Lois Meade 01: Murder on Monday (EN, 2002) (12 page)

Melvyn’s mother wondered sometimes how Melvyn managed his money so well. All the boys had an allowance, of course, graded according to age. His father paid them all each week, handing out money over the table on Fridays as regular as clockwork. Occasionally his mother tried to discuss Melvyn’s allowance with his father, anxious that he should measure up well against the other lads. Melvyn never complained and never asked to borrow a quid or two until next week. His father said he’d bloody well better
not
ask. He wasn’t made of money.

∗

It was crowded in the shopping centre, and although Melvyn and Charlie had made an arrangement to meet outside John Lewis, there was no sign of Charlie when Melvyn arrived. He stood for a while, watching the shoppers, the weary mothers and whining children, their pushchairs piled high with shopping in bright festive bags. Watching the mothers made him think of his own, his real mother. Well, she’d never had to cope with a pushchair, had she? He wondered if she’d bought a pushchair, then decided against keeping him and had handed him over complete with vehicle? One careful owner. He often tried to imagine how she must have felt when he was born. Young, alone and frightened? Had she wept when she gave him away? He hoped so.

“Wotcha mate!” It was Charlie, unrepentant for his tardiness and smiling broadly as usual. “Ready for it?”

Melvyn nodded. “Usual routine?” he said and Charlie laughed.

“Works every time, dunnit?”

They had their system worked out to a degree of fine timing that would not have disgraced a professional team. First, saunter through the crowded streets, idly glancing into shop windows. Chat to each other, smiling. A well-behaved pair of lads – they even attracted the occasional approving glance from a passing grannie. Second, split up with a good-humoured farewell. Then, with Charlie walking behind, but still near enough to see Melvyn, they would go into operation mode. Melvyn selected their victim, always one of the young mothers. “They got their brains addled, see. Easy meat,” he said to Charlie. It was certainly easy enough to drop a coin just behind the chosen woman, tap her on the arm and say he’d just seen her drop it out of her purse. He’d stand and watch as she fumbled in her bag, opening her purse and allowing him to see whether it was going to be worth it when the time came. A few minutes interval, then he would motion Charlie forward, in advance of the woman and her load. Charlie would suddenly turn around, bump into the pushchair with exaggerated apologies and give Melvyn every chance to help himself to the purse and walk away – but not too quickly, so as not to arouse suspicion. Both would then vanish by a prearranged route and not meet up again until school the next day for the share-out. It was foolproof, provided you took care, said Melvyn, and Charlie, admiring his friend’s coolness, agreed. He got his half of the proceeds, and told no one.

No trouble, thought Melvyn, as he sized up the woman in front. Well-dressed, kids in expensive gear and the pushchair the latest from Italy. Shoulder bag swinging free, with an open top. My God, they asked for it! He felt in his pocket for a twenty pence coin.

It wasn’t much of a haul, but as Melvyn cycled home, head down against the icy wind, he felt the usual pleasure at having got one up on the enemy.

W
hen Lois arrived at the vicarage on Thursday morning, Peter White was just going out, though he said briefly that he would be back later. He had still not returned by the time she was ready to go, so she left him an acid little note. She would see him next week, she wrote, when perhaps he would have two weeks’ money ready for her.

Then on Friday, when she had hoped Mrs Baer might be in a confiding mood and come up with something interesting, Evangeline had been busy all morning with customers, and had hardly spoken to her. Lois reflected that everyone in Long Farnden seemed to be in a bad mood with not a shred of Christmas spirit in sight. It’s not as if they’d all been close friends of Gloria Hathaway, Lois thought to herself. Her death had been sad, of course, but they were all behaving as if they’d lost a close relative.

“It’s because they’re all possible murderers,” Derek had said with relish. She had told him that on Monday the Rixes had more or less ignored her and been unusually snappy with one another. “Bet they’ve all got guilty consciences one way or another. After all, think about it, Lois. Dr Rix hears all the village secrets in his surgery, so he could be an evil blackmailer. Then that Barratt bloke thinks he’s God’s gift to women, so maybe he made a pass and she rejected him, and he was so mad he killed her? Same blackmailing opportunity for the vicar, and that Dallas Baer is a slippery one, you said. Maybe she owed him money, and he got fed up waiting?”

“You’re talking about Gloria Hathaway, remember!” said Lois incredulously, wondering how Derek could invent such a ridiculous scenario. “You forgot Nurse Surfleet,” she said acidly. “What has the great brain dreamed up for her?”

Derek thought for a moment. “Nosy neighbour,” he said. “Old Gloria found out something in the nurse’s past and threatened to talk. So, off goes the nurse with the surgical gloves on, straight for the windpipe.” He disappeared back into the house, laughing at Lois’s face, but deciding that he had gone quite far enough.

