I had sounded much more positive than I felt. Realising I was defeated by the thought of any work, I gathered up my sports kit, doubting, however, that if it went through the washing machine a hundred times I’d ever want to wear it again. What an idiot. Into the machine it went.
It was just warm enough in the last of the evening sun to sit in the walled garden and deal with all my texts over a cup of tea. I felt very efficient as I dealt with the last, but disappointed I didn’t have one more to respond to: one from Will. Insist how I might that I wanted to know what was happening with Harry and Doreen’s bungalow – with my own house too, for goodness’ sake – I was lying, wasn’t I? As the sun dropped, so did my spirits – but there was something waiting that stopped me feeling sorry for myself, a bundle of administrative work on costing the presence of Zunaid at Wray Episcopi if we were allowed to keep him on our roll. The cost of losing him was incalculable.
To Pam, if not to me.
Work: that was the best therapy.
I had barely started number-crunching when someone else knocked at the front door. No chains, no spy-holes for holiday home doors. I froze. Before I could move, a text came through. Will! Outside. Sorry. Should have texted before.
‘You’ve been crying,’ he said accusingly.
‘Bit of a day,’ I admitted. ‘And I don’t think it’s over yet.’
He stepped inside. ‘I didn’t think you ever cried.’ He headed for the posh wine fridge, retrieving a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc. He found the glasses as if by instinct too.
‘On an empty stomach?’ I said, eyeing the amount in the glass. If I could have bitten it back I would have done.
He took the empty glass from my hand, looking around the immaculate kitchen. ‘You know I’m a detective? Well, I’d say you don’t do much cooking in here.’ His stomach grumbled massively. ‘I’ve not eaten since breakfast either. What’s your village pub like?’
‘Hotbed of gossip. Good food. Unofficial headquarters of the cricket club. Haunt of Brian Dawes. Run by a kind friend of mine.’
‘It sounds like the ideal place to eat,’ he declared. ‘No?’ He pondered. ‘Not if you want to eat in peace?’
‘With all that’s been going on? Glebe Woods last night, the business at Episcopi school, whether Wrayford school is also going to be overrun with what people will insist are called illegal migrants and young men asking why the hell did I say I wasn’t sure about umpiring the match on Saturday.’ I took a breath. ‘I’ve got frozen stuff if you fancy something ad hoc with me? We can talk while I microwave.’
‘You’re as bad as I am,’ he declared, inspecting the contents of the freezer. ‘And they say that to stay healthy we should eat home-cooked food.’
‘And go on the five:two diet. Mind you, I’m on that most of the time – a two:five diet, in fact. Meanwhile, do you suppose cooking the rice myself will make these curries any more home-cooked?’
‘I know it’s probably not what you want me to say, but I think the authorities are right about taking kids into official care,’ he said at last. ‘And I guess you do too. In your heart.’
‘Of course. The next person wanting to foster might not be a decent loving woman with amazing grandma substitute potential, and all her background checks immaculate too. God knows there are enough people in the world who mask evil with an appearance of loving kindness.’ I shook my head at the memory of just such a man who had died not so long ago. ‘So yes to checks and balances. And yes to Pam being found a virtuous and loving woman who will bring Zunaid nothing but good.’
‘Amen to that. From what you’ve said they should stay in touch even if the authorities can locate any of his family over here.’
‘Meanwhile—’ I stopped in mid sentence. ‘What’s that noise?’
‘The chopper? There’s a big search going on all round here to locate any refugees that were missed before. Lots of personnel and some dogs, too.’
‘Dogs?’ I shuddered. ‘You make it sound like Nazi Germany. And it might feel like it to the people being hunted.’
He looked offended. ‘I hope not. The choppers are dropping leaflets in Arabic and other languages and the dogs are accompanied by Arabic speakers offering help.’
‘Sorry.’ Putting the microwaved food on the table, I gestured him to a seat and collapsed myself.
He gave a forgiving grin. ‘Now, Jane, you’ve been extremely patient. The news about that bungalow.’
