Lois Meade 02; Terror on Tuesday

by Ann Purser

  Her childhood had been punctuated far too often with tears and blows, but Bridie had stuck to Dick, and Hazel realized now that her mother had never ceased to love him, always hoping that things would improve. Although Hazel could neither love nor forgive, she hoped that his murderer would suffer as much as her father must have done, faced with a knife that was about to end his life.

  It was getting late, and as she and her friend came out of the Tresham Odeon cinema, they went quickly across to where her car was the only one left in the park. “I’ll drop you off home,” Hazel said, brushing aside the offer to take a bus. “It’s not too far out of my way. You shouldn’t be out on the streets alone round there, anyway!” She was only half-joking, knowing that the back streets around the theatre boasted the highest incidence of mugging in the town.

  The friend safely inside her front door, Hazel turned down the theatre street and headed for home. It was not well-lit, but as she approached a car parked at the side of the road, she looked again. Surely that was Gary Needham’s old banger? Then she jammed her foot on the brake. Not only was it Gary’s car, but that was Joanne Murphy’s bruiser, leaning against a lamp post. So what was Gary doing there? She parked fifty yards up the road and stopped the engine. The bruiser hadn’t moved, so it was unlikely that he had recognized her car. Think, Hazel. If Joanne Murphy had had a mutually agreed meeting with Gary, why was the bruiser standing on guard? She had a feeling in her bones that Gary was in trouble, and she had to do something about it.

  She looked in her driving mirror. Nothing had moved, but she could now see two heads in the car, silhouetted against the street light. So Joanne was in the car with Gary.

  He must need help, Hazel decided. And if he doesn’t, they’ll soon tell me to shove off. She made a quick call on her mobile, then started her engine, and drove slowly forward. Turning round at the end of the street, she switched off her lights and returned, still at a crawl. At the last minute, she put her headlights on full beam, accelerated and then screeched to a stop exactly parallel with Gary’s car. She saw his face as he turned to look, and knew she had been right. Pale and frightened, he recognized her, and at the speed of a terrified rabbit, he flung open his door and was sitting beside her in a heap, screaming at her to get moving. She didn’t need telling, and missed the leaping minder by millimetres. She saw in her driving mirror that he crashed to the ground, and had no compunction about leaving him there. J. Murphy could look after him, though she didn’t give much for his chances.

  “How did you get yourself into that one?” she said acidly to Gary. They were out of the theatre area now, heading down town through night-time empty streets. He was breathing rapidly and didn’t answer.

  “Where’re we going?” he said finally. He had straightened up, and although his hands were clenched into two tight fists, he seemed to have himself in control.

  “You’ll see,” said Hazel. “And save your breath now. There’s a lot of talking to be done, but not just yet.”

  “Well, this is not the way to my house,” he said, but without much interest. He was grateful to Hazel for rescuing him, but had little hope that his situation was much improved.

  Hazel slowed down, and came to a halt by the kerb. “Right,” she said. “Come on, let’s go in.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Hazel! It’s the bloody nick!”

  “Yep,” she said equably. “Shouldn’t be too busy. And they’re expecting us.”

  As they climbed the steps into the brightly lit police station, Hazel caught a glimpse of two people, visibly restrained, being manhandled out of a police car behind them. It was Joanna Murphy and her minder. Cowgill had acted quickly, thank God. A busy night ahead for us all, thought Hazel, and took Gary’s arm.

  ∨ Terror on Tuesday ∧

  Forty-Six

  In the schoolhouse in Waltonby, Mrs Betts looked at the clock on the kitchen mantelshelf. It was late. Where was her husband? He was usually home from the theatre much earlier than this. Prue had gone off for a few days to join the friends who were planning the round-the-world trip, and the house was unnaturally silent.

  The sound of a key in the front door brought her to her feet. “There he is,” she said, and went to meet him.

  Half an hour later, they were standing in the hall, suitcases hurriedly packed and carrying their coats.

