by Ann Purser
Derek chatted on about the old house, and Gran said she was sure she’d heard tell of the old man who lived there for years on his own. “Squalid, people said it was, and told him so, but he said he changed his underpants once a year, so what were they on about?”
Derek choked on his cup of tea, and reached for the dish-cloth to mop up the spillage. Just then Lois passed by the window and came into the kitchen like a whirlwind.
“You’re back, then,” said Derek mildly.
This unleashed a stream of words from Lois, mostly directed at Gran, about people who shouldn’t have children if they didn’t know how to bring them up, and the modern generation who had no respect, no morals and no ambition to make anything of their lives.
“Why don’t you sit down, me duck, an’ have a cup of tea. Gran’s made a batch of scones.” Derek smiled and took her hand. “Tell us all about it,” he said.
“I can’t,” Lois said. “All I can tell you is I’ve had a conversation, if you can call it that, with Mark Brown. At Gran’s suggestion. Supposed to be helping Mrs. Brown cope with her wayward son. Some hopes, Mum! He’s a selfish little sod. Tried to persuade me it was all his Dad’s fault. He’s an only child, and all his old man’s ambitions rest on him. His school results were never good enough for his father, so he says. When he suggested going off for a year round the world, there was an explosion that lasted for days. Oh dear,” Lois sighed. “I’ve probably told you more than I should’ve, but how often have you heard all that before?”
“I suppose it’s the first time for the Browns,” Derek said calmly. “Only son, an’ all that.”
Lois sat down heavily. “You’re right as always,” she said. “Well, I stuck it out. At least he told me his side of that gloomy family. But the crux of it was that Mrs. Brown reckons if we find out who killed Rob and who started the gypsy fire, that’ll let Mark off the hook of them particular crimes. I’m not even sure that he is suspected of being involved, anyway. Drugs yes, possibly mixed up with the gypsy fire, but I’ve heard nothing since that story in the paper about the gang being involved in Rob’s death.”
“Ring your cop, Mum,” Josie said. Lois had not seen her coming into the kitchen where she perched quietly on a stool by the door. “Who knows, a miracle might have happened? They might have got one whole step forward in the hunt for Rob’s killer.”
“How about your cop?” Lois countered, and immediately regretted it. Josie’s face closed up, and she said nothing more. Lois knew that Matthew Vickers had been around regularly, ostensibly checking to see if she had remembered anything new, but actually because he just wanted to see her. She had recognized him outside the shop that evening. Josie obviously did not mind this at all, but was aware that people would talk. Probably did already.
Lois changed the subject, saying that she must sort out a replacement for Sheila Stratford. “She’ll be off for a week, poor thing,” she said.
“Is Sam coping?” Gran said. Lois looked at her. There was something in her mother’s voice that suggested the question was more than an idle enquiry.
“Good heavens, yes,” Lois said. “Now he’s retired he should have all the time in the world. Surely even Sam’s heard of ready meals from Tesco, with plenty of fresh orange juice?”
“More likely that wife of Alan’s will do the looking after,” Gran said with a shrug. “Sam Stratford was never one for housework. He used to say he didn’t keep a dog to bark himself.”
“Charming,” said Lois.
“We got a parish council meeting this evening,” Derek said. “I can have a word, see if he needs any help.” Derek was beginning to feel outnumbered by hostile females.
Lois disappeared into her office, Josie went back to the shop, and Derek and Gran were left once more by themselves.
“What d’you reckon, Derek?” said Gran. “Did that Brown boy tell Lois the truth, or is he a liar like the rest of that lot behind the village hall?”
Derek shook his head. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “Our boys must’ve been through bad patches, but I don’t remember anything like this.”
“That’s because you were a good father,” Gran said. “From what Mrs. Brown has told me, young Mark might have been exaggerating to Lois, but not much.”
