‘Did Des get rid of him for you?’ Mike asked, his mouth close to my ear. ‘Good. You did me and Des a good turn. We’re just doing one for you. Right?’
I stared. ‘When?’
In my ear, he muttered, ‘Saying nothing about … that barbie.’
Not that I could have done since I’d completely lost my voice that night. But I wouldn’t have anyway, so all I did was smile in what I hoped was a gently conspiratorial way.
Louder, he continued, ‘Didn’t I hear you’d got trouble at that new place of yours? Bad business, by the sound of it.’
‘Tragic. A young life wasted. I keep thinking I should have checked the place regularly. But, you know, I got so downhearted losing builder after builder I didn’t even want to see it.’
His eyes narrowed in interrogation.
‘Honestly, I must have had four or five just pull out on me. No reason given.’
‘I wonder why that might be. And assuming you had the funds to pay, you might be forgiven for thinking it’s a bit strange. Almost as if someone had told them to stay away from the job. Not that I’m mentioning any names, Jane. And I know you’re a nice discreet woman, so you won’t press me to.’ With a comradely pat on the shoulder, as if I’d been one of his junior workmates, he caught someone else’s eye and moved away. It was a good job that managing not to look gobsmacked was one of the tools of my trade.
Whoever had repaired the holiday cottage had done a decent job, I had to admit. Nothing was leaking, despite the downpour that soaked me to the skin. I should have felt warm and cosy inside once I’d stripped off my dripping clothes and soaked in a hot bath. I certainly didn’t regret slipping away from the pub and the possibility of further conversation with Justin, though many people would have welcomed a lift in his luscious Merc. But I felt truly rattled. There was no reason for Mike to have lied about the interference with my building project. His behind-the-stumps vocabulary might be hair-raising, but otherwise he was a decent man whom I’d never detected in any form of cheating – claiming a catch or a stumping when the batter had been not out. And he’d taken a risk in even referring to that barbecue.
Idly, still enjoying my soak far too much to emerge fully from the tub, I stretched out an arm to find Classic FM on the radio I kept handy. The piece was one of Malcolm Arnold’s Cornish Dances, with far too lively a rhythm to relax to. Something about its deliberate naivety switched on a silly verbal earworm:
It was a dark and stormy night
And the brigands sat round the campfire.
‘Say, Cap’n, tell us a tale!’
And this is the tale he told …’
Not quite the quality of Matthew Arnold’s melancholy reflections – if I wanted to bring tears to my eyes I only had to recall Ah, love, let us be true to one another. But it brought me to the clear decision that I had to contact Lloyd, late though it was. The kindest thing on a Saturday night was to send a text asking him to get in touch with me next day.
One whistled back immediately. Why not now? I’m about to phone you!
He was as good as his word. ‘Have you eaten? Because Jo and I have just picked up a takeaway and the kids have done a bunk so you might as well come over. Jo says to bring your toothbrush, then you won’t have to worry about drinking and driving.’ He cut the call. I’d better do as I was told then. My last weekend before term, after all.
‘We order from the main menu, not the takeaway one,’ Jo was saying, as she put the last plastic container on their conservatory table. The storm had already passed, leaving a clear sky with more stars than you’d ever see in a city and a huge, heavy moon dominating the horizon. ‘Better quality that way – more meat, less sauce, we find.’
‘You could always have frozen it,’ I said truthfully, but definitely, now I’d smelt the curries, without enthusiasm.
‘The freezer’s heaving: all the beans and courgettes and stuff from the garden. And Lloyd said you sounded as if you needed to let your hair down.’
Lloyd produced white wine, red wine, lager, water. And four plates. I looked at him sideways – was I being set up with someone?
Only with Will Bowman! Or was it to be a business supper, like top people have business breakfasts?
Recalling the on-off charming smile, I rather hoped it would be. I like a smile that stays on, not one that’s only applied when someone wants something.
Meanwhile his smile was a mocking grin. ‘I’d no idea you had such a palatial pad, Lloyd. Entryphone gates and all!’
Lloyd shrugged. ‘We bought the place with Jo’s redundancy money; the gates were already in place. All our friends know the code.’
‘So now I’m not a friend.’ Will turned his mouth down at the edges and gave his shoulders a huffy shrug.
‘Me neither.’ My mouth and shrug matched his.
‘You’ve not had the code initiation rites, either of you. Raise your right hand and repeat after me …’
We did as we were told, Will hitching up a trouser leg as a bonus. I was beginning to like the guy.
‘My birthday,’ I said. ‘Should remember that.’
At last we all settled down round a table in their conservatory – not convenient for conveying food, but lovely in the late-evening light.
Jo passed plates. ‘You have stuff to tell us, Jane, and Will has stuff to tell you – at least I hope he’s allowed to tell you,’ she added, suddenly formal.
Will waited for the poppadum explosion to die down. ‘Why don’t you start, Jane? I’m still sorting out what I can and can’t make public.’ He tapped his forehead.
So he could listen and think, could he? Well done him. ‘As you all know by now, I had a very bad virus at the start of the holiday. The evening I succumbed I was at a party hosted by Marcus Baker, out at St Luke’s Bay. I was so groggy that I passed out – I don’t remember much before or after that. But I’ve had a sudden flashback. I saw an unlit boat slipping into the harbour under cover of night. It meant nothing to me at all – though I think I observed to Marcus that someone was driving without lights. When we played Churcham, the night of the first storm, there was a barbecue at Justin Forbes’ place. He has a lookout area, complete with telescope, me hearties! Exactly what he hoped he’d see once he’d lured me up there I can’t think, but the incoming storm meant that the lights of France certainly weren’t on display. In fact, the only time I saw anything seaward was when a really big lightning flash lit up the little harbour there. Why is it so much less popular than St Luke’s? Anyway, once again I saw an unlit vessel – one towing another, by the look of it. But by then the lightning was too close for any of us to risk being out in the open, so we all ran like rabbits to the minibus.’
Lloyd looked up from the starter he’d picked out: chicken chaat. ‘You’ve not mentioned this before.’
‘Sorry: being a landlubber, I’m not too au fait with boats and the laws governing them. You wouldn’t drive a car at night without lights, obviously, but boats? It’s a long time since I read Swallows and Amazons.’ I helped myself to some of the chicken chaat too. ‘But today’s events, plus the storm, of course, brought things back to the forefront of my mind. The kid that died – the kid you thought might be from Afghanistan … Lloyd, Will – do you think I saw people-smugglers? Actually at work?’
Jo shook her head. ‘Surely the coastguards – sorry, Border Force! – would have picked them up. You can’t just sail into someone’s territorial waters and pull into the nearest port. Wouldn’t a harbour master be involved?’
Will sighed. ‘Lloyd and I think we’re stretched: it sometimes seems to me as if the nation’s protected by a couple of old guys in a rowing boat. It’s not, of course: the Border Force is a highly professional group.’ His face was as straight as he could make it.
Lloyd sat to attention and saluted ironically. ‘Up for interview, are you? Come on, mate, you know they only got to someone the other week because a load of pensioners surrounded an inflatable and wouldn’t let anyone leave. If the kids on bo
ard hadn’t been half-dead with seasickness and cold, and the pensioners armed with blankets and hot coffee, it might not have had such a happy ending, of course.’
‘If only you’d alerted us at the time, Jane,’ Will said, apparently thinking that having no voice and passing out at one’s host’s feet was a pretty poor excuse for inaction. Then a storm severe enough to drive me from my temporary home. What a wimp I was.
‘If only,’ I agreed dryly. ‘Actually,’ I added less combatively, ‘I should have thought of it when all those asylum seekers came over in the chilled lorry. Poor devils.’
‘Oh, Jane, those kids …’ Jo’s eyes were flooding. ‘I was wondering whether to volunteer to teach them – or any others. Not full-time: I wouldn’t let you down, I promise.’
I squeezed her hand. ‘Thanks. Actually, I’m wondering if the county will ask us to take any being fostered locally.’
‘That’d knock a hole in your budget,’ Will observed, ‘with all the extra language teaching – they don’t all come talking like Edward Said, you know.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever met an officer who introduced Said into the conversation,’ I observed, trying not to widen my eyes in a move that could be construed as flirtatious.
