Free Fethering 02 (2001) - Death on the Downs by Simon Brett, Prefers to remain anonymous Page B

looked as though it contained gin and tonic. He was nominally in conversation with Will Maples, who had appeared behind the bar, but clearly his observations were meant for the whole assembled company.
    “No, it’s good marketing, Will. Lot of people with ghoulish tastes around these days. Look at the way horror movies sell. You want to get some literature out to market this place. I’ll write it for you, give it that professional gloss—for the right money. You know horror’s my speciality. Eat your heart out, Stephen King. You haven’t begun to see nasty until you’ve read my stuff.
    “So what should I write for you, Will? ‘Come to the Hare and Hounds in Weldisham, the village of murder. Sit in the quaint bar, where the local serial killer supped his foaming pint while he targeted his next victim.’”
    The man giggled.
    “Don’t be silly, Brian.” The manager’s manner was embarrassed, as if he wanted to ignore the speaker, but for some reason couldn’t. His body language was trying to draw him away, but the man called Brian held him.
    “We’re not talking about serial killers. We don’t know there’s even been one murder yet.”
    “Are you telling me that people who die natural deaths are in the habit of neatly stacking up their own bones in fertilizer bags?”
    Though the man called Brian was speaking as loudly as ever, conversations around the pub had started up again. There was an air of that embarrassment that people often manifest in the presence of the mentally ill. The man didn’t seem completely sane. Despite the jocularity of his manner, there was an edginess to him, a sense that his mood could shift very suddenly.
    “And as to what you were saying about serial killers, Will my old darling…” The manager didn’t look pleased to be the recipient of such an endearment. “They’ve all got to start somewhere. You need the first murder before you can move on to all the others. We’ve only had the first one so far here in Weldisham, but that’s the one with which he defined his ritual. Mm, I think I might make a very close study of this case—could be the basis for my next bestseller. Very gory it’ll be. Watch out, young girls. The Weldisham serial killer is going to spend the rest of his days repeating in exact detail the way he killed Tamsin Lutteridge.”
    Jude thanked any god who might be listening that Gillie and Miles weren’t in the pub at that moment.
    §
    After she had dropped Jude at her home, Woodside Cottage, Carole put the car in the garage and went inside to the martyred whimpering of Gulliver. She felt frustrated. Jude had something to do. She was going to try to get a lead on the whereabouts of Tamsin Lutteridge. But there was nothing Carole could do that was in any way connected with the case.
    Case? Was there a case? And if there was, what could it possibly have to do with her?
    The telephone rang.
    “Hello. This is Graham Forbes. We met in the pub just now.”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “I mentioned the possibility of your coming to dinner with us at Warren Lodge. Well, as soon as I got home, my wife, Irene, said she’d had a call from one of our friends who was going to join us this coming Friday. Been called away by a family bereavement. And I apologize that it’s awfully short notice…but I wondered, Carole, if you might by any chance be free that evening?”
    She accepted. But, as she put the phone down, she thought, that was quick.

ELEVEN
    J ude was glad Carole wasn’t with her. Much as she liked her new Mend, she recognized that there were subjects on which they were unlikely ever to see eye to eye. And though Carole hadn’t said much when talk of alternative therapies arose, her expression and body language had immediately invoked scepticism.
    Jude’s attitude was more tolerant. She knew the dangers of being too susceptible and relished the quote she’d heard somewhere that ‘if you have an open mind, people will throw all kinds of rubbish into it’.