Manners! ‘Can I offer you another drink before you start? If you don’t want wine I’ve even got some low-alcohol lager, because that’s what Lloyd favours if he’s driving.’
Pulling a face, he opted for water. Reluctantly, because getting drunk seemed a good option right now, I joined him.
‘There’s no sign of the bungalow being currently inhabited,’ he said, helping himself to some of the naan I’d found in a cupboard, just within its use-by date as it happened. ‘Sorry – I mean, as far as we can tell, Doreen and Harry don’t seem to be living there now. But that’s their business. We think. We hope. But there are plenty of signs that their garage is in use: as you suggested, there are lots of tracks, mostly left by larger vehicles than the Fiesta you said they drove. But they may have rented it out—’
‘Though I can’t see why, since no one lives for miles in either direction.’
‘True. The trouble is that though there will be some of my team lurking in that layby this evening with night vision cameras, there’s no money for an extended surveillance operation. And no CCTV coverage, as you’ll recall. But if we can make a reasonable case to a magistrate that a crime is being committed on the premises, then we can get a search warrant and poke our noses in.’
‘If it ties up with my house and my “accident”?’
‘We’ll probably have to arrest you! Only joking. There are some good connections. The habit of unlit vehicles accessing both lots of premises, which are both relatively secluded.’
‘And both have detached garages. Tell me, Will, did you or your colleagues notice the enormously long washing line at the bungalow? Far longer than two elderly people would need, unless they ran a flourishing B&B, of course. And I saw no evidence of that when I was in their living room.’
He jotted. ‘That sounds a bit Miss Marple-ish, Jane, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
I gave an expansive shrug and we finished the Marks and Spencer meals in relative silence. However, I felt we needed something to round off the meal, and produced cheese and biscuits, with home-made quince jelly bought at the school summer fete.
‘Would one more glass of wine put you over the limit? I’ve got a lovely soft Pinotage that would go beautifully with the Lancashire.’
We sipped and nibbled cheese in companionable silence. And then I heard a noise: the snoring snuffle of a hedgehog. We watched entranced as it approached the water meant for the birds. It drank. Suddenly Will was on his knees by the patio door, phone at the ready. It rolled up when I slid the door open, but soon decided it was safe to go on its way, rooting amongst a few dead leaves.
‘Where’s it gone?’ he demanded.
‘You see that little hole there? Apparently the architect’s a wildlife buff, and insisted that there should be a gap under the walls so they can make their way through to the sluggiest garden. I’ve never seen it used before. What a treat!’
We opted for green tea to round off our supper, another meal that could have been spoilt with work talk. What had happened to our promise to have a crime-free meal? But, sitting opposite me in the tilting armchair, he started to talk about places and things he’d photographed, and his descriptions of his only safari – so far – took me to South Africa with him.
‘It’s always been one of the places on my bucket list,’ I confessed. ‘Second, actually. My dream, my absolute dream, is to play cricket on a West Indian beach. Preferably with a few kids who applaud when I play a cover-drive into the sea …’
We laughed. He set down his mug with a rueful grin.
‘I have to go, don’t I? Seven o’clock start latest.’
‘And I’ll raise you to six-thirty!’
His phone pinged. Without apologising he checked. ‘Bloody hell – there’s a fire at that sodding bungalow!’ Grabbing his coat he was off, pausing only to dot a kiss on my cheek.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I don’t call out wimpish things like, ‘Wait for me.’
Grabbing a jacket of my own, and even remembering to lock up carefully, I set off after him. Knowing the roads better than him I had the advantage.
But then my brain caught up with my instinct. What was I doing clogging up the road that might be needed by emergency vehicles? If it was my own house that was on fire there’d be every excuse, but rubber-necking someone else’s disaster was pretty despicable, wasn’t it? So I slowed, looking for a lane to turn in or a layby wide enough for me to do a U-turn. I found the grand drive of someone’s grand house. No turning or parking. Sorry. My phone whistled. Not a rebuke from Will but an update from Pam: Zunaid was being kept in overnight. The medics had asked her to stay so as not to distress him.
