That morning, for reasons she didn’t analyse, she was in no hurry to return home, and spent some hours listlessly wandering round the shops. If only Sue were here! she thought, and before she could stop it, a wave of longing for the past engulfed her. Why had she ever agreed to Stewart’s suggestion that they move to the country? But with city violence on the increase and rates escalating, the roses-round-the-door syndrome had seemed appealing, as, on their house-hunting trips, had Beckworth. It had been a challenge, too, to buy the old house and renovate it to their taste. Now, with luxury kitchen and two bathrooms, the previous owners would hardly have recognized it.
But as she swiftly discovered, Beckworth had its drawbacks too. Everyone at their end of the village seemed either to commute daily or use their houses as weekend or holiday homes. During the daytime, you could walk up and down the main road without ever catching sight of a soul. True, the vicar had called, but Carol was no churchgoer. Envisioning a life of whist drives and committee meetings, she’d refused to be drawn, and, sensing her reluctance, he and his wife had tactfully withdrawn.
Then there were “the Bruisers”. She knew it was stupid to be so apprehensive about them; they were, after all, only boys in their late teens and early twenties, some of them still at school. So why did she feel threatened any time she had to pass them? And now it seemed they’d crept up the path and drawn that hideous face on the door. In heaven’s name, why?
It was lunch-time when, unable to delay her return any longer, she arrived home; but despite the time-lapse she tensed as she drove in the gateway. All this because some louts had scribbled on her door! None the less, she averted her eyes from the dull patch of wood as she inserted her key, and, after making a cup of coffee, sat down and dialled Sue’s number.
“Carol!” The well-remembered voice added to her homesickness. “How are things?”
“Pretty grim.” She needn’t pretend with Sue.
“Oh dear. You’re still not settled?”
“Not really. Do you know, I never see a soul from the minute I get back from dropping the children till I set out to collect them again. Except on Tuesdays, when the milkman helps out in the garden.”
“But you can’t be the only person in the village!” Sue pointed out reasonably.
“It seems like it, believe me.”
“What about your neighbours?”
“Apart from a few retired couples, they all disappear at the same time as Stewart every morning.”
“And the village people?”
“They’re involved with their own concerns. Even in the evenings, we only see the young bloods, and them we could do without. They scribbled on our door last night.”
“Well, Beckworth hasn’t the monopoly on yobs; we’ve got them here too, or had you forgotten?”
“But it’s much more impersonal in London. Here, they know who you are and where you live. It’s—creepy.”
“Does Stewart know how you feel?”
“Oh, he just says I should make more effort. At what, he doesn’t specify.”
“Well, cheer up. School’s breaking up any minute and you’ll have the children home.”
“As it happens I won’t. Stewart’s sister’s invited them on a camping trip and I didn’t like to say no.” She laughed suddenly. “I am being a drag, aren’t I? Sorry, Sue; I’m just lonely, I suppose.”
“Tell you what, in a month or so I’ll leave my lot to fend for themselves and come over for a few days. How about that?”
“That’d be great. I’ll look forward to it.”
She felt better already, she reflected as she left the phone. She’d been letting things get on top of her because she’d no one to talk to. Stewart was right, she should make more effort. Perhaps she’d approach that woman at the Lodge; though only seen from a distance, she’d looked pleasant. If she had even one friend here, things would seem very different.
Humming under her breath, she was on her way to get lunch when the doorbell rang. Instantly she froze. Apart from the vicar, no one had called in all the time she’d been here. The drawing very much in mind, she opened the door cautiously, ready to slam it again, and found herself facing a uniformed policeman.
“Just got back, have you?” he said cheerfully. “I came round earlier.” Then, seeing her rigidity, he added quickly, “Nothing to worry about, ma’am. There’s been a burglary next door, and I was wondering, like, if you’d seen or heard anything suspicious?”
“A burglary?” That was all she needed! Her new-found optimism evaporated. “When?”
