by Ann Purser
Lois looked at the clock. “Come at half nine,” she said. “I’ve got a client to see, but not until eleven. See you then.” She hoped it was important, and not just another rant about the evils of his father.
“Lois! Breakfast is getting cold on the table!” shouted Gran.
MARK RANG THE DOORBELL PUNCTUALLY AT HALF PAST NINE. Gran was there to let him in, and said, “Hello, boy, come on in.” She had no idea what he wanted with Lois, but, from a motherly point of view, saw in front of her a young and vulnerable lad.
“Hi, Mark,” Lois said. She came out of her office, and added to Gran, “No coffee at the moment, thanks, Mum, We’ve only just had breakfast.” She waved Mark into her office and shut the door firmly. Gran shrugged huffily and went back to the kitchen.
“Sit down, Mark,” Lois said. She had decided to let him know straight away that she was well aware of his record of lies and drugs, and added, “Now, you know I have to take everything you say with a pinch of salt, so don’t waste my time. Tell me the truth, whatever it is you’ve got to say.”
“Wow!” he replied. “Here I am, come up here to help, and you give me the bum’s rush before I get started! Okay, okay, I swear on the Bible—”
“That’s enough of that,” Lois snapped. “Just get on with it.” Mark had rather liked the idea of telling his story to Mrs. Meade. He could spin it out and show he was one up on her, at least.
“Well, I was going to the police,” he said, “but they ain’t likely to listen to me, so—”
“So I am the next best thing,” said Lois. “For God’s sake, what is it you come for?”
Mark stood up, offended. This wasn’t what he had expected at all. “Perhaps I’d better be going, then,” he said, trying a new tack.
Lois slapped her desk with the flat of her hand. “Off you go, then!” she said, and began to shuffle her papers.
Mark sat down again. “It was yesterday,” he said. “I biked up to the hall to see Sally. She’d said her aunt would be out, and we could listen to music in her room.”
“Listen to music? That’s a new one.”
“Well, we’d been up there a while, and we had the curtains drawn. Then I heard a noise outside in the yard. It was that horse, making a row enough to wake the dead. I went to the window, and saw these two men. One was sort of keeping watch, and the other was inside a stable, filling up a rucksack sort of bag with all sorts of stuff. Apparently Mrs. T-J keeps all kinds of rubbish that should’ve been taken to the dump ages ago.”
He paused, and said he knew his mother was like that. Never threw anything away. He smiled at Lois, but she did not smile back. “Get on with it,” she said.
He sniffed, and continued. “I tried to wake Sally, but couldn’t, an’ I was just wondering what to do when the look-out suddenly shot off round the back of the stables, and the other one followed. Then, to my horror, I saw a car pull up in the yard, and I recognised it.” He paused dramatically, but met with stony silence from Lois.
“It was Auntie, of course,” he said, sighing. “She got out, and to my surprise, she immediately legged it out of the yard after the men. She must’ve seen them as she drove in. Then along came the Hound of the Baskervilles—”
“Who?” said Lois angrily. How much of this was true? He seemed to be making it up as he went along.
“Her bloody great dog,” Mark said. “You know, Sherlock Holmes—”
“I know, thanks,” Lois interrupted. “So then?”
“I saw my chance to get away, and took it,” he said.
“Leaving Sally to face the music?”
“Nobody else knew I’d been there,” Mark said defensively.
“Did you recognise either of them?”
“Well, I did think I’d seen them before. I’d need to have a better look, really. But I was in Tresham on market day last week, and saw a stall run by a couple of dids. They were rubbish. They weren’t in the marketplace proper, but just round the corner, by the Crown. It was mostly junk on the stall, but they’d got a queue waiting.”
“Just the once, then?”
Mark paused, weighing up whether to tell Lois the rest, or keep it to himself. It might incriminate him in the fire investigation. He decided to tell. “I reckon I might’ve seen them on the night of the fire on the gypsy site. Saw the back of two similar, yanking their dog along towards that spinney. They disappeared fast, and I never thought any more about it. But these two at the market had a similar sort of bull terrier chained to the leg of the stall.”