‘We’re not all yokels, are we, Lloyd? Though some are, God help us.’
‘Didn’t you start a PhD on Said and Orientalism, Will?’ Jo put in.
He didn’t look pleased. ‘In another life. Anyway, Jane, our non-yokels tell me that there is evidence that your house had been used. It’s a good job your predecessor left the water connected, isn’t it? And the power?’
‘What a daft thing to do!’ Jo said.
‘So we shall be telling them, when we run them to earth.’
I shook my head. ‘Sadly the earth is where you may find them: when they moved out he was suffering from advanced dementia and she had inoperable cancer. So I imagine she had more important things to worry about than the utilities. I’ll contact them all myself and pick up the bill, don’t worry.’
Jo was collecting the starters’ plates; I gathered up the plastic containers, all empty. I returned from the kitchen with large plates almost too hot to carry: I dealt them out like playing cards. Lloyd moved with alacrity, putting two restaurant-type night-light hotplates in the middle of the table.
‘We’re going to take a long time working through all the food: we might as well keep it warm,’ he said, busy with extra-long matches.
I waited till Jo had returned with more than I could imagine us all finishing and we’d all served ourselves before I continued. ‘How long have I been operating an unofficial dosshouse, Will?’
‘Hard to tell. We’ll know more when we’ve viewed Mrs Penkridge’s CCTV footage – a good guess there, Jane. Someone will be on to it right now, with luck.’
‘Mrs Penkridge,’ I mused. ‘Isn’t it weird that, in these days of almost mandatory informality, we refer to her like that? She must have a first name – why don’t we use it?’
‘Because of her basilisk stare, I’d say. She reminds me of Hyacinth Bucket, in that old TV series,’ he said aside to our hosts. ‘You know, I actually believe her name is Joy: how about that for a misnomer?’
‘Is there a Mr Penkridge?’ Jo asked.
‘Yes. He makes model boats and sails them in competitions all over the place – he’s in Cornwall this weekend, apparently.’
I felt my face go stiff. ‘A woman in her sixties or seventies on her own next to a place the police have been raiding. I know there are big fences up, courtesy of PACT, but even so – have you got officers guarding it?’
‘A security firm. Latest policy – cheaper, apparently.’ For the first time his voice lacked confidence. He looked curiously at me. ‘Do you often manage to give orders without so much as opening your mouth? Excuse me a sec, Jo – I’d better make a call.’
‘We’ll save you some of that Peshwari naan,’ I promised. Even though it wasn’t, like the rest of the food, as good as that I used to get in the Midlands or Yorkshire.
He mimed measuring it to the nearest centimetre, and left us to it. It was as if we’d made a tacit agreement not to mention crime until he returned, so Jo – with much eye-rolling from Lloyd – brought me up to date with the kids’ latest exploits. But I reckoned I knew a good youngster when I met one, and listened with an indulgent auntie’s smile of disbelief.
Will’s return stopped our laughter as swiftly as if he’d pressed a mute button. ‘Mrs Penkridge is fine, apparently. Her nephew and niece and yappy dog are staying with her for company. In fact it was the yappy dog that alerted our noble security workers, not unreasonably sheltering from the downpour in their nice warm steamed-up van, to an intruder. Not before someone had managed to decorate the place though, I’m afraid, Jane.’
‘What about that fencing – and the police tape?’ Jo asked, sounding more outraged at the thought of Law and Order being summarily dismissed than even I could have managed.
‘Both intact. But now with the addition of a home-made banner.’ He waved his phone, but pocketed it.
Back in school-mode, I simply held out my hand and waited. I was rewarded with a reluctant shake of the head and a photo of the banner: MUDEREI, scrawled on a sheet with spray paint clearly running out.
‘Daft not to make the banner first and then string it up,’ I observed, as dispassionately as I could. I returned the phone, but a flick of his thumb and it was back in my hand. There was a similar banner staked in front of the holiday-let.
‘You know what I think?’ I asked rhetorically. ‘I think it’s more a case of someone wanting to show they know where I live than anyone making serious accusations.’
Infuriatingly my fork rattled against the plate as I tried to pick it up.
He nodded, clearly not dismissing the idea. ‘But it could be someone who’s heard the news and thinks you were responsible for the lad being on your property in the first place. Which brings me to something I really didn’t want to mention at the supper table. Prints have been found on the padlock. We’ll need to take yours to eliminate them.’
‘You can do a gob-swab too,’ I said, ‘with my express permission. I can also provide you with a list of people who’ve come to the property with my permission. What I can’t do,’ I admitted, furious with myself, ‘is bloody well stop crying.’
‘Get this down your throat,’ Lloyd said gruffly, filling my glass with a week’s worth of alcoholic units. ‘And—’
Whatever he meant to say next was drowned by what sounded like machine-gun fire. It was only hail, of course, but such hail: we could see stones the size of sugar lumps already carpeting the lawn. As one, we gathered the remaining food and carried it through to the kitchen. By now the hailstones were more like golf balls.
Somehow Will manoeuvred me to one side as our hosts dealt with the leftovers. ‘There’s actually something more positive I meant to tell you first, Jane. Mrs P’s CCTV shows one vehicle, which makes several visits to your place. Looks like the sort of SUV that you believe ran you down. My colleagues will analyse what make it might be tomorrow, because, guess what—’
‘It always arrived at night with the lights switched off before it got within range of her camera. As did tonight’s?’ At last I had a positive thought. ‘Is it possible to determine the dates it came? To see if any of them have any correlation to the nights of the two post-match parties?’
He smiled and passed me my glass, raising his. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Welcome back?’ I must have sunk too much already.
‘To the Jane who uses her brain, not her emotions.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Somehow the little mauve teddy bear had found his way into my overnight bag. He might not have been much of a conversationalist but was a very fine listener indeed. And he empathised: his ears pricked as much as mine when the kids came home, obviously trying to stifle whispered laughs. Did Jo worry, as I did, that the boy with Carys might not be Geraint, or the girl with Gerai
nt not Carys? That, at least I told the little bear, was not my problem. He did not argue. Instead his tacit suggestion was that he’d be better off with a name, and it would be an infinitely better use of my time to consider possibilities, in alphabetical order. I’d got as far as H, I think, before I fell deeply asleep. He was still unnamed the following morning.
My hosts – the older two, since the younger ones wouldn’t, I was assured, surface before noon – didn’t argue when I slipped off early to go to church. Carol, the warden, was leading a clergyless service. She had promised to pray for the new school year, and it would have been churlish not to be present, even if I wasn’t quite sure what the Almighty, no doubt busy with Middle Eastern chaos and drowning asylum seekers, would feel able to do. He’d not yet found us a new vicar, a matter of at least as much moment as local education. But I found it incredibly moving to be mentioned by name, not just as the head of two schools now, but also as one whose new home had been violated with violence. I wasn’t too sure about the combination of the words, but if God could be all-forgiving, I could too.
A lot of people hugged me at the end of the hour. One kind woman even wiped away a smear of my mascara.
It was time for my prints and gob-swab to be taken.
Not surprisingly, when shopping in Canterbury called me, I responded to its summons. I’d been misled by the gorgeous summer into forgetting about autumn clothes. Normally I shopped online for my clothes, but a real trip to actual shops seemed an attractive way of passing my last afternoon of freedom, and taking my mind off a process I associated with criminal suspects.
The place was unexpectedly busy, and parking tricky, even in the fairly capacious Whitefriars Centre multi-storey. But park I did, and shop I did. I even had a very civilised lunch at Fenwick’s – the last civilised midday meal I’d enjoy for a week. It was only as I left the Whitefriars Centre and hit the high street that I understood the source of the problem. A rowdy march, led by a familiar face, was heading my way, with a larger number of vociferous people of all types objecting to their presence – and why not? Anything led by Gerry Paine and his English First chums was anathema to decent people, and I’d have loved to join those protesting. But the news media were swarming around. If I’d told the media what I thought and if they used the footage, I might be recognised by Simon’s mates. A lot of ifs, I know, but all the same I supinely slipped away. Yet I was so angry with myself that I couldn’t enjoy the luxury of shopping.
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