by Shawna Lewis
The girl herself had been up and out by 7.30, showered, fed and groomed to perfection. She could brazen out the infamy, flaunt yet another sexual conquest, and at last take advantage of the academy’s in-house catering. How she’d hated her mother’s packed lunches, even though they did mean she got to sit with Ben Jepson. His mother was some kind of vegan freak, so maybe it was time to persuade Ben that her beansprout salads damaged brainpower. Melanie would do some research. Then they could both leave the stage and leave Juvenile Jermyn to eat with the other saddos.
Alone at home, her mother took time to regroup. Some exercise time; a little yoga and meditation. She remembered the malevolent mantras as the woman in the beige coat floated into her mind’s eye. Jermyn Street was added to her little list, along with Ms Struthers and that Tuke bloke. Malevolence accomplished, Bel dressed coolly, applied some lipstick, admired herself in the mirror and prepared to face the day.
She really must go to see Sybil Spinks. A neighbour from Curlew Close, returning John’s long-overdue library books some days ago, had mentioned that moving the couple into residential care was under discussion. Yet again she was delayed by the ringing phone. Someone from Guidance, it sounded like, wanting to meet her at the hall that afternoon. She felt the merest tinge of puzzlement as to why the hall was the specified venue… but she hadn’t time to dwell on it. Determined to do battle with Sybil before it was too late, she made Curlew Close her objective.
A faded detached villa, Sphynx Lodge nestled at the blunt end of a cul-de-sac. The number of For Sale signs on the close took Belinda by surprise; Sphynx Lodge alone boasted two.
There was no sign of movement behind the bland curtains. The doorbell chimed unanswered. Mail was piled up on the porch floor. Cardboard boxes stacked on worktops were visible through a side window. As she peered on tiptoe, with a rumble and squeal of brakes, a maroon removal van nosed its way onto the drive and three men in brown overalls climbed out. The gaffer looked at her quizzically.
“Are you’family?”
“No, I’m a friend. What’s going on?”
“If you’re a friend you’ll know, surely.” The gaffer eyed her with suspicion.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with the people who live here but their son’s not answering my calls.”
“Oh aye?” He turned from her and began instructing his men on where to begin. “There’s no point ’anging around ’ere. They’re not in.”
“Where are they?”
“Not my job to know that, missus. We’ve to clear everything, that’s all I know. Some stuff’s going to storage but most of it’ll be straight to the saleroom or the tip. And now if you’ll let us get on…”
“I need something from inside… it’s really important.”
“Can’t ’elp you, love.” He moved forward and opened the front door.
Belinda pushed past him, muttering, “I only need the accounts…and cheque book… and there’s bound to be some cash John didn’t get round to banking…”
By the time she’d spotted the bureau in the dining room, the gaffer was on the phone to the Safer Neighbourhoods Team.
PCSOs Heather Banks and Grant Hall had just begun their shift, grumpy after their long stint yesterday, which had culminated with a brawl outside the pub where they’d been checking up on the latest gossip and warming their toes. They didn’t get much call to visit Sallby, but had just managed to scrounge a lift to the end of the close.
Belinda was still riffling the bureau when they arrived. Had she tried to leg it, the three removal men had between them agreed to detain her by force, if necessary. This woman was attempting sheer daylight robbery! Their jobs would depend on her not getting away with it. Heather and Grant immediately recognised the woman rummaging through the drawers of a mahogany bureau.
Heather’s voice was peculiarly treble. “And what do you think you’re doing, Mrs Lowe?”
The intruder froze. She recognised the voice. Her heart leapt as her mouth slid into top gear.
“Well, it’s very awkward, you see. Mr Spinks has some money and a cheque book that I need because he keeps the accounts you see, but he’s been ill and Sybil won’t let me have them and I’ve asked Derek but she won’t give them to him either and so what am I to do? It’s the law, you see, it’s a condition. John usually takes care of the bills for me and I don’t know where they are but the water and electric will be cut off if Derek doesn’t give me the money and then where will martial arts and the toddlers be? Everything will go to pot if Derek doesn’t give me the cheque book and some money!”
