Tragedy at Two

by Ann Purser

  “Did you see Sid?” George had asked. Jal had said not while he was there, but the younger brother would have been around.

  George had shrugged. “Ah, well. None of our business, as long as they keep well out of our way.” He appeared to Jal to be dismissing the subject, but in fact he was worried, and pondered on the dead dog and absence of Sid for some while. Then the flood had threatened, and this had become more urgent.

  Now he and Athalia were having a conference in her trailer. “How quickly d’you reckon we can be gone?” he asked, and she said it had been known to take as long as ten minutes. Then she laughed and said probably by the next morning, once they had decided.

  “We shall be early in Appleby,” she warned. “Still, we’ve done that before.”

  George nodded. “We’ll get a good place for the trailers and horses. So shall we go tomorrow?”

  “Have a walk down to the river, see how far the water’s come up,” Athalia said. “Then we can decide.”

  George went off to the pub to ask about tides, and discovered the best time, with the tide right out, would be now. He collected Jal, and the two of them set off to judge how long they had before the water reached their scrubby field.

  It was an alarming sight. The deep channel where they had seen the dead dog was now full of water and lapping over the edges. “And that’s with the tide out!” Jal said. He was a more nervous soul than George, and was all for moving on as soon as possible.

  The Loare pathway, with its seats and promises of wonderful views and bird-watching, was now under six inches of water. “Another night of heavy rain, and this’ll be halfway up our wheels,” Jal said.

  George laughed. “Cheer up, lad,” he said. “You can swim, can’t you?”

  They kept to the higher ground, and reached the small bridge crossing the channel. It wouldn’t be long before this was submerged, too, and they leaned over and stared at the swiftly flowing, muddy surge. Suddenly Jal shot back into the centre of the bridge. “George!” he said. “For God’s sake, did you see it?”

  George was looking grim. “Yeah. I saw it. Come on, quick, it’s bound to get caught up in those reeds over there—yes, it has! Come on, Jal, we’ll get it out.”

  Jal had absolutely no desire to get the body out of the water. “Leave it!” he shouted. “It’ll get free again, and we won’t have to have nothing to do with it.”

  He could have saved his breath. George was already off the bridge and splashing along the path. He reached the reedy patch and waded in. “Get over here, Jal!” he yelled. “I’ve got a hold, but it’ll need both of us to get it out.”

  Reluctantly Jal joined him, and between them they heaved the bloated body out and on to dry ground. There they collapsed and sat down, George staring closely at the face, and Jal moaning quietly to himself.

  “It’s him, innit?” Jal said finally. “It’s Sid, poor bugger. What do we do now?”

  George frowned. “What d’you do, you mean. This is what you do. You go straight back to the telephone box outside the pub, dial 999, and tell the police to come here. Tell them it’s an emergency, and tell ’em why. Then wait on the green so’s you can guide them.”

  Jal looked terrified. “What’re you going to do, then?” he squeaked.

  “Stay here, o’ course. We lost the dog, didn’t we? So we don’t want to lose poor old Sid. Nobody believes what we say, Jal, so we need the evidence. Go on, bugger off, and do exactly what I said.”

  “But what about the tide coming in?” Jal objected. “It’ll cover him and you.”

  “Not yet,” answered George. “Which is why the sooner you get going the better!”

  After Jal had gone, George settled down to wait. He looked again at Sid’s pitiful corpse. It was difficult to see any telltale marks on his head. There were plenty of marks where the body had bumped into obstacles on its watery journey, but impossible for George to tell exactly what had caused them. Still, once the police had got him, they had ways of identifying gashes and bruises.

  The tide was on the turn, and George watched, now anxiously, as the water crept over previously dry grass. He turned to see if there was any sign of the cops, but only heavy, dark grey clouds hung over the landscape. He looked again at the water, and decided he had an hour or so yet in comparative safety. But unbeknown to him, the danger was coming from another direction. He was beginning to doze. It was almost dark under the approaching sky. His eyelids closed.

  He was awoken by a voice in his ear.

  “What you got there, then, Georgie boy?”

