Theft on Thursday

by Ann Purser

  They decided on a cup of coffee, and sat in the café staring out at the rushing cars. “It’s really nice of you to come,” Annabelle said, looking at Jamie with warmth. “I don’t know why, but I do have this scared feeling. Something to do with the vicarage fire. I’m really nervous about being in the flat alone. Sarah will be back in a couple of days, so you won’t have to stay long.”

  She had told Jamie a strictly edited story about her involvement with the Wycombe lot. Said she’d been to one or two of their meetings out of curiosity, and had thought them a joke. “A sad joke,” she had said, describing their fatuous rituals and chanting. They had wanted somewhere private to meet, and she had said without thinking that they could use the stables when her grandmother was away.

  “Annabelle,” Jamie said now. “Were you at that party the night of the fire?”

  “What party?” she said quickly.

  “Well, Mum said Sharon had gone to a party with that horrible bloke who comes from Tresham.”

  “Sharon Miller? Scraping the barrel, aren’t they?” Annabelle laughed again, and looked away from Jamie, wishing he would change the subject.

  “You said you’d been frightened when I saw you at the cottage. Noises in the night, an’ that. I wondered if you’d heard something from the party. In the stables, maybe. Was it them that frightened you?”

  Annabelle stood up, pushing her chair back with a loud scrape. “Going to the loo,” she said.

  “Again?” said Jamie quietly, watching her sadly as she walked across the crowded café.

  THE ROAD INTO THE DESERTED HOUSING ESTATE WAS full of potholes. Lois drove slowly, doubting whether this was any better than Alibone Woods. Still, what did she expect? A reception area in the police station set aside for informers? Coffee machine and cushions? She peered around the dilapidated houses and saw Cowgill’s car parked inconspicuously up against a garage door.

  “Ah, Lois, good, you found it,” he said briskly. He didn’t feel brisk. He felt soft-centred, like a peppermint cream. He had watched her lope across the road and wondered if he should finally give up meeting her. He was a man who liked being in control. But where was the harm? If Lois showed in any way that she reciprocated … Well, then it would have to stop. Meanwhile, he might as well enjoy seeing her, feeling half his age again, being insulted by her, and making use of the undoubtedly useful information she brought him.

  “Right,” she said, following him through the back door of a damp, dirty kitchen.

  They perched on a couple of metal chairs, and he said, “What have you got for me?” Straight to the point. Competent policeman, wasting no time.

  She smiled sideways at him. “Something important, I think,” she said. She described Gran’s dodgy indigestion tablets and said Cyril had been on them, too. Could they have had anything to do with his death? She handed him the packet. “Look,” she said, “no sell-by date, label all faded and creased. How long has that woman had them in her storeroom at the back there? They could’ve gone off, been dangerous, anything! If Cyril had taken too many, or woken in the night and forgotten he’d already had some … Could there be a connection? Gran had been really sick, and they’d all said it was a bug. But …”

  “Well done,” said Cowgill, pocketing the packet. “I’ll get them looked at. We shall find out. Sounds very possible to me. I’ve never thought there was much foul play in Cyril’s death. Who’d want to kill the old bugger, irritating as he was? No, Lois, I think this may be it.”

  “There’s more,” she said, looking pleased with herself. “It’s our Sharon. Sharon Miller.”

  Cowgill’s eyes narrowed. “Go on,” he said quietly. Lois could feel the sudden tension in the air. So this was what he really wanted to know. “She came to see me. Looked terrible, and was nervous, jumpy. I tried out the ‘orrible eye on her, and she nearly had a fit. Not just a natural reaction. Much more than that, screaming and blubbing. Mum calmed her down, and then I let her go.” She looked closely at Cowgill, who was silent and frowning. “Well?” she said finally. “Any good?”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Very useful. Very useful indeed. And now I have to warn you, Lois, to be careful. If Sharon Miller knows something she’s not telling you, you can bet it’s to do with Darren Cockshutt, and he is nasty.”

  “Nasty? Is that all?” said Lois.

  “No, he is nasty and dangerous, especially if he cannot trust Sharon Miller to keep her mouth shut.”

