by Ann Purser
"Oh, yes, he did. But he sounded like he'd been a bit uncomfortable at first. No worries, Rebecca. I shall see him later."
Josie was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, reading the local paper. She put it down and smiled warmly at her mother, and at Rebecca and the two children. "Who's first?" she said. Before Rebecca could speak, Lois said that she had one or two things to talk to Josie about, and the children could go first.
By the time Luke had filled his basket, and with Kate had added up the total in their heads, getting it wrong several times, and had then handed over the right money to Josie, Lois had cooled down and collected her thoughts. She waved to the children as they crossed the road to Rebecca's car.
"She's a nice woman," Josie said. "How's their little girl doing? I don't see much of her. Most of the time Rebecca comes over here from Waltonby after school."
"She's fine. Now, I've got news for you. I'll give you three guesses."
Josie smiled. "One, Douglas is coming back. Two, Douglas is getting a new job, and three, Douglas wants to live in your house in Gordon Street. Right?"
"How the hell did you know all that?" said Lois, completely flattened. First Cowgill and now Josie, knowing all her business. She began to wonder if she was bugged.
"Douglas told me, o' course. He phoned me after he'd spoken to you and Dad. I hope you'll make him pay the proper rent. No special rates for favourite sons."
Lois sighed. "Josie, dear, have you forgotten how we helped you buy this shop? But no, Dad has already told Douglas. No favours. He'll be earning a good screw, anyway, and can well afford it." She walked up to the counter and picked up the local that Josie had been reading. Splashed across the front page was a picture of the supermarket at the end of Gordon Street. All the big windows along the side approach had been smashed, and workmen were clearing away the broken glass and putting up boards into the empty frames.
"Hey, Josie, look at this!" she said, and began to read. It had all happened in the middle of the night. A gang of youths was suspected, but the police were not sure. It was not the usual theft of alcohol and cigarettes, and of course all the money was locked away. The police were puzzled. Food had been stolen, but not luxury items. Basics, such as bread, milk, fruit, sugar, tea, and coffee, had been taken in large quantities. Empty trolleys were left in the car park, neatly stacked in a row.
"We are anxious to hear from anybody living nearby who heard anything at all unusual," the police reported. "Mean time, we are following up several leads. There have been a number of similar thefts around the county."
"Nasty," said Josie, frowning. "And very close to your house. No wonder it's difficult to let property round there. What with crowing cocks and gangs of thieving louts, I reckon our Douglas might change his mind. Unless, of course, he gets a reduction— "
"That's enough!" Lois said. "Just give me a loaf, and I'll be going. A lot of paperwork to get through before lunch."
"Oh, dear," said Josie to her empty shop. She could almost see a black cloud hanging over her mother's head as she marched back up the street towards home. Who'd rattled her cage this morning? Josie tidied the shelves after the children's assault, and the answer came to her. It'd be Cowgill, wanting Mum to help him again. "Trouble afoot," she sighed, and arranged her face into a smile for the vicar, who bounced in for his usual pound of Cumberland sausages.
SIX
BY THE TIME LOIS REACHED HOME, THE VILLAGE GOSSIP network had been busy. Gran greeted her with the supermarket story, and tut-tutted about the state of Tresham these days. "Not like it was when we lived there," she said. "People up on the Churchill don't dare to go out of their front doors at night now. Do you remember how it used to be, Lois? All of us friends. It was a community in them days. All helped one another."
"Rubbish," said Lois, still full of irritation. "It was just as rough as it is now. That Robertson family round the corner from us, always one of 'em in the nick. And the rest doin' their best to live up to his example. And don't you remember fireworks night, when old Mrs. Williams had a firecracker shoved through her letter box, and had a heart attack from fright? You got a short memory, Mum."
Gran stared at her. "What's eating you, Lois? You're like a bear with a sore head this morning."