Last night in the pub the PCSOs had debated the state of the sparrow woman’s mind without reaching any firm conclusion. They withdrew into the hallway.
The woman seemed to think it made sense, but Grant and Heather were thinking along the lines of a mental health referral.
Or maybe it was just an act to obscure her true purpose. Maybe Mr Spinks was the father of her children and she was his mistress. That would account for him paying the bills. She’d mentioned toddlers, so it sounded like the girl from yesterday wasn’t the only product of the union.
Had she said, ‘Marsha, Lars and the toddlers’? Quite outlandish forenames for Sallby, but it was amazing what went on in these villages. And who were Derek and John? Sybil – must be Mrs Spinks – had found out about her husband paying the bills and the kids (at least five by the sound of it), and had decided to call time on their cosy little arrangement.
It took the PCSOs only a few minutes’ subdued discussion to agree that this was the most likely scenario. Deciding not to call the Adult Care Service just yet, they strolled back into the room, where Belinda had reached the bottom drawer without finding what she was looking for. She paused in her rummage through used envelopes and rolled-up string.
“I can’t find them anywhere. But they must be here!”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“All the financial stuff… money, cheque book, bank statements, accounts, insurance. I can’t manage without them.”
Grant thought he had a way with women. “OK, love. I can see you’re upset. Tell me if I’ve got this right. Mr Spinks keeps you going with money, but is married to Sybil.”
Belinda nodded distractedly.
“He takes care of all the bills and makes sure there’s money available when you need it.”
She nodded again.
“And Mrs Spinks knows of this arrangement.”
“Oh yes. He’s been doing it for years. At least thirty. He would never let us down.”
Thirty years? She must have been one of those groomed teenagers one hears so much of, Grant surmised.
“And Marsha, Lars and the toddlers rely on him as well?”
“Well of course. Where will they go if the bills aren’t paid and there’s no power or water?”
Heather, meanwhile, had been running more checks on Belinda’s identity. She pulled Grant back into the hallway.
“It turns out she lives on Dapple Grove with a husband and two others – an eighteen-year-old son as well as the girl. They must’ve kept Marsha, Lars and the toddlers off the radar, somehow. Wonder if the little’uns are twins.”
Grant sidled back cautiously.
“Tell me a bit about yourself, Mrs Lowe. What family have you got?”
“Well, I’ve got a husband but he’s in Sunderland. And Melanie, she’s fourteen. And Aidan’s at university, and a mum and a dad…” Her eyes filled with tears as her voice trailed off. She gulped. “They live in Denswick. And a sister…”
“Tell me where Marsha, Lars and the toddlers are.”
“At the village hall, of course!”
The mental health option was looking appropriate.
“Why would they be there?”
“They need the space! And without them there’d be no money so it would all have to end. Can’t
you see that? I need you to help me find the money and the books, not ask stupid questions.”
Grant and Heather could tell that the woman’s anxiety levels were dangerously high. (They’d been trained to spot it, and given some tips on how to defuse potentially confrontational situations.) Looking at things dispassionately, it seemed likely that yesterday’s carry-on was not a one-off event. Mrs Lowe was clearly deluded. Delusion is a psychological condition, not a criminal offence, but it was their job to make sure that no crime was committed while she was in this state. It was time to take her home.
Gently but firmly, they raised Belinda to her feet. They explained the need to let the removal men get on with their job and reassured her that they’d do what they could to resolve the matter and get back to her. As a special favour, they’d check out Marsha, Lars and the toddlers at the village hall to make sure everything was OK.
Belinda soon found herself walking through the village towards her home, flanked by the two homely but firm officers. One or two passers-by who knew her presumed there’d been a break-in at the village hall. A few who didn’t had heard about the events in the school dining hall the day before, and assumed she’d been arrested.
