by Ann Granger
I know him! she thought. He was the chap behind me in the supermarket.
‘Sorry to take so long!’ Markby was back, holding a pint in one hand and her glass of wine in the other. He also had a plastic-covered book under his arm. ‘Menu,’ he said. ‘Take it, can you?’
Meredith pulled it free and opened it up. Goodness, this wasn’t a menu, it was a volume. She supposed that she wrongly still thought of pub meals in terms of bread and cheese or pasties. As in so many other things, she decided with a sigh, being out of one’s own country for such long stretches of time, left one behind the times. She remembered her experience in the supermarket. It made one critical, too.
Markby said helpfully, ‘The steaks here are generally all right, which is one reason I come here. Or the salad and cold meat is okay.’
‘I’ll settle for the rump steak, then.’
Markby battled his way back to the bar to place their order and when he came back they sat and looked shiftily at one another. Food ordered, the obvious subject of conversation gone, neither was quite sure what to say now.
‘How was your drive back across Europe?’ he asked.
‘Pretty uneventful. I’d rather drive at this time of the year than in summer when there’s so much tourist traffic.’
‘Settled in all right at Rose Cottage, Christmas decorations apart?’
‘Oh yes. Mrs Brissett’s a treasure, as they say. I’m very lucky.’
Two avenues of conversation neatly blocked off, silence fell. My fault, thought Meredith despondently. She ought to expand but how?
‘Dirty night,’ said Markby determinedly, falling back on the British standby, the weather.
‘Yes. Nice and warm in here and I like to see so many people. They’re busier than usual, I suppose.’
‘Oh yes, Christmas . . .’ He fiddled with a beermat. ‘I was going to ask you about that. Are you staying around here? I mean for the actual Christmas period, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and so on.’
‘I imagine so. I haven’t anywhere else to go.’ That sounded wistful so she added robustly, ‘I know I said I liked seeing the crowd in here but that doesn’t mean I can’t manage on my own. I don’t mind it being quiet!’ The last words came out defiantly. She hoped he didn’t interpret them as telling him to mind his own business. She didn’t mean to sound brusque. Perhaps he just made her nervous.
She saw with some dismay that his expression had grown sombre. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘Quiet.’ Whatever else Christmas Day at Laura’s might be, it couldn’t he guaranteed to be quiet, he thought.
‘Pook’s Common is virtually a ghost settlement, did you know?’ Meredith burst into a relentless rattle of meaningless information, determined to keep the conversation going. ‘Hardly anyone lives there full time. It’s a bit like coming back to Britain and finding you’ve committed yourself to living in Brigadoon.’
‘A bit creepy?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Not so far.’ She didn’t want to give the impression she was in need of company at the cottage. Then, thinking she sounded brusque again, added, ‘But I imagine it could be, in the right circumstances.’
Markby nodded sagely, raised his beer glass and then, in a surprised voice, said, ‘Hullo!’
She glanced up. He was staring at the two men at the nearby table.
‘Who are they?’ Meredith asked curiously in a low voice. ‘I met one of them earlier today.’
‘Did you?’ he sounded startled. ‘Which one? Where?’
‘Only casually in a supermarket. He was behind me in the queue. The one with the spectacles.’
‘That’s Colin Deanes. I don’t know the other chap, the bearded one. But I’d happily put a quid on his being a social worker. Deanes writes and lectures about teenage delinquents.’ Markby was beginning to sound animated. ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet about keeping them out of remand homes and prison. I’m not against that, but you can’t leave young thugs loose to go round terrorising honest folk. As far as I can make out, Deanes doesn’t believe that young people should be expected to know the difference between right and wrong. Expecting people to know it’s wrong to mug old ladies doesn’t seem unreasonable to me, but I’m just a copper. Deanes says it’s a cry for help.’
Chief Inspector was slightly more than just a copper, Meredith thought wryly, amused at his apparent self-abasement. From her experience of him he certainly wasn’t unaware of his own competence!
‘Such modesty!’ she teased him gently.
