Cross My Heart and Hope to Die (4 page)

The business had evidently expanded over the years and now occupied much of the ground floor of the house. The original private front door remained, together with two downstairs windows and all the upper windows, but the shop itself had a modern commercial facade. On one side of the building was an iron gate leading to a garden, and on the other big double gates stood open to reveal an ageing Vauxhall estate car in a yard surrounded by outbuildings.

Hilary had discovered on her previous visit that the post office was situated at the back of the shop, where a room in the original house had been opened up to accommodate it. Customers stepping through the doorway found themselves in a small waiting area in front of the post office counter. On the wall hung a rack of official leaflets, and below it was a writing table. A pen was provided for the use of customers, but it was prudently attached to the table leg with string and sellotape.

The counter was fronted by a screen that stretched across the width of the room. The centre of the screen, the service area, was constructed of security glass, with an access door at one side. The remainder of the screen was made of hardboard and displayed official posters, but its chief function seemed to be to provide some privacy for the postmistress, Miss Thacker.

Her domain immediately behind the counter was business-like, with a large safe, and scales and filing cabinets and reference books and folders stuffed with forms. But evidently the room also served as a private office because the far end, glimpsed through the glass screen, appeared pleasant and comfortable. Bookcases lined the walls, and on a table in the window – barred for security, but with a sunny outlook over the garden – stood a word processor.

Miss Thacker, working at the keyboard, looked up irritably as Hilary approached the counter. Then, recognizing her visitor, she donned a smile as she came forward. ‘Ah, Sergeant Lloyd again! What can I do for you?'

She was a stocky woman of medium height, forty-ish, round-faced, with a high complexion, dark bobbed hair, and watchful brown eyes under a fringe flecked with grey. There was no trace of an accent in her voice, though she was unmistakably a younger version of the elderly Suffolk woman who was serving in the shop.

‘Sorry to bother you again, Miss Thacker –'

‘Janet, everybody calls me Janet. Any news of the Crackjaws?'

‘Afraid not. I'm still hunting for information, and I'd appreciate your help.'

‘Surely. Only I can see customers heading this way – we usually get a bit of a rush about this time, so you'll have to bear with me. Look, why don't you come and wait round the back while I get rid of them?'

She unlocked the door in the screen and beckoned Hilary through into her private office. ‘I wouldn't normally do this,' she said, ‘I have to be very security-conscious. But I reckon the post office money should be safe enough with a CID sergeant!'

The area beyond the counter was even more comfortable than Hilary had realized, a private sitting-room with a carpet, a radio-cassette player and an armchair with a resident cat. An electric kettle and the makings for tea and coffee stood on a corner table.

With a detective's insatiable curiosity – and shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that Janet Thacker's back was turned – Hilary looked round the room. From the books that were piled on the table beside the word processor it appeared that the postmistress was interested in local history and topography; possibly writing a book of her own. From her briskness with her customers it was apparent that she was only too anxious to get back to it.

If kindly, gossipy, old-fashioned village postmistresses still existed, Janet Thacker was not one of them. Hilary watched and listened as she disposed of a small surge of customers, most of them pensioners. True, she addressed them by name and either enquired after their health or commented on the weather, but she rationed the conversation to the exact time it took her to pay out their pensions.

Janet Thacker worked to a programme: accept the proffered pension book, and check that the week's docket had been signed; date-stamp both docket and counterfoil with two firm thumps; tear out the docket; take the money it represented from the cash dispenser, and count it out in front of the customer; push book and money under the security screen, add the docket to others on a bulldog clip, thank you and goodbye.

Not all her customers were so easy to deal with. Not all transactions were so straightforward. Hilary heard her being helpful to someone in a muddle, sarcastic to a smartalec, and giving short shrift to a man who came in to have a row with the nearest available representative of Authority. Hilary knew that she herself would chafe in such a job, and she was amused by the placard that Janet Thacker displayed on her private side of the screen.

ALL VISITORS BRING JOY TO THIS OFFICE.
SOME WHEN THEY ENTER,
OTHERS WHEN THEY LEAVE.