Lois slumped down on a kitchen chair. "Oh, I don't know, Mum. Just when everything seemed to be going along steadily, suddenly it's all changing. Old Clem and his cockerel, Douglas moving back, Bill not tellin' me everything about that blind woman. And now this trouble at the supermarket. Shall we be able to rest easy with Douglas living in Gordon Street?" She got up and stared out of the window at the garden. Her small white dog was squatting seriously on the grass.
"That's the last straw!" she shouted, and began to laugh hysterically.
"What's funny, gel?" Derek had come in through the back door, and joined Lois at the window. "Might be funny to you," he muttered, "but I'm the one to clear it up."
Gran looked from one to the other. "Time for a coffee," she said. "Sit down, both of you, and let's get this Douglas thing straight. I won't say a word, except this. Whatever you do about him and the Gordon Street house, you'd better agree on it, else we'll never get any peace. Go on, sit down, Lois. And you, Derek. I'll take mine to the front room."
"Your mother," said Derek, and paused. Lois looked fiercely at him. If he was about to criticise her mother, she was ready. Nobody but herself was allowed to do that, she thought, not strictly accurately.
"Your mother," repeated Derek, "is one o' the best. Got more common sense than the rest of us put together. Now," he added, "about Douglas. I wrote him a letter last night, and you'd better read it before I go to the post."
He got up and reached behind the clock on the shelf over the Rayburn. He handed her an envelope, and she opened it. It was not a long letter, and the story of the supermarket robbery had been cut out from the newspaper and enclosed. Derek had set out the terms of letting, added the agents' particulars, and said that if Douglas would like to take the house, he should get in touch with the agents and then be treated like any other tenant.
"Why've you said that?" Lois asked, pointing at the letter.
"Best way to avoid family argument, I reckon," he said. "We won't have nothing to do with it, except I expect you'll want to help with curtains and furnishing, an' that. Otherwise, the business side of it will be between him and the agents."
Lois sat for some minutes in silence. She was confused, wondering how Derek could be so hard-hearted. Then her thoughts cleared. He was right. There could be endless trouble, with her being unable to forget she was Douglas's mother, and Derek . . . well, not hard-hearted so much as hard- headed. She nodded. "I agree," she said. "Much the best. Now, I'll go and get the exiled Gran. Not so sure you're right about her, though. She can be a right old bag, bless her."
Derek pulled Lois to her feet and gave her a hug. "We got a lot to be thankful for, me duck," he said. "Let's not rock the boat . . ."
She looked at him sharply, but said nothing. Derek was no fool, and could read her mind. He knew, she was sure, that Cowgill was hovering again.
IN GORDON STREET, HUNTER COWGILL WALKED SLOWLY, LOOKING up at the solid semi-d's on one side and the humble terrace on the other. Rich man in his castle, poor man at his gate, he thought, and smiled at the memory of his childhood Sunday school. They still sang that verse then, he thought. Now it was more likely to be the poor man in the castle. Not that there weren't still plenty of people living below the poverty line, driven to crime to keep afloat. But usually driven by drugs or drink or gambling.
What a world, he said to himself, as he walked back again and began knocking on doors. He would not as a rule be doing the legwork on this, but he had a special interest in Gordon Street. Lois was his special interest, and he wanted to keep a close eye on this one.
"WHAT'RE YOU SELLING?" CLEM HAD OPENED THE DOOR ABOUT six inches and peered through at this tall man in a suit and mackintosh. The man fished out an identification card, and Clem's
heart gave a jolt. Police. So that Meade woman had reported the cockerel. Rotten trick! Somehow he'd not thought she was that sort. Well, he was wrong.
"May I come in a moment, Mr. Fitch? Just one or two enquiries. It's about the supermarket burglary."
Clem heaved a sigh of relief. "Nothin' to do wi' me," he said, but he opened his door wider and admitted Cowgill.