  “Sharon couldn’t keep her mouth shut if it was stapled together,” said Lois baldly. “Sounds like it’s her who’s in danger, not me.”

  “Anyone who knows anything about the night of the fire, and just what Max-cum-Darren was up to, is in danger. Anyone … and that probably includes your Jamie.”

  “Jamie? Why? Because he knows Sharon? That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it. Anyway, he’s safely out of the way. Gone to London for a day or two with Annabelle T-J.”

  “Has he indeed?” said Cowgill. “Annabelle T-J. Mmm … not a sensible idea …”

  “Don’t talk in riddles,” said Lois crossly. “Why don’t you just arrest Maxie-boy, and put him away? You think he started the fire, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Cowgill said, getting up and offering Lois a hand, which she ignored. “But I don’t know why,” he added, “and I need to know more. He’s a slippery customer, Lois. Don’t underrate him.”

  FORTY-TWO

  MAX WEDDERBURN RETURNED TO HIS UNTIDY room, bed unmade, remains of a hasty meal in the wash basin that doubled as a sink, and thought hard. How had it all gone so wrong? God, if he was found to be mixed up in it, he’d be for the high jump this time. He shivered uncontrollably, and couldn’t straighten out his thoughts. The weak links. That’s what he had to concentrate on. Slowly he calmed down, and reminded himself he’d always come up smiling before. And would again. He’d made some decisions already, hadn’t he? Swift to act, always one move ahead, that was Max Wedderburn. He shook himself and stood up. It would soon be time for him to go. His most trusted henchman was looking after the local end, and he had reserved London for himself. Yeah, the weak links were priority. Sharon and Annabelle T-J.

  It was a pity it had to end in this way, but if the society went undercover for a while they could start up again when it had all been forgotten. Maybe move away, set up somewhere else. One of his mates, just released early for good behaviour, had let him know of an isolated place in Wales. That was something to look forward to. Meanwhile, there was a job to be done.

  As he hastily tidied the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the tarnished mirror. He stopped and had a good look. He straightened his shoulders, narrowed his eyes and allowed himself what he hoped was a small, heroic smile. Yes, that was better. All would be well.

  He looked at his watch. She should be there by now, and by herself. She’d let slip that her flatmate was away, stupid bitch. It was because she was a stupid bitch, and let things slip, that he was now on the way to make sure she kept her mouth shut. North London, wasn’t it? Annabelle had given him the address at the party—after the necessary persuasion—and he put an A-Z map in his pocket. Should be easy enough to find. He’d have to fill up with petrol before he got to the motorway. Much too expensive once you were on it. The cut-price filling station just outside Tresham would do.

  He looked out of the window at the street below. A bloke who’d been in his class was walking along the pavement. He was in clean, dark blue overalls, and had a bag of tools in his hand. He put his tools in the van, then walked around to the front and wiped the headlights clean. He climbed in and drove away. What was his name? Max could not remember. He was a nerd, anyway. Always top of the class. And where had it got him? A plumber. Nice little council flat, nice little wife, nice little baby. A traitorous voice in Max’s head said, “And a nice little business of his own, with a regular income and good mates. Plumbers in demand, security and a loving home. What’s wrong with that?”

  Everything, answered Max. He had his o
wn boring job, but his real life in the society was different and special. He saw himself as an instrument of a higher power, the dark power that could blaze with a wonderful flame. He felt no guilt at what he and the society had done in the past, only exultation. And now? said the voice.

  He forced it out of his head, looked at his watch again, and left the room, locking the door behind him. Head up, shoulders back, Max Wedderburn, man with a mission, was on the warpath.

  THE AFTERNOON SUN SHONE THROUGH THE BIG WINdows in Annabelle’s flat, and Jamie relaxed, stretched out on a sofa in the sitting room. It was on the ground floor, and had long French windows leading out into a pleasant, walled garden. Annabelle had unlocked and opened them to air the room, and a blackbird sang from an old apple tree, bare of leaves now, spreading its branches wide. As Jamie gazed out lazily, waiting for Annabelle to bring in coffee, a squirrel ran from one side of the tree to the other, dropping down out of sight into next door’s garden.

