‘Lovely – but not tomorrow. I’m going to be … Tell you what, Jane, a few people are coming round for drinks tomorrow evening. LBD. We shan’t be able to have a natter, not a proper one, but it would be lovely to see you. Six-thirty to eight – Ken’s a wonder with a cocktail shaker, and before you ask, he’s so good with non-alcoholic ones you can hardly tell the difference. Yes?’
‘Thank you very much. That’d be lovely!’ I hoped I sounded enthusiastic. I told myself sternly it would be educational, if nothing else.
‘Now tell me, how’s Little Orchard Close getting on without me?’ she asked.
I told her about continuing our tradition of nightly strolls.
‘Walkies with Enid and Dolly? How lovely. Any goings-on to report? Come on, Jane, it’s not gossip, just keeping me abreast of things … Number 4! Well, I never. Now what was Marie saying about them? Or was it Tess?’
I willed her to remember. In vain.
‘But don’t you worry – I’ll find out all about it before drinkies.’
I didn’t doubt her for a minute.
Inspired by my success, I resolved to phone Brian. Was I disappointed or relieved to find his number engaged?
Or pleased and disconcerted when he rang me straight back?
‘As I said on the phone, I had to drop something off round the corner, and wanted to know if it was all right for me to pop in and update you about Cassandra Preston.’ He drank the red wine I offered with every sign of pleasure. ‘This is very good – though I now understand the jury’s now out about whether it’s actually good for one.’ He chirruped to Geoffrey, who wagged his tail politely but stayed firmly by my legs.
‘I can’t imagine a prison visit would do much for your health,’ I said dryly.
‘Neither can I. But in the event, the visit was cancelled – at Cassandra’s behest. Not for the first time I could have wrung her neck. I’m so very sorry, Jane – you truly don’t deserve to have this hanging over your head, however unlikely it is that Cassandra will achieve what she wants. Anyway, I wanted to tell you about the problems at number 4. I’m sure rumours are swirling round already. Indeed, I have to say the police overreacted. If I hadn’t been there I suspect they’d have bludgeoned their way in. Two vans of officers, Jane, when one local plod would have done the job in the old days. The woman who lives in the house is pretty well away with the fairies. She has a carer – an illegal, I suspect – who is paranoid about people seeing her. And between the two of them they decided to leave a dead fox they found at the bottom of their garden for nature to dispose of. Hence the flies. If I’d lived at 3 or 5, Jane, I’d have been furious. In fact, they’ve been very patient, which is why I wanted your advice. Would it be in order for me to give both households a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates to thank them for their forbearance? Or even both?’ he added hopefully.
‘A nice gesture is always a good idea. And the longer the nuisance the bigger the sorry-present. As for what it is, it depends on the age and gender of their neighbours, I’d have thought.’ I ought to have taken him up on his use of ‘illegal’ as a noun, not just an adjective. Whoever the carer was, she was a human being, and a frightened one too, by the sound of it. I was so angry with myself that even to my own ears my next questions sounded accusatory. ‘Have the police taken any action, by the way? Or brought in Environmental Health or the Borders Agency?’
Unsurprisingly he looked taken aback.
‘To deal with the fox, and to check the carer’s status. That’s all,’ I said lightly. ‘It sounds as if Social Services should be on to the old lady’s case too.’
‘You’re right,’ he said seriously. He grimaced. ‘I’m beginning to see the advantages of using a letting agency, after all. I don’t want to be put in the position of having to give notice to someone who clearly has problems’ – Not personally, I interjected silently – ‘but if she can’t manage – and the place was in a pretty poor state, to be honest – what can I do? You know, you were right to ask about consulting other agencies. That way I’d be legally in the clear, if not entirely comfortable if I did have to end her tenancy. And I certainly don’t want to do it the way a lot of my fellow landlords are going about it, by simply raising the rent to quite disproportionate levels.’ Suddenly he looked at his watch. ‘Have you eaten yet? I think the Cricketers’ kitchen is still open till nine-thirty.’
I pointed at Geoffrey, now firmly asleep on my feet. ‘I’m banned till he’s gone home.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’ He sounded quite eager.
