7 Sorrow on Sunday

by Ann Purser

  “I want a word with you,” the Colonel replied. “Come and sit in my car.”

  Derek stared at him. “What did you say?” he replied.

  “I said, I want to talk to you,” snapped the Colonel. “Are you deaf, man?”

  “Look,” said Derek, with exaggerated reasonableness, “I’m not one of your raw recruits. I have a business to run, and my time is precious. If you want to talk to me about the stable thefts, I’ll see when I can spare ten minutes and let you know. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m due at the next job. Good afternoon.”

  He drove away, seeing in the rear-view mirror that the Colonel was left standing motionless, as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard. Too bad, thought Derek, accelerating. I’ll get in touch with the old sod, but when I decide to. God knows how Lois and the girls cope with all these people she cleans for, especially him! He drove on towards Fletching thinking about Lois and her decision to carry on with New Brooms and not let their windfall make any major difference to their lives. Was it possible? He looked back at his encounter with the Colonel, and wondered if he’d have been as confident in standing up to him before the lottery win? There was no doubt that having a large nest egg in the bank did make a lot of difference. How else would it affect them? It worried him sometimes. Still, he trusted Lois. She was strong and levelheaded and would see that nothing disastrous happened.

  There was one thing he wished she would give up, but there was no hope of her doing that. Snooping was in her bones, he reckoned, and now there was a new mystery for her to get her teeth into.

  He slowed down as he approached the roundabout on the edge of Fletching village, and saw a dirty white van speeding along from another road. As it came towards the roundabout, he saw to his horror a shaggy-looking horse crash through the hedge and charge into the road in front of the van. The van swerved off and hit a road sign with force. A dreadful sound of crumpling metal and breaking glass was followed by a terrible silence. Derek was frozen for a few seconds, then shot out and ran to the scene.

  The horse had miraculously escaped, and was galloping at full pelt back up the road. Let it go, thought Derek, and rushed over to the van. The front seemed to be completely destroyed. He looked anxiously for the driver. Trapped in twisted metal and broken glass, the man at the wheel was slumped forward, his face covered in blood, and was almost certainly dead. Derek dialled the police from his mobile, and gave them the details. He was told to stay exactly where he was. The ambulance would be there immediately.

  Derek had another look at the man. He was young. If there was any sign of life, he would do everything he could to help him, regardless of police instructions. He peered closely through the shattered window, and realized it was hopeless. The man had been crushed horribly. He’d had no chance. Derek could see no sign of a safety belt. He straightened up and waited. He did a re-run in his mind from the moment he saw the horse crash through. It was a thick hedge, well-trimmed, and impossible to see in to the field beyond. Where, then, did the animal get out? He peered closer, and saw a narrow gap, and a broken fence, more or less overgrown. That was it. Perhaps there had been a stile there once. Some careless farmer had failed to mend it. Ah, well, he’d have trouble finding his horse now.

  SIX

  WHEN DEREK FINALLY RETURNED HOME, GRAN WAS looking worried. “Where’ve you been? I thought you said you’d be early today.”

  Derek shook his head. “It’s a long story,” he said. “I’d be glad of a good strong cup of tea. Where’s Lois?”

  “Taken Jeems out. She’s gone over the meadows to the river walk. Should be back soon.” Gran made the tea and sat down opposite Derek. “So what happened?” she said. Derek gave her an edited version of the crash itself, leaving out the gory bits. He told her about having to hang about for hours, telling the police what he had witnessed, and going with them to the woods to look for the horse. There had been no sign of it though the police were still busy up there when he left.

  “Did you know the man in the van?” Gran had immediately thought of at least three people she knew who might have been driving white vans that way.

  Derek shook his head. “He was quite smashed up, though he was vaguely familiar. Still, the police’ll find out who he is—was—and it’ll all be in the local.”

  It was getting dark, and Gran looked out of the window. “Where’s Lois got to?” she said. “It’ll be time for our tea soon. Steak and kidney pie today, and bread puddin’ for afters.”

  Ten minutes later, Lois arrived, out of breath and red in the face. “She’s in disgrace!” she said, tying Jeems to the table leg without taking off her lead.

