Theft on Thursday (30 page)

“So, what d’you suggest we do? Go up to London and drag him back by force? I dunno, Derek. I don’t get it. You’ve never been like this before.”

“
You’ve
not been in touch with that Cowgill for a long time. There’s something going on, and I don’t like it. Most of the time I let you get on with it. You got to give me that. But when it’s my son that’s at risk, then I’ll have my say!”

“At risk?” Lois felt her stomach jolt. She remembered Cowgill’s reaction when she’d said Jamie was going to London with Annabelle. “Not very sensible,” he’d said. “What d’you mean, Derek?”

“Look, Lois,” he said, pushing her down into her chair. “Look and listen. We’ve had a fire at the vicarage. A young bloke was killed when he should’ve found it easy to escape. An old man has sicked himself to death in the night. Sharon Miller seems to have taken leave of her senses, and our youngest son has got mixed up with a girl who’s in with a loony, criminal lot from Tresham. And you ask me what I mean!” Lois was silent now. Derek was right, of course. She lifted the telephone and dialled.

“Jamie? Mum here. Are you all right? When are you … oh, tonight. Right. Well, take care. Let us know what time at the station and we’ll meet you. Sure everything’s all right? OK, then. See you later.” She put down the phone and looked at Derek. “He’s coming back this evening, on the train, on his own,” she said.

“I’ll meet him, then,” said Derek, and left her sitting there. She watched him drive off in his van to work, and frowned. Then she shook herself and stood up. Time for a word with the vicar. And maybe with Mrs. Mackerras, too.

But when she went into the kitchen, neither of them was there, and the breakfast things had been cleared away and washed up. She could see them wandering about the garden,
and then they disappeared down the path towards the little gate and the footpath. Sod it. Still, she supposed it could wait. Meanwhile, back to the business of cleaning people’s houses. She returned to her office.

“Bill?” Lois could hear Rebecca in the background, yelling that she was off to school. “Is it a bad moment? It’s about today’s meeting. Can you come half an hour early? You finish at the Hall in time, don’t you? Good, see you later.” Lois took a pen and began to jot down some notes that had nothing to do with cleaning.

1. Murder or accident? Probably murder. Why? Anyone could have started that fire.
   

2. Sandy’s enemies? Bill: angry about Rebecca; the vicar: angry at Sandy being so foul to him; Mr. Nameless: angry about his girl/wife being shafted by Sandy; Max Wedderburn?
   

3. Max Wedderburn: Fascist thug, arsonist, crafty snake—but what did he have against Sandy? S. had been to Wycombe meetings. Why? What was the attraction for a bloke like Sandy, who loved nothing better than a few jars in the pub with the lads?
   

4. Sharon Miller: What!!!
   

5. Annabelle? Oh, for goodness sake!
   

6. Or none of these?
   

Lois heard Gran coming back from the shop, and called out to her. “Coffee time, Mum! I’ll make it, while you unpack the shopping.” She slipped her notes inside a folder and went to see what tit-bits Gran had picked up from the gossips this morning.

B
ILL ARRIVED A GOOD HALF
-
HOUR EARLY
,
AS INSTRUCTED
, and joined lois in her office.

“What’s eating you?” said Lois casually. She’d heard
the rumours about Sandy and Rebecca, but did not know how serious it had been.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Right, then let’s get down to business.” Lois knew better than to quiz Bill. He was a typical Yorkshire lad—tough, loyal and private. He’d worked for her for a long time now, sharing his domestic duties with helping out at the vet’s. She had never had reason to criticize his work, and was fond of him.

“I want to talk to you about Sharon Miller,” she said. “I know I’m breakin’ my own rules, discussing one cleaner with another, but we’ve got a problem here. You may know more than I do, about her social life an’ that. She’s a bit of a silly in some ways. But there’s no real harm in her, and I know she’s frightened out of her wits.”

“Has she got any?” said Bill, and in spite of himself, grinned.