AFTER LOIS HAD GONE, MARK WENT STRAIGHT UP TO HIS ROOM and put on his headphones. He listened to the familiar music for fiv e minutes or so, then took them off again. His thoughts were whirling. Had he told the Meade woman enough to satisfy her? It had been nothing more than the truth, he reassured himself, if not exactly the whole truth. He slid off his bed and looked at himself in the mirror. Could be worse, he told himself. At least, Sally T-J seemed to approve. Maybe he’d slip out quietly and cycle up to the hall. He could throw stones at her window, or something stupid like that. He couldn’t imagine the old bat welcoming him in through the grand front door. . . .
TWENTY-NINE
DEREK WAS A NEWISH MEMBER OF THE PARISH COUNCIL. A vacancy had come up, and he had been co-opted between elections. He was reluctant to agree, but Lois had persuaded him, saying, “Think how useful it would be to know what’s going on in the village!” He had answered that he was sure it would all be very confidential, even between husbands and wives, and in any case, he’d added, the idea was to serve the community, not snoop into its private affairs. In the end, as always, Lois had persuaded him, and he had to admit that, once he’d accepted that the wheels of the local authority turn slowly, it was much more interesting than he had expected.
He arrived at the village hall early. Only Mrs. Tollervey-Jones was there before him. She made a point of being there first so that the others would feel suitably chastened for being late. He greeted her politely, and she answered absentmindedly, unlike her usual brisk self. Derek sat down and said nothing more, allowing her to arrange her papers.
“Um, Mr. Meade,” she said finally. “Could I ask you for advice? You have a daughter, haven’t you? Josie in the shop?” Derek nodded, and said he’d be pleased to help if he could.
“Well, I have my great-n iece staying with me. Sally. She’s sixteen, and has not had what I consider a suitable upbringing. Her parents have been away a lot and left her to her own devices, and I am afraid she is a very unhappy girl. Lately she has found unsuitable friends. Here in the village. You are probably aware of the gathering behind the village hall. On the whole, they have been left alone, except for the complaint followed up by the police in their heavy-handed way.”
Derek nodded encouragingly. He had no idea how he could help, but well remembered Mrs. T-J’s granddaughter Annabel, who had led his smitten son Jamie a dance for a while. They lived in a different world, these kids of rich-bug families.
“The truth is, Derek,” Mrs. T-J continued, “I feel generations too old to tackle Sally’s problems. And her parents are useless. Always were. She has just had a spell in hospital—overdose—that sort of thing. Of course, as a magistrate I am aware of that scene, and managed to keep the police out of it. But when it’s in the family . . . different. I am sure you, as a family man, appreciate that. I thought perhaps you or your wife would be able to . . . You know?”
Ah, thought Derek, so that’s it. She means Lois, not me. He had a good idea what Lois’s suggestion might be. Send the girl to a state school, give her a smaller allowance and make sure every spare minute was filled with some useful activity. And a curfew if necessary. Still, he wouldn’t preempt Lois’s advice, and promised he would mention it to his wife. “I always left our Josie for Lois to deal with,” he said.
“Most grateful,” said Mrs. T-J, as other members began to arrive, including Sam Stratford, who sat down next to Derek. “Evenin’ mate,” he said.
“How’s Sheila? Need any help?” Derek whispered, as Mrs. T-J rustled her papers and stood up.
“Poorly. But no, we’re fine. Alan’s wife is helping. Tell you more later,” he added. Mrs. T-J glared at him and said that if everyone was ready, she would open the meeting.
LOIS SAT IN
HER OFFICE AND STARED AT THE TELEPHONE. SHE did not want to ring Cowgill, but knew it was the only way of finding out what was happening in Rob’s murder investigation. She could also pump him for information on Mark Brown, and what they had in store for him. She sighed. It was a good opportunity, with Derek at the parish council meeting and Gran off with Mrs. Pickering.
She dialled his personal number. It rang for a long time, and she was about to disconnect when his voice said, “Hunter Cowgill here.”
“Sorry to bother you out of hours,” Lois said briskly, setting a suitable tone. “I need to have an update on Rob’s case, as Josie has made it clear she thinks I have given up.”
“Lois! How nice to hear from you. I was half asleep in a chilly room, with only television for company. Now, let me switch it off and collect my thoughts.”
