Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  He’d have to get one. He would go to Texas or B & Q, or another of the huge stores what were open at weekends. This was the phenomenon that had most struck Alan about changed conditions during his imprisonment: you could buy almost anything on Sundays.

  As he left the shed, a sudden shower fell. He need not worry about the old woman seeing him when he walked out of her front gate; she’d be praying for sinners, saving her soul. She might need to do that, he thought grimly. She’d be back again, however, by the time he returned, but he was going to get the gun out. Using the hammer would make a noise. Maybe she’d put the television on and that would drown the sound.

  Returning with the sledgehammer, he parked near the church, where there was plenty of space now that the service was over. Not wanting to be seen carrying his parcel by a casual walker, or by Miss M. Darwin from her window, he entered The Willows’ garden by the field route once again. It was raining gently now, and he met no one. He’d taken time to have some food, stopping at a McDonald’s he’d passed on his way back from the shopping mall. She’d be eating, too, by now, that old cow, he thought. He hated her for her intrusion into his mother’s kitchen. He’d strike her down if she spotted him and came out, investigating.

  He should have cut the phone. That would have been a wise precaution and he could have done it while she was in church. As he wasn’t a burglar, he hadn’t thought of it.

  He aimed a blow with his new tool at the concrete, and it split at once, but, because he’d hit it gently, not right through. He sat there on the wheelbarrow, flaming, wondering if he should stack the sledgehammer against the wall with all the other tools and return tomorrow, watch to see when she went out – she’d go shopping; all women did – then take his opportunity.

  He did not hear two cars drive up to the house, but, glancing out, he saw the lights come on downstairs and then curtains were drawn across the windows. He was just planning a voyage of inspection – if she had the television on loud enough, he might be able to work unheard – when he saw the youth, like a shadow, gliding past.

  Alan shoved the sledgehammer back beside two spades, left the shed, and followed him.

  21

  Miss Darwin’s tea party began stickily.

  She did not know what boys nowadays liked eating. Dim memories of dreaded childhood parties came to mind: there had been jellies, jam sandwiches, chocolate finger biscuits, sponge cake. She had a feeling that all this was out of date, but scones and a chocolate cake would be appropriate for the parents. She had taken trouble, rising early to do her baking before she left for church. Perhaps Marmite sandwiches for the boys? Or cheese? In the end, she made both, large ones, not dainty quarters like those her mother’s cook had constructed. This was a chance to return the Gardners’ Christmas hospitality, as well as a means of getting the two mothers together. She wanted the occasion to succeed, which meant that however difficult it was, Verity must be humoured.

  It was to be drawing-room tea. If the boys had not met this before, it was time they were initiated. They could hand the plates of scones and sandwiches to the adults; it would occupy them between mouthfuls. Mark would certainly behave; the other boys were less predictable.

  Dusk was falling as the time for their arrival drew near. She pulled the curtains across the darkening windows, seeing nothing in the garden, no hint of an intruder’s presence.

  Susan and Mark came first, which pleased Miss Darwin as she was anxious to overcome Susan’s understandable hostility at having Mark suspected of theft. She was wearing a long navy skirt and a hip-hugging pink sweater; her short fair hair shone, and she had on long silver earrings. Her expression was wary as Miss Darwin ushered her in, asking Mark to hang her coat, and his, in the cloakroom.

  He seemed quite at home here, Susan thought resentfully, as he obeyed.

  Miss Darwin was making comments on the weather as she led her guest into the sitting-room. Susan managed to respond; she was used to meeting strangers, and was used, also, to keeping a wall between herself and them, and she did so now, not wanting to get close to this rather formidable old woman who had somehow become involved with Mark.

  The house, however, charmed her; it was so unlike her own, but as she had imagined she might live if she had married Mark’s father. That thought flashed through her mind as she noticed the good, antique pieces which Marigold had inherited from her parents. Everything looked cherished and the place was comfortable. Her own house, she saw now, was strictly functional. No wonder Mark liked it here.

