by Ann Purser
“No, sorry.” Sharon frowned, and then said, “But I know Max was expecting Sandy to be at the party the night of the fire, and he wasn’t. That’s why I went, to make Sandy jealous. Max seemed worried about Sandy not being there, but I forgot about it, I was having such a good time … at first.”
Lois sighed. “All right, Sharon,” she said. “You’d better get off now. Thanks for telling me all that. And for God’s sake be careful. Very careful.”
Sharon nodded. She got up and walked shakily to the door. Then the old Sharon returned: “Oh, and by the way, Mrs. M,” she said, “Mrs. Carr’s in trouble with the police. She’s bin selling stuff out of date. They’re coming back to see her later. She says it could finish the shop.”
Well, fair enough, thought Lois. It was Mrs. Carr’s tablets that finished old Cyril. Traces of mercury in his stomach, Cowgill had said. Used to be in constipation pills and such like years ago, though it was poison. Cyril had overdosed, poor old bugger.
Lois began to make some notes, and when she had finished, sighed, and dialled the direct line to Cowgill.
FORTY-NINE
THE MOTORWAY WAS REASONABLY CLEAR, AND MAX sped along happily. His plan now clear in his mind, his spirits had risen rapidly. This was more like it! Adrenalin pumped around as he thought of Cowgill’s irritation at finding the bird had flown. Now that he was pitting his wits against the old enemy, he felt powerful once more. He’d be relying on two people, but he knew they’d be loyal. They dare not be otherwise. Terrific! Now, he must concentrate on looking for the filling station where he’d arranged to meet Stan. Good old Stan!
IN HIS DULL, UNEXCITING DARK GREEN CAR, STAN WAS also driving fast. Mine may not be as flash as Darren’s—Max’s—sporty job, he thought, but it could still move. Stan was a garage mechanic, and knew how to tweak. He kept his eyes open for signs of the service station Max had named. He didn’t like the sound of this plan, but knew that he had to go along with it. Too deep in, he had been involved too actively in the Society to be able to refuse.
His main worry was how Max intended to hide his car. They weren’t that far away from Tresham, and once they were back on the road in Stan’s, it wouldn’t be long before the cops found it. It stuck out like a sore thumb in any car park. Ah well, he’d have to leave that to Max. His instructions were to sit in his car and wait.
MAX MOVED ON TO THE SLIP ROAD AND DROVE SLOWLY round into the lorry park. He knew this service station well. Once before he’d needed to escape from the motorway, and had found a narrow lane leading away into fields, not much more than a track, used at the time the place was being built and now deserted. He switched off his lights, and could just see ahead in the dull glow from the service area. He inched forward through brambles and high grasses, wincing as his tyres thudded down into potholes. Finally he reached his goal, an old corrugated iron shelter with a few rotting straw bales still undercover, sprouting green shoots of wheat. He got out of the car, and swiftly moved these out of the way, then drove in under the shelter. Working quickly, he piled the bales back again around the car until it was well hidden.
“There you are, little beauty,” he muttered. “Don’t fret. I’ll be back for you in no time.”
Like a moving shadow, he ran back to the lorry park, through the service station and over the bridge to the car park where Stan would be waiting. He had a moment of panic when he couldn’t see the dark green car, and then he spotted it, in a dark corner. Good old Stan. He’d trained him well.
“Darren? Max?” Stan peered out, then said, “Get in quickly, for God’s sake. Let’s get going. Which way?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re nearly there,” said Max. “The less you know, the better for both of us. But for now, back on the motorway and head for Tresham.”
“Tresham! Are you mad? What the hell d’you—”
“Just do it,” said Max, and brought out from his pocket the shining blade, which he idly turned to catch the light from overhead lamps. “Just do it, Stan.”
MRS. COCKSHUTT TURNED OFF THE TELEVISION AND yawned. She looked around at the untidy room, shifted a couple of beer glasses from one table to the draining-board in the kitchen, and put out the lights. She yawned again. That baby next door was yelling again, and with the walls as thin as paper, there wasn’t much chance of decent night’s sleep. Not for the first time, she wished Darren would find her somewhere better to live. He must have money, lots of it by now, with all his dodgy deals. Still, he lived in a shithole himself, so not much chance. Where was he? she wondered. She had no desire to see him, not after what Cowgill had got out of her. Ah well, Darren’d have the sense to go to ground. She trudged upstairs, pulled off her clothes and shrugged into a grubby nightdress.
