Theft on Thursday (21 page)

“You’ll see,” said Max, glancing at her approvingly and smiling. They continued along the dark country lanes in silence for a while, Sharon trying not to notice that the glamorous sports car was the most uncomfortable ride she’d ever had. Max drove well, but she felt every bump in the rough road surface.

“Max,” she said tentatively.

“Yes?” He could see that she was looking at her own reflection in the dark window.

“You know about my eyes?” she continued slowly.

“What about them?” Max’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“Well, one of them wanders around a bit,” she said, turning to look straight at his profile. It was a good profile, and you couldn’t see his teeth in the dark. “I thought I
might see about getting it fixed. Now I’m getting out and about an’ that.” His reaction startled her.

“No!” he said violently, then lowered his voice quickly. “No, don’t do that, Sharon. You’re perfect as you are. Our Sandy wouldn’t have anything to do with you unless you were special, you can be sure of that!”

She blinked. “Oh. Right, then. Thanks.”

A near thing, that, thought Max. The strangely independent eye had been the very thing that had attracted the Wycombe Society. Eyes like Sharon’s had magical properties, gave mystical power to their owners. It was in the lore. Not that the likes of Sharon would know about that, of course, but she would be shown how to make the most of her gift.

“Oh, I know where we are!” she said, changing the subject with relief. “It’s Mrs. T-J’s! We used to play Trespass in there when we were kids. Is she a member of your lot?”

“Not really,” he said evasively. “But her granddaughter, Annabelle—you know her?—comes along. Mrs. T-J is abroad at the moment, inspecting her racing stables in South Africa. A woman of many parts, our Mrs. T-J!”

The car approached the house, then turned off on a curving drive to where the outbuildings huddled round a courtyard. Lights were blazing in one of them, and Max pulled up outside. He went quickly round to the passenger door, and helped Sharon to struggle out. Not very elegant, she said to herself. I shall have to practise that. She looked through the lighted window and saw a dozen or so people, all in animated conversation, full glasses in hand. Suddenly she felt frightened. What was she doing here? It was not her world at all. But it
was
the world of her novels, of her dreams. And so she braced herself and followed Max into the meeting.

T
HAT AFTERNOON
, L
OIS HAD TURNED UP AT THE VIC
arage as substitute for Sharon, as arranged. It had been a strange couple of hours. She sat now in front of the fire, cup of tea in hand, and watched Gran’s fingers busy with her knitting. Derek had said he would be late, and the two had eaten earlier.

“Everything all right with the vicar?” Gran had decided Brian Rollinson would do. She found him a bit secretive, withdrawn sometimes, and had said so to Lois, who’d agreed. But both had said they liked him and thought he was doing a good job.

“He was fine,” Lois said. But that was not altogether true. He was friendly enough, as always, but had followed her about the house like a dog, starting sentences and not finishing them, leaving questions hanging in the air. What had he wanted to know? More than once he had asked where Sharon had gone. When she’d mentioned a chap with a sports car, he had frowned, and said he thought that Max Wedderburn was one of Sandy’s less desirable friends. Lived in Tresham and was known to the police. Had been involved in some racist secret society that plagued the black community in town and left threatening messages scrawled on the homes of known … er … gays.

Suddenly Lois remembered the contorted face on television news, and Annabelle’s sudden “Max!” blurted out and then swiftly retracted. Oh my God, she thought now, watching the flames flicker in the grate, what is our Sharon up to now? True to form, the overprotected precious daughter was the most likely to go off the rails—and in Sharon’s case, right off and into a bog, if Cowgill was right. Lois sighed. Better have a word with him. She finished her tea and said there were one or two things she had to clear up in her study. Gran looked hard at her. “Derek will be home soon,” she said. “You promised him ice cream, and there’s none in the freezer.”

“OK, OK! I’ll go next door and borrow some as soon as
I’ve cleared up.” She left the room, and only just stopped herself banging the door. Sometimes Mum was a bit too ever-present. You bet she’d have her ears flapping for the sound of the telephone.

“Hello, is that Inspector Cowgill?” It was, and he was delighted to hear from Lois. However, he kept his delight out of his voice, and asked her crisply what he could do for her.

