Free The Chinese Takeout by Judith Cutler Page A

lap and some of Annie’s felt pens in his hand. A peer over his shoulder showed me storybook chickens and people chasing them, Prince Philip-type slitty-eyed caricatures to be precise. One had a kind smile. Tang, presumably. One, hiding behind a stone, had a very nasty expression. In the next picture, the Tang character was running hell for leather, pursued by the nasty one. Picture three was Tang in a church, with both policemen and the nasty one lurking behind headstones. The nasty one had a knife. The picture sequence involved a great deal of animated gesturing from Nick, whose histrionic talents I’d never even guessed at. He’d given the police big kind smiles. The pursuing Chinese looked positively evil. Nick gestured throat-cutting.
    Tang nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
    In the next picture, the bad man was handcuffed, the picture of impotent rage.
    Another nod.
    Nick drew again, Tang and a policeman together, both smiling.
    Yes? Would he bite?
    For answer, Tang threw himself into Tim’s arms, sobbing a very decided negative.
    ‘You see: we can’t betray him!’ Tim declared. ‘Whatever the consequences.’

CHAPTER SIX
    Leaving Andy behind to try to reason with Tim, Nick and I scuttled back over the hills to the car, easily outstripping, despite our middle-aged lungs and legs, the last pursuing media kids – though that might have had something to do with the respective styles of our footwear and theirs. We even had just enough breath to agree, as Nick fired the 4x4 into action, that despite Tang’s obvious reluctance – OK, palpable terror – Nick must talk to the police. Since we couldn’t get a signal on either of our mobiles, we passed the time in pointless debate about whether we should simply ask for the duty CID inspector or use our limited inside knowledge.
    It was a good job the police were waiting for us at the White Hart.
    Actually, it wasn’t ‘the police’ so much as ‘a policeman’ – our neighbourhood bobby, Ian Strand. If that term implied that every day of the week we saw him walk slowly along greeting one and all, or shovelling kids across the road into school, it shouldn’t have. It meant we were one spot on amassive map, which he careered over tackling everything from cars burnt out at beauty spots to dogs worrying sheep.
    ‘Hi, Ian – just the person we need to talk to,’ I greeted him, aunt to favourite nephew style.
    He always looked at me sideways, as if I were about to ask him to spit in the street. ‘What might that be about then?’
    ‘The sanctuary case up at St Jude’s.’
    ‘Abbot’s Duncombe? They’ve got a problem way up there?’
    All of four miles away. But he was a local lad. ‘Yep. Serious, I’d say. But before you get on that radio thing, could you come in and give me a couple of minutes to explain?’
    ‘I suppose it’s not baking day?’ He sniffed despondently in the direction of the extractor fan, which pumped cooking smells into the air, just like those at some supermarkets. The only difference was that mine were genuinely the result of baking, not some chemicals designed by scientists to tantalise and then disappoint.
    ‘Monday: day of rest. But I’m sure Robin’ll find you something. Now, come in and sit down and then you can give me your advice about a senior police officer…’
     
    While I waited for Ian’s choice of senior officer to appear, I decided to make a few enquiries of my own. Most of the restaurateurs in the area hadbanded together in a mostly social group, the irony being that when we had our occasional get-togethers – which was where I’d hooked up with Nigel Ho – we endured far worse meals than any of us would dare to serve. Maybe my colleagues would have a few ideas about Tang and his chicken phobia. Were there dodgy birds about? I sent out a general enquiry to everyone on my email address list. Not wishing to lead them, I left it as general as that. Apart from adding a little
urgent
tag.
    There was time for a