“Well, you see, ma’am, that’s the trouble: we don’t rightly know. The family are normally only here weekends, but as it’s school holidays Mrs. Cummings brought the two lads and her mother over. They arrived mid-morning and found the place ransacked. You’ll know them, I suppose?”
“No,” Carol said, and added, “I don’t know anyone.”
The policeman looked at her in surprise. “Just moved in, have you?”
“We’ve been here six months.”
Long enough to meet your next-door neighbours, he’d have thought. “Well, I know it’s tricky with no definite time to go on, but can you remember seeing anyone loitering around, like?”
“Only the local boys.”
“Right, ma’am, we’ll check them out. Sorry to have troubled you.”
Slowly Carol closed the door, all her latent fears resurrected. Suppose the burglary had taken place in the daytime? The thieves might think all the houses this end were empty during working hours. In which case they might try to break in here.
As the thought came she ran into the kitchen and tried the back door. She’d locked it before going out, and it was still locked. She was being silly again. Standing in the middle of the room, she counted slowly to ten, by which time her breath had steadied. Then, though her appetite had now gone, she started to break some eggs into a bowl.
***
By mid-afternoon news of the burglary was all round the village. Edith Irving stood at her bedroom window, reflecting irritably that she’d seen more people pass the house in the last hour than she’d realized lived in the entire village. They’d come in ones and twos, walking with assumed nonchalance and casting swift, sideways glances at the house. Occasionally one of them caught her eye—after all, her window was only just above road level—and looked hurriedly away.
She craned forward as the fingerprint men’s car emerged from the drive and turned in the direction of Shillingham. At least they had the house to themselves at last; now perhaps some attempt could be made to clear up. It really was too bad that Bob wasn’t here. His place was with his family at such a time, not cooped up in an idiotic board meeting, though Gina wouldn’t accept that.
“Come on, Mother, what could he do that we haven’t done?” she’d asked in that infuriatingly reasonable tone she frequently adopted.
“He could at least lend some moral support. I don’t fancy sleeping here tonight, I can tell you.”
“It’ll be the safest place in the village. Nothing to come back for, is there?”
Edith ignored her facetiousness. “Did you wash that scrawl off the door?”
“The boys did, while we were waiting for the police.”
“And what had they to say about it?”
Gina’d looked at her in surprise. “The police? I never thought of mentioning it. It was only the local children, after all.”
Which Edith could well believe. A scruffier bunch she’d never seen. She supposed they could be thankful to be spared obscenities, though the leering face had been un-pleasant enough.
She sighed, staring discontentedly into the front garden. She’d not wanted to come to this dreary place. For the life of her she couldn’t imagine what had prompted Bob and Gina to buy it. Second homes might be a status symbol, but they should be in acceptable places, preferably abroad. And as far as the boys were concerned, there was much more to do during the holidays at home in Richmond, as she’d pointed out more than once during
the past week. But she’d been overruled as usual. She really did think they might consider her wishes sometimes. As it was, Bob had merely said, “No need for you to come, Ma. Stay here if you’d prefer it.” But he’d known she wouldn’t. She was too nervous to stay in the house alone.
The telephone shrilled downstairs. Edith moved to the door and, inching it open, stood listening. Bob, duly released from the board meeting, was returning Gina’s call.
“No, darling, of course not,” she heard her daughter say. “There’s no need, we can cope perfectly well. We’ll see you tomorrow evening as planned... Through the utility room. It seems a professional job, the police say. Apparently there’ve been several in Shillingham... Well, you can fix it over the weekend, but as I said to Mother, nobody’s likely to come back tonight, are they? No, really, I’m not nervous. Anyway, Kip would bark at the slightest noise.”
With a tut of annoyance, Edith softly closed the door and looked round the room. Since she wasn’t so foolish as to leave personal things in this godforsaken place, nothing of her own had been taken. The dressing-table drawers were pulled open, and the fitted wardrobe, but the thieves had found nothing. Even so, she proposed to wipe over all the drawers and surfaces with disinfectant before unpacking her suitcase. She hoped there was some under the sink, because she didn’t want to ask Gina for it. She’d only be accused of making a fuss.
