by Ann Purser
Janice looked at Nurse Surfleet, who beamed and said, “Quite keen, actually.”
“Then Miss Surfleet is by default our new chairman…or perhaps I should say chairperson.” There was a spatter of applause, Gillian Surfleet smiled broadly and got importantly to her feet.
“Gentlemen, fellow councillors,” she began. “I can hardly thank you for electing me, because really you didn’t…”
She paused, and there were mutters of “Would’ve done, anyway,” and “You’ll do, gel,” and “Get on with it, then.”
“Well, thanks anyway,” she said briskly. “But before we go any further, I have a very pleasant and important task to perform.” She began a clearly prepared speech of gratitude and praise to Dr Rix for his long and wise service in the chair which she was now about to occupy. Gillian had done her homework. She spoke of good deed after good deed, gave innumerable examples of the doctor’s wise counsel and patience over difficult parochial issues, and finally groped beneath her chair and produced a smartly wrapped parcel. She advanced on Dr Rix, and handed to to him. “With our deep gratitude and affection,” she said, and everyone clapped heartily, some sniffing a little with emotion.
It was Andrew Rix’s turn to say a few words and they were short and to the point.
He had loved every minute of his time as chairman, but hoped he knew when the time had come to step down, and he wished Gillian Surfleet every success. “If she’s half as good at keeping us in order as she is in administering an enema…” he said and the rest of his sentence was drowned in loud guffaws from the rest.
In this atmosphere of mutual admiration and goodwill, Janice began to suspect she would spot nothing suspicious this evening. It was only when they were packing up papers and putting their chairs back against the wall that she overheard something rather interesting. Dr Rix was still at the table, handing over files and papers to Gillian Surfleet, and she heard him cough in an embarrassed way and say quietly, “A little word of warning, my dear.” Gillian Surfleet looked at him, surprised. Janice loitered behind them, pretending to search for something in her own document case. “Lois is very curious,” he continued in a whisper that Janice could only just hear.
“What?” said Gillian Surfleet.
“Curious,” he repeated. “More curious than usual. Noticed it at the Baers’. Just thought you ought to know.”
“Ah, well, thanks for telling me, then.” The usually confident Gillian Surfleet looked for a moment nonplussed. Then she gathered all her things together, and said loudly to the rest, “Drinks on me tonight! See you all in the pub.”
∗
“Hello, yes?” said Lois. She had heard the telephone ringing as she opened the front door. She and Derek had been to see a film – superbly horrible – and now she panted, out of breath.
“Lois? It’s me, Janice Britton.”
Lois mouthed at Derek to put on the kettle, and sat down heavily. “God, Janice, you gave me a fright. I thought it must be something to do with the kids. Josie was left in charge for the first time tonight while me and Derek went out, and I thought…”
Janice interrupted her. “I shan’t keep you,” she said. “Just thought you should know what I happened to overhear at the parish council meeting tonight.” She relayed faithfully Dr Rix’s words of warning.
There was a moment’s silence from Lois, and then she said, “Oh dear…Well, thanks for the tip. I shall have to watch it, shan’t I? Still, funny he should be so bothered.”
“Yep, that’s what I thought, too,” said Janice, and with a brief “Cheers, then,” she rang off.
∗
Lois decided not to tell Derek about the real reason for Janice’s call, saying lightly that it was the Special Constable woman, just checking to see if anything new had come up. “I told her I’d lost interest,” she said casually. She did not like lying to Derek, but she knew that he was now very worried in case she should become too involved. He has a point, Lois reminded herself. After all, there is a murderer out there somewhere and if she seemed to be probing too deeply, she could find herself on the slab next to Gloria. An involuntary shudder caught her. Yes, she’d definitely better watch it.
“Looks like Josie has gone to bed,” Derek said. “Better go and check on Jamie.” He went upstairs two at a time, while Lois waited in the kitchen. She hadn’t been keen on leaving Josie in charge, but Derek had said she was old enough now to baby-sit and, after all, he had his mobile with him and she could always call. Lois wandered into the sitting room waiting for Derek to come down, and switched on the light.