“Yes, well, her work for me is fine. In her daffy way she cheers up clients, and does the job efficiently. I’d like to keep her on, and I need to know what’s going on with her.”

“Have you tried asking her?” Bill’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.

“Yes, of course I bloody well have!” Lois was losing patience. “Look, Bill, if you’d rather not help, just say so. I can ask one of the others. Maybe Hazel will know. But she thinks about nothin’ but babies at the moment, bless her. And the others, Bridie and Enid and Sheila, they’re a different generation and don’t really know Sharon. So you were the one I hoped would help. But never mind …”

“Hey, wait a minute.” Bill squared his shoulders and seemed to come to a decision. “Sorry, Mrs. M,” he said. “Got a bit of a problem myself at the moment. I think it’s only fair to tell you. Me and Rebecca have come to a parting of the ways. I’ll be returning to Yorkshire—on my own—shortly. Don’t know exactly when, but soon. I’ll
work out my notice, of course. I was going to tell you later, but now seems the best time.”

“Bill!” Lois was shocked. The ground was giving way under her feet. Her rock, her Bill, was going! She clutched at straws. “But surely you haven’t decided … you and Rebecca have been together for such a long time … and your work at the vet’s … what would you do if you go back?” Her thoughts raced. This was the last thing she needed. “Well, thank you, Sandy Mackerras!” she continued angrily, with no thought of respect for the dead. “It was that little toad, wasn’t it? Started flirting with Rebecca at choir and went on from there?”

Bill said nothing, but stared down at his big, capable hands.

In for a penny, thought Lois, and continued, “And then the spoilt mummy’s boy dumped poor old Sharon, breaking her heart. Mind you, that’s—”

“Easily done?” completed Bill, and looked at Lois. His eyes were moist, but he managed a grin.

“Sharon’s heart’s soon mended, luckily,” agreed Lois. “It’s them books she reads. But Bill,” she said, and now she was serious, “don’t decide definitely yet. Rebecca is probably still shocked. Maybe it will take weeks. But if you still want …?”

He nodded. “Then I should hang on for bit. These things blow over. She’s a sensible girl, and he was a shit.”

He nodded again, reluctantly. Then he shook off the subject, and said, “So what do I know about Sharon? Only that she was mixed up with those thugs—Maxie boy—and was there the night of the fire. She was seen. An’ then there was Sandy. Sharon went head over heels, as you know. Very upset that he dumped her. What else? Oh, yes, and out of her head, apparently, the fire night. Mind you, she can’t take it. She’s anybody’s after a couple of shandies. If she’s scared, it’ll be of Maxie’s lot. Especially of him. As long
as he’s around she’ll be dead scared. She knows too much, probably.”

A knock at the door, and Gran’s welcoming voice put an end to the conversation, but Lois reckoned it had been a worthwhile half-hour.

C
OWGILL SAT IN HIS OFFICE
,
WITH A CUP OF COLD COF-
fee in front of him, deep in thought. It was an odd business. A house destroyed by fire—no, not just a house, a vicarage—a body as a result, a bunch of town nasties, and a village heaving with rumour and suspicion. But did he have a crime? More specifically, did he have a murder? He was pretty sure the fire had been started by Cockshutt and his acolytes, but he had no proof. As yet. Young Mackerras could have been trapped, but it was unlikely. Accidental fire takes a while to get going, unless there was an explosion—gas, or something. But nobody heard anything. A big strong boy like that should have escaped with no trouble.

But why should those pathetic thugs go for Sandy Mackerras? They were a nasty lot, certainly, but not murderers. Too cowardly. The KKK that Darren and his boys slavishly followed had never hesitated. The Klan had hanged blacks, beat up Jews, homosexuals, anybody who didn’t fit their skewed ideas. But Darren Cockshutt? He was a glorified playground bully who would run shit-scared if a real man faced up to him. Then he remembered his stricture to Lois. Don’t underrate Cockshutt. No, he should not forget that.

