by Jane Tulloch
One morning Mrs Pegram phoned through to tell him that Violet had not appeared for work for several days. This was most unusual. They discussed possible reasons for it, then Barry grasped the nettle. He’d thought of something.
“Why not just go?”
“Go where?”
“To Violet’s. We could say we’re just checking to see how she is?”
“We don’t usually do that.”
“No, but I’d like to see her at home. There might be clues.”
“Really?”
“Yes really,” he said forcefully.
“I’m coming too then.”
“OK. What about Jock? We might need him to say what he saw.”
She cringed. Surely Barry didn’t mean to take such an unsubtle approach, but she did want to keep him in the know. She felt they owed it to him.
Half an hour later they piled into Mrs Pegram’s Austin Countryman, Jock in the back enjoying a day out from his lift. He wasn’t sure why he was there but appreciated that they'd asked him.
“So what’s the actual plan?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence.
“I’m going in,” said Barry with some emphasis.
“Not on your own,” reproved Mrs Pegram.
“Mrs Pegram,” Barry drew himself up to his fullest height within the confines of the small car. They all shifted uncomfortably to accommodate this. “As head of Security, I must insist that you leave this to me.”
Mrs Pegram opened her mouth to protest but from the back seat Jock leaned forward “You should. He’s been in the police. He’ll know.”
Jock then surprised them, as they drove though the suburban streets, by outlining a clear strategic approach. He’d thought of everything, it seemed to Barry resentfully. The plan then adopted was that Barry would go in first, ascertain whether or not she really was ill and if so would withdraw. If she wasn’t ill, he would say that he’d come to discuss whether she had any idea about the increase in shoplifting. It would be ostensibly a visit to pick her brains for ideas, respecting her years of experience. In the event of any problems there would be an agreed signal for Mrs Pegram and Jock to rush to Barry’s aid. Barry looked doubtfully at Jock in the rear-view mirror but grudgingly accepted the plan.
They drew up outside the little house. It looked so neat with its brightly painted front door and pretty net curtains at each window. Barry got out.
“Good luck,” said Mrs Pegram. “Remember the signal.”
It was only after he’d started up the path that he remembered that they hadn’t decided on a signal. We’re such amateurs, he thought to himself miserably. He rang the doorbell.
The door opened almost at once. To his surprise Violet looked coolly at him, almost glared. “I’ve been expecting you,” she hissed.
Barry quailed inwardly. This was not the old friendly Violet that he’d known for years. She led him into the front room. He glanced out at the Austin now parked across the road.
The room was smallish and filled with an assortment of furniture. None of it seemed to match and it felt strangely unlived in. Even the pictures on the wall were impersonal. The only ornament was a large Royal Copenhagen vase standing on an empty bookcase near the door. Perhaps she has a homely back room and this is kept for best flashed through his mind. He wondered also if the offer of a cup of tea might be forthcoming. Apparently not.
They sat down on chairs on either side of the unlit fireplace.
“So what is it?” she started “What is the pretext for this visit? No one from Murrays has ever visited me at home before.”
“No one?” questioned Barry
“No one,” she snapped.
“Not even Jamie?”
Violet blanched. He eyes narrowed behind her glasses. There was a long pause.
Don’t say anything Barry. He reminded himself. Leave her to answer.
“Jamie was a very nice boy,” she said eventually. “I was sorry when…”
“When what?” came back Barry
“You know what happened.”
“Do I?”
There was another long pause. Outside a heavy bin lorry rumbled past shaking the little house. To Barry’s surprise, from behind the frame of a mirror over the fireplace, a label became dislodged by the vibration. It dangled down still attached by its string. Barry recognised the label, and the string: it came from Murrays and was always removed and retained by the salesperson. Violet saw Barry noticing this. She looked at him speculatively.
“Erm… that’s from Murrays,” he opened.
“So?”
“So why do you have it? Why does it still have its sales label?”
“Because.”
“Because what? You should know what it implies.”
