Serious Intent

by Margaret Yorke

  There were all those things, but no Steve.

  ‘Come in, Justin. I daresay he won’t be long,’ said Ivy, who saw before her a boy who was cold and damp and had time to kill. ‘How about a cup of tea and a bite to eat?’

  Ivy did not hand out fizzy drinks in costly cans. At her house you had tea, or sometimes cocoa, or water, and now and then fruit juice when she’d been out shopping.

  Justin accepted milky tea with sugar, and a piece of sticky gingerbread which Kylie had helped her mother make. It was delicious. When he’d finished this snack, and had warmed up, he played Snap with Kylie, who wasn’t a bad little kid at all; rather cute, really, with her fair curly hair. Justin looked quite warm and rosy when, at last, he left the house.

  ‘I’ll tell Steve you called in,’ said Ivy. ‘Come any time, Justin. You’re always welcome.’ She liked to send a child away looking happier than when he arrived. These boys were all at sixes and sevens with themselves, no longer children but far from adult, full of conflicting feelings, hormones rattling around, and being pressed to conform to what their peers were doing. Steve worried her; he was so silent and secretive, going out at all hours. She was sure he missed Tom Morton; the old man had been a steadying influence after Joe’s death.

  She sighed. She loved Steve for his father’s sake and would always care for him, but she wasn’t sure about him. She hadn’t liked that petrol smell the other night, but then, just as she was fearing he’d been mixed up in that business of the barn, he’d given her the lovely box.

  He’d be all right. It would work out. He knew right from wrong.

  Not long after Justin left, Susan Conway rang the bell.

  Alan draped his jacket over a peg in the shed on which already hung a spade. His torch was balanced on the bench. He could have done with more light but there was no hurricane lamp among the tins and flowerpots, nor a candle end. Raising the sledgehammer, he smote the solid centre of the concrete path and, most satisfyingly, this time it cracked at once. It wouldn’t take too long to break it up.

  He was not in good condition, and it was heavy work; after breaking up a section, he took the pickaxe and prised up the jagged lumps he’d raised – then he resumed his blows. The noise echoed in his ears but he was making progress. Once the surface had been broken, he would still have to dig, but that could be done comparatively silently, even after the old girl came home. He must finish tonight.

  Time passed. Alan had no sense of how long he had been working as the chunks of concrete mounted at the side of his excavated plot. He used a spade to dig down in the area where he was sure the gun lay buried; the change of movement was welcome. Then he felt resistance, something solid. He crouched, groping with his hands, and touched the plastic covering the gun. He’d got there! As triumphant as any treasure hunter, Alan renewed his efforts, digging now more cautiously as he exposed the bundle.

  He never heard the shed door open. All he saw was a sudden shaft of light from someone else’s powerful torch; behind it stood a figure.

  Alan’s reaction was a reflex. Up came the spade.

  She didn’t stand a chance, though, unnervingly, she screamed before he hit her for the second time. Then he dropped the spade and grabbed the sledgehammer. He made quite sure that she was dead before he stopped his blows.

  Now he had all the time in the world to complete his task.

  23

  After Tom’s son had gone, Steve had found money at Merrifields. Once, when he was at the house with Justin, he had seen the other boy go to a drawer in a desk in Richard’s study and take out five pounds.

  ‘Cat keeps a bit here for rainy days,’ Justin had said. ‘This is a rainy day,’ and he laughed in what Steve thought was a weird way, though he laughed, too.

  Justin had never robbed Cat before and now he did it only to impress Steve. Later, he’d replaced the money with a five-pound note he’d got from his mother, pretending that he needed it for a school trip. Cat would have known who’d been to the drawer, and the consequences could have been unpleasant, since he had power over all of them.

  Today, there were thirty-five pounds in the drawer and Steve took the lot. Upstairs, there was jewellery. He stole it neatly, not turning the place upside down because what was the point of that? He’d got no quarrel with the Gardners. He found some silver spoons and forks, and after searching vainly for a holdall, took a pillow case from a bed and put them, with the slim video recorder, in that. You could always get money for a video. Then he took the mixer from the kitchen. He had to find a second pillow case to carry what would not go into the loaded first one, and, once again stumped by the limit on what he could carry, Steve left, walking home laden with his spoils. He would hide everything in his room and see if he couldn’t sell the video himself without using Greg’s brother as a middleman; he’d get more that way, and it was time he made his own connections.