Lois leaned forward towards him, and he saw he had caught her attention now, good and proper. Oh God, he thought. I’ve said too much now. He got up quickly and made for the door. “I should’ve kept it to myself,” he muttered.
“No, you did the right thing,” Lois said. “Could be really helpful. And Mark,” she added, as she saw him out of the house, “just be careful with Sally. She’s reckoned to be a right handful.”
“Spoilt brat?” he said, and ran down the drive.
COWGILL ARRIVED IN HIS OFFICE AND ALMOST IMMEDIATELY THE telephone began to ring. He picked it up, frowned, and held it a good six inches from his ear.
“Morning, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones,” he said. “Could you just hold on a moment. Can’t hear you very well.” Another blast issued from the phone, quite audible to his assistant, who had followed him in.
Cowgill sat down, made signs of drinking and desperation, and his assistant nodded. “Coffee,” she said, and disappeared.
After listening for a few minutes, he nodded. “Of course, madam,” he said. “We shall be investigating this immediately, you can be sure of that. Yes, I shall keep you informed on progress. Right away. Good morning, madam.”
He sighed deeply, looked at his watch, and dialled. “Hello,” said Lois impatiently. “Oh, it’s you. What d’you want? I’ve wasted enough time this morning.”
“Sorry about that, Lois. You might be interested in what I’ve just heard.” He began to tell her the substance of Mrs. Tollervey-Jones’s call, but she interrupted him.
“I know all about that,” she said. “Tell me something new. Like who killed Rob.”
His voice changed, and he said sharply, “You know very well we have just about every man in the station working on that. This theft might even mean something. Do you know any more than I do about the men?”
She told him what Mark had said he knew of them, including recognising them from the gypsy site.
“So what we need to know,” she said, “is where they are holed up now. Must be somewhere around here. Shouldn’t be beyond the best detective in the county to find out.”
“I only wish I thought you were serious, Lois,” he said.
“I am serious,” she replied.
THIRTY-NINE
ATHALIA LEE SAT ON THE STEPS OF HER TRAILER, SOAKING up the sun. She looked across the scrubby patch of ground at the old railway track that had run beside the main channel of the river. It had been built in an attempt to popu larise the village and the surrounding countryside as a tourist attraction, but the muddy banks and treacherous marshland had not appealed to day trippers. The railway had fallen victim in the nineteen-sixties to Dr. Beeching, then Chairman of British Rail, who closed down thousands of miles of track in a misguided plan to improve railway efficiency. It had deteriorated sadly over the years, but lately had become the Loare Pathway, equipped with bird-watching hides and warnings about the danger of deep mud, which could entrap the unwary.
She watched idly as an inoffensive-l ooking man walked slowly past the Black Duck Inn and five minutes later returned. He had walked up and down four times. Athalia had counted, and knew for certain he was a plainclothes cop, checking up on them. He looked across at the gypsies, and then disappeared into the pub. Well, he could check all he liked. He would find nothing wrong.
Then she saw George coming back from the small field where they were allowed to graze their horses, leading his small black and white mare. The field was poor land, not useful for
anything much, and gypsies had been using it for generations. Like most of the others, George had no need of a horse. Gypsies had become motorised, but horses were in their blood. Appleby horse fair proved that, and he and the others would soon be moving on there.
“Where’s Jal?” George frowned, and Athalia saw that he was upset.
“What’s happened?” she said.
“I got to see Jal. Have you seen him?”
“Yeah—he’s over there, splittin’ wood. Is something up?”
George did not answer, but went quickly over to Jal. Athalia saw them talking, heads close together, and then Jal put down his axe and followed George back the way he had come.
Athalia stood up and smoothed down her skirt. She walked at a steady pace, taking the same path as the two men, but keeping her distance from them. It was not easy going through the tough, reedy grass and tussocks of moss and lichen, and several times she stumbled. But she was lucky. Neither of them looked back, seemingly intent on finding whatever it was as quickly as possible.