  “I still don’t see why…”

  “You don’t need to see why,” Mr Betts said. “I have decided we are going up to Scotland tonight, and will stay there for a few days to spy out the land and possibly find a house. You like looking at houses, don’t you? Well, now is our chance to find something really nice. I have decided not to occupy another schoolhouse. Too close to the job…living over the shop…known to be a mistake.”

  Mrs Betts thought he sounded odd. The whole thing was odd. He had marched into the house and started issuing orders straight away. There had been no explanation, only a stern determination to get her to do what he said without questions. Just as if I was one of his schoolchildren, she thought. But she knew it was pointless to argue. He would only lose his temper and shout, and then shut himself in his study and not get any sleep, and neither would she. So she went along with it until they were ready, standing in the hall as if it wasn’t the middle of the night, but a normal off-on-holiday day. She tried to summon up some enthusiasm, and suggested preparing food for the journey. After all, they would be driving through the night, and it would be vital for the driver to keep awake. Then her enthusiasm evaporated. It was very odd.

  As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “I’ll tell you all about it in the car. Now, are we ready? I’ve arranged for a substitute in the school, and we can ring Prue in the morning. Right!” he added, and smiled a wild smile at her. “Off on an adventure!” He locked the door behind them, and struggled to the car carrying both cases. “Why did we need so much stuff?” she said. “We’ll be back by the end of the week, won’t we?”

  “Never know what Scottish weather has in store,” he said in a waggish voice.

  They had been going for half an hour, and Mrs Betts felt her eyelids drooping. “Would it be all right if I had a little nap?” she said. “Then I could take over the driving for a bit later on, and let you sleep.”

  “Good idea,” he said, and turned to smile at her. “We’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly, and she wondered at his words. Why shouldn’t they be fine? Her eyes closed, and in spite of herself, she drifted off.

  When she awoke, they were on a motorway. “Where are we?” she said. He didn’t answer, and she glanced out of the window at the approaching road signs. “Gatwick!” she said. “What on earth are we going to Gatwick for?” He still did not answer, and she felt a flicker of alarm. “I said – ” she began.

  “I heard what you said,” he interrupted. “And you will soon know why we’re going to Gatwick. A little secret!” But he didn’t sound at all happy about it, not like someone about to spring a pleasant surprise on his wife.

  “Pull in here,” Mrs Betts said urgently, seeing an exit coming up. “I need the toilet.”

  “Can’t you wait until we get there? It’s not much further…”

  “No, I can’t. Please, dear, I won’t be long.” She felt increasingly apprehensive, and found herself humouring him, jollying him along.

  They parked in the services area, and he switched off the lights. “Now,” she said gently, “perhaps you’d better tell me what this is all about.” She put her hand over his, and squeezed. “We don’t have secrets from each other, you know,” she added, and waited.

  Mr Betts rubbed his eyes. He said nothing for a full minute, and then he began to speak, not looking at her, but staring straight ahead at the shadowy car park.

  “We never meant to kill him, you know,” he said. His voice was strained. “It was supposed to be a kind of punishment.”

  Mrs Betts’ heart was beating so fast that she felt faint. She took several deep breaths, desperately anxious not to interrupt him. The shock was
tremendous, but she still had enough reason left to know that she must appear calm.

  “A kind of punishment,” he repeated, “for what he had done. And a warning that it must all stop. No more photographs, no more contacts with small girls, no more…” He hesitated, then continued, “And no more assignations with our lovely daughter.”

  “Prue?” Mrs Betts could not help herself.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “It was him, you know. He made her pregnant. Filthy devil. So we decided to teach him a lesson.”

  “Are you talking about the major?” said Mrs Betts quietly. Her husband had become silent again, and she risked the gentle prompt.