  ‘Miss Darwin, will you show Mum your boxes before the others come?’ he asked. He tugged at her elbow, not shy with her. He no longer noticed her appearance; like Tom’s white hair and lameness, it was all just part of the person, and accepted.

  ‘What boxes?’ Susan asked. ‘Do you collect them?’

  ‘I decorate them,’ Marigold replied. She led the way into the dining-room.

  ‘Mum, you remember, I told you Steve gave Ivy a box,’ Mark was saying as he followed them.

  On the big table Susan saw a wastepaper basket, almost complete, ready for its final coat of varnish. There were several boxes in various stages of embellishment among Marigold’s materials.

  ‘I’m afraid my nicest box was stolen when the video and radio went,’ Marigold explained. ‘None of the others are quite ready yet.’

  As she spoke, she and Susan realised what Mark had just said. They were staring at one another, speechless, when the doorbell rang.

  ‘There are the Gardners,’ Miss Darwin remarked, reprieved from commenting, and went to let them in.

  Through the murky dusk, Alan stalked the youth. When the rain stopped, mist rose, but there was no one about as he followed Steve down the road. He kept the boy in sight, and then, suddenly, his quarry vanished. Hurrying, Alan saw that he had disappeared at the entrance gates of Merrifields. He must have gone in there.

  Hugging the side of the drive, Alan walked towards the house, from which exterior lights shone through the gloom. He lacked the knowledge Steve possessed: that one of the two cars outside The Willows was the owner’s, and that most of the family, if not all of them, were out. Alan was wondering if this sly boy lived here: he had not been close enough to him to pick out details of his appearance – he was just a youth. There was plenty of cover in the drive; trees and shrubs dotted the shaggy grass, and he moved quietly from the shelter of one to another as he advanced.

  The front of the house showed bland and undisturbed, a static light burning over the porch and a halogen one on the corner. That must have come on when its sensor detected the boy. Alan was impressed by these lights, which had become popular while he was inside. When trespassing at night, one must watch out for them.

  He couldn’t get near the front door of the house while that beam shone down. It would probably switch itself off in a few minutes; then, if he kept out of its range, he might get close enough to a window to look through. Why would a boy who lived in a place this size be skulking around The Willows, Alan asked himself: skulkers were rarely acting innocently.

  The light remained on. It must be set to its maximum. In that case, he could use it to work his way round to the far side of the building. Staying at the rim of the lit area, Alan reached the rear of the house, where another light was on, and he could see the youth, almost floodlit, trying to open a window. Then he stooped and picked up a stone from the flowerbed near him, raising his arm, ready to throw it at the window.

  Alan’s immediate impulse was to stop him. Forcing an entry left traces of one’s presence. When he stole the shotgun, he had opened the door and walked into the Wickenses’ house without any hindrance. But this lad did not know that he was being watched. Alan decided that what followed might be interesting. He saw the youth apparently change his mind about flinging the stone; he moved on towards a French window, and cracked the stone quite gently against the glass near the catch, put his hand through the hole and opened the door. Alan, in the damp garden, nodded approvingly at this more pruden
t tactic, and, as the youth entered the house, prepared to follow. There might be benefits for him within, if he was lucky, even, possibly, a gun ready for the taking. Plenty of people legitimately owned shotguns.

  Steve had tidily closed the French window behind him. Alan gave him a minute before opening it again and entering the house.

  In a corner of the large room in which Alan now stood, the youth was on his knees disconnecting the video recorder beneath the television set, and he had a huge shock when he saw Alan’s shoes beside him on the carpet. He looked up, and could not focus properly on whoever had caught him in the act because the man was behind a lit standard lamp.

  ‘You don’t live here, son,’ Alan remarked mildly, pinning down Steve’s wrist with one heavy foot.

  ‘Who says?’ was Steve’s brave answer as he struggled to get free. This wasn’t Mr Gardner.