  He stuffed the pillow cases under some bushes in the front garden, hoping it wouldn’t start to rain; damp would do the electrical things no good. He’d have to come down to collect them after everyone had gone to bed. Give Ivy her due, she didn’t pry, so she wouldn’t find them in his room, which he was expected to keep clean himself. He didn’t mind that; it was a fair exchange for privacy.

  Whistling, he entered the house, and Sharon, the baby in her arms, came out of the kitchen, intercepting him on his way upstairs.

  ‘You’re wanted in there,’ she said, nodding towards the sitting-room. ‘Trouble,’ she added. ‘Susan’s here.’

  Steve had noticed the blue Vauxhall in the road outside but had thought nothing of it as he stuffed his bundles underneath a prickly berberis. Susan came round to pay Ivy and sometimes to drop Mark off; perhaps he was stopping over tonight.

  Ivy had heard their voices. She emerged from the front room and asked Steve to come inside. Her face was quite without expression and she walked back into the room ahead of him, seating herself beside Susan on the sofa. Between them was the decorated box which Steve had given her.

  ‘I was very touched by this lovely present which you gave me, Steve,’ she said. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Oh – a shop in High Wycombe,’ Steve replied. ‘I went there with some mates.’ He grinned at them, but at the same time he shifted his feet awkwardly.

  ‘A box like this was stolen from Miss Darwin at The Willows on Thursday night when she was out,’ said Ivy.

  ‘Oh?’ said Steve. ‘How weird. Maybe she bought it at the same place.’

  ‘She made hers. She does the decorating,’ Ivy said. ‘There’s not another like it.’

  As soon as Susan had made her accusation, Ivy had telephoned Miss Darwin to ask her to come round and identify the box, but there was no reply. Now that Steve was back, they must proceed without her.

  ‘Some jewellery was stolen, too,’ said Susan. ‘And a radio, a toaster, and the video.’

  ‘Well?’ Steve shrugged, but his mind was racing round as he tried to see a route out of the trap.

  ‘We’ve got a key to The Willows. You used it often enough to visit Tom,’ said Ivy. ‘There was no forced entry. You could have done it, Steve, and then there’s this box, which you’ve only just given me.’

  ‘Miss Darwin was visited by Mark one day,’ said Susan. She wasn’t going to reveal that he had acquired a key of his own and had entered the house uninvited. ‘He told her about being friends with Mr Morton and she thought he might be the thief.’

  Steve made a wry face.

  ‘Not Mark,’ he said. ‘He’d not steal.’

  ‘I hope you wouldn’t either,’ Ivy said. ‘Steve, I want to go into your room now and look among your things in case there is any stolen property there.’

  ‘Course there isn’t,’ Steve replied.

  ‘Then you won’t mind us looking, will you?’ Ivy said. ‘Susan will be a witness.’ She stood up and left the room and Susan followed.

  Steve thought about running off, but if he did, he would stand no chance, whereas if he faced it
out, Ivy wouldn’t shop him to the police. Miss Darwin could have her rotten jewellery back. He’d got that other stuff outside and it was worth a bit, but he’d have to shift it as soon as this little scene was over.

  He’d come clean about The Willows, get it over, produce the tatty bits and bobs and let them crucify him with their tongues. He didn’t want Ivy going through his things; there were one or two items he’d rather she didn’t see – a few pills he’d bought but hadn’t tried, and some books she wouldn’t like, not to mention the condoms. She’d think he was too young for those. He hadn’t used one yet; he didn’t really want to, but the guys all talked about their scores and he might change his mind.

  He put on a bold expression and opened the bottom drawer of his chest where, stuffed inside a sock, was Miss Darwin’s jewellery. He gave the sock to Ivy.

  ‘It’s all there,’ he said.