Desperate for sleep, as soon as they reached Dapple Grove Belinda sank onto the sofa while Heather made herself at home in the kitchen, making hot drinks and biscuits for them all. The conversation was turned to general topics. As Grant laid a blanket over Belinda, Heather found the remote control and clicked on an antiques-based programme.
“Just relax and take your mind off everything, love,” she said. “We’ll take a look in at the village hall while we’re here…see what Marsha, Lars and the toddlers are up to.”
“Fun ’n’ Fitness this morning and Guidance this afternoon,” Belinda slurred, as she passed from waking to sleeping.
The officers closed the door gently behind them, then stood on the path trying to interpret Belinda’s last words. Guidance for Marsha, Lars and the toddlers, eh? That suggested that Social or Mental Health Services were already involved.
Fun ’n’ Fitness could mean anything, but it sounded as if that’s where they would find the mystery children.
*
Ten or twelve vehicles stood in the muddy field that passed as a car park, but the front door of the hall was firmly locked. Grant and Heather trudged round to try the fire exit, and finally a back door which opened with the turn of a knob.
Inside, buggies and strollers draped with blankets and dangling dummies were parked haphazardly in the vestibule. Mothers, grandmothers and the odd father sat round the edge of the big room, engrossed in adult conversation about water births, immunisation and whether or not paternity leave was a good thing.
At the entrance of the PCSOs, two bright young women interrupted their rendition of “I’m a dingle-dangle-scarecrow” to a small group of interested mums and tots.
The taller one asked nervously, “Can we help you?”
The officers tried to play it cool, implying that visiting parent and toddler groups was part of their core strategy, aimed at increased understanding of community issues. The conversation was edged around to the relationship between the play leaders and the people who ran Sallby Village Hall.
It emerged that contact was minimal: when the group was set up, the chairperson had checked they had proper insurance and enhanced disclosure. The shorter of the women kept the Toddler Group accounts and popped the rent through the treasurer’s door in cash every three months or so, but as they had their own keys there was no need to meet up. Occasionally the Belinda woman dropped by with toilet rolls or washing-up liquid, but that was all. They had no complaints.
Casually, Heather Banks asked, “Do you keep a register?”
“Yes. Do you want to see it?” A flash of concern about data protection was doused and the book handed over.
The officers searched for clues as to the whereabouts of Marsha and Lars, but the names weren’t there.
Some of the parents were not happy to see the Fuzz prying into Toddler Group affairs, especially as the PCSOs did not explain their presence. One or two who were already acquainted with Grant and Heather felt particularly vulnerable. Tiny fists were soon stuffed down the wadded sleeves of tiny, hooded coats. Screaming children, wrenched from favourite toys, were dumped in buggies or hauled outside to be strapped in mammoth safety seats. Neither parents nor children had had their £2-worth, and there’d be something to say next week, you could bet on it. The play leaders were left to clear away on their own.
“We’re looking for two children called Marsha and Lars. They may be related to Mrs Lowe, who we believe is the Chairperson of the Management Committee of this hall. What can you tell us?”
The women looked at each other blankly. “Never heard of them.”
“Mrs Lowe distinctly told us that Marsha, Lars and the toddlers were at the village hall.”
“Yes, they’re both twice a week. Martial Arts is Tuesdays and Fridays after school. I bring my son. But there’s no Lars or Marsha there, I’m sure of it.”
Heather glared at Grant. “Idiot!” she hissed. “Martial Arts! I told you that’s what she said. Are you deaf or what?”
Grant looked abashed but had to save face.
“Hmm. Can you tell me, ladies, what would happen to your group if this building were to close?” A note of authority had crept into his voice.
Not more cuts! No one had given a thought to who owned the village hall. Grant certainly hadn’t, before he opened his mouth.
“Oh no! Don’t say that! We’d have nowhere to go.”
