Warning at One

by Ann Purser

Josie shook her head firmly. "I really don't know anything more," she said, and then remembered her promise to Douglas. "But I expect you do," she added and managed a smile.

  "Ah, well now," Daisy said, folding her arms comfortably. "I did catch a glimpse of him, and knew at once I'd seen him before. If I'm not mistaken, he used to work at the Job Centre in town. Manager, he was, but left. Under a cloud, I heard. Mind you, I could've got the wrong man. That's why I asked you, dear. Village shops are usually a clearinghouse for all the local news."

  "How interesting," said Josie, politely. "If you do get another look at him, let me know, won't you; then I can do my job properly."

  Josie's voice was cool, but Daisy was not fooled. "I'll keep my eyes open, then," she said.

  With no customers in sight, Josie went into the stockroom to do some checking. After only a couple of minutes, the doorbell jangled, and when she returned to the shop she saw Matthew Vickers, policeman and nephew of Cowgill, standing by the notice board where she put up cards for people offering services in the village.

  "Morning, Josieo." He greeted her cheerfully. "I'm off duty at the moment, so you can relax. My only question this morning is, do you know any good builders?"

  "Might do," Josie said. "And, by the way, you can ask me any questions you like. I've nothing to hide."

  Matthew was so taken aback by echoes of Lois Meade that he laughed aloud. "Thanks very much," he said. "I'll remember that. Now, how about good builders?"

  Josie walked round the counter and stood in front of the board. He moved closer to her, and she took a step away. He took another, and remained close. "I've looked at these," he said, "and this lot look quite possible. Coleport Brothers. Nothing too big and nothing too small, they claim. Do you know anything about them?"

  Josie nodded. "Father and son. It's an old family business. They did several jobs for Mum and Dad when they moved to Farnden. Dad's done some electrical work for them on building jobs. He likes them. Says they start a job when they say they will, and carry on until it's finished."

  "That's rare, these days," he said, putting his hand on her shoulder to peer past her at the other end of the board. The hand was warm and firm, and she did not move.

  "Do you want Dad to put a word in for you? What's it for, anyway? You must have builders in your home area."

  Matthew smiled straight into her eyes, and said, "Oh, yeah, but I've bought this cottage over Waltonby way. Between Waltonby and Fletching. It's not been lived in for years, and is very dilapidated. It'll need a lot of careful work on it. I've got the plans, and by the time it's finished I hope to spend a lot of time there."

  "How? It'd be very early retirement."

  He laughed again. "Too right," he said. "That's in the dim and distant future. No, I'm hoping to get transferred to Tresham. I love it round here, and my uncle could do with some companionship since Auntie died. It'll be a kind of weekend and holiday place for a while."

  The door opened, and Gran arrived, breathless. Her glance took in her granddaughter standing by the notice board with a good-looking bloke, whose arm was round her shoulder.

  "Ahem!" she said loudly. Josie turned round, smiling. "Heard you come in, Gran. You okay this morning? This is Matthew Vickers, and he's a policeman. You remember him. He wants some advice on builders."

  Gran ruffled her feathers like an old hen, and said, "You could do worse than the Coleports. I went to school with the old man. Mind you, he's a good bit older than me. He and his son Arnie do a good job."

  Matthew picked up a box of expensive Belgian chocolates and handed money to Josie. "Have to keep the girlfriend sweet," he said, grinning. Gran relaxed. That was all right, then. He was already spoken for. Perhaps he was just one of those touchy-feely people who can't keep their hands to themselves.

  After Gran had gone, Josie tried not to think about Matthew Vickers. Work was the thing. Always something to do in a shop. She hadn't checked the display of flowers outside yet, and filled a watering can. She removed a bunch of wilting roses to relegate them to her own sitting room, and tucked behind them she found a box of Belgian chocolates. For Josie had been scribbled on the white and gold cover.

  "Oh, no," she groaned. What would Rob say? She couldn't keep them, could she? She decided to hide them and eat them in delicious secrecy.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  AS GRAN RETURNED HOME, THE TELEPHONE WAS RINGING and she rushed to answer it.

