by Ann Purser
“Look! There’s a place!” said Douglas.
“Disabled space,” said Derek.
“Oh, for God’s sake, just drive into it,” said Lois in desperation. “Ten to one nobody’ll check. We shall never get in there if we don’t park soon.” She felt sick in the airless van, but Derek shook his head and drove on until they finally saw someone leaving and moved in quickly. Lois opened the door and struggled out. She drew in deep gulps of wet, fume-laden air, and then helped gather the rest together.
An hour later, Lois had to admit that it was not nearly so bad as she had expected. She and Josie had gone off on their own, while Derek and the boys had headed for the sports shops. In the large central hall it was spacious and, though packed with hundreds of shoppers and sightseers, it seemed airy and light. A magical Christmas display had been set up and queues had formed for a small train which crawled its way in and out of small houses in a scaled-down Swiss village, snow-covered and glittering in the lights, with animated characters from favourite children’s stories waving and bowing in their mechanically good-humoured way.
“Come on, Josie,” said Lois, dragging her away. “You’re too old for that! Let’s get a cup of tea and rest our feet.” They’d done most of the shopping on their list, and needed a break.
As they turned to walk away from the crowds, Lois heard Josie gasp, and then a voice said, “Hi, there, Josie! Fancy seeing you here. How’re y’doing?” Josie had stopped dead and her cheeks were fiery.
“Hello,” said Lois, collecting her wits. “Who’s this then, Josie?” She did not recognize the lad, but a moment later she knew.
“Mum – this is Melvyn.”
“Yes,” said Lois. “So it is. Well, Melvyn, I won’t say nice to meet you. But since we have met, you’d better come and have a cup of tea with us. A chat might be a good idea.”
Melvyn, not in the least daunted, smiled in return, winked at Josie, and followed meekly behind as they headed for a café with chairs set out on a stone terrace surrounded by Italianate box hedges.
♦
“Well, where the hell were you, then?” said Lois sharply as she and Josie finally found Derek, Douglas and Jamie looking wistfully at an unbelievably shiny Porsche parked at the edge of the square; first prize in a nationwide charity raffle.
“What’s up?” said Derek. “You look a bit flushed the pair of you? Bin’ sampling some festive spirit?”
He laughed at this, but realized his mistake when Lois took his arm and squeezed until it hurt. “We’ve just had a cup of tea,” she said. “And we had company.”
Josie grinned at her father, not in the least embarrassed now. The truth was that Melvyn had been charming and Lois had found it hard to know how to tackle him. He was really very mature for his age, she had thought. But the minute Melvyn had said goodbye and disappeared into the crowds, Lois’s strong misgivings had returned. He was too smooth, too old and too smart to be anywhere near her fourteen-year-old, let alone taking her into deserted factories intent on seduction. She had failed, she knew, to give him any sort of warning. She’d fallen too easily under his spell. My God, he sure knew what he was about.
Derek clammed up when she told him, shepherded them out of the mall and into the car park. It took a long time to find the van, and when they did, it sprouted a notice neatly folded into a plastic bag to keep it dry. A parking ticket. They’d run out of time. All they needed, thought Lois, as she watched Derek, unsmiling and worried, push the notice into his pocket. They drove home in silence, except for Josie, whose soft humming irritated Lois so much that she exploded and threatened to shove her out so she’d have to make her own way home.
Later in the evening, when only Derek and Lois were left watching television in silence, the subject was finally approached. Derek switched off mid-programme and said, “Not watching this, are you?”
Lois shook her head. “Can’t concentrate,” she said.
“Me neither,” said Derek. “Cup of tea?”
They sat side by side on the sofa and talked. “He comes over really nice,” said Lois. “If only we didn’t know what we know.”
“You didn’t say anything, then…nothin’ about that factory business?”
Lois shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “I must’ve been mad. But it just didn’t seem right, what with Josie sitting there trembling, worrying what was going to happen. I mean, I couldn’t say outright that he was a dirty little sod and had better leave our Josie alone else her father’d chew his balls off, could I?”
The ghost of a smile crossed Derek’s face. “Don’t see why not,” he muttered. “Anyway, now we know what we’re up against. Maybe you did the right thing. Y’know, keep it all out in the open, not drive it underground and that. Could be the best thing in the end.”