  Gran and Derek looked at each other. “You’re too soft with that dog,” Gran said. “What’s she done now?”

  “Wouldn’t come when she was called,” Lois said.

  “So what’s new?” said Derek. “She never does.”

  “Well, this time she’d found a rotting rabbit carcass and every time I approached her she retreated, with the disgusting green shiny object dangling from her mouth. In the end, I walked away and left her, then waited out of sight. It was hours before she came, and I’m frozen.” She started towards the door. “Oh, and by the way, Derek, I met the Colonel. He said he’d seen you and you’d been helpful, and he was looking forward to hearing from you. I suppose you know what he’s talking about, but anyway, I’m going to have a hot shower.” She slammed the door behind her and they heard her going up the stairs, tripping halfway up and cursing, and then all was silent.

  “The Colonel?” said Gran. “Old Battersby? What did he want?”

  “To shoot somebody, I think,” said Derek gloomily, and opened the sports pages.

  * * *

  HALFWAY UP SEBASTOPOL STREET, A POLICE CAR CRUISED to a halt outside one of the small terraced houses. Hazel Thornbull, looking out of the window of the New Brooms office, watched it idly. Police cars were not uncommon in Sebastopol Street. She saw an officer approach one of the neglected, peeling front doors and ring a bell. At the same time he knocked on the heavy iron knocker, and waited. Then he peered through the grimy window facing the pavement, and looked up to see the same yellowing net curtains drawn across both upstairs windows. Back to the front door. This time, it opened a fraction, and Hazel could just see a pale face. Then the door opened wider, and the policeman disappeared inside. She shrugged. Another break-in, car theft, mugging. This area of Tresham was known for it.

  * * *

  “NOW, MRS. NIMMO,” THE POLICEMAN SAID. “I NEED to have a few words. Shall we go . . . ?” He looked around, and could see no room that he would willingly enter. The smell in the house was appalling, a cocktail of cigarette smoke, damp walls and stale cooking.

  Mrs. Nimmo led the way into a tiny kitchen, where she indicated a rickety chair drawn up to a small table covered in grubby oilcloth. So far, she had said nothing. She sat down on a rickety stool, and stared at him. He smiled at her, only too aware of the nature of his errand. She did not smile back.

  “Have you got good neighbours here?” he said gently, not expecting her to say yes. Mrs. Nimmo was small and thin, with dyed blonde hair falling over her face in strands. Her fingers were a deep brown at the tips, and a chipped saucer in the middle of the table overflowed with ash and stubs. At odds with all this was her mouth, carefully painted bright scarlet, and each of the cigarette stubs bore her scarlet signature.

  “Rotten lot. Nosy parkers, all of ’em,” she growled. Her voice was husky with smoke.

  “Family?”

  “Only my Haydn,” she said. She pronounced it as in haystack. “And you know him. He’s working now, o’ course,” she added with the trace of a smile.

  The policeman took a deep breath. “Indeed we do,” he said. “Or should I say ‘did’ . . . I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you. Haydn has met with an accident.” He stretched out his arm and reluctantly took her hand. It shook violently, and he rescued her cigarette and stubbed it out.

  “What . . . where . . .
is he hurt?”

  “I’m afraid so. He didn’t stand a chance. An escaped horse ran out right in front of the van. Haydn must have stood on the brakes and the van skidded into a metal post. He wasn’t wearing his safety-belt.”

  Mrs. Nimmo shook off his hand and stood up, tipping the stool over behind her. “A sodding horse?” she screamed. “I hope it was killed!”

  The policeman was shocked. He shook his head. “Bolted,” he said. “Not touched. We haven’t found it yet, but its owner will.”

  After that, Mrs. Nimmo let rip a string of expletives, some of which even the experienced policeman hadn’t heard. She calmed down slowly, and protested that she would be perfectly all right. “I don’t need no friend wi’ me,” she said firmly. “I ain’t got any friends, anyway. Just tell me what you want me to do. We’ve always known ’ow to cope with bad news. Get on with it, then.” She was still shaking, but refused a cup of tea.

  He stood up, and said that if she was sure she would be all right he’d better be getting back to the station. He’d be in touch very soon. Mrs. Nimmo followed him, and out of earshot, she muttered to herself, “I know who’s behind this, no mistake. He’s bin asking for it, and now he’ll get it, good and proper.”

