‘Have you any idea who the couple might have been?’
Nuala shrugged. ‘If it was to do with Lottie – and it’s a big “if” – I suppose it must have been one of her parents – her father, since Auntie talked about “his poor wife”.’
‘It could have been the driver.’
‘If it was before he went to prison, yes. The trouble is we’ve no idea when this was taking place. But you’re right – it could have been virtually anyone; it was only her mentioning both the police and a child that made me think of Lottie, though I can’t imagine how an affair could be relevant.’
‘That was just your aunt’s idea, and it was during her less rational phase.’ Rona slid out the full cassette and put in a new one, while Nuala watched in silence. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘whoever was involved, it’s nothing to do with us, so we might as well forget it. I only played you that bit to show her state of mind.’
‘Yes, and I’m grateful. I’ll pop round and see her after supper.’
Remembering her feeling of confinement the previous evening, Rona checked in the local paper for cinema times, deciding that an evening there would be preferable to her own company. She should be in time for the main feature if she left straight after supper.
Nuala informed her that the cinema was at the far end of town, near the shopping mall, and strongly advised her to take the car. ‘With this spate of muggings, it’s not safe after dark,’ she warned. Max had said something similar.
Despite Nuala’s efforts to speed up the meal, it was seven forty-five before they had finished. Rona ran upstairs, scooped car keys, pen and house key from the table into her handbag, and hurried from the house. In her haste she’d not closed it properly, with the result that when she juggled with it to open the car door, it fell to the ground and spilled its contents in an annoyingly wide arc.
Swearing under her breath and aware she was already late, she darted about retrieving comb, purse, mobile and keys, and felt quickly under the car in case anything had rolled there. Then, sure she had everything, she jumped into the car and drove off.
The auditorium had already darkened when she was shown in, and she felt her way down the aisle to a vacant seat and sat back, trying to catch her breath. The film was not one she would have chosen, but it was interesting enough and she was sufficiently caught up in the plot for the time to pass pleasantly, which was all she asked of it.
Back in the car, she saw there was a message from Max on her mobile, and promptly rang him back.
‘And where have you been until eleven at night?’ he greeted her.
‘To the cinema, for want of anything better.’
‘Good film?’
‘It was all right. Brad Pitt.’
‘Ah!’
Rona laughed. ‘‘‘Ah” nothing; there was a limited choice and it seemed the best bet.’
‘You’re not getting bored up there already?’
‘Not really, though it’s unsettling having to stay out all day. I’ve been haunting the library. Had some interesting interviews, though, one of them up at the college.’
‘Are you back at the house now?’
‘No, in the cinema car park. I thought you might have rung, so checked my mobile.’
‘You’ve a parking space near the house, though?’
‘Yes, don’t fuss!’
‘Just checking,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow, then.’
‘Yes; I’ll be leaving about four, to be back around the same time as you.’
‘Fine. Sleep well. Love you.’
‘Love you too,’ she replied, and with a little sigh, switched off and drove back to Parsonage Place.
She had decided to spend the next morning familiarizing herself with the town. First, though, she phoned the news editor at the Buckford Courier, identified herself, and asked the name of the reporter who’d written the previous week’s paragraph. She was told it was Lew Grayson, that he’d be in the office all day, and would be pleased to see her if she’d like to drop in.
Having slipped notebook and recorder into her bag, she set off and had actually passed her car when something she’d subconsciously noticed made her turn. She’d not been mistaken: a small sheet of paper was tucked under the wipers.
Surely it couldn’t be a parking ticket? she thought irritably as she extracted it; she was legitimately parked in a space reserved for visitors. She unfolded it, but since she’d been expecting an official notification, it took a minute for the words to sink in. Then, with a tightening of the throat, she read it again: Interesting cassette! Any thoughts on what the old bird might have seen?
Rona turned and ran back up the path, her fumbling fingers needing several attempts to fit the key in the lock. Back in her room, she looked wildly about her. What had she done with the cassette? Feverishly she pulled open the table drawer. It was not there. Nor was it with her laptop, or among her notebooks. Heart hammering, she forced herself to be calm, to think back. When had she last seen it?
She’d taken it out of the machine after playing it to Nuala, and inserted the new one. So when she went down to supper, she must have left it on the table next to the keys she’d dropped there when she and Nuala first came into the room. And in her haste later to scoop up the keys, she’d have swept the cassette into her handbag with everything else – and dropped it by the car. All she could think was that it must have slid underneath, beyond her reaching fingers, and she’d not had time for a thorough search. But God, she thought now, she should have made time!
She forced herself to sit down at the table and steady her breathing. First, she mentally ran through its contents. As well as the interview with Edna Rosebury, it contained those at the various schools and at the college. Thank heaven she had at least transcribed them and had them safely on disk. Nevertheless, they had been vouchsafed to her personally, and although those interviewed knew she’d be using the material for later publication, that was very different from handing over their actual voices to a person or persons unknown.
