The Black Bull was quite a find. Down through a sloping garden a creaky wooden door opened onto a tiny, stone-flagged bar. There were other rooms off to left and right, with low ceilings and real beams. A bell hanging by the crisp packets summoned a teenaged barmaid with spiky black hair and an uncomfortable-looking bolt through her nose. There was a blackboard with a good list of draught beers chalked on it, along with strength and price. And there was the promised Gaggia machine, authentic if somewhat ancient.
Francis had fancied a coffee, but the early evening sun was shining, so he thought he’d treat himself to a proper drink. Strangely for a Sunday – and during the festival – the place was all but deserted. Three stout women in wind jackets sat around a table on the little terrace by the door. At the far end of the lawn a young couple were visible in silhouette, canoodling behind the backlit fronds of a willow tree. Having ordered himself a pint of Headbanger and a packet of goat’s cheese crisps, Francis found an empty bench at the top of the garden. Below the hedge at the bottom the hill dropped away sharply; beyond was the perfect patchwork of countryside that he’d seen in the rear-view mirror earlier. His iPhone had lost its signal, which was a relief; no one could bother him and he had time to think.
Hmm. If this had been a George Braithwaite mystery, now would have been the point at which the detective paused to consider the suspects in the case. With his beer in front of him, Francis took out his notebook and jotted down a few thoughts. George’s list, perhaps, would have looked something like this:
Dan D – most obvious susp – with real reason to hate B. But: no clear motive bar literary revenge, best satisfied through print anyway? Despite his fearsome rep, seemed nice enough in a one to one. Then again: most obv, least likely character turns out to be a double bluff??
Conal O’H – threatened publicly to kill B. Since said he’s happy he’s dead. No secret that he hates him for stealing (as he sees it) Priya. Vanished at critical time last night. Nobody saw him return to room. Could have been pretending to be drunk, driven to Mold, done deed, and got back before 4 am, which was when Fleur saw him again. But likely? Hardly.
Priya K – in textbook theory, prime suspect, in that she discovered B and apart from taxi driver (and maybe random guest at hotel?) was last to see him alive. But why would she want to do away with brand new boyf + key patron at Sentinel? Also: Cathy saw her come into WH at 4 am. Would have had to bump off B v. quickly indeed, with zero resistance, because 2 minutes later was screaming on the stairs. 2 niggles tho: why did she switch laptop off when she went back to the room? What happened to pillow choc?
Scarlett P-J – ex non-wife! Definitely a poss, esp if she’s going to inherit B’s money and property. ‘It’s my house too,’ she said of cottage. What about London gaff?Must be worth £££s. And what would have happened if Priya’s claim on B had got stronger – as in, say, marriage? Scarlett stood to lose everything. Has alibi in that someone had to be there to look after the twins last night – but what about Nurjan?
Anna C – dumped cruelly after several years of waiting for B to leave S. Furious when she found out, but quickly found replacement. Does that mean she stopped hating him? Even if she didn’t, is that enough of a motive? On other hand, new boyf Marv certainly has experience to do away with someone. And he didn’t seem at all amused when I was quizzing her. Also staying at White H, so easy access. Joint alibi down to anyone who saw the pair of them out at Wyveridge last night – how late did they stay?
Virginia W – dark horse ex-love of a million years ago. Quite obviously never got over B. Resents him deeply, for all her talk of enjoying travel and other boyfriends etc. Has clearly been struggling with career and is hanging everything on latest offering. Is it credible that part of a (deeply twisted) motive could be that she didn’t want B to slag her off again in review? And what about that pen?
That was it, then. And under the unwritten rules of classic detective fiction, in a George Braithwaite mystery it would have had to be someone the reader had been introduced to reasonably early on (i.e. one of those six) – unless of course this was a Roger Ackroyd style story, and for as yet undisclosed reasons, it was I, Francis Meadowes, what had done him in, ha ha ha.