“Oh, my God!” she shrieked. There was a body on the sofa. A long thin body, curled up and motionless. “Derek!” yelled Lois, in such a terrified voice that he rushed down, followed by the boys, tousled and sleepy, and finally Josie, rubbing her eyes and looking anxious.
The body moved, then sat up and Lois saw that it was Melvyn. “Oh, sorry if I scared you, Mrs Meade,” he said, instantly wide awake. “Josie was a bit worried about being left alone with the boys, so I said I’d stay until you came back.”
“But what were you doing here in the first place?” said Derek, now furious and barely able to contain himself. “Sneaking in behind our backs? You’ve been told to keep away during the week and if I had my way, it would be forever. Come on, out with it, what were you doing here?”
Before Melvyn could answer, Josie, white and trembling, burst in. “Shut up, Dad!” she shouted, close to tears. “Melvyn brought a book he said he’d lend me and I asked him in. The boys were playing up and I was scared, and…and…” She was crying now with loud, wrenching sobs.
“What book?” said Derek. He glared at Melvyn. “I said, what book?” Melvyn took a paperback from the table and handed it to Derek.
“Harry Potter?” said Derek. “This is a kids’ book.” He opened it suspiciously. “They’re all reading it at school, grown-ups as well,” said Josie, sniffing her tears away. “As you’d know if you ever read anything else but the racing results.”
Lois stepped in. “That’s quite enough, Josie,” she said. “Go on back to bed, and you boys as well. There’s been a mistake and it’s time for sleep. Go on, all of you.” Sheepishly, they trailed back upstairs and after a few minutes muttering, there was silence.
Melvyn stood stiffly in the sitting room, mesmerised by Derek’s hostile stare. “Now then,” said Lois. “I think we owe Melvyn an apology.”
“If you believe any of it, which I don’t,” cut in Derek, angrily. “I’m off to bed, Lois, and I suggest you do the same. Make sure he’s well on his way out before you come up.” Without another look at Melvyn, he disappeared, leaving the two of them staring uncomfortably after him. Lois was the first to speak. “Well, I believe you, Melvyn, because if I don’t then Josie is a liar, too. I know all kids lie, especially to their parents, but she’s only half a kid now and that goes for you, too. I just hope the grown-up bit is telling the truth. Better be off now.”
Melvyn nodded. “It was the truth, Mrs Meade,” he said.
“OK,” said Lois. “Then thanks for looking after them. Don’t worry about Derek. His bark’s worse than his bite,” she added, and ushered Melvyn out of the back door. As she locked up and put out the lights she wished things were more straightforward. After all, there was only that story of the factory assignation against him. Josie could have exaggerated it, or made it up. She wouldn’t put it past her. Perhaps Melvyn was the pleasant, polite lad he seemed to be on the surface. She was sure things were not absolutely right at home for him, otherwise he wouldn’t have turned up like that on Christmas Day. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t suitable for Josie. It was the age difference that worried Derek, she knew. Nothing would persuade him that Josie wasn’t the complete innocent, or that Melvyn wasn’t devious, streetwise and dangerous. Until tonight, he’d allowed Lois to convince him that it would blow over and Melvyn would find another girl who’d be easier to corrupt. But it looked as though that wasn’t going to be the case.
; He grunted as Lois got into bed. “Get to sleep now, gel,” he said. “Talk some more in the morning.” But Lois found it impossible to sleep and late into the night she was still juggling worries around in her head: fears about Josie, the message from Janice Britton, and Long Farnden in general. When the same worries came round for the third time she cuddled up against Derek’s broad back and finally fell into a troubled sleep.
Twenty-One
Rachel Barratt sat up in bed. The little gilt bedside clock told her she’d overslept. It was nine o’clock and a grey light seeped in from behind the thick, drawn curtains. The girls! She rushed out of bed, clutching her dressing gown, and tried to ignore the pounding in her head. She’d really have to try and cut out the nightcap, but it helped her to sleep and was better than pills.
