Secrets on Saturday (30 page)

“Bill and Ben, the Flowerpot Men,” said Lois, and Floss looked puzzled. Not worth explaining, thought Lois, and said, “Come on, then, now I’m here I’ll give you a hand. What’s left to do?”

“Landings and stairs,” Floss said. “I’ll finish the kitchen. Thanks a lot.”

Lois lugged the heavy old Hoover up the stairs and began cleaning the landings. The carpet was threadbare here and there, and she had to stop and disentangle bits of thread from the machine. When she straightened up, a shaft of sunlight had appeared through the window at the end of the corridor. She blinked. It couldn’t have been!

“Floss!” she called.

“Yes?” The girl’s voice came from downstairs.

Lois yelled back, “Nothing. Thought I heard you shout.” She’d heard nothing, but had seen something. The swiftly crossing figure of a man, emerging from one door and disappearing into another, had passed through the sunlight. It was a familiar figure, and Lois’s heart sank to her boots.

Should she go and look, or leave well alone? She had no desire to meet Reg Abthorpe again, particularly as she was on her own with not even a small dog to defend her. But … She grasped the Hoover, and with the motor running, pushed it to the end of the corridor. Leaving it switched on, she tried the handles of both doors in turn. Both were locked. How had he …? Unwilling to consider the possibility of a ghost, Lois went back to the stairs and quickly finished her cleaning.

“All done, then,” Floss said, and the two walked towards their cars.

Lois asked, “Ever seen anything in this place? Are there any stories of ghosts?”

Floss laughed. “Oh God, yes. I think I saw one myself once. Looked like a man flitting across the corridor upstairs.
Saw him outlined against that window at the end. But he didn’t stop to talk. Shame, really. Anyway, thanks for coming over and being so nice. Cheers, Mrs. M.”

For a while after Floss had driven off, Lois sat in her car and thought. It was no ghost, she was sure. Was this a clue to where Reg Abthorpe was holed up? But surely Mrs. T-J wouldn’t … wasn’t … no, of course she wasn’t. Lois drove off, narrowly missing a cock pheasant too tame to get out of the way.

F
RANCES
W
ALLIS STOOD BEHIND HER NET CURTAINS
, keeping lookout in Blackberry Gardens. She had switched off all the lights in the house, as instructed. Reg should be back soon, and then she could draw the curtains, put on the lights, and let some normality back into her dark and dismal home. If only she could get out of this village, this country, even, and begin to live a quiet, unbothered life. Alone. She wouldn’t care if she never saw her husband again, or Reg, come to that. It wasn’t as if Reg was her real brother. He’d traced her after a long search, and broken the news that they both had the same father, but different mothers. “Spread it around, he did,” Reg had said with a laugh. “I reckon I take after my mum. I don’t know about you?”

“Not sure,” Frances had said, carefully not telling him the identity of her mother, which he clearly wanted to know. Reg had stayed in touch, become very friendly with her husband, and then suggested they should work together at his little schemes. He said he’d found a really nice house for them in a lovely village. It had turned out
to be this village, of all villages. Reg could be nice as pie, and then change in seconds to a cruel, unprincipled crook. If he took after his mother, then Frances hoped she would never meet her. He scarcely ever spoke of her, but when he did, it was with contempt and bitterness.

Now the back door slammed shut. Frances turned and heard Reg shout, “I’m back. Where’s supper?”

Frances remembered the times when Reg’s visits had concerned just foxes and badgers, baiting and fighting. But all that seemed to have stopped. Those horrible terriers hadn’t been out for ages. They were bred for the job, and were difficult to control. Reg had been in court for badger-baiting once, and was forbidden to keep dogs. So he’d parked them on Frances, who kept them tied up most of the time. When they were freed and taken out by Reg, they went mad.

“Help me draw the curtains,” she answered, and the two went round the house drawing all the curtains before switching on subdued lighting. “How much longer is all this going to take?” Frances said. “I’m fed up with living like a recluse.”

“Like to join the Women’s Institute, would you? Sing in the church choir?” Reg’s smile was without warmth.