  ‘People don’t often break the windows of their own houses,’ Alan said. He was wondering where the true residents were: no one seemed to have noticed what was going on, but he was poised for flight in case they appeared. ‘They don’t nick videos, either.’ He raised his foot slightly. ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘But watch it.’

  As Steve stood, Alan seized his arm and twisted it behind his back. He did not see what use he could make of this captive, but an idea might come to him.

  ‘Let me go,’ said Steve, now whining. Held in such a grip, his arm hurt.

  ‘Not until you tell me what you’re doing here,’ said Alan. ‘And I saw you trespassing at The Willows.’

  ‘If you saw me there, you must have been trespassing too,’ said Steve, his spirits reviving at this revelation. ‘And what are you doing here?’ he added.

  ‘Following you, because you were acting suspiciously,’ said Alan.

  But Steve had recognised him now. Incredulous, he stared at Alan.

  ‘You’d no business at The Willows,’ he declared. ‘Your dad’s dead and it’s not your house.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘It was me and Mark that found your old man when he snuffed it.’

  Then Alan realised that this was one of the boys who were being baby-sat by Tom on that November night.

  ‘Who lives here?’ he asked, and his voice took on a harsher tone.

  Steve was remembering about him now: Tom’s son, the murderer.

  ‘They’re out,’ he said. ‘They’re having tea with the old bag who’s bought The Willows. That’s why I knew the house was empty.’ He’d taken a chance: he couldn’t be sure they were all there. He’d welcome discovery now, held firmly as he was by this man who scared him rigid.

  ‘So you thought you’d see what you could find,’ said Alan. ‘Well, why not? Got an outlet, have you?’

  ‘Course,’ said Steve boldly, heart thudding with fear.

  ‘Tell me who lives here,’ Alan repeated, and Steve described the Gardners, adding that Justin sometimes hung out with him and his friends.

  ‘Hm. And you’re stealing from his dad?’

  ‘It’s his stepdad,’ Steve replied. ‘And I won’t take anything that’s Justin’s. Or young Terry’s,’ he said, as an afterthought.

  ‘Any guns here?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ answered Steve. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just wondered,’ Alan said. ‘I’ll take a look around while you help yourself.’ He released Steve’s arm.

  He’d shot his wife, the paper had said. He was going to shoot someone else. Steve was quaking.

  ‘That old woman lives there on her own, does she? At The Willows?’ Alan asked, nonchalantly, moving towards the door.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steve, rubbing his arm. ‘Why?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ Alan answered. ‘And by the way, you haven’t seen me. Understood?’

  Steve nodded vigorously.

  ‘I won’t say a word,’ he promised.

  ‘If you do, you’ll be sorry,’ Alan warned. ‘You’re stealing, remember.’

  He sauntered out of the room and took a quick look round the rest of the ground floor. There was no gun cupboard. It would have to be the sledgehammer.

  He let himself quietly out of the front door, leaving the boy, who wore no gloves, to get on with his thieving. Alan, his own hands warm inside new brown leather gloves, had left no prints.

  He had no strong feelings about the Gardners’ right to keep their property. Perhaps they should install a burglar alarm.

  Leaving the boy to it, Alan began walking back towards The Willows. With the house occupied by the Gardner family and whoever the second car belonged to – he’d seen the Vauxhall and the Montego when he was trailing the boy – there should be enough noise and distraction going on to let him reach the shed unnoticed.

  That kid – Steve was his name, Alan remembered – was local. Alan would recognise him if they met again and he’d find him if he needed him. He was just a lad; he’d be at the school, the one Alan had attended, though it had been a grammar school then and was now a comprehensive. His mother had crammed him hard to get him through his eleven-plus exam. Alan wondered if the place had changed much. In the town, some of the original shops remained, such as the butcher’s which had been handed on through three generations. There was an antique dealer who had been there for a long time. Alan did not want to meet anyone who had known him previously, but he had altered since those days: his hair was greying and he now wore a bushy moustache. Even so, he did not intend to spend much time in the more populated areas of the town.