“Yes, I know what it implies. Of course I do. I should know.” She said in an unexpected rush. “I’ve been at it for years. Theft, stealing, shoplifting, shrinkage whatever you call it.” She was shouting now. “I’m really good at it, you know,” she said proudly.
“You admit it then? Should you be telling me this?” Barry pleaded thoroughly disconcerted at this apparently unhinged Violet. He had a thought. “Did you tell Jamie this? Is that what he found out? Is that why you killed him?” He berated himself. I shouldn’t have blurted that out.
“Yes, that’s what Jamie found out. He found out that I was really, really good at theft. I was trained by the master. I’m an expert,” she said proudly.
She’s lost it, he thought. This is a confession, another part of him thought excitedly.
She stared at him and through him. “My mother left when I was a baby, you know,” she said conversationally. “I don’t know what happened to her. I wasn’t allowed to ask. My father was a hard man. Very hard. On me. He had lots of friends in the criminal fraternity. I was a bright girl, offered a scholarship, but he wouldn’t let me stay on at school. Oh no, I had to get a job. I was 14 when I started at Murrays. I didn’t get paid enough, he said. I didn’t earn my keep, he said.” Her voice rose unexpectedly. “I had to do more, I had to get more.” She was breathing fast. A muscle throbbed visibly at her temple.
Barry sat back hard against the chair he was on. A sense of menace filled the room. He looked around him. He was uneasily aware that he was witnessing a controlled explosion of a lifetime of simmering, malevolent resentment.
“And so I did. I took stuff from every department. Right under your nose. Everything was sold on. We made a fortune.” She looked around her. “This house is bought and paid for,” she said proudly. “By me. By my efforts. No one is going to take it away from me.”
Barry wriggled. Pinned down by her harsh gaze.
“My father found a husband for me. He wanted to keep it all in the gang. There was a gang, you see. I was the only one who did anything,” she snorted. “The others were useless. Sat about talking, big talk about all the big jobs they were going to pull off meanwhile it was me who was doing all the work.” Then she added thoughtfully, “Lucky I enjoyed it!”
“Your husband?” Barry started “Is he the one who’s in Carstairs?”
Violet scoffed “Carstairs? Who told you that?”
“Well you. You told Jamie that and he told his mother. The only thing is that the police don’t know anything about him being in Carstairs and you’d think they would.” He put in bravely.
“Well he’s not! Do you want to know where he is the useless, bullying article?”
“Yes,” said Barry in a tiny voice. “Why not? If you want to that is.” Inwardly he cursed himself for his feebleness.
“At the bottom of the sea. The Irish Sea. It was an ‘accident’ you see, he just – ‘fell’ over the rail on the Isle of Man ferry.” She waved her hand to indicate his fall. “I didn’t report it. I was too ‘upset’ at the time. We were foot passengers so no one knew who we were. No one missed him. Especially not me.”
She looked at him challengingly.
“He fell over the rail? Like Jamie?”
“Yes. What
a coincidence. Accidents will happen.” She raised her eyebrows speculatively.
Oh God, thought Barry. She’s a psychopath. She’s the one who should be in Carstairs. Now what’ll I do?
“I’m waiting,” said Violet.
“What for?” he asked gruffly. His mouth dry.
“For what you’re going to do.”
He stood up. She stood up too. He drew a deep breath. “Violet Parsons, I’m arresting you for the murders of your husband and of Jamie Spence and of, and of, oh, lots of thefts,” he finished weakly.
Violet laughed. “You can’t arrest me. You’re not a policeman.”
“I can carry out a citizen’s arrest. I have colleagues outside,” he said airily.
“Have you indeed?” she said. With gritted teeth and wild eyes she quite suddenly sprang at him grabbing him by his tie. It tightened immediately and, surprised, he fell back onto the sofa gasping for breath. She knelt above him and pulled the tie. She was gasping herself and panting with effort but was not getting much resistance from the increasingly inert Barry. With a final last burst of strength Barry tried to regain his feet. The sofa fell back tugging the net curtains down from their suspending wire.
