Read The Plantagenet Vendetta for Free Online Page B

worst from their conversation earlier that day, and sure enough, that was now confirmed. The documentary would be delayed for at least three days, perhaps longer.
    Ideally she wanted to return to London, but her producer suggested otherwise. Put the time to good use, ‘make sure every angle gets covered’, her boss’s exact words. Had the documentary been for something else, the setting might well have been enjoyable, but the situation was disturbing. She remembered from watching the news a year earlier that the locals could be protective of their privacy. Even today, she had detected as much. Ideally she wanted to question some of the locals.
    But she knew she must do so with tact.
    By 7:20 she was feeling lonely, and, more importantly, she hadn’t eaten for over eight hours. After changing her clothes and checking her appearance in the mirror, she made her way down to the bar area.
     
    The White Boar Inn was the heart of the village, and even on a Monday it was not deserted. Known locally as the Hog, it was the kind of place where a local could come along for a few pints with the regulars or for a couple to enjoy a quiet meal.
    In the main dining area, at least four tables were in use, its wooden chairs frequented by local families. In the bar area, most kept themselves to themselves, the odd curious gaze in Jen’s direction reminding her she was on unknown ground. Two rugged locals were propping up the bar, their attention alternating between each other and their pints. One was fat, one was thin; one had grey hair, the other brown. Directly opposite them, the owner stood silently, his hands busy wiping a dirty glass.
    The thin man with brown hair eyed Jen inquisitively as she passed.
    “Ey up,” the man said. “Who do we have here?”
    “That there is Miss Farrelly,” the owner of the White Boar, Harvey Mitchell said, still drying a glass. “She’s the one with the Picanto.”
    “A Picanto?” the man said. “What’s a Picanto?”
    “You don’t know what a Picanto is?”
    The man looked back with a blank expression.
    “I know what a Picanto is,” said the fat man sitting alongside him.
    The thinner man looked at him. “Well, go on then, smarty-pants.”
    “A Picanto is a piece of art by Picanto.”
    Mitchell’s expression was one of disbelief. “That’s Picasso, you great twit, not Picanto.”
    The thinner man turned around, now looking at Jen. “It isn’t a type of dog, is it?”
    Jen looked at them both, then Mitchell, for now unable to respond.
    “Ey, I know,” the thinner man said. “Maybe a Picanto is simply…a Picanto.”
    For several seconds no one spoke.
    “By gum, I think he’s cracked it this time,” Harvey Mitchell said, as the three locals burst into laughter. Standing alongside them, Jen smiled.
    Silently she was dumbstruck.
    “So what exactly is a Picanto, Miss Farrelly?” the thinner man asked.
    “A Picanto’s a car, you great Jessie,” Mitchell said. “Pay no attention to these barnpots, love; they’ve never been quite right in the head.”
    Leaning against the bar, Jen struggled to keep a straight face.
    “Oh, right,” the thinner man said. “I’d like to see your Picanto if you don’t mind, Miss Farrelly.”
    “Well, it’s just outside, so be my guest.”
    “Well, thanks very much, I think I might just do that,” he said, laughing.
    “Miss Farrelly is just with us for the week,” Mitchell said. “She’s researching a documentary on the disappearance.”
    “Is that right, Miss Farrelly? Are you here to research a documentary?”
    Jen looked inquisitively at the landlord. “I never told you I was here to research a documentary.”
    “That’s right, you didn’t. I was told by that one who cleans the church.”
    “Cleans the church,” the thinner of the two barflies said. “You haven’t been speaking to Martha Brown, have you?”
    The fatter barfly laughed. “Gossip central, she is. Pound to a penny it’ll be all over Wootton by closing