Downstairs it was quiet. There were traces of a hasty breakfast, with cereal bowls and toast crusts left on jammy plates. So they’d got themselves up and off to school again and she was a lousy mother and not fit to have such good kids. Rachel sat down heavily at the cluttered table and put her head in her hands. What was she going to do? That inspector kept coming back, though she’d told him all she knew. She’d heard nothing from Malcolm, not a word, and was beginning to wonder if she would ever see him again. The only way she could cope, she told herself, was by helping the days go by with an occasional glass or two.
Nothing wrong with that, surely? She got up to put on the kettle, then abandoned the idea and went to the fridge. A nice glass of cold orange juice, that’s what she needed. Her eye was caught by a tall bottle, still half-full of white wine. There you are, she told herself, I can still leave some in the bottle. Don’t have to finish it up every time, like some old soak. Still…She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was nearly ten o’clock. Time for a mid-morning snifter, she thought, her father’s old word coming involuntarily into her mind. She poured a full glass of wine, thought how nice it looked in the frosted glass, and sat down again at the table.
She stared at the crusts scattered across the abandoned breakfast plates. They’d always left their crusts, ever since they were toddlers. Malcolm had tried all ways of persuading the children to finish them up: offers of extra jam, songs of crusty soldiers marching into barracks…The wine filled her mouth, cold and acidic. She swallowed and waited for the lift. Suddenly she was crying. It was the crusts and thoughts of little girls and happy families. Sodding Malcolm! She was angry now and stood up. All of this was his fault; her drinking and staying in bed and never washing or combing her hair from one day’s end to the next.
“Bloody Malcolm!” she yelled and threw the glass into the sink, where it smashed into tiny shards.
“Did you call, dear?” said a voice. Rachel swung round to see a figure at the open door, a silhouette against the bright winter sun. He moved into the kitchen and she could see what she already knew. He’d come back. She stood up shakily and then her knees buckled and she descended with relief into an all-embracing blackness.
∗
By the time the girls came back from school, walking in wearily from the bus, they found a tidy, clean kitchen. There were flowers in the hall and when they came into the high-ceilinged sitting room, they saw a leaping fire, either side of which sat their parents. Their mother was smartly dressed, her hair washed and brushed into the old, neat style, their father relaxed and smiling at them.
“Hi, girls!” he said.
“Say hello to your father,” said Rachel. But the girls were dumb. Malcolm stood up and went across to them, putting his arms around both.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s have some tea and talk. I’ve got some explaining to do, I know, and you’re sure to have lots of questions. Mother and I have spent all day in serious discussion – ”
“Here we go,” muttered one of the girls.
“…and resolved all our problems, haven’t we, darling?” continued Malcolm with a persuasive look at his wife.
Rachel nodded, and with a reassuring, happy smile she said, “Take your things off, girls, and I’ll bring some tea in here. We can sit by the fire and relax.” She looked at them, and there was desperate pleading in her eyes.
“Got some homework,” said one girl.
“I’d rather watch the telly,” said the other.
They went, leaving Rachel looking at Malcolm, troubled that their careful plan had gone awry. Malcolm had indeed spent all day explaining his absence to Rachel, slowly convincing her that it was a teaching assignment in Newcastle to which he could have taken her, but was too angry to explain. He suggested their marriage had become stale, that they were too used to one another, and that perhaps this ‘little break’ might prove to have been a good thing. Such was the power he had over her, that by mid-afternoon he had convinced her. She had forgotten the panic and disbelief, the fear and loneliness. Her desperate retreat into the comfort of alcohol, which she had known all along would destroy everything she had left, had been put to one side. All her attempts at recrimination and blame had been answered and smoothed away.
Now she saw that Malcolm’s manipulative charm had no effect on the girls. They’ve dismissed him, she realized. He betrayed them and they will not forgive him. They are strong and I am weak. She felt glad for them, but knew that she could only ever react the way she had done. I need him. I cannot live without him and so I have capitulated. She looked across at Malcolm, who had subsided once more into the big armchair.
He smiled at her. “They’ll come round,” he said, and stretched out his arms. “Come and give us a kiss,” he said.
∗
“Hello? Is that Inspector Cowgill? Ah yes, well, this is Malcolm Barratt here. I believe you have been trying to get hold of me?” Malcolm smiled at himself in the mirror by the telephone, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, been away on business. The wife? Ah. Just a spot of marital friction…A domestic I believe you call it?” Malcolm laughed lightly, and turned to wink at Rachel. “Of course. Be glad to talk to you. About ten o’clock tomorrow? Fine. Look forward to seeing you.”
Malcolm put down the receiver and turned smiling to Rachel. “There,” he said. “All settled. We shall soon put all that nonsense behind us, and make a new beginning. Dear old Rachel…would you like us to go away for a weekend? Sort of a second honeymoon? There’s this really super hotel in Eastbourne…”
Rachel nodded and smiled weakly. No matter that she had seen on his desk a special offer on his credit card for much-reduced weekend breaks at a choice of mid-price hotels around the country, one of them being in Eastbourne. No matter that she hated Eastbourne, with its echoes of wheelchairs and retirement. She’d go anywhere as long as he was there. She knew that now. “That would be lovely, Male,” she said. “Just what I need. Oh, I am glad to see you back!” she added impulsively and ran into his waiting arms.
∗
Though the Barratts had denied any possible connection Malcolm might have had with Gloria Hathaway, the ever patient Inspector Cowgill needed to check. He stood for a few seconds looking up at the Barratts’ house, and reflected – not for the first time – that houses with trouble brewing inside them had a certain closed-up look. This house had looked like that on his previous visits, but now it did not. The windows were open and the friction was blowing out in the cold January wind. A light was on in the attic room, which he knew was Malcolm’s study. Mrs Barratt had given him permission to look around up there and, apart from a secret cache of body-building literature, he had found nothing. He walked quickly up the drive and knocked loudly. The door opened straight away – Rachel must have seen him – and he was ushered into the sitting room.
“I’ll just call Malcolm,” she said, and asked if he would like a coffee.
“No thanks,” he said.
“Mustn’t accept bribes?” said Malcolm, coming through the door with his charming smile.
The inspector’s hackles rose. “Not at all, Professor Barratt,” he said. “Just don’t drink coffee, that’s all. But I’d love a cup of tea, if
it’s not too much trouble, Mrs Barratt,” he added with extreme politeness.
Most of the conversation between them covered old ground. Where had he been at the time of the crime? How well did he know Gloria Hathaway? That sort of thing. Then the inspector asked if he could have a detailed account of his movements while he’d been away, and Malcolm said he didn’t see how that could be relevant?
“We never know what’s relevant, sir,” said the inspector icily. “But the more background information we have the more likely it is that we shall come up with an answer to this tragic business.”
Malcolm glanced at Rachel, who took the hint and left the room. “It was a teaching assignment,” he said. “Visiting professor, and all that. I’d suggested taking Rachel, sure that she would refuse and we had that almighty row, and I’m afraid I stormed out in a temper. Came to my senses, of course. Everything all right now.”
“And where was this…er…assignment?” said Inspector Cowgill.
“I see you get my drift,” said Malcolm confidingly. “Well, yes, it was A.N. Other, as they say. Didn’t work out, and we parted with no hard feelings. Just a brief fling, really. I’m not proud of it, of course, but no harm done. Edinburgh, the Grampian Hotel. They’ll corroborate.”
Inspector Cowgill remembered Rachel, drunk and shattered, her pride gone, a broken woman. He recalled her pathetic attempt to cope on her own, propped up by alcohol, and felt a considerable dislike for this vain, confident man before him.
“Well, thank you sir,” he said. “That will be all for now…except, oh yes, I wonder if you have a Barbour jacket?”
Malcolm was taken aback. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” he said.
“Might I see it, sir?”
“Of course, I’ll call Rachel.”
Inspector Cowgill made no comment, but the fact that it had a recent cleaner’s ticket pinned to the lining, in the middle of the muckiest, wettest season of the year, when expensive cleaning would be an utter waste of time, seemed odd to the inspector, and he made one or two notes. “Well, I’ll be off now,” he said. “Don’t worry, Mrs Barratt, I’ll see myself out,” and he was gone.