  "Mrs. Weedon? This is Gladys Pickering here. Just to say we shall be moving on the twenty-fourth. I wanted to thank you for all your help, and to ask you very nicely if you could possibly spare time to give us a hand on moving day?"

  Gran said that of course she could, and would be only too pleased. "You're only going round the corner," she said. "We might get Lois to help if she's not too busy."

  Mrs. Pickering protested that she wouldn't dream of asking. "She's Floss's boss, don't forget," she added. " 'Bye, then, and thanks a lot. Oh, and by the way, that Mrs. Lambert has fixed a visit for the WI to go to the museum. Members were really keen, apparently. It's after our move, on Tuesday. Maybe Mrs. Meade might like to go, too? We need the numbers for a guided tour. Could you ask her?"

  Gran said she'd certainly mention it, but her daughter was not usually keen on group outings, and in any case was extremely busy. But she would love to go, she said. She was like most elderly people, she guessed, who enjoyed looking back at the past. "It's more interesting than the future, dear, as you'll find out one day," she said, and after Mrs. Pickering had made the usual reassuring noises, she said goodbye.

  To her great surprise, Lois seemed quite keen. "When did you say, Mum? Oh, yes, that would be fine—in the afternoon? It'd be a really nice idea. Do you think Josie would like to go? Maybe not. Anyway, there'd be nobody to look after the shop."

  "Rob might be able to take time off," Gran answered. "Seems a law unto himself, that lad. Anyway, I'll ask her when I go down the street."

  IN GORDON STREET, DOUGLAS, SUSIE, AND ANDREW YOUNG were having a meeting. Douglas was not strictly supposed to be there, but he had been in town on business, and said he could spare ten minutes to give Susie confidence. As it happened, she didn't need it. Andrew was extremely charming, and seemed to know his stuff. The two of them chattered away about wallpapers, paint colours, where to get cheap curtains. "Letting agents always like an unfurnished residence to have curtains," Andrew said. "It makes a better impression."

  "Letting agents?" said Susie. "I hadn't thought of using agents. Can't you do it for me? For a fee, of course," she added hastily.

  Andrew was not sure about this, and said he would have to ask Mrs. M. But in principle, he said, he would be happy to do that for her.

  Douglas listened in amazement. This was a new Susie, keen and sure of herself. Maybe that's what untold riches did for you. He'd noticed a change in his parents, sure, but they had won the lottery and been very sensible about it. They were mature, family people. But here was his childlike girlfriend, Susie, always needing his advice and protection, rapidly metamorphosing into a landlady figure with a mind of her own. What's more, this Andrew bloke was twinkling away at her while she blossomed before his eyes.

  "Right, Susie," Douglas said, standing up and looking at his watch. "I must be getting back, unless you need me for anything else? You can always ring me on my mobile if necessary," he added kindly. He expected the two of them to pack up papers and follow him out, but they didn't. Susie blew him a kiss, and Andrew leapt to his feet with a manly handshake, but then they sat down again and scarcely seemed to notice his departure.

  Jealous thoughts were quickly banished from his mind as he emerged into the street. From Braeside opposite a timidlooking figure walked down the path and opened the gate. It was not Mrs. Blairgowrie, but a woman of about the same age, neat and trim, carrying a shopping bag and wearing horn-rimmed spectacles. She walked with rapid steps up the road towards the supermarket.

  Mrs. Blairgowrie's sister? Nothing like her, Douglas decided. Probably
a friend doing her shopping. He was sure he had not seen her before, but there was something worryingly familiar about the way she carried her head, bent down and looking at the pavement, as if not sure where her feet were taking her. As he watched, she disappeared round the corner. Not going to the supermarket, then. Douglas Meade, he addressed himself sternly, you'll be spying behind lace curtains next!

