From the outside, the White Stag looked like a typical country pub. Within walking distance of the Cullens’ farm and several local houses, the small front car park was nevertheless full, although it was too early for the two-for-one offer on pub grub. The chilly November air meant that the weathered picnic benches were unoccupied, save for one middle-aged man puffing on a pipe whilst he read the newspaper and supped a pint of bitter.
Jorge Martinez parked his Audi TT in one of the few spaces left in the overspill car park to the rear, locked the doors, and followed Moray Ruskin into the crowded bar.
Despite the relatively early hour, there was little space. Immediately inside the doorway, a group of men stood in a loose circle, staring into their pints.
‘Speak of the devil,’ muttered one of them, scowling at the new arrivals. Clearly, news of Stevie Cullen’s death had made it to his local.
‘Ignore him,’ said the woman serving behind the bar.
As always, Ruskin was surprised at how he was immediately identified as a police officer. He supposed he shouldn’t be; he and Martinez were the only people in the bar not dressed in work clothes. Several of the men wore mud-stained jackets and boots. A black and white Border collie looked over, yawned then rested its head back on its paws.
‘I guess you’re here about Stevie,’ she continued. It wasn’t a question.
‘That’s right, Ms …’ confirmed Martinez, introducing himself and Ruskin.
‘Gweneth Rain. I’m the landlady.’
‘I understand that Mr Cullen was a regular drinker here,’ continued Martinez.
‘When he wasn’t barred,’ called out the same man who’d spoken as they entered. The smattering of chuckles were muted and half-hearted.
‘That happen very often?’ asked Martinez.
‘No, not really,’ she replied, glaring at the man who’d called out. ‘He could be a little argumentative after a few, and I told him not to show his face for a week a couple of times.’
‘Did he have run-ins with anyone in particular?’ asked Ruskin.
‘He’d argue with anyone and everyone, but nobody for a while,’ she said. Ruskin couldn’t decide if she was being evasive or not.
‘Hell of a bloody shock,’ she said. ‘They say he was stabbed in some massage parlour. Any idea who did it?’
‘Investigations are ongoing,’ said Martinez. ‘We wondered if any of his friends or other customers could suggest why he was killed?’
‘Probably some pissed-off husband or boyfriend,’ interjected the man again.
Turning to him, Ruskin could see that it was obvious that the nearly empty pint of lager in the man’s hand wasn’t his first of the day.
‘Why do you say that, Mr …?’
‘Benny.’ The man shrugged. ‘Common knowledge. Stevie was a complete fanny rat; ’scuse my French, Gwen.’
‘Is there anyone in particular who may have been upset with him?’ asked Martinez.
Benny looked at him blearily. ‘Take your pick; any new bit of skirt came in and he’d be after her like a rat up a drainpipe. More than a couple of blokes have told him to piss off and leave their missus alone.’ His voice cracked. ‘Stevie reckoned it was a just a bit of fun …’
Elbowing past Martinez, he placed his pint glass on the bar with the exaggerated care of the habitual drunk.
‘I’m going for a fag.’ He turned and headed towards the door.
‘Don’t pay too much mind to Benny.’ Rain lowered her voice slightly. ‘He and Stevie have been best mates since primary school. He’s pretty cut up about it.’
‘If you could give us his full name, we’d be grateful,’ said Martinez. ‘I’d like to talk with him again when he’s in a fitter state.’
‘You’ll be waiting for a long while,’ she warned, as she wrote his name down in Martinez’s notebook. Ruskin didn’t doubt it; even if he and Stevie had been in different years at school, Benny looked a lot older than he should. Ruskin suspected that the lunchtime drinking wasn’t just because his friend had died.
‘Does anybody else have any ideas about why Stevie was killed?’ asked Martinez.
With Benny gone, nobody else seemed willing to contribute.
Martinez fished out a stack of business cards and handed them around to the group; everyone took one, although judging by the lack of eye contact, Ruskin suspected they’d end up in the bin after they left.
‘I appreciate that this has all been a big shock to you,’ he said, raising his voice slightly, ‘but if any of you have any information – no matter how insignificant it seems – please don’t hesitate to call. We want to bring Stevie’s killer to justice, and we need all of the help you can give us.’
Still none of the men made eye contact, but at least a few of the cards made it into trouser pockets.
Thanking the landlady for her time and securing a promise that she’d also call if she heard anything, the two police officers headed outside. Neither Benny nor the pipe smoker were anywhere to be seen, and there was no trace of tobacco smoke in the still air. Ruskin hoped Benny hadn’t driven himself home.
‘That was a waste of time,’ said Ruskin, as they headed back to the car park at the rear of the pub.
‘Maybe not,’ said Martinez. ‘It confirms what his dad told the boss last night. It could just be a jealous spouse.’
‘Seems a bit extreme, and yesterday was hardly a crime of passion,’ countered Ruskin.
Martinez shrugged. ‘I’ve seen worse done for less,’ he said opening the car door.
He paused. ‘Hold on.’
A black wooden door marked ‘staff only’ had opened. A flash of blue hair was visible above the pale white face of the teenaged girl who’d been collecting glasses as they’d spoken to Gweneth Rain.
The girl looked nervously around, before glancing one more time over her shoulder and coming out. Ruskin strolled back across the car park.
She swallowed, before clearing her throat, and introducing herself as ‘Selina’.
‘I saw Stevie arguing with someone a few weeks ago.’ Her voice was timid, and she stared at her feet.
‘Can you be any more specific?’ asked Ruskin quietly.
She looked around again. ‘It was a weekday lunchtime. I don’t know the name of the man, but he comes in here quite often for a bite to eat. He runs one of the local farms.’
Even without a name, that narrowed the pool of suspects.
‘Do you know what they were arguing about?’
She shrugged. ‘I only heard some of it, but the farmer was unhappy with a bill that Stevie had charged him. He said something about not paying for work that had only been half-done. Stevie said that was bollocks and that everything had been finished.’
‘Any idea what the work was that Stevie was charging him for?’ Martinez had now joined the two of them.
‘I don’t know exactly, but he said something about the job taking twice as long as necessary and then he said, “Where was that bloody brother of yours?” and something like “I don’t have time to keep on chasing and nagging.” That’s all I can remember.’
Her piece now said, Martinez gave her one of his business cards, telling her to use his direct number or email address if she had anything else to share.
Back in the car, Ruskin mulled over what the girl had told them. ‘It could be a business disagreement,’ he suggested. ‘Do the Cullens organize labour for other farms?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Martinez, ‘but I’ll look into it.’
‘It’s also a bit premeditated, don’t you think?’ said Ruskin. ‘I can see them getting into a disagreement that gets out of hand, but tracking him down to a massage parlour weeks later … that doesn’t seem right.’
‘I’ll see if I can locate this farmer and have a word,’ said Martinez, ‘but I doubt he’s linked.’