by Ann Purser
THIRTY-FOUR
LOIS WAS IRONING. SHE HAD RETURNED HOME UN-easy and not sure what to do next. Gran was in the middle of a television programme Lois did not want to watch, and Derek was, as usual, snoozing with the newspaper over his face. Ironing was always useful. It was a chance to think uninterrupted. She had the radio turned down low, with soothing music helping her to concentrate.
Nothing more I can do tonight, she decided. Just cross fingers and hope Sharon comes to no harm. Maybe it was just a party, and she would be returned home unscathed. But tomorrow there would be work to do. She intended to find out much more about Max Wedderburn for a start. Gran was bound to know somebody who knew somebody who knew his mother. After all, Gran had lived in Tresham for years, and Lois had been born there. Gran remembered it when it had been a pleasant agricultural market town, with little crime and a strong community spirit. It was already changing in Lois’s childhood, but now she hated to think of those neat rows of houses in the old back streets, where her grandmother had lived, being terrorized by fascist thugs.
And she would talk some more to Sharon. Lois was beginning to realize that the naïve dizzy blonde stuff that Sharon projected was not the whole picture. There was a hard centre to Sharon, sly and with more than a little cunning. She could slide away from an awkward question more skilfully than most. Yes, some serious talking to Sharon would be bound to produce something.
Lois picked up another shirt. Derek always changed into a clean shirt when he came home after work. Same as his father before him. “Sets a man up.” That was his answer, when Lois counted the dirty shirts and complained. Most of the time, Gran did the ironing, but Lois liked to help out. She began to button and fold in the way Gran had taught her. At this moment, a face appeared at the window.
“Hey! Who’s that!” Lois saw the figure pass on to the back door, and then thunderous knocking followed.
“Mrs. Meade, is Derek at home? Can he come, quick? The vicarage is on fire, and we need all the help we can get. It may be too late, but …” It was a breathless Mr. Carr, from the shop. He was not the swiftest of messengers, but all that could be spared.
Derek had already arrived in the kitchen, awakened by the knocking. He pulled on his jacket in seconds and was on his way out, followed by Mr. Carr, still panting.
“Mr. Carr, what d’you mean, it may be too late?” said Lois quickly, switching off the iron and reaching for her coat.
“There’s somebody inside,” he said. “Probably that young Sandy. Vicar’s in a terrible state. Come on, then, let’s get back.”
It was a nightmare scene. The acrid smell of smoke, the hoses playing on smouldering, wet timber, flames still leaping from the destroyed roof, the silent watching crowd. For the older ones, it was a scene etched in their minds by newsreels of bombed-out, burning cities, bodies on stretchers, desperate searchers.
There was only one body here. It was carried carefully and gently from the ruins by ambulance men, and as Lois watched, the tall, angular figure of the vicar rushed forward and put his hand on the blanket covering the still shape of the young man he had loved. The ambulance men stopped, and not a sound was heard from anybody present. The chilly wind blowing black smoke into their eyes reminded them that this was not a newsreel. It was happening to them, in Long Farnden, right here and now.
After a minute or two, Brian Rollinson lifted his hand from Sandy’s body and, head bowed, walked slowly away. One or two made to say something to him, tried to stop him in his tracks. But he brushed them aside and continued to walk, quickening his pace.
“I’m going after him,” Lois said quickly to Derek. “See you later.”
Brian was heading for the place he knew best, the church. He had the key in his pocket, and when he reached the door he unlocked it and walked into the darkness. He made no attempt to lock the door behind him, or to put on the lights. So when Lois came up and saw the door ajar, she pushed it open silently and tiptoed inside.
Her eyes were accustomed to the dark now, and she could see the outline of Brian’s kneeling figure up at the altar. There was no sound. Well, he was praying silently, she knew. No need for words. She crept into a pew and sat down, still as a mouse. After a while, Brian stood up, crossed himself, and turned around.
“Who is that?” he said.
“Me, Lois Meade.”
“Ah, Lois.” He began to walk down the aisle, and came to where she was sitting.