∗

Now it was Tuesday, Lois’s day for the Barratts. As she drove over to Farnden, trying to ignore the rattle that seemed to come from directly under her feet, she reviewed the clues she had written in her black notebook and now knew by heart. She had discovered that if she read through her notes before going to bed, some new interpretation of things occurred to her when she woke up. Oddly assorted bits of information that had seemed unconnected formed a possible link. Scattered remarks, often in different houses on different days, considered together, pointed to some possible evidence. Trouble is, Lois considered, I never have time to think things through properly. There’s always Derek, Josie and the boys and endless tidying up in Farnden houses. Still, she reminded herself, it’s my job that gives me the chance to find out more than most, including the police, so I shouldn’t grumble. I just need to concentrate, and not let my mind wander off to Josie and Melvyn, and why Derek hasn’t got that dirty mark off the sleeve of his jacket. Better take it to the cleaners, she decided, and then laughed aloud at her next thought, Better not, might be destroying evidence!

Ridiculous or not, the thought came in useful, and as soon as she had hung up her coat and collected her cleaning things, she had a good look in the hall cupboard where the Barratts hung their coats. There it was, the professor’s Barbour jacket, and it had quite clearly been cleaned. The ticket was still stuck to the lining with a safety pin, and an unmistakable smell of cleaner’s fluid hung about it. So. He hadn’t wasted much time, or maybe Rachel had taken it for him. Why so quickly after the police had announced their intention of revisiting all Farnden people who had any connection with that horrible evening’s events? But then again, why not? He liked to look the part. Perhaps he needed to wear it to a lunch with county friends, or for going away for a weekend’s hunting and shooting. Lois smiled to herself. Derek did a bit of shooting over the fields outside Tresham, but it was a different thing entirely.

Lois walked into an empty sitting room and called “Cooee!” loudly. She had seen nobody since she arrived, and thought she’d better check for any extra instructions before making a start. No answer. She called again, and still there was silence. Funny, not like them to go out and leave the door open. It was so quiet in the house that she felt a shiver of apprehension. Should she look upstairs? Malcolm might be up in his eyrie, or whatever he called it, and not hear her. Halfway up, she heard a sound and stopped dead. It sounded like someone choking, and she called again, “Mrs Barratt! Are you there?” A muffled sound now, coming from the main bedroom. Lois forgot caution and rushed up, opened the door and marched in. An unlovely sight confronted her. Rachel Barratt was sitting up in bed, a rumpled nightdress clutched round her, her hair tousled and her face blotched and swollen. She was gulping and choking, and tears streamed down her already soaked cheeks.

“Whatever is the matter?” said Lois sharply. She had no time for self-pity, and something told her that this was what she was confronted with. Rachel shook her head violently, indicating that her despair was beyond words. “Oh, come on, Mrs Barratt, it can’t be as bad as all that!” Lois was hearty, reassuring. “Better be getting up,” she added. “Else I shan’t be able to do this room.” Again the shake of the head, and Lois gingerly sat down on the bed beside the weeping woman. “Come on now,” she said, softening her tone with difficulty. “Anything I can do to help?”

After a few minutes of silence, the gulps and sobs subsided and Rachel scrabbled under her pillow for a handkerchief, which she used to dab at her puffy eyes. “Gone,” she said finally, and having managed the word, sat completely still, staring at Lois from blank eyes.

“Who’s gone?” said Lois, though she knew. It must be Malcolm. Only Rachel’s beloved spouse could have caused this depth of misery. Though everyone in the village knew that Prof Barratt was a vain and lecherous nuisance where women were concerned, they also knew that his wife either knew nothing about it, or had decided to pretend it wasn’t happening. Not that Lois had ever heard anything serious about the Prof. It was all flirtation in the pub, groping at parties in dark corners, the car parked in field gateways on summer evenings. Nothing regular, no recognised mistress. It was nothing more than a silly middle-aged man unwilling to acknowledge the passing years.

“Who’s gone?” repeated Lois, and this time Rachel focussed her eyes on Lois’s enquiring face.

“Malcolm, of course,” she said, and then added in a stronger voice, “The bugger’s gone. Cleared out. Vamoosed.”

“You mean he’s gone away?”

“For good, he said. And I told him good riddance, and then when I was sorry, it was too late. He’d thrown some things in a suitcase and driven off like a crazy man down the road. He even forgot to put his lights on…”

“Lucky there was nobody about,” said Lois, and then, inconsequentially. “And he forgot to take his Barbour.”

Rachel said, as if there was nothing odd about Lois’s question, “Well, he wouldn’t want that, would he?”