Frances shivered. “Well, as a matter of fact, yes, I would. But there’s no chance as long as you and those villains of yours are creeping about.”

“And what would hubby say? Have you mentioned it to him, maybe suggested he should join the Whist Club? I can guess what he would say. Would you like me to mention it to him?”

Frances looked at him with hatred. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “Mind your own bloody business for once. And get going out of here as soon as bloody well possible!”

“Language!” Reg mocked. “I’ll go as soon as I’m ready, sister dear, and not before,” he said, and went upstairs whistling.

* * *

D
EREK HAD RELUCTANTLY AGREED TO
L
OIS MEETING
Cowgill at the shop. “Only very occasionally, Lois,” he’d cautioned. “It’s bad enough you doing this ferreting, but I’m not having our Josie involved. Is that clear?” Lois had nodded, and consulted Josie. Her partner had not seemed to care much, apart from suggesting in jest that they charged rent to the cops. Josie had said what a good idea, and that it would stop Cowgill turning up at all hours. “Of course, I’ll warn you when he’s coming,” Lois had said. “It won’t be often, I can promise you that!”

She wondered if it would be worth arranging a meeting straight away, but she had nothing more in the way of hard evidence to persuade him to take the disappearance of the old men more seriously … except her encounter at the farmhouse with Reg and his trusty helpers. She was reluctant to tell him about that, as she hadn’t come out of it very well, especially having to be rescued by Derek. Still, no ordinary estate agent, let alone a posse of villains, would have chased her through the woods if the offer to show her the house had been genuine.

She went into her office and dialled Cowgill’s private number. He had given her permission to use it, and sometimes in the evenings he sat in his lonely sitting room, bored with television, willing the phone to ring. So far, it had never been Lois at the other end.

“Hello? It’s me.”

“Evening, Lois. How are you?”

“Fine. I’ll make this short and sweet. I’ve fixed a new place for us to meet.” She told him about the shop, and he said facetiously that he was glad she would have her daughter as chaperone upstairs. “Now listen,” said Lois, irritated. “One foot put wrong, and you’re out on your ear.”

Cowgill reflected that nobody ever spoke to him like that any more, and how grateful he was to have Lois. Well, in a manner of speaking. “So name the day,” he said.

“I’m warning you!” Lois said. “I can be there in the
room at the back of the shop tomorrow at six o’clock. And don’t be early, otherwise Josie won’t have closed up.” She continued with instructions as to how he should arrive, and told him to park his car the other side of the village. “Leave it by the disused gravel pits,” she said. “Nobody ever goes there, since a child drowned a few years ago. There’s an old footpath from there.”

“Right. Any further orders, Mrs. Meade?”

“Be your age, for goodness sake. I don’t know which is worse—Cowgill the professional cop, or Cowgill the joker. No, there’s nothing else.”

“How about Cowgill the serious policeman, with a soft spot for one of his informers?”

“Not him, definitely. I’m going now. See you tomorrow.”

I
N THE HOUSE IN THE THICKET
, H
ERBERT
E
VERITT
had found some mouldering books on a bedroom shelf, and had carried a few downstairs to see if there was anything interesting in them. “What’ve you got there, Bert?” Cox was dozing in a chair that Herbert had contrived to make more comfortable, with old blankets and a cushion or two he had dried out by the oil stove.

“Old books. They smell a bit. Gone mouldy, some of ‘em. Still, here, take a look. There might be something interesting.” Herbert handed over a small pile, and William took one and opened it.

“On The Road”
he read, “by somebody called Jack Kerouac. Blimey, how do you pronounce that?” He read halfway down the first page and then shut it with a cloud of white dust. “Not my kind o’ book,” he said. “Nor yours either, I reckon, Bert.”

Herbert opened another one, and said, “Here, this looks more like it. It’s a book about wild animals.”

“Afraid I couldn’t care less about lions and tigers,” William answered.

“Not those kind of wild animals. It’s all in this country—rabbits and mice and voles and squirrels. All that.”

William brightened. “Has it got badgers in it?” he said.

“Don’t talk to me about badgers,” Herbert said. “Badgers are responsible for me being in this mess.”

“Not the badgers’ fault, was it? Wasn’t it your Spot led you into the woods, so you saw them crooks at the baiting?” Herbert had to admit that this was the case. He gave the book to William, who immediately looked up badgers and became totally absorbed.

The other books were mostly American novels, and Herbert was not interested. Then he found a thriller, set in Scotland, and put it to one side. “That’ll do me,” he said. “Take my mind off survival for an hour or two.”

William looked at him for a few seconds, and then said, “I’ve been thinking, Bert.”

“Always a dangerous occupation.” Herbert grinned.

“No, seriously,” William continued. “I’ve been thinking that we could walk out of here and go home, and once we’d told the police we’d not have to be afraid any longer. Doesn’t that make sense?”

Herbert’s smile faded. He sighed. “You could be right, Bill,” he said. “It might work. But there’s something I was keeping to myself. All the time we’ve been here, I felt we were being watched. Twice I’ve seen the shadow of a man disappearing back into the thicket. Spot barks furiously every time, and I suppose that lets him know we’re still here.”

William got painfully to his feet. “Why the hell didn’t you call to him? It might have been someone looking for us, coming to rescue us! Oh God, why didn’t you yell at him?” He sat down again and covered his face with his hands.

“Don’t take on,” Herbert said, and awkwardly patted William on the shoulder. “I didn’t call to the man, because I recognized him. It was that Reg. The boss man. He has somehow found out where we are, and is keeping an eye on us. I dare say it suits him to have us holed up here. Costs him nothing, and keeps us out of the way
until he finishes whatever wicked scheme he’s got going.”

“You mean it’s not just the badgers?” William uncovered his face and stared at Herbert. “What else is he up to, then?”

“What else is there? What are all the likes of him up to? Money. That’s what he’s after, I’m sure. Though I’m not certain how he plans to get hold of it. You got any ideas?”

William looked shifty. He shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “He came here from nowhere, and bullied me into allowing the badger-baiting. That was all. Never mentioned money.” He turned away and studiously read his book. Herbert left the room and stood at the kitchen window, looking out at the dense thicket. He sighed again. William was lying, he knew for certain. But why?

F
RANCES
W
ALLIS HAD GONE EARLY TO BED
. R
EG HAD
stayed in his room, listening to his favourite music from the sixties. She had quite liked it at first, but quickly became bored with the same old songs over and over again. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to get to sleep. Her husband was away on a long driving trip, and she was alone in the house with Reg.

Sleep would not come, so she sat up and reached for a book. But she couldn’t concentrate. Perhaps she would go down and make a cup of tea, but that would risk disturbing Reg, and she didn’t want that. Her thoughts went round and round and she realized she had read the same page three times without taking in any of it.

Reg had told her only the bare details of what he wanted from her, and she had little idea of what he was up to. She’d had enough of it, and decided to make a plan. She was sick of being at his beck and call, of telling lies and acting like a gangster’s moll—without the fun! No, it had to come to an end somehow, and an idea began to form in her head. She switched off the light, settled back under the covers, and began to think. First, she had to find
out as much as she could about what was really happening. What were the secrets, the transparent lies, that he had told her? Where were the gaps in his stories? The two most obvious were, first, old Mr. Everitt’s sudden decision to go into a home, when there was clearly no need for him to do so. Reg had spun her some tale about advancing senility and not safe to be living alone. But was that really so? Then, on one of her rare outings to Tresham, she had passed old Cox’s Farm and it was up for sale. When she asked Reg what he would do, now that there would be a new owner, and very likely one that was opposed to the badger business, he had said that he would soon find another suitable farmer. Most of them with livestock were anxious to get rid of the diseased little buggers, spreading tuberculosis. His words. William Cox, he said, had finally accepted he was too old and disabled to run the farm, and decided to sell. He’d already gone off to sheltered accommodation. “Same place as Herbert Everitt?” she’d suggested.