  The coffee was good. “Real coffee,” said Annabelle. “None of your instant for Sarah. She has style, my flatmate.”

  Jamie wondered if he would like her. He got on easily with Annabelle most of the time, but on the odd occasion when they had met her friends in Tresham, he had been stupid and tongue-tied.

  Now he returned to something that bothered him. “Annabelle,” he said. “You know that party, the one Sharon went to …”

  “Oh, drop it, Jamie!”

  “It’s just that … oh, I dunno. There’s something wrong somewhere. You must’ve heard something going on. The stables are not that far from the cottages.”

  “For God’s sake! Why this inquisition? Come on,” she added, stroking his face and nuzzling his ear. “Let’s go to bed. I really want to … and so do you …” She laughed confidently.

  But Jamie pulled away from her and got up. “It’s not on, Annabelle,” he said, a stubborn, Lois-like look on his face. “You’re not telling me the truth, and if you don’t trust me enough I’d best be going home now. I’d do most things for you, you know that. But not if you’re playin’ me along.”

  “Oh, Jamie, please,” she pleaded, taking his hand and pulling him back towards her. He shook his head and went to sit down by the big marble fireplace.

  She walked across the room and stared out at the garden. It was chillier now, and she pulled the French windows shut, struggling with the lock. Then she hunched up on the sofa and stared at him like a thwarted child. “Oh, all right, then,” she said finally. “I was at the stupid party. Max had persuaded me to go. Said they had something very special on. So I turned up, had a couple of drinks, and chatted to stupid Sharon Miller—who was, by the way, three sheets to the wind.”

  Her eyes told him that was not all. “And?” he said.

  “And nothing else,” she said impatiently. “Now come here, and let’s forget it.” But Jamie did not move.

  After a minute or two of silence, Annabelle spoke again, softly this time, almost to herself. “Max made a sort of speech. Like a call to arms, or battle, or something. He’s very good when he gets going. But then it turned to a rant, and the others started chanting and stamping.”

  “What were they chanting?” said Jamie.

  “Well … um …” She took a deep breath and said, “It was ‘Fire!!’ over and over again. That’s what it was. I was frightened, Jamie. I tried to leave, but Max had locked the door. He told one of his oiks to look after me.”

  “Where did you go?” Jamie’s face was pale. He knew what was coming, and realized he had no idea what to do next.

  “The vicarage,” she answered. “I managed to hang back, pretend I was going to be sick.”

  “And Sharon Miller?” Jamie’s hand curled round the comforting shape of his mobile in his pocket. “Was she still with them?”

  “Yep, right out in front, eyes all over the place!” The shadow of a grin crossed Annabelle’s face. “She had something in her hand, held up high. I couldn’t see what it was, but they all started a horrible kind of whispering. It was like one of their chants, but whispered. I suppose they didn’t want people to know they were there. Then Sharon threw whatever it was—it looked like a little ball—towards the vicarage. And then it started … I was sick then, but they’d all run off, and people had started appearing, so I hid for a while in the churchyard.” She stopped and shut her eyes for a moment. Jamie waited, knowing there was more to come.

  Annabelle rubbed her eyes, and continued, “There were crowds of people and the fire engines arrived. I was trapped, so I stayed put until everyone had gone and the fire was out, and then I sneaked off home. Most people had gone by then.”

  “That’s when we saw you. Going home,” said Jamie. “When you said ‘it started,’ did you mean the fire?” The light was going outside the window, and Jamie shivered.

  Annabelle nodded. “It was so quick, Jamie. I don’t know how they got it going so quickly.”

  They were both silent and still. Then Jamie said, “I’ll put some lights on. And get some heating going.” He looked out into the garden, and saw a black cat creeping along the branch of the apple tree. A sudden squawk and a blackbird flew off in alarm. The cat slunk away, over the wall. Jamie shrugged. This was London. Anything could happen.

  Annabelle called from the kitchen that rotten Sarah had left nothing to eat. Could Jamie fetch a couple of take-aways from the Chinese round the corner? Jamie checked his cash, and thought he’d probably have enough. “Which way?” he said. It was going to be further than just around the corner, he discovered, more than ten minutes away. But Jamie was glad of some air and walked along at a good pace, happy to be doing something useful, feeling he belonged.

