Theft on Thursday

by Ann Purser

  It had been left to Lois and Jamie to bring some sense and order, ably assisted by Mrs. T-J. After Sandy had gone, Brian had found himself being organized. “Give me the key,” Lois had said, “and Jamie and me’ll lock up. You get going. Get your car and follow the ambulance. We’ll take care of the rest. You can ring me if you want—let me know what’s happening.”

  Mrs. T-J, coming into her own, had ordered lesser sopranos and altos to pack up their books and get along home. Bill, objecting to being bossed around by a tiresome old woman, had dug in his toes. “I’ll stay, and Rebecca, and help Lois,” he’d said firmly. “Goodnight, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones. Mind how you go. That broken paving is lethal.” He’d bitten his tongue. Not the most tactful thing to say, when the apparently lifeless body of the choirmaster had just been stretchered out of the church.

  Now a young nurse appeared at Brian’s side. “Would you like a cup of tea, Rev. Rollinson? Perhaps you should have a break. There’s really nothing you can do. We’ve got a machine in the corridor. Tea or coffee. Or hot chocolate, but that tastes of gravy!” She smiled gently, but realized that she was not getting through to the ravaged-looking parson huddled on an uncomfortable chair, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  IN THE WARM, BREAKFAST-SMELLING KITCHEN, GRAN was busy with her frying pan. She had woken early, feeling much stronger, and decided things were back to normal … for her, anyway. That poor young Sandy was another matter. Lois would be down soon, telling her off for doing too much, and then perhaps there’d be more news. By the time Lois and Jamie had returned from the church last night, Gran had already gone up to bed. Derek had been snoring in front of the television. Lois always nudged him awake, but Gran hadn’t the energy. She had made a hot drink and retired to bed with a book. Half an hour later, hearing raised voices, she had gone out on to the landing and listened. Lois and Jamie were both talking at once, and Derek was trying to calm them down. Then she heard her own name mentioned, and decided to find out what was up.

  “Mum!” Lois had looked at her anxiously. “How are you feeling? No worse?”

  Then they’d told her what had happened to Sandy, and she had reassured them that she was not about to collapse.

  Lois now appeared in the kitchen, and Gran put up her hand in self-defence. “Before you start,” she said, “I’m feeling fine. Never felt better. And the best thing you can do is sit down and have some of this delicious bacon I got in Tresham. Better than that stuff of the Carrs. Sometimes I wonder how long things are hanging around at the back of that shop.”

  “Yes, well,” said Lois, sitting down reluctantly. She ate her breakfast without speaking, and then suddenly looked up at her mother. “Here Mum, you know what you just said?”

  “What?” said Gran, pushing two slices of brown bread into the toaster. “What did I just say?”

  “About the shop,” said Lois. “You know, about stuff hanging around. Do you reckon it does? Past its sell-by date an’ that?”

  Gran shrugged. “Dunno,” she said. “Wouldn’t be legal, would it?”

  “No, but they’re a dozy old couple now. Not everybody notices the sell-by date, you know.”

  Well, I certainly don’t, thought Gran. She was too old a dog to learn new tricks, and had never bothered with checking what she bought. Besides, those sell-by dates were nonsense. All her life she’d relied on common sense to tell her when stuff was going off and ready for the bin. She didn’t need some stupid date mark to know when the green mould round the top of the jam meant it was time to chuck it out.

  “Anyway,” she said, “why d’you want to know? You buy all our food from the supermarket, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “Well, no, not to us,” Lois said slowly. “But that poor bugger last night looked very much to me like he’d been poisoned by something. And the doctor never said exactly what was wrong with you, did he. Food poisoning can be serious. Are you sure you’ve not had anything from the shop and not said?”

  “It’s not a crime to buy from the village shop!” said Gran crossly. “I don’t need to confess to you every time I get meself an apple on the way home. Anyway, I’ve not bought any food on the quiet at all. What I had was a bug, plain as plain.” Her offended look brought an end to the conversation, but when Lois sat in her office, juggling with her cleaners’ duties, the thought niggled away at the back of her mind. Where had Gran caught the bug? And why had nobody else around except Sandy Mackerras had it? Usually these stomach bugs spread like wildfire.