Just as she was climbing into her unmade bed, a knock at the door made her start with alarm. What silly sod was out there at this time of night? She peered round the edge of the curtain, but could see nobody. Another knock. Could be anybody … could be somebody she didn’t want to see. Cockshutt friends were a mixed bunch. She looked again, and this time saw a couple of shadows outside her door. Then a face, turned up towards her window …
She whipped round and ran towards the bedroom door, stumbled down the stairs and wrestled to shoot the bolts into place, but they were rusty from lack of use. Then, with the combined weight of Max and Stan, the flimsy door splintered and opened inwards, knocking her off her feet.
“Get up!” said Max, making no attempt to help her. Stan lurked behind, shutting the damaged door and shoving the bolts hard enough to move them.
“Darren!” she croaked as she struggled to her feet. “You must be bloody mad, coming here!”
“Why?” he said, his grey eyes slits in his pale face. “You got some friendly coppers round the corner, just in case? No, it’d be the last place they’d expect me to be. And we’ll keep it a secret, won’t we. Just the three of us.” He pushed her back, not gently. “In there,” he said, indicating the dark sitting room. “No! We don’t want no lights, do we, Stan.”
Stan grunted. He wished he could get out now. He’d done his part of it, and had no wish to see Darren doing over his mum. Mind you, the old slag was tough. She could very likely hold her own. “Anything else you want from me, um, Max?” he said.
“Shut up!” snapped Max. “You’ll go when I say so. I’ve got jobs for you to do, but first I have to sort out my dear ole mother.” He pushed her into a chair and sat down opposite. “Now,” he said, “let’s have it. Why’d you tell the police where I’d gone, and how did you know, anyway? Make it quick and make it good. Or else.” The knife flashed again, and Stan gasped.
Mrs. Cockshutt stared at her son. “Put that knife away, Darren. You know I won’t have no knives in this house. I ain’t afraid of you. Don’t forget I changed yer nappies till you were two. Anyway, I’ll tell you, but that knife has to go first.”
Max shrugged and put it back in his pocket. “Get talkin’ then,” he said.
“It was Cowgill. He made me talk. He has his ways, as you know. An’ I didn’t know, I guessed. That friend of yorn that’s just come out, I remembered him talking about some place in Wales. It was off the beaten track, he said, and I reckoned that would get Cowgill out of the way for a bit. Cowgill was pleased—said he’d have a word with your friend. I wasn’t to know you’d actually go to the bloody place, was I?”
Stan turned to Max, and said, “There you are then. Not yer old woman’s fault, was it?”
Max glared at him. “Shut yer mouth!” he snapped, and in the silence that followed, the baby once more began to wail.
FIFTY
STAN DROVE HOME IN A BLACK AND SULLEN MOOD. HE wished to God he’d never got mixed up with Darren Cockshutt. Max Wedderburn! Any stupid bugger who changes his name—and what a name!—needs his brains tested. He was mad, anyway. The rest of the Society had decided that, and at an emergency meeting in Stan’s house had agreed to disband and have nothing more to do with it. They’d be lucky if the police didn’t come calli
ng, but nothing much could be done about that. The main thing was to keep clear of Max Wedderburn.
So why was he off home with a list of jobs to do tomorrow? It was that oath of loyalty they all swore. Stan was a misguided man, but not wholly bad. A promise was a promise, and he reckoned now that if he did these errands for Max, he would have kept his word to the end of the leader’s reign. The silly sod was mad, no doubt of that. But without a single friend, and a rotten mother. Stan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and slowed down in order to turn into his garage. Darren’s mother was an old cow, sure, but nobody should treat a woman the way Darren had shoved her around. He despised him for it. Any remaining respect Stan may have had for his leader had ebbed away. Now he’d do the jobs and try to forget the whole thing.
