A look of horror spread across the faces of the elderly couple as the word sunk in. They struggled to their feet and scurried out of the room.
‘Terrific, Kenny,’ Kathy said, weary and angry. ‘Next time, tell it with actions.’ The group froze for a moment when they saw her face, then rapidly dispersed. Gordon came over to her. ‘Would you like some instant, Kathy?’ He sounded anxious. ‘We got ourselves an urn. You take milk and sugar?’
She sighed. ‘Just milk, Gordon. Then get everyone round here.’
He did as she told him, and then she began. ‘So, what happened to Petrou on Sunday evening? No one saw him after Mr Long left him, around four. He just disappeared and turned up the next morning hanging by the neck in the temple crypt. No one had an inkling he might have been contemplating suicide. What now?’
Someone yawned, another stretched. They were tired; this stage of the operation was over, and they were reluctant to start pondering the next. Gamely, Gordon said what everyone was thinking. ‘I reckon we’ve got to look outside, Sarge. Try to find his friends in London, the places he went to in Crowbridge and Edenham.’
‘If he had a visitor that evening, I suppose they could have been mistaken for one of the people coming to the recital and not been identified by anyone,’ Kathy said. ‘But where would they have met? Parsons says he heard no sound from Petrou’s room all the time he was working next door later that evening. Anywhere else he’d have been spotted, surely.’
‘In the temple?’
‘In the dark?’ someone objected.
‘Alternatively, could he have slipped off to meet someone? Visitors’ cars were coming and going from about six forty-five. No one seems to have heard the motor bike leave, but it’s possible he could have done.’
‘The tank was full when we looked at it on Monday morning,’ Gordon said.
‘Although he was using it on Saturday night,’ Kathy added. ‘Maybe he filled it up on Sunday evening. We could check garages. Then the pub and club in Crowbridge that Rose mentioned, see if he went back there. And try to track down this Errol.’
‘There’s a gay pub here in Edenham,’ someone said. It was Kenny, Kathy noticed, the comedian. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah, so my informants tell me.’ Someone at the back sniggered. ‘It’s called the Jolly Roger.’ Louder laughter. Kathy’s eyes narrowed, wondering if he was having her on.
‘No, straight up. It’s on the other side of the High Street from the Hart Revived, down a side lane.’
‘Is that a side lane or a back passage, Kenny?’ a voice called out.
‘I think you lot need some fresh air,’ Kathy said. She set about organizing their tasks with Gordon.
It was after six that evening by the time Kathy left the clinic. She had faxed the last of the reports through to Belle’s number, unsure whether anyone would be there at the other end to pick them up. As she handed over the keys of the interview rooms to the woman at reception, she saw the patients filing into the dining room for the evening meal, their routine now re-established. One man gave her a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, frowning as if willing the last of the intruders to go away.
The rain was holding off, but the wind was chill, giving the autumn smells the bitter edge of winter. She hurried to the car, turned on the engine, lights and heater, and drove off, her headlights swinging across the dark meadow towards the stone bridge. When she reached Edenham she drove slowly down the High Street and, sure enough, spotted the Jolly Roger off a turning to the right.
Formerly called the Plough, the brewery had tried to increase its modest turnover by transforming it from a rather drab little village pub into a themed bar. For some reason which no one could now remember, they had chosen a seafaring theme, and the interior was fitted out with timber-panelled walls punctuated with brass portholes, red and green navigation lights, framed charts and blackened fishing nets. The doorway to the former snug bar, now renamed the Poop Deck, was guarded by a replica cannon, which regularly caught the shins of customers when the place was busy. Kathy opted for the main bar, glad that it was almost deserted.
‘What can I get you, luv?’ The barman was young and good-looking. He wore a white collarless shirt and a black apron tied at the waist. He regarded Kathy with a severe expression, one eyebrow arched. Kathy didn’t normally drink beer, but the overheated atmosphere of the clinic had dried her out.
‘Half of lager, please.’
‘Stella?’
‘Fine. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone.’ ‘Aren’t we all, luv?’
‘Yes, well. You ever see a foreign bloke in here, dark, in his twenties, your sort of build? I’ve got a picture.’
The man glanced at it over his arm as he drew the lager.
‘Nice. What’s he done, run off with someone?’
‘He’s had an accident. I’m trying to contact his friends. His name’s Alex, Alex Petrou. Mean anything to you?’
The barman took his time to shake his head. ‘What made you try here?’
‘He worked at the Stanhope Clinic up the road. I just thought he might have come in here for a drink.’
The man looked at Kathy carefully. ‘Well, I’ll ask the regulars if you like. Want to leave the picture?’
‘All right. I’ll put my phone number on the back.’
Kathy handed it over and sat on a stool at one end of the bar. An evening newspaper was lying on the towelling mat. The discovery of a murder on a suburban train was making the headlines. To date she had been happy that the press hadn’t made much of Petrou’s death, but maybe it was getting to the point where some wider coverage might help trace his movements on Sunday night, if he had left the clinic. Kathy sipped her beer and thought about it. She didn’t take any notice of the customer who had arrived further down the bar until he ordered a Scotch. Then she looked up, surprised by the harsh Geordie vowels of Tanner’s voice.
‘Hello, Kathy,’ he said, putting his wallet away, not even looking round at her. Then he turned towards her and smiled. There was something about his smile that made her feel even more uncomfortable than his hostility.
‘Still hot on the trail, eh?’
He came over and sat on the stool next to her.
‘What progress do we have to report today?’
‘How did you know I was here, sir?’ She heard her voice sound distant and tight.
‘Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I always drink here. Tasteful decor.’ His lip curled in distaste as his eyes travelled round the room and fastened on the barman. ‘Genial host.’
Kathy decided to play it straight. ‘We finished interviewing everyone at the clinic today. Belle Mansfield is processing the data. I hope to hear something from the pathologist tomorrow. We’re following up the possibility that Petrou left the clinic on Sunday evening and met someone. The tank of his motor bike — ’
‘Alternatively,’ Tanner broke in, as if he hadn’t heard her speak, ‘I might just have heard that one of my sergeants had taken to frequenting gay bars. That sort of thing tends to get around, especially if the sergeant is a she.’
Kathy didn’t reply. For several minutes they sat in silence. Eventually Tanner said, as if making idle conversation to a stranger, ‘What’s this Stanhope Clinic like, then?’
Kathy didn’t really know how to reply. What was it like} It wasn’t really like anything. It had its own peculiar personality, hard to describe. In fact, coming away from it, Kathy realized how strongly that personality had begun to form itself in her mind. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. It’s not a con. I think everyone there believes in it, the naturopathic thing, quite genuinely. You should ask the Deputy Chief Constable. He’s on the Board of Trustees.’