  She stood at the window, looking out at the sombre morning, and saw a familiar car pull up outside. Black with darkened windows. Anonymous and threatening, if you had any reason to fear the fuzz. It was Cowgill, she realized, her old friend and adversary. Chief Detective Inspector Hunter Cowgill of the Tresham police had lowered his window to look out at her house. She ducked out of sight, but not soon enough. He beckoned. She shook her head and turned away, her colour rising. It had been so long since they’d been in touch, and life had been peaceful and uneventful. And boring? She went to the front door, opened it and went down the path to the road. Cowgill was standing by his car, smiling now.

  “And how are you, Lois?” he said, noticing her pink cheeks, and thinking that she hadn’t changed a bit. Still his Lois. That was how he liked to think of her, though she’d never given him cause to cherish that claim. The reverse was true, he thought ruefully.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “What d’you want?”

  “And very nice to see you again, too,” he said mildly. She frowned. “Listen,” she said, “if I’m seen talking to a policeman outside my own house, everybody will know there’s something up … again. Is this just a social call, or do you want my help?”

  “I want your help,” said Cowgill. “You’re quite right, Lois. Meet me at Alibone Woods, same place, at two this afternoon. Can you make it?”

  There was a pause as Lois tried to come to a decision. It was not an easy one. Back in business with Cowgill meant hours of ferreting, treating everything she heard with suspicion, editing much of it to tell Derek, and at times fearing for her own safety and that of the family.

  “I’ll be there,” she said finally.

  Cowgill resisted the impulse to crush her in his arms, and got back in the car. He drove off at speed without another word.

  Gran was waiting in the hall. “Was that that policeman?” she said sharply.

  “What policeman?” said Lois, and disappeared quickly into her office.

  AT TWELVE NOON, BRIAN ROLLINSON STOOD UP. HE rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. He might as well go home. The doctor had been round again, and said that it was looking very much like an allergic reaction to something as yet unknown, and there was no need to worry now. Sandy’s mother would be arriving soon, and Brian could not face her yet. He walked slowly out into the corridor and paused outside the door to say the necessary thanks to the gentle young nurse. He stopped suddenly, mid-sentence. They looked at each other, eyes wide. Then both turned and went back swiftly into the room.

  A noise. There had definitely been a noise.

  In the hospital bed, connected up to a tangle of tubes, Sandy Mackerras groaned again, and opened his eyes.

  SIXTEEN

  “THAT YOUNG MACKERRAS, ‘E WERE POISONED, y’know. Ole Willy Mellish all over again.” Cyril was pensive, looking sorrowfully at the worn gravestone.

  Lois sighed. She had taken a short cut through the churchyard in order to get home quickly and then be on time for Cowgill later, and had hoped to avoid the old man. But Cyril was wily. He’d seen her coming, and kept out of sight in the church porch until she was close. Then he had popped out like an arthritic jack-in-the-box and blocked her path.

  “Nobody’s said it was poison, Cyril,” she said, “and as for being the same as the Mellishes, Sandy Mackerras isn’t even married, so his wife couldn’t have done the deed!” Maybe I’ll be old and lonely one day, she thought to herself. I can spare a few minutes to talk to the old bugger.

  “
Don’t need t’be married these days. All sorts set up house together … includin’ them at the vicarage,” he replied darkly.

  Lois thought it best to steer him clear of that one. “Well, what about my mum, then?” she said. “She had the same bug, as you know. We didn’t poison her,” she added with a smile. “We rely on my mum to keep us goin’.”

  “ ‘Ow come nobody else’s had it?” Cyril pronounced his trump card with glee.

  “Yeah, well …” Lois was stumped for a moment. He was no fool, old Cyril. “Anyway,” she continued firmly, “this is silly gossip, and we shouldn’t encourage it. The lad’s lucky to be alive, from what I hear, and now he’s comin’ home, and Mum is back on form, and so we should forget it, I reckon.”

  Lois would not forget it, of course. Was Cowgill concerned? But surely he couldn’t have been alerted for what was either a very nasty bug or a case of food poisoning. Lowly stuff for him, surely. Mum was sure it was a bug. Sandy would have an answer, probably, and Lois meant to find out what it was in due course.