Grant was reluctant to admit this corroboration of Mrs Lowe’s assertion. “Hmm. I see.”
Heather chimed in. “As a matter of interest, the rent – you say you pay it direct to the treasurer. Where does she live?”
“It’s a he: Mr Spinks. He lives at the other end of the village – Sphynx Lodge. I’ve never met him. I just pop the money through the door and he sends a receipt in the post, though he seems to have missed the last few times. We keep the books properly. You don’t think we’re fiddling them, do you? I can show you if you like, but they’re at home.” She would worry about that for the next week, until a bigger misfortune shoved it from her mind.
Heather was keen to get out of there, but Grant was reluctant. He hesitated on the threshold.
“Not at the moment. We do have some concerns about the village hall but at this stage we’re just making enquiries.” He paused slightly, nodding his head towards Emily’s muddy car. “That Volvo over there. Belong to one of you, does it?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“You’re driving on illegal tyres. Inadequate tread.”
Now Emily, too, had something to keep her awake that night.
Leave ’em worried was Grant’s motto.
The officer turned on his heel and strode away, with Heather jogging to catch up.
By the time the mums with older children met at the school gate that afternoon, it was common knowledge that the women who ran the Toddler Group were either paedophiles or racketeers.
20
Belinda was wide awake and at the hall in time for her appointment with Guidance. She still found the choice of venue puzzling, but Drago would be out at work so the meeting could be held without fear of interruption. And she had nothing else to fear, she was confident of that. Anthony Montano had accepted her version of events; Melanie seemed perfectly fine, and Aidan would soon be home for the Easter vacation. Her world was secure. Further guidance was unnecessary.
The kettle had just boiled when Guy Dance arrived and introduced himself. As she shook his hand her eyes lighted on the Denswick Council identity tag which hung from his lapel. She was surprised by the name, but shaken by the words Environmental Health Inspector.
“Can I get you a coffee?” She edged towards the kitchen.
“That wo
n’t be necessary, thank you. If we could just get on…” Guy didn’t want to spend too much time alone with this weirdo. He just wanted to find some evidence and scarper. She looked too normal by half… but then the best criminals always did, didn’t they?
They sat at the same table Belinda had shared with Drago just two days earlier. In fact, she realised, this was exactly where she had put the sparrow into the box. She camouflaged a shudder by rubbing her arms and apologised for the cold.
“I didn’t think it was worth heating the whole hall for a short visit.”
Guy ignored her comment and surveyed the room, then ticked boxes on a list in front of him. Clearing his throat, he explained his duty to inspect premises used by the public, especially those where food may be served or prepared. He explained Belinda’s duty to keep the place in good repair and free from vermin; to provide evidence that food hygiene procedures were followed. He recounted tales of mass sickness traced back to damp tea towels laden with prodigiously breeding bacteria, dried repeatedly over hot radiators. He inspected the hand-washing facilities in the kitchen and behind the bar as he spoke of fried fish outlets which used the basins as receptacles for uncooked chips. He prodded, he swabbed, he scraped. His eyes searched for gaps where a slender mouse might sidle, for cracks and cloths which brimmed with bugs.
He was disappointed to find no fault with the kitchen but, keen to expose some wrong that would justify the expense of coming all this way out of town, he set off to explore the rest of the building. Belinda waited anxiously at the table.
Guy tugged at the radiator guards and found them securely fastened to the wall. He bent to stroke the ancient floorboards, full of knocks and gouges, inspecting his fingertips for splinters. None found. No feathers, no droppings, no birds, dead or alive.
The inspector was beginning to lose heart. He noted the stepladders safely stored; the laminated set of instructions for their use; the No Smoking and the Keep the Noise Down notices; the well-labelled fuse box and the covered sockets. He checked the stability of the stacked chairs on their trolley and found none toppled. He opened the padlocked cleaner’s cupboard – no problem there, either.