Go, Pam!
The road seemed deserted enough for my manoeuvre, apart from someone coming towards me at speed. So I took his picture – several pics. Just because I could. What I didn’t anticipate was the driver wrestling to do a handbrake turn to get back to me. He botched it. It looked like a ditch job. I set off briskly in the direction I’d been taking, before ducking and diving round as many lanes as I could find. Even I was pretty well lost, until I realised I was on the outskirts of Jo and Lloyd’s village. Their welcoming gates beckoned. I tapped in my birthdate. They opened sweetly and I was almost safe. Jo, answering my frantic rings on her doorbell, peered at me.
‘Being followed!’
‘No problem.’ Pulling me inside, she pressed the touch pad by the front door. The gates closed obediently. ‘Got the kit, might as well use it. Lloyd? Are you decent? He’s only just in from work,’ she added.
So he was. Still in uniform.
‘Sorry. Something or nothing,’ I said, following them into their kitchen. I waved away the glass she was holding next to a wine bottle. ‘No thanks. Honestly.’ I gave what I hoped was a brief but cogent explanation.
‘Let’s see the photos,’ Lloyd suggested, rubbing his face and eyes before taking the phone. ‘Hmm. Send them to me, eh? Thanks.’
‘I’ll just go and make up the spare bed,’ Jo said.
I shook my head firmly. ‘You’re very kind. I’ve got work I have to finish tonight and I have to be up and about by six. So if I can leave the car here, I’ll get a cab and collect it tomorrow.’
‘One other idea,’ Lloyd said. ‘I’ll see if anyone’s on a routine patrol in the area and can escort you home now. It’s only a couple of miles, after all.’ He was already on the phone so I didn’t waste anyone’s energy by arguing. And I certainly didn’t want anyone as dog-tired as he obviously was offering to accompany me.
‘Result. Someone should be along in a very few minutes. And if you encounter any baddies en route you’ll have lights, camera and action.’
I didn’t need either. The roads were pretty well deserted. My kind escort waited while I parked and checked the cottage was safe. We waved each other a silent goodbye and, once I’d texted Jo with an apology and an assurance I was safe, it was time for me to do a bit more homework.
Will texted me first in the morning to say he’d let me know anything he could about the fire, but that they were waiting on the fire investigators for the full picture. He didn’t mention the photos of the speeding car I’d sent Lloyd; on the whole I was glad. I felt I’d overreacted horribly both to the fire and the car, and rather hoped I’d hear no more about either.
So it was wonderful being able to sink into the safe routine of school, with only the predictable dramas of best friends falling out or knees being grazed in the playground. Karenza’s class designed get well soon cards for Zunaid, Georgy was hailed as a hero, and I had no news whatsoever about the other little boy. Pam had taken a day’s leave to stay with Zunaid, so Donna phoned a substitute whom Pam suggested; she arrived punctually and all went well.
There was a rumour flourishing amongst the children about a wild dog in the woods. Though I was tempted to say nothing, I did mention at assembly that dogs had personalities just as humans did, and it was never wise to try and pat a dog without the owner’s permission. After all, they wouldn’t want complete strangers coming up and patting them, would they?
I’d actually have liked a bit more information about the dog myself, as I told Tom at our postponed lunch meeting. I certainly didn’t want one terrorising the playground, or attacking children on their way to or from school.
‘But I’m sure the police will be following it all up,’ I said eating the last bit of a pretty inadequate home-made sandwich, ‘and will let everyone know what’s going on.’
He checked his smartphone. ‘Funnily enough, there’s absolutely nothing about any of it on any local news websites. Odd really. I’d have expected something if a child’s been hurt badly enough for an overnight stay in hospital. And a bit of news about this Georgy’s loyalty.’
‘Not to mention the child who didn’t want to be looked after,’ I said. ‘Patient confidentiality?’