Their conversation was brief, but whilst Clem told him that he heard nothing, saw nothing, and was dead to the world until six o'clock in the morning, Cowgill looked around the grubby, untidy room.
"Do you have any family living in Tresham, Mr. Fitch?" he said. Clem nodded, and said that his daughter and her husband—"No good, that one"—had two children and lived up on the Churchill estate.
"I expect you see a lot of them, then," Cowgill said innocently.
Clem shook his head. "Once or twice a year. I keep meself to meself, mostly. Mind you," he said, brightening, "me young granddaughter—she's nearly twenty—has started work up the road in the supermarket and pops in quite often. Lovely girl, she is."
"Good," said Cowgill. "She'll keep an eye on you, then." It was meant to be a joke, but said in his chilly voice it sounded to Clem like a threat.
"Don't need no—" At that point, a piercing crow from Satan filled the house. Cowgill looked through the open door to the kitchen. Clem held his breath.
"He's in good voice," said Inspector Cowgill with a faint smile. "Thanks, Mr. Fitch. I'll be getting on. Thanks for your help." And he let himself out of the front door and closed it quietly behind him.
SEVEN
THE CURTAINS IN BRAESIDE WERE DRAWN, AND COWGILL looked at his watch. Someone should be up and about, surely. He knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder. Loud enough to wake the dead, he thought grimly. He looked up at the bedroom window and saw the curtains twitch. Someone was there, then. He knocked a third time.
This time there was movement in the house. He could hear the tapping of a stick, and then locks being turned and a bolt drawn. The door opened, and a grey-haired woman stood there, her dark glasses slightly crooked and her long cardigan fastened on the wrong buttons. She held a stick, and seemed to be peering over his shoulder.
"Yes? Can I help you?" she said, and her voice quavered, husky and nervous.
"Sorry to disturb you, madam," Cowgill said in his best friendly policeman voice. He held out his identification, and realised she did not see it. Of course. What a fool he was! She was blind.
"So sorry," he said, "I didn't know you were . . . er . . . I'm from the police. I wondered if you could spare a few moments to talk to me. Is anyone in the house with you?" he asked.
"There's nobody here at present," the woman said politely. "By the way, my name is Mrs. Blairgowrie. And, as you have obviously noticed, I am blind, to all intents and purposes, so I can't ask you in. I have to be very careful. Now, let me think. There's Bill, my cleaner from New Brooms. He will be here tomorrow. Could you come back about twoish tomorrow? He'll be here then."
"Thank you, Mrs. Blairgowrie. So most of the time you are alone here? No permanent companion or lodger? We have to ask, you understand."
"I've only just moved in," she replied. "At the moment I am alone. But my son visits, though not on a regular basis. I never know when he's coming, but he would not neglect me."
Bill from New Brooms, eh? Hunter Cowgill smiled to himself. That's my girl. Never misses a business opportunity. Well, this particular household he could leave to Lois. He must speak to her about it.
"You've been most helpful, Mrs. Blairgowrie." He tipped his hat, not caring that she could not see him. A real lady, if ever he saw one.
IN THE LITTLE HOUSE NEXT TO CLEM'S—NOT LOIS'S, BUT THE other side—all was silent. Old shutters, the wood split and paint peeling, were still doing the job they were meant for, keeping at bay the outside world. The skinny, middle- aged man, incongruously dressed in jeans and T-shirt, his scrawny arms folded tight across his chest, sat in an upright chair in the corner of his empty living room. He had seen the police man trawling the street, and had not answered the knocking at his door. He knew it was a cop. You could tell them a mile away, smart mackintosh and hat notwithstanding.
He grinned to himself. He went over the sentence in his head, editing it, wondering if "notwithstanding" was the right word. Once a writer, always a writer, he thought. With the minimum of movement, he turned to look at his bookshelves. They were packed with paperbacks and a neat row of hardbacks bearing his name. The most colourful furnishing in the room. Whatever might happen to him, these books were his legacy to a wife and family no longer in touch with him. He had sinned against them, and was not forgiven.
