Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

got shot. So, what have they done? They on the run? Bank robbery or something?’

‘Personal issue, remember? Do you mean The Red Lion pub? Run by the Argyles?’

‘Only pub we got. And the Argyles are gone.’

‘They left?’

‘Can’t say. We don’t talk about it. Listen, friend, we’re in a time-lapse or something with these questions and answers. You going to tell me what the police want with these Lopers?’

Again the old man had ignored Bennet’s claim that his interest in the film crew wasn’t professional. He had no mind to repeat it. ‘They might have information about a code 99. I can’t tell you more than that. It would be very helpful if you could tell me anything else. Did they go to visit the mother? Is there somewhere they might be filming, like an old crime scene? Did they go home? Maybe you overhead someone, as you say, blab.’

Dog Man shook his head, and then he focused on his newspaper. End of chat, apparently. Liam stood to leave. He put his cheese sandwich in his coat pocket, grabbed a piece of Lampton rock, and headed for the door. Eyes watched, of course. In the open doorway, he turned to the room.

‘You can all chat with that fellow with the dog now. He’ll tell you everything I said.’

13

He had to pass the Red Lion pub to get to the car park, but he stopped outside. If the pub had been elsewhere in the village, he would have gotten his car and left this place for good. But it wasn’t. It was right there, just feet away. The film crew had visited the Lion on Sunday night, so the staff might have a clue where they were, if still in the village. That information could be his within minutes, and it would be sheer laziness not to pop in and satisfy his curiosity. The publicans, the Argyles, were an old couple he’d always gotten on with, and they wouldn’t be so reluctant to talk to him.

Curiosity? Who was he lying to? Joe expected to meet his mother, and damn if Bennet was going to let her just cast the boy aside without explanation. He wanted to have it out with her. She might be able to ignore words on a screen, but not his face in front of hers. It was why he’d made the journey and he wasn’t about to give up so easily.

Although a timetable on the wall said the Lion was closed, the thick wooden double doors were wide open. Liam walked into the lounge. A man was sitting at a table, cleaning pool balls. He didn’t know the face. The Argyles had a son Liam had never seen, but that guy had lost an arm, and this guy had both. On one wall was a large frame with four headshots, including the man himself: Tom Jonesy. The others on the picture were Erica Jonesy, probably his wife, and a couple of young females. One had a giant reddish-yellow birthmark across her lower cheek and mouth that looked like someone had lobbed a slice of pizza at her. Liam didn’t recognise any of them. The young females had probably been schoolkids when Lorraine lived here.

Jonesy caught sight of his visitor in the doorway. ‘Hey, pal. Too early. Pool league tonight, if you want to come back then. Pints a pound, 7 till 9.’

Liam walked closer. ‘I saw. Sorry to intrude, sir. Are you the new publican? What happened to the Argyles?’

Jonesy spat on the black ball and started towelling it dry. ‘Been here five months. Not from round here, then, you? Not if you don’t know about the Argyles. Not my place to tell tales. Too late if you’re here for them.’

‘Did they move or get another pub somewhere, or something?’

‘Or something,’ the guy said, a little defiantly. ‘That’s a lot of questions. We’re not open, I said. Come back tonight.’

‘I’m really sorry to interrupt, but I’m looking for some people. I hear they were in here two nights ago. A small film crew. Mouthy sorts, apparently.’

‘Oh, them Lopers. Yeah, Sunday, they were here. I heard about their big mouths.’

The guy seemed more willing to talk now, so Liam approached and sat at the same table. ‘You heard they were here? You weren’t here that night?’

Jonesy took his box of clean balls to the pool table, where he tipped them loudly onto the baize. ‘Not at weekends. We go to the grandparents. Wife’s, not mine. Vicky over there was on duty.’ He nodded at the picture of four headshots. Vicky: birthmark girl. Jonesy started sweeping the balls into the pockets.

Liam cast his eyes around. His detective habit had already looked for and found a CCTV camera aimed down from above the entrance. But reviewing the footage from Sunday night, if it still existed, seemed like too much trouble for little extra information. ‘They probably asked some questions in here. They were making a documentary about an old crime.’

‘The missing person thing from years ago? They were here for that? A documentary? I wouldn’t have thought anyone cared anymore. Hardly a world-famous thing. They didn’t ask me anything. Wasn’t here. Wasn’t living here when she went missing, either. Mind you, don’t go asking questions all over about that thing, and stay away from that girl’s mum. Protective people here, and they won’t like reporters sticking their noses in.’

Jonesy was the second man to effectively give him a warning. ‘I’m not a reporter. I’m a police officer, but I’m not here about the missing girl. So have you got any idea where the film crew are? Are they still in the village?’

‘No. Look, they were just customers, and I wasn’t here. If they’d lugged in video cameras and stuff, I’d have probably heard about it. I guess they just wanted to sample my great ale. That’s all I know.’

Jonesy headed behind the bar and started cleaning a mirror. Like Dog Man’s raising of a newspaper, it said this nice little