Finally the men slowed down and came to a halt at the edge of the channel. The tide was out, and banks of glistening mud lined each side. Birds were feeding, and a rat scampered away from the carcase of a dead swan. Athalia came up quietly, and looking down from the bank, saw that the swan was not the only dead thing caught in the mud. At first she thought it must be a badger that had fallen into the water and drowned. Then she saw the body was smooth and shiny, and obviously bloated. Her gorge rose. She retched, and the men swung round and saw her.
“Athalia! Get out of here. Now! Get back and say nothing! Not a bloody word!”
George walked towards her and, putting his hand on her shoulder, turned her around and gave her a gentle push. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.
“I’M A ROMANI RYE, I’M AN OLD DIDIKYE,” ATHALIA SANG SOFTLY, as twilight deepened over the estuary of the Loare. Cars were rolling up now, parking in the small yard, and men and wives, some with small children, made their way into the pub. There was a strong smell of frying, and Athalia wrinkled her nose. Ugh! Burgers and chips, no doubt. She disapproved, and had occupied her time since being sent packing by George by preparing and cooking a meat pudding. The old way took time. She made the pastry dough and rolled it out, then tossed the diced beef in flour and piled it on to the pastry. An Oxo cube and a little water, and then the whole lot tied up in a floured cloth and suspended in boiling water, where it simmered for at least two or three hours. She went to her trailer door and looked out. “I live in a trailer beneath the blue sky,” she sang, “I don’t pay any rent, I’d rather live in a tent, that’s why they call me a romani rye.” She chuckled to herself. Songs learned in childhood came back word perfect. One of the consolations of old age, she said to herself. Then she noticed a shadow emerging from George’s trailer. It was him, and he was heading towards her. Now perhaps he‘ll explain, Athalia muttered, and withdrew inside.
“Mmm! That smells good,” he said, sniffin g hungrily.
“Not ready for a long time yet. Then you shall eat your fill .”
George nodded his thanks and sat down. He lived alone now, his wife having run off with a television camera man who came to make a film with a party of university students. He hated the idea of being on show, and had refused to take part, but Bonnie had loved it. Two days after the filming, she vanished. He had received one post card from outside Buckingham Palace, and her message had been brief. “Dear George. The man I’m with is rich. He treats me well. Goodbye. Bonnie.”
Now he sat without speaking, staring into space.
“So tell me what it were all about this morning,” Athalia said.
“Nothing much,” George said.
“Don’t give me that,” she said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” She laughed. “Nor the day before, neither!”
“It was just an old dog. Must’ve stumbled and ended up in the river. Been there some time from the look of it.”
“Dogs can swim.”
“Perhaps it were drunk,” he replied.
“George,” Athalia said, banging her fork on the table. “Are you going to tell me the truth, or shall I turn you out with no supper?” She was fond of him, of course, and had never understood why that stupid wife of his had left him. And she a true gypsy on top of it all.
“It was a dog,” he said again. “But it weren’t just any old dog. Jal and me recognised it at once. Not many of them dogs around now. Know what I mean?”
There was silence for a minute, and then Athalia sighed. “I see,” she said. “So what are we going to do about that?”
“Nothing. At least, not yet. We’ll wait and see what turns up. Anyway, we’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
“Followed by the cops, no doubt,” said Athalia, getting up to look in the saucepan.
He looked at her, frowning. “Cops?” he said.
“They’re keeping an eye on us here,” she answered. “It takes more than a plain grey suit to disguise the polis.” She told him about the perambulating policeman, and said that if he was keeping an eye on them, she had certainly got him under observation and would know him again anywhere, anytime.
FORTY
ANOTHER WEEK, THOUGHT LOIS, AND NO NEARER FINDING out who attacked Rob. It was not often Lois felt low, but so little progress was taking its toll on her natural optimism. She shook herself and managed a small smile, thinking of barmy old Mrs. T-J up at the hall, who had once said to a group of clinically depressed patients come to enjoy a strawberry tea in her gardens, “Now, I want you all to pull yourselves together!”
