by Ann Purser
It was a beautiful morning, and the two set out with Jeems tugging eagerly at her lead. “Walk properly!” said Gran. She shortened the lead and the terrier immediately obeyed. “Pity some kids are not so easy as this little dog,” she said reflectively.
“Meaning?” said Lois.
“That eldest Hickson boy,” Gran said. “He was at the cricket match on the rec yesterday, fooling about with another boy—not from the village—and disturbing people who were trying to have a picnic and watch the match.”
“What were they doing?”
“They’d got their bikes, and had made a track of hollows and bumps down by the hedge at the bottom of the field. Then they were riding as fast as possible, shrieking and yelling until they fell off. Wheelies, do they call it?” Gran could see from Lois’s face that she did not think this a great crime, and decided to change the subject. She had no wish to start another quarrel with her daughter.
“How’s Floss’s ankle coming along?” she asked, as they climbed the stile and took the footpath into the wood.
“She says its much better,” Lois said. “Mrs. Tollervey-Jones sent her a bunch of flowers! How’s that for a changed character? Mind you, she’s always been fond of Floss. I don’t like the girls to get too close to the client, as you know. That’s why I send Paula there alternately with Floss.”
Gran thought of saying that she would bet a pound that Mrs. T-J wasn’t as devoted to Paula Hickson as she was to Floss. But she bent down and released Jeems, who headed at once towards a rabbit hole.
“Damn!” she said. “Will she come out?”
“Don’t worry. We can grab her tail,” and saying this, Lois took hold of Jeems’s rapidly waving tail and pulled her out backwards.
They strolled on, enjoying the dappled sunlight through the trees, until Gran stopped suddenly. “Who’s that?” she whispered. She pointed to a figure seated on a stool with an easel in front of her, painting away, totally absorbed and unaware of their approach.
“It’s that new woman,” Lois whispered back. “They’ve bought one of Thornbull’s old farm cottages for weekends. She’s in the wood most weeks. All weathers, apparently. Painting the trees. Doesn’t like anybody talking to her. Lovely paintings, people say.”
“No accounting for folk,” said Gran, “though she looks friendly enough.”
They walked on, talking idly about Jamie and his concert tour, and Douglas and Susie, and young Harry. They agreed they would do certain things differently in his upbringing, but also agreed that it was best not to interfere.
“I suppose you know the way? We’re not lost are we?” Gran said, as Lois stopped and gazed around her.
“No. It’s just there’s something different about the bushes over there. Looks like somebody’s made a hide of some sort.”
“Bird-watchers,” said Gran. “They’re everywhere these days. You’d think birds couldn’t exist unless someone watched them. Barmy lot, if you ask me. They should let the little dears get on with it, without bein’ watched all the time. Enough to make them emigrate, I say.”
“Just wait a minute. I’ll go and look,” Lois said, and pushed through the bracken. It was a rough hide, but not for bird-watchers. Ashes from a fire had been spread out neatly to make sure there were no smoldering cinders. A small wooden box turned upside down proved to be a mini-larder. In it, Lois found a plastic bottle of milk, half-full, and the remains of a loaf of white bread, both covered in protective wrap. Insulation, Lois supposed. She rewrapped them carefully and replaced the box.
“What was it?” Gran said, as Lois returned.
“Just a shelter for bird-watchers, like you said. Come on, let’s see if we can find wild strawberries. There used to be some on the Waltonby side of the wood. Are you up to a bit of a trek?”
Gran bridled. “O’ course I am! I’m used to plenty of exercise from being on me feet all day round the house, down to the shop, round to WI, over to Blackberry Gardens for coffee with Joan. It all adds up, you know. Not an ounce of spare fat on me. You must’ve noticed.”
Lois had to admit that this was true. “But then, I sit at my computer, sit in my van, sit in the Tresham office, sit interviewing clients, and I weigh exactly the same as I did when I was twenty. How come, d’you reckon?”
“Nervous energy,” Gran said confidently. “You worry it all away. Anyway, are you still sure we’re on the right path? I can see a man over there, looks like he’s got a gun.”
