Poisoning in the Pub, The. Simon Brett

Fethering Observer all around the town.

      After she had towelled off Gulliver’s sandy paws and made herself a cup of coffee, she sat down at the kitchen table and read the whole item. It was another scorching day. The door to the garden was open, but the air didn’t seem to move at all.

      Once she’d finished reading Carole phoned next door, but there was no reply from Woodside Cottage. Then she remembered that Jude had said something about going off to ‘a day’s conference on alternative therapies in Brighton on Thursday’. Probably the reason why Carole had forgotten that was the instinct her brain had to switch off whenever she heard the words ‘alternative therapy’.

      She was surprised at how much the Fethering Observer report had upset her. In spite of the ‘serve him right’ attitude she had expressed earlier in the week, she felt terribly sorry for Ted Crisp. Though their brief affair had ended long before, she didn’t like to think of him suffering. So she rang through to the Crown and Anchor to commiserate.

      The landlord was in a predictable state of fury. ‘I get the all-clear from Health and Safety yesterday. They say I can open up today, and then what bloody happens? The Fethering Observer only tells everyone from here to Fedborough that the Crown and Anchor’s “closed until further notice”! I think I can be excused for feeling paranoid. It’s not my imagination. Everybody bloody is picking on me!’

      ‘I’m sure it’ll soon blow over,’ said Carole. Though, knowing how the gossip machine of Fethering worked, she rather doubted the accuracy of her prediction.

      ‘Well, I’ve had it up to here.’ Ted groaned. ‘Anyway, how was the Fethering Observer onto it so quickly? Somebody must’ve snitched to them. Somebody round here’s trying to do a number on me.’

      He certainly did sound paranoid, but Carole couldn’t help feeling some sympathy for him.

      ‘And now I don’t know whether I should be pulling the plugs on this Dan Poke gig on Sunday.’

      ‘Have you sold many tickets?’

      ‘Yes, a bundle. And news about it is up on Dan’s website. He reckons we’ll get a lot more on the door. There’s even an interview with him in the Fethering Observer entertainment section. Plugging the gig in the same paper that says the Crown and Anchor’s closed “till further notice”. Talk about the right hand not knowing what the left hand’s doing. I don’t know – should I call Dan? I mean, if people think the pub’s closed … He’s doing me a favour. Doing the gig for just expenses. But then say I can’t get an audience for him …’

      ‘If people have bought tickets,’ Carole reasoned, ‘they’ll come. Or they’ll at least ring you to check whether the pub will be open on Sunday.’

      ‘Yeah, maybe. I don’t know, it makes me bloody want to spit …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, look,’ he went on, controlling his anger and trying to speak in a more conciliatory tone, ‘what I’d like to do is invite you and Jude down here for lunch today. On the house. By way of compensation for what happened on Monday. What do you say?’

      ‘Well,’ Carole replied cautiously, ‘Jude’s away for the day at some conference.’

      ‘Then you just come on your own. I want to have someone in the bloody bar at lunchtime. With the publicity I’ve been getting recently, you’re likely to be the only one.’

      It wasn’t quite that bad, but lunchtime business at the Crown and Anchor was very slow. The contrast with the bustling energy of three days before could not have been more marked. There was a Dutch family of four sitting outside, presumably tourists unaware of any adverse publicity. At the bar lounged a couple of the regular lunchtime drinkers, returning for reasons of habit and geographical convenience. And there was Carole.

      The menu offered a couple of seafood dishes, but she steered clear of them and, as her compensatory lunch, ordered sausage and mash. She determined that, since she was going to have such a substantial midday meal, she wouldn’t eat anything that evening. And she restricted herself to one small glass of Chilean Chardonnay.

      The advantage of the slackness of business was that Carole did get a chance to talk to Ted Crisp. He looked more haggard than she had ever seen him. Above the beard line his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were sunk into dark circles. Leaving Zosia in charge behind the bar (not that she had any customers to deal with), he came to sit at Carole’s table. He nursed a glass of mineral water. The fringes of his hair were spiked from earlier sweating.

      She felt she wanted to reach out to hug him, to make it all better. That’s what Jude would have done. But of course, being Carole Seddon and not Jude, Carole didn’t.

      ‘Trade’ll pick up,’ she said.

      ‘Huh.’

      ‘At least you’ve got a clean bill of health from the Health and Safety.’

      ‘Yes, but it’s still going to take a while to get the punters back. And this is the time of year I should be coining it.’

      Ed Pollack had come out into the bar. Even without much cooking to do, the kitchen was an uncomfortably hot place to be on that kind of day. A tall, thin boy, he looked younger than his twenty-five years. He was wearing stylish glasses, those very thin ones with dark frames that make people look like aliens from cheap sci-fi movies. Dressed in rubber clogs, black and white checked trousers, a white button-across top and a tight black cap, he was just untying a white scarf from around his neck to mop his brow. In his hands he held a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Clearly about to go out to the car park for one of his fag breaks.

      But when he saw Carole, the boy changed his destination. Crossing to the table, he offered his sincere apologies for the effect his scallops had had on her. Ed Pollack had a surprisingly upper-class accent for Carole’s preconception of how a chef should talk. ‘I feel terrible about it. Worst nightmare you can have in my profession.’

      ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Carole, unwilling to increase Ted Crisp’s self-recrimination. ‘These things happen, Ed.’

      ‘Yes, but I pride myself on the way I keep my kitchen. Come and have a look.’

      Carole looked across at Ted Crisp, who shrugged permission. If that’s what the boy wanted to do to make himself feel better, then fine. So Carole was given a quick tour of the kitchen. Every surface was spotless. There was no trace of black on the hobs or grills. The white-handled knives and other utensils gleamed, as did the magnetic strip to which they were attached. Ed Pollack even opened the fridges for his visitor. He turned and appealed to her. ‘All perfectly clean, isn’t it?’

      ‘Better than most hospital intensive care units,’ said Carole, in an attempt to lift the woebegone expression from his face. She led the way back into the bar and, showing more social grace than she could usually command, asked, ‘Can I get you a drink, Ed, to show there are no hard feelings?’

      ‘On the house,’ said Ted. ‘Coke, isn’t it?’

      ‘Please,’ said the boy as he sat down languidly at their table. ‘God, I’m drinking so much at the moment. Not booze, just water and stuff. I seem to have a permanent thirst.’

      ‘An occupational hazard, I would imagine,’ said Carole. ‘Spending all your time in a hot kitchen.’

      ‘Maybe.’

      There was a silence, as she tried to think what to ask next. Carole realized that she was being given a perfect opportunity to continue her investigation into the poisoning at the Crown and Anchor. She owed it to Jude not to mess up the chance. Besides, she relished the idea of taking her neighbour back some new titbit of carefully elicited knowledge.

      ‘I suppose, Ed, you have no more idea than Ted what might have caused the dodgy scallops to get through?’

      The chef shook his head. ‘I just can’t see how it happened. And obviously I’m furious, because it’s a black mark against my professionalism. I mean, one thing they din into you at catering college: