Theft on Thursday (19 page)

“But I haven’t told you my little plan,” he continued, not in the least put out. “Between us, we can make your Sandy jealous, win him back from Bill’s Rebecca. Does that appeal, Sharon?”

She was tempted, and intrigued by how much he seemed to know. “Tell me, then. But quickly. I’ve got things to do at home before I go to the vicarage.”

He turned to her and took off his glasses. Nothing wrong with
his
eyes, then. She had sometimes thought of wearing dark glasses herself, to conceal the wandering eye. But she couldn’t be bothered. And anyway, she repeated to herself, love me, love my eyes.

Max’s eyes were small, grey and hard, and he looked at her closely. “Right,” he said, in a different, more ordinary voice. “I’ll take you to a sort of club I kind of run. Sandy comes sometimes, and that girlfriend of your boss’s son—Annabelle whatsit. You can come with me, and I’ll make a fuss of you—make sure Sandy notices.”

“What do you do at this club?” said Sharon suspiciously.

“It’s fun, but it’s also more than that. We can give each other power, make things happen in a way outsiders can’t understand.”

Sharon frowned. “Sounds ‘orrible,” she said, but then added, “but when does Sandy come? And is he on his own?”

Max laughed, showing his nasty teeth. “Yes,” he said.
“So far … Anyway, you might know some of the others. And if you don’t like it, you can forget the whole thing.”

Sharon thought for a moment. The idea of a jealous Sandy was appealing. “All right, then,” she said, “just this once. When?”

“Next week? Friday evening. Sandy’ll definitely be there. He’s a vital part of the evening. I’ll pick you up at seven. Wrap up warm. Sometimes we have a bonfire.”

“A barbecue? Oh, that’d be nice,” said Sharon, and smiled as he drove her straight home. He never even put his hand on my knee, she thought. I’ll be safe enough with him.

L
OIS HAD REACHED HOME AND SAT IN HER CHILLY OF
fice thinking about Cyril. Derek wouldn’t have the central heating on during the day, and Lois shivered. What was it Cowgill had said? They’d found something wrong with the old man’s stomach? Ugh! She remembered the mess in his bedroom. The police had probably taken samples. But what could they have found? His last meal would have been tea. Bacon and eggs, every day without fail. His menu was simple and routine. Breakfast: cereal and toast. Lunch: frozen fish fingers, or a burger from a packet, chips and peas. And for tea, bacon and eggs. Eggs? They could be a bit dodgy. Salmonella, was it? It was sometimes serious, Lois knew. Perhaps that was it. But the eggs came from the shop, and were new-laid, free-range from a nearby farm. And Cyril always fried them until they were like yellow pebbles. She’d teased him about it once, and he’d protested that his mother always cooked them like that, and that was how he liked them.

Gran came in with a cup of tea. “Not brooding, are you, Lois?” she said.

Lois shook her head. “No, just thinking.”

“Dangerous business, thinking,” said her mother.

Lois sighed. “Yes, well, do you remember Cyril saying anything about feeling sick the day he died?”

“No—well, not more’n usual. He was a martyr to his indigestion. I reckon he was Mrs. Carr’s best customer for remedies. Mind you, those things she gave me had no effect at all. Made it worse, I reckon.”

“Well, you had a bug, Mum. It wasn’t just indigestion. And anyway, it didn’t kill you.”

Gran grinned. “I thought it was going to, at its worst! But no, you’re right. Whatever done for old Cyril was something quick and powerful, poor ole bugger. If ever I should swear!” she added hastily.

Lois sipped her lea, which was hot and restoring. “I might go out this afternoon,” she said. “Get some supplies from Tresham. I’ll probably call in on Cyril’s sister, just to pay my respects and see if there’s anything we can do.”

Gran looked at her suspiciously. “Hardly necessary, I’d have thought?” she said. “Still, don’t take notice of me. You never do anyway!” She frowned and looked more closely at her daughter. “You’re not up to anything, are you?” she said. “And by the way, I’ve remembered who that car belongs to. The one you were talking to this morning. Don’t go forgetting the trouble that cop got us all into those other times.”

Lois said nothing, and Gran turned to leave, saying as a parting shot, “And don’t forget you have a very good husband.”

Lois made a face at her mother’s departing back, and got up to look out of the window. The street was back to its empty, quiet self. Not a soul in sight. Lois felt restless, plagued by Cowgill’s hints and cloak-and-dagger games. He’d always been like this, and she supposed it jollied up a boring job. She should ignore him, tell him to get lost. That’s what Derek would say. He was clearly hoping this
latest contact with an old enemy would fizzle out. Still, he had a pact with Lois. She would tell him what was going on, and he would not try to stop her playing detective. He would even help, if he could, on the old principle that if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

She saw a car then, a smart sports job, cruise down the street and stop outside the Millers’ garage. She’d not seen that one before. Most local people used the village garage, and their cars were familiar. It didn’t turn in, though, but pulled up by the kerb. The door opened, and Lois was taken aback. Sharon, carrying her music case, stepped out and waved goodbye to the car, now slipping away. Lois automatically made a note of the number plate, and wrote it down on her pad. Sharon was one of her team now, and everything she did was of interest. Not nosy! Lois answered an imagined, critical Gran. All part of my job. Well, Sharon was due at the vicarage later this afternoon, so Lois crossed her fingers and hoped all would go well.

She was turning back to her desk, when she saw another traveller along the street. This time she knew only too well who it was. She smiled, and then wondered why Jamie was coming home at this time of day. He’d gone straight from the funeral into Tresham, where he was working. Why had he come back so soon? He turned into the drive, and Lois went through to the kitchen to greet him.

“Hi Mum, Gran …” His voice was subdued.

“What are you doing home so early?” said Gran, not one to beat about the bush.

“Not feeling so good,” he replied, and cleared his throat. “Maybe a cold. I’ve got a sore throat … think I’ll take an aspirin and crash out for a bit.”

“Don’t you want something to eat?”

Jamie shook his head, and walked out of the kitchen. They heard him stump up the stairs and then his bedroom
door slammed. Lois and Gran looked at each other. “Sore throat?” said Lois. “That wouldn’t send him home in the middle of the day.”

“Better go up and talk to him,” Gran said. “Here—take him a cup of tea. See what’s up.”

Jamie sat on his bed, still in his biker’s rig, with his head in his hands. He looked up as his mother came in. “Gran’s cure-all?” he said. “Nice cup of tea?” And to Lois’s horror, a tear plopped out of his eye and on to his leather jacket.

“What on earth’s the matter?” she said. She sat down on the bed beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Hey,” she said. “Big boys don’t cry.” It was an old phrase from his childhood, and he tried to smile at her.

“Sorry, Mum,” he said.

“So what is it?” Lois spoke quietly, and waited. As Jamie appeared to be dumb with misery, she said, “Annabelle?” Bullseye. He nodded, and then began to speak.

“I rang her this morning to make a date.” His hands, with their narrow, pianist’s fingers, twisted together. “Mrs. T-J answered the phone. She said I couldn’t speak to Annabelle, because she wasn’t there.” He sniffed, and Lois silently handed him the tissue Gran had given her earlier. “I asked when she’d be back, and the old witch said she wouldn’t be back. She’d gone up to London to stay with friends, and would be there until her mother returned. She added that I was not to try and get in touch with her, because Annabelle had said she was fed up with me pestering her …” He choked, and it was a minute or two before he began again. “And that was one of the reasons she’d gone. I managed to ask her what the other reasons were, and she told me to mind my own business. End of conversation.”

He turned to Lois and looked at her bleakly. “I know what the other reason was, anyway,” he said. “I’m not
good enough for her precious granddaughter. Village boy. No money. No car …”

“And mother a cleaner,” said Lois bitterly, sick with anger.

B
RIAN
R
OLLINSON HAD EATEN A QUICK SANDWICH
, and now sat without light in his gloomy study, dark even though it was still afternoon. He had been looking blankly out of the window, watching rain falling relentlessly on his sleeping garden. He was longing for Christmas, with its hopeful message of new beginnings. The winter had seemed so long, cold and cheerless. And today, consigning old Cyril to the next world, he had for once failed to find comfort in the familiar words.

