by Ann Purser
She arrived at the schoolhouse five minutes early, just as the children were crowding into school after the afternoon bell. She knocked, and the door opened at once.
“Morning, Mrs Stratford!” said Mrs Betts warmly. “I had no idea you worked for New Brooms, until Mrs Meade called. I suppose I could have come to you direct?”
Sheila walked through to the kitchen, and decided to make the situation quite clear. “No,” she said, “I don’t do jobs on my own account. Just clients of New Brooms. Then I get the protection of the company if anything goes wrong,” she said firmly.
Mrs Betts stiffened. “I’m sure nothing will go wrong here,” she said. “Now, I’ll just show you round the house, and then leave you to get on. You know your job better than I do!” she added with an attempt at a smile. “We miss poor old Mrs Whatsit, but she was getting a bit past it,” she continued. “And then that nasty stroke. My husband tried his best to rally her, but we had to call the ambulance in the end.”
“Yes, I heard,” said Sheila baldly. “Now, we’d better get on. I have another job to go to later on.”
The house was neat and tidy, with a chintzy sitting room, a study for Mr Betts where the dining room would once have been, and a modern kitchen. Sheila peered out of the window and saw a path leading from the back door to a gate in the school fence. Teacher’s Way, the kids called it. Sheila had been a pupil in the school once, and now had grandchildren there. She knew a great deal more about its past and present than Mrs Betts.
Upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom. “Master bedroom,” said Mrs Betts grandly. And then: “Here’s the guest room and Prue’s bedroom. But I’ve promised her she can clean that herself. You know what these young people are like, and she’s very private. Locks it when she goes out, but when she goes to college I plan to give it a good turn out.”
That’ll be a mistake, thought Sheila, but said nothing.
The afternoon went quickly, with a tea break at exactly three o’clock. At half past, Sheila washed out her dusters and hung them on the line in the garden. It was lovely sunny day, and the children were in the playground greeting waiting mothers and fathers. She waved to her granddaughter and went back into the house. “That’s it, then,” she said to Mrs Betts. “Mrs Meade will be calling before next week to make sure my work’s satisfactory and there’s no problems.”
“Oh, everywhere looks lovely!” enthused Mrs Betts. “There are certainly no problems as far as we are concerned. Only too grateful…there’s really no need for Mrs Meade to come again…”
“She always does,” said Sheila, collecting her jacket from the hall. “A very good employer, she is. Pity there’s not more around like her,” she added, smiling innocently. “I’ll say cheerio, then, and see you next week.” She walked swiftly out and round to the school gate, where she hugged the children and went off to have a cup of her daughter’s disgustingly weak tea.
♦
“Hello? Sheila? Lois here. Everything go all right?”
“Fine. Himself wasn’t there, o’ course. And Mrs Betts fluttered round like a daft old moth. Still, once I got goin’ she left me alone. Said she was pleased.”
“Was Prue there?” said Lois casually.
Sheila hesitated. “No, at school. But her mum said somethin’ funny. Said she’d promised her I wouldn’t go in her room. Keeps it locked. Wouldn’t’ve catched me letting our Jean lock her bedroom door! Funny, I call it.”
“Mmm,” said Lois. “Well, I’ll drop in and see her at the end of the week. Usual routine call. I don’t suppose you’ll run into Betts until the holidays, then we shall see. Thanks, anyway, Sheila. See you.” She put down the telephone and sat for several minutes staring at nothing, until Gran yelled from the kitchen that tea was ready.
∨ Terror on Tuesday ∧
Twenty-Eight
“Last day wiring at the pub,” Derek said next morning as he kissed Lois goodbye. “Been a long job, but one more day will do it.”
“Tying up a few loose ends?” said Lois wittily.
“Good God, I hope not!” Derek replied. “Bit more technical than that, or I shall be in trouble,” he added, and then turned back from his van. “Just you be careful, my gel,” he said. “Keep your eye on the road and no thinkin’ about Dick Reading or the major or any o’ that.” He blew her another kiss, and was gone.