“Morning, Mrs. Weedon, Mrs. Meade!” It was John Thornbull, and he explained swiftly that he was out shooting rabbits. “Pesky things!” he said. “Hazel is mad because they ate all the new lettuces before we’d had a single one. Funny thing, though, they took the whole plant out of the ground. One by one, they went. Never seen that before.”
“Perhaps them rabbits had an order from Tesco’s—lettuces on the vine, an’ that,” Lois said lightly, but in her mind she was beginning to see a pattern forming. Self-sufficiency, she thought. Whoever was the culprit, he was clever. Never in the same place two nights running, on the move. Locals might say it was the Green Man. She knew there were legends about this wood, with many sightings of a tall ghostly character with leaves for hair and a face carved out of wood. But she’d never heard tell of a Green Man living on half-liter plastic bottles of milk and sliced white bread.
“What’s funny?” said Gran.
“Nothing much,” Lois said, and then pointed excitedly at a green patch ahead. “Look! Strawberries. Come on, Mum. We can get cream from Josie on the way back and have them for pud.”
JOSIE WAS ABOUT TO LOCK THE SHOP DOOR AS THEY APPROACHED. Sunday mornings she opened up, mainly for newspapers and sweets for the children, and now she looked forwards to an afternoon with Matthew Vickers. He was taking her over to his cottage to see his latest acquisition, a king-sized double bed. “One careful owner, good as new,” he had said persuasively.
“We need cream, Josie. Look, we picked these in the wood. Just enough for lunch. Enough for you too, if you want to come up to the house?”
Josie explained about Matthew. “By the way,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you about my babysitting evening at Paula’s.”
“Troublesome children?” said Gran hopefully.
“No. It was this phone call, Mum. A man wanting young Jack. The lad wouldn’t speak to him, and he rang off before I could ask who he was. Bit odd, I thought. I meant to tell you earlier.”
“What was his voice like?” Lois said urgently. “Can you remember? Did it sound like he was disguising it?”
“Here we go!” said Gran. “You read too many crime books, me duck. She sees villains round every corner,” she added to Josie. “Now, have you got any double cream left? We must let you get on.”
Lois glared at her, but Josie produced the cream and saw them out of the shop. As they were setting off up the street, she called out, “Mum! Here a minute!”
Lois came back a few steps, and Josie said quietly, “He wasn’t from round here. Up North, I would say. Any use?”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE TINY WILD STRAWBERRIES VANISHED IN SECONDS, AND Derek ran his finger round the pudding plate appreciatively. “Nothing like these wild ones,” he said. “The big buggers are all right, but nothing to compare with these.”
“You can grow the little ones in the garden,” Gran said.
“Wouldn’t taste the same,” Lois said. “Something to do with the soil, I suppose. It’s all leaf mould in the wood. An’ worms and grubs an that, keeping it fresh.
“Well, thanks,” said Gran, making a face. “Glad I’ve finished mine!” She turned to Derek, and said that they’d met John Thornbull shooting rabbits. “And we found a bird-watching hide in the middle of the thicket,” she added. “Lois tore her jeans goin’ to investigate.”
“Where was that, then?” Derek said.
“Over towards the Waltonby side,” Lois said. “Just a bit of a shelter. Not doing any harm. I left it as I found it. They might’ve been
watching badgers at night. There is a sett close by there.”
“Better not tell John,” Derek said. “He hates badgers more than he hates rabbits! You’ll not find a farmer say a good word about either of them.”
“He knows,” Gran said. “There’s not an inch of that wood that John Thornbull don’t know.”
Lois wondered if this was true. If John knew about a man using that makeshift shelter as a hiding place, he might know more about him. She made a note to mention it to Hazel at the meeting tomorrow. By then, she should have heard from Cowgill about the body from the canal. He should have had a chance to check whether it had an appendix scar. If he did not ring her, she would ring him.