He could always put on a good show, of course. That was his job, and he knew the village spoke warmly of his funerals. He sighed. Would his spirit ever be quiet? He had been drawn to the church as a refuge—probably a mistake, for a start—and had met men, young and old, who had the strength and peace of mind that he so coveted. They were an inspiration, yes, but he also envied them their tranquillity. Had any of them had a past such as his, a past that crept up on them in their dreams and gave them unquiet
sleep? Maybe. Or perhaps they were as good as he at concealing inner turmoil.

A sharp knocking at the front door brought him to his feet. He looked at his watch. Sharon Miller, dead on time.

He opened the door and looked at her pink cheeks, yellow hair blowing in the cold wind, and was cheered by her big smile. Such a pity about the eye, he thought. Still, it hadn’t put off young Sandy!

“Hello, my dear,” he said. “Come in, come in. The wind’s too cold to be standing about. Now,” he added, once they were inside and heading for the kitchen, “you know the ropes, so I shall leave you to it. Work to do, you know. Oh, and by the way, you played the organ beautifully for old Cyril. He would have been so touched to hear all his old favourites.”

“Maybe he did hear,” said Sharon, buttoning her overall. “Up there, you know, watching us all.” Brian suddenly saw through her eyes a childlike vision of old Cyril, clad in a pure white robe, perched on a cloud and observing them all with his evil grin. He laughed, his optimism returning, and strode off with a lighter heart to write to Sandy’s mother. Sandy was no letter-writer, and so he had promised Marion he would keep in touch. He told her only the good things, of course, and made absolutely no mention of Sandy’s lustful tryst with Sharon Miller in the vestry. No, no, he wouldn’t shop the lad, however much he tried his patience.

Sharon’s mind was not on cleaning this afternoon. She dusted and polished in a dream. How many people had seen her getting out of Max’s sports car? Lots, she hoped. When she had finished downstairs, she looked at her watch, and tapped on the vicar’s study door. “Time for a cuppa?” she said.

Brian smiled at her. “Lovely, thanks Sharon,” he said. The sermon had gone well, and he thought perhaps a short break, a chat with Sharon, would be timely. It
had worried him a little that Sandy was such a butterfly in his affections. He would hate to see this innocent—well, perhaps not so innocent, but certainly naive—young girl with a broken heart.

He’d done his share of breaking hearts, he reminded himself. And more seriously than Sandy. Much more seriously. He looked at his letter to Marion, neatly sealed and stamped, and wondered if he could ever forgive himself—if, indeed, there had been any other path he could have taken. Marion and Gerald had been the perfect couple. Everyone said so. A handsome pair, with every prospect of a happy married life.

Brian shook his head violently, as if to scramble unwanted thoughts, and stood up. Useless to brood on the past. He pushed back his chair and walked through to the kitchen, where Sharon was busy with mugs and teabags. “Let’s sit down for a few minutes,” he said. “Take a short break. I’d like a little chat about next Sunday’s hymns.” This was an innovation in Long Farnden church. Consultation and compromise, these were Brian’s bywords. His tutors had shown him how to achieve his goals without resentment and animosity—at least, that was the aim. They hadn’t told him about such as ex-organist Gladys Mary Smith, of course, but she seemed to have subsided into a simmering resentment that he hoped would fade.

“Now,” he said, opening the hymn book, “I thought that after the second lesson we might have number seven: ‘Christ, whose glory fills the skies.’ ”

Sharon nodded. She was quite happy to play whatever he suggested, and was anxious to get back to her daydreaming. Would Max pick her up in the sports car to go to the meeting? She must make sure to mention it to the Carrs, so they could look out of their window.

“By Charles Wesley, this one,” said Brian. “It has been described as ‘one of his loveliest progeny.’ ”

“You what?” said Sharon.

“Well, one of the best of his hymns. He composed a great many, you know.”