anything?’ I coached myself into remembering that the seriousness of a crime from the victim’s viewpoint is totally different to that of the law’s.
‘No. Dad reckons it was a two-man job and they pushed it along there.’ She pointed to where the hamlet petered out into open countryside – not far, and so her dad could be right.
‘It would have been driven away, though. No gang would risk bringing a low loader here.’
Daisy regarded this as a marvel of detection. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘We sleuths have keen minds. I take it you didn’t leave it unlocked or a key in the ignition?’
End of admiration from Daisy. ‘You must think I’m nuts,’ she said scornfully. ‘No way.’
The bakery, from its display, catered for everyone, producing a range from Chelsea buns and doughnuts to quiches and interesting looking pies to tempt the palate. Two delivery vans were parked outside, which suggested there was a lunchtime delivery service.
‘Is there a pub near here?’ I asked, thinking that might be a rendezvous for joyriders.
‘Closed down.’
A familiar fate for small country pubs. ‘
Anywhere
near?’
‘Justie’s dad’s at Tickenden.’
I took it that ‘Justie’ was her own pet name for him. ‘Justin’s your boyfriend?’ Bad lot? I wondered.
‘He’s like – well – hopeful. Can’t make my mind up.’ She grinned conspiratorially at me, and I felt privileged – in a fatherly way. This was a game I was long out of. ‘His dad owns the May Tree Inn.’
‘I’ve been there once or twice.’ It’s famous now for being a pretty country pub with good food. I’d been there in my youth, before marriage and I had disagreed with each other, and again quite recently. In a previous existence in the late 70s the pub was chiefly famous for something completely different – as a well-hidden dive for career criminals, a role that culminated in the May Tree Shoot-Out. A priceless collection of early English gold brooches, and cups etc, had been hijacked while in transit from its stately-home owners to be sold on the continent. The villains retreated to the May Tree, where they proceeded to have a serious falling out. The then manager of the May Tree had disappeared into one of her Majesty’s prisons for umpteen years. The pub had abruptly been sold by the brewery and had forged a new life for itself.
‘I think I met the owner,’ I continued. ‘Gentle giant of a chap.’
‘Yeah. George is OK, so’s Justie – but a bit, well you know …’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘
Too
gentle.’
‘No such thing,’ I said sadly. ‘You’ll learn.’
She shrugged. ‘Got to see the world first, haven’t I?’
‘And what would constitute the world for you?’
‘Africa, China, Aussie, maybe America. That sort of place.’
I held my peace. Places are inhabited by people much the same as those she met in Burchett Forstal – good, bad, dull, interesting, gentle, fierce – but who was I to knock her dreams? I’d seen my ‘world’ in the oil business, and thankfully I was now back at Frogs Hill, determined never to move again.
‘Justie’s got some evidence,’ she told me.
‘About Melody?’
‘Yeah. Reckons he can get her back for me. But he hasn’t done it, has he?’
‘Why not?’
‘Says there are complications and he can’t split on a mate. I told him, stuff that. Just get Melody back quick. That’s why I came to hire you.’
I let this pass. ‘I’ll stand you lunch at the May Tree,’ I offered. It would be pleasant and would also, I thought guiltily, postpone Eva’s problem for another hour or two. I doubted if it would lead to Melody’s recovery though. ‘Is Justin the barman?’
‘No. He works in Canterbury at a supermarket, but the barmaid’s off on maternity leave so he’s filling in for her.’
Tickenden was only a couple of miles away, and if we’d been crows even less. As it was, the winding lanes were a delight in the Lagonda of which Daisy continued to
‘No. Dad reckons it was a two-man job and they pushed it along there.’ She pointed to where the hamlet petered out into open countryside – not far, and so her dad could be right.
‘It would have been driven away, though. No gang would risk bringing a low loader here.’
Daisy regarded this as a marvel of detection. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘We sleuths have keen minds. I take it you didn’t leave it unlocked or a key in the ignition?’
End of admiration from Daisy. ‘You must think I’m nuts,’ she said scornfully. ‘No way.’
The bakery, from its display, catered for everyone, producing a range from Chelsea buns and doughnuts to quiches and interesting looking pies to tempt the palate. Two delivery vans were parked outside, which suggested there was a lunchtime delivery service.
‘Is there a pub near here?’ I asked, thinking that might be a rendezvous for joyriders.
‘Closed down.’
A familiar fate for small country pubs. ‘
Anywhere
near?’
‘Justie’s dad’s at Tickenden.’
I took it that ‘Justie’ was her own pet name for him. ‘Justin’s your boyfriend?’ Bad lot? I wondered.
‘He’s like – well – hopeful. Can’t make my mind up.’ She grinned conspiratorially at me, and I felt privileged – in a fatherly way. This was a game I was long out of. ‘His dad owns the May Tree Inn.’
‘I’ve been there once or twice.’ It’s famous now for being a pretty country pub with good food. I’d been there in my youth, before marriage and I had disagreed with each other, and again quite recently. In a previous existence in the late 70s the pub was chiefly famous for something completely different – as a well-hidden dive for career criminals, a role that culminated in the May Tree Shoot-Out. A priceless collection of early English gold brooches, and cups etc, had been hijacked while in transit from its stately-home owners to be sold on the continent. The villains retreated to the May Tree, where they proceeded to have a serious falling out. The then manager of the May Tree had disappeared into one of her Majesty’s prisons for umpteen years. The pub had abruptly been sold by the brewery and had forged a new life for itself.
‘I think I met the owner,’ I continued. ‘Gentle giant of a chap.’
‘Yeah. George is OK, so’s Justie – but a bit, well you know …’ She grinned sheepishly. ‘
Too
gentle.’
‘No such thing,’ I said sadly. ‘You’ll learn.’
She shrugged. ‘Got to see the world first, haven’t I?’
‘And what would constitute the world for you?’
‘Africa, China, Aussie, maybe America. That sort of place.’
I held my peace. Places are inhabited by people much the same as those she met in Burchett Forstal – good, bad, dull, interesting, gentle, fierce – but who was I to knock her dreams? I’d seen my ‘world’ in the oil business, and thankfully I was now back at Frogs Hill, determined never to move again.
‘Justie’s got some evidence,’ she told me.
‘About Melody?’
‘Yeah. Reckons he can get her back for me. But he hasn’t done it, has he?’
‘Why not?’
‘Says there are complications and he can’t split on a mate. I told him, stuff that. Just get Melody back quick. That’s why I came to hire you.’
I let this pass. ‘I’ll stand you lunch at the May Tree,’ I offered. It would be pleasant and would also, I thought guiltily, postpone Eva’s problem for another hour or two. I doubted if it would lead to Melody’s recovery though. ‘Is Justin the barman?’
‘No. He works in Canterbury at a supermarket, but the barmaid’s off on maternity leave so he’s filling in for her.’
Tickenden was only a couple of miles away, and if we’d been crows even less. As it was, the winding lanes were a delight in the Lagonda of which Daisy continued to