  “Of course!” he said. “The so-called major! Name was Smith really. Well, anyway,” he continued, “I decided to teach him a lesson. Dick Reading hated him as much as I did, and though I didn’t care for Reading much – vulgar, and reputed to be a wife beater – I enlisted his help. He was only too willing! Said he’d wanted to have a go at the bugger for a long time…”

  “No need to swear, dear,” said Mrs Betts automatically. She heard herself uttering this banal comment, and waited for an explosion. But he laughed, and she realized he wasn’t really listening to her. It was a spine-chilling, mirthless laugh, and she shivered. “Go on, then,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Well, I suppose for the first time in my life, I failed to teach a lesson successfully.”

  “But the knight’s armour…?”

  “From the theatre,” he said. “I got young Gary to help. I know quite a lot about that lad, and it wasn’t difficult to persuade him. The three of us, Dick and me and Gary, got the suit of armour from the props cupboard. It was made of some lightweight stuff, so not difficult.”

  “But didn’t he struggle, or shout or something?”

  “Drugged, fast asleep,” said Mr Betts, and his voice was firm. “Oh yes, my dear,” he added, “Gary was useful in more ways than one. Knew where to get the necessary. That Mrs Murphy at the theatre, the cleaner, was involved. But I left that side of it to him.”

  “How do you know the major was the one who made Prue pregnant?” said Mrs Betts cautiously.

  “Obvious,” said her husband dismissively. “She wouldn’t tell me, of course, but I didn’t need to be told.”

  “Did you mean to…well…”

  “To kill him?” Mr Betts’ voice was light. “No, of course not. We were going to leave him in the church, and then when he came round he’d have the devil of a job getting free. But it was possible. We made sure of that. Tried it ourselves. Trouble was, he didn’t come round. The dog did, though,” he added inconsequentially.

  “Oh, my God,” said Mrs Betts, and covered her face.

  In the Ladies, after she had made sure nobody was around, she took out the mobile that she had vowed so mistakenly was a waste of money, and dialled clumsily, with shaking fingers, the number she found under New Brooms.

  “Is that Mrs Meade? Ah, good. I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I need some help. I can’t think of anyone else who could…”

  Her voice broke, and Lois, startled, but immediately alert, said, “Of course I can help. What is it, where are you?”

  Mrs Betts pulled herself together rapidly, aware that time was short. She told Lois in a few brief sentences the bare outline, and then stopped, sadly aware that she had no idea what Lois could do. She had seemed such a nice woman, and so well organized, but…

  “Carry on,” Lois said urgently. “Do exactly what he wants. It could be hours before your plane goes – wherever it’s going – and we’ll be there. Try not to upset him, and don’t worry.”

  ♦

  Explaining to Derek was difficult. “I don’t see why you have to go,” he said. “Just tell your pal at the police station. Let him get on with it.”

  “I have to go,” Lois said, “because I told her I would. She rang me, Derek. I’ve phoned Cowgill already. He’s picking me up. Should be safe enough in a police car, shouldn’t I?” She tried a smile, but was overwhelmed by the certainty of impending tragedy for people she knew and liked.

  “I’ll ring you from the airport,” she said. “When it’s all over.”

  ∨ Terror on Tuesday ∧

  Forty-Seven

  “What time does the plane go?” Mrs Betts felt momentarily reassured, pinning all her hopes on Lois Meade, a woman she scarcely knew. She had not been able to ring the police, though she knew this was the rational thing to do. She tried to order her thoughts, but failed. Who would be rational in my place? She stared out of the window at the passing traffic. I am in a dark car on a dark motorway, heading for Gatwick airport, with a man who has technically committed murder, and that man is my husband. She glanced at his profile beside her, and saw that he was perfectly calm. There was even a half-smile on his face, lit up by passing traffic.

  “Oh, not for hours yet,” Mr Betts replied. “We have to check in two hours before the flight, but we shall be there long before that. I thought we might have a meal…Are you hungry, dear?” He sounded so normal, so concerned for her.

  Mrs Betts had never felt less hungry, but said that she probably would be by the time they got to Gatwick. “Why do we have to check in so early?” she said. “After all, we’re going on an inland flight.” She was not at all sure these went from Gatwick, but could not be certain.

