I've got something to tell you that you should know. I still remember you
fondly. I prayed you would be safe in France and I'm so relieved to hear that
my prayers were answered. You were always the sweetest of all those Yanks.
Ring me when
you get here (I've put my number at the top) and we'll arrange to meet. Yours
affectionately, Marion.'
Rachel looked at the address on the
top of the letter. Queenswear. just over the river from Tradmouth. He had
visited Marion on Sunday afternoon ... hence the ferry tickets. She pulled
another exhibit bag out of her handbag and put the thin paper carefully inside
it.
It was obvious from the letter that
Marion still carried a torch for her handsome young Yank, even after fifty
years. She wondered if, when they had met, the reality of old age had
extinguished that flame for good.
Heffernan and Wesley lunched in the
Bereton Arms; a working lunch. While they were there they asked whether Wayne Restorick
had honoured the establishment with his presence on Sunday night. The landlord knew
Wayne well: he was sure he hadn't been in on Sunday. It had been a quiet night.
Everyone had been at home watching that Inspector
Morgan , the landlord stated bitterly. It looked as though Annie Restorick
might have been telling the truth after all.
The two police officers tucked
themselves away in a quiet comer with their drinks and their ploughman's
lunches. The half-empty pub was a haven of peace; no piped music; no juke-box; only
a flashing games machine stood incongruously against the oak-beamed wall of the
lounge bar like a tan at a Mothers Union meeting . .. tawdry and out of place. Heffernan
was pleased to see that no one was playing on it.
An angry shout of 'Get out... we
don't want your sort in here... sling your hook' from behind the bar made them
look round.
A young man stood defiantly just inside the doorway. He wore a grey military
overcoat, tattered and torn; his lank mousy hair was swept back into a tiny ponytail.
The last time they had seen him he had been begging outside the Clearview
Hotel. Bereton wasn't
giving him much of a welcome.
'And don't you think of coming back...
and tell those mates of yours the same.' The landlord, a portly middle-aged man
with a military moustache, marched out from behind his bar and held open the
door for the departing beggar.
Heffernan strolled up to the bar with
his empty glass. 'Give you a lot of trouble, do they?'
'They've been hanging round the
village a couple of days now... idle buggers. I can't think what they're after.
I told them to get back to London where they belong.' He made the name London sound
like the nether reaches of Hades.
'Has he been in here before, then?'
'No, but his mates have. Two of them
... more strangers to soap and water. Soon as I saw them I told them to get
out. I don't want the likes of them putting off my regulars. Where do they get the
money from to drink anyway? Begging and scrounging most
likely.'
The landlord turned towards the
optics to pour himself a whisky. He had said his piece. Heffernan went to sit
down.
'Wes, have you seen a list of what
was found in the dead man's pockets?'
'Yeah. Nothing unusual. Handkerchief,
few leaflets about local tourist attractions probably picked up at the hotel,
some loose change, mints, a ten-pound note. Why?'
'Nothing. Another theory shot down
in flames, that's all.'
'What theory's this?'
'Well, if he still had a tenner on
him the motive wasn't theft.'
The landlord approached their table,
collecting glasses. And another thing ...' He bent over confidentially. 'They
threatened Mrs Slater up at the Clearview Hotel. A barmaid here does breakfasts
for her and she told me. One of them pulled a knife on her.'
'Didn't she report this to the
police?'
'I don't know. All I know is that I
don't want them anywhere near my pub.'
'I think we should have a little
word with our young gentlemen of the road,' said
fondly. I prayed you would be safe in France and I'm so relieved to hear that
my prayers were answered. You were always the sweetest of all those Yanks.
Ring me when
you get here (I've put my number at the top) and we'll arrange to meet. Yours
affectionately, Marion.'
Rachel looked at the address on the
top of the letter. Queenswear. just over the river from Tradmouth. He had
visited Marion on Sunday afternoon ... hence the ferry tickets. She pulled
another exhibit bag out of her handbag and put the thin paper carefully inside
it.
It was obvious from the letter that
Marion still carried a torch for her handsome young Yank, even after fifty
years. She wondered if, when they had met, the reality of old age had
extinguished that flame for good.
Heffernan and Wesley lunched in the
Bereton Arms; a working lunch. While they were there they asked whether Wayne Restorick
had honoured the establishment with his presence on Sunday night. The landlord knew
Wayne well: he was sure he hadn't been in on Sunday. It had been a quiet night.
Everyone had been at home watching that Inspector
Morgan , the landlord stated bitterly. It looked as though Annie Restorick
might have been telling the truth after all.
The two police officers tucked
themselves away in a quiet comer with their drinks and their ploughman's
lunches. The half-empty pub was a haven of peace; no piped music; no juke-box; only
a flashing games machine stood incongruously against the oak-beamed wall of the
lounge bar like a tan at a Mothers Union meeting . .. tawdry and out of place. Heffernan
was pleased to see that no one was playing on it.
An angry shout of 'Get out... we
don't want your sort in here... sling your hook' from behind the bar made them
look round.
A young man stood defiantly just inside the doorway. He wore a grey military
overcoat, tattered and torn; his lank mousy hair was swept back into a tiny ponytail.
The last time they had seen him he had been begging outside the Clearview
Hotel. Bereton wasn't
giving him much of a welcome.
'And don't you think of coming back...
and tell those mates of yours the same.' The landlord, a portly middle-aged man
with a military moustache, marched out from behind his bar and held open the
door for the departing beggar.
Heffernan strolled up to the bar with
his empty glass. 'Give you a lot of trouble, do they?'
'They've been hanging round the
village a couple of days now... idle buggers. I can't think what they're after.
I told them to get back to London where they belong.' He made the name London sound
like the nether reaches of Hades.
'Has he been in here before, then?'
'No, but his mates have. Two of them
... more strangers to soap and water. Soon as I saw them I told them to get
out. I don't want the likes of them putting off my regulars. Where do they get the
money from to drink anyway? Begging and scrounging most
likely.'
The landlord turned towards the
optics to pour himself a whisky. He had said his piece. Heffernan went to sit
down.
'Wes, have you seen a list of what
was found in the dead man's pockets?'
'Yeah. Nothing unusual. Handkerchief,
few leaflets about local tourist attractions probably picked up at the hotel,
some loose change, mints, a ten-pound note. Why?'
'Nothing. Another theory shot down
in flames, that's all.'
'What theory's this?'
'Well, if he still had a tenner on
him the motive wasn't theft.'
The landlord approached their table,
collecting glasses. And another thing ...' He bent over confidentially. 'They
threatened Mrs Slater up at the Clearview Hotel. A barmaid here does breakfasts
for her and she told me. One of them pulled a knife on her.'
'Didn't she report this to the
police?'
'I don't know. All I know is that I
don't want them anywhere near my pub.'
'I think we should have a little
word with our young gentlemen of the road,' said
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