Lois had a vision of him sitting in a darkening, cold and tidy room, lonely and sad. She softened her tone, and said that she’d also something to tell him that might help.
His next words revised her vision.
“Give me a minute,” he said. “I got back from a triumphant round of golf, celebrated a little too lavishly in the nineteenth hole, and dozed off.”
“Bully for you,” she said. “Are you sober? Clearheaded enough to understand what I’m saying? I must say I hope there are no riots on the streets of Tresham tonight. You’d not be much good, would you?”
“Off duty, Lois,” he said, sharply now. “Even I am allowed a few hours off duty.”
“So what’s new in Rob’s case?” she repeated.
“You will not approve, Lois,” he began, “but evidence is hardening against the gypsies. We have located them, of course, and the local branch has them under surveillance.”
“You mean a bobby walks by once in a while?”
“I am not at liberty to tell you more on that, Lois, as you very well know. To continue, witnesses have come forward with information on another disturbance in the same area on the same evening. An hour or so before Rob was attacked, a young woman was menaced by a dog outside the entrance to a pub garden in Waltonby. We checked with pub customers, but nobody saw it. The woman described it as a bulldog sort of terrier, and said that it was dragged away from her by a gypsy-l ooking man before it could do more than scare her out of her wits. He disappeared so quickly she had no chance to speak to him. Unfortunately, nobody was around to witness this. There were no customers in the garden. All watching the match on the pub telly. A passing motorist saw something, but did not stop. He rang in later to report what he had seen. A big man and a dog, he said, but could give us no further description.”
“So what have you done about that?” Lois said, her heart sinking as she recalled the ugly pair with a bull terrier in the gypsy encampment.
“Pursuing our enquiries, my dear, as always. Now, what have you to tell me?”
“Probably not much more helpful than your titbit for me,” Lois said sourly. “It’s just that I had a conversation with Mark Brown. Him of the uppers and downers and presence at the gypsy fire. Mother and father live in Blackberry Gardens, and asked me to talk to him.”
“I’m with you, Lois. All ears.”
“He’s a spoilt, selfish little sod,” Lois said, “but possibly with mitigating circumstances, as you lot would say. Claims his father is an unloving bully, and his mother too scared to challenge him. Only child, loaded down with parents’ ambitions and never able to live up to them. Or just determined not to. Denies having anything to do with Rob’s case, but owns up to being around on the night of the fire. He’s one of the village hall gang, and hinted at a mastermind who gives them orders. Harassing gypsies is one of their fun activities, but denies starting the fire, and claims he was the first to alert the fire station. For some God-knows-what reason, I believed him.”
“A mastermind?” Cowgill pounced on the nugget of impor tant information at once. “Who is it? Did he tell you?”
“Of course not! He’s not a fool, that boy. Given a new direction, he’d probably be quite useful to somebody. Blimey,” she added, “I sound like a social worker. Better take that last bit unsaid. I have to go now, anyway. I can hear Derek back from the parish council meeting.”
“Thanks, Lois,” Cowgill said hurriedly. “You are the light of my life.” He heard Lois disconnect and smiled. She knew that, of course.
THIRTY
WHEN EDWINA SMITH WENT OUT TO RELEASE THE CHICKENS next morning, she checked the stone at the corner of the run. The envelope containing fifty pounds and the box of six eggs had gone. She breathed a sigh of relief, and set about opening the chicken house and topping up the feed trough. The sun came out from behind a high mist, and her spirits rose. Turning to walk back to the house, she froze.
“Morning missus,” said a gruff voice behind her. She turned around and saw the same rough-looking man who had accosted her before.
“What do you want?” she said as sharply as she could manage. “You’ve taken the money and the eggs. Now bugger off!”
“Not s’fast, lady,” Harry said. “I think you must’a misheard me. I said seventy-fi ve pounds would put things right for you. Make sure the extra’s here tomorrer. Same stone. An’ another dozen eggs. Me brother’s very fond of eggs. Don’t forget, now. Alf’s a wicked man when he’s roused. We know that from the past, don’t we?”