She shivered at the sinister implications of the phrase, and another, even more unpleasant, thought struck her. Whoever had the tape knew to whom it belonged! He must have seen her drop her bag and noticed it lying in the road when she drove off. And – her heartbeats quickened – either come back later to leave the note, or – worse – never left, if, as was certainly possible, he lived in this street. So what would his next move be? To leave similar cryptic messages at the homes of those on the recording? The addresses of the schools and college could easily be ascertained – what of frail Miss Rosebury? Her name had been mentioned more than once, and if he didn’t know her, he had only to look in the phone book. God, suppose he frightened her in some way?
He. She was thinking of the note’s author as male, but that wasn’t necessarily the case. The capital letters gave no hint of gender. She smoothed the crumpled paper with her fingers, turning it over for some clue as to its origin, but without success. It was torn from a small, spiral notepad, much like the one she’d been using herself, though hers, thank God, was safely in her bag.
So – what should she do? No point in going to the police; the cassette wasn’t commercially valuable, nor, she thought with relief, was there anything confidential on it. Strictly speaking, it had not even been stolen, and from what Nuala had said, the police already had their hands full with mugging victims. Should she then warn the people she’d interviewed that she’d mislaid it? She couldn’t see any advantage; some would be annoyed, some, perhaps, worried, and they would all think her irresponsible – as, indeed, she had been.
The best course, she told herself, moistening dry lips, was to do nothing, put the whole thing out of her mind. She was going home today, thank God, and the unknown watcher would soon get bored when her car didn’t return. If, of course, there was a watcher. She’d been in too much of a hurry to notice anyone around, but perhaps some boys using the road as a short cut had seen what happened, and decided to play a trick on her. Surely that was the mo
st likely explanation? She’d been over-reacting, she told herself; no real harm was done.
She set off again, flicking a wary eye up and down the street. No one else was in sight and she walked quickly and purposefully past the row of houses, inscrutable behind their windows, to the cobbled pathway leading to the square. At the end of it, instead of turning left as she usually did, towards the pub and Clement’s Lane, she veered right, past the church. Someone was mowing the grass and a coffee stall had been set up in the porch. Rona hesitated, but decided to continue with her exploration.
However, she’d gone only a few paces, bringing her level with the vicarage garden, when a voice from behind the hedge hailed her and she turned to see the blonde woman she’d spied from her bedroom window. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days.
‘You are Mrs Parish, aren’t you?’ she continued, approaching the gate. ‘Staying with Nuala Banks?’
‘Yes, that’s right. At least, I’m Rona Parish.’
‘Lois Breen.’ The woman eyed her keenly, reaching over a hand, which Rona took. ‘But not Mrs?’
‘Parish is my professional name,’ Rona explained; ‘I’m actually Mrs Allerdyce, though I don’t think of myself as that.’
‘I see.’ Mrs Breen surveyed her for a minute, digesting this. ‘You’re a writer, I believe? My husband was telling me about you.’
‘He was very helpful, putting me in touch with Nuala.’
‘To your mutual benefit, I’m sure,’ Lois Breen said briskly. Her short blonde hair framed a face that consisted of keen grey eyes, a long nose and a large mouth. Rona’s instant impression was of a woman who spoke her mind, who, though compassionate, did not suffer fools gladly and stood for no nonsense. It would be interesting to see if her assessment proved right.
‘Have you actually started yet?’ Lois Breen enquired.
The lost tape flashed through Rona’s mind but she answered steadily, ‘Yes, I’ve had one or two interviews. People are being generous with their time.’
‘Shall I also be coming under the spotlight?’
Rona smiled. ‘I’d be delighted to interview you, if you wouldn’t mind.’
The grey eyes showed amusement. ‘Don’t look for any revelations, though. The vicar’s wife has to be the soul of discretion.’
‘Then we’ll keep it strictly factual. Perhaps you could fill me in on previous incumbents?’
‘Done! Why don’t you come round to supper this evening, so we can get to know each other?’
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m driving home this afternoon. I’m only here two nights a week.’
‘Your next visit, then? Monday?’
‘Thank you, I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Where are you off to now?’
‘I thought I’d explore a bit, try to get the feel of the place.’
‘Wednesday’s market day, did you know? You might find that interesting. You know where Market Square is?’
‘Yes, I spent a large part of yesterday at the library.’
‘Worth a look, anyway. Well, enjoy yourself, and we’ll see you about seven thirty on Monday.’
She turned away and walked back up the garden and Rona, abandoning her planned route, retraced her steps in the direction of the market. It was going to be a hot day; although still early, the sun already blazed in a cloudless sky, and the narrow confines of Clement’s Lane were unpleasantly airless.
The square when she reached it looked very different from her last visit. It had been closed to traffic and its centre was a mass of colour as people thronged the aisles between the various stalls, stopping now and then to feel the fruit and vegetables, sample the display of cheeses, and riffle through the racks of clothes and stands of crockery, while above the sea of moving humanity the ancient stone cross rose lofty and apart. Along two sides of the square traders had parked their vans, some of which were being used for direct sales. There was a queue for fish at one, Rona noticed, and another, seizing on the bonus of a hot day, was dispensing ice cream. Anyone not visiting the market was confined to the narrow footpaths that ran round the square, and even there they were likely to be jostled.
