by Ann Purser
This time she did not lose consciousness, and with help struggled to her feet looking dazed. She quickly regained her composure and sternly forbade any of the worried women to telephone for an ambulance.
“Well, one thing’s sure,” said Lois firmly. “You’re not driving yourself home. Your car will be quite safe round the back here, and I’ll run you home.”
“In a van with ‘New Brooms’ emblazoned on the side?” said Mrs. T-J, quite restored. “Well, I suppose I must accept your offer, Mrs. Meade. Perhaps you will organise returning my car to me tomorrow. I have to go into Tresham.” She had arranged to see her bank manager in the afternoon, and was not looking forward to the meeting.
Lois gritted her teeth and said she would do her best. Then she extracted a promise from Mrs. T-J that she would make an appointment to see her doctor as soon as possible. “After all, twice in one day is a warning that something might be wrong,” she said.
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE VERY BRAVE, LOIS,” GRAN SAID WHEN they got home. “She actually listened to you, though, so she probably knows in her heart of hearts that something is not right.”
“So I expect you and me will have to get her car back to her?” Derek said when they told him what had happened. “It’s a pity that son of hers don’t live closer. She’s got nobody else to turn to, really, has she?”
Gran shook her head. “Not like you lot,” she said smugly. “I’m always here, a tower of strength and reliability.”
Lois and Derek looked at one another. “And we are eternally grateful,” they chorused.
THREE
THE BANK MANAGER WAS NOT SMILING. HE SHOOK MRS. T-J’S hand firmly, and indicated a seat. Then he explained in detail the financial position of the Farnden Hall estate, expressed his regret that he couldn’t be more optimistic, but said that he was sure she would consult with her son and perhaps they could find ways of increasing revenue. Lots of estate owners diversified these days, and some of them were quite lucrative. Unfortunately, he added, the Farnden Hall position was so serious that small diversifications would not be sufficient.
He looked at the big woman sitting opposite him, and realised that she was pale and not at all her usual confident self. Too many times he had been patronised by her overbearing manner, and he found himself thinking biblically that the mighty were now somewhat fallen.
After agreeing that she would consult her son and think seriously about making the estate pay its way in the future, she prepared to leave. But the manager had not finished with her.
“Just one more thing, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones,” he said. “If all else fails, and I am afraid the bank can advance no more loans, you and the family might consider selling part of the estate. You may even think of selling up completely, and retiring in comfort nearer to your family? Many people in your position are doing that kind of thing these days.”
“I am not ‘many people,’” Mrs. T-J retorted, and slammed out of the room without any further conversation.
By the time she reached home, her heart was fluttering, and she sat down in the warm kitchen, grateful for the reassuring ticking of the old shelf clock and her aged dog’s comforting head on her knee.
JOSIE MEADE, STANDING BY HER SHOP DOOR AND WONDERING IF IT was worth ordering fresh flowers for the weekend, saw the big car go by with Mrs. T-J at the wheel. Her mother had told her about yesterday’s alarms, and she watched until the car was out of sight. It was certainly going slowly, but then there was a speed limit through the village and the old girl was a magistrate. It would look bad if she got done for speeding! This reminded her that she must ask Dad to have a go at Mum about driving too fast.
A small truck pulled up outside the shop, and she could see two men in the cab. The driver began a mobile phone conversation, and the other got out and came towards the shop.
“Afternoon, duckie,” he said, and followed Josie inside, where she took up her position behind the counter. She had never seen him before, but smiled her usual friendly welcome, and asked what she could get for him.
“Twenty Marlboro Red, please,” he said, and Josie turned to take a packet off the shelf, but found the last had been sold that morning. Must have been Gran, when she took over whilst Josie went to the dentist. She apologised and said if he could wait a couple of minutes, she would fetch more from the stockroom.