  ‘What about the radio and the video recorder?’ Susan asked. ‘And the toaster?’

  Steve shrugged again.

  ‘They’re gone,’ he said. ‘A man took them off me.’ If he said he’d sold them to a mate, they’d want to know name, address, blood group, date of birth, everything. ‘She’ll get it off the insurance.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have got this.’ Ivy felt cold with shock at the proof of his guilt. She balanced the sock in her hand while she tried to think how Joe would have dealt with him. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t died; he’d have kept tabs on Steve, prevented this. Though she’d been anxious about the boy, she hadn’t seen it shaping up. ‘It’s probably of sentimental value, like my ring your dad gave me,’ she said.

  He might have been caught trying to flog the jewellery; perhaps that was what he needed – a real fright. As it was, if Miss Darwin could be persuaded, this time he might be spared.

  ‘Miss Darwin knows about the box,’ Ivy told him. ‘She wasn’t able to be here tonight, otherwise she could have decided what to do about the rest of it. Whether to tell the police. I expect she’ll have to. I’ll go and see her tomorrow and ask what’s to be done. You’ll stay in your room now, Steve.’

  She felt like Atlas bearing the burden of the world as she went downstairs with Susan.

  ‘What will you do?’ asked Susan, who felt extremely sorry for her.

  ‘It won’t be up to me, once Miss Darwin knows the truth,’ said Ivy.

  Susan resolved to postpone any drastic change in Mark’s arrangements.

  ‘Please don’t let Mark go into town with Steve,’ was her sole request.

  Steve wondered if Ivy would lock him in his room. If so, he’d have to get out of the window to move the stuff from the garden. He must shift it off the premises, hide it somewhere else, even the grounds of one of the big houses in Wordsworth Road, like The Willows.

  Alan had to hide the body. He could bury it in the hole from which he’d taken the gun. He’d need to dig a lot deeper, and it would take up far more space, but there was no hurry now.

  Shooting would have been a cleaner way of doing it, if she’d come a little later, when the gun was ready, cleaned and loaded. He’d rolled her with his foot under the bench while he went on digging. Luckily his torch, which had fallen to the ground during the skirmish – not that she had put up much resistance – hadn’t broken. She’d dropped hers and it had gone off. He’d find it when he’d got her out of the way.

  He needn’t test the gun here, in this poor light, where it was cold and damp. He could do it in comfort in the house. No one would come in upon him now while he made himself at home. He could even sleep there, as was his right, but he’d better not stay long in case someone came asking for the old bag.

  He let himself out of the shed, then turned to take his jacket off the hook. He put it on; the night was cold, and he had sweated while he dug. Between the trees he saw lights shining from the house, a welcome beacon in the gloom. She must have returned from church and noticed his torch beam through the window of the shed, then come inquisitively down. Nosey old bitch, she deserved what she had got. He picked up the gun and the box of cartridges and strode back towards the house, swaggering with confidence, claiming what should have been his own.

  He had no key. There’d be one on the body, obviously – she’d have it in her pocket or her bag. She must have dropped that when she fell. Alan did not bother to go back and hunt for it. The door might be open, if she’d gone into the house before noticing his light; if not, there’d be no problem now.

  The front door was locked, so he went in by the back door, remembering how he’d seen the kid enter the other house only a short time earlier. Good luck to him if he could get away with it, thought Alan. He broke the glass in the same manner as the boy had done, then reached in and found the key. She’d left every light on in the place; when he’d returned earlier, he’d had to remind himself that she lived there on her own because, though the curtains had been drawn, there were slits of light showing behind them at almost all the windows.

  Now, standing in the brightly lit kitchen, he saw that there was blood on his clothes, and his strong new shoes were covered in mud, not so much from his excavations, which had been comparatively dry, as from his wanderings. He was very dirty, sweaty as well as muddy.

  He didn’t like it. He could have a bath here, get himself cleaned up, but with no man in the house there’d be no change of clothing. There would be only women’s stuff, and even if he found some things to fit, he wasn’t going to start cross-dressing.