  “Security,” her husband replied. “It’s all been tightened up since the terrorist attacks. Good idea, in my opinion.”

  We needn’t have left in such a hurry, then, thought Mrs Betts. They had left like thieves in the night. And what would Prue think, if she telephoned them and got no reply? She asked how long before they got to Gatwick, but Mr Betts was concentrating on his driving. He opened a window, admitting a blast of cold air. “What’s that for?” said Mrs Betts, pulling her coat around her.

  “To keep me awake,” he said shortly. His mood had changed again.

  She said in a neutral voice, “Would you like me to take a turn driving? You could pull off on to the hard shoulder?” Again no reply.

  Mrs Betts sat in a miserable huddle, doing her best not to cry. She wanted to go home, to find her daughter waiting for them, she wanted to be told it was all a bad dream, and it was time for school. But it was not a dream. She faced this, and began once more to go over what he had told her. Then she realized that there was a big gap.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” she said as neutrally as she could, “something you didn’t tell me. Can you close that window, dear. I can’t hear myself think.”

  Mr Betts closed the window, and said, “What is it? I am trying to concentrate, you know. I don’t want to miss the exit, and then have to go on for miles to turn around.”

  “This is very important,” Mrs Betts said. “You haven’t told me what happened to Dick Reading. Perhaps you don’t know?” she added hopefully.

  “Oh, I know all right,” he replied. “Stupid fool panicked. He said the police were getting close to finding out about the major and our part in it. Said Gary Needham was unreliable, and the others at the theatre couldn’t be trusted with anything.”

  He was silent for a few seconds, and Mrs Betts prodded him on. “So what happened?”

  “He had to be silenced,” Mr Betts said.

  “Who silenced him, then?”

  “I did.”

  Mrs Betts gasped. Then she began to scream, a terrible, terrified scream. She struck at her husband wildly, causing the car to swerve across the lanes. He managed to control the car, and get them back into the slow lane. He came to a stop on the hard shoulder and turned to face her.

  “Settle down, dear,” he said, as if she was a naughty child in class. “You asked me to explain, so try to listen. It was easy,” he continued, “especially after he said that our Prue was a little slag, and got what she was asking for. We were backstage at the theatre, just Gary and me. Everybody else had gone, and I had the key to lock up. Then Reading came in and began yelling that he’d decided to go to the police an
d tell them we didn’t mean to kill the major. I knew I had to act quickly, and grabbed a knife left on the table by the woman who does refreshments. It was over in seconds, and Gary never moved a muscle to help.”

  “How did you manage to get him out?” asked Mrs Betts, in a flat monotone.

  “Gary helped then. He had to, though he was scared to death. It was my idea to take Reading to the woods and tie him to a tree. I’d discovered the spot where Lois Meade – did you know she was a police informer? – had meetings with her inspector. A little surprise for them both. Rather good, that, don’t you think? Kept up the theatrical theme. I was rather proud of that. We had the devil’s own job cleaning up, of course. Messy business. Still, Gary was perfect for that. New Brooms came into its own!”

  Oh, dear God, come and help me, please, please. Mrs Betts mind was floating now, and her body frozen into a solid lump. She knew she could not move, not even to defend herself. She was sure that it might now be necessary. Her husband had clearly lost his reason, and she had no idea what he would do next.

  The motorway unrolled before them, and round and round in Mrs Betts’s head went the words ‘New Brooms’. Now she knew Lois Meade had a connection with the police, she was certain help would be on the way. But would they arrive in time? Please God, she repeated, help me, please.

  And then there it was, the turning to Gatwick airport. Her husband drove slowly now, following signs to the long stay car park. In a daze she got out of the car, waited for him to make the necessary arrangements, and then they caught the bus that took them on a rattling ride to the terminal building. He kept up a running conversation, amiable again and chattering about nothing in particular. He seemed not to notice that she was silent.