Lois Meade 01: Murder on Monday (EN, 2002) (3 page)

By a process of elimination, they made a list of six villages, and set off for an estate agent. The right house, with most of the requirements fulfilled, turned up in Long Farnden. “Long Farnden it is, then!” said Malcolm delightedly, and with the good luck that had accompanied him throughout life, it proved to be exactly the right house, in the high street of Long Farnden, near the fast-growing town of Tresham, East Midlands.

It had gone more smoothly than Rachel would have thought possible. Malcolm was a new man, fired with the thought of the intoxicating freedom he would experience as a freelance consultant and future author of a succession of authoritative books on his special interest, sexually motivated crimes of murder. Rachel kept this as quiet as possible in the village, wishing in her heart that it had been, say, Contract Law that had inspired Malcolm to great heights.

The first person to call, once the two large removal vans had been emptied and driven away, had been Mrs Mary Rix, wife of the doctor, who walked up the driveway bearing six new-laid eggs and a smile of official welcome. They learned from her that the village was very friendly, full of activity for all tastes, and, of course, known as ‘Farnden’ without the ‘Long’ to ‘villagers and the
cognoscenti
’.

“
Lex loci
,” Malcolm had replied, with a flourish, and Rachel had sighed. She did hope Malcolm was not going to scupper a likely entry into Farnden society by showing off. But all this was now in the past, and the Barratts had settled down into Farnden life, become involved in village affairs, the parish council, and the playing fields committee. They felt they belonged, and would have been hurt if they’d heard themselves still referred to by the long-term inhabitants as “the newcomers in the high street.”

Lois had been a blessing to Rachel. Recommended by Mary Rix, she had fitted in well, adjusting herself to Rachel’s way of running her house, and adept at avoiding Malcolm in dark corners. From Lois’s point of view, the Barratts were no trouble. A newish house, always tidy and neat, and her money always ready in an envelope tucked behind the kitchen radio. She wasn’t sure that they would stay in Farnden, but they seemed settled enough. She knew Mary Rix and Evangeline Baer were both regular visitors, and that even Gloria Hathaway had fluttered her way up to the front door once or twice, passing Lois on her way out. Shame she chose the very days when Rachel Barratt had gone up to London to meet her aged mother for lunch. Still, Lois was sure Prof Male would have been kind to her, solitary soul that she was.

Malcolm had quickly opened up the attics to make himself an airy space more suited to an artist than a law professor. He had a long workroom, lined with bookshelves filled to overflowing, a large desk for his computer and accessories, and a neat corner devoted to his sound system and large collection of Early Music CDs. There were two small rooms off this study – one with a double divan where he could rest his large frame when he had a knotty problem to unravel, and the other a starkly white shower-room and lavatory.

“Self-contained,” he said proudly, when showing friends around. “You could be up to all kinds of mischief up here, and nobody would know.” He’d said that to Lois, and she’d given him her best icy look.

This morning, Lois began as usual by cleaning in the attic study. Malcolm welcomed her in and chatted as she worked, getting in her way and puffing out pipe-smoke which seemed to follow her wherever she went. This Tuesday morning, he was particularly talkative. A weekend bonfire party on the playing fields had got out of hand, and, as Malcolm said, “four or five yobs ran amok.” At first, the crowd had been tolerant and good-humoured and the vicar, the Reverend Peter White (Lois’s Thursdays), had appealed to their better natures. Fruitlessly, as it turned out, since the rioters had then nicked a box of sparklers, lit them all at once, and thrown them, fizzing and spitting, into a group of children.

“Were they hurt?” asked Lois, startled into standing still for a minute.

Malcolm shook his head. “Not seriously,” he said, “but they had burns and were treated for shock. Lucky thing that Janice Britton was there, and caught one of the young sods. Took him off to the police station double quick.”

“Ah,” Lois said, “is that…er…the Janice who is a Special Constable, by any chance?”

“Right as always, Lois,” said Malcolm. “Tough as old boots, she is.”

“Needs to be,” said Lois, and bent down to plug in the Hoover. Glancing sideways, she saw the eminent Professor picking up a paperclip from under his desk, ogling across at her upturned backside at the same time. Sneaky bugger, thought Lois. He doesn’t give up. She switched on the Hoover and roared it as close as she dared to Malcolm’s feet. “Excuse me!” she yelled, and he had no alternative but to get out of her way.