In the car outside Mrs Pegram and Jock saw the odd sight of the nets dipping apparently of their own accord.
“That’s a signal!” cried Jock, although they had not actually decided on one. They sprang out of the car and pushed open the front door. Muffled thumps from the room to their right alerted them to the disturbance inside.
Bursting into the room they immediately took in the situation. A wild-haired, wild-eyed Violet was kneeling on the inert body of Barry and still pulling on his tie. “Get off him!” Mrs Pegram shouted.
Violet looked back at them and raised her eyebrows. “Or what dear?” she said nonchalantly and turned back to throttling Barry.
“Or this,” said Mrs Pegram. The Royal Copenhagen vase crashed over Violet’s head and shoulders. She slumped down half on Barry’s lifeless body. Quickly, Mrs Pegram slackened the tie, which was cruelly biting into Barry’s neck and gave him a shake. With an almighty gasp he heaved a breath. Gradually his face turned from a ghastly grey to a healthier pink. “What happened?” he asked. Then looking around him, “Oh God, where is she?” He fell back again. “Sorry. I’m feeling a bit faint.” He passed out.
Mrs Pegram looked anxiously at the body of Violet. She was appalled at her own action. She’d never hit anyone in her life before and had now felled this woman. Her victim was obviously alive but making odd noises. Mrs Pegram began to shake.
Jock, meanwhile, had hastened to the telephone in the hall and summoned an ambulance, police and, in his excitement, the fire brigade. Blue lights and sirens soon began to fill the street.
At the management meeting the next day, the eventful visit to Violet P was the main topic of discussion. Miss Murray was appalled to hear of the real cause of Jamie’s death. The attempted murder of Barry was somewhat dismissively shrugged off. What did he expect bearding this woman in her den? They were agog to hear of the long-term and comprehensive campaign of theft pursued by this previously valued member of staff. Jock’s involvement was marvelled at too but not as much as Mrs Pegram’s quick thinking and complete lack of concern for valuable porcelain. She had saved Barry from strangulation with his own tie. Violet was in custody after an initial spell in a secure ward. A police surgeon had examined Barry after he came round again from his manly faint. He had explained that she was absolutely manic and had needed to be sedated at the scene before being taken up to the psychiatric hospital. It seemed likely that she might be detained indefinitely under the Mental Health Act rather than imprisoned.
Mr Soames marvelled, “Fancy Violet P of all people! She was so kind to me when I first started.”
“She was nice to everyone,” Mr Philipson continued. “Everyone’s friend.”
The canteen was aghast. The nefarious crimes of Violet P provided them with a fascinating topic for weeks. Jock found himself warmly invited to join almost every table. He was the hero of Lift 3 and ladies were sometimes seen pushing one another in their efforts to get into Lift 3 with the hero they had read about in the newspapers.
Barry had a few days off to recover. Well-deserved, he thought. He was delighted when Mrs Pegram phoned to see how he was. They chatted in a desultory way until he had one of his impulsive thoughts. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come out for dinner with me one evening?” he started.
“No. I don’t think so,” came the rapid reply. “But thank you for asking. Maybe some other time,” she added, ending on a more hopeful note for Barry.
Yes, he thought. I’m in with a chance there. What a day. What a week. I’ve done it. I caught a murderer and stopped a long-term thief. Mum and Gran would be proud of me. Jamie would be pleased too. His face fell, thinking of poor Jamie.
Still. Barry’s crusade to prove himself was over. And he had won.
Chapter 11
The Third Miss Paterson
The employment of the Paterson triplets in 1955 had been a great publicity coup for Murrays. The identical girls were glamorous and cheerful and everyone thoroughly enjoyed the surprised reactions of customers as they moved from department to department seemingly meeting the same assistant. They had posed for the local newspapers in the Murrays uniform at the time and happily told the reporters how much they enjoyed working in their various departments. Miss Paterson, for she was the eldest, was placed in the Perfumery and Cosmetics department, Miss Audrey in Ladies Separates and Miss Evelyn, in Toys.
