Useful quote:

Use the talents you possess, for the woods would be a very silent place if no birds sang except the best. - Henry van Dyke, poet (1852-1933)

28 Nov 2015

Episode 4 - Ali et al

Thursday May 4th


Dorothy had been too busy to call on Cleo on Wednesday evening, though her curiosity nearly got the better of her. But she had been promising to go to the vicarage for supper for simply ages and thought Edith would be offended if she refused again. So on Thursday morning Cleo and Dorothy had plenty to tell one another.
***
“You’ll have to consult Gary about that cook at the pub in Huddlecourt Minor,” Dorothy advised. “What’s the name of it again?”
“It’s called the Huddle Inn, but most people just call it the pub.”
“I can’t imagine an Egyptian cook there. What was his name?”
“Robert called out the name Ali and I’m sure Gary knows who that is.”
“Ali what? That sounds very Arabian.”
“I’ve no idea what his second name is. I’ll phone Gary now.”
Cleo put the phone on loud so that Dorothy could listen in.
“Good morning, Miss Hartley. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been pub-crawling, Mr Hurley.”
“Never. Where?”
“There’s a pub in Huddlecourt Manor village called the Huddle Inn and an Egyptian guy named Ali works there. Can you find out his full identity?”
“That should be easy. He’ll be registered somewhere. Hang on!”
Minutes went by, during which Gary seemed to be getting more and more irate, judging from the expletives he was muttering to himself. Eventually he got back to them.
“There was no chef called Ali in the mugshot gallery, but a guy called Lewis is registered at the Job Centre.”
“That’s not an Asian name.”
“If it’s the same guy, his first name is Nebuchadnezzar. Ali’s his middle name. He might have been adopted and his new parents kept the middle name out of respect or because they had trouble spelling the first one.”
Dorothy could not help laughing at that.
“Straight out of the Old Testament.” She said.
 “Hi Dorothy. How are you?”
“OK, thanks. How are you?”
Cleo wondered if Molly knew Ali’s full name.
“That’s not necessarily so if he’s calling himself Ali. Are you talking about a barmaid named Molly?”
“Yes.”
“Quite a girl, Molly. Ali probably has a permit to work there. I think Molly is quite business-like.”
“Dorothy was not with me yesterday, but Molly was very chatty.”
“I’ve found the guy, Cleo. His middle name is Ali, so he probably did come from somewhere else and was adopted. He’s British. Doesn’t need a work permit.”
“But fancy giving a child that complicated first name,” Dorothy commented. “No wonder he calls himself Ali.”
“His birth parents might have given him that name, Dorothy,” said Gary.
“Of course, or they are all naturalized as a family and took a British surname,” said Dorothy.
“Anything else known about him, Gary?” Cleo asked.
“Not that I can see. Why?”
“Just curiosity. Any news about Mrs Oldfield?”
“Not yet. I’ll get back to you when there is. Have a nice breakfast!”
***
Dorothy fetched fresh coffee from the utility room that was part of Cleo’s office premises.
“Stalemate, it seems,” said Dorothy. “What do we do next?”
“I’m not sure that knowing more about Ali will be of any use, Dorothy,” said Cleo. “Why should he be mixed up in Mrs Oldfield’s death?”
“I don’t suppose he is,” said Dorothy.
“You can explain our curiosity to Gary, then,” said Cleo. “He’ll say we have been wasting his time.”
“And I’ll ask him what he would have done with the time he saved. I think he’s carrying on, Cleo.”
“Let’s get of that subject, shall we?”
“Doesn’t it bother you, Cleo?”
“I won’t let it bother me, Dorothy. Can you strike up a friendship with Mrs Baines?”
“I think there was a time when we were on first name terms. I only know her through giving piano lessons at the school, so she’ll think I have an ulterior motive if I start being really pally with her.”
“Well, you do have a reason and it’s not an ulterior motive! Tell her the truth, that you are nervous as long as killer is on the loose. If she’s innocent, she’ll want to help solve the mystery. If she’s in any way connected with it, she’ll prevaricate and you’ll notice that, too.”
“I could offer to help out, couldn’t I?”
“Sure. That’s an even better idea. I’ll take you there, but drop you off where I won’t be seen, and then I’ll drive to the pub and chat with Molly again. I’d like to talk to Ali!”
“I’ll get home under my own steam, Cleo. It’s a downhill trot.”
There was a pause while the sleuths ate something.
***
“Remember a chat we once had before you did regular detective work, Dorothy?”
“We’ve had lots of chats. Which one?”
“The one when you said some crimes were waiting to happen.”
“Did I say that? I thought they were your words, but I believe it really is the case.”
“And that’s the feeling I have now, Dorothy. I can’t put my finger on it, but something else is going to happen before long.”
“That sends shivers down my spine, Cleo. Think positive!”