“May I?” he said. She made room for him, and he sat down. They said nothing, but Lois felt an overwhelming presence so tangible she was sure she could touch it. Not just the vicar himself, but more. Something surrounding him.
After a minute, Brian said, “I have to find the strength to tell his mother. He was in my care, and I allowed him to die.”
Lois said nothing, but reached out and gently took his hand.
“She hates me already, you see, Lois. I stole her husband. I stole Sandy’s father away from her.”
Jesus, thought Lois blasphemously. I’m not sure I want to listen to all this. Not unless it’s something to do with what’s been going on with that Wycombe lot. And how could it be? She contemplated making an excuse to get away. But the vicar was talking again, and she knew she had to stay.
“He was my best friend, you see. When they married, I tried to keep my distance. But Gerald was always ringing up, suggesting meetings. Marion didn’t trust me, and she was right. I should have ended our friendship the moment they were married.”
Lois’s heart sank. She knew now what was coming.
“After Sandy was born—and Gerald had to fight for me to be godfather—we saw less of each other for a couple of years. Then one day I was walking home and Gerald appeared out of nowhere. He said we had to talk. He had realized, he said, that he was gay. He’d always known it, really. But he was fond of Marion, and had wanted a family and all the trappings of a conventional life that went with it. He’d been in an agony of indecision, but now he had made up his mind.”
Go on then, said Lois silently. Say it, and let’s get home. She was cold, and had begun to worry about Sharon again. Fire. That word swam in and out of her mind, and she wanted to connect it with what Cowgill had said. Something to do with the KKK?
Brian began again. “It was a Thursday. I remember it so clearly. Thursday evenings I went to Bible study group. Always a strong member of the church, Lois, though not a vicar then. But that Thursday I did not go. I loved Gerald and I agreed to the theft. He and I talked until midnight, and finally decided. I would steal him away from Marion, and we would set up house together. Move away, a long way away, and make a new life. Sandy was only two and a half, and there would be plenty of time to work out how to explain it all to him. I could not resist Gerald, Lois, any more than I could resist Sandy. Both of them could ask anything of me.”
“And what happened?”
But Lois did not find out. Not then. There were steps outside, and in the church, up the aisle to where they were sitting.
“Mr. Rollinson, sir?” A policeman stood beside them, and behind him a familiar figure spoke. “Is that you, Lois? Cowgill here. We’re here to help. Would you mind coming along with us, Mr. Rollinson? A number of things we have to clear up, and we can help you with what you will need to arrange. But first of all, are you in touch with Sandy Mackerras’s parents?”
“His mother, yes,” said the vicar in a whisper.
“Then you would be the person to talk to her.” The authority in Cowgill’s voice reached the vicar, and he stood up obediently.
“I’m ready,” he said, and then turned to Lois. “Thank you,” he said simply. “I’m glad you came.”
He could have been thanking her for coming to his cocktail party. His voice was light and polite. But Lois knew what it was costing him, and nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, and followed after the little group. She would find Derek, and see what else could be done tonight.
THIRTY-FIVE
AFTER MOST BYSTANDERS HAD LEFT
AND THE VIC-arage was reduced to a stinking, blackened mess, Lois and Derek—and Jamie, who had been mustered with the pub contingent—walked slowly home. Lois looked at the Millers’ house and wondered if Sharon had returned, but then forgot her as Jamie turned his head to follow a passing car and stopped dead, exclaiming, “Annabelle!”
“Where? I don’t see her,” said Derek. “You’re imagining it, lad. Come on, time to get some sleep. We’re all exhausted.”
“It was her … it was her car!”
“Well, she could have come back to visit her grandmother …?”
“Mrs. T-J’s away,” said Lois, remembering the dark Hall and the snickering horses.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Derek impatiently. “In any case, she obviously doesn’t want to see you, Jamie. Better to forget it. Plenty more fish. Come on, I need my sleep. Big match tomorrow.”