  He leapt to his feet, and saw Harry, swarthy and unshaved, standing only inches away from him, and holding a gun.

  “This ’ere belongs to me,” Harry said, putting the toe of his boot under the arm of his dead brother. “I’ve always looked after ’im, an’ you can help me look after him now,” he added, and laughed.

  God in Heaven! The man was mad, George realised with horror, and once more glanced over his shoulder in the hope of seeing Jal and the police. There was no one, not a single person in sight. His heart sank.

  FORTY-SIX

  JAL HAD SO FAR FAILED. ON HIS WAY BACK TO CALL THE POLICE, he had been horrified to meet Harry, and though he tried hard to dodge him, had ended up dumped in a crumbling shed by the path, bound hand and foot to a metal post. The binder twine that secured him was tough, and he had rubbed his wrists raw in trying to break it. He was desperately worried about George. Harry had knocked Jal about a bit in an attempt to get George’s whereabouts from him, but Jal had refused to tell. It was not, unfortunately, difficult for Harry to work out. There was only one path, and Jal had just come up it.

  ATHALIA HAD BEGUN TO WORRY ABOUT GEORGE, AND JAL, TOO. She looked up at the threatening sky, and thought they should be back now. Surely it didn’t take this long to sum up the flood situation? She had seen the two of them disappearing across the marsh some time ago, and the light was almost gone now. It was treacherous ground, and whilst she knew George was skilled at negotiating difficult territory, in her imagination she saw them half submerged in sucking mud.

  The other trailers and vans were quiet now. Many of the gypsies had gone off hawking or to meet up with others passing through the nearby town. There was nobody she could send after the missing two. Except herself. She turned around and looked for her boots. It was some time since she had ventured across that tricky ground, though she had been stopping here every year for half a century. She went down the steps from her trailer, and paused. She turned around and went back inside. A shiver of fear had sent her back, a feeling that something was seriously wrong. Her mother had claimed second sight, and although Athalia would not say she had inherited it, she still got warnings from somewhere, and they were always right. She took an old policeman’s cosh from a drawer and put it in her deep pocket. Just as well her long departed husband had insisted on her keeping it handy.

  Halfway to the now visible flood water, she passed the hut. A muffled sound came out of it, and she paused. Probably a rat. They arrived in large numbers in this weather, feeding on the detritus brought in by the floods. She was about to walk on, when the sound came again, and louder. She pulled open the rickety door and saw Jal. In minutes she had him free, and his story was told. “George?” she said.

  “Back by the channel,” Jal replied. “Waiting for me to bring the police. God knows what’s happened by now.”

  “Get moving,” said Athalia. “Let’s hope it’s not too late. Make the call, and then come back. George’s life might depend on it, Jal, so run like the devil’s on yer heels!”

  GEORGE WAS STILL AT GUNPOINT. HARRY HAD ORDERED HIM TO move the body of his brother into a clump of tall, rank grass and then break off and pile on top of the corpse tough, soaking reeds, until nothing could be seen of Sid. It was slow and arduous work, and every time George tried to take a breath, Harry prodded him with the gun and kept him going.

  Where the hell were the police? And Jal? George could not believe he had chickened out of
his mission.

  As if reading his thoughts, Harry said, “Hoping for rescue from the polis? What d’ya think? That little sod Jal let you down, has he?” He roared with laughter, and told George exactly where Jal was, and where he would stay until released by Harry. “The sooner you finish that job the better,” he added, and with another poke from his gun made it clear that if either George or Jal ever breathed a word of all this, he would see to it they would never speak again.

  George straightened up finally, and looking past Harry, who was still keeping a close eye on him, he saw a figure approaching in the distance. He hoped to God it was Jal, and bent down to the concealed body of Sid. “There’s a bit here where he’s not covered,” he said. “Another couple of minutes.”

  Harry looked suspiciously at him. “Get on with it, then,” he said. “The water’ll be up here any minute. No tricks, mind! We’re not playing games, y’ know. Get on with it!”