When she returned, the shop was empty, and she saw the man leaping into the truck cab, which then left at speed. “Oh no,” she groaned, cursing herself for being so careless and naïve. How often had she been told not to leave a customer alone in the shop? Then it struck her that he must have made off with something. Fortunately the post office cubbyhole was shut today, so no cash from there, then. She looked in the counter till, and saw that there was very little left, only a few copper coins. Sod it! She had filled up with notes and silver first thing, and knew that there had been at least a hundred pounds all told.
The bell over the shop door jangled, and she looked up to see her fiancé, Sergeant Matthew Vickers, coming in with a loving look on his face. It was not returned, and he said, “Hey, what’s up? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
She shook her head mutely, and he snapped immediately into policeman mode. “Something to do with those characters in the truck outside? I noticed one of’em making a hasty exit.”
So then Josie was able to tell him what happened. She was expecting a lecture on foolish carelessness, but Matthew said nothing until he had finished writing something rapidly in his notebook.
“Just the number of the truck,” he said. “I’m lucky. I’ve got a good memory for numbers, but I need to write them down fast, otherwise they fade. Now, how much did he take?” After establishing that it was a largish sum, he ran out of the shop and drove off in pursuit. The lanes leaving Farnden were narrow and twisting, so he stood a good chance of catching them.
After he had gone, Josie sat on the stool behind the counter and tried to compose herself. She needed a consoling word from somebody, and decided that when she had closed up the shop at five thirty, she would go home and fill them in before they heard from the village gossip network. In spite of living in a flat over the shop, she still thought of Mum and Dad’s house as home.
THE TRUCK THIEVES WERE BROTHERS. GERALD MOWLEM DROVE, and his young brother, Clive, obediently did the business. They were in a small way, and sometimes Clive thought he would like to try his hand at something more ambitious. “Rob a bank?” Gerald had said caustically when he suggested it, and added that he should remember his name was Clive, not Clyde. And anyway, look what happened to him and his Bonnie.
Now they trundled through the lanes back towards Tresham, where they lived in one of the myriad of back streets, looked after by their elderly mother. She was vaguely aware that what they did to bring in the housekeeping money was best not mentioned, but with her own cleaning jobs around town, they managed to make ends meet.
She was beginning to wonder, nevertheless, what they would do when she could no longer get down on her hands and knees to clean and polish floors, and even worse, get up from her knees back into a standing position. She went cleaning to only two houses now, and in each case, the clients were widows of much her own age. One of them had casually dropped into the conversation over coffee break that she expected in a few months’ time to be moving to a residential care home. The time had come, she said. And the other was due to move to live with her daughter as soon as the annexe they were building was ready for her.
“Better stop somewhere to get the bread Mum wanted,” Gerald said. “Don’t suppose you thought to lift a couple of loaves from Farnden?” He grinned, and thumped his brother on the shoulder affectionately.
Clive shook his head. Then they both heard it. Behind them, a police car was approaching with its wailing alarm filling the countryside around.
“Bloody hell!” said Gerald. “Where did he spring from? Didn’t see him back there, did you? Anyway, play dumb. We got the stuff into the hiding place, didn’t we?”
“Play dumb!” hissed Gerald, and then lowered the window. “Good day, Officer,” he said. “Can we help you?”
“I’m sure you can,” Matthew said, and saw with satisfaction that another police car was approaching from the opposite direction, trapping the truck. “Get out, please. Both of you.”
WHEN JOSIE HAD TOLD HER STORY TO LOIS AND DEREK, AND TO Gran, and been given hot, sweet tea—for shock, insisted Gran—she felt a little better. All were sympathetic, and only Lois said it was a shame Josie hadn’t seen that story in the local paper last week, where a village post office had been robbed at gunpoint.
“Gunpoint!” said Josie. “But Matthew went after them, and he was all on his own!”
“He’d call for support. Don’t you worry about him. He’s well trained to take care of himself. And anyway, your bloke didn’t have a gun, did he?” Derek took hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Never mind, me duck,” he continued. “It’ll be a lesson you won’t forget in a hurry. This is quite a week, what with Mrs. T-J conking out all over the place, and then this. Let’s hope next week will be more peaceful.”