‘I’ve already got an invitation, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘Drinks with Joy and her husband, at their new apartment. I’m afraid it might be a bit golf-y for me,’ I added honestly. Probably mistakenly. I still wanted this man at arm’s length.
‘They’re still guests of Tony Carpenter? I shall be interested to hear what you make of him, Jane.’
‘Assuming he’s there, of course.’
‘I can’t imagine he won’t be.’ He got heavily to his feet. ‘He’s a man who enjoys power. Before you say I do – and you do too, or you wouldn’t be in the job you are – in my humble opinion he enjoys it too much.’
Disconcerted by his insights, I rose too, upsetting Geoffrey, who yelped plaintively as I said, very seriously, ‘You’re saying he’s dangerous, aren’t you? In that case, Brian, I’ll heed your warning. I’ll be very careful.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was Geoffrey’s last long walk round the village before I had to return him to Maggie Davies. He smiled at various other dogs, apart from a couple, which for some reason raised his ire and his hackles, but, tail going on maximum swipe, he was on his best behaviour as we headed towards the yellow-waistcoated villagers constituting today’s neighbourhood Speed Watch team. Until he recognised Enid, without Dolly, as it happens, and set off ahead of me, yapping enthusiastically.
A white van heads straight for him. No. Not him. Not me. Enid and her friends. It must be doing fifty. I’m screaming. Everyone’s screaming.
But the van stops.
The passenger leaps out, not to see if anyone’s hurt – one person’s fallen backwards – but to grab the speed gun.
Now everything’s in slow motion. He takes the camera too and places it under the front wheel. Speed gun – back wheel. Just as it seems he’s getting back in the van he comes at the group again. He’s after the clipboard and the log sheet. The old man clutching it tussles as long as he can. Geoffrey and I are upon the attacker. But the board is wheeling in an arc over the hedge and the assailant is already being driven away.
I get most of the number. Most, not all. Dictate it to my phone. Then start to help. Geoffrey’s as hysterical as the humans, quivering with fear. Enid’s on her feet but in tears: I put Geoffrey into her arms so they can cuddle each other better.
The clipboard guy’s determined to retrieve the board: ‘It’s got the emergency number and code on it,’ he snaps when I tell him I’ll get it when I’ve attended to the man still on the ground.
I get it. I dial. An immediate response is promised. And en route, armed with the partial number, they’ll look out for the van.
‘Any idea of the make or model?’ comes the cool question.
‘They all look the same’ wouldn’t be the right answer. The words come from somewhere. ‘I think it’s a VW. And I think we might need an ambulance. There’s a man in his sixties who may have been knocked down, and he can’t get up.’
I get a string of first-aid tips to pass on to Enid and clipboard man.
So far, so calm, cool and collected. But then my memory melts. What did the men look like? Either of them? They might have been wearing hoods for all my head can visualise their faces.
I anchor Geoffrey very firmly to a convenient fence post and see what I can do for the second man, one I now place as Adam, the village cricket team scorer, a retired pharmacist, who probably knows exactly what we should be doing. As much to stop him drifting into unconsciousness as anything, I ask him, mu
ch to Enid’s obvious horror. But it appeals to his grim humour, and blow me if he doesn’t start cracking fielding position jokes about short square leg. He concedes, as he dithers either with shock or as a natural consequence of lying on frosty ground, that he could do with an extra cover. But when he tries to groan at his own bad pun, it turns into an altogether more worrying sound.
‘My hip, I shouldn’t wonder. But never mind, I’ve been on the waiting list for a replacement long enough and this should bump me up to the top. Bastards,’ he concludes, less stoically. ‘I’ll never forget that driver’s eyes as long as I live. Blue as ice.’
So they were. And his companion’s a rather paler, rather more intimidating shade.
Is it legal for witnesses to refresh each other’s memories? Probably not. But it’s one way of passing the time while you wait for the blues and twos.