  “You can forget it if you like, missus,” Cyril said huffily. “There’s none s’blind as those who won’t see,” he added enigmatically, turning his back on her and disappearing into the church.

  Now what did he mean by that? Lois tried to dismiss the whole conversation as she hurried on, but wondered if Cyril was on to something. She’d learned from experience that the old people in the village knew everything that went on. They had time to notice things, and at whist drives and Darby and Joan club, gossip was exchanged and chewed over. She resolved to have another talk with Cyril, when she had time.

  GRAN WAS IRONING WHEN LOIS CAME INTO THE kitchen. She was singing softly under her breath, and Lois recognized the tune from her childhood. “Dashing away with a smoothing iron, she stole my ha-art away” warbled Gran.

  “Oh my God,” said Lois in mock horror, “you must be feelin’ better. I remember Dad said you had a voice like a nightingale with a sore throat.”

  “You’re not the only one who can sing,” said Gran defensively. “Sandy was very complimentary about my voice in the choir. Which reminds me,” she added, “are you going to join?” She hoped privately Lois would say yes. She was sure it had been Cowgill in his car earlier, and strongly disapproved of Lois renewing contact. Singing in the choir was a lovely thing to do. Every time she went, she felt cheered up, and it could do that for Lois too. She needed something outside New Brooms and the family.

  “I might,” said Lois casually. “We’ll have to see, when Sandy gets better. He’s coming home today. I shall drop in when I come back from Tresham and see if they want a cleaner to go this week. If he’s feeling weak and wobbly he might not want hoovering and raising dust.”

  “What’re you going to Tresham for? It’s not shopping day.” Gran knew that expression on Lois’s face. Secretive. Ominous.

  “Just got to see a possible client,” Lois replied. “Now, I’ll get a sandwich and be off. You make sure you get something hot after you’ve finished dashing away with a smoothing iron. And, by the way, Cyril asked after you tenderly, very tenderly, so just watch he don’t steal your heart away.”

  “That’s quite enough of that, Lois Meade,” snapped her mother. Her face crumpled for a second or two, and Lois remembered with a pang of remorse her father, and how much her mother must miss him.

  ALIBONE WOODS WERE DAMP AND DARK. LOIS PARKED off the road in the usual place. She hadn’t done this for several years, and was half-expecting the track to be overgrown and inaccessible. Not many people walked in these woods, and the footpaths had become a tangled mass of brambles that tore at her clothes as she squelched her way through mud and puddles to the meeting place. The broad, mossy stump of a felled oak tree came into view, and she saw Cowgill standing motionless, staring in the opposite direction. He looked round quickly as she approached, and then smiled.

  “Good afternoon, Lois,” he said with his usual punctiliousness.

  “Hi,” said Lois. “What d’you want?”

  “Don’t you ever observe the social niceties?” he said sadly, knowing he invited a smart put-down.

  “God knows,” said Lois. “Maybe I would, if I knew what you were talking about.”

  It was not worth pursuing. “Never mind,” he said, “and thanks for coming, anyway. I’m glad to see you looking so well, and not a day older, if I may say so.”

  Lois laughed. “All right, all right,” she said. She knew she should tell him to get lost, but she was curious. He explained then, and she listened carefully. It was unpleasant, if not sinister, and with all the potential of something very nasty. In various places around the country, reports of black magic, voodoo, and corrupted versions of the dark arts had surfaced. Now it was close to home. “Nothing really violent, yet. But in Tresham it seems closely associated with racism,” Cowgill said. “Harassment is common, and now there are rumours of pointy hats and fiery crosses.”

  “Ku Klux Klan?” said Lois sceptically. “You bin seein’ too many American films.”

  Cowgill shook his head. “No, I’m quite serious, Lois,” he said. “The black and Asian communities are scared. And when people are scared, they match violence with violence.”

  Lois shook her head. “But why me? There’s only one black family in Long Farnden, and they’re completely accepted. Their kids go to the local school, he’s a pillar of the church.”