At this point, the telephone rang, and Lois went to answer it in her office at the front of the house. “Yes?” she said abruptly. She wanted to get back to the kitchen and Josie, who was looking distinctly pale and wan.
“Lois, my dear,” said Cowgill’s voice. “So sorry to hear about Josie. Matthew phoned in to let me know. I don’t suppose it’s any consolation, but this is not the first robbery of its kind in a small area around Tresham. Nasty one over the other side of town, where a gun was used, but the others have all been petty thefts.”
Lois bridled. “It may be petty to you, Cowgill,” she said sharply, “but in my Josie’s shop the takings are not in thousands. A hundred pounds is a big loss to her. Get your feet on the ground, Inspector. Think small for once.”
Cowgill grinned lovingly. His Lois was in good form. He said he would certainly take her advice. Ever since Josie and Matthew, his nephew, had announced their engagement, he had felt able to keep in touch with the Meades on a regular basis, and not necessarily to ask for snooping help from Lois.
“Is this a social call, or do you want something?” said Lois. “Because Josie is here, and needs some lovin’ to cheer her up.”
As soon as she had said it, she knew it was a mistake, and could not help a muffled laugh when Cowgill said that he knew exactly how she felt. Then his voice changed, and he said that yes, he did want something. And he knew Lois would want to help, after what had just happened.
“We reckon there are a couple of small-time villains operating around here. They’re quite smart. Never too greedy, and according to witnesses, they drive a small truck with the name of a builders’ business painted on the side. Trouble is, there’s no contact address or number, and we’ve been unable so far to trace them.”
“What about the two that have left my Josie in a real state?”
“Plain white truck. No details painted on. There was no trace of stolen cash. But Matthew reckons they lied through their teeth when they gave addresses, et cetera. We’ll find out, of course, but I’d appreciate it if you could keep your ears open for reports of any other thefts in your area.”
“Yeah, well, I suppose I must. I’ll be in touch. Now I must get back to Josie. And if you ask me one more time if she’s fixed a date for the wedding, I’ll never speak to you again.”
Cowgill heard the dialling tone and his face fell. The thought of never speaking to his Lois ever again was unthinkable! He got up from his desk and went down to the operations room to find someone to bawl out.
THE BROTHERS MOWLEM WERE TAKEN TO THE POLICE STATION for more questioning, and now they were told they were lucky. The gun-toting thief who had raided a local post office had just been brought in; otherwise they might well have been detained on suspicion of that one.
Clive kept as quiet as possible, allowing Gerald to answer the questions, but he, too, was ordered to respond, and did his best not to put his foot in it. They were told the cop who had followed them out of Farnden had seen Clive leaving the shop, and had talked to the distressed woman inside. Although the police were still searching the truck, now parked outside the police station, Clive was confident the stash was safe. But it was important to get home as quickly as possible to remove it and conceal it elsewhere.
His imagination ran riot as he sat listening to Gerald’s carefully prepared answers. If the cops did find it, they would be sent to jail. Their old mother would be heartbroken, inconsolable, and would probably die before her time. They would be responsible, and the vengeful God she was always quoting would have a dire punishment waiting for them.
When they were finally released with a caution that they would hear further, and—as an aside—not to try skipping the country, Gerald strode out with Clive stumbling along behind him. “Get in, and don’t say a bloody word,” he said, and Clive nodded dumbly.
When they were almost home, he muttered, “What do we tell Mum?”
“Nothing, of course, you idiot,” Gerald said. “She don’t need to know nothing about it. Here, give me the cash and I’ll deal with it.”
“IS THAT YOU?” GLADYS MOWLEM SHOUTED FROM THE KITCHEN.
“Yeah, it’s us,” Gerald yelled back.
“Got the bread?”