And then, after all the interviews and statements, it was, as Adam would probably have said, down to earth with a bump. Geoffrey had to go back home to Maggie Davies; I had to meet Elaine for lunch and acquire an LBD and still have enough time to come home and titivate before the drinkies. Fashionably late would probably have to enter the equation somewhere. Elaine wasn’t unhappy with putting lunch back half an hour, and was quick to recommend a dress shop within five minutes’ walk of the Ashford pub where she suggested we eat.
Late and apologising profusely, she took three texts before she even registered my presence. Then she peered at me, as if seeing me for the first time. ‘Lost a contact lens? Or are you starting a cold?’ She backed sharply away.
‘Neither. I had to take a dog I’ve been looking after back to his owner, and he just bounded over to her and let me leave without a backward look,’ I sobbed.
‘A dog! You’re like this because of a dog! I don’t believe it! Oh, sod the bloody thing,’ she added, switching off her phone and stowing it in her bag.
‘Neither do I, to be honest. Hell, I’m embarrassing myself, let alone you,’ I added as she gathered a wodge of paper napkins and thrust them at me. ‘Thank you. There. Or it might be something far more respectable – delayed shock.’ I made the white van incident as violent as I could, earning a lot of sympathetic tutting. It was time to make an effort: ‘How’s things with you, apart from frantic?’
‘I take it you mean how’s things with Izzie and in Wrayford generally?’
‘I actually meant how are you and Robin? And your amazing diet?’
‘Oh. Sorry. We’re fine. Yes, Robin’s being dead spartan and his cholesterol’s improving, but he’s beginning to feel very depressed like I was when I had to go fat-free with my gall bladder. So he’s considering statins. We shall see. He sends his love, but someone gave him a ticket for Twickenham. So that’s us. Izzie’s fine too, which makes a full house, I suppose. But she’s fairly fizzing with fury. Hey, that’s alliteration, isn’t it? I don’t think it’s any longer directed at you, though, but at us for taking our time examining what I also happen to think is a crime scene – so well done you. Chips! You’re having chips! Mind you, you’re so thin I sometimes wonder if you’re anorexic. You’re not, are you?’
‘Just busy. And I was barred from the Cricketers, all because of Geoffrey.’
‘That dog.’
‘Diane doesn’t permit dogs in public spaces, and ninety-nine point nine per cent of the time I absolutely agree with her. I’d chain up children outside too,’ I added, with partial truth. ‘Actually, when Joy lived with me and made sure I took lunch and ate in the evenings – not to mention pouring booze down my far from unwilling throat – I put on a kilo or so. So yes to chips, and probably to dessert too. Sorry.’
She pulled a superior face: ‘Nothing tastes as good as thin, didn’t someone say?’
‘Tell you what – if I order chips and you order salad, we could share both, couldn’t we? Excellent.’ I nipped off to place our order. ‘So poor Izzie can’t move in yet?’ I prompted her as I sat down again.
She put her elbows on the table, shoving her fingers through her hair. ‘Human blood. Hair. Some credible signs of a struggle. But no victim. No signs of a victim. And weird, considering the vicarage is actually part of your village, no witnesses at all, except for you and your suspicious eyes.’
‘You can add a suspicious nose to that too. There’s a funny smell in Wray Episcopi woods, but neither our PCSO Ian Cooper nor I could see any cause for it except a decidedly deceased bunny.’
‘Ian? What’s he got to do with the price of coal?’
More explanations.
‘That’s going a bit above and beyond for a PCSO,’ she observed.
‘Well, I think he fancies Donna and turned himself into a knight in shining armour. Anyway, when we picked up the smell he hoped he’d be able to get hold of a dog handler. The terrain was simply too rough for Geoffrey.’
‘Oh God – don’t start again!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘So Ian was going to get on to A & E to see if anyone had noted a whopping great egg on the back of the poor woman’s head. The implication is that she didn’t just trip, but that measures were taken by someone unknown to stop her going any deeper into the woods. And this is after this guy Rufus Petrie got in a strop with his daughter – and with you and Eoin Connor – for being in the same woods. Oh, and that kid of yours heard screams. I’m still on to that.’
Possibly.
‘Hm. I’ll just text Ian before the food arrives.’
