Warning at One

by Ann Purser

  "Of course, thanks very much," Douglas said, patting her arm. It was unexpectedly firm. "But Mr. Fitch next door is usually about, and I believe the man on his other side is a kind of recluse, and always there. Still, apparently he never answers his door, so he wouldn't be much good in an emergency!"

  "What kind of emergency?" This was said urgently, and with some alarm.

  "Oh, car accident, chimney fire, that sort of thing," Douglas replied, unaware of the guarded look in her eyes.

  "Well, with our new, strong young man to help us out there'll be no need for emergency services," she said firmly. "What kind of work do you do, Douglas? You know how rumours fly about, and my son, Alastair, had heard you work with the police, is that right?"

  "Good God, no," Douglas said, laughing. "That's Mum's little hobby. I'm in computers, like most people. New job over at InterWorld on the bypass estate. I start tomorrow."

  "Fancy your mother having time to work with the police, as well as managing her business," Mrs. Blairgowrie said lightly.

  Douglas, who was a friendly, open sort of man, was about to tell all, when he felt a sudden jolt, like someone digging him in the ribs. Why had this old duck come over so early, and why was she asking so many questions? He looked at his watch, and said that his mother did not work with the police, but cleaned their offices for them. At least, the girls did. They'd had the contract for ages, he said.

  Mrs. Blairgowrie had seen the time check, and turned to go. "Now just remember, Douglas," she said, "I'm always at home and pleased to see you. Time does go slowly sometimes for me, though Alastair is very good and comes when he can. You must meet him," she said, and then thought maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

  "Great," said Douglas, and insisted on shepherding her across the road and back into her house.

  Clem had seen it all, the visit to Douglas and the return. "She's nippy on her pins when necessary," he chuckled to himself. "Missed that car by inches."

  LOIS HAD ASKED GRAN WHETHER SHE WOULD LIKE TO GO OVER to see Douglas, maybe help with getting him settled. "Me and Derek will be going this morning. Don't want you scrubbing floors nor nothing, but I expect he'd like to see you."

  Gran refrained from saying that Lois had never forbidden her to scrub floors at home, so why not in Gordon Street. But she said only that she would love to go with them. She'd made a beef casserole, and it could simmer in the oven until they got back.

  "What? No Sunday roast?" said Derek, coming into the kitchen carrying tools for all eventualities. Gran gave him a withering look, and the three of them squashed into the front seat of the van and were on their way.

  They parked in the supermarket car park as usual, and Lois said she just had to dash in to get some gluten- free bread for one of her old ladies. She snaked around the aisles look ing for FreeFroms, and finally found them. A man was there, hogging the shelves, moving from side to side so that she could not see what she wanted. He was shortish and skinny, and Lois backed away, wrinkling her nose and thinking he could do with a good scrub. To her dismay, she saw him pile all the wrapped gluten- free loaves into his trolley and move off quickly. "Hey!" she shouted. "Leave one for me!" But he kept going, and the next time she saw him he was checking out a trolley full of cartons of juice, the loaves, and, as far as she could see, the entire contents of the sausage shelves.

  As she walked crossly down to Douglas's, she suddenly remembered the floating pork chops. A whole pack of chops, bobbing merrily along in the current of a swollen river. And then the robbery, with quantities of basic supplies stolen. She was still thinking about this when out of the window she saw the smelly man go by, carrying heavy bags that weighed him down. He turned into the house beyond Clem's, and she heard the door slam shut.

  "Who's that, then, Douglas?" she said. "Who lives on the other side of Clem?"

  "Dunno his name," answered Douglas. "Clem says he's a recluse. Lives alone and is never seen."

  "Well, I've just seen him, and he was carrying enough food to feed an army," Lois said, and decided that it was time to put in a call to Cowgill.

