He got up and padded slipperless into the en suite, so full of pain and anxiety he didn’t even feel the chill of the tiled floor. What was the matter with him? He didn’t do emotional pain. No one but a woman or a soft idiot of a man felt emotional pain. Now, physical pain he understood. Like when he shut his fingers in the car door and had to go to A&E because he’d broken two of them and his hand had swollen to twice its size, or the time he fell down some steps and grazed his knee, leaving it without any skin on at all. With the door shut he sat down on the bathroom stool and wept small, tight tears, which trickled thinly down his cheeks.
Liz waited for his return, half-intending to get up to see if he was all right, because she had felt cruel the way she’d told him she knew about the boys, but by mistake she fell asleep after about an hour.
Neville eventually crept back to bed, but he didn’t sleep all night.
Chapter 8
First thing on Monday morning, Sergeant John MacArthur took himself off to Culworth intent on visiting a couple of the more dodgy members of society who might have heard about Grandmama’s snuff boxes. He felt motivated on her behalf because he admired elderly ladies who were brisk and up with it and didn’t care what people thought about them.
On the surface it seemed unlikely that he would be successful. Culworth was a pleasant country town, dominated by the Abbey and its genteel occupations, and the thought that there might be an undercurrent of criminal activity was furthest from the resident’s minds. But Mac knew different. They’d a thriving drug culture, for a start, and, just as active, a thieving element which kept Culworth police busy. Not international crime but definitely crime.
His first call was to a shady jewellery shop down by the river where the old docks used to be. The dock basin was now occupied by narrowboats and wedding cake cabin cruisers.
‘Morning!’ Mac shouted as soon as he opened the door. He got no reply so he went round the counter and into the back. On the floor by the back door was Jackie Worsley, crouched in an odd foetal position, still in his pyjamas.
‘Jackie! Jackie! Come on, son. Come on, then.’ He rolled him gently onto his back and saw the huge patch of bruising and severe swelling down the side of his face and his head. His breathing was shallow. Testing the pulse in his neck, the Sergeant, to his relief, found him to be still alive.
Mac dialled 999 and called for an ambulance. Then he rang for forensics and a team to investigate. By the time they’d arrived and he’d left them in charge it was ten o’clock and time for his morning coffee, but he decided first to call to see Mervyn at the old pawn shop next door just in case he’d seen something, or even received the same treatment.
But Mervyn was putting new items in his window display when Mac arrived. He was all right, then.
‘Good morning, Mervyn. How’s things?’
Mervyn’s long nose required blowing before he answered. ‘What you here for?’
‘To see if you’re all right.’
‘Me? All right? Since when have you been concerned about my health?’ He turned to look at Mac.
Mac smiled. Mervyn wasn’t such a bad old chap, more sinned against than sinning, and he was a knowledgeable man to have on side. ‘Since I found Jackie Worsley two hours ago, unconscious in the back of his shop.’
Mervyn kept a perfectly straight face and said sympathetically, ‘Poor old Jackie. I thought he didn’t seem so good last time I saw him. Hospital job?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s been attacked. Unconscious, he is. Cracked skull, I wouldn’t wonder.’
Mervyn shuddered. ‘Serious, then.’
‘Yes, Mervyn, serious. Any bits of news for me?’
‘How can I have news for you when I never leave the shop?’ Mac tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘You do. I’ve seen you. Still, I’m here to warn you to take care. Someone’s being a naughty boy.’
Mervyn moved from the back of the window, pulled the curtain across and returned to behind the counter. Attempting to sound disinterested, he asked, ‘Been some nicking going on?’
Mac nodded. Then he delved inside his jacket and pulled out Grandmama’s photographs.
Mervyn almost salivated when he saw the snuff boxes. He studied the photos with greedy eyes, then studied them again and licked his lips. ‘These are wonderful. Never had stuff this quality in my shop. They’re not from the Rectory at Turnham Malpas, are they? If they are . . . she’s a lovely lady, is the Rector’s wife.’
‘No. They belong to an old lady who doesn’t deserve being robbed. A feisty old lady I’ve lots of time for. If you don’t watch out she’ll be in here doing her own detective work, she’s that kind of person. If she does come in, watch your step. She’s just as likely to fetch you one with her handbag as she is to buy the best gold necklace you’ve ever had in your shop.’
‘Like that, is she?’ Mervyn smiled, and it made his eyes sparkle. ‘I like old ladies like that. These snuff boxes, how long have they been missing?’
‘Since Thursday last week.’
‘That job at that new market in Turnham Malpas?’
‘That’s right.’ Seeing as there hadn’t been time for it to be in the local paper, best not to ask how he knew, thought Mac. ‘There’s jewellery from the pub, too. They were so busy downstairs they never heard the burglars upstairs riffling through their belongings. Look, there’s a couple of pictures, but not very clear.’ He gave Mervyn one photograph of Georgie wearing a bracelet and another of her wearing a ring, which showed up fairly well on her hand.
