As The Pig Turns

Toni. More like a day for soup and steak and kidney pie. Her stomach rumbled.
    She had been so upset over Simon’s wedding that she only had a cup of coffee for breakfast.
    She parked in the main square and, bending her head before the rising wind, picked her way gingerly through the rapidly freezing slush to Barry Wynd, where she knew the health bar was located. She cursed the weather, which seemed to be involved in a vicious cycle of thaw and freeze.
    The bar was called Green Happiness. The windows were steamed up, so Toni could not see who was inside. She pushed open the door and went in. There were very few customers. The people of Mircester preferred cholesterol and loads of it.
    A sullen waitress with a bad case of acne approached Toni after she had taken a table in the corner, facing the door. Toni looked at the menu and ordered vegetable soup, to be followed by cauliflower and cheese and a glass of an elderberry drink.
    To her relief, the soup was accompanied by bread rolls and butter. She looked around. Two women, quite elderly, were sitting by the window. The only other customer apart from Toni herself was a severe-looking man with glasses and a long beard.
    The door opened just as Toni was finishing her meal with a cup of dandelion coffee. The woman who entered was tall and dressed in pseudocountry wear: a Barbour worn over a cashmere sweater and corduroy knee breeches, thick woollen stockings and stout brogues. She had a long, mild face that reminded Toni of a sheep. The rings on her fingers were many and sparkled in the light.
    When she called over the waitress and gave her order, her voice was revealed as coming from someone who was trying desperately to sound posh, and failing. The other customers had left. Now there was only Toni and what she hoped was Mrs Richards.
    She smiled vaguely in Toni’s direction. Toni boldly rose and went to join her.
    ‘I thought I recognized you,’ said Toni. ‘Are you Mrs Richards?’
    ‘I was. If you’re from the press, you want the present wife.’
    A small dessert bowl of a salad consisting mostly of bean sprouts was placed in front of Mrs Richards.
    ‘I’m not from the press,’ said Toni. ‘Excuse me, but on this freezing day, is that all you’re going to eat?’
    ‘Yes. My ex-husband says I have to watch my figure.’
    ‘What’s it got to do with him?’ asked Toni. ‘He’s your ex.’
    ‘He’s the father of our children, and I rely on him for maintenance. Now, go away.’
    ‘I am a detective,’ said Toni, passing over her card. ‘Now, our agency is supposed to be working for the present Mrs Richards, but I feel there is something very odd about her.’
    ‘Nothing odder than common little slut.’
    ‘Why don’t we discuss this over lunch?’
    ‘I’m having lunch.’
    ‘No, you are not. You are punishing yourself. You are slim enough. Leave the rabbit food alone and come with me to the nearest pub and we’ll have steak and kidney pie and a good bottle of wine.’
    Mrs Richards poked dismally at her salad. ‘What if he finds out?’
    ‘I won’t tell him, you won’t tell him. Look, I think you’ve been through a lot,’ said Toni, ‘and that no one ever listens to you. But I’m here. Come on. Live a little.’
    Over steak and kidney pies and a good bottle of Merlot, Mrs Richards thawed, unlike the weather outside. As Mrs Richards ate hungrily, Toni talked generally about the weather and told several funny stories of trying to recover lost animals. ‘I was asked to help find a lost cat called Napoleon. I at last found the animal actually up in the branches of a tall horse chestnut tree in the woman’s garden. I climbed up. It was difficult because the wind was blowing strongly and the cat was almost at the top. Just as I was reaching out for it, the wretched animal promptly nipped down to the ground, branch by branch. I followed and chased that cat and finally caught it by taking it in a rugby tackle.’
    Ms Richards giggled, a surprisingly girlish giggle. ‘You can’t rugby tackle a cat.’
    ‘Oh, yes, you can,’ said Toni. ‘What about a brandy with the coffee?’
    ‘Oh, maybe I shouldn’t . . .’
    Toni raised her voice and called for two brandies.
    ‘Did you know the present Mrs Amy Richards?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Look, call me Fiona. We worked in the same supermarket. She was on the till and I stacked the shelves.’
    ‘Seems a rather menial job for you. What about the care of your children?’
    ‘We had . . . have . . . an