‘I love your placard,' she said when the last customer had been served. ‘I must make a copy for our Station Sergeant.'

‘Oh well, it helps to keep me going,' said Janet Thacker with a slightly embarrassed grin. She swivelled her stool away from the counter and revealed that she was dressed entirely for comfort, with a touch of the eccentric: jogging trousers, old tennis shoes, and a fisherman's slop, its pockets jangling with keys.

‘It must be very frustrating to be stuck behind a counter all day,' said Hilary.

‘It is. But then again, it's a lot more congenial than the Civil Service job I used to do in London. Besides, I shan't be stuck here for the rest of my working life, thank God; I'm lucky enough to have prospects.' She reverted to official briskness: ‘You said you need some information –?'

‘About old Mr Crackjaw, when he came for his pension last Thursday. Did you notice anything different about him, Janet? Was he wearing better clothes than usual, or was he better shaved?'

The postmistress looked blank. ‘Good lord, I don't know … I didn't take any notice of the man, I never do. He just grunts when I say “Good morning”, and again when I hand over the money, so I don't waste my breath on him. I couldn't swear to it, but I don't
think
he was any different.'

‘What we're wondering', explained Hilary, ‘is whether one of the Crackjaw children might have collected their parents, and stopped here for the old chap to draw their money first. But of course you can't see any comings and goings from here, can you?'

‘No – but Mum probably saw him as he came through the shop. Let's ask her.'

Mrs Betty Thacker was undoubtedly her daughter's mother. She was a stout white-haired woman in her sixties, with Janet's brown eyes and round cheeks and high complexion. She wore an overall and bustled about uncomfortably on swollen feet that looked as though they were killing her. The relationship between mother and daughter seemed slightly fraught, an old-established compound of affection and exasperation.

She greeted the detective warily, with a note of belligerence in her Suffolk voice. No, she hadn't noticed whether Ziggy Crackjaw came on his bike last Thursday, she had too much to do to stand gawping out of the window at people. No, she hadn't taken any notice of him as he came through the shop, he never bought anything so she always ignored him. Come to think of it, though, she didn't b'lieve she'd seen him last Thursday at all –

‘You must have been out in the warehouse, then,' said Janet. ‘He was here at the usual time.'

Mrs Thacker sniffed. ‘I'm sure I don't know what his usual time is. I didn't see him, that's all I can tell you. But if I
had
seen him, I wouldn't ha'noticed him.'

She stumped off to serve a customer, and Janet walked with Hilary to the shop door. ‘Sorry we can't help,' she said.

‘What about the Crackjaw children? I'm in contact with Andrew and Sonya, but I can't locate any of the others.'

Janet Thacker's voice took on an irritable edge. ‘It's no use asking me, I haven't the faintest idea where any of them live.'

Hilary persisted: ‘I wondered whether you might perhaps have noticed letters going from the old couple to one or other of the family.'

‘How could I? We don't handle the mail at this post office, it's all done from Breckham Market now.' She made an effort to control her irritation. ‘Look, the Crackjaws have always been outsiders. I'm sorry, I'd help if I could, but I really know nothing about them at all.'

So far, Sergeant Lloyd's most useful informant in Byland had been Maureen Norris, wife of the newsagent at the top shop, who had alerted the police to Ziggy Crackjaw's non-appearance. Maureen's own acquaintance with the Crackjaws was confined to Ziggy. But she was able to point Hilary in the direction of Miss Edna Griggs, an old lady who had for many years been headmistress of the village school and would no doubt remember the Crackjaw family.

Whether Miss Griggs could be expected to have any notion of their present whereabouts was another matter. But Hilary's Press appeal for information about the old couple had met with no immediate response, and so she went to see Miss Griggs the following morning.

The old lady lived in a 1930s pebble-dashed suburban house at the far end of the village. Her front garden consisted of cement paths and a few disciplined shrubs.

Miss Griggs, nearing eighty and neatly cardiganed, was small and thin with grizzled hair. There was very little of her, but what there was seemed reinforced with wire. She held herself stiffly upright, and though one of her eyes watered weakly her voice was stern. But she seemed not displeased to have a visitor, and invited Hilary into a formal dining-room, chilly with disuse but meticulously dust-free.