  After his warning, the boy wouldn’t go shouting about his presence, especially if he had the nerve to continue with his burglary. Besides, the kid wouldn’t know about his record. All that must have been forgotten long ago. His parents – or rather, his mother and the man Tom – had not been besieged by the press because his trial was in the Midlands and he was not living in Haverscot. Nowadays, the media would have traced and hounded them, and might even, by some means, have unearthed the truth about his parentage.

  He must get that gun. Then he’d be in control.

  How long would it take? An hour? Ten minutes? He’d have to estimate at least an hour, he thought.

  He’d better not risk it while the guests were there, but he would have to deal with that old woman. He returned to his car and turned it round, driving back to The Willows, parking near its gate, ready for a quick getaway. He arrived in time to see the two cars drive off, first the Montego and then the small blue Vauxhall. He stayed in his car for quite a while, sometimes running the engine to get the heater going while he tried to work out how to incapacitate the old woman.

  He was still there when the church bells began to ring and Miss Darwin emerged between the gates, bound for church again. Twice in one day? Alan couldn’t believe his luck.

  As soon as she was out of sight, he armed himself with the powerful torch he’d had the foresight to buy, and, his passage illuminated by it and by the exterior lights she’d left on, he hurried back across the garden to the shed.

  After her guests had gone, Marigold had cleared away the tea things, loading the dishwasher and putting what was left of the cake and scones in tins. The remaining sandwiches would do for her supper. She covered them with foil and put them in the fridge.

  What now? The house, which had come alive that afternoon, had become a silent place.

  Going to church again was a sudden impulse. Normally, her solitude was no burden, and she had plenty to do, but this evening she was not in the mood for découpage or for reading. She felt restless. Stepping the short distance down the road and singing a few hymns would soothe her. Then she could cheer herself up with a couple of whiskies and finish the sandwiches. Since her set had been stolen, she couldn’t settle down to television. Mastermind was back again, and she liked that, pitting her wits against those of the contestants. She often scored well in General Knowledge.

  The afternoon had been a strain. The two mothers, edgy Mrs Gardner and the capable Mrs Conway – was she a widow? Mark still hadn’t said a word to her about his father – had
sat at either end of the sofa and had been spiky with one another.

  ‘You work in a hotel, I believe,’ Verity Gardner had begun.

  ‘I’m the assistant manager. What do you do?’ Mark’s mother had replied.

  Marigold, pouring tea and asking Mark to hand round plates, thought her tone acerbic.

  ‘I’m a painter,’ Mrs Gardner had answered. ‘Or I would have been, if I’d had more time.’

  ‘Come now, Verity,’ Richard had intervened. ‘You do yourself an injustice. Verity has had pictures in several exhibitions,’ he told Susan.

  ‘How clever of you,’ Susan said, and her tone was warmer now. Marigold thought she might have imagined the earlier hostility.

  ‘Milk?’ she asked. ‘Sugar?’

  Richard passed the cups.

  ‘We’ve had painting weekends at the hotel,’ Susan said. ‘Tutors come and hold classes for the guests. I’d love to be able to paint, but I can barely draw two straight lines.’

  Verity unbent a little.

  ‘It’s possible to acquire a certain competence,’ she conceded. ‘With patience, and good tuition. But there’s no substitute for talent.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll try it when I retire,’ said Susan, who found it difficult to look further forward than the week ahead.

  Mark and Terry were sitting in two tub chairs, each with a small table at his side, both eating heartily, following one sandwich with another, eyes on the chocolate cake. Marigold had iced it after church that morning. Justin had refused to come; he was going to see a friend, he said, and when asked which one, named Bruce. He might catch a bus and go to the cinema if he could think of nothing more exciting to do. He certainly wasn’t going to some old lady’s tea party.