‘A public servant, that’s me. So are you. You should know as well as I do the public can be a very difficult master!’ He took a purposeful swig of his beer and set it down.
‘Hum, yes. I take it you’ve had dealings with Mr Deanes?’
‘He’s rented an old farmhouse right out in the middle of nowhere on the common, beyond your place and even more isolated, believe it or not. He’s been writing his latest book there. He shows up in Bamford from time to time at the station. He likes to take up my time, looking for copy. He’d call it doing research. It’s impossible to discuss anything with him. His view is entirely blinkered. I’d say his heart was in the right place if I didn’t doubt that, since he has so little sympathy for the victims of his young tearaways. I’m not against anyone trying to help put youngsters straight, but people like Deanes never want to hear any point of view but their own. He seems to assume I’m about as liberal-minded as Genghis Khan and the annoying thing is, when he talks to me, I start sounding like the worst sort of reactionary. He provokes it. I take up points of view I don’t actually support strongly and start defending them to the hilt. Even when I do agree with him, he makes it extraordinarily difficult for me to say so.’
Meredith smiled to herself at his mounting vehemence. This was the Alan Markby she remembered! She almost commented on the irony of the last charge he laid against Deanes. It was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black. At the time of the Westerfield poisonings he had sometimes been a difficult man to agree with, and he’d more than once annoyed her by his attitude. Perhaps, she reflected ruefully, she was just easily irritated. She recalled the young man she had met campaigning in the street that morning. He hadn’t meant any harm but his few words had set her against him. On reflection, she had been too quick to judge him and she regretted it now.
‘I met someone today,’ she said, ‘who affected me a little as you describe Deanes affecting you.’ She told him about the anti-blood-sports campaigner. ‘He was a harmless sort of youth really, just trying to do what he thought was right. But he was so ham-fisted about it. He annoyed me and I’m afraid I didn’t sign his petition.’
‘Oh yes,’ Markby said. ‘The Boxing Day Meet.’ He sounded glad to get on to another subject. ‘The Bamford Hunt always gathers in the Market Square on Boxing Day and after downing a glass or two of something sustaining, moves off for a day’s sport, watched by the local populace. It is possible that this year we’ll have hunt saboteurs to contend with. They try and throw the hounds off the scent and generally disrupt things. They may turn up in a show of force in the Market Square.’
The return to a seasonal topic seemed to have prompted him to tackle something obviously on his mind. ‘About Christmas. The reason I asked you just now what you planned to do was that Laura, my sister – you remember her, don’t you? She’s a partner in a firm of solicitors in the High Street – well, she thought you might like to join us for a family Christmas dinner. The food will be all right,’ he added hastily, ‘because Paul, my brother-in-law, always cooks it. That’s his line, cooking. He writes about it.’
‘It’s very kind of Laura,’ Meredith said doubtfully.
He seized on the doubt. ‘You don’t have to. I mean, it’s up to you. Of course, she’d be delighted and so would I, since I’ve got to be there. She’s got youngsters . . .’
‘Yes, I seem to recall you told me about your sister and her kids, three of them, right?’
‘Four – there’s been an increase. The littlest one leaks at both ends
incessantly. Matthew, the eldest, is quite a bright chap and Emma, the next one age-wise, is all right but learning the recorder. She’s practising “Jingle Bells” for a Christmas solo. Vicky doesn’t do much except break things. A sort of potential lady-wrestler. They’re all right, really, but if you’d prefer peace and quiet, you might find them a bit exhausting.’
He looked so comically apologetic that she had to burst out laughing. ‘I should love to come. Tell Laura, and I’ll give her a call myself.’
‘Fine, that’s okay, then.’ He looked relieved. ‘I’m glad you’re coming.’ Hastily he added, ‘Because it means Laura keeps the kids in better order if there’s a visitor. I don’t count.’
‘Oh, I see.’
The girl arrived then with their steaks and there was a welcome break in conversation, during which they observed Deanes and his companion departing from their nearby table. They began to squeeze their way towards the door and in doing so, passed by Markby.