“I offered the vicar a bed for the night,” Lois said. “Maybe to stay until he gets somewhere.” Nobody else had seemed to come forward, and Lois had pitied him.
“Fine,” said Derek stoically. “Good gel.”
Gran was waiting on the doorstep. “Is it bad?” she said.
“Very bad,” said Lois gently. “The vicarage was burnt out. And … well, young Sandy was trapped inside. They couldn’t get to him in time.” She put her arm around her mother, and they stood silently for a few seconds.
Gran disengaged herself, took a deep breath, and said, “You’ll need a hot drink. I’ll go and see to it. The fire … oh! Well … I was going to say the fire’s still in, so go and warm yourselves.” She disappeared, and the others followed into the sitting room.
They talked desultorily about practical things, and then Jamie said, “Mum, how did it happen? Anybody say anything? I saw that cop friend of yours was there.”
Lois frowned and shook her head. “Too early to say. There’ll be investigations, of course. It doesn’t look good, does it, with Sandy still in the house. If it had been a chip pan fire, or a coal jumped out on to a rug—that kind of thing—he’d have been able to stop it. No, it doesn’t look like an accident …”
“But who would …?” Jamie stopped, and his eyes had a guarded look.
“They’ll find out,” said Lois flatly. “We can all help. Try and remember what we noticed around the vicarage, or something somebody said in passing or in the pub. It’ll come out.”
THE MILLERS SAT IN A CHILLY ROOM AND SPOKE IN LOW tones. They were anxious not to wake Sharon. It had been difficult to calm her down and get her upstairs to her bed. Both mother and father had had to manhandle her in the end.
“She wasn’t frightened, though. Or sad, even.” Mrs. Miller looked across at her husband slumped in an armchair. “It was just … well, just …”
“High,” he said. “She was high on something. Couldn’t stop giggling. Then the shivering. We shall have a bad night, gel,” he added. “She’ll not like coming down again.”
Mrs. Miller’s alarm was in her trembling voice. “How do you know all this?” she said accusingly. “It’s never happened before to her. How do you know she hasn’t got a fever, or something like that?”
“I know,” he said flatly. Then added, “Come on, now. We’d better get to bed. We’ll get some sense out of her tomorrow.” He stood up, took his wife’s hand, and together they put out the lights and went upstairs.
AT THE HALL, IN ONE OF THE EMPTY COTTAGES ON THE estate, Annabelle looked around her. This would have to do. She was in no mood to sleep in the echoing great house. She took a couple of rugs and a cushion out of her car and stretched out on an old sagging sofa left behind by long gone tenants. Sleep would not come. Images of fire, sounds of chanting and screams of fear returned relentlessly. Finally, she went back to the car and found the little pack of pills that Max had given her. She’d never needed them before, but now she swallowed one with difficulty. It got stuck in her gullet and she choked. It went down in the end, and she returned to the cottage. In minutes she was in a deep and troubled sleep.
MAX WEDDERBURN, ON THE OTHER HAND, WAS TOO elated to sleep. He had left the society early, before the last part of his cunning plan was put in place. Some of the others had muttered that he was looking after number one, scared of being caught. But he ignored them. He was sure everything would have gone like clockwork. He was too smart, and his planning too exact for any danger to the society. Unless Sharon … She was the weak link, without doubt. She was new and stupid. But the eye would have worked. Perhaps the girl had enough sense to know how vital it was to keep quiet. He’d told her very firmly, several times, before he left. She’d been pretty dopey, but seemed to understand. Next time, they’d have to be more careful what they gave her. And Annabelle. Not to forget Annabelle. She’d been in the tack room of the stables that night when he’d talked to Sandy. Could well have heard something. Still, he could easily fix the pair of them.
He looked at himself in the spotted mirror over the brown-tiled fireplace. His face glowed. He smiled, and admired his cool grey eyes. Perhaps his teeth needed fixing a bit. He’d see to it tomorrow. Sharon had possibilities. He felt a twinge of desire. That fresh, dewy look had always appealed to him. But he knew now that she was not all that fresh, thank God.