  EIGHTEEN

  AFTER AN EVENING OF RUBBISH ON THE TELEVISION, CLEM supposed he might as well go to bed, though he didn't really feel tired. The quiz had been mindless junk, with questions a child of five could have answered, and the contestants humiliated for the gratification of viewers. He picked up the Sunday newspaper and riffled restlessly through the pages. Nothing but bad news and naked women. He tossed it onto the floor, and sighed. Then he thought he heard a noise. A woman's voice, coming from next door.

  Stationed at his listening post inside the cupboard, he concentrated hard. It was the same voice that he'd heard before, but this time the language was English, broken English that he could hardly understand. One or two words, however, began to give him the gist of what the woman was saying. "When . . . going . . . Must . . . help."

  Blimey, thought Clem. He began to wish he'd minded his own business. If something dodgy was going on in there, he wanted nothing to do with it. And if the woman needed help, he was certainly not the one to give it. He shut the cupboard door quickly, put out the lights, and retreated upstairs to bed.

  He had been asleep for several hours when he was startled awake by a familiar noise. It was Satan crowing. Surely not dawn yet, Clem muttered to himself. He listened, and knew that it was not a wake-up call. A different sound, more of a cackle. The bird's alarm signal, warning of danger. Clem fumbled for his watch. One o'clock exactly, and confirmed by the distant striking of St. Peter's church clock. Then he remembered he had not shut up Satan. Damn! Perhaps he would be all right with his netting frame against the door. Clem's eyelids drooped, but opened again immediately. Satan had not crowed for nothing. Foxes had been known to get through wire netting. They had teeth like wire cutters. Oh, bugger it.

  It was cold and very dark outside, and Clem was glad he'd brought his torch. He secured Satan's door, and turned to go back to bed, but stopped when he saw a light snap on inside his neighbour's house. It was in the kitchen, but he could see nothing behind the curtains except two shapes close together. Then he saw the shadow of a raised fist, and heard a scream.

  Without thinking, Clem began to walk towards the man's back door, but he'd gone only a couple of steps when it opened violently and a woman ran out into the yard, screaming, "Help me, help me, please!"

  Now Clem could see the man close behind her, and he shouted in a voice he hadn't used for years. "What the bloody hell's going on?"

  There was a sudden silence as the woman stopped screaming. The man grabbed her and bundled her into his house. Then he turned back.

  "Clear off and leave us alone!" he shouted.

  But Clem had spent years dealing with yobs and drunks on the station platform, and it would take more than a weedy little bloke like that to daunt him. Anyway, it was a helpless woman in distress! He had a chivalric impulse and advanced.

  "Let me talk to her!" he yelled, pushing the man to one side to get inside the house. It was then that he saw the cosh, lifted high, and he ducked, but too late. The blow to his head was vicious, and his legs buckled. He fell to the ground and was still.

  NINETEEN

  LIGHT WAS CREEPING ROUND THE EDGE OF DOUGLAS'S bedroom curtains when he awoke. He surfaced slowly, feeling vaguely uneasy. Something not quite right. He looked at his watch and saw that it was seven thirty, and then he remembered it was his first day at the new job. He flew out of bed and into the shower, and it was not until he was grabbing a quick coffee that he was struck by a disturbing thought. Why had he not been woken by Satan's wicked call? Surely he couldn't be used to it already. After all, it was only his second night in the house.

  He grabbed his jacket and was about to the leave, when he stopped. Blast! He should go across and make sure the old man was all right. He unlocked his back door, went across the yard, and knocked, at the same time shouting for Clem. "Hey! Are you okay? Still asleep, you lazy old . . ." He knew already that this was the kind of language C
lem would respond to, and waited. Nothing. Not a sound. He looked through the window, but could see only dirty dishes and an empty room. Better check on Satan. He could at least open him up and give him some daylight.

  At first he could see only the bird, lying crookedly on the floor by the wooden lavatory seat. Then he gasped. Protruding from one of the holes where generations of Fitches had sat was a carpet slipper, and inside it a foot.