Half an hour later, Rachel appeared at the door of the bedroom where Lois was changing sheets. “Coffee’s ready,” she said. She could never persuade Lois to sit down with her in the kitchen, like her daily had done in Hull. It had been the perfect way of picking up the local gossip. Now she had to follow Lois around the house, receiving the odd snippet of information as and when Lois felt like delivering it.

“Thanks,” said Lois. “I’ll come and get it. Oh, and Mrs Barratt…” Rachel stopped at the head of the stairs, looking back hopefully. “This Janice, who’s a Special Constable…d’you happen to know where she lives?”

“In the council houses,” said Rachel swiftly. “Why, Lois? Surely she doesn’t need a cleaner in that little box of a house?” Lois shook her head, but said nothing more. Let her wonder. Council houses indeed. Lois’s had been a council house, and she and Derek were now proud owners. Lots of people on the Churchill owned their houses and had built extensions and porches and put in modern bathrooms. Little box! Rachel ‘Posh’ Barratt should have seen the house where Lois grew up. Two up, two down, and few mod cons.

The coffee steamed on the big pine table, and Lois was very tempted to sink down on to a cushioned chair for five minutes. But this was against the self-imposed rules of her job. Never think yourself a friend of your employer, as they mostly think differently. Rachel sat at the table, leafing through a women’s magazine and eating home-made biscuits. Poor woman, thought Lois. What a life. She felt momentarily sorry for her, not having a job or a life of her own, always second fiddle to those snotty girls or randy Malcolm upstairs.

“Have you heard?” she said, relenting a little. “Seems Miss Hathaway isn’t well…mind you, she looked all right to me in the shop yesterday. Doctor was on his way, though. Nothing serious, I hope…” She took up her coffee and went quickly back upstairs before Rachel could require more speculation on what this could mean.

E
venings at 18 Byron Way were as peaceful as in any family of five. If Derek was not working late, he had his tea with the rest of the family, and later on, after a wash and change, set off for an hour or so at the Dog and Duck down on the Ringford Road. Lois washed up, made an heroic effort to get the boys and Josie to do their homework, watched television and waited for Derek to come home and give her the news from the pub. The house was quiet by midnight.

This evening the routine was broken by Josie announcing she wanted to go to a disco that night at The Hut, a youth group organised by the local happy-clappy church and patronised by the estate’s teenagers when they had nothing better to do. Its reputation was of a respectable, but boring effort on the part of crusading adults to counter teenage crime on the estate, and so thought by Lois and Derek to be safe enough for Josie.

Now Derek looked up at the clock, and said, “She’s late.”

“Only half an hour,” said Lois. “They’ll be back in a minute.”

Derek shook his head. “She was told to be in by ten. If she can’t do what she’s told, she’s not going no more.” He got up from his chair and reached for his coat. “Better go and look for her,” he said, frowning at Lois, who was sitting at the table biting the end of a pen and poring over police forms.

“She’ll be with the others,” she said. “Safety in numbers.”

Derek shook his head. “There’s no safety anywhere these days,” he said. “I’m goin’ to have a look down the road.”

He was half out of the front door when he heard Lois shout, “Hey! Wait a minute – there’s somebody round the back!”

Derek rushed into the kitchen, and wrenched open the back door, shouting, “Who the hell is that?”

Lois pushed past him and peered out into the darkness. She heard Josie’s giggle. “S’me, Dad – me and Melvyn.”

“Who the bloody hell is Melvyn!” said Derek, pulling his daughter into the kitchen. Whoever Melvyn was, he’d vanished into the darkness, and Josie giggled some more before sliding gently on to the floor. “Well, now,” said Derek, “and what’ve we got here!”

The sickly smell of cheap wine wafted under Lois’s nose as she bent over a smiling but unconscious Josie.

“Don’t be like that, Derek,” she said. “There’s always going to be a first time. Give me a hand, and we’ll get her upstairs to bed.”

“You’re very calm about all this,” puffed Derek accusingly, as they struggled up the narrow stairs. “She’s only bloody fourteen!”

Lois heaved Josie on to her bed, and began to undress her. “Never been fourteen?” she replied, and followed it up with a swift chaser. “And anyway, you’re not much of an example. Remember last Saturday week? Josie woken up by you tryin’ to jump into your pyjamas?”

Derek stumped downstairs muttering, and when Lois finally sat down heavily next to him, he said sternly, “She wasn’t at The Hut, that’s for sure. They’re very strict about no alcohol. She’s only a kid, Lois.” He looked at the papers still strewn over the table. “Are you sure you’re goin’ to have time to see to the kids properly, clean other people’s houses every day,
and
join the cops as well?”