“Or take measures to avoid the inevitable.”
“You can’t avoid the inevitable,” said Dorothy.
***
Mrs Baines was surprised to see Dorothy. Three days had passed since the murder and apart from the routine work done by the forensic team at the time, nothing had happened.
“I thought they’d want to interview me, but the police have not been here again.”
Dorothy decided that Gary was procrastinating. A tedious little murder at a private school was not exactly enthralling stuff compared with other unsavoury but more dramatic events and characters. In contrast to Gary, Dorothy was sure that Mrs Oldfield’s death was not going to be a walkover.
“They are probably waiting for the forensic report,” she said.
“What do you think, Miss Price?”
“You used to call me Dorothy. I’ve come to help if you need me, and first names are much nicer.”
“So I did,” said Mrs Baines, embarrassed that she had forgotten.
“Well, Olive, tell me first if you need help here.”
“To be truthful, it would be a blessing. Jessie Coppins is putting on the most dreadful airs and graces. She’s behaving like the head chef at the Dorchester.”
“I thought that would happen. Is she going to get Mrs Oldfield’s job?”
“Over my dead body... Oh dear, that was very tactless of me.”
“It’s what I would have said faced with that decision.”
“You’ll have to put her in her place, Dorothy. She doesn’t listen to me.”
“I’ll try, but I’m making no promises.”
“You could intimate that we are waiting for a new head cook,” suggested Mrs Baines. “Surely she can't deny that she’s not qualified for the job.”
“Are we?”
“Are we what?”
“Waiting for a new head cook?”
“I’ll be honest. It’s hard to find one, but I’ve got a temporary solution.”
“And that is?”
“The chef from the pub, an Egyptian man named Ali, is going to come in and make the lunches.“
“When is he starting?”
“On Saturday.”
“So there’s today and tomorrow to think about.”
Dorothy wondered what Molly thought about Ali making lunches elsewhere, especially for girls ravenous for sex. Talk about throwing him to the lions.
“Mrs Cagney fried 50 pork chops on Tuesday because we had to bring Wednesday’s lunch forward, so Delilah Browne came to the rescue and provided tons of pasta from the bistro yesterday. She’s done that before when Mrs Oldfield was in bed with her leg, and it’s always a big success. Jessie has ordered fish and chips from the chip-shop for tomorrow. But today is difficult. She’s in the kitchen trying to make hamburgers. I’ve no idea what they’ll taste like. Mrs Oldfield always used to tell her exactly what to do. She won't listen to Mrs Cagney's advice. You try, Dorothy.”
“I'll do that, Olive.”
“Thank you. Fewer lunches today. Fifteen of the girls have gone home. The parents were alarmed.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least, Olive.”
“The school will have to close unless we get all the fees.”
“Surely that isn’t your problem.”
“It is, Dorothy. Where would I get another job at my age?”
***
Sure enough, in the kitchen there was a state of emergency. Jessie Coppins was sitting at the worktable crying her heart out.
“Pull yourself together, girl!” Dorothy shouted. “There’s work to do here. You haven’t got time to cry.”
“I bloody don’t care if they all starve.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’ll lose your job if you don’t do the work required of you.”
 “I’m not Mrs Baines’s slave.”
“Maybe not, but she pays you your wages, doesn’t she?”
“She thinks I killed Mrs Oldfield.”
“Well, did you?”
Dorothy’s question provoked another round of howling by Jessie. Dorothy tore a sheet off the kitchen towel and told the girl to dry her eyes and wash her hands. Then she looked at what Jessie had done. Nothing much, actually, except to defrost the emergency mincemeat for the hamburgers and slice a couple of cucumbers.
“Is the minced beef seasoned.”
“I don’t know.”
Dorothy would see to that.
“What time is lunch served,” she asked.
“One o’clock,” sniffed Jessie.
“For everyone?”
“No. Some come at half past one.”
“So we can do the hamburgers in two lots If we know how many will be at each serving. Do you know, Jessie?”
“It used to be 30 and 30 miss, but some of the girls have gone home.”
“Well, we can work on 30 and 30 and those who want a second helping can have one. Get the potatoes peeled and on the stove to boil, Jessie.”
“Can we have frozen chips, Miss?”
“I suppose we can if there are some.”
“There are. I always order some from that supermarket in Upper Grumpsfield. Mrs Oldfield never notices.”
“Noticed, Jessie. She’s dead.”
“Yes, Miss,” said Jessie through wails that made her sound like a paid mourner.
***
Jessie tried hard to be helpful as even she realised that Dorothy had come to the rescue.. She did not question Dorothy’s authority and seemed relieved not to have to think for herself.
Did the girl really think she could step into Mrs Oldfield’s job? Dorothy had seen enough. Jessie was immature and inept.   