  He took off his shoes, and, in his socks, he moved about, seeking comfort. The kitchen had been rearranged but there was still a large store-cupboard leading from it; once, it had been a larder, and was cool. Inside, on a shelf facing the door, he found whisky, gin and sherry. He chose the whisky and drank some from the bottle before pouring more into a tumbler he saw face down on the drainer by the sink. He topped it up with water from the tap. Neat whisky fired him up but didn’t quench his thirst. Then, nursing his glass, he went upstairs to take a look around.

  The first room he entered was his own, and he was shocked. Instead of his posters and the dozens of books he hadn’t looked at for years, even before he moved out when he was nineteen, there were clean walls painted primrose yellow, and, on the newly painted shelves a few books. He picked one up. It was Coot Club, and he saw his name inside, and the date, in his mother’s writing. He hurled it across the floor into a corner. Against one wall there was a small desk, with some pencils and crayons in a box. There was a plain blue carpet, and new curtains printed with various plants were drawn across the window.

  This was his room. How dare someone change everything?

  Alan seized several coloured pencils and slashed them across the wall, breaking two of them, then threw them down to join Coot Club on the ground. He picked up the chair which stood before the desk and was about to fling it at the window when he remembered that the broken glass would cause a draught. He let it fall from his grasp, and it toppled over to lie on its side.

  Damned old cow, he thought. She’d turned out all his stuff. His past had gone. Even so, he could live here till someone missed her. Maybe he could stave off queries, pretend to be her nephew – anything. People were so gullible. In prison he’d heard tales from men who had worked fiddles on the weakest of assumptions. But he must remember that the youth could give him away: the junior, apprentice thief, young Steve.

  Alan had left the gun in the kitchen, and he went downstairs again to look at it, unwrapping its many layers of polythene, clicking the trigger. No rust was visible. He’d greased it well all those years ago and now he wiped it on a kitchen towel, then broke it open. An unloaded gun was useless. He peeled the protective coverings from the box of cartridges and took two out. They looked all right. Terrorists kept weapons concealed for years. He slid the cartridges into each barrel of the gun. Now, if a caller came, he was prepared.

  After that, he began searching for food. In the refrigerator, covered in foil, there was a plate of sandwiches which tasted very fresh. He took
them upstairs with him to his own room, where he had left his glass of whisky, and he sat down on the floor to eat them, rocking gently to and fro.

  By the time Justin returned home that evening, everyone else was back at Merrifields. Terry was in their playroom, music on, the volume turned up very loud.

  ‘They’ve been fighting again,’ he said to Justin.

  He looked very white. The rows between his mother and Richard frightened him, whereas they simply made Justin angry with their stepfather.

  ‘Where are they?’ Justin asked, turning the music down.

  ‘Cat’s gone to his workshop. I don’t know where Mum is,’ Terry answered.

  Much to his surprise, he’d liked it round at that old lady’s. Terry had known his mother was seething, ready to explode, but Cat was calm, and Miss Darwin seemed to have everything under control. Mum wouldn’t flare up while they were there. The food that was set out was excellent; Mark seemed quite at home, and nothing went really wrong while they were in that house. Even Mark’s mother had got quite chatty, trying to be nice to Mum, who wouldn’t respond. Yet she could be lovely; why did she have to be so changeable? Was it because he, Terry, was sometimes naughty, like the night he ran away? But he didn’t often do bad things. Justin was the one who hung around with boys who, Terry knew, had been taken home in police cars; he had seen it happen. Maybe they hadn’t done much, but if you went in one of their cars, you’d caught their attention, just as he’d done, and he didn’t want that to happen a second time.

  ‘It’s all Cat’s fault,’ said Justin. ‘He gets up her nose. And mine,’ he added, for good measure.

  Terry knew this wasn’t fair.

  ‘He works hard. He pays for all of us,’ he said.

  ‘And he lets us know it,’ Justin answered. ‘I’ll go and look for Mum.’

  Terry thought she was best left till she’d had time to cool down, but it was no good telling Justin that. He turned the volume up again and lay back in his chair, rocking and gyrating to the beat.