  Douglas tore aside the netting frame and looked more closely. He began to retch, and turned away, collapsing to the ground and burying his head in his hands. After a few seconds he pulled himself to his feet and took another look. It was Clem, of course, cold as charity, and as dead as his beloved Satan by his side.

  After he'd made the necessary calls, Douglas finally telephoned his new boss to explain.

  "Good heavens," said the departmental manager. "That beats having to attend your grandmother's funeral." Her voice softened, and she added, "Get here when you can, Douglas. Anything we can do, let us know."

  JOSIE WAS OPENING THE SHOP WHEN SHE SAW THE POLICE CAR coming slowly towards her. It stopped, and she drew a quick breath of surprise. The tall, immaculate-looking young man approaching was familiar. "Hi, Josie," he said, "remember me?"

  "Goodness, of course I do! Hello, Matthew. What brings you here?"

  It was Matthew Vickers, plainclothes policeman, nephew of Hunter Cowgill, and potential rival of Josie's Rob. He had spent some weeks with the Tresham police in the past, and had met and admired Josie during the last of Lois's involvements with Cowgill. She had thought him very tasty then, but now he was more so. That smile!

  He followed her into the shop and suggested she sit down on her stool behind the counter. The smile had gone now, and he was looking serious. "What's happened?" she said quickly. "Has there been an accident? Mum, Dad . . . Gran?"

  He shook his head. "No, no. None of your family. Well, that's not quite right. Douglas is involved in a pretty nasty happening in Tresham."

  She sat rigidly holding on to the counter as he gave her a brief account of what they had found when summoned by Douglas. The old man, dead and stuffed alongside the birdseed in his old two-hole lavatory, with the brilliant plumage of his strangled cockerel fading by his side. Matthew rushed towards her as she swayed on her stool. He caught her as she fell, and with his arms tight around her and her head resting on his chest, he said a polite "Good morning" to Rob, who had emerged from the flat above.

  THE NEWS HAD BEEN BROKEN TO LOIS MORE OR LESS IMMEDIATELY after Cowgill had heard it. She'd picked up the phone as she made a cup of tea for Gran, who was having a rare lie-in.

  "Lois," he'd said urgently, "not good news, I'm afraid. Old man next door to your son has been found dead in an outhouse. Douglas found him. The lad is shaken up, but got himself together. Determined to go to work after we've finished with him. I was sure you'd want to know, my dear."

  Ignoring the affectionate words, Lois said sharply, "What d'you mean, 'after we've finished with him'?"

  "Just the usual questions. No worse than that, Lois. I'm off now to Gordon Street. D'you want to meet me there? I expect Douglas would like a little support."

  "He's a fully grown man, and perfectly capable of supporting himself," Lois snapped. But after she'd signed off, she yelled to Derek that she was going straightaway, giving him the details as he rushed downstairs in alarm. "Explain to Mum," she said, as she got into her van. "I'll ring you from Gordon Street."

  There were police cars outside Clem's house, and a small crowd had gathered as close as they were allowed. Lois parked at the supermarket and walked swiftly down the street. Cowgill saw her coming and cleared a way for her.

  "Where's Douglas?" she said, and without speaking or delaying her in any way, he led her into Douglas's house and shut the door behind them. The curtains had been drawn to shield the little group inside from prying eyes of curious neighbours and passersby.

  "Hi, Mum," Douglas said.

  A note-taking policeman stood up to give her his seat, and Lois swallowed hard. "What's been going on here, then?" she said. Cowgill stood behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. She shook it off at once.

  Douglas looked at him, and he said, "You fill her in, Douglas. Better coming from you."

  "It's poor old Clem," Douglas began, and his voice shook. "Somebody killed him and Satan, and I found them. In that old bog that Satan lived in. Clem was shoved into where he used to keep the bird's food. He's out now. Decently laid out. And his cockerel . . ." He choked, and Lois reached for his hand.