Seeking a bird’s-eye view, Rona climbed the steps to the library and leaned on the balustrade, unashamedly people-watching. Just below her, two traders were vying with each other, each shouting the value of his wares at the top of his voice. To her far left, safe behind their railings, the children of St Stephen’s chased each other round their playground, and to her right she could see the bow window of the coffee shop, and two women seated at the table she’d occupied the previous day.
She made a note to speak to someone about the market; ask how long it had held its charter and whether any interesting events had befallen it in its long history. Idly she ran her eyes over the throng below her – and was disconcerted to find that she, the watcher, was being watched. Her observer was a slight, dark man who was leaning against a lamp post on the corner of the square. As their eyes met, he gave a slight smile of acknowledgement and she looked quickly away, ostensibly turning her attention to the stall immediately below her. When, several minutes later, she again glanced in his direction, he had disappeared.
A sudden shout rose above the general clamour, and at the far side of the square a scuffle broke out. Rona saw a figure break away and run off down one of the side roads, with another in hot pursuit.
‘What happened?’ she asked a fat woman who’d just reached the top of the steps and was pausing to regain her breath.
The woman glanced behind her. ‘Bag-snatcher,’ she replied laconically. ‘Happens every week. You’d think people would be on their guard.’ And, shaking her head at their stupidity, she disappeared into the library.
Keeping a tight hold on her own handbag, Rona descended the steps, and immediately became engulfed in the crowd. She strolled up and down for a while, stopping to buy a can of lemonade and enjoying the generally good-humoured atmosphere. Eventually, when the heat generated by so many bodies became too much, she manoeuvred her way out of the square in search of the Buckford Courier. She’d checked their address when she phoned, and located it on the map she and Max had bought. Even so, it took several minutes to run it to earth, by which time, despite the cooling properties of the lemonade, she was uncomfortably hot again.
The newspaper was housed in a three-storey building with a private car park alongside. A placard bearing the paper’s masthead was fixed to the wall above the door and she pushed her way inside, finding herself in a small foyer furnished with a couple of desks – one bearing a computer screen – a sofa and several armchairs. From behind one of the desks, a girl smiled a greeting.
‘I’m Rona Parish,’ she introduced herself. ‘I’ve come to see Lew Grayson, if he’s available?’
‘If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll phone through.’
Rona seated herself on the sofa and looked about her. Potted plants were dotted around and on the walls blown-up photographs recalled past local events. Three doors led off the foyer, and as she glanced at them, one opened and a man came towards her. He wore a red, open-neck shirt and his face, hardly less red, had beads of perspiration at the hairline.
‘Rona Parish? Hi, I’m Lew Grayson. What can I do for you?’
‘I wanted to thank you for the plug last week,’ Rona said diplomatically, ‘and I was wondering if there’s any way we might be of use to each other.’
Someone else had entered the building and was speaking to the receptionist.
‘It’s more peaceful upstairs,’ Grayson said. ‘We’ll use the editor’s office – he’s out today.’
He led her through a security door and up some stairs. At the top, a corridor led to what, as far as Rona could see, was the newsroom, an open space where people sat at desks staring at monitors. Grayson, however, had stopped short of it and, opening a door, ushered her into a small office, where he motioned her to a chair and seated himself behind the desk.
‘Delusions of grandeu
r!’ he said with a grin. ‘Right – shoot.’
Rona explained that she was working freelance for Chiltern Life, and briefly outlined her plans for the articles. ‘I want them to be from the human-interest angle – the development of education and architecture, yes, but principally how they affected the population. And I’m anxious to collect as many anecdotes as I can about eccentric or famous personalities over the years. Would there be any objection to my looking at your archives?’
‘No, they’re open to everyone, but it would be as well to make an appointment.’
‘I realize that. I’m only here for three days a week, so it wouldn’t be on this visit. And might it be possible to borrow some old photos – those you won’t be using, of course? Obviously we’d credit you with them.’
Grayson lifted his shoulders and let them fall. ‘You’d have to speak to someone else about that, but I don’t see why not. We’re aiming at an entirely different readership.’
Rona gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘It sounds as though I’m simply recycling what other people have done, but I assure you I’m not. What I’m lacking is direct access – a means of obtaining people’s memories of different events. How the war affected life in Buckford, how they celebrated VE Day and Royal Weddings – that kind of thing.’
Grayson thought for a minute, pulling at his lower lip. ‘I could run another piece, if that would help. Ask people to get in touch with you if they’ve anything to contribute?’
‘Would you?’ Rona exclaimed eagerly. ‘That would be great!’
He pulled a piece of paper towards him and uncapped his pen. ‘Address and contact number?’
She hesitated, remembering the note on her windscreen. ‘My mobile would be best,’ she said.
‘Sure.’ He jotted it down.
‘I presume you’ll be running special editions yourself when the time comes?’ she hazarded.
‘Yep, but as I said, they’ll be slanted differently from yours. There shouldn’t be any clash.’
Jigsaw Page 9