  George bent to his task again, and Harry stood over him, never taking his eyes off him for a minute. Meanwhile, Athalia approached as silently as she could. George was still there! But what the hell was he doing? She moved like a sprite across the sodden ground, until she was standing close behind them.

  “What the—!” Harry wheeled round, and saw Athalia. At the same time she was on him. She raised the cosh and with great accuracy and timing beat Harry about the head until he collapsed to the ground. George grabbed the gun as it fell, and heaved a sigh of relief.

  “That’s enough, gel,” he said. “Don’t kill the rotten sod.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  ONLY A WEEK TO GO, AND WE’LL BE OFF WITH THE raggle-taggle gypsies.” Josie was standing behind the counter, talking to Lois while she filled her basket.

  “Am I your best customer, Josie, love?”

  “No. The vicarage buys enough chocolate to keep the shop going with no other customers. The Rev has a very sweet tooth, and now he’s corrupted his wife as well.”

  “Talking of corruption,” Lois said, taking down a packet of digestives, “have you heard about the Tollervey-Jones girl? Seems she’s in the family way, and guess who is the father?”

  “Yes, I have heard,” Josie said. “And, as you know, I don’t encourage gossip in this shop.”

  “But you’ve heard?” Lois said, grinning.

  Josie nodded. “Seems the old girl at the hall has turned up trumps. She’s encouraging Sally to have the baby, and offering to set the two of them up in an apartment conversion in the stable block. Not straight away, of course, but nearer the birth. Mark Brown is a lucky little devil. She’ll probably find him a job as well. Talk about falling on your feet! And nothing’s been done about the flowers label we found, has it?”

  “You’d know better than me,” Lois replied. “Your Matthew found them and took the whole lot back to the station.”

  “Except the one we found,” Josie said. “I’m seeing him this evening, so maybe I’ll ask him.”

  “Probably best to leave it now, duckie,” Lois said, and Josie knew by her mother’s tone of voice that it was an order.

  The door opened and the bell jangled. Dot Nimmo walked in and announced that she would like a word with Mrs. M. At once, if possible, she said, and just the two of them. Lois and Josie exchanged looks, and Josie said they were welcome to go up to the flat, if that would be suitable for Mrs. Nimmo?

  Upstairs, as they settled in Josie’s chairs, Lois said, “I hope this is important, Dot. I have a great deal to do this morning.”

  “Of course it’s important, else I wouldn’t be ’ere, would I?” Dot took a deep breath and began to describe what she had found out in her search for Greg Wilkins. “Not as easy as I thought,” she warned. “He’s no beginner, Mrs. M.”

  “Beginner at what?” Lois frowned. She was used to Dot’s penchant for drama, but she really did not have time to wait for the story to unfold.

  “Dodgy dealings,” Dot said, with some satisfaction. “He’s done it before. Gone in when families are bereaved, claimed to be a long-l ost relative and conned them out of money. He watches the death notices in the papers. A right ghoul, my cousin over in Birmingham says.”

  Lois stood up. “Well done, Dot,” she said. “I’ll get on to Cowgill at once.”

  “I ain’t quite finished,” Dot said. “Better sit yerself down again. It don’t get any better.”

  Lois sat down again. “Go on, then,” she said, “but try not to take too long.”

  “Well, there was this woman over Solihull way, lost her husband, and hadn’t got nobody else in the world. Apparently she was not an easy woman, and all the neighbours knew that her old husband had played the field. Mistresses all around town, so my cousin said. Then he dies. It were an awful death, lingerin’ on for weeks.”

  “Dot,” said Lois warningly.

  “Yes, well, he died, and when it came to reading the will, his fortune was all split up round these women. O’ course, the wife got her share. Anyway, she contested the will, got her own solicitor on to it, and it turned out the mistresses had been organised by a sort o’ pimp. It was all a big scam, but when they came to arrest the pimp, he’d skipped the country, they reckoned to Australia. He was never found.”

  “And his name?” said Lois with sinking heart.

  “You got it,” Dot said, “Gregory Wilkins. At least, that’s one of his names.”