Mervyn handed Georgie’s photos back to Mac. ‘Might be able to help with these silver boxes. No promises, mind. The other stuff, can’t help at all. Leave it with me for a day or two. I don’t do it to help the police, you know, and don’t you think I do. I just can’t bear for beautiful stuff like this to be bandied about all over the place and end up going for a song to someone who doesn’t appreciate ’em. Not right.’
Then he swished wide the curtain which separated the shop from his living quarters, went behind it and dragged the curtain across the gap.
Mac quickly stepped back, knowing from experience that a cloud of dust would fly round as the curtain swirled shut. He picked up the photos, placed them carefully in their envelope and put them back inside his jacket, remembering to leave his mobile number on a piece of card on the counter.
As a courtesy to the two legitimate jewellers in Culworth, Mac called on each of them on his way back to his car in the station car park, warned them about Jackie Worsley and collected two coffees for his trouble.
Before he got into his car Mac went inside the police station to look up some regular ‘customers’ whose fingerprints and records he could examine on their computer. He discovered that two possible suspects were in jail, and a third had left the district. So maybe the burglaries were just opportunists, as he had first suspected. Regulars wouldn’t leave three sets of fingerprints around Mrs Charter-Plackett’s house, now would they?
The feisty old lady so admired by Mac was at that moment stepping from a taxi in Culworth market square.
‘Thank you, my man. There’s a tip, too.’
She’d have coffee first to revive her and then on with her crusade.
She chose the Abbey coffee shop, as it was just about the most elegant place for coffee apart from the George, which Grandmama resented because of the prices they charged. She refused to patronize the George, unless Jimbo was paying.
Grandmama decided to sit in an armchair in front of a large coffee table. On the other side was a long, rich red sofa occupied by two peroxided women who ought to have known to dress better than they did. Grandmama tested her caffe latte, and approved.
She had to admit she loved people-watching when she was on her own, and the two women on the sofa opposite her were absolutely right for it. Their conversation was ripe with coarse language. Grandmama quite relished their colourful choice of words, but then the conversation became much more interesting.
‘. . . He promised me
one, blast him, and, as he promised, he came home with it Friday. Beautiful, such good taste. He does have an eye.’
‘Let’s hope it’s just for the silver and not the women!’ They both cackled with laughter and nudged each other. In view of her present predicament, the use of the word silver intrigued Grandmama, and she cursed the woman with the crying baby behind her as it partially masked Old Peroxide’s voice.
‘It’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, decorated lovely it is, with, like, a castle on it. I’ve decided I’m going to collect them. He says there’s more where that came from. One hundred and fifty pounds, he gave. An absolute snip, he says.’
‘A lot for a little box you can’t use, even if it is silver.’
Old Peroxide bridled. ‘You, my girl, haven’t seen it.’
‘No, but I’d like to,’ said Young Peroxide, hinting furiously.
‘Finished your coffee?’ Old Peroxide twice struggled to get out of the sofa and managed it at the third attempt.
‘You going?’
‘Yes, home to show you my box. That’s if you want?’
Grandmama hoped they didn’t notice that she was already struggling to release herself from her armchair.
‘Give me time to collect my shopping,’ said Young Peroxide, carefully shuffling together three expensive carriers.
They both headed straight for the taxi rank outside Culworth station, and so did Grandmama. Never in her life had she used the phrase, ‘Follow that car!’ But today she did. The Peroxides’ taxi departed smoothly, with Grandmama’s cab at a discreet distance behind.
‘Don’t get too close, I don’t want them to know they’re being followed.’
‘You sound like a detective.’
In order to engage the taxi driver’s enthusiasm she indulged herself in a piece of fantasy. ‘That’s because I am.’
‘You look a bit . . . well, old for a detective.’
‘That’s why I am one. No one imagines I could possibly be a detective at my age. But I’m the best in the business.’ The taxi in front was now hurtling along at quite a lick, and Grandmama had to cling on for fear of being thrown off the seat. ‘Watch! Watch! He’s signalling.’ But they were only turning into a driveway.
Grandmama shrieked, ‘Don’t drive in!’
So her driver slid quietly along the street and parked.
‘Give them a chance to get into the house and then back up. I need the house number. Gently, gently. No screaming tyres.’
Obediently, the driver did as she requested.
Number fifty-seven, she noted. ‘Right, pull further along and park again.’
As he parked she opened her bag, took out Mac’s card with his number on it and dialled him on her mobile.
‘Detective Sergeant? That you? Good. I’m parked in The Avenue in Culworth outside number fifty-seven. Got that? Fifty-seven, The Avenue. Two women have just gone inside, and the one who lives there is going to show the other one what her husband bought her yesterday, a silver box. Significant, eh? And she says there’s more where that came from. Come quickly. You’ll catch them with . . . hello?’