It would have been so much more satisfactory, she thought for the hundredth time, if she could have made her home with Roy when Frank died. She’d always felt closer to him than to Gina, but that wife of his stood in the way. Roy’d been too loyal to say so, but Edith knew well enough why the invitation hadn’t been forthcoming. Still, at least she was spared the indignity of being shuffled from one of them to the other, like an unwanted parcel.
There was a tap on the door and her elder grandson’s face peered round it. “I’ve a bucket of water here, Gran, with some Dettol in it. Would you like me to give the room a once-over?”
“Bless you, Andrew, I’d be most grateful. How kind of you to think of it.”
“Actually it was Mum. She knew you wouldn’t feel happy till everything was wiped over.” He set the bucket down and bent to wring out the cloth.
A mental apology to her daughter was in order, but Edith bypassed it. “Do we know yet how much they got away with?”
“We haven’t finished checking, but the main things are the telly, the microwave and Duncan’s old cassette-player. He brought it up at half-term. Luckily I took my camera home last time we were here. It could have been a lot worse. ,’
With which sentiment, if they’d had to have a burglary at all, his grandmother felt she could agree.
CHAPTER 2
Hazel Barlow learned of the burglary from her father-in-law on her return from the greenhouses. Crippled for the last thirty years, the old man took a passionate interest in the village and its affairs, and was a familiar figure whizzing up and down the street in what Joe called his souped-up wheelchair.
“Proper carry-on there’s been,” he informed her, propelling himself after her into the kitchen. “Police knocking on doors asking questions. Even came here, wanting to know who lived here, and if we’d seen anything.”
Hazel’s instinctive reaction, swiftly suppressed, had been a shaft of fear. Could Darren be involved? Since he’d been in Shillingham he’d got in with a bad crowd. “Which house was burgled?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“The old stables, though they’ve got some fancy name for it.”
“Mews Grange,” Hazel supplied, her mind still on her son.
He snorted derisively. “If they only knew it, I’ve spent more hours mucking out their precious “Mews Grange” than they’ve had hot dinners!” He watched as she poured boiling water into the thick brown teapot. “How are things up at the House? Ready for the opening?”
“There’s the wedding first, but once that’s over they’ll be putting the kiosk up.” She glanced at him affectionately. Despite his frequent awkwardness and bad temper, she was fond of him. “All set for Easter Monday?” It was the old man’s duty, fiercely defended, to take the admission money and issue tickets.
“Well, I was going to Buckingham Palace, but I reckon I could put them off !”
“Get away with you!”
Joe Barlow came in the back door, removing his boots on the mat and slipping his feet into the carpet slippers that awaited him. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had pepper-and-salt hair and a countryman’s reddened cheeks.
“Dad says there’s been a burglary,” Hazel blurted out, receiving a frustrated glare from the old man, whose news it was. But his son had already heard.
“Yep, one of the incomers on the top road.” He washed his hands at the sink.
“Is it one you’ve been helping out?”
“I’ve been a couple of times, yes.” A milkman by trade, Joe spent his free afternoons gardening, principally at Beckworth House but occasionally, by urgent request, at the newly renovated houses, whose owners didn’t spend enough time there to keep their gardens in order.
He seated himself at the table and his wife pushed a mug of tea towards him. “Was much taken?” she asked.
“Nothing that can’t be replaced.” He shook his head humorously. “It beats me; they come here to get away from it all, and bring their tellies and stereos with them!”
“But have the police any idea who did it?”
He looked up at the note in her voice, and his face softened. “Professional job, they’re saying. Been a couple of similar ones down Shillingham way.”
