The Poisoning in the Pub by Simon Brett Page A

youngest of the three, a fluttery woman in her
early sixties dressed in Black Watch tartan, looked positively mortified.
    But they needn’t have worried. Greville Tilbrook could be relied on to come up with the argument wielded by opponents of free speech down many centuries. ‘I don’t have to
immerse myself in filth to know that it’s filth!’
    ‘Possibly not immerse yourself,’ suggested Jude, ‘but maybe just dip a toe in. At least then you would have some knowledge of the subject you’re talking about.’
    ‘I will not watch a so-called entertainment whose only purpose is to deprave and corrupt!’ The eyelashes of his female acolytes fluttered. They loved it when he talked like that. He
was magnificent. The eyes of the one in Black Watch tartan narrowed in ecstasy.
    ‘You must be very insecure about the strength of your own personality,’ observed Carole Seddon, ‘if you’re worried that watching a stand-up comedian is going to corrupt
and deprave you.’
    And she and Jude moved magisterially towards the door of the Crown and Anchor.
    Inside, the pub already seemed almost full to capacity. Some customers were crowded round a table selling Dan Poke merchandise, T-shirts, DVDs, books and so on. But most were gathered at the
bar. The crowd through which Jude elbowed her way was four-deep. Ted, Zosia and three extra girls brought in for the evening were rushed off their feet. Catching Jude’s eye, Zosia quickly
produced two large Chilean Chardonnays and mimed, ‘Pay later.’
    ‘Oy, come on, darling! Get your Polish ass over here! I want some service!’ The speaker, pressed close against Jude, was a tall man whom she had noticed at the centre of the
bikers’ group. But he wasn’t wearing their leather livery. He had on khaki combat trousers, heavy Caterpillar boots and a camouflage-pattern sleeveless T-shirt. He was surrounded in the
strong, animal scent of a hot day’s sweat. The man’s hair was shaved almost to baldness, one side of his face was heavily scarred, and the hand with which he rapped the counter had two
and a half fingers missing. As Jude moved away from the bar, he turned suddenly towards her. His hazel eyes were already glazed with alcohol, or maybe drugs. ‘Weren’t queue-jumping,
were you, darling ?’ His tone bleached all warmth out of the word.
    ‘No, no, just getting a drink.’ The man gave her an evil look for a moment, then turned back to continue shouting at Zosia for service.
    Jude found Carole still marooned in the middle of the room, looking round for a place to sit. All of the dining alcoves appeared to be full, at least all of the alcoves that would get a view of
the entertainment. A small black-painted stage had been set up at the far end of the bar. Hired spotlights, currently switched off, but focused on the area, left no one in any doubt that that was
where Dan Poke would be doing his act.
    Fortunately, just as they were looking for a seat, a short man appeared from the kitchen, weaving his way through the crowd with a pile of chairs held up in front of him. Only when he put them
down could Jude see his face and recognize Ray. He was wearing a black T-shirt, so new its packing creases were still visible. On its front was printed the inevitable catchphrase: FANCY A POKE?
Clearly, as with Lyra Mackenzie, he liked buying merchandise connected with his idols.
    ‘Ray, can we grab a couple of those?’ asked Jude, lifting two of the chairs off the pile.
    She desperately wanted to talk further to him, but Ray looked busy and harassed. ‘Got to get some more chairs,’ he said, on his way to the kitchen. Then he turned back. ‘Could
you save a seat for me, and all? I want to have a good view of Dan Poke.’ His voice dropped as he confided to Jude, ‘He’s off the telly. I’m going round the back to get his
autograph after.’
    Jude appropriated a third chair before they were all snatched up. She and Carole sat down and placed Carole’s handbag firmly