  * * *

  HAYDN NIMMO HAD BEEN TROUBLE SINCE HE WAS born. Arriving late, he was a ten-pounder and nearly split his mother in half. He was a fractious baby, and an unwilling schoolboy, drifting through a series of schools, playing truant and learning as little as possible. Finally, when all the well-meaning helpers had washed their hands of him, he left school and as soon as he could—in fact, before he legally could—he drove any vehicle available to him and his dodgy friends. Whenever there was a job that needed a quick getaway, Haydn was the man. He loved driving, and had passed his driving test first time with flying colours, which was not surprising considering his several years of experience.

  “It was the one thing ’e was good at,” Mrs. Nimmo croaked to her sister Evelyn, who had several hours later heard the news through the grapevine and had come hurrying round to Sebastopol Street.

  “He was a good boy,” she replied, “on the whole. Fancy him dying in a road smash. None of us can believe it. He was so good with cars.”

  “Us” applied to the family Mrs. Nimmo had omitted to mention to the policeman. Generations of Nimmos had lived by their wits, mostly just the wrong side of the law. They were well known to the police, but each maintained an unwritten family rule that they never talked about each other. When Haydn’s father had drowned in a gravel pit the other side of Long Farnden, though in broad daylight and with—for once—no trace of alcohol in his blood, the family had shaken their heads and remained mute. “Must’ve missed his footin’,” was the most they would say.

  The two sisters were silent for a few minutes. Then Mrs. Nimmo began to fill the kettle. “Cup o’ tea, Evie?”

  Evelyn shook her head quickly. “I must be going, Dot,” she said, glancing at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. “You know where we are if you need any help.” She paused. “O’ course,” she added, “we all know it couldn’t have been an accident, don’t we?”

  After she had left, Dot Nimmo sat down heavily on the wobbling stool. Apart from a whine from next door’s dog, the house was heavy with a silence that would not be broken by Haydn bouncing through the door, full of news of his day to tell his mother. “Never again,” she whispered to herself. She put her head down on her grubby hands and wept for a long time.

  SEVEN

  LOIS HAD EXPECTED TO SEE AN ACCOUNT OF THE ACCIDENT in the local paper the next morning, but there was nothing. Maybe it had happened too late for the early edition.

  “Did you hear about the smash Dad saw yesterday?” she said to Josie, who was up on steps stacking the high shelves in the shop.

  “I’m too busy for gossip this morning,” Josie said. She had had a row with Rob, and was not feeling sociable.

  “Oops!” said Lois. “Well, in that case, do you think I could have a loaf and a pot of raspberry jam? If you’ve got time, that is.”

  Josie laughed in spite of herself, and put the food into her mother’s basket. “Here you are, and a pot of apricot that’s just beyond its sell-by date. Gran’ll eat it. The older the better, as far as she’s concerned.”

  Lois’s mobile phone rang. She picked up her shopping and went outside, where the signal was stronger. “Hello? I thought it might be you. What d’you want?”

  “A word with you, Lois, if you can spare a minute.” Lois did not reply, and Cowgill smiled at the other end of the line. His Lois. “Just checking in,” he continued, “to find out how you are.”

  “You don’t fool me,” she said. “That’s not what you want to know, is it? You want to know what Derek has said about that road smash involving a white van.”

  Cowgill sighed. “Right as usual,” he said. “I know Derek has made a statement, and a very good, detailed one, too. But people often remember things later.”

  “Then why don’t you speak to him? I’m getting cold standing here, so if that’s all—”

  “No, no, wait a minute, Lois. The young man killed in the crash was Haydn Nimmo. Straightforward accident with a loose horse, it seems. Still, anything that happens to the Nimmos has to be checked. A few years ago, his father, Handel Nimmo, drowned in those gravel pits down the road from you. Do you remember?”

  “We’d only just moved here,” Lois said. “I only remember it because of the ridiculous name.”

  “Nimmo Senior fancied himself as a joker,” Cowgill said. “Practical jokes as well as funny names. Played one once too often. We couldn’t pin his death on anybody, but we reckon it was in the family. Now there’s Haydn. It is almost certainly a genuine accident, but just could be something to do with the old feud. Keep it to yourself, Lois.”