Hazel closed her eyes on a wave of relief. At least that was one thing less to worry about. If she’d had to fear for Darren as well as fret about Mavis and Lenny and the baby, it would be more than she could cope with.
And the problem with Mavis couldn’t be so quickly solved. When she and Lenny had married two years ago, they’d intended to buy their own cottage. But Beckworth, like many other villages, was now a desirable area for second homes, and property prices had soared beyond the reach of local people. Consequently, instead of Mavis moving out after the wedding, Lenny had moved in with them, and what with the front room given over to Dad, space was at a premium. Admittedly the young couple’s wages helped the budget, but now Mavis was six months gone and about to give up work.
Joe had exploded when he’d heard, and it took a lot to rouse him. Irresponsible and selfish, he’d called it; they should have waited till they had a place of their own. At which Mavis had burst into tears and demanded when that was likely to be. But the baby, poor mite, would take up increasingly more space. As it was, Hazel doubted if a cot would fit into the small bedroom where Mavis had slept as a child and which she now shared with her husband.
“Hey!” She looked up as her husband’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What do you have to do around here to get another cup of tea?”
She smiled quickly, reaching for the pot. “Sorry!” At least she had Joe, she thought thankfully, pouring his tea. With his matter-of-factness and plain common sense, he usually managed to calm her down. As though aware of her thoughts, he reached over and briefly laid his large, calloused hand over hers.
“Don’t fret, mother-hen,” he said. “We’ll manage. We always have.”
***
Detective-Sergeant Harry Sage stood outside the handsome oak door of Coppins Farmhouse and looked about him. “Pretty plush,” he commented to DC “Fred” Perry. “Last time I drove through the village this was a real farm and the place we’ve just left, its stables. Been tarted up a bit, haven’t they?”
“Amazing what money can do,” Perry agreed. The house was sideways on to the road, a long, low building in honey-coloured stone. The old farmyard had been divided between the two houses, and on this side of the wall transformed into an attractive patio, which was screened from the road by a high fence. Herbs had been planted between the stones and tubs of bay trees, and fragrant magnolias were dotted about. Against the wall was a buil
t-in barbecue.
A tall man with fair curly hair opened the door to them. “Mr. Dexter? Sorry to disturb you, sir. Sergeant Sage and Constable Perry, Shillingham CID.”
“Yes?”
“We’re making inquiries about the burglary next door.”
“Again? My wife said someone called this afternoon.”
“That’s right, sir, the Lethbridge uniformed branch. But several people weren’t home so we’re doing a follow-up. If we could perhaps come in for a moment?”
“I can’t tell you any more than my wife did.” Not very willingly, Stewart Dexter motioned them inside. This was enough to upset Carol again, he thought resentfully.
The hall floor was polished wood, with a carved chest doubling as hall table. The sound of a children’s television programme came from the room on the left. Dexter opened the door on the right and gestured to them to enter. A pretty, fair-haired woman turned swiftly from the fireplace and Sage’s eyes moved appreciatively over her. Not at all bad. He went towards her with outstretched hand, which she perforce took.
“Police?” she repeated, echoing her husband’s introduction. “You’re not in uniform.”
“CID,” Sage said smoothly. “My warrant card, ma’am. We’ve taken over because there seems to be a tie-in with some trouble on our patch.”
Carol’s eyes dropped from his hot, searching gaze. “Well, I told the other man all I know.”
Sage turned reluctantly back to Dexter. “You didn’t notice anything untoward yourself, sir? With being fairly close, I mean.”
“No, I didn’t. We respect each other’s privacy here. In fact, we know very little about the other residents.”
“Ah, that’s a pity. I was going to ask about your other neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Parrish. We’ve not been able to contact them yet.”
“I believe they run an advertising business in Bristol. Couple in their forties. Seem quite pleasant, from what I’ve seen of them.”
Which added nothing to what they’d already learned.
“They’re out all day, of course,” Stewart Dexter added, “so they’re no more likely to have seen anything than I am.”
David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door Page 2