The knocking began again, and this time there was a shout. "Police! Open up!" He went wearily to the door and opened it. "Yes?" he said in a quiet voice.
The formal questions were asked, the negative answers delivered in a monotone. He was neither helpful nor obstructive. He saw the policeman looking round at the empty room. One chair? Was that enough? He wondered if he would be asked to give permission to look upstairs. But this could tell nothing about the burglary, and anyway, there was nothing to find. One bed. One cupboard and a mirror on the wall.
When the door closed behind the cop, the man relaxed and took out one of his books. He never tired of reading his own writing. He was taken back to the time when he was full of ideas and a moderate success. But he did not wish to reflect on what he had become.
LOIS TOOK THE CALL WHEN SHE WAS OUT WALKING JEEMS. THE water meadows were lush and green, and she was glad that she could release the little dog from her lead and see her tear away towards the river, without worrying about trespass or encounters with amorous suitors. Jeems seemed to attract them from miles away. As I did once, Lois thought. She grinned. She'd had enough suitors in her day, but Derek had always been the serious one. And the most persistent! Now she looked at her mobile phone with renewed irritation. Not exactly an amorous suitor, but close.
"Not you again!" she said. "Are you at a loose end? No crimes to solve today?"
Cowgill answered her briskly. "A little job for you, Lois, if you have time. I believe Bill Stockbridge is cleaning for a lady in Gordon Street? Living at Braeside?"
Lois sighed. "Correct. What about it?"
"I've called on her today, making enquiries about the burglary. She's blind, as you will know, and seems to me to be very vulnerable. There's a son who visits, apparently. I need to know who he is, what he does, and how often he actually visits her. She's obviously nervous, and I don't want to frighten her with uniformed officers. I would expect her to be nervous, but not to be trembling violently as she shut the door. Looks like something not quite right there."
"You could go back yourself, couldn't you?" Lois was disconcerted, remembering her own unease.
"I could, but the easiest thing for her would be for you or Bill to find out during the course of conversation."
"And, you forgot to mention, she's likely to talk to us more than she would to you or one of your plods. I'm not happy about asking Bill. I'll think about it."
"I'm afraid I need a definite answer, Lois," he said in a softer voice. "If you'd rather not, I have to do it another way."
There was a pause, and then Lois said, "Leave it with me, then. I'll be in touch."
"Tomorrow? I believe Bill will be there in the afternoon?" Cowgill realised he was pushing his luck.
"Whenever," Lois said firmly. She pushed her mobile back into her pocket, and hurried to catch up with Jeems, who was peering suicidally into the river. "Here, Jeems—look, here's the ball!" She threw the multicoloured ball to send Jeems spinning off in pursuit, and bent down to see what had caught the dog's attention. Something dark and formless, wrapped in ballooning plastic, had floated up against the bank. Lois's heart lurched, and she picked up a willow stick lying in the grass.
"Hey! Mum!"
She was startled by the loud voice, and nearly tipped into the river herself. It was Douglas, running
along the river path towards her. "What on earth are you doing?" he said.
"You made me jump," she said, breathing hard. "Here," she added, "look at this. I was trying to hook it out. What is it?"
"Looks like a severed head to me," Douglas said carelessly, and was alarmed to see his mother's reaction. "Only joking, Mum!" he said quickly. "Here, give me the stick."
They heaved the object out and onto the grass. Douglas poked at it, and began to laugh. "Read the label, Mum," he said, and pointed to a soggy white paper attached to the plastic. Lois looked more closely, and read, Multipack Best Pork Chops. Guaranteed Organic.
"Yeah, right, but is that what's inside?"
"D'you want to look?" Douglas began to slit open the plastic wrapping. Lois nodded and watched as a dozen or more sodden pork chops fell out onto the grass. Jeems was on them in seconds, grabbing one and taking off at high speed.