  “Don’t I always?” Lois said angrily. “Anyway, what can I do? They’re not exactly among our circle of friends,” she added.

  “Talk to Derek. Listen to Derek. Ask Josie to keep her ears open in the shop. I don’t have to spell it out to you, Lois. Now go and get warm. Talk soon. And don’t forget, officially the police are satisfied there were no suspicious circumstances.”

  Lois walked home fuming. If he thinks I’m grilling my own husband, he can think again. And if Josie hears anything interesting, well and good. But I’m not recruiting her into Cowgill’s private army. She reached home to find Gran making leek and potato soup, and propped herself up against the Rayburn. “You’re a wonder, Mum,” she said, and Gran nearly dropped her wooden spoon in surprise.

  “Feeling all right, Lois?” she said.

  EIGHT

  HAZEL SAT AT HER DESK IN NEW BROOMS IN SEBASTOPOL Street and looked at her watch. Soon it would be time for Maureen to bring Lizzie for a hug and kiss before her morning rest. Maureen was an old school friend, and by great good fortune lived next to New Brooms. When Lois offered Hazel the job of managing the office, the baby girl had been a problem. The two grandmothers could help out, but not all the time. Then Hazel met Maureen, who had her own child, and the perfect arrangement was made. Baby-minding suited single mum Maureen, and she and Hazel devised a rota so that Lizzie could see her mother several times during the day.

  “Here she comes!” said Hazel, opening the door and taking her daughter from Maureen’s arms. “Been a good girl?”

  “As always,” Maureen said. “She’s an angel most of the time. Hey, Hazel,” she continued, “you know them Nimmos up the street? Chronic lot, all of ’em. I’ve had trouble with smashed windows and graffiti on the door. The cowards know I’ve got no man in the house. It was a while ago, but I ain’t forgiven them. Well, look at this,” she said, handing over the morning newspaper.

  “I saw a bit in yesterday’s late edition. About whatsisname Nimmo being killed in a crash. A horse ran in front of his van. Police were not regarding it as suspicious. Is that what you mean?” Hazel asked.

  “This is a follow-up story,” Maureen said, and pointed to a p
icture with a few paragraphs. It was an interview with Mrs. Nimmo, and the photograph must have been taken years ago. An attractive blonde looked out, with a confident smile. “You’d not recognize the old bag from that,” Maureen said. “But read what she says.”

  It was a long complaint, full of resentment and blame. “My Haydn was a good boy. And a real good driver. He’d never have crashed unless some bugger had scared that horse and sent it runnin’. He’d been doin’ a building job, and was on his way ’ome with an empty van. Poor Haydn, he was bullied all his life, just one of life’s victims. It was hell at school for ’im. Used to come home crying his eyes out. Too scared to tell who the bullies were. Then he got in with the wrong gang. They bullied ’im too. Scared stiff of ’em, he was . . . Yes, o’ course I hope the police’ll get that sod what set up that loose horse. Don’t ’old yer breath, though. The likes of us don’t matter much. You learn that, in Sebastopol.”

  Hazel lifted her eyebrows and hugged Lizzie tight. “Doesn’t seem to occur to her that with a name like that he was an easy target?”

  “None so blind as those that won’t see, as Dad used to say,” said Maureen.

  “Oh well, you’ll see, some other poor sod’ll pay for it, whether he’s guilty or not. Tit for tat. That’s the way they work. Now, Miss,” Hazel said, handing Lizzie a mug of orange, “drink this nicely for Mum.”

  When Maureen had taken the toddler away for her sleep, Hazel swept away biscuit crumbs and thought about Mrs. Nimmo. Wasn’t she a mother, just the same as herself and Maureen? She must have loved—what was his name?—Haydn, just as much. Maybe more, since he was bullied at school. But some kids, even with loving parents, went off the rails. It seemed to be there from birth.

  The telephone rang, and Lois spoke briefly. “I’m coming into Tresham this afternoon,” she said, “and I’ll drop in. Not sure what time, but earlyish.” Hazel smiled. She suspected that Lois liked to check up on her. Well, fair enough. She was the boss.