***
“Now get the hamburger rolls and slice them through," Dorothy instructed. “They’ll need to go in the oven to warm.”
“The chips are in there, Miss!”
“Well we’ll just have use cold hamburger buns,” said Dorothy, wondering how Mrs Oldfield had managed with one oven.
There was something zombie-like about Jessie that provoked Dorothy into asking if something was bothering her.
“You’ll feel better when you’ve told me,” said Dorothy.
“It’s my mum,” said Jessie, now chopping onions the way Dorothy was demonstrating, so that both were near to tears.
“What about your mum, Jessie?”
“She’s bloody pinched my boyfriend, that’s what.”
Dorothy was nonplussed. She had been hoping for some kind of clue to Mrs Oldfield’s death.
“She wouldn’t do that, Jessie.”
“But she ‘as. I caught ‘er in bed with ‘im.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. I had to go home to get something and they were at it.”
“At it?”
“You know.”
Jessie yowled.
“Stop making that noise and tell me who your boyfriend is,” said Dorothy. The caterwauling can’t be genuine, she decided. “What’s his name?”
“Tom Crowe,” said Jessie, stifling sobs that could be genuine in after all.
“Crowe? Is he a local lad?”
“What’s local, Miss?” sniffed Jessie.
Getting Jessie to say anything useful was like squeezing blood out of a stone.
 “Where does he live?”
“Up the road.”
“That’s local. Where does he work?”
“He’s a gardener, Miss.”
“Here at the school?”
“Yes, Miss. He’s a bit older than me, but ‘e’s too young for my mother.”
 “What happened when you caught them ‘at it’, Jessie?”
“He got dressed and scarpered, didn’t he? And my mum said she'd been giving him a massage for his bad back. And him naked as the day ‘e was born, Miss.”
“I see.”
“And he was lying on his back, Miss. And my Mum was…”
Dorothy interrupted. She had no desire to hear further details about Tom Crowe and Mrs Coppins’ antics.
“I never want to see him again. I’ll kill him if he crosses my path.”
Jessie’s voice was full of venom.
“Don’t do that, Jessie. It will only make things worse.”
“I don’t bloody care, do I?”
“Well, let’s get the lunch done first, shall we?”
“And then I’m going to find Tom Crowe and give him a piece of my mind, like I did my mother this morning. She said it was only business and not serious. But in the bushes he’d told me ‘e loved me,” said Jessie, breaking into a new round of yowling.
“Don’t burn the hamburgers, Jessie. I’m just going to make a quick phone call.”
Dorothy was disturbed by the violence in Jessie’s voice. Was she capable of murder? Cleo would have to know about the dialogue she had just had with the girl.
“You’d better find out about Tom Crowe, Cleo. He sounds like a bit of a bastard.” Dorothy told Cleo in a few words what Jessie had told her.
“Take it easy, Dorothy! I’ll phone Gary and find out if the guy has a criminal record. Just think of a way to keep Jessie from going home for a bit. I’ll drive up to Mrs Coppins and have a talk with her.”
Cleo wondered if the voice she had heard at Mrs Coppins’ house had been Tom Crowe’s.
***
“When did you last see Tom Crowe, Mrs Coppins,” Cleo asked as soon as she had been led into the living-room.
Cleo was not welcome, though Mrs Coppins did not happen to be ‘treating’ anyone. Her clients came during school hours, Cleo decided, except that she must have got carried away if Jessie had caught her ‘at it’ in the afternoon.
A little boy sat at the table eating biscuits and looking disgruntled.
“That’s Joe. He came home early with a belly-ache and now he’s scoffing biscuits,” said Mrs Coppins in explanation.
“Lucky you were alone, Mrs Coppins. Maybe Joe was just hungry,” said Cleo, giving Joe a wink.
“Are you suggesting that I don’t feed my kids, Miss Hartley?” said Mrs Coppins, immediately on the defensive.
“Of course not, but growing boys sometimes get hungry between meals.”
Mrs Coppins relaxed. She knew the kids were suspicious of her extramural activities and she suspected Joe of coming home to catch her out. But he hadn’t. Tom Crowe hadn’t turned up that morning. Had Miss Hartley heard rumours?
“About Tom Crowe...”
“Oh, you mean Jessie’s boyfriend,” said Mrs Coppins.
“Do I?”
“Yes, you do. And no, I haven’t seen him today. Why should I?”
Joe was all ears, but his mother was sly enough not to give anything away.
“I just wondered, Mrs Coppins. I’ll be on my way then.”
“Why did you come, Miss Hartley?”
“I was at the pub and thought I’d pop in,” said Cleo
“Well, don’t pop in again without warning me,” said Mrs Coppins.
***
Cleo got into her car. She knew she couldn’t talk to the woman when one of the kids was at home and she had a feeling that Joe wanted to talk to her. She was right. A minute or so later Joe emerged from the house and knocked on the car window.
