Theft on Thursday

by Ann Purser

  She began to cry bitterly, and the man sat back on his heels, staring at her. Finally he pulled her roughly to her feet, gave her push and said, “Get going. I’ll take you back now, and don’t forget what I said. Any peep from you about the party or Max, or anything else, and we shall know. And you’ll be sorry.” He reckoned he’d done enough, and dropped her back outside the shop with a clear conscience. Max would be pleased with him, and that was all that concerned him.

  MAX WAS CERTAINLY FEELING PLEASED WITH HIMSELF. He had drawn up outside the right house, checking the road name and house number. That was fine. So far so good. Yes, and there was Annabelle’s car, parked a good couple of feet from the kerb. Typical! Idiots like her who were allowed to drive were a menace—kids just out of school and with no idea at all. Stupid rich kids, whose parents bought them new cars as soon as they’d passed the test. He remembered his own first car, a small, battered Ford that shook and rattled, and had raised a laugh from the likes of the plumber. He’d had to work for this beauty. He patted the dashboard affectionately and felt good.

  He cruised down the road and found an empty space, parked immaculately, turned off the engine and got out.

  The road was quiet, a cul-de-sac of substantial houses. The cars already parked were prestigious, all the right names and models. For a moment Max felt overawed, and his confidence ebbed. Then he noticed an old Mini, with a jumble of kids’ toys and old newspapers. A terrier on the loose, nosing in the gutter, cocked its leg against the Mini’s dirty wheel, and a stream of yellow pee carved a path through accumulated dried mud.

  Max laughed aloud and felt cheered. He walked jauntily along the path and stopped outside the house where he would find Annabelle. He checked in his pocket for what he would need, and opened the gate.

  The door opened after a few seconds, and Annabelle said, “Jamie, that was quick! Oh … oh, my God,” and tried to shut the door. But Max had his foot inside and pushed hard against her. All those expensive hours in the gym paid off, and he forced her back easily. He stepped in and closed the door behind him, checking that the lock was on. Annabelle retreated fast and had her hand on the kitchen door into the garden, but Max was there at once, wrenching her hand away and locking the door, pocketing the key.

  He pulled her arm round to her back, and she yelled. “Shut up!” he said sharply. He pushed her through to the sitting room and, still holding on to her, closed the curtains on all the windows. Then he made her sit down on the sofa. As she tried to get up again, he pulled his shiny blade from his pocket and held it to her throat. She subsided, her eyes staring with contempt.

  “That’s better,” he said. “Now we can make ourselves comfortable. Have a nice chat.” He smiled at her, then remembered his rotten teeth and banished the smile.

  “You were at the party, weren’t you?” he said conversationally. “Talking to those chinless wonder friends of yours from Waltonby, the ones we could do without? And you stayed … to the end?”

  She shook her head. “I was at the vicarage for a while, but I went home early. And anyway, you left before me. I saw you go.” Where was Jamie? Would he be back in time? She glared at Max, hating the smell of him, his cheap scenty smell. Yob. Still, better play along until she could think of a way out.

  He menaced her again. “Never mind what I did,” he said. “It’s what you did, what you remember, that I’ve come about.”

  “I know there was a fire, but I’d gone by then. I know some of your lot were whispering a sort of chant, but that’s nothing new. I didn’t listen. I was too busy being sick. Those disgusting drinks, I expect. So you needn’t worry. I saw nothing to bother you. What’s more,” she said, crossing her legs and relaxing, “I couldn’t be less interested in what goes on in Long Farnden. Boring little hole. Only there to please Grandmother. She’s quite rich, you know. Worth keeping on the right side of. Lots of influence, too. So I’d be careful, if I were you, Max Wedderburn.”

  “Your gran don’t frighten me,” he said violently, his accent slipping.

  “And you don’t frighten me,” said Annabelle, and yawned.

  JAMIE HURRIED BACK WITH THE FOOD, ANXIOUS FOR IT to stay hot. He turned into Annabelle’s street and walked swiftly along the pavement. The terrier met him, and sniffed the air. Jamie grinned and bent down to pat the scruffy little dog. “Not for you, old chap,” he said, and walked on.

