“Maybe her killer has, though.”
Shocked by the suggestion, Alison retained enough of her composure to say, “We’ve no way of knowing.”
“I don’t expect you to know, miss. How could you?” He took a leisurely glance around the room. “But you want to be on your guard.” While Alison tried to look unimpressed, the sergeant went on, “It was a barmaid who was murdered. We’ve questioned a number of local men she knew, and they seem to be in the clear. The chances are that he isn’t a Glastonbury man. More likely he’s the sort of fellow who comes into the pub once or twice and chats up the pretty girl who serves him. You’ve met a few of them I dare say?”
“Hundreds.”
“A certain amount of charm, good looks, gift of the gab. Pushing their luck, trying for a date?”
“Some do.”
“Anyone lately?”
She shook her head. Strictly speaking, Tony fitted the profile, but she excluded him. A man too timid to come in for a cup of coffee at the end of an evening was hardly likely to strangle you. “No one I can recall. What makes you think he’d come to Bridgwater?”
“He wouldn’t want to show his face in Glastonbury, would he?”
“I suppose not.”
“Could be Burnham he tries next, or Langport. Burnham and Langport aren’t my patch. Bridgwater is, and that’s why I’m here, giving you advice.”
Alison said nothing. Let him give his damned advice. She didn’t have to thank him for it.
He asked, “Are there any other girls employed here?”
“Two others help at the weekends. Sally and Karen. It’s lads, apart from them.”
“I may look in again, then, Miss Harker, but you’ll do me a favour and pass on my advice, won’t you?”
After he had gone, business at the bar was brisk and the level of noise rapidly returned to normal. Alison was too busy serving to give any more thought to the murdered woman until near closing time, when she went to Matt’s table to collect empties.
Matt grasped her by the wrist. He had a powerful grip. “I hope you told the copper about your fancy man, him you spent last Saturday night with. Seems to me, he’s got to be a suspect, going out with barmaids.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Matt.”
“Ridiculous, is it? I’d have said he’s just the sort of bloke they’re after, the kind that moves from town to town looking for a woman foolish enough to go out with him.”
“Let go of my arm.”
“We all know he’s got wheels. With that great car of his, he could have driven the poor lass from Glastonbury out to Meare Green and strangled her. I’d say you have a duty to mention him to the police — if you haven’t already.”
“I bet she hasn’t,” said John Colwell.
“Don’t you have any brains in your head?” said Alison, wrenching away her arm, which had become quite numb where Matt had gripped it. “Tony’s car is driven by a chauffeur. If he wanted to murder anyone — which I’m sure he doesn’t — do you think he’d have the chauffeur drive them to the spot and wait in the car while he did it? What’s the chauffeur going to think when he comes out of the withy-bed without the girl? Oh, get with it.”
“Happen he gives the chauffeur an evening off,” said Matt.
“When he does, he uses a taxi.”
“Who told you that?”
“He did.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?”
She rubbed her arm. It was turning red. She wouldn’t be surprised to find a bruise there. “You’re so puerile, you lot. As a matter of fact, Matt, if I wanted to report anyone to the police, it ought to be you. See this mark coming up? If they’re looking for someone violent to women, I can give them a name.”
“They’d laugh at you,” he told her.
“And I could tell them you have a rusty old Cortina you drive around in.”
John Colwell grinned. “He does, and all.”
Alison had neatly turned the fire on Matt. He could squirm, for a change. “Talk about suspects. What’s to stop you from driving over to Glastonbury and picking up some unfortunate girl and killing her?”
Matt tried to laugh it off. “Little old me, the Meare Green strangler?”
“Killing’s your job, isn’t it?”
His friend Colwell grinned. “She’s got you there. You’ve got to admit she’s got you there, Matt.”
The seed of anxiety was sown, not about Matt, whom she’d known all her life, almost, and not about Tony either. The worry was over her personal position. She could get into trouble for failing to mention Tony to the police. He fitted the profile Detective Sergeant Mayhew had given her: not a local man, but with charm, good looks and the gift of the gab, the sort who visits the pub only once or twice and gets friendly with the barmaid. She knew Tony was harmless. Well, she felt certain he was harmless, which is almost the same. A guy who passed up the chance to make love after buying her expensive meals was hardly likely to strip the clothes off her and strangle her. Unfortunately Matt or his cronies were liable to make mischief and tell the detective about Tony’s visits to the pub and his evenings out with her. She knew that crowd and their so-called sense of humour. They would think it hilarious to embarrass her, forcing her to answer questions from the police about her dates with Tony. For Matt, who was jealous, it would be a kind of revenge.
Sergeant Mayhew had said he would probably be back at the weekend, to talk to the other barmaids. Alison decided it was in her interest to be on duty on Saturday after all, in case anything was said. If she handled this right, she could get to Sergeant Mayhew before Matt did. She and the other girls could monopolise him.
She spoke to the manager next day and fixed it. She would take Thursday off and come into work Saturday. Then she called Tony on his mobile and said unfortunately she couldn’t go out with him on Saturday as she’d been compelled to change her shift. He was relaxed about it and good enough to suggest they met the following week.
Thursday was an opportunity of doing some detective work of her own. She had thought of a way of finding out more about Tony’s recent past. In brilliant morning sunshine that brought extraordinary clarity to the scene she cycled six miles though the lanes, past fields where sheep and cattle grazed and the wild iris, kingcup and sweet gale abounded. At the edge of the lane, baby rabbits crouched and butterflies swooped up. Her destination was Stockland Bristol, the restaurant she and Tony had visited the previous Saturday.
The woman owner remembered her, of course, as the customer who had showered in her bathroom. “Did you leave something behind, my dear?”
“No. It’s just...” Alison hesitated, uncertain how to phrase this. “The gentleman I was with — Tony — Mr Pawson — he’s a regular customer of yours, I gather.”
“I wouldn’t say regular. Occasional describes it better. We’re always glad to see him, though. Is anything wrong?”
“Oh, no. Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve become rather attached to him.”
“I’m pleased for you, my dear. He’s a charming gentleman.”
She fingered her the ends of her hair. “I don’t know how to ask this. It’s a terrible cheek. I thought, being a woman, you might understand.”
“What on earth is the matter, my dear?”
Alison blinked hard, and succeeded in getting a tear to roll down her cheek. “I keep thinking about the times he came here before. Is there anyone else — I mean is there another woman — he brought here recently, say in the past six weeks?”
Eyebrows raised, the woman said, “It wouldn’t be very discreet of me to say so, would it? We owe our patrons some confidentiality over such matters.”
Alison’s hopes plummeted.
“However,” the woman went on, “since he has only ever brought gentlemen before who were obviously businessmen, I can set your mind at rest without seriously breaking any confidence. Is that what you wanted to know?”