  Cowgill smiled wryly. “An exception to the rule, Lois. No, the reason I’m talking to you is a report I’ve had of local undesirables, quite a mixed bunch, who are meeting regularly and targeting a particular victim. At the moment, it’s mostly threats, and they make sure the victim is too scared to shop them.” Lois stared at him in disbelief. “And before you deny any knowledge,” he said, “one name that’s come up as being associated with them is your Jamie’s new girlfriend, the aristocratic Annabelle Tollervey-Jones.”

  “What!?”

  “Not your Jamie, I hasten to say. Annabelle T-J has other friends, friends of her own class and a very unpleasant lot they are.”

  Lois frowned. “Haven’t met her yet,” she said, “but Mum says she’s a nice enough girl.”

  “Maybe so,” said Cowgill. “Anyway, you are perfectly placed to keep your ear to the ground. Brief young Jamie, if you like, in a casual way. We need to nip this in the bud before real harm is done.”

  Lois had no intention of involving any member of her family in any of this, and she told Cowgill sharply that he’d better try some other snout, he reassured her quickly that she need not even mention it to Jamie, if that was what she wanted. If she would just keep her own ear to the ground, he was sure that would be extremely useful. “We need you, Lois,” he said.

  “Oh, all right,” said Lois. “Though I can’t see much coming my way. Do I still get you on the same number?” He nodded, and put out his hand. She looked at it tentatively, and then shook it, feeling an unexpected warmth in his dry palm. “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  He opened his eyes wide, and said, “You’ve never hesitated before.”

  “Do you know anything about poisons?” Lois looked at him intently.

  “Of course I do,” he said. “A policeman’s lot is a very broad one, you know. Poisons we know about. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason. Just curiosity.” Lois could see no sign of special interest in her question, and decided he had had no ulterior motive for meeting, other than this black magic rubbish.

  “I’ll be hearing from you, then,” he said. He dared to rest his hand on her shoulder for a second or two, and said, “Change your shoes when you get home—you feet will be sopping wet. Bring boots next time.” He tried hard to keep his voice light and unconcerned, but he knew he’d failed when he saw Lois grinning.

  “Who says there’ll be a next time?” she said, as the footpath divided and they parted company.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE SOFA IN THE VICARAGE WAS NOT REALLY LONG enough for Sandy. He was half-sitting, half-reclining,
and had a crick in his neck.

  “Brian!” he yelled, and smiled as the vicar came running anxiously into the room. “Relax, relax,” Sandy said. “Just give me a hand, will you? This ruddy sofa is doing me more harm than good. I’d be better in that big armchair of yours.”

  “Oh dear, well, I’m not sure. The doctor said—”

  “Never mind what that idiot said. Here, pull me up.” A tottering Sandy made it to the armchair, and slumped down, breathing hard. “Blimey, that was some bug or whatever! Thanks, anyway.” Maybe he should cut down on the booze for a while. He’d had a fair bit of belly-ache lately, and the usual remedies hadn’t worked.

  He looked at Brian, and felt an unaccustomed pang of compassion for his companion. Brian had lost weight and looked more cadaverous than ever. If it hadn’t been for this illness, Sandy had hoped to be out of the vicarage by now. He hadn’t told Brian, but a flat had come up in the better suburbs of Tresham, just right for him. Ground floor, with a patio for barbecues in the summer. Two bedrooms, all mod cons of a decent standard. He could afford it, and looked forward with excitement to being independent. Would he keep on with the church choir? He’d thought a lot about it in his hours of inaction, and decided he would. One or two promising things developing there, mainly concerning the lovely Rebecca Rogers. It amused him to annoy Bill Stockbridge, to see that he was not enjoying singing hymns nor being teased about it in the pub. Being a housemaid was enough! But Sandy knew why Bill kept coming to practices. Keeping an eye on his beloved …

  The telephone rang in the hall, and he heard Brian answer. “Hello, Mrs. Meade … Yes, he’s doing very nicely, thank you … How kind of you to think of checking, but I’m sure we’d be glad to have a good clean-up today. Sharon Miller? Late afternoon? Yes, that will be fine. I have a sermon to write, and shall have an incentive to finish it before she arrives! Yes, I had heard Sharon would be working for you now … Oh, certainly, a very pretty girl! Just what he needs? Well …” Brian’s voice tailed off, and then he put down the receiver.