Unsurprisingly – Elaine was the sort of woman to whose messages one would tend to respond to immediately – one pinged back immediately. ‘Ah! Yes, a large lump was noted, but no, nothing at all showed up when she had a scan. And no, no one thought to mention it to her or ask where she’d got it because an M20 RTA with multiple victims happened to be arriving and broken bodies need faster attention than just bumped ones. So there we are. Oh, there’s more: he thought he might go and have another talk with Donna to see if she remembers anything else.’
‘I told you – real Round Table material. Meanwhile, how did you get on at the car wash?’
‘Damn! I knew I had to do something. I dare say you know all about this, Jane – sixteen-hour days take it out of you, and when you’re menopausal there’s not always a lot to top it up with. Even with HRT. Car’s still dirty, though. Do you think they’ll be working on a Saturday?’
‘I’m sure they’ll be slaving away,’ I said dryly, before clamping my hand over my accidentally punning mouth. ‘Sorry!’
‘Sounds like our police black humour,’ she said. ‘Bloody hell, that’s some portion of salad!’
‘And all those chips …’
We divided them up.
‘Do you know anything,’ I began, wondering if I was being disloyal, ‘about a raid in Little Orchard Close yesterday? Number 4,’ I added, when she seemed to hesitate.
‘That’s not on my radar,’ she said firmly. Her face hardened. ‘Are you telling me some idiot went in—you are. Shit!’ She checked her phone. ‘Some eager beaver’s only gone crashing in on an area I wanted maximum tact. Softly, bloody softly, for God’s sake! Only while they might nail a terrified carer, I’m … I’m not allowed to tell you exactly what I want,’ she said in a rush, with an apologetic grin. ‘Hey,’ she continued with an ultra-bright smile, ‘what excellent salsa this is!’
I pointed to her burger, which she’d ordered without a bun, though it still came with all the usual toppings. ‘You are usually after the Big Cheese,’ I said, enjoying her wince, ‘aren’t you? And I have a horrible feeling that that involves one of the residents of the close.’
‘How’s your social life these days?’ she asked, with an audible crash of gears. ‘Still seeing that pompous git?’
‘The pompous git who happens to own number 4? Actually, I never have seen him, except in the most literal sense, as well you know. Anyway, tonight my social life is going to blossom: I’ve been invited for drinkies at Joy and Ken Penkridge’s. After this I’ve got to find a suitable dress.’
‘Your height, your weig
ht, it should be a doddle. I’ll come with you, just to motivate myself. Meanwhile, a big question – who are you going with? Not Brian?’
‘He’s afraid he’ll run into someone he doesn’t get on with. Actually, he’s warned me off him. Tony Carpenter. He owns the apartment Joy’s moved into while Paula and Caffy rescue both our houses.’
‘Does he indeed. You know what, I really think you need an escort – someone who’d look good in a suit – it’s not actually black tie, is it? Go on, phone Joy and find out.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Despite Elaine’s insistence that I needed looking after, I managed to shake off her suggestions for possible escorts, who varied from her rookie constable to Ian Cooper. Joy was a friend, after all, and wouldn’t wish to expose me to any harm. She greeted me with a warm hug, repeated, in a purely social way, by Ken, who thanked me effusively for looking after her while he couldn’t. There was something very public about this paean: was it meant to act as an explanation for my presence as an outsider in what seemed a very tight-knit group? However much I might object to the notion that Joy (and by extension other women?) needed to be looked after by a man, I simply smiled and turned the conversation to his health and that of his home. When he criticised Caffy and Paula, I said, ‘When you know them as well as I do, you’ll realise how skilled and professional they are. After all, they saved both our houses.’
Emboldened perhaps by my effort, or perhaps by her second drink, Joy added, ‘They pretty well saved my life, darling.’ She rather spoilt it by adding, ‘I dare say I’d have stupidly gone dashing in to try to rescue things, only to have the whole lot crashing on my head. And you were pretty firm, too, Jane.’
‘And you made my house a home, Joy.’ I squeezed her hand in thanks. It was icy cold, despite the room’s overpowering heat.
Head Wound Page 12