“You asked me to keep my eyes open—something to do with that Wycombe lot. Well, I need to ask a question or two. I can’t help unless you squeeze the tiniest bit of information out for me.”

Cowgill ignored the sarcasm, and said, “Fire away. What d’you want to know?”

“How many, where do they meet, what do they do, and is one of them called Max?”

He gave her details that made grim listening. Up to thirty had been seen gathering in twilight on Tresham Common. They liked fires, and were not averse to a spot of chanting. Nothing had been proved, but they were thought to be behind a lot of the racial disturbances in town. And not just blacks. Chinese, immigrants, gays. They were not fussy. Max Wedderburn was their leader. “A very nasty piece of work, too,” added Cowgill. “We’re watching them closely, but they’re smart. Always out of the way by the time we arrive, and careful not to infringe any by-laws at their meetings. Kind of sad mixture of good old-fashioned black arts, and the KKK, which is infinitely worse, and why we’re more than interested in Mr. Wedderburn-cum-Cockshutt.”

“Well,” said Lois, a catch in her voice. “That’s not too good, because our Sharon Miller has gone to a party with the said Max Wedderburn, and I have no idea where it is.”

“Ah,” said Cowgill.

“One more thing,” said Lois. “Are they dangerous?”

“Yes,” said Cowgill bluntly. “Every instinct in my old
policeman’s body tells me they’re dangerous, so sit tight, Lois, and I’ll keep you posted. Bye.”

But this was not good enough for Lois. She felt a reluctant responsibility for Sharon, and pulled on her coat, yelling out to Gran that she was just off to borrow ice cream. That would do for the moment.

The street was dark, and a cold wind made Lois wish for her scarf. She passed old Cyril’s house, shut up now, with its mullioned windows blank and dead. Like Cyril, really. Lois knew there was something about Cyril at the back of her mind she’d meant to follow up. His sister? No, that had been a false trail. The old girl had hardly known him for years. Big show for his funeral, but no help in guessing what took him off so violently. Ah, well, it would come back. Right now she had to find out where Sharon had been taken. She turned in at Miller’s garage and knocked at the house door.

“Is Sharon in?” she said, as Mr. Miller answered the door.

He shook his head. “Gone out to a party,” he said. He peered out into the darkness. “Mrs. Meade, is it? Come in, won’t you. It’s a chilly night again.” He stood aside to admit Lois, and took her into a warm, cheerful sitting room.

Mrs. Miller stood up, smiling. “Hello,” she said. “What brings you out so late? Nothing wrong with Sharon’s work, I hope?”

“No, not at all,” said Lois. “She’s fine. I’d nipped out to post a letter, and thought I’d have a quick word about tomorrow’s client. Save a phone call. But she’s not here?”

“Gone out with the new boyfriend,” Mrs. Miller said. She frowned, and added, “Not sure I like this one. Too smarmy by half. Now that Sandy, he’s a nice lad. Bit flighty, from what I hear! But that’s right and proper at his age. No, this new one is a different kettle of fish all together.”

“Do I know him?” said Lois innocently, taking the chair offered by Mr. Miller.

“We didn’t.” Sharon’s father was unsmiling. “Just appeared suddenly. Turned up at Cyril’s funeral. God knows why. Our Sharon took a tumble and he steadied her. Now it’s Max this and Max that, and we don’t hear no more about Sandy Mackerras. I know which one I prefer,” he added glumly.

“Ah, well, our Josie was the same,” said Lois, remembering her own daughter’s involvement with serious crime. “And look at her now—couldn’t be more respectable and settled! Still, if you think there’s something not quite right, perhaps we should at least find out where she’s gone?”

“Chance’d be a fine thing,” said Mr. Miller. “We asked, but she didn’t answer. ‘Where’re you going?’ we asked, but all she said was ‘Out!’ Slammed the door and was gone. All done up in her best, hair washed, lots of makeup. Isn’t that right, gel?” He turned to his wife, who nodded.

“Like a cup of tea?” Mr. Miller said, suddenly reluctant to let Lois go.

But Lois’s niggling worry had turned to anxiety now, and she stood up. “Better not,” she said. “Derek’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. Cheerio—and don’t worry too much. We all go through it!”