  As he approached the house, his eye was caught by a familiar-looking sports car, parked fifty yards up the road. He frowned, and walked quickly along to check. The number plate gave it away. Jamie had noticed it several times in the village, and knew who owned it. What the hell was he doing here in London? In Annabelle’s street? Suddenly Jamie was running, back towards the house. Then he stopped short. If that oaf was in the house, it would be best to get in without him knowing. Ten to one he didn’t know Jamie was in London. Annabelle was too clever for that.

  He remembered seeing an entrance to a dark, overgrown footpath, leading up by one of the houses. Yes, there it was. He went silently along, trying to see where he was in relation to Annabelle’s house. The path branched off at a right angle and ran along the back of all the houses. A bit of luck. Jamie counted down until he was sure he was in the right place, and then, reluctantly leaving the food by the wall, clambered swiftly over into the garden, hoping he was hidden from view by the apple tree.

  He crept up to the back door, and gently tried the handle. Locked. Yes, well, Max Wedderburn would have thought of that. The curtains were all drawn, and Jamie could see nothing inside the house. He felt a rising panic. Suppose the bugger had hurt Annabelle, maybe tied her up and tortured her? Common sense calmed him down. Why should he do that? What did he want with her, anyway, apart from lust? And she was a big strong girl, with all that horse riding. But why had he come?

  The party. The fire. It came to him in a rush. Annabelle had seen too much.

  He tiptoed along until he was outside the long windows. Now he could hear voices, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. At least Annabelle was still alive! Without much hope, he turned the handle, very, very gently. To his huge relief, the rusty lock had not engaged, and he silently opened the door a fraction. He took a deep breath, and eased himself into the room, hidden by the heavy curtains. His heart in his mouth, he pulled the door shut behind him, still holding his breath.

  Now he could hear them. Annabelle was saying, “For God’s sake put that thing away! I told you I’m not frightened. I’ve got nothing to tell you, so you might as well go back to Farnden and work on covering your tracks.”

  Max replied, “What d’you mean, covering my tracks? What’ve I got to hide? You do know something, you stuck-up little bitch!”

  Jamie let out his breath, pulled aside a curtain and saw Max Wedderburn bending over Annabelle, brandishing a knife. With a supreme effort, he did not yell, or rush out and swoop. He moved silently, trusting Annabelle would see him and do nothing to give him away.

  FORTY-FOUR

  IN THE UNTIDY SITTING ROOM, LITTERED WITH TOYS, the young woman settled the baby on her husband’s lap, and said, “Funny, that.”

  “What do you mean?” he said, unclasping the fat, sticky little hand from his flopping hair.

  “Just now, when I went out to get Teddy … you know those girls in the flat opposite? Well, this guy came rushing out of their door and practically fell down the steps. Ran up the road to a smart little sports job, and set off like a bat out of hell. Nasty looking type, bullet-head, dark glasses. You know the sort.”

  “Something wrong, d’you think?” The baby had thrown Teddy into a corner, and her father got up wearily to fetch it.

  “I dunno. Nothing, I suppose. Lovers’ quarrel, d’you reckon?”

  The husband nodded, and said quickly, “Can you take this infant? Needs her nappy changed.”

  “ANNABELLE! WHY DID YOU DO THAT? I COULD’VE HELD on to him until we got the police! The rat was a real coward … didn’t even try to put up a fight! Why did you make me let
him go?”

  She stared at him, and held out a shaking hand. “I had a reason, Jamie. Can we sit down.” Jamie could see her cool courage was oozing away. She seemed about to cry. But she owed him an explanation.

  “Listen,” she said. “You were brilliant, Jamie, and I was so relieved. Knocked the knife right out of his hand! He didn’t have time to know what hit him … you were great.”

  “So why …?”

