Theft on Thursday (25 page)

She parked off the road in her usual place, and thought how much more visible a white van must be than her old brown car. She shrugged. This meeting would be a quick one, and after that he’d have to find another place to meet. But not that barn behind the playing field! That had caused enough trouble several years ago …

He was waiting for her, by the old tree stump. His face lit up, in spite of himself, and he said, “Ah, Lois. Good morning.” Even in an old anorak and Wellington boots, with her dark, shiny hair tied back severely from her face, she scrambled his mind so that for a second he couldn’t think what on earth he wanted to ask her.

Lois sniffed. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and something fell to the ground. She bent down to pick it up, and said, “Go on, then. You start.”

Never gives me a chance, thought Cowgill ruefully. But that was right. She wouldn’t be his Lois any other way.

She was staring down, and he said, “What’ve you got there? Looks like a ball …”

It was a ball. A very small, plastic ball, muddy now, but discoloured by smoky black soot.

“I picked it up. I remember now,” Lois said. “I trod on it near the vicarage. It was dark, and I put it in my pocket. Then forgot it.” She rubbed it against her jacket to get rid of the mud and soot.

“Ugh!” she said, looking more closely. “It’s an eye! It’s horrible!” She held it up, and Cowgill could see now quite clearly. It was an eye, realistically made in clear plastic, with a rolling inner eyeball, the white part delicately laced with scarlet veining, and in the centre a menacing blue
pupil with black iris. As Lois turned it in her hand, the eyeball swivelled appallingly so that it still stared at her.

“I’ve seen them before,” he said with distaste. “The grandchildren had one, and my daughter took it away from them. She put it in the bin, I think. Very nasty indeed.”

Lois wasn’t listening to him. She was thinking about eyes, about a wandering eye that swivelled independently from its fellow. Sharon Miller.

“It might be nastier than you think,” she said slowly. “Think where I found it. Nobody at the vicarage has children. Why should it be there? Doesn’t it remind you of something … somebody?” She hesitated. Perhaps she would speak to Sharon first, if he didn’t respond.

“No, it doesn’t,” he said, puzzled. “The most likely thing I can think is that children were playing with it in the churchyard and it bounced over the wall. These things are extremely bouncy. Dangerous, really. Another reason my daughter—”

“Fine,” interrupted Lois. “I’m sure you’re right. Anyway, let’s get on. I’ve got things to do.”

He asked her a number of questions then, about the people seen watching the fire and what she knew of Sandy Mackerras. He said they had found mercury in Cyril’s stomach, and were still working on the mystery of how it got there. It had been only a trace. Had she heard any more about the old man’s movements before that night? And what about Sharon Miller and the Cockshutt lout?

She told him about the party at the Hall, but kept to herself her vague thoughts about the eyeball. Speak to Sharon first, and then maybe she’d have something to tell him. But there was something else.

“We saw Annabelle Tollervey-Jones,” she said. “She drove past us as we walked home from the fire, Derek and Jamie and me. Jamie saw her, and got upset. I thought she was supposed to have gone back to London, and so did he. Her gran’s away, so she wasn’t visiting her. Funny, her
being back on the night of the fire. I don’t know if she saw us, but she gave no sign.”

“Annabelle?” Cowgill was all attention. “Are you sure it was her?”

“I told you,” said Lois impatiently. “Jamie saw her, and he was sure. He should know, shouldn’t he?” Why was Cowgill suddenly so interested in Annabelle?

“Right,” he said, and took her arm. “Time to go. You’re busy, and I must make a call. You’ve been very useful, Lois, as usual. We’ll keep in touch.”

But not by holding on to me, thought Lois, shaking off his hand. “Next time,” she said, “find a nice quiet, warm place where nobody goes. This wood is not good for old bones,” she added, and regretted it at once. Poor old sod, he’d never done her any harm, never overstepped the mark. “Not that that applies to either of us,” she said quickly.

Too late, Lois, Cowgill reflected sadly. Professionalism took over, and he went rapidly to his car. They left more or less at the same time, and she noticed that he branched off at the turn to the Hall.

H
OW COULD HE HAVE BEEN SO STUPID
? B
RIAN
Rollinson sat where Marion had left him, close by the fire in Lois’s sitting room. What had made him think Sandy’s funeral would be in Farnden? He sighed. Wishful thinking, probably. Or just general derangement. He had an odd sensation of floating just above the ground, not properly connected to what was going on. Should he follow Marion and apologize?

He got up and opened the door quietly. He listened. There were voices coming from the kitchen. Gran and Marion. He heard Gran laugh gently. Oh well, it was probably all right then. For the moment. Perhaps they wouldn’t mind if he joined them.

Gran looked up as he stood in the kitchen doorway. “Come on in, Vicar,” she said. “Coffee’s still hot. I’m sure you could do with another cup. Sit yourself down.”

Marion didn’t look at him, but stared down at the table.

“We were just talking,” continued Gran. “Marion was telling me about where she lives. Sounds a very nice place.
We shall go, of course. Lois and Derek will want to, I know.”

“Go?” Brian said stupidly.

“To the funeral,” said Gran. “We can give you a lift if you like.”

He glanced quickly at Marion. “Well, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to … er …”

She looked first at Gran and then at him. “I’m sorry, Brian,” she said flatly. There was a pause, and then she continued, “I’d like you to be there. I’d like you to take the service … if it wouldn’t be loo …”

“Oh … oh, well … yes, of course, Marion … um, er, thank you.”