The silly little tune of his mobile shrilled into the dreary room. “Hello? Oh, it’s you, Mum.”
“Of course it’s me, Darren. I bin trying to get you all evening. Where were you?”
“Out. What d’you want?”
“It’s her next door. She’s sayin’ things about you. Can you come round tomorrow? Get it straight, an’ that?”
“No,” said Max shortly. “Tell the old ratbag to mind her own business. Cheers, Mum.”
HUNTER COWGILL SAT IN HIS CAR IN LONG FARNDEN High Street and pondered. The relatively simple investigation into a bunch of sad misfits involved in routine misdemeanours had changed. He’d known there was potential danger, of course, probably as a result of escalating violence, but this was something different. That little toe rag, Darren Cockshutt, or whatever he called himself, was a suspected arsonist from schooldays. Curtains in the staffroom set alight, minor explosions in the science lab. And always he’d been too clever to be caught. But fire was his passion.
There’d been no sign of any of that lot tonight, of course. Cowgill did not expect it. But this time, if it was Cockshutt and his cronies, they had gone too far.
Cowgill had no doubt in his mind. This was murder.
THIRTY-SIX
MARION MACKERRAS STOOD AT HER WINDOW, STAR-ing out at the quiet, surburban road. Everything was familiar. The garden, neat and tidied for the winter, with the trees that Gerald had planted. The sundial, with its small cherub telling sun time. She remembered when they bought it, she and Gerald. She had been pregnant with Sandy …
She turned away from the window, consumed with grief. It was a terrible pain, doubling her up and increasing, instead of fading away. She moaned and ran from the room. Where could she go? Into the kitchen? The bedroom? Sandy’s old room, with all the tangible memories of his boyhood? There was nowhere to escape from the unacceptable truth. Sandy was dead. Her only son, only child, was dead. The second death.
Brian’s telephone call had come early. She had not recognized his voice, and had to ask several times who it was, ringing her before breakfast. He had finally mastered a sudden stutter, and said the awful words. God, oh God, they were such awful words! If she had not answered the phone, or slammed it down when she knew who it was, she would have had a little more time. But sooner or later … She wrenched open the back door and screamed loudly in a desperate effort to erase the picture from her mind’s eye. Sandy caught in the flames, his clothes on fire, his lovely hair and strong limbs … Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus Christ help me!
Her screams floated out over the garden and into next door, where her neighbour was hanging out washing. A face appeared over the fence. “Marion? What on earth’s the matter?”
THEY PACKED MARION’S BAG. THERE WAS NO QUESTION of Mar
ion driving, and her neighbour insisted on taking her to the station. “Just give me a ring when you’re coming back, and I’ll meet you,” she said. She leaned over and kissed Marion’s cheek. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she added anxiously.
Marion nodded. She felt completely numb now, but reassured her neighbour that she would be able to do what was necessary for the journey to Long Farnden. Brian had said he would be there to pick her up. He was the last person she wanted to see, but there was no one else. Brian Rollinson … and two deaths, first her husband and now … Oh, Sandy … She shivered. She could stay in a hotel in Tresham, she supposed. But the thought of an anonymous hotel room, with its television and Jerusalem Bible, was worse than contact with Brian Rollinson. After all, he could have been the last person to talk to Sandy.
“Are you all right, missus?” An old man with a battered suitcase sat opposite her in the train.
With a huge effort, she said, “Yes, thank you. Thanks.” After half an hour or so, she closed her eyes and tried to doze. But the pictures behind her eyelids began again. This time she was looking down into Sandy’s coffin, seeing his friendly face, his reddish curls. But as she watched they blackened and shrivelled, and she opened her eyes with a gasp.
“Here, you’re not well,” said the old man. Marion shook her head, but could not control her tears, which were now spurting in a rush.
There were only two of them at the grimy table, and other passengers dotted around the carriage were busy with their newspapers and mobile phones. The old man silently handed her a spotless white handkerchief. She took it and mopped at her face, but the tears would not stop.