  “I know that Wycombe lot. You don’t, and they’re dangerous. If we’d kept him and got the police, yeah, they’d have taken him away. But sooner or later his cronies would’ve got us. Either you or me would have been done over on a dark street some night. I don’t want to risk that, Jamie. I’m too young to be carved up …” Her hands were clenched fists. He saw the effort she was making not to collapse, and gently touched her hair.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “They’ll be on to him soon. That Cowgill cop—friend of Mum’s—he’ll be close behind him I shouldn’t wonder. I’m sure you’re right, Belle,” he added, and the loving, hesitant diminutive was too much. Tears flowed, and Jamie mopped them up with tissues until she finally sniffed and stopped.

  “Better see if that Chinese is still out there,” Jamie said. “We could warm it up.” He made a brave attempt at a grin. But when he looked over the wall into the dark footpath, he saw only empty cartons and the rear end of a disappearing terrier.

  THE JOURNEY SEEMED ENDLESS, EVEN THOUGH MAX was breaking the speed limit most of the way. He had never been to Wales, never been further west than Oxford, but now he peered out at the narrow lane with relief. It was certainly off the beaten track. He had had to stop for petrol on the motorway, but had kept his face turned away from the girl at the till. Now he had to find the address. Pembrokeshire could just as well be Saudi Arabia as far as Max was concerned.

  He came to the end of the lane, and it seemed to peter out. Then he saw a farm gate, and a track leading onwards. He opened the gate and went on, remembering to shut it behind him. The ground was hard and dry. That was good. No tyre tracks.

  A small house loomed up out of the dark. There were no lights, and—if his contact was reliable—nobody would be there. He parked his car round the back out of sight, and felt under the flowerpot by the back door. Not exactly an original hiding place! The key was there, and he opened the green-painted door and walked in. Shutting and locking it behind him, he looked around. It was not completely dark inside, clear moonlight shining through the windows. Kitchen, living room, narrow stairs, two bedrooms, liny bathroom. Gimcrack furniture. Piles of jigsaws and board games. Stack of maps for walkers. A typical holiday cottage, and totally isolated off-season. His contact was reliable, he noted with relief.

  Sleep was all he wanted now. Exhausted by the journey and the day’s events, he stretched out on a bare mattress, pulled his coat over him, and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he heard a sound, a rhythmic, sighing sound. Jerking awake, he sat up. It seemed to be coming from outside, and he walked across to the window, peering out carefully so as not to be seen.

  The moonlight shone in a silvery path across shimmering water, stretching to the horizon. The sea.

  “Summat new then, Darren boy,” he said to himself. “A seaside holiday at last.”

  Five minutes later he was asleep and snoring.

  FORTY-FIVE

  BRIAN ROLLINSON AND MARION SAT AT THE MEADES’ breakfast table, eating without speaking, and listening to Lois and Derek arguing outside the kitchen door.

  “Perhaps we’d better be going early,” Brian whispered, but Marion shook her head. “Just the everyday story of married folk,” she said sourly. “But you wouldn’t know about that.”

  His face fell, and he was silent again.

  “Oh … sorry,” Marion said, and sighed. “I’ve been thinking …” she said after a minute. “I’ll stay a couple more days if Lois will have me. There are one or two other people I’d like to see. Friends of Sandy that he told me about.” She paused, but Brian said nothing. “Pathetic, I suppose,” she continued. “But talking about him to people round here, people who knew him, seems to keep him … well, you know,” she ended lamely.

  “I do know. I loved him, too. And not …” He looked at her anxiously, and she nodded.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I’m sure Lois won’t mind another day or two,” Brian continued. “Her bark is worse than her bite … I think.” They both smiled. “And anyway, we can make all the funeral arrangements with your church from here, and then go back perhaps the day before. I could come with you then, if you like. If you could put me up, maybe.” Had he gone too far? Trespassed on the thin ice they were treading?

  But Marion nodded absently. “Fine,” she said. “D’you want another coffee? Gran said to help ourselves.”

  The argument was continuing but voices were faint. Marion sipped her coffee and looked at Brian. How strange that they should have come to some sort of truce after all this time. It was as if she was seeing him for the first time, seeing him as he really was. A man dogged by tragedy, making the best of his life and taking on a difficult job. Who’d be a vicar in these godless times? He could have gone away, abroad or something, and lived it out quietly. She thought back to Gerald’s accident. Could she ask Brian the question that had haunted her all these years?