Blimey! thought the taxi driver. She really is a detective.
Grandmama shook her phone vigorously. ‘Damn the blasted thing. It’s died. Well, can’t be my phone. Must be Mac’s. Blast it. Right, come on, we’re going in.’ She reached out to open the rear door.
‘You’re not and I’m not,’ said the taxi driver, alarmed. ‘No way. You know the address. They’ll keep.’
He revved up and drove away to find a wider stretch of road to turn round in. Over Grandmama’s protests from the back he shouted, ‘They could have guns and you’re not going in and I definitely aren’t.’ He spun round in the road and, driving past number fifty-seven again, headed back to the station taxi rank.
Grandmama howled but the driver refused to stop. How could he? How could he? She ranted and raved in the back, scheming to leap out the moment he stopped, but the lights were with him and he didn’t need to stop till he arrived at the taxi rank.
‘Five pounds, madam, please. Thanks. You know, at your age you should take life a little steadier and give up this detective lark. It could get dangerous.’
The moment she grabbed her change Grandmama headed off to the police station, which, fortunately for her, was right by the railway station.
The taxi driver watched her and slowly shook his head. He wondered if she’d ever heard of the word retirement. But he guessed she hadn’t because she raced through the door of the police station moving faster than that three-year-old filly he’d backed yesterday.
Not a single police officer on duty recognized her. Nor were they inclined to listen to this crazy, breathless old girl determined to have them racing out in hot pursuit of someone or other right in the middle of their morning break.
‘Sorry, love,’ one said. ‘You sit down and catch your breath for a bit and then you can get on with your shopping. Here, have my coffee, I haven’t started it yet. Do you good. Sugar?’
One taste of the coffee and she had to assume he was trying to poison her. ‘Thank you very much, but no. If you drink this stuff every day, it’s enough to give you a death wish.’
Feeling slightly insulted, the officer on the counter asked if she had a relative he could ring.
‘You could ring your deputy commissioner and tell him my name. He knows my son.’
Too old a bird to fall for that kind of ploy, the constable indicated with his pen that she should drink her coffee instead.
‘But he does!’
Finally she came to realize that it was not the morning for catching thieves and so, quite overcome by her efforts, in particular that rapid march into the police station, she asked the constable to order her a taxi, as though she were staying in a hotel.
He stood at the door, put two fingers to his mouth and gave a piercing whistle, signalling to the first taxi in the rank to pull forward. Unfortunately for the driver, it was the taxi she’d originally hailed. But business being thin this morning he could do nothing but agree to take her. ‘But let it be understood, I am not chasing criminals. I only do that on Fridays.’
Ruefully Grandmama agreed.
She was so full to bursting with her morning’s adventure she couldn’t just go home so she went to Jimbo’s. Seated in his thinking chair, she complained loudly about the police force. She smacked her right fist into the palm of her left hand and shouted, ‘I had them in the house, you see, with the silver box, and still the police wouldn’t help me.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t go in,’ Jimbo said.
‘I should have done.’ She clenched her fist again and thumped the chair arm. ‘I should have done. Mac’s damned phone packed up. I might have had a chance with him, but no, everything was against me. Even the taxi driver said he only chased criminals on Fridays.’
Jimbo left her drinking the coffee he’d made her and went to phone Mac. ‘Your phone’s working now then? My mother said she tried to phone you.’
‘Sorry about that. Got in a tunnel and the dratted thing packed up.’
His reply appeared a little too glib to Jimbo, but he couldn’t refute it.
‘Your mother . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Try to discourage her from going out investigating by herself.’
‘You try! Anyway, perhaps if the officers at Culworth had gone like she asked, they could have caught the thieves red-handed.’
‘Get a bit obsessive about their routine, you know, don’t like too much disruption.’
‘You can say that again. However, I shall be seeing the deputy commissioner later this week. His daughter’s getting married and he wants the best caterer he can find - and that’s me. I might just have a word. Let that idle lot in Culworth know, will you?’
All he heard on the other end of the phone was chuckling and then it went dead.
Mac knew he needed rather more information than he had before approaching number fifty-seven. Such as who paid the
rates for that house. A quick peep at the electoral roll would suffice. He might even take Grandmama with him when he did go so she could identify them. That would be an interesting experience! He was into that kind of thing for the book he was going to write in his retirement. But he just hoped she didn’t intend to ask why his phone had packed up at the crucial moment. Phones ‘packing up’ was the most brilliant pretence and avoided no end of hassle. He smiled slyly at this thought, and there was a kind of secretive charm about his smile which he wouldn’t have liked his wife to see. It didn’t do for wives to know what their husbands were up to every minute of every day. He planned to ask Grandmama to try again next week. Those two women might just make a habit of going into Culworth on Mondays.
The Village Green Affair Page 12