Lois leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. She was quiet for a minute, then said slowly, “Dunno. Worth a try, maybe. Find out more about it. I don’t have to decide right now, do I? By the way,” she added, “better put a bowl by Josie’s bed when we go up.”

∗

Wednesday, and it was Lois’s day at the small redbrick cottage of Long Farnden’s community nurse, Gillian Surfleet. Lacking the outward charm of Miss Hathaway’s thatched teacosy next door, it was nevertheless warm and comfortable, filled with knick-knacks and souvenirs from grateful patients. Lois liked this job best of all, because Nurse Surfleet was seldom there, being out on her rounds in neighbouring villages, and enabling Lois to get on without interruption. When she was at home, Lois was glad to see her, though ten minutes’ conversation with Gillian was like a pep talk from the games teacher at school. Nurse Surfleet was brisk and optimistic, and had no time for what she frequently referred to as ‘the miseries’. Lois wondered how this went down with the clinically depressed, and could imagine herself in such circumstances telling her to sod off. Typical nurse, she supposed. And yet Lois had seen a warm side to her. Once, when there’d been a ding-dong over the fence with Gloria Hathaway, she’d seen Gillian Surfleet in tears. She’d quickly recovered when she remembered Lois was there, but it had been a pathetic sight. Women living on their own, Lois had thought. Nobody to confide in. Although apparently very popular in the village, in the same way as her colleague Dr Rix, Nurse Surfleet seemed to have few real friends, and Lois, breaking her own rules, always sat down for coffee with her if she was not out on her rounds.

∗

Gillian’s neighbour, Gloria Hathaway, was one of the few people who could upset her. Lois had witnessed more than the one sharp conversation over the garden fence, but found Gillian unwilling to talk about it. “Gloria’s a bit difficult, Lois,” she had said shortly. “Can be a misery, but a nice woman at heart. Most people are, you know.” Lois reflected that she’d seen little of Miss Hathaway’s good heart. She was apparently a keen gardener, always bent double with a border fork and a galvanised bucket for the weeds, though the garden had a neglected air. She never looked up as Lois walked down the path, though once or twice Lois had glanced back and caught Miss Hathaway staring unsmiling in her direction.

“Saw your friend, Gloria,” she said now, “cutting down some dead stuff in the garden, and not a hair out of place!”

“You’d never catch Gloria in dirty trousers,” Nurse Surfleet said flatly, and swiftly changed the subject. “Help yourself to biscuits, my dear. I’m off to an old lady at Ringford Lodge. Nasty case of ‘flu, and dangerous at her age. See you next week, perhaps.” She was off at a cracking pace out of the little gate onto the footpath and away down to her car, but Lois noticed that she looked furtively into the garden next door.

Lois had half an hour left and found she’d finished the routine work, so collected up some of the brass knick-knacks, spread old newspapers over the table and began cleaning. She hated this job. The cleaning fluid had a powerful smell that made her feel dizzy. Still, the result was worth it. Shining brass that flickered in the firelight certainly added a cosy feel to the place. Must comfort Gillian Surfleet in her long, lonely evenings. Lois rubbed away at the tarnished metal, reflecting that the woman was probably not lonely at all. Only too glad of a bit of peace and quiet in front of the telly after a day listening to moans and groans.

It was quiet in the cottage. Sometimes Lois put on the radio and listened to music. She never did in the doctor’s house, even when they were out. But here it was all right, so long as she remembered to put it back to Radio Four before she left. This morning, though, she didn’t mind the quiet. Derek had made a scene at breakfast time, determined not to let Josie off lightly, and Lois was glad of the time to think about it. He was right, of course, but she remembered her own youth and knew that coming down on her like a ton of bricks was the surest way to encourage her to do it again.

A loud rattle in the backyard startled her, and she rushed out to see a scrawny ginger cat leaping away over the coal bunker. “Get off!” she yelled after it, and turned to go back in. A movement in the garden next door caught her eye, and she saw the tail end of a figure in a greenish jacket disappearing into Miss Hathaway’s front porch, under a rose-covered trellis that was a picture in summer. The ginger cat saw its opportunity and slipped in after it. Funny, she thought, I could have sworn that was Prof Barratt’s old Barbour jacket…still got that oily stain on the sleeve…ah well, there’s plenty of Barbours about in this village. Like horses, she said to herself. More horses than people in Farnden, and Barbours to go with them, women as well as men…Probably Rachel Barratt borrowed it to go round bothering people. Not enough to do, that woman. Rachel was scared of horses, she’d admitted to Lois, but liked to be thought of as one of the set.