“What are you up to this afternoon?” Derek had planned an afternoon up at the allotment, but knew he should check with Lois, in case she had other ideas that would involve him.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just pottering around. Might go down to the hall. They’ve got an exhibition of old photographs of the village, put on by the WI. Mum’s on duty, aren’t you?”
Gran nodded. “Three ’til four,” she said. “Me and Joan an’ that nice Doris Ashbourne from Round Ringford. They say she’s lost without Ivy Beasley.”
“Has she died?” Lois knew the old thing’s reputation for a sharp tongue and a warm heart. She’d certainly been at the receiving end of the former, but never seen any evidence of a warm heart.
“Gone into an old folks’ home,” Gran said. “Miles away, in Suffolk. She’s got a cousin living nearby, apparently, who organised it all. They say Doris gets letters from Ivy, not a bit unhappy and busy making changes to the place.”
“Sounds about right,” said Lois. “Perhaps Doris will go and live with her.”
“Can’t afford it, otherwise she would. So they say.”
THE VILLAGE HALL WAS PLEASANTLY FULL OF PEOPLE, PEERING AT the photographs and exchanging memories. Gran and Joan Pickering sat at a trestle table, taking entrance money and directing questions to Doris, who had lived in Ringford and around, including a few years in Farnden, and had known many of the people who smiled at the camera years ago.
Lois stood in front of a picture of her own house, taken when it was owned by Dr. Rix. She remembered when she was still living in Tresham and coming out to clean houses in Farnden village. Dr. Rix and his wife, Mary, had been her clients, and she had been involved in the tragedy that struck them.
“Penny for ’em,” said a familiar voice. She turned around to see Hunter Cowgill, smartly dressed and smiling widely. “I love old photographs,” he said, “so thought I’d come over and take a look.”
Lois, for once, was speechless. She was quite sure he did not love old photographs. The only photographs he was interested in were mug shots of criminals. She found her voice and said exactly that. Cowgill laughed delightedly. “Chris! Come over here,” he said, turning to beckon to his assistant. “You’ve met Lois, of course. She has a story to tell about this house.” He pointed to the photograph.
“Isn’t that where you live?” Chris said.
Lois nodded. “It’s a long story,” she said, “so some other time. Why don’t you go and find the tea and coffee hatch? Then you could wander round and take your time.”
Chris left them, aware that she had been got rid of, and made for the hatch, where Kate Adstone and Paula Hickson had taken over from Gran and were doing a roaring trade with refreshments.
“So?” hissed Lois. “Was it him?”
Cowgill nodded. “At least, the body has an appendix scar,” he said quietly. “Can’t say more here, except that without more description and perhaps a hint of who you think it might be, we haven’t got a lot further forwards.”
Lois managed a wintry smile. “Patience,” she said. “An’ if you want to talk to me, you’d better think of somewhere better than a crowded village hall on a Sunday afternoon. Unless you got another reason for being here?”
He had, of course. He explained that he and Chris were observing, following up the arson attempt. It was one thing seeing the hall empty and quiet, but much more useful to watch how it operated when something was on. How people came and went, what check was kept on visitors, if any.
“And eavesdropping?” Lois said. “Always useful, listening in to other people’s conversations. I’ve been known to stoop to that myself, but not lately. Now, I have to go. You’ve paid, I hope? All in aid of restoring the village hall, so extra donations welcome. I’ll be in touch.”
“Before you go, Lois, just remember that many people have appendix scars. I need more.”
“Bye,” Lois said, and disappeared off towards the kitchen, where Kate and Paula were surprised to hear her offer of help, but accepted gratefully.
“You go and have a look round, Paula,” she said. “By the way, where are the children?”
“Down by the swings. Jack Jr.’s looking after them. He’s good at that. I’ve told him to send one of the twins if he can’t manage. It’s only a hundred yards away, so I reckon they’re quite safe.”
“Better go and check,” Lois said. “They get some rough characters on those swings.”
“Don’t alarm the poor woman,” said Kate confidently. “A country village is not the same as the backstreets of Tresham. You used to live in Tresham, didn’t you, Mrs. Meade?”