Next morning he lied to his wife, saying he had to fetch some motor parts from the other side of town before work. He set off and parked in Tresham multi-storey, then walked to the old theatre in Market Square. It was long-established, and had one of the best costume departments in the country. He’d find here what Darren wanted, for sure.
The middle-aged, motherly woman was very helpful. “Ah,” she said. “Haven’t had call for that for many years. But I’m sure there’s one here somewhere.” She disappeared for what seemed uncomfortably like hours to Stan, but finally came back with a carefully shrouded garment on a hanger. “We have a lending charge and you leave a deposit,” she said. “Depending on how long you want it.”
“Not long,” Stan said.
“Fine,” said the woman, “and take care of it, won’t you. Not much worn nowadays, so it’ll be difficult to replace.”
“He’ll—I’ll—look after it,” Stan nodded. He paid the deposit and got out as quickly as possible. The most difficult job done. Now to find out some information from Farnden, and he was finished. He could gel back to work and normal life. But as he drove out of town, he saw again Mrs. Cockshutt shielding her head with her hands, whimpering, and he knew there was one other thing he had to do.
FIFTY-ONE
“IT’S BEEN SO LONG,” ANNABELLE SAID, HUGGING JAMIE under the Hall portico. She had been summoned the previous day to help at another interminable cocktail party, and had immediately arranged to meet a delighted Jamie.
“Don’t be daft,” he said, ruffling her hair.
She pulled him into the Hall, where helpers were clearing trays of empty glasses and half-eaten canapés. “Usual stale refreshments,” whispered Annabelle, and giggled.
“Good evening, James,” said Mrs. T-J, approaching like a battleship. She had changed her mind about the two of them. Forbidden fruit is always the most desirable. Let the girl see as much of him as she liked. She’d soon see his limitations.
“Let’s get some coffee and take it upstairs,” Annabelle said. “She won’t dare to interrupt.”
After a while, in the soft light and warmth of the room, they relaxed. “I had nightmares about that scum threatening us,” Annabelle said sleepily.
“Poor thing,” said Jamie, stroking her gently. “I expect they’re on to him now. Mum was on the phone late last night to her cop. She doesn’t know I was awake, but I reckon they’re on his tail.”
“Thank God for that,” said Annabelle. “He’s very dangerous, you know … you were so brave …”
“Rubbish,” said Jamie. “How d’you know he was dangerous? Didn’t show much sign of it in London.”
“Off his patch, I suppose. But he and Sandy cooked up that fire, you know.” Her voice was light, casual. “It went wrong, of course, but it was meant to be the vicar on his pyre.”
“What d’you mean!” Jamie felt suddenly cold. “The vicar … Brian Rollinson?”
Annabelle nodded. “Sandy fixed it. Poured petrol round the outside of the house, and all the Society had to do was light a match. Fires are their thing. But I reckon Sandy went to sleep or something. And the vicar stayed too long in the pub. So bingo! Sandy cindered instead.”
“How do you know all this? And why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I had a good reason,” Annabelle said loftily, “not to tell all of it. Even to you. Anyway, I suppose it’s OK now if you say they’ve picked him up. I heard too much, Jamie. It was one night when Max and Sandy were having a meeting in the stables. They didn’t know I was in the tack room, and could hear every word. You can see now why we had to keep quiet …”
Jamie’s face fell, but Annabelle didn’t notice, and continued, “I’m probably the only one except slimy Max who knows what really happened. So that makes me target number one.”
“Annabelle.” Jamie sat up, moving her gently away from him. “I don’t know for certain they’ve got him. He could’ve given them the slip, be anywhere … around here maybe. You’ve got to tell the police straightaway!”
Annabelle froze. “You said they’d got him! I wouldn’t’ve told you all that!” Her eyes were wide and staring. “I’m not safe anywhere! Oh God, if he’s still on the loose … And how do you know they were after him? You didn’t tell …? Christ, I’m not going near the police!” She rushed to the window, as if an army of men in white hoods marched down the drive.
“Listen, Annabelle,” he insisted, but she shrank back from him, shaking her head. “Give me a chance to explain,” he begged, and gave her a brief account of his conversation with Cowgill.