Lois got up. “I’ll make a drink,” she said. “Then you can tell me more about it.” A sharp look from Rachel Barratt, now rapidly improving, brought her back to the status quo, the exact nature of the relationship between them. Master and servant, thought Lois. Still, worth pursuing Rachel while she was vulnerable. She might have something useful to say.

By the time she returned with mugs of strong coffee, Rachel was out of bed and sitting on a stool in her dressing gown, gazing at her ravaged face in the mirror. “God, I look terrible,” she said, taking the coffee gratefully. “Look, Lois,” she said, “do you mind listening for a few minutes? I can’t tell the girls – they’re not here anyway – and I’ve got to talk to somebody.”

And I’m all there is, said Lois to herself. “Yes, of course,” she reassured Rachel. “Carry on. I can stay an extra half an hour today if necessary.”

The thought of paying Lois extra money for her sympathetic ear galvanised Rachel into action. She began to tell a tale of arguments and quarrelling, a big row about nothing at all, and then Malcolm storming out, shouting at the top of his voice. “He could have woken all the neighbours,” said Rachel, as if, on reflection, this was the worst thing about the whole sordid business.

“But what exactly set off the row?” said Lois. Maybe if Rachel could tell her that, it might lead to something important. Any happening out of the ordinary routine of Farnden life was worth consideration. Maybe it wasn’t just an erring husband. There was something about the way Rachel kept stopping mid-sentence, giving Lois sideways looks. She was covering up, Lois was sure of that. But what?

Rachel’s next remarks, meant to be semi-humorous but not fooling Lois, took her by surprise. “He wanted us to go away for a holiday, straight away, and for several weeks. To Russia, of all God-awful places! I said I couldn’t, wouldn’t and didn’t want to go. And what about the girls? Things would have to be arranged, and why couldn’t we go somewhere nice and warm? Not bloody Russia in the winter!”

So was Malcolm running away? And if so, from what? “What did he say next?” prompted Lois keenly.

“He said if I wouldn’t go, he’d go with someone else, and that was it. Holdall from the cupboard, all his clean underpants and socks, and several shirts…toilet things…and he was gone before I could think again. I don’t think he wanted me to change my mind, Lois. It was like he had it all planned.”

This dramatic outpouring threatened to set her off again, so Lois quickly took the mugs, stood up and suggested a warm shower. “Then you can get dressed and come down. I’ll clear up the kitchen, and by then you’ll have decided what to do. Mind you,” she added firmly, “I know what I’d do.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Lois. “He’ll be back before you know it. Men always are.” Rachel looked doubtful, but disappeared into the shower obediently, leaving a trail of sodden tissues as she went.

∗

Lois’s house was also silent, but with a warm, welcoming silence, pleasantly scented with the smell of freesias. Derek had brought them home from some job he was doing at a big house in Round Ringford. “Loads of ‘em in the greenhouse,” he had said. “And this kid – daughter of the house, I think – picked these and insisted I took them. Funny kid…”

“But didn’t her mum or somebody say anything?” Lois had asked.

“Nope. Well, the mother’s one them snotty-faced women who don’t give nothing away. But she could hardly make a scene about a few flowers. You could see the kid was goin’ to catch it, though, once I was out of the way.” Derek had chuckled at the memory. “You take ‘em and enjoy ‘em, Lois,” he’d said. “They could spare a few flowers for the deserving poor.”

Now Lois topped up the vase with water, breathed in the wonderful scent, and finally settled down at the kitchen table with her notebook. She had a good two hours before the rest of the family arrived and demanded her services, so she began by reading through once again what she had written.
Stained jackets
–
vicar, Barratt, (Derek!), Dr Rix
. Well, there was something odd straight away. All the stains were in roughly the same place, and presumably made by something that cleaned out easily, as the Prof’s now showed no trace of the mark.
Possibly off the underside of car? Check again on Thursday at the vicarage
. That would account for the similarity. But is it likely that all would have trouble with their cars in the same way? No, not really.
Empty nursery – Rixes’ house
. Lois couldn’t remember why she’d noted that, except that she found it creepy every time she passed the door. She wasn’t allowed to clean it, and the one time she’d offered to vacuum through there, Mary Rix had made such a fuss that Lois had never mentioned it again. She knew it was still furnished as a baby’s room. She’d seen Mrs Rix in there one day with the door open, holding a doll and staring out of the window, not hearing Lois approach. Lois had never seen such sadness on a woman’s face and her heart turned over. But what had it to do with Gloria’s death? Nothing, on the face of it, but there was something very funny going on there.
Possible trouble between doctor and wife? Old secrets still festering?
Lois smiled.