  “But why Rob and Josie?” Lois said. “There was no fortune there, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe he thought he’d come back and keep his head down, start again in a small way. Most of these scam villains ’ave got no small opinion of themselves, Mrs. M. Believe me. They think they can outwit the cops, and sometimes they do. I bet that Greg is holed up in Timbuktu by now.”

  “So you reckon all this had nothing to do with the attack on Rob?”

  Dot shook her head. “Not sure,” she said, “but I’d say it were just a handy opportunity he couldn’t resist. Probably noticed the story in the local, and thought whoever attacked Rob was after money, so he might as well have a go. That’s my guess, Mrs. M.”

  Dot’s guesses were based on years of experience in the sub-criminal world, and Lois put great faith in her judgement. But she still found it hard to believe that anyone would risk a prison sentence for such a small likelihood of gain. Still, she would pass it all on to Cowgill and see what he had to say.

  “Okay if I tell our friendly detective inspector, Dot?”

  “O’ course. He takes notice of you, Mrs. M.” Dot smiled. “You’re still a good-l ooker, Mrs. M, so don’t let that daughter of yours take over. Now, I’m off,” she added, and going dangerously quickly down the narrow stairs into the shop, she was out and into her car before Lois had had time to ask her what on earth she meant by that last remark.

  COWGILL’S REACTION WAS PUZZLING. “THANK YOU, LOIS,” HE said flatly. “It looks as if Josie has had a narrow escape. But then, if there really was no money involved, no harm has been done. I will, of course, follow up this man, and also alert the Birmingham police. I remember the case, but I seem to recall he’d never been caught.”

  “Right, well,” Lois said, irritated that he sounded cool and not particularly interested. “I suppose it’s pointless asking you if you’ve got any further with Rob’s killer?”

  Cowgill realised that Lois was, to use her word, snitched. She had obviously taken Dot Nimmo’s story very seriously, whereas he always took the word of a Nimmo with a pinch of salt.

  “Anything else to tell me?” he said. He listened carefully to what Lois told him about Sally’s pregnancy and Mrs. T-J’s reaction. Had it any bearing on Rob’s case? He was still working on it, he told Lois. Anything else she could discover about Mark and his friends in the village hall gang could be valuable information.

  “I rely on you, Lois, as you know,” he said placatingly.

  “Mm. I’m thinking. You know the night of the gypsy fire? Well, the gang was there, weren’t they. Mark Brown was seen, an’ he reckoned they were
innocent and it was him what called the firemen.”

  “Go on,” Cowgill said.

  “Well, who did start the fire? And who told the gang when the fire was going well, and it was safe to sound the alarm? They are just a load of dropout kids, y’ know, Hunter. They’ve never done nothing really serious. Just been in the nuisance stage they all go through.”

  “Maybe,” said Cowgill. He was still thinking more along the lines of gypsy feuds, especially since he’d had a message to say there’d been a death and an arrest up north, in the place where the Farnden gypsies had gone after the fire.

  “So who’s bin pulling the strings?” Lois said. “What with all this to-do with Greg the conman, I’ve not been giving enough thought to that side of it.”

  “Any suggestions, Lois?”

  “I’m working on it.” She thought of advising him where to look for the gang’s mastermind, but because she could not bear the thought of more trouble for Sheila Stratford, she did not.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I ’M OFF NOW,” SHEILA STRATFORD SAID. “I’LL BE BACK FOR lunch. It’ll be cold, so there’s nothing to be done except dish up. What’re you doing this morning?” Sam was reading the local paper, and did not look up.

  “Nothing much,” he said. “I thought I might go over and have a look at that field of barley on the Waltonby road. Looks to me like it’s got some kind of blight.”

  “It’s not your responsibility anymore, Sam,” his wife reminded him.

  “So?” Sam said truculently. “Am I supposed to go into purdah? Not go near the farm where I’ve worked for God knows how many years?”

  “No, of course not,” Sheila said wearily. When was he going to stop acting like a spoilt child? “I just meant that it was not something you had to worry about too much.” She sighed. “Well, I’ll be going. Cheerio—see you lunchtime.”