Feeling cheered up, Lois remembered her dad’s advice. Write it down, me duck, and you’ll think more clearly. She picked up a pen. A list of names first.
Josie and Rob: Been together for several years. Josie fed up with him? Rob too mild and blind to his good luck in finding Josie? And now, hints that there had been another side to him. Drunk and belligerent. Enemies? Long lost brother? Ah, yes, that one. They’d heard no more of him. More ferreting needed there.
Cowgill and Matthew Vickers: Policemen. ’Nuff said.
Sheila and Sam: Something wrong between them. Sam’s hatred of gypsies. Small barney between Sam and Alf in the shop, as reported by Josie.
Alf and Edwina: Happily married? No children. Alf ’s love of gypsies—Edwina not agreeing. Why should Sam and Alf disagree so violently? Money and women—those were the usuals. More thinking needed.
Mark Brown: Lying little git. Was it his handwriting on the label? And now, of course, she remembered the phone call that took her along that road where she would be sure to see the flowers. It was him, Mark Brown. Clever, but risky. And now a twosome with Sally Tollervey-Jones. Sally: another unreliable character, but moneyed and protected by family position. More info on the village hall gang needed.
So who is the gang’s mastermind? One likely person, known for his unrelenting prejudice against gypsies and blacks, occurred to Lois, but she dismissed the idea at once, not wanting it to be true. Last but not least, the gypsies, tinkers or travellers. No good thinking of them as like us. Different way of life, rules and regs and values. Athalia a good woman, but where would her loyalties lie? The two quiz men? George and Jal, she remembered. George was nice, knowledgeable . . . fanciable! More information needed. Or would she just like to see him again? Lois laughed, feeling much brighter.
And then the two nasties with a pit bull and a market stall. Defin itely more ferreting needed there.
“Lois!” It was Gran, calling from the kitchen.
“What?”
“On the wireless! It’s all about the Appleby horse fair! Come quickly!”
Lois looked down at her notes with some satisfaction, and went swiftly out to the kitchen. It was a series of programmes that Gran loved. A pleasant-voiced girl went around the country finding interesting things to talk about. Our Britain, it was called, and Gran never missed an episode if she could help it.
Lois sat down at the table and listened careful
ly. The Appleby horse fair in Cumbria had been taking place for hundreds of years. Every so often somebody tried to close it down, but it was still going, stronger than ever. The woman on the radio said the whole town is taken over by huge numbers of gypsy travellers, their vans, trailers and horses. Horses change hands for bundles of cash undeclared to the Inland Revenue, and the horses are paraded and shown off in trotting races prior to deals. The Romani language is universally spoken, and some say it is as well to stay clear after a certain time in the evening.
As she listened, Lois began to think she would really like to go and see for herself. Maybe catch up with Athalia, George and Jal. It would be no good asking Derek to go with her. She knew what he’d say without asking him. But she could go alone, or maybe take Josie for a bit of a break. The idea began to grow, and she resolved to make some arrangements. Gran and Floss could help with the shop for a few days.
“You wouldn’t catch me going anywhere near Appleby that week!” said Gran, reading Lois’s thoughts. She’s an old witch, my mum, Lois said to herself. How does she do it?
“Nobody’s asking you to go, Mum,” she said. “Still, it must be a wonderful sight to see, with them old caravans all painted up, and the horses at their best. Exciting, too, with that wildness in them all.”
Gran looked dismayed. “Don’t even think of it, Lois Meade,” she said.
LOIS NOT ONLY THOUGHT OF IT, SHE WENT DOWN TO THE SHOP to sound out Josie. There were no customers, and Josie listened with interest. “How long would we be away?” she said. “You know Gran is apt to make an intelligent guess at pricing and totalling up.”
“I reckoned about three or four days,” Lois said. “I could arrange for Floss to take over the shop, anyway. We’ll ask Andrew Young if he has time to fill in. Depends on his décor jobs, but he might be glad of the extra cleaning—or even behind the counter? I think the difficult thing will be to find somewhere to stay in Appleby. Thousands of people come and go during that week, apparently.”