‘Patricia Perry?’ DI Morgan asked.
‘Yes. Who are you? I recognise her,’ she said, pointing a stubby finger in Karen’s direction, ‘but I’ve never seen you before.’
‘I’m DI Scott Morgan. Can we come in and have a word with you and your husband?’
She hesitated, and Karen expected her to slam the door in their faces, but after a moment, she stepped back. ‘Suit yourself.’
They followed Patricia into the dim entrance lobby, then into the main bar.
She waved them into the kitchens. Karen recognised the layout; not much had changed. The kitchen for the pub’s clientele was kitted out in stainless steel and looked reasonably clean, but then Patricia led them into another room, the Perrys’ private kitchen. It was much smaller, cluttered and certainly not as clean.
The air smelled of stale beer, strong coffee and cigarette smoke. In the centre of a round, pine table, a glass ashtray sat on top of a pile of magazines. A curl of smoke steadily twisted up from the cigarette burning away in the middle of the blue glass.
The small sink was overflowing with saucepans, a remnant of a roast dinner. Three plates had been left on the draining board, still smeared with gravy; one containing a leftover greasy potato and a squashed floret of broccoli.
‘So, what do you want?’ Patricia Perry asked without preamble as she picked up her cigarette. She was a barrel-shaped woman, with a beak-like nose and watchful eyes.
‘Where’s Rod?’ Karen asked.
‘Out the back, working on something in the garage.’
‘Can you get him, please?’ Morgan asked. ‘We’d like to speak to both of you.’
‘Tell me what you want first, and I’ll decide whether or not to bother Rod with it. If this is you lot restarting your harassment campaign against us, I’m warning you – you’ll regret it.’
‘It’s not always about you, Patricia,’ Karen said. ‘We’re working on a murder enquiry.’
Her eyes sparkled with interest. There was no pity or shock in her expression, just curiosity. ‘Murder, eh? Who?’
‘We think there could be a connection to your pub, so we’d like to speak to you and your staff,’ Morgan said.
‘We don’t have any staff,’ Patricia said, tapping her cigarette on the side of the ashtray. ‘We do all the work ourselves these days.’
‘You run the kitchen and Rod works behind the bar, seven days a week, and you don’t have any help?’ Karen raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s right.’ Patricia’s face tightened. ‘It’s the economic downturn. We had to tighten our belts like everyone else around here.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ Karen said.
‘I really don’t care what you believe, duck. I don’t have time for this. Either you tell me who was murdered or leave.’
Karen was about to respond but Morgan cut in first. ‘Patricia, we just want to solve the murder. Was there any kind of disturbance at the pub last night?’
‘Disturbance?’ Patricia wrinkled her nose.
‘Yes, a fight or disagreement between the staff or punters?’
‘I told you, I don’t have any staff.’ She jabbed a finger in Morgan’s direction. ‘You’re trying to catch me out, and I don’t appreciate it.’
‘Just answer the question, Patricia,’ Karen said.
The woman looked at her and scowled. ‘No, it was quiet last night. Quiet for a Saturday, anyway. We had a special on steaks, so we were busy until around eight or so, but nobody argued. Everything was fine. Happy now?’
‘The victim was in his forties, we think,’ Karen said. ‘A white male, average height.’
Patricia snorted. ‘Is that all you’ve got to go on? I think you need to go back to detective training school, DS Hart.’
Karen considered giving more details about the items of clothing the victim had been wearing, but she didn’t see the point. It wasn’t in Patricia Perry’s nature to be helpful to the police.
‘We’d like to speak to Rod now,’ Morgan said.
Patricia stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and then folded her arms over her chest. ‘I’m sure you would, duck. But he’s busy.’
‘It really won’t take long, Mrs Perry,’ Morgan said. ‘And it’s important.’
She shook her head stubbornly. ‘No. I’ve had enough of all this. Knowing you lot, you’re trying to find a way to pin the blame on Rod.’ She picked up a mobile from the kitchen counter and began to tap the screen as she continued to talk. Was she messaging Rod? Sending him a warning? ‘If you want to question us again, you’ll have to do so in the presence of our solicitor. Got it? Now, I’m asking you nicely, please leave my pub.’
Morgan shook his head. ‘We’re not trying to pin the blame on anyone. If you think of anything that could be relevant, please get in touch.’
He held out his card, but Patricia made no move to take it from him. She stared at it distrustfully as though she thought it might burst into flames.
He put it on the table. ‘All right. We’ll leave now. Thank you for your time.’
‘I’m sure we can always get a warrant to search the premises again,’ Karen said as Morgan walked out of the kitchen.
Before she could follow Morgan out, Patricia suddenly leaned forward, putting her face right up to Karen’s, and hissed, ‘You should have learned your lesson last time.’
Karen stepped back. ‘What do you mean?’
Patricia didn’t answer. Her eyes gleamed maliciously, and she smirked when Karen stalked out of the kitchen, blood boiling.
‘That went well,’ Morgan said dryly as they walked across the car park.
‘She really is a piece of work. Did you hear what she just said to me—’
‘Hang on a sec,’ Morgan said, turning sharply to the right and cutting Karen off.
She looked at the spot where Morgan had focused his gaze. There was a large garage at the back of the pub, close to the single-storey extension. They could just about see it from where they stood.
‘What is it?’ Karen said.
‘What’s the extension for? Another bar?’
‘Apparently the extension was added on so they could offer bed-and-breakfast facilities. I don’t know if they still do. There’s no sign advertising rooms,’ Karen said, looking around. ‘I doubt they get much business since they’re right next to the Premier Inn.’
‘Is that Rod?’ Morgan asked as a man shuffled out from the back of the double garage.
‘Yes, it is.’
Rod Perry was a short man, only an inch or so taller than his wife. He had a shiny bald head but incredibly bushy eyebrows, which gave his face a perpetually angry expression.
‘What do you two want?’ he asked, standing in front of the garage. ‘The pub doesn’t open till six.’ He hitched up his jeans, which had been sagging down below his ample stomach.
As they walked towards him, he nervously licked his lips and looked over his shoulder. Why was he so nervous? Did he have something to do with the murder?
He rearranged his features into a scowl. ‘DS Hart. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked sarcastically, recovering himself and regaining his usual mardy expression.