Edwina was speechless. What did people say about blackmail? Never give in to it. And she foolishly had done so. Now she was trapped. She couldn’t call the police, or tell Alf—or Sam, even. He would be so angry with her at involving him and getting herself into this mess in the first place. She turned away from the gypsy and half ran back towards the house. As she ran, she heard growling and snuffling behind her and knew that the bull terrier was following her. She stopped, knowing it was the best thing to do with a chasing dog, and heard the man laughing hoarsely as he pulled it back on its long rope lead.
Safely back in the kitchen, she heard Alf’s heavy footsteps coming downstairs. “All right, gel?” he said. “You look puffed out. What made you run?”
Edwina took deep breaths and subsided onto a chair. “Oh, you know me. Thought I’d see how far and fast I could run now. The village marathon is next month, and I had this silly idea I might take part. Not sure now!”
Alf laughed and patted her arm. “We’re none of us as young as we used to be,” he said. “I’ll make you a cuppa, me duck. You sit there an’ get your breath back.”
The gypsy’s words came back to Edwina as she sat quietly while the kettle boiled. “Alf’s a wicked man when he’s roused.” She could not remember a time in the whole of their marriage when Alf had been harsh or unkind to her. What had that man meant? Ah, well, she had a lot of thinking to do, and her garden was the place to do it. She would dig over that rough patch this morning. Something mindless to do that would give her time to think.
“SOON BE TIME WE WAS MOVIN’ ON,” HARRY SAID TO SID, AS he put the eggs in a bag, ready for Sid to take to market in Tresham. The two of them had a stall just round the corner from the regular market, where they sold anything they had managed to acquire during the week. They kept this going by moving around the county in a radius within reach of Tresham. Their stock consisted of odd items of garden tools, plastic chairs from people’s sheds, and stuff that Sid had persuaded old ladies to give him for “valuation.” They kept a sharp eye open for cops inspecting the stalls, and could pack up and vanish faster than any stallholder on the legitimate market.
“Known for a bargain, we are,” Harry told Sid as he took boxes of junk out to their lorry. Eggs were a new line for them. Harry had written a card saying: “New layed eggs—cheapest in town.” He intended to vary the price according to the look of the customer. He knew that food had special regulations, but reckoned he could conceal a few dozen eggs from official eyes. There had always been an unwritten agreement in the market that one stallholder would not shop another, but Harry was not too sure now. Smart, foreign-l ooking men had taken up stalls lately, and he
didn’t trust them.
“When shall we go, then?” Sid said. “And where?” Sometimes he thought sadly how nice it must be to have a proper home, with kids and a wife and a garden. But he and Harry had never had a proper home, and he wasn’t really sure how you managed one. You couldn’t just hitch up the van and go when things got a bit warm, that was for sure. Now he helped Harry load up, and suggested they go to that scrubby old yard behind an old barn in Fletching. “Nobody ever goes there,” he said. The barn’s not used and the old farmer’s past carin’. An’ the track’s so rutted nobody but us would take a vehicle down there.” He thought privately that their van would one day fall to pieces being shook up on their travels, but he said nothing about that. Harry could get very annoyed.
“I’ll think on it,” Harry said. “Next week’d be soon enough, I reckon. One more present from Alf ’s missus would be useful, and then we’ll go. You can’t trust wimmin, Sid. She’ll probably get help against us sooner or later.”
Sid thought the trick Harry was playing on Mrs. Smith was stupid. It went against all Harry had taught him over the years. Too much out in the open, being seen. Talking to people who would recognise you again. Harry was being greedy, and that always came to grief.
When they were ready to go, Harry locked up the van with the bull terrier chained to one of the wheels. “Do yer job,” he said to the dog. “Anybody comes round here snooping, let ’em have it.”
As he turned towards the lorry, he caught sight of a figure coming towards them through the trees. It was Alf Smith. Harry scowled and began to climb into the lorry, but Alf called out. “Wait! I want a word with you.” Sid was already inside the cab, and he shrank into his seat with fear.
Harry stood his ground, stocky legs planted wide and hands in his pockets. “Yeah?” he said.