It was as he expected. She retreated further from him, and when he’d finished telling her, said in her grandmother’s iciest voice, “How could you? I thought I could trust you. Should’ve known better. Just get going, Jamie Meade.” And she disappeared into her bathroom and shut the door. He made his way out of the cold, echoing Hall, and went off into the night, weighed down with the terrible facts Annabelle had given him, knowing they’d have to be passed on. He stopped outside his house and saw lights were on. Mum would still be up, thank God. She’d be the one to tell. Jamie had never felt so miserable.
FIFTY-TWO
CONVERSATION WAS SPARSE AS DEREK, LOIS, JAMIE and Gran, journeyed to Sandy’s funeral. Derek had borrowed a neighbour’s car. “Can’t turn up to a funeral in a van,” he’d insisted.
“I don’t know why we’re going, really,” Lois muttered. “Not knowing what we know.” She glanced at Jamie, whose glum face was turned away, staring out of the window.
“Don’t be silly, Lois,” Gran said. “We’re going for Marion’s sake. He was her son, whatever else he was. Like Jamie is your son. The poor woman has nothing but sorrow to look back on, what with her husband and now Sandy. Surely it’s not asking too much of you, is it?”
Lois was quiet. Gran was right, of course. But she couldn’t help thinking that justice had been done as far as Sandy Mackerras was concerned. As for Max Wedderburn … She glanced at Jamie, and felt a stab of panic. After what Annabelle had told him, he would not be safe until Cowgill had got that mad idiot. If anything happened to Jamie …
They pulled up outside an ugly, redbrick Victorian church, where a small crowd had gathered. Publicity about the fire had stimulated the usual macabre curiosity, and Derek and family were stared at as they parked the car and walked into the churchyard. Flowery wreaths lined the path, and Lois stopped to read one or two cards. Then she saw Bill, with Rebecca walking a couple of paces behind him. Oh dear. Still, if Bill could turn the other cheek and bring her to Sandy’s funeral, surely Rebecca would see she’d made a big mistake? Then Rebecca paused and looked down, her hand covering her mouth, curbing emotion. Lois joined her, and saw a child’s colourful drawing, neatly framed. It was of a house, four-square, with four windows, two chimneys with smoke curling from them, a red front door, and a large, brightly shining sun. In crooked letters, a small hand had written: “For Sandy, from Waltonby C of E Junior School.”
“The competition,” muttered Rebecca. “It never got going, but …”
Bill took her hand and drew her away and into the church.
It was very different from the one the Meades were used to. Farnden church was small, plain and comfortin
g. This one had statues and gilding, and rows of shiny pews and liver-coloured stone tiles which echoed as feet clacked dismally to their places. It was cold, the kind of cold that heaters cannot dispel.
Brian Rollinson and Marion had left Farnden early on the day before the funeral, with profuse thanks to Gran and Lois for their kind hospitality. Derek had been there, and had said gruffly that it was nuthin’. The least they could do. And did the vicar know that old Cyril’s house would be up for rent more or less straightaway? It’d be just right for a man on his own.
Now Derek led the way to a pew near the back of the church, and they watched as a seemingly endless stream of strangers walked solemnly to their seats. “Marion must be well liked,” whispered Lois, feeling contrite.
Derek nodded. “People are sorry for her, I expect,” he replied. “Brought the lad up on her own, didn’t she,” he added, looking past Lois at his own son, sitting straight at the end of the pew. Good grief, he thought, how is that poor woman goin’ to cope?
The church was full now, and a slight disturbance outside the open door signalled that the funeral procession had arrived. Lois was taken back immediately to old Cyril’s funeral, as she heard Brian Rollinson’s voice, not so strong and confident this time, but clear and audible to all. The procession moved slowly down the aisle, and the tension was unbearable. Marion had a veil over her face, just like Jackie Kennedy, thought Lois, to shield her from prying eyes. Good for her.
The closed door of the church creaked open a fraction, and a slight figure crept in. Lois turned, and saw Sharon’s blonde head dip briefly towards the altar. Then she slid into the back pew, alongside a tall, soldierly figure. Sharon had begged her father to bring her to the funeral, but he had refused to go into the church with her. “I’ll wait,” he’d said grimly. “You go in by yourself, if you must.”