“Mmm,” said Lois. “Let’s hope so.”
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Fourteen
Small flecks of wet snow settled on Lois’s windscreen as she drove into Farnden and parked outside Nurse Surfleet’s cottage. It wasn’t so cold now the snow had started, but Lois was apprehensive about her return journey. The clouds hung low and heavy, and were an ominous yellowish-grey colour. She clicked open the gate and walked up the garden path, glancing across at Gloria Hathaway’s blind little house, with its curtains drawn and remnants of unwanted junk mail blowing untidily about the dismal garden.
“Morning, Gillian,” said Lois, as she approached Nurse Surfleet’s front door.
Nurse Surfleet was just on her way out and held the door open for Lois as she walked past. “Morning, Lois,” she said. “Looks like some serious snow on the way. Got to go over to Ringford again this morning. Old Ellen Biggs is worrying me a bit. Not improving, and tries to look after herself, you know. Might have to get her into the Red House for a bit of respite. Poor old thing, very independent…Mind you, she’s got good friends.”
“Shall I carry on as usual, then?” said Lois, her half-formed plan adjusting in her head as she talked. It must be possible, she thought, to get in there somehow. No police on duty this morning, no officious Keith Simpson barring the way. An idea occurred to her, and she called Gillian Surfleet back just as she was opening the garden gate. “I’ve forgotten my keys,” she said. “Sorry!”
Lois waited while Gillian Surfleet came back up the path, into the house and rummaged through the rows of keys, mostly obsolete, on her board in the kitchen. “Here,” she said. “Here’s a spare back door key. Use that and return it next week. And do be careful with them, Lois. I was never nervous in this village…until…well, you know,” she finished, giving herself a shake. She looked again at the board, muttered that she really must sort them out and throw some away. “There’s Gloria’s spares there,” she said, just as Lois had hoped. “Better give those to the police some time,” she remarked as she looked at the clock. “Oh Lord, I’m late! Old Ellen’ll be watching out when she should be in bed. Thanks in advance, Lois. See you next week…bye!”
♦
It was too easy. Nothing is that easy, Lois realized later, but now she just sighed with relief as Gloria’s back door opened smoothly without a sound. A smell of damp and undisturbed air greeted her. The kitchen was tidy, but it was a final, depressed kind of tidiness, with no one to put on the kettle, run the tap, open the cupboards and the fridge or turn on the cooker. Lois wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant smell and walked on tiptoe through to the living room. Don’t know why I’m being so quiet, she thought. Gloria’s beyond hearing anything anymore. She began to whistle, to banish the shivers that had begun to run through her. It wasn’t just the cold – though it was very cold – no, there was something else, something that always takes up residence in an empty house. Lois couldn’t put her finger on it, but decided to have a quick look round, then scarper.
The cottage was small, but had a decent-sized living room. Lois nosed around and the first thing that caught her eye was Gloria’s sewing box half-open, with cotton and silks spilled on to the floor. A cup with
mouldy coffee dregs stood on the small table by the diamond-paned window. Everything else looked dusty but ordinary. Nothing remotely out of the ordinary. She debated whether to go upstairs. Might not get another chance. She went swiftly up the narrow staircase and into what was obviously Gloria’s bedroom. Lois gasped in surprise. My God, this was the secret life of Gloria Hathaway, no mistake! A huge bed, an elaborate dressing table, curlicues on the bedhead, silky drapes and frilled sheets, and a pile of dolls, with ringlets and frills. They seemed to be staring at Lois, and she shivered. A spider crawled over one of the china faces, and Lois backed away. God, they were sinister! Lois sniffed. The damp, decaying smell was up here, too. It was all over the house. Lois felt a strong desire to run, but forced herself to turn back into the room. She stretched out a hand to take a book from the bedside table, but before she could look at it, she heard a sound from downstairs, and froze. Her heart thumped wildly, and she looked around hopelessly for a way out. Heavy footsteps, making no effort to be quiet, began to mount the stairs, and Lois shoved her fist into her mouth to stifle a scream.
“Well, well,” said PC Keith Simpson, “and what ‘ave we ‘ere, Mrs Meade? Doing a spot of private investigation, are we?”
