‘Where to next, sir?’ asked Crosby, after they had found their way back out of the hospital.
‘Culshaw’s Bakery,’ said Sloan. ‘Follow your nose to the east of Berebury. You can tell where they are a mile away.’
‘Nice smell, though,’ said Crosby, usually hungry.
‘And then, Crosby, you can put out an alert at all ports and airports for a young man called Terry Galloway, arriving here from Australia via India. You can’t be too careful in this game and we’ll need to keep an eye on him once he gets here.’
In spite of him usually giving the impression of being the world’s busiest man, Clive Culshaw made no bones about seeing the police as soon as they arrived at the bakery. Obviously very much a hands-on owner, the man was wearing a white coat and had a white cotton trilby-style hat on his head, all his workers being similarly attired. He was located by a secretary on the factory floor among a welter of vats, cooling trays and moving conveyor belts. An array of commercial-sized ovens covered one wall, exuding heat. Every few minutes a bell rang beside one of them and a worker advanced and lifted out trays of cakes and buns on a long board, whilst another minion loaded a batch of prepared cake tins into it.
‘Come along in,’ Culshaw said, leading the way back to his office. A model of a great big harvest loaf stood on the shelf behind his desk, depicting sheaves of corn spilling out of a plaited basket.
‘Is that real bread?’ asked Detective Constable Crosby, pointing to it.
‘It can be,’ said Culshaw. ‘We call it our Ceres piece. Goddess of Plenty and all that. We sell a lot of them come September time for harvest festivals.’
‘“We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land”,’ chanted Crosby, prompted by the memory.
Clive Culshaw eyed the constable carefully before turning back to Sloan and saying, ‘Now what can I do for you two gentlemen?’
‘We’re just checking on people who might have known the late Susan Port,’ said Sloan.
‘The late who?’ he said.
‘Susan Port.’
Clive Culshaw shook his head. ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell. Does – did – she work here? I’ll have to ask. I can’t know everyone, you know. Not in a place this size.’
‘It is big,’ agreed Sloan, quite surprised himself at the scale of the Culshaw operation.
‘Smells good, too,’ said Crosby.
‘All the bread will have gone out to the shops long ago,’ said Culshaw. ‘That’s what smells so good, but there’ll be plenty of cakes around if you’re interested.’ He opened the door and called out for coffee.
‘You met Mrs Port a couple of months ago,’ persisted Sloan.
‘Did I?’ Culshaw’s face was politely blank.
‘At the offices of Puckle, Puckle and Nunnery.’
His face cleared. ‘Of course. I remember her now. Neat woman. Not young. What about her?’
‘She’s dead,’ said Crosby, leaping up to hold the door open for a young woman carrying a tray.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said the baker.
‘Do you remember anything else about her, Mr Culshaw?’ asked Sloan.
‘Not particularly. I was in a hurry to get away and the solicitor fellow was havering a lot.’
‘Havering?’
‘Well, for one thing he wouldn’t get to the point and tell us how much money he was talking about. I needed to know if the whole exercise was going to be worthwhile.’ He waved a hand to indicate the factory. ‘After all, I’ve got a pretty big business here already.’
‘On the other hand,’ Culshaw gave a tight little smile, ‘nobody can usually say that a bit more money doesn’t always come in handy.’
Detective Inspector Sloan, owner of just that part of his house that didn’t belong to the mortgage company, could only agree with him. He reckoned that at the present time the kitchen, dining room and staircase were his by now. And perhaps half the hallway.
Clive Culshaw said in a worldly-wise tone that anything divided by six didn’t usually amount to much.
‘Five now,’ said Crosby insouciantly.
‘So, sir,’ carried on Sloan swiftly, ‘we’re just checking up on the people who might have known her.’
Culshaw looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked shrewdly.
‘She doesn’t appear to have had any family we can contact, that’s all.’
Clive Culshaw pushed his hat to the back on his head. ‘I suppose that technically I might be said to be related to her – all of us there were – but so distantly I don’t see how it could possibly count.’
‘And that would therefore naturally apply to your brother, Tom, too, wouldn’t it?’ said Sloan.
The physical temperature of the whole baking operation at the Culshaw factory was definitely on the high side but, at the mention of his brother’s name, an emotional froideur in the owner’s office was immediately apparent.
‘Naturally,’ agreed Clive Culshaw stiffly.
‘I gather,’ said Sloan, ‘that you are both descendants of Algernon Mayton?’
He nodded. ‘Through my late father. That’s the connection. Dad died when he was quite young, which I understand is why we figure in the trust and not him.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the shop floor. ‘So my mother was left with two small boys to bring up. She had to take over the firm after he died and it was she who built up the business to what it is today.’
‘Today?’
‘Well, to what it was when she died two or three years ago, of course,’ he conceded. ‘I’ve done my best ever since then, although it’s hard work.’
‘I’m sure,’ murmured Sloan.
‘She was a redoubtable woman,’ the baker went on. ‘She worked her fingers to the bone for us when we were boys. Mind you, she was a natural businesswoman through and through. Taught me everything I know about the trade. And kept up with modern trends, too. You know, fancy breads and that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of fancy breads?’ asked Sloan casually. Wholemeal was the product of choice in his own household.
‘Sourdough, rye, ciabatta, focaccia – you name it, we make it.’
‘And your brother, too? Is he in the firm?’
It was as if a cloud had descended again. ‘Tom’s got no head for business at all. Mother did her best and tried to teach him, of course, although they never got on,’ muttered Culshaw, shaking his head. ‘He failed at every single thing he touched and lost a lot of her money in the process.’ He essayed a thin smile. ‘She used to say that the only board he could understand was an ironing one and he wasn’t too good with that either.’
‘I see, sir.’
‘All Tom ever wanted to do was paint.’ He sniffed. ‘Not that he’s any good at that either. All that he does these days is tinker. That’s why she left all the business to me.’
‘All?’ echoed Crosby, advancing to help the young secretary with her tray. ‘Nice,’ he said appreciatively. ‘These cakes, I mean,’ he added hastily as the girl looked up into his eyes and gave him a winning smile. ‘Nice icing.’
‘Mother said she wasn’t having Tom ruin everything she’d ever worked for,’ said Culshaw. ‘And that was that.’
‘So she didn’t let him?’ said Crosby.
‘No,’ he said brusquely. ‘In fact, she made quite sure he couldn’t even try. She tied everything up very tightly in her will, leaving everything to do with the business to me.’ He waved a hand round his office. ‘This is all my responsibility.’
Detective Inspector Sloan, son of a churchgoing mother, tried to recall the parable of the Prodigal Son. As he remembered it, this situation seemed to be the exact opposite.
Clive Culshaw was still talking. ‘My brother had a go at upsetting her will, but it was absolutely cast iron from a legal standpoint. He lost his challenge even though the judge did say that hard cases made bad law. She always said he wasn’t worth a bag of beans.’
‘Quite so,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan, duly making a note. They knew more about unhappy families in the police force than most people did and were more understanding than many.
‘Nice,’ said Crosby again, carefully selecting an iced cake with help from the young secretary.
‘Presumably, Inspector, you’ll be talking to all the others who were there at Puckles that day?’ said Clive Culshaw.
‘All in good time,’ said Crosby quite unnecessarily.
‘And what I will be doing,’ said Detective Inspector Sloan to Detective Constable Crosby as they left the baker’s premises, ‘is checking on the finances of his firm. As a matter of routine. Don’t ever underestimate the importance of routine, Crosby.’