  * * *

  PAT HAD SEEN DOUGLAS. HER LOWERED GAZE WAS A HABIT designed to deceive, and she had noticed him clearly from the corner of her eye. As far as she could tell, he had shown no sign of recognition. Good. She hurried on, finally entering the tourist office in a small side street. Tresham did not boast many reasons for tourists to linger awhile, but they did their best. An old marketplace building took pride of place, and had been carefully preserved, with its arched, pillared space where stallholders had cried their wares for centuries and a beautiful timbered upper storey.

  "You could take in the museum, too, dear. Are you staying in Tresham long?" The friendly girl behind the counter handed her a bunch of leaflets.

  "Thank you," Pat replied, ignoring the question. "Now, that looks very interesting. How do I get there on public transport? I have no car."

  Armed with maps and bus timetables, she left the office and set out purposefully for the bus station.

  IN LONG FARNDEN, GRAN WAS ALSO WALKING PURPOSEFULLY, but she was heading for the shop and a chat with Josie. Luckily there were no other customers, and she opened the subject of the museum straightaway. "Why, Josie," she began, "is your mother suddenly interested in a WI outing to a museum in Tresham? She has announced her intention of coming along, and I am worried."

  "Why worried?" Josie laughed. "I'd like to go myself. Can I come? Or is it just the blue-rinse brigade? As for Mum, there's no telling with her. You ought to know that by now."

  "Well, I reckon she's up to something. Anyway, you can certainly come. But I'm going, so who'll look after the shop?"

  "Rob," Josie said confidently. "He's not been very nice to me lately, so he can earn a few Brownie points. When is it?"

  The doorbell jangled, and a large, dark-haired man, wearing the latest in what Gran called sunglasses and Josie knew as shades, walked in. Josie's smile waned, and Gran stood aside from the counter.

  "Good morning," the man said, looking directly at Josie and ignoring Gran. "I thought I'd come and introduce myself. I'm soon moving into the house over the road. John Smith," he added, extending his hand. He held on a little too long, and she pulled her hand free. "I hope you'll be happy there," she said politely. "It is a very nice house."

  Gran, snitched at being ignored, stepped forward. "And I'm Mrs. Weedon, Josie's grandmother. I shall be helping the Pickerings move out, so you'll probably see me around. Where are you living now?" she asked. "Do you know this area?"

  John Smith looked at her from a great height and frowned. "Yes," he said, and turned back to Josie. He bought a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes, handed her the money, and with another oily smile he left the shop.

  "Charming!" said Gran. "Looks like he's not going to be much of an asset to the village."

  "He's been in before," Josie said. "Can you hold the fort, Gran, for a couple of minutes? I need to wash my hands."

  JOHN SMITH DROVE ON INTO TRESHAM AND PARKED IN GORDON Street. He looked up and down the street, and particularly across at Douglas's house, then got swiftly out of his car and approached the front door of Braeside.

  "Why didn't you ring? Gives me an awful start when you just come bursting in without warning," Mrs. Blairgowrie said.

  "There's eyes everywhere in this street," he said. "Just our luck to choose a street full of gossips. And one of 'em's mother is a snout. Still, once I've moved into Farnden, I can keep an eye on her. Where's our Pat?"

  "Gone," said Mrs. Blairgowrie. "Went not long ago. Didn't take much, except old clothes and some grocery supplies. And my pearls, which I mean to get back."

  "Looked good?"

  "Pretty good, I'd say. Could be quite fanciable, at a pinch."

  John Smith threw back his large head and roared with laughter. "That'll be the day," he spluttered.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  DEREK COULD SHED NO LIGHT ON LOIS'S SUDDEN ENTHUSIASM for the past, but he was pleased. Apart from work and snooping, when Derek had suggested she should look after the front garden, she had spent a lot of time there, but now it was bullied into shape, there was little to do. Weeds hardly dared to show their heads. Perhaps history would be a challenge, and an inexhaustible one. There was no end to what could be unearthed about Long Farnden, let alone Tresham and further afield. Lois had always liked talking to old people in the village, listening to their memories. She said it made her feel part of the place. It took years, she said, to dig yourself into a village. He did not agree with her that their house did not really belong to them. It belonged to all those people who had once owned it, she had said, and to those to come.