His mock copper voice broke the spell of terror, and Lois sat down heavily on a silky, padded stool. “Blimey, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” she said. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll explain,” she added, panting heavily.
It took some explaining. Keith Simpson was not stupid and he did not believe her story about hearing a cat calling piteously to be let out. He knew Nurse Surfleet had keys, and he had meant to collect them, so he had no trouble in working out how Lois had gained entry. “What you don’t know,” he said smugly to Lois, “is that we check this place every day, and it’s just your bad luck we coincided. Still, lucky it was me and not one of the others. I’ll let you off with a caution this time, provided you promise to let me know what you come up with. And no more trespassing. Better get back next door as quick as you can. We’ll be in touch,” he said, as he held the bedroom door open for her. “Notice anything here, by the way?” he added, but Lois shook her head.
Not so clever, Lois, she said to herself, as she went back through the kitchen and headed out to the path at the back of Miss Hathaway’s cottage, thereby denying Keith the fun of watching her ignominious retreat through Gloria’s front garden to the road.
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Fifteen
Melvyn Hallhouse cycled home from school on the last day of term and parked his bike in the backyard of the house where he lived with his family. Home to my family, he said to himself. But it’s not a family like young Josie and her lot; Douglas and Jamie looking so like their father that there was no mistaking their relationship. Melvyn didn’t look like his mum or dad, or any of his brothers. They were all fostered, except him and he was adopted. Although there was affection from his mum shared out equally between them, he had never felt a real sense of family as other people knew it. Affection wasn’t quite enough. There was always a fair hearing if you did something wrong or lied to Mum, but he couldn’t remember a time when, like other mothers, she’d stormed off to school to tackle his teacher with arms akimbo, regardless of whether he had been right or wrong. Melvyn had come to the conclusion his family was different just because of his mum’s even-handedness and fairness. It wasn’t natural. His mates at school from an early age had been toughened up with a quick vent of temper from an angry mother. They knew when to dodge. But they also knew that their mothers were, when push came to shove, on their side. Melvyn was far from sure that he would always have his mum solidly behind him – he tried not to think about his dad at all.
He opened the back door and greeted his smiling mother. “Hi,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek. If only he’d known how her heart lifted when he did that, how he was her first and her favourite, though of course it was against all the rules to show favouritism. He dumped his school bag, and changed quickly into clothes that transformed him from a schoolboy into the young man he nearly was. “Can I just have a sandwich, Ma?” he said. “Got to get out early to meet Charlie. We’re going up the centre to do a bit of late shopping.”
“Christmas shopping?” said his mother, taking out the loaf and thin slices of turkey that Melvyn liked.
Melvyn nodded. “Make a start, anyway,” he said.
His mother pushed the pile of sandwiches down with the flat of her hand. “Have you got enough money?”
“Yep, enough for now,” Melvyn said, stuffing his mouth full, and turning on the television.
Melvyn’s mother wondered sometimes how Melvyn managed his money so well. All the boys had an allowance, of course, graded according to age. His father paid them all each week, handing out money over the table on Fridays as regular as clockwork. Occasionally his mother tried to discuss Melvyn’s allowance with his father, anxious that he should measure up well against the other lads. Melvyn never complained and never asked to borrow a quid or two until next week. His father said he’d bloody well better not ask. He wasn’t made of money.
♦
It was crowded in the shopping centre, and although Melvyn and Charlie had made an arrangement to meet outside John Lewis, there was no sign of Charlie when Melvyn arrived. He stood for a while, watching the shoppers, the weary mothers and whining children, their pushchairs piled high with shopping in bright festive bags. Watching the mothers made him think of his own, his real mother. Well, she’d never had to cope with a pushchair, had she? He wondered if she’d bought a pushchair, then decided against keeping him and had handed him over complete with vehicle? One careful owner. He often tried to imagine how she must have felt when he was born. Young, alone and frightened? Had she wept when she gave him away? He hoped so.
“Wotcha mate!” It was Charlie, unrepentant for his tardiness and smiling broadly as usual. “Ready for it?”
Melvyn nodded. “Usual routine?” he said and Charlie laughed.
“Works every time, dunnit?”