‘Ah – hullo, Chief Inspector!’ Deanes said. He stopped and pushed his spectacles further up his nose with a forefinger in the gesture Meredith recalled. Now that she took another look at it, it was a rather insignificant sort of nose on which any pair of spectacles might be expected to slip. He had pulled on his fur-lined parka ready to brave the elements. ‘Policeman’s night out?’ he asked humorously.
‘We do get some time off!’ Markby said brusquely.
‘Hope you enjoy your meal.’ Deanes looked towards Meredith and a surprised expression crossed his face. ‘Small world! We met briefly in the supermarket in Bamford. Perhaps you don’t recall me?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Meredith smiled.
‘Glad to see you got out of there in one piece, Mrs Markby.’
‘Oh, but I’m not!’ began Meredith and Markby at the same time exclaimed, ‘She isn’t!’ so that their denials chimed in unison.
Deanes chuckled. ‘Oh, I see. Well, enjoy yourselves. Happy Christmas.’
He followed his guernsey-sweatered companion out, leaving the two diners in unhappy silence, avoiding one another’s eye.
‘We didn’t handle that very well,’ Meredith said at last.
‘He is a silly blighter,’ Markby said irritably, taking a gulp from his pint.
Meredith, recalling her brief conversation with Deanes in the queue, felt compelled to defend him. He had shown, or so it had seemed to her at the time, genuine concern for others. Such a man earned a good word on his behalf. ‘Are you sure you’re fair to him?’ she ventured disastrously. ‘Or are you predisposed by your calling to see him as interfering – trespassing on your patch?’
A warlike gleam entered Markby’s blue eyes. He jabbed a forefinger at her. ‘Listen here, Miss Smart-Alec, you haven’t seen him in full flight! Put him on the telly, give him a bit of limelight and away goes our Colin! No one else can get a word in edgeways. And he’s not always entirely fair to the poor foot-slogging copper, either.’
Meredith drew herself up. ‘People are entitled to their opinions, I suppose. And anyway—’ Meredith was aware of her own tone growing argumentative. ‘Take a look at that!’ She pointed at the poster announcing the public hangings. ‘Penal reform has certainly been needed in the past and probably still is. Ideas of how society should treat its criminals change just as ideas of justice change. Once upon a time a man could hang for setting fire to a hayrick! Thank goodness for people prepared to stand up to authority and tackle the system they believe is wrong.’
‘Even if they stop you on a busy shopping morning and ask you to sign petitions?’ Markby countered craftily.
‘That’s unfair!’ Meredith said indignantly. ‘All right, yes! Even if it means you’ve got to inconvenience the uncommitted. Although fox-hunting on council land isn’t quite what Deanes campaigns about, is it?’
‘Deanes campaigns for causes which have a high profile,’ said Markby drily. ‘That may be pure coincidence, of course, and I may be a sceptic.’ He glared at her over his beer, daring her to agree with his last assertion.
Meredith was not to be led away from the point at issue. ‘The causes may have a high profile because Deanes campaigns for them! Good for him, he’s doing his job.’
He was gazing at her with an infuriating world-weariness suggesting he’d heard her argument a hundred times before. ‘This is turning into one of those mediaeval disputes which split hairs endlessly,’ he said. ‘Are you playing devil’s advocate, by any chance?’
‘No, I’m not!’ exclaimed a heated Meredith, bouncing about in her chair. Her hair fell over her face and she glowered at him. ‘I’m not saying the man should be considered as a candidate for sainthood. Just that perhaps he ought to be respected!’
Her companion gave a muffled grunt and attacked his steak vigorously. After a mouthful he seemed to relent. ‘All right, then, I’ll admit to a degree of prejudice against people who seem to make a living out of being agin the establishment. But I’m certainly not against anyone taking up arms against an injustice. It’s when people are opinionated, as opposed to having a properly argued opinion that I lose patience with them. Or when they refuse to face unpleasant truths, like good and evil. They try to blend them together when they’re really opposites!’ Danger of choking stopped him at that point. After a moment or two when he had swallowed his steak and could speak safely, he went on, ‘Modern theology doesn’t help, I dare say. To say nothing of modern educational notions. But sometimes a chap is a wrong ’un, pure and simple.’ He gave a decided nod as if to approve his own argument.