Back in the real world, though, if Bryce really had been the victim of foul play, then it would, most likely, have been someone outside this cosy circle. This was why police procedure was so different from Poirot-style antics. Solving a case like this involved the painstaking business of checking and eliminating all possible suspects. TIE was the police acronym. Trace, Interview, Eliminate. There were no short cuts.
As he sat deep in thought, Francis’s gaze settled idly on the couple under the willow tree. He could half see in, so could they half see out? Probably not. Now, after a long slow snog, and some touchy-feely stuff involving hands and hair, they had pulled apart. Then the woman’s head sank back onto the man’s shoulder. They were obviously a very recent item. A passionate meeting of minds, followed shortly afterwards by bodies – typical of many a festival. Now the man stood up and edged his way through the curtain of green fronds and out into the sunlight, carrying two empty pint jugs.
It was Conal O’Hare.
Francis looked hurriedly down at his notebook. If Conal spotted him, then he might not want to say hello. Out of the corner of his eye, Francis watched the Irishman cross the garden and lower his head to enter the bar. Francis looked back at the willow. The young woman was half hidden by the trailing greenery, but he could see enough of her now to work out who it was. Fleur. So Grace had been right. She had liked Conal. And Conal seemed to have overcome his heartache about Priya at double-quick speed. If, that is, he’d had any heartache about Priya.
When he saw the pub door swing open again, Francis returned to his notebook. Conal paused in his tracks for a couple of seconds, then turned and headed over to where Francis was sitting.
‘Francis …’
‘Oh hello, Conal. What are you doing here?’ The travel writer looked flushed, almost high.
‘Escaping from the festival bullshit. Like you, I expect.’
‘It’s a beautiful spot, isn’t it?’ Francis said. ‘I came across it by accident.’
‘One of those little gems that can’t possibly stay the same forever. Somebody’s bound to buy the old crone out and turn it into a gastropub. Anyhows, just thought I’d say hello. I enjoyed your talk, by the way.’
‘You were there?’
‘It was interesting. And the questions – you did a fine job of keeping them off the one subject they all wanted to know about.’
He paused, but Francis wasn’t going to be drawn. ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ Conal said. ‘Come out to Wyveridge later, if you’ve nothing better to do. Ranjit’s having another of his parties. Starts about eight. Should be excellent crack.’
‘I might just do that.’
Conal sloped off. He hadn’t mentioned Fleur, but Francis was amused, looking up, to see that his presence hadn’t intimidated them. He finished his drink and headed back to the Saab. The bottom line was that this wasn’t a George Braithwaite story. Thinking about his dubious list of suspects Francis could only conclude that it was unlikely that any of them had done Bryce in. The few oddities in the room this morning almost certainly had simple explanations.
He had no idea why the police had decided to send in forensics. Had the love bite and the bruise been enough to set the whole investigative process going? Then again, it was perfectly possible that there was a Chinese whispers effect from the doctor’s other jokey remarks. Green young copper mutters to DS, DS summons DCI, till everyone’s covering their arses and the full rigmarole of TIE is under way. The post-mortem would probably confirm a heart attack or aneurysm. And that would be that. Bryce just another one of those who fell in their fifties. There were more of them than you realised, as a wander round any graveyard would confirm.
Returning to Mold, Francis easily found a parking space in the yard at the back of the hotel. The police activity, he noticed, was visibly reduced. The marked cars and vans had gone, even the WPC on the front door had been stood down. Ah well, perhaps that was it. Drama over. With a good conscience he could retire for a quiet meal at the Rising Sun.
At the end of the main corridor he saw Cathy, working away under the bright beam of an anglepoise in the little reception booth.
‘Police left you to it, have they?’
She looked up. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘No. What?’
‘There’s been another death. Out at Wyveridge Hall. One of the people staying there. Fell from the roof, apparently.’
‘God help us,’ said Francis, quietly. ‘D’you know who it was?’
‘A young woman, apparently. Grace somebody-or-other. Roger Webster’s already out there.’