  FORTY-THREE

  FOUR MILES OUTSIDE LONG FARNDEN, A SELDOM-USED farm track branched off and quickly became rutted and muddy from an overflowing ditch. Down here, an anonymous dark green car moved slowly, juddering as it negotiated the rough surface. The driver peered through a dirty windscreen and frowned. “Bloody awful place,” he muttered. “Is this the best Max could suggest?”

  His passenger, Sharon Miller, shivered, not from the cold wind, but with fear. She had been on her way to work at the shop after lunch, already feeling sorry for herself after her session with Mrs. M, when this bloke had pulled up beside her, opened the door and told her to get in. When she had protested, he’d said roughly that if she didn’t do as she was told, she’d regret it. He had a message from Max Wedderburn, and people always did what he told them. And she could call him Stan, he added, glancing lasciviously at her.

  “Just for a minute, then,” Sharon had said, glancing up and down the street, hoping that someone would see her. But there was nobody in sight. Then to her horror, the minute she got in the car, the man, whom she vaguely recognized from the party at the stables, had driven off at speed, with a squeal of tyres. Now they were in a barnyard, with no house in sight, and he was telling her to get out.

  “In there,” he said shortly, pointing to the barn. “We have to talk.” By now, Sharon was in a state of terror. She was only too familiar from her novels with kidnapped beauties left to the predations of no-good villains … or mutilated so that … Oh my God, what was he going to do?

  He turned her round, and then tied her wrists together behind her back. “Just in case you feel like doin’ a runner,” he said. “Now then,” he added, pushing her down on the dirty straw, “let’s see how much you remember of that night. Party night, Sharon … And shut that row, else I’ll make sure you never make another sound … ever.”

  She choked, and was silent. “What d’you want to know … Stan,” she stuttered after a minute.

  “Everything you can remember,” he said. “Starting with when Max brought you into the party.”

  “I got given a drink,” she said.

  “Did you know anybody?”

  Sharon shook her head. “Only Max,” she said. “I met him at Cyril’s funeral. He was nice to me when I tripped over.” She was shaking now, her whole body trembling in
terror. Was he going to rape her? How much should she tell him? She was canny enough to realize that if she owned up to remembering everything, he would have to find a way of silencing her.

  “I enjoyed it,” she said lamely.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” he said, and lit a cigarette. “Such pretty hair,” he said, taking a handful and stroking it. He put it to the lighted end of the cigarette, and laughed when it sizzled. “Horrible smell!” he said, and took it away again. “Good thing hair don’t feel nothing. Plenty of bits of you that does, though,” he added, and sniggered.

  “I remember them making a fuss of me, goin’ on about my eye and sayin’ it had power, an’ all sorts of rubbish,” Sharon said quickly.

  “Rubbish?” he said, his smile vanishing. “What else was rubbish?”

  “Nothing … Stan … It was soon after that I began to feel funny. Not faint, nor anythin’ like that, but I couldn’t see properly. Everything was a bit fuzzy. I felt good, though. Sort of powerful, as if I could do anything. But that’s all I can remember. Just the feeling.”

  “Mmm.” The man looked closely at her. “What was the next thing you do remember? Did you go anywhere after the party?”

  Sharon shook her head. “Um … next thing I remember is my mum waking me up in my bedroom at home. I felt terrible. Real terrible. I’ve never felt like that before. I was screamin’ and shouting, and Dad had to hold me down.”

  After several minutes, when Sharon began to think he was satisfied and she might get off lightly, the man said, “Right. Now see here, Sharon, you got to forget all of it, even the bits you do remember now. Put them right out of your head. If we hear that you’ve been blabbing anything about that night, everything you bin thinking I might do to you now … it will be done. See?” He waved his cigarette in her face, coming dangerously close to her eyes.

  “Stop, Stan!” she screamed, and he put his hand over her mouth. She recalled what she’d said to Lois about the party, and began to mumble. He took his hand away. “I really don’t remember anything else,” she insisted. “When I heard about the fire next day, I thanked God I’d bin with you lot, well away from it all. If I’d seen poor Sandy …”