They sat on either side of the table and she listened to what Hilary had to say. She agreed that she had taught the Crackjaw children, though she couldn't resist correcting her visitor's pronunciation.

‘Kreck-chuck,' she instructed. ‘The name is Polish. There was a Polish army unit at Byland during the war, billeted in the Hall. Afterwards, Krzecszczuk found work at Longmire Farm, and married a rather simple local girl.'

She paused, her thin blue-tinged lips soundlessly rehearsing her next remark. Then she said, ‘I should be sorry if you were to imagine that Krzecszczuk is in any way typical of his countrymen, though. The Poles shared our social evenings in the village, early in the war, and most of them were charmingly well-mannered. And wonderfully brave –'

For a moment, Miss Griggs had softened. Unexpectedly, Hilary caught a glimpse of a young woman who, it seemed, forty-odd years before, had found Polish soldiers gallant in both war and love.

‘But Mr Krzecszczuk wasn't like that?' she prompted.

Miss Griggs snapped back to the present.

‘No, he was always uncouth, a heavy drinker. I haven't seen him for many years, but I've no reason to think he has changed. He used to visit the White Horse regularly, even though he had eight children to support. And when he was drunk he could be violent.'

‘Against people, or property?'

Miss Griggs hesitated, as though anxious to be strictly fair. ‘My own knowledge is limited, of course. But he did burst into the classroom on one occasion and threaten me because he'd had a visit from the school attendance officer. He smashed a chair and tore up some books. But the caretaker had seen him coming and sent for the village policeman, so he was arrested before he did too much damage. It was a very unpleasant episode.'

Hilary murmured sympathetically. Then ‘Tell me, Miss Griggs, how did he treat his own family?'

Another careful pause; Miss Griggs mopped her eye with her handkerchief and struggled with her conscience.

‘The children sometimes came to school with visible injuries,' she said eventually, ‘though of course I can't say how they got them. But in those days, you know, when children misbehaved, it was expected that their parents would punish them. And the young Krzecszczuks were very wild, I often had to punish them myself.'

‘Did you see much of Mrs Krzecszczuk at that time?' asked Hilary.

Miss Griggs didn't hesitate. ‘Very rarely. She'd made a foolish marriage and she kept out of sight of the rest of the village. There was gossip about the number of children she had, but I've always made a point of ignoring gossip.'

She rose to her feet, but not dismissively. ‘Would you care for a cup of coffee, Sergeant? I usually have one at about this time.'

There was a great deal more that the old lady could say if she would, Hilary was sure of it. She accepted the offer of coffee, waited patiently while it was made and brought in, and then enquired whether Miss Griggs had any information about where the Krzecszczuk children were now living.

‘None at all.' She took a slow drink of coffee, holding her cup in both veined hands, and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘But I can tell you of someone in the village who does know all about the Krzecszczuks. She and her parents used to live next door to them at Longmire End.'

‘At the farm?'

‘No, in the other half of the double-dweller.' Miss Griggs dabbed her eye again. ‘They live now at the shop in the middle of the village. Her widowed mother, Betty, looks after the shop, and Janet is the sub-postmistress.'

Hilary paused in mid-sip. Then, ‘Oh, yes, Janet Thacker,' she said casually. ‘I had to call at the post office, so I've met her already. I imagine it's some time since they lived in Longmire End, though?'

‘Ten years, possibly … But they lived next to the Krzecszczuks for twenty years, at least. Janet grew up there, with the Krzecszczuk children. She left home for London, but then about ten years ago Mrs Thacker senior had heart trouble –'

‘Mrs Thacker senior?'

‘Betty's mother-in-law, the owner of the shop. She must be in her nineties now. When she was taken ill, Betty moved in to look after her, and Janet came back to Byland to join them. Our previous sub-postmaster was about to retire, so Janet applied for the job and transferred the post office from his house to the shop. Though I really can't imagine', Miss Griggs added severely, ‘why she should want to return to Byland.'