There was one barman behind the bar. A man in his late twenties, called Lee, according to the name embroidered on his staff polo shirt. He was serving a couple of middle-aged Hooray Henrys. The Henry was in maroon-coloured corduroy trousers with a striped yellow shirt and tweed jacket, Henrietta in a pair of riding trousers a size too small for her and a white silk shirt. Apparently, the wine the barman offered to them wasn’t to their liking. They were obliged to wait for a few minutes until, with a sniffy nod, they seemed pleased, if not delighted, with the best that was on offer.
Lee rang up their purchase on the till, then crossed to Tony and Emma. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Will you be staying with us tonight?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ Emma Halliday said.
‘Sorry. We’re expecting a couple who booked in. Probably delayed by the snow.’
Emma nodded. She wasn’t too surprised. The last leg of their journey had taken a lot longer than the first.
‘It’s getting a bit Winter Wonderland out there,’ Tony agreed.
‘Nightmare, more like,’ said Emma.
‘So what can I get you?’ asked the barman. ‘I’m afraid the kitchen is closed until six o’clock if you were looking to have something to eat.’
‘We weren’t,’ said DI Halliday, flashing her warrant card. ‘We’re looking for the boss. Is she working?’
The barman pulled a face. ‘You’ll not find her this side of the bar. She’ll be upstairs. Shall I go and tell her you’re here?’
‘Why don’t you just take us up to see her?’ said Emma with a smile.
‘I don’t think she’d like that, without being told.’
‘Does that bother you unduly?’
The barman pretended to consider for a moment, then smiled himself. ‘Not unduly,’ he replied.
‘Bingo bongo!’ said DI Tony Hamilton, holding his hands wide as he and Emma got off their stools.
The barman led them through a pair of swing doors into a narrow hallway and up some stairs.
The landing above had a window at the far end and leaded lights, but it was dark outside now. Emma Halliday glanced at her watch and realised it wouldn’t be getting any brighter.
The barman knocked on the door and opened it. A younger man rushed out, reddening a little as he mumbled an apology at DI Halliday, as she had to step swiftly aside, and hurried down the staircase.
‘What is it?’ Marjorie Johnson sounded less than happy with the disruption. She had a southern-counties accent.
‘It’s the police,’ said the barman, showing the visitors into the room.
It was a large lounge with mullioned windows. Expensively decorated. A polished wooden floor with hand-woven rugs on it. The mullioned windows looked over the street below. Overhead were ancient beams and there was another large, open fireplace. Logs were burning in the grate. A substantial antique red leather sofa stood next to a couple of matching club chairs. There was an eighteenth-century writing desk under the windows with a reading lamp on it and a tantalus, with the decanters full. A drinks cabinet was to the left of where DIs Hamilton and Halliday were standing.
Marjorie Johnson sat on the sofa. She was a large woman, with long blonde hair, expensively styled, held back in a black Alice band. She wore a low-cut, cream-coloured silk blouse and was clearly not afraid to show her cleavage and a hint of white lace beneath it. She had a black skirt, too short for Emma Halliday’s taste, with a hint of lace on her stocking top. She wore high-heeled black shoes and had a cut-glass tumbler in her hand. She twirled the ice. It made a tinkling sound as she looked at Tony Hamilton appraisingly and then smiled, showing white, perfectly aligned, if slightly predatory-looking teeth.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Inspector?’ She completely ignored Hamilton’s female associate.
‘We’re here to talk about your husband, Mrs Johnson, said Emma.
She shot the DI a surly look. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Detective?’ Turning to DI Hamilton, she put the smile back in place.
‘No thanks, we’re on duty,’ Emma answered for them both.
‘Is that gin and tonic you’re drinking?’ asked Tony Hamilton.
‘It certainly is. Tanqueray No. 10.’
‘Excellent. I’ll have one of those please.’
Marjorie Johnson stood up in one languid movement. She was nearly as tall as DI Halliday in her high-heeled shoes, but not quite.
Tony shrugged at his colleague. ‘You wanted to drive,’ he said with a grin.
‘Sure I can’t tempt you, Constable?’ asked Marjorie Johnson over her shoulder.
‘I’ll just take a plain soda with ice, if you have such a thing. And it’s Detective Inspector Emma Halliday.’
‘DI Tony Hamilton,’ said Tony, as he took the glass she offered him.
‘Women are making great strides in business nowadays,’ said Marjorie, as she squirted some soda from a Thirties-style soda siphon into a tall glass and added some ice.
‘Yes. And we don’t even have to burn our bras any more,’ replied Emma, smiling sweetly.
‘Just as well, in my case,’ said the older woman, expanding her chest so that Tony Hamilton didn’t miss her point.
‘Need the support?’ said Emma, keeping the smile hovering on her lips.
Marjorie Johnson laughed. ‘No, dear, I was thinking more of the fire-hazard risks.’
She walked back to the sofa, swaying her broad hips like Mae West on steroids, and sat down. ‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ she said, gesturing to the two armchairs opposite.
Emma and Tony sat down. Emma put her glass, untouched, on the sherry table beside her chair. Tony took a small sip of his. ‘Very nice.’
‘Not too weak?’
‘No, it’s certainly not that.’
‘Do you think we could discuss your husband now, Mrs Johnson? We have driven a long way.’
‘Yes, and in such awful conditions. I can’t think what was so important. My husband has been dead for a year or so, you know.’
‘I am sorry if this is painful for you,’ replied DI Halliday without any hint of sarcasm in her voice. ‘But there are some matters that have arisen.’
‘What kind of matters?’
DI Hamilton reached into his coat pocket and handed a card over to Mrs Johnson. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’ he asked.
‘It’s a tarot card.’
‘Yes.’
‘Major Arcana.’
‘You know about the tarot?’ asked DI Hamilton, surprised.
‘Oh yes, Inspector,’ Marjorie said, giving the words a seductive lilt. ‘I am very much in touch with my spiritual side. The Hanged Man, a significant symbol.’
‘What sort of significance?’ asked Emma Halliday.
‘It is all down to interpretation, of course. The cards are like notes or chords in a piece of music. You need to put them together for a proper reading.’
‘So what does this one mean?’ prompted Hamilton.
‘A good question.’ She gave him a look a schoolteacher might give a particularly bright pupil. ‘A very good question.’
‘Which is why I asked you what the significance is.’ Emma could do little to hide her growing irritation with the woman.
‘I am afraid I don’t know, my dear. I have a lady come in and give readings once a month in the pub. It’s quite an attraction. I like to have different special nights each week.’