Gerald did not answer, but Clive called out they had forgotten, and he would run down to the corner shop and get a loaf. “Thick or thin sliced?”
“Thin, as usual,” said his mother as they appeared in the kitchen. “And none of those fancy things with cabbage seeds all over them. A nice thin-sliced white.”
Clive disappeared out of the back door and took the shortcut through the passage that ran between the terraces of small houses put up during the boot-making boom in Victorian times. They were listed now, protected by regulations from being arbitrarily bashed down with bulldozers. Gladys Mowlem had said many times she’d rather have a nice modern bungalow than her pokey, damp-smelling house that had belonged to previous generations of what she referred to scathingly as slaves.
Clive emerged into the road and heaved a sigh of relief. The money was safe, and just to get away from Gerald was a blessing. Although he relied heavily on his older brother, always following his instructions and never arguing, he only really felt like himself when he could be on his own.
“Hallo, Clive! How’re you doin’?” The Pakistani family who had bought the corner shop knew everyone in the warren of terraced houses. They had been there for ten years, and were completely accepted by ninety-nine percent of the local people. They reacted stoically to the one percent who tormented them from time to time for being illegal Pakis stealing British houses and jobs.
“Not s’bad,” Clive lied. He still felt shaky, and was glad to lean on the counter and have a chat about football for a few minutes.
FOUR
JOSIE UNLOCKED THE SHOP DOOR AND SHIVERED. A CHILL WIND was blowing from the east, down the empty High Street and past the bus stop, where a group of Tresham comprehensive schoolchildren was waiting, the older girls looking frighteningly adult, and the boys sneaking speculative looks at them.
Nothing changes, thought Josie as she carried out cellophane-wrapped flowers for the stand outside the shop. She had kicked over the traces in her time, but now felt almost too settled and dull by comparison.
“Morning, Josie!” It was the vicar, smiling broadly at her. He was a nice, innocent man, popular in the village, and he and his wife bought all their groceries from Josie, stressing that the only time they went into a supermarket was when they couldn’t get what they needed at the village shop. He followed her inside and, after looking closely at her, remarked that she looked pale. “A nice long walk across the water meadows with your mother’s little dog is what’s prescribed this morning,” he said.
Josie smiled.
“And who will be the shopkeeper, if I do that? Are you offering?”
There was a pause, and Josie wondered if she had offended him. Then he said, “Do you know, Josie, that has given me an idea. All week I walk around the village, hoping to meet people, sometimes visiting the sick, and on Sundays I preach to a congregation of half a dozen, two of whom are usually happily dozing off. But now, if I put in a couple of hours every week behind your counter—you could show me the ropes—just think how many folk I would meet!”
Josie blenched. Oh crumbs, she thought. How do I deal with this one? I can’t think of anything more likely to turn my customers away than the sight of a dog collar behind the counter! Not that he wasn’t a very nice man, of course. But most of the village would react in the way they did to the occasional pairs of Jehovah’s Witnesses, who knocked at their doors and were relentlessly polite, talked about God and were very difficult to get rid of. Most villagers took evasive action, made an excuse and shut the door in their faces.
JOSIE WAS RESCUED BY THE VICAR HIMSELF. “DON’T WORRY, MY dear,” he said kindly. “I was only joking, though it isn’t actually a bad idea. No, I have plenty to do now they’ve made me rural dean. Meetings, meetings. You know the kind of thing.”
Josie sighed with relief. “And anyway,” she said, “you’d not want to be held up at gunpoint whilst thieves raided the till, would you?”
The vicar looked alarmed. “Has this happened to you? When? Is that why you’re looking pale this morning? My dear child, why didn’t you stop me in my ridiculous wanderings? Just tell me what happened. Unless you’d rather not? I only came in for my chocolate, and I’ve plenty of time to listen.”
Luckily, since Josie wanted to get on with checking stock and in general getting back to a normal day in the shop, the door opened and Floss Cullen, née Pickering, came in and the vicar left with a cheery wave.