  “Brian …”

  “Mmm?” he said, without looking up from his coffee.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.” He was miles away, thinking about the smouldering vicarage and how he could reorder his life. Maybe he should resign, but that would be a cowardly way out, and he had work to do. No, he had to trust in God. A very present help in trouble.

  “It’s about Gerald. His accident. Um … What really happened, Brian?”

  There was a long silence, and Marion thought she had gone too far. But didn’t she have a right to know? Especially now, when there were so many unexplained mysteries about Sandy and the fire. At least she could get one thing straightened out.

  Finally Brian spoke. “It was how I said at the time, when the police were asking. You and I … well, we’d broken off all contact by then. So you probably didn’t … Well, it was what I dreaded, Marion.” Brian’s fists were clenched in his lap, and his voice was tight with tension.

  “Gerald was drinking too much. He worried about you and Sandy, and couldn’t accept what he’d done. Guilt … not being able to sleep … all that. We were in a pub at lunchtime, and he’d had several pints. Wouldn’t eat anything. Then he said he wanted to walk back home along the cliff. Get some fresh air. I knew the footpath, and it went very close to the edge …”

  He was silent again, and Marion waited, holding her breath. “I tried hard to stop him, Marion. But he wouldn’t listen, just shouted at me and rushed out of the pub. He was very unsteady, all over the place. It was a terrible day—blowing a gale and driving rain. I thought of following him, but decided it would make things worse, and drove back home. When he didn’t come back, I went along the path. I saw the place from a distance. The grass was all broken away from the edge. A big gap where the path had been. I peered over, and saw him. A long way down. Spreadeagled on the rocks.” He put his head in his hands, and Marion saw his shoulders shaking.

  “Don’t,” she said, leaning forward and taking his hand. “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m so sorry, Brian …”

  “I should gone after him,” he muttered. “I can never forgive myself. And now Sandy. If I’d gone home earlier, there’d have been no fire … Oh, dear God!”

  “Not your fault,” she said ineffectually. She squeezed his hand. “Come on, let’s go … let’s go somewhere, anywhere … At least there’s the two of us …”

  MEANWHILE, THE ARGUMENT CONTINUED. LOIS AND Derek were in her office now, with the door shut. “I don’t like it!” Derek said for the umpteenth time. “We don’t know what he’s up to. All right, all right, I know he’s not a kid any more. But he’s still wet behind the ears as far as
girls are concerned. And that Annabelle is seventeen goin’ on twenty-seven.”

  “So, what d’you suggest we do? Go up to London and drag him back by force? I dunno, Derek. I don’t get it. You’ve never been like this before.”

  “You’ve not been in touch with that Cowgill for a long time. There’s something going on, and I don’t like it. Most of the time I let you get on with it. You got to give me that. But when it’s my son that’s at risk, then I’ll have my say!”

  “At risk?” Lois felt her stomach jolt. She remembered Cowgill’s reaction when she’d said Jamie was going to London with Annabelle. “Not very sensible,” he’d said. “What d’you mean, Derek?”

  “Look, Lois,” he said, pushing her down into her chair. “Look and listen. We’ve had a fire at the vicarage. A young bloke was killed when he should’ve found it easy to escape. An old man has sicked himself to death in the night. Sharon Miller seems to have taken leave of her senses, and our youngest son has got mixed up with a girl who’s in with a loony, criminal lot from Tresham. And you ask me what I mean!” Lois was silent now. Derek was right, of course. She lifted the telephone and dialled.

  “Jamie? Mum here. Are you all right? When are you … oh, tonight. Right. Well, take care. Let us know what time at the station and we’ll meet you. Sure everything’s all right? OK, then. See you later.” She put down the phone and looked at Derek. “He’s coming back this evening, on the train, on his own,” she said.

  “I’ll meet him, then,” said Derek, and left her sitting there. She watched him drive off in his van to work, and frowned. Then she shook herself and stood up. Time for a word with the vicar. And maybe with Mrs. Mackerras, too.