  "How d'you work that out, me duck?" he had asked her.

  "Stands to reason," Lois replied. "We can't take any of this with us when we die. Nothing, not even our dearest possessions. So it can't be ours forever."

  "But we can pass it on to our children," objected Derek. "Then it'll be theirs."

  "Exactly," Lois had said, ending the conversation.

  Now they sat at the supper table talking about the WI outing. "Josie's coming," Gran said enthusiastically. "Looks like there'll be quite a decent crowd."

  "Are men allowed?" Derek said, and without a pause Gran said of course they were and she would put him on the list.

  Lois changed the subject. "We got a postcard from Jamie today," she said. "I just picked it up from behind the door curtain. He's having a great time, he says. Usual couple of lines, but he seems to be travelling around."

  "Where from this time?" Gran said.

  "Thailand," Lois said. "Here, have a look." She handed over the card, and Derek leaned across to share it with Gran.

  Jamie was the youngest Meade, and had become an upand-coming young musician of some repute. Gran remembered when his first piano had been smuggled into the house on Christmas Eve, and how his face had lit up when he saw it the next morning. He'd come a long way since then, and was now on a round-the-world concert trip. Derek had never felt he was on the same wavelength as his young son, but loved him dearly and followed his career with pride.

  "Right, now then," Gran said, feeling that the silence needed filling before they all began to be sad missing Jamie and to wonder when he was coming home. "I'll just get on to Mrs. Pickering and give her the extra numbers."

  NEXT MORNING, ANDREW YOUNG SAT IN HIS CLEAN AND TIDY flat, drawing up plans and details for Susie's house in Gordon Street. He couldn't believe his luck. Fancy applying for a job as a cleaner, his friends had laughed. "Got your frilly apron, Andy?" they had teased. But here he was, doing exactly what he'd wanted to do, given a more or less free hand with interior décor, and working for a sharp woman who was no fool and seemed to welcome the addition to her business.

  Well, one good turn deserves another, and he was determined to do a good job for her. He'd enjoyed the cleaning sessions he had done so far, and discovered that there was more to New Brooms than dusters and spray polish. With some of the clients it seemed to be mostly a social call. Old ladies with nobody to talk to. One was a horsey woman up at the Hall, a martinet Justice of the Peace who was accustomed to servants, and herself such a fascinating relic of past days that listening to her was better than the telly.

  The telephone at his elbow rang, and he lifted the receiver. "Hello? Who's that?" he said, but all he could hear was heavy breathing. He was about to end the call, remembering with a smile that a high-class hooker had had this flat before him. Then a deep voice spoke.

  "Just a little warning, Andy boy. Keep yer nose out of number six, else you might 'ave to do wiv' out it. An' prob'ly the use of yer 'ands as well. That'd put paid to your fancy decorations!"

  "Who's that?" Andrew said
loudly. But the man had gone. Andrew immediately dialled 1471, but the irritating voice said that the caller had withheld their number. He sighed. One of the jokers from the pub, no doubt. But it wasn't quite their style. And why number six? He thought back to Gordon Street, and Susie's house— his first commission—was number seven. Douglas Meade was eight, and six was empty, wasn't it? He'd heard a rumour about a suspected killer who'd done a runner from there, but he had no idea who owned it.

  He returned to his work, and said aloud firmly, "I have

  absolutely no need to concern myself with any of it. A practical joke, for sure. Idiots. Pity they haven't got anything better to do."

  But later on, as he drove down Gordon Street on his way to the supermarket, he looked at the terrace and shivered. Ridiculous! He concentrated on parking, hoping that Susie would be on duty.

  She was behind the bread counter, which smelt wonderfully of new baking and jam doughnuts. Her blonde hair was mostly concealed by a regulation white cap, but her crisp white overall could not conceal her nigh-on perfect shape. She grinned at him. "Hi, Andrew. What can I do for you?"