In due course Miss Paterson became Mrs Rodgers, Miss Audrey became Mrs McBride and, finally, in the old-fashioned way, Miss Evelyn took on the title of Miss Paterson. Murrays was the sort of store that adhered to such Victorian customs.
Nor was Murrays the only firm to adhere to Victorian ways. The girls had been the daughters of a tea-planter employed by a very old, established Edinburgh company. So old and so well-established was it, that it still paid a pension to the oldest unmarried daughter of its previous employees. So, in time this, admittedly small, pension became payable to the eventual, and final, Miss Paterson.
Now almost twenty years later Miss Evelyn had become and remained Miss Paterson.
In the intervening years the third Miss Paterson, Evelyn, had become departmental head in Toys. There was very little that she didn’t know about the make, model and optional variations of any sort of toy or children’s game on the market. A generation of parents and grandparents relied on her for suggestions for ideal presents for the children in their families. She knew the best party entertainers and the most up-to-date trends in children’s parties. She provided insights to the Home and Wares department so that the buyer could be sure to stock the “in” items related to these parties: paper cup and plate designs, napkins, crackers and novelties. She advised the Stationery department on which invitation cards to stock. Even the staff of Children’s Wear consulted with her on whether or not to focus on one or other of the current TV programme or book-themed tee-shirts or jumpers. She had become a highly valued member of staff.
She was still very glamorous now as she approached forty. She had fair hair and warm brown eyes set in a face of exquisitely chiselled features: she was a real beauty. Her small extra income enabled her to buy slightly more expensive clothes and to have her hair styled by the best hairdresser in town. Her shoes were the envy of the girls in Perfumery and Cosmetics despite her having surprisingly large feet. Her large feet were a comfort to some of the less-attractive girls in the canteen. She was usually tastefully and subtly made up and altogether was considered an adornment to the Murrays staff.
Evelyn lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of the town. This was surprising to some who thought that she would be more likely to want a flat in town or at least to want to share her house with a companion. She was unmarried and, apparently, unattached. Over the years she had talked of the various boyfriends that she had had but none had seemed to be �
�the one’ so she remained single.
She was a devoted and much-loved aunt to her sisters’ tribes of little boys. “No girls,” she had despaired to her friend, Audrey, from the Shoes department one day during coffee break. “No party dresses to choose, no lovely little gold shoes to buy. Or dolls.” She sighed, sadly shaking her head.
“Should have had one of your own,” retorted Audrey, stirring her coffee busily.
“If only.” Evelyn had looked away.
Evelyn’s remaining unmarried was a source of consternation to her friends.
In the canteen, Audrey and Mrs Ritchie from Linens were discussing Evelyn’s persisting single state:
“Whatever happened to that Jamie? The one who worked in a bank. Had thick wavy hair I remember,” asked Audrey.
“She was always talking about him right enough,” concurred Mrs Ritchie. “I remember him picking her up from work in that wee sports car.”
“She looked just right in it too. Just the glamorous sort to look just right. Like a picture in a car advert.”
The two nodded.
“She used to talk about him all the time then just nothing.”
“I tried to find out what happened. Subtly you know.” Audrey looked at her friend through narrowed eyes.
Mrs Ritchie nodded knowingly.
Audrey continued: “But nae luck. No luck,” she corrected herself quickly. “She just shut up like a clam.”
Miss Cunningham, Sheila, from Travel and Luggage joined them, pushing aside their cups to make way for her own. “Talking about Evelyn?” she cut in. “Sorry picking up fag ends again!” She laughed.
Her friends excused her and the three continued to mull over Evelyn’s long list of previous male companions. Their coffees slowly cooled and cigarettes burned down to ash.
Miss Cunningham was rather touchy on the subject, being an unmarried lady, as she referred to herself, preferring this to the ignominious title of spinster. “Maybe she’s just fussy like me,” she said with a sniff. The other two exchanged glances.