Lois went back into the house. She had given him an edited account of the smash on the Dalling road, chiefly to account for the need to check the insurance on Hazel’s car. Had he guessed there was more to it? Anyway, his words were timely. Eyes peeled for the Gorilla and his mate, Lois reminded herself. She had to drive to the wholesalers today to stack up on cleaning supplies, and meant to go round by Waltonby to drop in on the vicar. Just a periodic check, she’d told Bridie, but she had found the Reverend Rogers very pleasant and willing to talk, and with a bit of luck she could steer the conversation round to Mr Betts. She was sure the reverend would not divulge school secrets, but she just might pick up something useful. It was worth a try.
The vicar was in his garden, bent double over a flower bed, and Lois cleared her throat loudly as she approached. Deaf as a post, Hazel had said. He was not, but his hearing had definitely diminished and she did not want to startle the old bloke.
He straightened up with a welcoming smile. “Good morning!” he said. “I do hope you have not come to tell me Mrs Reading is indisposed? Or has another job? Or won the lottery?” He chuckled to himself, and added, “Come along in, my dear. Nice to see you again, and I’m so glad you’ve come to interrupt me. We can have a cup of tea and a chat.”
“No, nothing wrong with Bridie,” said Lois reassuringly. “She is very happy working here. No, it is just that I call in on all our clients every so often, just to check that there’s no problems.”
He confirmed that there were none, and began to talk about his garden. “It’s much too big for me, of course,” he said. “But you cannot get help these days, even though so many are out of work. I do get one of the bigger boys from the school to sweep up leaves in the autumn, and sometimes they’ll cut the grass. Anything to do with machinery! But as for weeding…well, that is too much like-hard work, I suspect.”
Keep him on the school, Lois! She poured him another cup of tea from the lovely china teapot that had seen better days, and said quickly, “That’s very thoughtful of Mr Betts to send boys round to help.”
The vicar nodded. “I suppose it is,” he said, “but to tell you the truth, my dear, I think it more likely that Mrs Betts is the one to think of these things. The headmaster has so much on his hands, always dashing hither and thither…not an easy man…” He stopped speaking and seemed to fall into a reverie.
Lois began again. “Gets on well with the parents, does he? My kids went to a big Tresham school, and sometimes the teachers and parents came to blows…specially on the Churchill, where we lived.”
He looked up at her suddenly. “Blows?” he said. “Mr Betts? Have you heard something, Mrs Meade?”
He had clearly not heard her properly, but she pressed ahead. “You can’t always believe what you hear,” she said cheerfully, “though my mum always says there’s no smoke without fire!”
“I do hope not, though…” And once more he tailed off without ending the sentence. She was sure he was well aware of the rumours, and far from being the batty old duffer that Hazel had described, had a cunning look in his eye. “Well,” she said lightly, “Mrs Stratford is cleaning for Mrs Betts now, so maybe she will be able to lighten the load a bit. I’ve heard Mrs Whatsit was not quite up to it, being old, an’ that.”
“Poor woman!” said the vicar, suddenly getting to his feet and extending a hand to Lois. “Must go and visit her. And I expect you’ll be wanting to get on,” he added, shaking her hand firmly and moving her gently towards the door, just as he did after morning service when a parishioner talked too long at the church door.
♦
Lois loaded up her car at the w
holesalers and started back along the dual carriageway that took her out of the wasteland of industrial Tresham, stopping off at a garage selling cheap petrol. As she came out of the garage shop, she glanced behind her and saw a police car, chequered yellow and blue, parked to one side of the forecourt. It was Keith Simpson, the local bobby from her own district, and a sort of friend. He had been helpful on several occasions in the past, chiefly when Josie had got involved with that Melvyn Hallhouse and run away from home, and Lois waved. He smiled, and got out of the car. Oh blast, thought Lois. She didn’t particularly want to be seen talking to a uniformed policeman just at this moment.
“Hi, Lois! How are you…and the family?”
“Fine,” she said. “Got to get going now, children home from school…”
“Thought you had Gran living in?” said Keith Simpson, still smiling.
