in Sticklepath lingered on the pavement, smoking and chatting. Matthew pulled out the photo of Walden.
‘Have you seen this guy on the bus?’
‘Yeah.’ This was a slender girl with dyed yellow hair and dark roots, wearing a white print dress and canvas tennis shoes. A pretty face, huge dark eyes. She looked like a character in a Japanese cartoon. ‘He sat next to Lucy Braddick. It seemed a bit odd. She’s a sweetie and we’ve all grown up knowing her, but most strangers avoid her.’
‘Was the man a stranger? He never stayed in Lovacott?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ The boy had lurid acne and wore a hoodie. A wannabe baddie. Suspicion in his voice and the way he held his body.
‘He’s dead. Murdered. I’m a police officer investigating.’
There was a shocked silence. A thrill of excitement. Matthew thought the police presence in Lovacott would be all over social media as soon as his back was turned. If they’d had the nerve, they’d have taken a photo of him on their phones.
‘I’ve never seen him,’ the girl said. ‘Except on the bus.’ She turned to her friends. They all nodded in agreement.
Matthew left them and walked into The Golden Fleece. It stood proud and imposing at the head of the square. An attempt was being made to bring it back to its former grandeur, to attract tourists passing through on their way to the coast. There were pictures on a board in the entrance hall: refurbished bedrooms, a dining room gleaming with polished wood and glasses, wedding guests gathered on the lawn at the back of the hotel. The bar smelled of fresh paint and varnish. Most of the tables were laid for meals with cutlery wrapped in paper napkins, small vases of flowers and there were menus on the counter. This was a pub with aspiration.
A leather sofa and a couple of easy chairs had been placed near to the fireplace. A woman sat there with a latte looking at her laptop. This didn’t seem Simon Walden’s natural habitat. Behind the bar stood a middle-aged woman, in a simple black dress, the sort of make-up that made her look as if she wasn’t wearing any, neat silver earrings. She smiled. ‘What can I get you?’ She liked the fact that he was wearing a suit.
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Americano?’
Of course, there would be a choice of coffees. ‘Yes please.’
There was a fancy machine behind the bar, a little home-made biscuit on the saucer when it arrived. Matthew showed her the photo of Walden.
‘Do you know him?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ Now she seemed less impressed.
‘He’s dead. I’m a police officer.’
‘I think I heard about it on the radio this morning. He was stabbed at Crow Point?’
‘Yes. Has he been in here?’
‘Yes. Most days last week. He never stayed long, though. It seemed to me that he was waiting for someone. When it’s quiet here, I make up stories in my head about the customers. It passes the time. I thought he might be waiting for a woman, but she never turned up. Each night he’d come in, just off the bus like you. He’d sit by the window and he’d wait. But whoever he was hoping to meet never appeared.’
Matthew thought about that. ‘Do you work in the bar every day?’
‘My husband and I own the hotel. I’m usually here in the afternoons when it’s quiet.’
‘And he never talked to anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘Not while I was here. The last time I saw him he just seemed to disappear. I’d gone to the kitchen to order sandwiches for a customer and when I got back he’d gone. It was earlier than usual. I hoped that his woman had finally turned up.’
‘What was he drinking?’
She paused for a moment as if the question had surprised her but she seemed sure enough of the answer. ‘Diet Coke. Two pints, each time.’
Outside on the square, he stopped to get the feel for the place. It was dusk now and there was a chill in the air. In the houses grouped around the square, lights were being switched on. Matthew saw children doing homework at kitchen tables, meals being prepared. The teenagers had gone. There was more traffic, commuters on their way home from Barnstaple, Bideford and Torrington, but there were no longer pedestrians on the pavement. Matthew made his way through the square and down the road towards the cul-de-sac of houses where Lucy and Maurice Braddick lived. He wasn’t planning to call