Gran nodded approvingly, and said that it was time she got on with cooking the dinner, and maybe they’d like to go out for a breath of air. They could walk out of the gate at the bottom of the garden, round the footpath to the stream, and come back without having to meet anybody.

She watched as they disappeared down the garden path, and shook her head sadly. Marion had told her everything. Or nearly everything. Poor woman. It must have been hard for her, bringing up Sandy on her own. He’d been only two and a bit at the time of Gerald’s accident, and Marion had found it easy enough to give a convincing account of that. Later, with Brian’s co-operation, they’d managed to keep his and Gerald’s brief love affair secret from the boy. Gran thought that Marion had told her all, but of course she had not. She had kept to herself that impulsive moment when she’d thought it time a convalescing Sandy should know the whole truth.

The plan for Sandy to lodge with his godfather for a while had been Marion’s. “If only I’d had second thoughts about that,” she’d said sadly to Gran. “He’d still be here, wouldn’t he?” She’d swallowed hard. “I don’t know why I suggested it. Well, yes, I do know,” she had added, in an attempt at perfect honesty. “I thought Sandy’s presence—
and he did look very like his father, you know—would disturb any peace of mind that Brian had managed to find. Not a praiseworthy motive …”

It was going to be a long haul for everybody, and the most useful thing Gran could think of was to make sure they were all well fed. Jamie hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, and she planned a sustaining meal for this evening. Something up with the boy. He hadn’t forgotten Annabelle, she was sure of that.

A
T THE MUSIC SHOP IN
T
RESHAM
, J
AMIE WALKED
through to the little office and spoke to the plump, kindly proprietor. “You don’t look so good, Jamie,” she said. “Feeling all right?”

He shook his head. “I think it might be a touch of flu,” he said. “Sore throat, shivery, achy bones, that stuff. I wonder if I could slip off now …”

She was a motherly soul, and sent him away immediately. “Let me know if you need more time,” she said. He hadn’t been himself for a while. She’d noticed he was distracted, and had made one or two mistakes in the shop. He’d sold an empty CD case to a stroppy woman who’d demanded that “that oik” should deliver the missing CD to her that day. Something was wrong with Jamie, and she guessed it was not flu.

It had begun to rain as Jamie started up his motorbike and set off for Farnden. Then, at the turn to the Hall, he branched off and, like Cowgill, followed the little lane until he came to big stone pillars at the Hall entrance. The gates were open, and he drove steadily up the long drive, curving round to the stableyard. There was no sign of life. Mrs. T-J must still be away, then. He parked his bike and peered through all the windows. The horses greeted him with pleasure, nuzzling his hand, looking for food. Somebody
must be looking after them, he guessed. A pile of dung steamed in a barrow by the stable door.

He was convinced Annabelle had been here, but could see no trace of her. Then he remembered the empty cottages. It was worth a look. Best to walk, he considered, rather than advertise his presence on the bike. It would be safe enough here in the yard.

He set off down the grassy track, noting encouraging tyre marks. As he approached the cottages, he stopped. There was certainly a car outside. In fact, there were two cars, and one of them was Annabelle’s. The other he did not recognize. He quickly pushed through the hedge and continued through the spinney bordering the track. Close now to the cottage garden, he heard voices, and two figures appeared. One was Annabelle, and his heart leapt. The other was … wasn’t it? … yes, it was. Mum’s cop. What on earth was he doing here? Whatever it was, Jamie judged it best to keep himself hidden.

“I’ll be in touch, then,” he heard Cowgill say, quite kindly. “Let me know if you go anywhere where you can’t be reached on your mobile. And don’t forget what I said. Be careful.”

Jamie watched as the big car slid away down the track, and then he emerged. “Annabelle!” he shouted, and she turned back from the cottage door. She saw him, and hesitated. Then she was flying down the path and out along the track to meet him. He held out his arms, and she ran straight into them, burying her face in his jacket and clinging on to him as if the hounds of Hell were in pursuit.

Which, of course, in a way, they were.

T
HE FAMILY WAS NOW BACK TO SIZE AROUND THE BIG
kitchen table, to Gran’s delight, with Brian and Marion digesting a good meal and trying to contribute to the chat. Conversation did not flow easily. The Meades were awkwardly avoiding talk of the fire and the funeral, and Brian and Marion found it difficult to escape from private thoughts.

Jamie was totally silent, and Lois was beginning to wonder what was wrong when he suddenly blurted out, “Mum, I’m thinking of going away for a few days.” His face was scarlet, and Lois and Derek stared at him.

“Away?” they chorused.

Jamie nodded. “Um, up to London. Thought I’d do a concert at the Albert Hall. Meet a friend …”

“What friend?” said Lois sharply. She need not have asked. She knew whom he would be meeting, though did not expect him to tell them. “Just an old friend from school. Interested in music. I’ll be back Monday or Tuesday.”

“How nice,” said Brian politely, and Marion managed a smile.

“I used to go to Promenade Concerts in my youth,” she said. “Stand and queue with Gerald for tickets. That was before …” She stopped, then said, “Oh, sorry … excuse me …” and walked quickly out of the kitchen.

Brian stood up. “Better go and make sure she is all right,” he said apologetically, and followed.

Silence reigned for a minute or two. Then Derek, fed up with all this, said firmly, “Right, now then, young man, why the sudden need to go to London? We’re not fools, you know.”

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t …” Gran started to say. “Just keep out of this for the moment, Gran,” Derek said preemptorily. She snorted, and got up to clear dishes.