“My mum wants me to get fish and chips,” he explained.
Cleo told him through the widow that it was a good idea and they could drive to the bistro and get some.
“I’d like to buy some, too, and the bistro does big, fat ones.”
The ice was broken.
Joe got into the car and made himself comfortable on the passenger seat.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you, Miss?” he said as Cleo negotiated the narrow lane between the two villages.
“Not a cop. A private detective.”
“How much do you cost?”
“That depends. I don’t charge children.”
Joe’s face lit up.
“Can you work for me, Miss?”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven, Miss.”
“Then I can work for you free of charge. What do you want me to find out, Joe?”
“I want you to find my father,” Joe said. “Bring him home so that my mother doesn’t have to have so many boyfriends.”
“I’ll try,” said Cleo, feeling desperately sorry for the little boy. Had he really come home early to catch his mother in bed with some guy or other? Was it Jessie’s idea to use Joe as a spy?  
“But I’ll need to know more about him first, Joe; his full name, for instance.”
“I’ll write it down,” Joe offered.
Cleo pulled up in the courtyard of the bistro and went in with Joe, who was overawed by the honour being bestowed on him.
Mitch was cooking in the open kitchen.
“What do you want, Sir,” he said to Joe, winking at Cleo as he did so.
“Fish and chips for me and the lady,” said Joe.
“To eat here or wrapped?” Mitch said.
“Salt and vinegar and wrapped, please.” said the boy, reaching up and dropping a fistful of small coins into the ashtray on the counter.
“It’s my treat,” said Cleo, picking up the coins and handing them back to Joe.
Delilah appeared, hugged Cleo and shook hands with Joe.
“Can you provide me with some paper and a biro, Delila?” said Cleo. “Joe needs to write down some information. Joe is employing me as a private eye,” she added.
“You are a clever boy, Joe. Cleo is good at detecting,” said Delilah.
“Fish and chips is ready!” shouted Mitch.
The boy scribbled his father’s full name.
“I’ll drive you home now and you can call in my office after school tomorrow, Joe. You know where my office is, don’t you?”
“Yes, Miss. It’s on the way home from school.”
Cleo had bought an extra portion of chips that they could share in the care on the way back to Huddlecourt Minor. She had seen the boy hovering outside her office and wondered what he wanted.
“We’ll contact a policeman tomorrow, Joe. He helps me to find people sometimes. You can tell him more about your father, and we’ll keep it a secret from your mother.”
“Yes, Miss. Thank you, Miss.”
They shook hands solemnly. The deal was struck. Cleo pondered on the saying that all roads lead to Rome. Who knows, something relevant to the Oldfield case might also come of Joe’s plea for help.
***
When she got home, Cleo read the scant information about his father that Joe had written. Joe obviously thought he was named after Coppins. Between the lines she understood that his dad had lived with them until fairly recently, but Joe could not say exactly when he had gone away, though Cleo knew that he had absconded with Molly’s underage barmaid.
Mrs Coppins would know. Since she didn’t have a good word to say about the guy, she would no doubt talk, if only to complain about him.
***
“What do you want to know for?” was Mrs Coppins’ first reaction. Joe might want his father back, but Mrs Coppins didn’t.
“I expect he owes you money, doesn’t he?” Cleo hazarded.
“The bastard doesn’t even give me anything for the kids,” she replied.
“We can get some from him when we find him,” Cleo said.
“So if I tell you a bit about him, you will look for him?”
“Yes.”
“And will I have to pay you, Miss Hartley?”
“No. You are not hiring me, Mrs Coppins. I just need to know where he is in case he’s a suspect.”
That explanation was not particularly plausible, but it put Mrs Coppins’ mind at rest. Cleo had not wanted to drag Joe into the conversation.
“He’s been gone over two years and I reported him as missing, but the police didn’t find him.”
That was a useful piece of information. The police would have him in their list of missing persons somewhere.
“The problem is that Britain isn’t a prison, Mrs Coppins. As long as you don’t break the law, you can go anywhere you want to and you don’t have to tell anyone.”
“But he did break the law, didn’t he?”
“Tell me how,” said Cleo.
“I thought he’d gone off with Molly, but she is still there and she told me he’d gone off with that girl who jobbed at weekends.”
“Do you know the name of the girl?”
“Polly something or other. And she was only 15 in those days. Still a schoolgirl.”
“And that, Mrs Coppins, is where we’ll get him. What he did was definitely illegal. You can’t just run off with an underage person.”
“I’m not going to,” replied Mrs Coppins, who had plainly misunderstood. “I don’t touch juniors.”
“I didn’t mean you, Mrs Coppins,” said Cleo, relieved that the woman was sticking to consenting adults. “I meant your husband.”
***

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