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more than a single room in which saloon and public bar were combined, an open fireplace festooned with horse-brasses, and a very large landlord. Two bright little eyes, like marbles swimming in oil, encased in rolls of unhealthy fat, flickered at them with unabashed curiosity as they entered, but the greeting was friendly enough.

      ‘Evening, madam. Evening, sir. What’ll you have?’

      ‘Good evening. Gin and tonic, please.’

      ‘With pleasure, sir. Two, will it be?’

      ‘Make it three, if you’ll join us?’

      ‘Pleasure, sir, great pleasure.’

      Mike joined Linda at a table by the window.

      As the landlord busied himself behind the bar with their drinks he called out to them, ‘Nice car you’ve got there, sir, if I may say so. Always did fancy a steel-blue Jag, if I ever came into the money. Come a long way, have you, sir? From London, perhaps?’

      ‘As a matter of fact you’re right, we have.’

      ‘Thought so. Happened to be out in the yard when you pulled up. Noticed the engine was hot and the tyres pretty warm too.’

      Linda pretended to drop her lighter and bent to pick it up. ‘He doesn’t miss much, does he?’ she murmured.

      ‘Yes … The name’s Turner, by the way – Johnny Turner,’ the landlord said hopefully as he poured three careful measures of gin and began slicing a lemon. ‘In case you didn’t see it over the door.’

      ‘Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr Turner. I’m Mike Baxter. This is my wife, Linda.’

      The two marbles gleamed with vivid interest. ‘Not the Mike Baxter, the chap who writes all those newspaper articles?’

      ‘Yes, I write for a living.’

      ‘And a very nice living too, I’ll bet. I’m a great fan of yours. I always read your articles. This is a pleasure, an honour indeed. Not often we get celebrities at a quiet place like this. I hope you’ll do me the honour of taking a drink on the house.’

      He rolled towards them with an eager smile, three glasses and three small tonics balanced on a tray. Mutual greetings were exchanged as they raised their glasses.

      Turner launched into a lengthy account of the last occasion when a famous author happened to visit the Lord Fairfax. With a sly leer he ended, ‘He said he was looking for a suitable background to one of his stories, a setting like this, quiet and off the beaten track.’

      ‘Well, we’re not looking for a setting, Mr Turner, but we would like to tax your memory for a moment, if you don’t mind,’ Mike replied, producing the envelope containing Lucy Staines’s photograph. ‘Tell me, have you ever seen this girl at the Fairfax?’

      They watched him intently as his beady eyes examined the photograph. A gleam of recognition flickered for a moment, but there was genuine regret in his voice as he returned the photograph and said, ‘It’s Lucy Staines, isn’t it?’

      ‘You mean you know her?’ Linda cried out.

      Turner shook his head gloomily. ‘Not personally. She’s never been here, I’ll stake my life on it.’

      ‘Then how—’

      ‘Her face was plastered all over the papers at the time of the murder trial. On the telly too. I’d know sure as eggs are eggs if she’d ever been here. They’re going to hang the bloke that done it any day now, aren’t they?’

      Mike nodded grimly and drained his glass. It had been a long journey for nothing, and now they were going to have to sit for the sake of politeness through a second round of drinks which Turner, who was obviously starved of company, insisted on offering. The irony of it was, with a man of Turner’s all-consuming curiosity and talent for observation, had Lucy Staines ever been within a mile of the Lord Fairfax those two sharp marble eyes would undoubtedly have spotted her.

      Despondency set in and they let Turner do all the talking, until they felt they could decently leave. The landlord was clearly reluctant to let them go, and accompanied them to the door with much hand-shaking and good wishes for their return journey.

      In their car Mike switched on the ignition and listened to the engine purring, and was just about to let in the clutch when Linda nudged him, indicating the rear mirror. They saw Turner waddling towards them, waving a newspaper in his hand.

      ‘Tell him he can keep it,’ said Linda as Mike put his head out of the window

      ‘It’s all right, old chap – thanks all the same. We’ll get another back in Town,’ Mike called out.

      Turner shook his head, struggling for breath, his great frame shaking like jelly. ‘That’s not … what I was … running after you for. It’s this picture here – look!’

      He opened the newspaper and stabbed a fat finger at the story of Peggy Bedford’s alleged suicide attempt. ‘I’ve had that little number at the Fairfax all right,’ he informed them.

      ‘She was here? Are you quite sure?’ Linda asked excitedly.

      ‘No doubt about it at all. She was here at least three times this summer. I thought you might be interested, seeing as how it says she works at the same place as the murdered Staines girl. Look, it says here … “It is believed the two were close friends.” That’s why I ran after you before you drove off.’

      ‘You have a good memory, Mr Turner,’ said Mike. ‘Can you remember anything about her – what she was wearing, what she drank, who she was with, and so on?’

      ‘What she was wearing?’ repeated Turner in an effort to remember. ‘About as little as possible, I’d say. What she drank? Pink gins, like they was tap-water. I’ve seen some of ’em pour it down in my time, but she was way up on the list. Who was she with? Always the same bloke. Didn’t look her type at all. Poker-faced sort of gent, quiet dresser, grey-haired, old enough to be her Dad. Reckon that’s what he was too – her sugar-daddy. Walked with a bit of a limp, needed a stick he did. Not her type at all, I remember thinking.’

      He winked at Linda and rubbed his hands. Mr Turner was obviously enjoying himself.

       Chapter Four

      Linda was the first to speak as they swung out on to the Hog’s Back and headed for Guildford.

      ‘As Mine Host with the elephantine memory so aptly put it, not her type at all. What on earth do you suppose old Staines was up to – living it up with someone scarcely old enough to be his daughter?’

      ‘But the whole thing’s impossible. He was the one who drew our attention in the first place to the Lord Fairfax. If he knew the significance of the entry in his daughter’s diary why send me on this wild-goose chase? It just doesn’t add up. Turner has probably got his wires crossed, though I must say those beady little eyes of his struck me as being phenomenally accurate. I swear he’ll remember what shade of lipstick you used today if we go back in a year’s time.’

      Linda laughed. ‘He probably will. But not so fast in dismissing Staines from the picture, darling. Do you remember his curious embarrassment when he had to bring out the name Peggy Bedford – almost as if it were a name never mentioned in polite company? I commented on it at the time, if you remember. Secondly, what was the address on his business card, the one with the name of the refrigerator firm on it?’

      Mike thought for a second, then replied, ‘Keane Brothers, Guildford. You’re right! That’s only a few miles from here. Therefore it’s not out of the question that Staines should find his way to Westerdale; it’s also a remote enough village if he was seeking a bit of privacy – look at the trouble we had finding it. But it still doesn’t add up. Staines went out of his way to draw my attention to that

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