be a DI before you’re thirty, not without something between the ears) and now occasionally paralysed him. Like in front of all those TVs. And, from what Aidan said, in the middle of bell ringing practice.
Who’s Who didn’t go into Luke Greville’s deselection, of course. It did confirm that he’d been born Lucas Cornelius Hetherington Greville in 1958 in Somerset, and had been educated at Eton. He hadn’t gone on to Oxford or Cambridge, however, or any other British university, but to a place in Germany I’d never heard of. His hobbies were cricket, polo and philately. He’d been an MP in a safe as houses Tory constituency from 1988 to 1993. In 1996 he’d become a Euro MP. Three years for the scandal to die down. It must have been a big one – had he stolen a Penny Black?
Or the cricket or polo equivalent?
OK. Microfiche time.
My decision about which story to pursue first, Greville’s or Nick’s, was made for me. The library had only national newspapers on microfiche, and in particular the Times. If Nick’s case hadn’t been prominent enough to reach that, I’d have to get one of my Birmingham cronies to do digging for me. Almost rubbing my hands with glee, I started on Greville. Only to find my mobile chirping illicitly away. Dominic had arrived at the office.
‘Go to a library!’ Nesta screeched loud enough for Dominic’s receptionist to raise an eyebrow. I held the mobile away from my ear for safety’s sake.
‘Not just any library, Nesta. The Central Reference Library. Failing that, the Evening Mail offices. And ask to see copies for 1984 to 1988. You’re looking for the biggest police stories – front page news.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Good girl – you always did give in gracefully. No. I’ve got one or two ideas but I want you to come up with the biggest. And report back to me. Friday?’
‘Make that a week on Friday. I’ve got a new fella and –’
‘New fella! Tell! Hell, Dominic’s ready for me. Talk to you soon!’
I spent the afternoon talking to my new meat suppliers, Dan Troman and Family. At least, they’d be my suppliers if the test run proved satisfactory. The prices were very much higher than those I’d been used to, a fact I floated across our negotiating table, which was, incidentally, a refectory table dating from the year dot in the middle of a huge kitchen in the family farmhouse. If I’d been them I’d have used a photograph of it in my publicity material; I might well in my own, provided all went well.
‘How much did you say?’ Dan’s eyebrows headed for what had once been his hairline. He might have been a caricature of a farmer, big and broad with hams for hands and a ruddy outdoors complexion emphasising the blue of his eyes.
I repeated the figures.
He shook his head. ‘Even with conventional farming I couldn’t do it for that. Here, Abigail!’ He summoned his wife, a rangy woman who looked as if she’d be more at home in a classy solicitor’s office than in a farmyard. ‘No wonder we only cater for niche markets.’
She looked long and hard at me. For a moment I was reminded of Nick in his keen young days, sniffing out a lie. ‘Is this some loss leader? Does his poultry cost twice as much as usual?’
‘I’ve never used him for chickens.’ They came free-range from a neighbour, who also supplied me with eggs.
‘Pork?’
I might have been on a witness stand. ‘I’ve not used it enough to have a regular supplier.’
‘Has he ever offered it to you?’
‘Look, I’m only asking you to price up a regular delivery of beef. If you can offer pork and bacon – yes, I’d kill for good old-fashioned bacon, the sort that doesn’t leave white goo in your pan – then let’s talk about that too. Meanwhile, let’s stick to this particular issue, shall we?’
Over a cup of Earl Grey, served by Abigail in a china cup after we’d come to an agreement, I asked, ‘Why were you so concerned about my original supplier’s price?’ But I knew the answer already.
‘If it’s not off the back of some lorry,’ she said, despite Dan’s warning cough, ‘I’d say it was old stock illegally slaughtered and put into the food chain.’
‘There’s no call to make accusations,’ Dan protested.
‘Oh, there is,’ I said. ‘The thought had crossed my mind, too – why do you think I’ve come to you? Yes, just to celebrate, just this once, I will have one of those scones, please.’ It came with clotted cream, and jam. In my mind’s eye I could see the judder of the scales. But it was worth it. Every last gram.