Witnesses. Nothing useful had emerged yet. Cowgill thumped his desk, and said aloud, “A reliable witness! Somebody must have seen something.”

“Do you need anything?” A pleasant-faced policewoman put her head round the door.

“Yes, I do. But nothing you can provide, thanks.” He
grinned at her, and got up from his desk. “I shall be out for the rest of the day,” he said, and made for the lift.

M
RS
. C
OCKSHUTT
,
WATCHING FROM BEHIND THE
grubby lace curtains, knew it was the police when an anonymous black car drew up outside her house down by the river. She’d had plenty of experience. She opened the door and said, “What d’you want?”

“Your Darren,” said Cowgill, keeping the door open with his weight. “And don’t tell me he’s not here, because I know he’s not. I’ve been to his scruffy hole and he’s not there, either. So where is he, Mrs. Cockshutt?”

She shrugged, her eyes narrowed. Darren could be anywhere. “He don’t tell me where he’s goin’. Never has,” she added proudly. “Always independent, our Darren. So you’ll just have to go on looking. Why d’you want him, anyway?” she added, curiosity getting the better of her.

Cowgill smiled a smile totally without mirth. “Never you mind,” he said. “Just stand aside and let me in. We’ll have a nice chat about Darren’s friends.” He gave her no chance to answer, but brushed past her, wrinkling his nose at the stale air that met him.

S
HARON
M
ILLER STOOD AT A BEDROOM WINDOW IN
the Hall, staring out. She and Bill had been sent to do a big clean-up for Mrs. T-J, who had returned with a spring-cleaning bug. It was misty, and the trees in the park were like shadowy giants moving slowly towards the house. Coming to get me, thought Sharon, and shivered. She was sleeping badly, having nightmares about Stan and his threats. What would he have said to Max? And would it have satisfied him? After all, he was in big trouble. Everything would be bound to come out, whether Sharon shopped them or not. But Max would blame her.

She continued to clean the big panes, trying not to look at the trees and fighting tears. Surely the police would arrest Max soon and tidy everything up. Once he was taken care of, she was sure Stan and the others would crawl back to where they came from. Until that time, she was not safe.

A sharp noise behind her caused her heart to race, and she spun round. “Oh, it’s you, Bill,” she said, hand to her mouth.

“Who else?” said Bill, frowning. She looked terrible, white as a ghost. “Came to tell you it was coffee time,” he continued. “You feelin’ all right?”

She nodded. “You made me jump,” she said. “Come on, I need a break.”

After coffee, Bill said he would help her tackle Annabelle’s room. It was a tip, with clothes everywhere, muddy riding boots on the unmade bed, and doors and drawers spilling their contents on to the floor.

“Slut!” said Sharon. “Jamie Meade wants his head examined.”

“Love,” said Bill sadly. “Love is blind, Sharon.”

“I know,” said Sharon, “but not that blind.”

“Here, give us a hand,” Bill said. He was on his knees by the bed. “There’s something shoved under here. Better get it out before the mice nest in it.”

They cleared a space, and then pulled out a bundle of whitish cloth, rough and hairy to the touch.

“What the hell?” Bill held it up, and Sharon made a face.

“Not Annabelle’s usual gear,” she said. “What is it?”

It was a robe, and—like Christopher Robin’s dressing gown—it had a hood. But it was not nearly so innocent, as Bill immediately saw. Sharon, he realized, had not yet recognized it. But its unmistakable shape and the pointed hood sent chills through him.

“Best put it back,” he said.

“But why?” Sharon took it from him and held it up against herself.

“Give it to me!” Bill said sharply. His voice alarmed her, and she paled.

“It’s something to do with … you know … with the fire an’ that, isn’t it. I saw …”

“Just forget it, Sharon,” he said briskly, rolling it up and pushing it under the bed, deep into the other rubbish hidden there. “Come on, let’s get going on these curtains.”