They had their system worked out to a degree of fine timing that would not have disgraced a professional team. First, saunter through the crowded streets, idly glancing into shop windows. Chat to each other, smiling. A well-behaved pair of lads – they even attracted the occasional approving glance from a passing grannie. Second, split up with a good-humoured farewell. Then, with Charlie walking behind, but still near enough to see Melvyn, they would go into operation mode. Melvyn selected their victim, always one of the young mothers. “They got their brains addled, see. Easy meat,” he said to Charlie. It was certainly easy enough to drop a coin just behind the chosen woman, tap her on the arm and say he’d just seen her drop it out of her purse. He’d stand and watch as she fumbled in her bag, opening her purse and allowing him to see whether it was going to be worth it when the time came. A few minutes interval, then he would motion Charlie forward, in advance of the woman and her load. Charlie would suddenly turn around, bump into the pushchair with exaggerated apologies and give Melvyn every chance to help himself to the purse and walk away – but not too quickly, so as not to arouse suspicion. Both would then vanish by a prearranged route and not meet up again until school the next day for the share-out. It was foolproof, provided you took care, said Melvyn, and Charlie, admiring his friend’s coolness, agreed. He got his half of the proceeds, and told no one.
No trouble, thought Melvyn, as he sized up the woman in front. Well-dressed, kids in expensive gear and the pushchair the latest from Italy. Shoulder bag swinging free, with an open top. My God, they asked for it! He felt in his pocket for a twenty pence coin.
It wasn’t much of a haul, but as Melvyn cycled home, head down against the icy wind, he felt the usual pleasure at having got one up on the enemy.
∨ Murder on Monday ∧
Sixteen
When Lois arrived at the vicarage on Thursday morning, Peter White was just going out, though he said briefly that he would be back later. He had still not return
ed by the time she was ready to go, so she left him an acid little note. She would see him next week, she wrote, when perhaps he would have two weeks’ money ready for her.
Then on Friday, when she had hoped Mrs Baer might be in a confiding mood and come up with something interesting, Evangeline had been busy all morning with customers, and had hardly spoken to her. Lois reflected that everyone in Long Farnden seemed to be in a bad mood with not a shred of Christmas spirit in sight. It’s not as if they’d all been close friends of Gloria Hathaway, Lois thought to herself. Her death had been sad, of course, but they were all behaving as if they’d lost a close relative.
“It’s because they’re all possible murderers,” Derek had said with relish. She had told him that on Monday the Rixes had more or less ignored her and been unusually snappy with one another. “Bet they’ve all got guilty consciences one way or another. After all, think about it, Lois. Dr Rix hears all the village secrets in his surgery, so he could be an evil blackmailer. Then that Barratt bloke thinks he’s God’s gift to women, so maybe he made a pass and she rejected him, and he was so mad he killed her? Same blackmailing opportunity for the vicar, and that Dallas Baer is a slippery one, you said. Maybe she owed him money, and he got fed up waiting?”
“You’re talking about Gloria Hathaway, remember!” said Lois incredulously, wondering how Derek could invent such a ridiculous scenario. “You forgot Nurse Surfleet,” she said acidly. “What has the great brain dreamed up for her?”
Derek thought for a moment. “Nosy neighbour,” he said. “Old Gloria found out something in the nurse’s past and threatened to talk. So, off goes the nurse with the surgical gloves on, straight for the windpipe.” He disappeared back into the house, laughing at Lois’s face, but deciding that he had gone quite far enough.
♦
Now it was Tuesday, Lois’s day for the Barratts. As she drove over to Farnden, trying to ignore the rattle that seemed to come from directly under her feet, she reviewed the clues she had written in her black notebook and now knew by heart. She had discovered that if she read through her notes before going to bed, some new interpretation of things occurred to her when she woke up. Oddly assorted bits of information that had seemed unconnected formed a possible link. Scattered remarks, often in different houses on different days, considered together, pointed to some possible evidence. Trouble is, Lois considered, I never have time to think things through properly. There’s always Derek, Josie and the boys and endless tidying up in Farnden houses. Still, she reminded herself, it’s my job that gives me the chance to find out more than most, including the police, so I shouldn’t grumble. I just need to concentrate, and not let my mind wander off to Josie and Melvyn, and why Derek hasn’t got that dirty mark off the sleeve of his jacket. Better take it to the cleaners, she decided, and then laughed aloud at her next thought, Better not, might be destroying evidence!