“Blimey!” said Lois. “Word gets around fast. Anyway, must go – ”
“Just wanted to ask you something.” Constable Simpson had stopped smiling now, and seemed to grow a few inches taller. “I believe you have a Gary Needham working for you?”
Lois nodded. “So what?” she said.
“I need to have a word with him,” he said, “about a police matter. He’s a bit difficult to track down. Doesn’t come to the phone…ignores our requests to come down to the station…that kind of thing. Don’t want to come down too heavy…not a serious thing. Could you mention it to him, Lois?”
“Certainly not!” Lois’s face was an angry red. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine! Gary Needham is a perfectly good worker and I’ve no fault to find. If you want him, you get him. I must go now,” she added abruptly, and, getting into her car, drove off without looking back.
Keith Simpson frowned. What was eating Lois? She’d overreacted a bit, surely, considering it was only a matter of going through red lights. And he wanted to take a look at young Needham’s car, check that it had got a current MOT, etc. Ah well, Lois had been a tricky one in the past. Women. You never knew which way they would jump. He went back to his patrol car and forgot about the encounter as an emergency call came in.
Lois, on the other hand, did not forget. She wondered what Gary had done. He was a difficult one to sort out. Sometimes he seemed so straightforward, and then at others he was secretive and uncommunicative. The one consistent thing about Gary Needham was his politeness and good temper. Nothing ruffled him, and he took reprimand without argument. Perhaps she should not have been short with Keith Simpson, but tried to find out more. Still, it was a real cheek asking her to intervene. Her loyalty was to her staff, and that would remain a priority until she had some definite evidence that Gary was up to something.
She looked at her watch. Gran would be there in Long Farnden by now, so she decided to call in at the supermarket to get supplies. It was crowded with shoppers, and she had to wait a long time at the checkout. The children should be safely back, she thought, as she drove into Long Farnden. She was dying for a cup of tea. As she turned into the High Street, her heart stopped. Halfway down the street, outside her house, she could see a car parked. It was chequered blue and yellow: a police car.
“Oh my God, the kids!” she yelled, and accelerated. Hardly knowing what she did, she rushed into the house, leaving the engine running and the shopping spilling out of the open car door. “Mum!” she screamed. “Mum! Where are you!”
Gran appeared in the kitchen and took her arm. “I’m here, ducky,” she said. “And so are all the kids, all fine.”
“But the police…”
“Sit down, Lois,” Gran said, gently pushing her into a chair. “They’ve come to tell us there’s been an accident. It’s Derek…”
Lois shot to her feet. “Where? What’s happened? Is he…?”
Gran shook her head. “No, he’s not. But he’s very badly hurt, and in the hospital. Now, you’d better have a word with the policeman, if you can manage it.”
It was Keith Simpson, of course, and he had no hesitation in putting his arms round Lois and giving her an unofficial hug. “It’s OK,” he said. “Come on, love, sit down and we’ll have a little chat. Then I’ll take you to see Derek.”
After a minute or two, Lois was composed enough to ask what happened. “The Waltonby crossroads,” he said. “Derek had finished the job at the pub and left early.”
“Whose fault…who hit him?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Keith Simpson. “Hit and run, the bastard. But we’ll get him, don’t you worry. There was a witness…woman on a bike…said it was a big black car, with them smoky windows, so she couldn’t see the driver.”
Lois was deathly white. “Oh no,” she said, “oh my God, not my Derek…”
∨ Terror on Tuesday ∧
Twenty-Nine
Keith Simpson had a hard time persuading Lois that it would be foolish of her to drive to the hospital by herself. She had insisted that she would be perfectly all right, that she could then stay as long as she wanted, and be no further trouble to him. He said she was in no fit state to drive, whatever she might think, and if she didn’t want him to wait, then she could ring for a taxi to take her back home.
“Taxi?” said Lois sharply. “We’re not made of money. No, I’ll get a bus. Or ring for someone to come and get me. Hazel would come,” she added, thinking quickly of likely helpers.