Lois did not deign to reply. She knew a snide remark when she heard one, and decided Mrs. Kate Adstone was not quite the anxious-to-please person she had thought her to be.
“Um, Mrs. M,” Paula said. “I suppose you wouldn’t just take a look, would you? Jack is more likely to take notice of you, if he isn’t keeping a proper watch. The baby should be asleep in his pushchair, but . . .” She trailed off, and Lois said of course she’d go. She was used to teenage boys, she said, and walked quickly out of the hall.
As she set off towards the play area, she could see that there were no other children there, nor any watchful parents. Just the Hicksons. She began to quicken her step. She ended up half running, and saw with alarm a figure emerge from the hedge bordering the play area. It was a man, and he approached the tallest child, who was, of course, Jack Jr. Lois shouted out to him that she was coming, and ran full pelt towards the motionless, staring group of children.
The man heard her, and with an amazing turn of speed, retreated the way he had come.
“Jack!” A quick look showed her that all was well with the other children. The twins were still sitting goggle-eyed in their swings, and Frankie smiled sweetly in his sleep.
“I was watching over them, missus!” Jack said. “He weren’t nothing to do with me!”
“But was it him, your father?”
“My father? O’ course not. I told you. He buggered off.”
“But—” Lois stopped and took a big breath. “So who was at the school gates? The one you were frightened of?”
“God knows,” Jack said. “Some pervert or other, I s’pose. Anyway,” he added, “is Mum coming soon? I got things to do.”
“I’ll send her over,” Lois said, staring at him, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth. And then once more she was angry that a child of thirteen should be required to be devious and unpleasant, through no fault of his own. She noticed the tender way he straightened the baby in his pushchair, picking up and dusting off the toy dog that had fallen to the ground.
“Second thoughts, Jack,” she said. “You run over and tell Mum she can finish now doing the refreshments. I’ll take her place. Tell her I’ll walk back slowly with the others. I’ll meet you coming back.”
“Afraid of nasty men, are you?” said Jack with a sneer. “Whatever,” he added, and began to slope off towards the hall.
When Paula arrived to take charge, Lois told her that a man had approached the children but had been scared off, and left it at that. She did not have to say more, and could see the alarm in Paula’s eyes. “Best to keep a close eye on them. Thanks, Mrs. M,” she said, and Lois hurried back towards the hall.
Cowgill’s car was st
ill in the car park, and he and Chris were standing outside, deep in conversation. Lois couldn’t avoid them, so smiled at Chris and asked if they had picked up anything useful in their hunt for the arsonist.
“This and that,” Chris said.
“Must be catching, this way of saying nuthin’,” Lois said. “He’s the champ,” she added, looking at Cowgill. “Anyway, it’s a good exhibition, isn’t it?”
“Very good indeed,” Cowgill said. “I specially liked a photo Gran had contributed. A small girl with long dark hair flying in the breeze, swinging much too high.”
“Couldn’t have been me, if that’s what you think,” said Lois, her eyes softening. “We lived in Tresham.”
“According to your mother, the three of you had come out from town to Farnden for a picnic. You were six, she said. And lovely, as always,” he added quietly, as they walked to the car, so that only she could hear.
“We left a donation,” Chris said, smiling. “And not from police funds, either. Mr. Cowgill has another side to him, you know.”
Cowgill got into the car and lowered the window. “Seriously, Lois,” he said, “I need to know what line you’re following. It could be a matter of life and death, and I’m not saying that lightly. Bye now, take care.”
TWENTY-FIVE
THE WEATHER HAD CHANGED. HEAVY RAIN POUNDED DOWN outside Lois’s office window, and not a soul was to be seen in the village High Street. The usual muddy pond, formed by torrents of water overflowing from fields and ditches, had formed on the corner by the turn to the playing field.
“Drain’s blocked again,” Gran said, “and Derek said him and Tony Dibson were off to clean some of the mud away so’s it can flow away.”
“If only others on the parish council were as good as Derek,” Lois said. “It’s always him unblocking drains or fixing broken hedges. Chasing escaped sheep. Him and John.”