He chuntered a bit about that – seems one of his relatives had been taken ill and admitted to hospital and when his daughter phoned in great distress the GP’s receptionist had first of all refused to acknowledge that he was unwell and then declined absolutely to say to which hospital he’d been taken. I had a theory I really did not want to voice: that Zunaid had been hurt by one of the search dogs that Will had mentioned. Perhaps the Border Force or whoever had started early and didn’t want bad publicity. In the countryside, however, there were always dogs, including those that savaged sheep while their owners did nothing.
In the end we had no satisfactory explanation, and turned instead to the mundane necessities of admin.
I managed to catch Jo before she went into class, to grovel for my unannounced arrival the previous evening.
She looked at me through narrowed eyes, but her voice was amused. ‘There’s a lot of story you didn’t tell us last night, isn’t there, Jane?’
‘Lloyd looked as knackered as I felt.’
‘So he did. But he always likes a good story, you know. So do I. Especially if it involves Will.’ She looked up at me like a robin hoping a stork would drop a tasty morsel.
‘That might be a long story, and I’d hate to make you late for class. Ciao!’
I got back to Wray Episcopi to find Ed van Boolen’s white van parked outside. He was busy charming Donna when I let myself in, begging her, apparently, to intercede for him.
‘Bended knees,’ he was saying, ‘just like this.’ He dropped to one knee, hands lifted in supplication.
‘Heavens, Ed,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your marriage proposal.’
He got up in one easy movement. ‘It’s more important than marriage, Jane – it’s cricket. That match on Saturday. We’re desperate. You may even have to do it all by yourself, since St Luke’s Bay can’t raise anyone.’
I shook my head. I’d only ever stood as sole umpire once before, and in an inter-church match at that. Usually, of course, you get one umpire at the bowler’s end, and the other standing at right angles to the batter, at square leg. At the end of the over, the square leg umpire marches solemnly to the stumps his or her end, and bowling starts from that end. The original umpire takes up position at square leg at the far end. Every six balls, it’s turn and turn about. If you really have to function alone, you just keep going to the bowler’s end, with (one hopes) an honest twelfth man standing at square leg. The time I did it was the loneliest couple of hours I’ve ever known on the field of play. Big men tried to intimidate me, and every single decision was questioned – by one of the vicars especially. Even if your fellow umpire doesn’t agree with a decision, at least he’ll stand
shoulder to shoulder in public, saving any criticisms for later, in private.
‘I know we’re not talking Test Matches here,’ I said, ‘but it is a league game, no matter how minor. We have to have two. Get on the blower, Ed. There must be someone floating around, even if he demands a fee.’ I wasn’t being anti-feminist – just realistic. Spare umpires tended to be old geezers, sometimes with less than perfect eyesight, which is why they were spare, not in regular demand.
‘Come on – it’s our last home game. Booze-up at the Cricketers afterwards. You don’t even have to worry about driving afterwards. Pretty, pretty please!’
‘You’d better kneel to Jane, Ed,’ Donna said with a grin.
He was down in an instant.
‘Knees or no knees, the answer is still not on my own. Get on that blower. Even an unqualified ex-player. But I’ll make a few calls on my own account,’ I conceded. I could have added piously but perhaps priggishly that the game had given me so much I was glad to give something back. Not just me personally either, but also the children of Wrayford School. Exercise and co-ordination, of course, but growth of self-esteem, too, and hugely improved mutual support.
‘You’re an angel,’ he declared, all handsome charm and manliness.
So why had I never liked him less? ‘Get phoning now, Ed.’
The children were just leaving for the day. Mrs Popescu was at the gate with Georgy, who was waving a cheerful goodbye to his new friends. I caught her eye and joined her. Frustratingly neither of them could summon enough English to explain what had happened yesterday to Zunaid, and my Romanian was non-existent, of course. I tried very hard to tell her how brave Georgy must have been to insist on sticking with Zunaid, but without the success I’d liked. But we seemed to part on the best of terms. As for an account of the incident, perhaps Pam would have more luck with Dawud’s translated version.
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