Derek was in intensive care. A senior nurse took over from Keith Simpson, and held on to Lois’s arm as she ushered her in to see him. “Don’t be alarmed at all the paraphernalia,” she had warned, but Lois felt a jolt of panic when she saw him surrounded by tubes and plastic bottles and dripping blood. But it was his face that was the most shocking. That’s not my Derek! was Lois’s first thought, but then she saw that it was. The familiar face, normally so full of colour and life, was paper white. His eyes were closed, and there were bandages everywhere. She choked, and felt the nurse’s hand take hers. “Sit down here for a while.” The calm voice was comforting, and Lois did as she was told.
“Is he asleep…or unconscious?” she whispered.
The nurse smiled. “He’s stable,” she said. “We shall know more later, when he is able to speak to us. It will take time, Mrs Meade, and we must be patient.” Now Lois noticed the heart monitor, with its regular bleeps. She couldn’t bear to look at it, in case it stopped or quickened. “You can touch his hand,” said the nurse, and Lois reached out, resting her hand as lightly as she could on top of Derek’s. It was warm and rough, and so tangible a part of the Derek she loved so much that she could not stop the tears. The nurse patted her shoulder. “A couple of minutes more, and then I should leave him to rest,” she said to the weeping Lois. “It is a shock, my dear,” she added, “but next time you come, you’ll be a great help to him, I’m sure.”
By the time Lois left the hospital and stood in the car park dialling Hazel Reading on her mobile, she had pulled herself together. “Hazel? It’s Lois. I’m at the hospital, and I need a lift home.”
She did not need to say more, as Hazel answered without questions, “I’m on me way, Mrs M. I’ll pick you up outside. See you soon.”
It was twenty or so minutes before Hazel would be in Tresham, and so Lois walked slowly across to where ambulances stood in a row, their drivers chatting quietly. She went up to one at random. “Do you know which one of you picked up my husband? Road accident – Waltonby crossroads – Derek Meade?”
The driver shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “Ask Jim over there.”
“Yeah, it was me,” the driver said. “Sorry, me duck. He was in a nasty mess. But they reckon he’ll be OK. You all right?”
Lois nodded. “Was there anybody else involved?” she said.
“Nobody there but the police by the time we arrived. Mind you,” the driver added, “I think there was a witness. Woman on a bike. The police were talking to her. I think my mate knew who she was.”
“That’s right,” said one of the others. “Lives in Waltonby, friend of my sister. She and her bloke ru
n the pub. Not married, but as good as.”
“Oh, right,” said Lois. She knew her, then. And Derek had often spoken of her as being a nice enough woman, good at the job. “Thanks a lot,” she said to the drivers, and walked across to the bench by the entrance to wait for Hazel. She sat down and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate. She would get those bastards if it was the last thing she did.
“Lois?” It was a familiar voice, a man’s voice. “Are you all right?” It was Hunter Cowgill, looking exceedingly worried.
“If anybody asks me that again, I shall bash them,” Lois replied, reduced to childish threats. She was so tired, she couldn’t think, couldn’t work out what Cowgill was doing in front of her asking stupid questions. “I’m waiting for Hazel,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “And here she is.”
Hazel’s car pulled up beside Cowgill, and she hopped out quickly. “Mrs M?” she said, “are you…?”
“Don’t ask,” said Cowgill grimly. “She’ll bash you. Just take her home and make sure Gran’s there to look after her. I’ll talk to you later, Hazel. Make sure you take care of her, won’t you?” He leaned over the seated Lois and touched her shoulder. “Sorry, love,” he said. “We’ll get ‘em.” And he walked away to his car, and was gone.
“Did you ring Cowgill?” said Lois, as they drove out of Tresham.
Hazel nodded, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I thought it best,” she said. “Hope you’re not cross.”
“Then you know about…?”
Hazel nodded again. “Most of it,” she said. “There’s more to tell, but it can wait. Got to get Derek better first.” They drove on in silence then, and Lois looked blankly out of the windows, seeing nothing.
“Here we are, then,” Hazel said, driving into the Meades’ entrance. Gran was standing watching out for her, and by the time the car stopped, she was at Lois’s door and helping her out.