  "Bloody hell," she said, and that was enough. She released his hand and sat quietly while questions and answers droned on. She stopped concentrating after a while, and began to think in a different direction. Who? Why? What had Clem done to deserve such a horrific end?

  What did she know about him? Precious little, in fact. Her one interview with him had centred on her tenants' complaint about the cockerel crowing. That might have been one reason why he was disliked, but not enough, surely, to drive someone to such desperate measures.

  What secrets might Clem have known? He'd always lived in Gordon Street, and his family before him. They'd seen people come and go, had got to know all about them, gossiped and criticised and taken a liking to some. One or two had become firm friends, like Clem's old neighbour, the one before the recluse.

  She interrupted Cowgill midflow. "What about him next door?" she said loudly. "Didn't he see nothing?"

  Douglas reflected wryly that his mother's grammar always went out of the window under stress. He waited for Cowgill to reply, but the inspector nodded at him to answer.

  "No sign of him, Mum," he said. "Police have tried knocking him up, and then bust their way in. Nobody there. Not a trace. Dirty dishes in the sink, a freezer full of food— including your gluten-free loaves—and a tap left running in the bathroom. Done a runner."

  Lois turned to Cowgill. "So you've got him, I expect, by now?" she said tartly. "No, of course you bloody haven't. You've sat here quizzing my Douglas, wasting his time when he's supposed to be starting a new job. Same old questions, not satisfied when he says he doesn't know. For God's sake, Cowgill, get your priorities right!"

  The note taker looked across at his chief in alarm. Not known for his tolerance towards women, Cowgill would have her in leg irons, at least. But no. He looked on wonderingly as the inspector grinned.

  "Good point, Lois," Cowgill said. "But we have got the bloodhounds out, and they'll be picking up the trail in no time. Meanwhile, Douglas has been very helpful and given us extremely useful information. That'll do for now, Douglas," he added. "We'll need to talk some more, but I know where to find you." He beckoned to the note taker and they walked out, tactfully leaving Lois and her son together.

  "He's a good bloke, Mum," Douglas said. "Knows what he's doing. I'm off now. See you later. Take care, and don't worry." He pecked her on the cheek and was gone.

  On his bicycle, Lois noted with surprise. Ah, well, nothing like making a good impression on right-minded employers. She walked through to the kitchen and then out into the yard, where several experts were still searching for evidence. Cowgill stepped forward when she was intercepted and her way barred.

  "It's all right," he said. "Mrs. Meade can be of help to us. Come with me, Lois dear," he said, and led the way into the recluse's house.

  "You can forget the 'dear,' " she said, and then sniffed, wrinkling her nose.

  "Ugh, that smell! That's what he smelt like, for sure."

  Cowgill stared at her. "How do you know?" he said.

  "Because I stood behind him in the supermarket. He grabbed all the gluten-free bread, and took bugger-all notice when I said I wanted a loaf. I saw him again from Doug's front window as he went past with it and into his house. And this is his smell. Yuk."

  "Can't smell anything," Cowgill said. "My wife used to say it was lucky I'd got where I am in the force, because a good sense of smell should be part of every policeman's armoury."

  Loi
s looked at his face and felt a pang of sympathy. The woman must have been a real drag. "Don't worry," she said. "You can always take a sniffer dog with you."

  He smiled gratefully.

  They walked slowly around the house, and Lois's eyes took in everything. The emptiness of it. Very little furniture, except for the bare essentials. A couple of chairs and a small wooden table. Empty bookshelves, but markings in the dust where books must have been. A small portable radio. "Battery ran out," Cowgill said, as she looked at it. There was no television.

  "No phone?" she said, and Cowgill shook his head.

  "Either he didn't need one, or he used a mobile," he answered.

  "How could he live like this?" she asked. "What did he do with himself all day?"

  "Good question," said Cowgill. "Shall we go upstairs?"