If only I was as sure as I sound, she thought, hurrying back up the street. There was one person who might remember something, with a little prompting. Brian Rollinson. Sharon must have rabbited on as usual to him, and it was unlikely she’d keep a party to herself. She would ring him straightaway.

“Good evening, Mrs. Meade. What can I do for you?” Brian tried to keep irritation at bay. He’d been in the middle of a really good play on television—a rare enough happening—and almost left the phone to ring. But it could have been Sandy. He had said he didn’t know what time he’d be home, but not late. It wasn’t Sandy.

“Did Sharon mention a party? No, I would have mentioned it to you, wouldn’t I? But she does run on, so it’s possible I wasn’t listening. With Max Wedderburn? Ah, now that’s the one we were talking about, isn’t it. I don’t know much about his haunts … where they meet, get together and do whatever it is they do. Mumbo jumbo, Sandy said, but he did go once or twice. Something there that attracts him, I suppose. Now, let me think.”

Lois waited, fingers crossed. “Yes, this might help,” Brian continued more confidently. “I believe your son knows Annabelle—granddaughter of Mrs. T-J—up at the Hall. Gone away? Oh, I didn’t know that. But she was certainly one of the group, or society, or whatever they call themselves. Could be they meet up at the Hall sometimes? There’s plenty of secret places on the estate, if that’s what they like. You know, my dear,” he added confidingly, “I had my suspicions that the burnt cross we found in the churchyard had something to do with that lot.”

Lois remembered the small handkerchief with “A” embroidered in the corner. “Thanks,” she said quickly. “Thanks a lot, vicar. See you.” And rather to Brian’s disappointment now, the phone clicked off. Then he heard Sandy’s key in the lock and forgot all about Lois.

“Ah, there you are.” Brian looked at Sandy’s flushed face. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Might go out later. There’s a good programme on telly I’ll miss, but you can record it for me.” Sandy went straight to the fridge, looking for a beer. He turned to Brian, his breath revealing that it wouldn’t be the first that evening. “Thought I asked you to get some supplies?” he said crossly. “Been looking forward to one all the way home.”

“Sorry,” said Brian. “I’ll go down to the pub. Won’t take me long.”

“OK,” said Sandy. “But don’t be long. I’ve got one or two things to do, and then I’ll be off. And I don’t want that
programme missed.” His belligerent tone depressed Brian, but he promised to be back and left.

Sandy completed his task quickly, sniffed at his hands, then washed them and changed into fresh clothes. He slumped down on the sofa. It shouldn’t be long now before he had his own place. Maybe he could tempt Rebecca to join him … a woman’s touch about the place, and all that … God, he was tired! Funny way to make a living, flogging houses. And what on earth had Brian got on the telly? Some God-bothering programme. He turned down the sound and leaned back, eyes closed. A quick cat-nap would do no harm, then he’d be on his way. Brian would be back in a few minutes and he’d wake him. He began to snore gently.

“L
OIS
!” I
T WAS
D
EREK
,
BACK HOME IN A GUST OF COLD
air. “For God’s sake, woman, get off that phone. I’m expecting an important message about a big contract, but they’ll never get through at this rate.”

“And hello duckie to you, too,” said Lois. She had not taken off her coat and, planting a moist kiss on Derek’s cold cheek, said she’d be back soon. “Just off to clinch a job with a woman on the new estate. She’s only there in the evenings.” Then she was gone.

“Is that you, Lois?” called Gran. “Did you get the ice cream?”

Derek walked into the sitting room. “No, it’s me,” he said. “Your daughter has flown the coop, and as far as I know, taken the ice cream with her. What’s for tea?”

L
OIS
’
S CAR WAS SLOW TO START
. D
AMP
,
PROBABLY
. I
T
was not old, and had served her well so far. A smart white van, with New Brooms in gold lettering, it had been her proud purchase a couple of years ago. After one more attempt
it fired, and Lois was on her way to the Hall. She found herself going faster than usual in the narrow, twisting lane. And what am I going to do if I find them? she asked herself. March in and demand to take Sharon home? She’s not a child, for God’s sake. But she kept going, and finally turned into the long drive up to the Hall. There were no lights in the house itself, but security lights snapped on as she drove into the stable yard. Nothing. No cars, nobody in the outbuildings. Everything quiet and still. They’d not met here, then.