‘You believe in evil, then?’ Meredith asked curiously. She had often wondered whether policemen did believe in something it was now so fashionable to doubt.
‘Oh, yes.’ Markby put down his knife and fork and regarded her seriously. ‘Oh, yes, indeed. Very much so. Hoofs, horns, forked tail and all,’ he added with a grin. Meredith didn’t respond to his attempt to lighten the conversation but merely sat staring at him thoughtfully. Serious again, he went on, ‘A real presence sometimes, at any rate, even if not quite like the folk image. I’ve had occasion to talk to men who have committed appalling crimes and sometimes I swear I’ve felt it there in the room with us, wickedness.’
‘And good? Does that exist as a real force?’
‘Oh, certainly. Good too. There are more good people about than the world gives credit for.’
‘So where does that place Deanes? On the side of the angels or the other lot?’
Markby chuckled, his customary air of self-deprecation returning. ‘I can’t say, “somewhere in the middle”, can I? Not after the other things, I’ve said. I didn’t mean to divide the world into black and white, you know. Of course there’s a grey area. I was talking of extremes. As for Deanes, there’s an old and venerable tradition of the holy fool. But Christmas is upon us and I shall be charitable. The fellow means well. Just keep him out of my hair. Would you like another drink?’
‘Only if you’re having one.’
‘Can’t. Driving. Have to set a good example. Never do if I was ordered to pull over and blow into a bag.’
‘We can go back to Rose Cottage, always supposing Pook’s Common is still where we left it, and I’ll make coffee,’ she offered, aware that she should contribute to the peace that had broken out between them.
He smiled at her. ‘That sounds nice.’
They sat over the coffee, talking more easily in the cosy intimacy of the cottage than in the crowded bar of The Black Dog. Meredith told him what she had been doing since they last met and Markby gave a summary of his own activities. ‘Sadly routine, I’m afraid,’ was his verdict. ‘Not as interesting as yours.’
Meredith demurred.
‘Mine aren’t always all that interesting. People think my job’s full of excitement. But mostly I’m pushing bits of paper around. Some of the exciting things I could do without. And then there’s the gruesome. They turn up from time to time.’
‘Yes, they do, don’t they?’ Markby smiled. ‘Or at least they do in my job.’
Their eyes met and they looked away from one another. Both knew the other was thinking of their first meeting and the case of murder in which Meredith had found herself so painfully entangled. Absence from the scene, thought Meredith, and being involved in other countries in other people’s affairs had made it all seem rather long ago. But it wasn’t: only eighteen months.
The relaxed air which had reigned in the warm little living room of Rose Cottage seemed suddenly to have evaporated. Markby stirred and made signs of being about to take farewell. ‘I really must go. It’s been . . . it’s been very pleasant. Nice to see you again.’
Suddenly they were formal.
‘Yes, likewise. Thanks for the meal.’
It had stopped raining but the night was dark and damp.
‘Don’t stand about on the doorstep,’ he said. ‘You’ll catch cold.’
Nodding obediently – slightly idiotically – she thought, Meredith went back indoors and watched through the window as he drove away. Across the lane, the windows of Ivy Cottage were dark. Not tonight, Harriet’s dinner party, Meredith thought. She remembered the muffled telephone conversation in Ivy Cottage that morning. Or did he ring to cancel? she asked herself and for some reason, felt uneasy.
Three
The following morning the overnight rain had cleared away. Meredith peeped out of the dormer window at the sun sparkling on the wet slates and road. As she watched, a small car drove slowly past and made for a cottage at the far end and on the other side of the narrow track. A middle-aged couple got out and began to unload a motley collection of boxes and bags. They must be the pair who proposed to retire here one day, Meredith deduced, come to check on the property or possibly even to spend Christmas here. They obviously didn’t mind the isolation. She also noticed Harriet’s upstairs windows were all open. A curtain flapped wildly out of one of them.
