Theft on Thursday (15 page)

Brian forced a laugh. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” he said, noting with relief that the vacuum cleaner had started up again. “And of course you can go up. It’s only Sharon, cleaning upstairs. I’m afraid I was miles away, Sandy. Not all of us move at the speed you do, you know.”

He stood aside, and watched as Sandy ran up the stairs, two at a time. “Morning, Sharon,” he heard, and then, without a doubt, the sound of a panting kiss. Oh God, prayed Brian, please don’t let him seduce the servants! He relaxed, however, and with a small smile went off to his study.

Sharon operated her machine in long sweeps along the landing, and trembled. Passing and repassing his door, she watched as Sandy systematically undid all the tidying she had done in his room. A rush of desire had driven her to lie down on his bed, surrounded by the smell of him. Now she saw him toss aside piles of papers, swearing under his breath.

“Can I help?” she said, pausing for a moment.

“Did you see a folder with a red cover? Picture of a grand house on the front?” He would have to tell Sharon not to tidy up. Good God, he might never find it again! And the client waited outside in his car, on the way to clinch one of the biggest sales Sandy had had so far.

“Yes,” she said in a shaky voice. She could still taste him on her tongue. “Here, look, you just missed it in this pile.” She leaned in front of him and pulled the folder out. He put his arm around her and squeezed. “Good girl,” he whispered, and nuzzled the back of her neck. Then he was off downstairs at the double, and out of the front door before she could breathe again.

Downstairs later for her coffee, Sharon perched on the edge of a kitchen chair and sipped elegantly from the thick china mug. “Nice of you to make coffee,” she said. “But Mrs. M tells us we should do that as part of our duty. A little extra, to make people feel we care, she says.”

“A bright woman, your Mrs. M,” said the vicar. “It was she who found that burning cross in the churchyard, wasn’t it?” He knew it wasn’t, but thought it would get the subject going.

“No, no. It was Cyril, and Mrs. M heard him call out. She was the one to find him, poor old man. He was in a poor way by the time the rest of us got round there. Nearly crying, he was, with the pain of his ankle.
I
think,” she said, warming to her story, “that he was in shock.” People were always in shock in her library books. They said and did things, and had things done to them, whilst they were in shock.

“Did he say anything about the cross? Had he seen anybody who might have left it there?”

Sharon shook her head. “Not that I heard,” she said. “But I reckon I know who did it,” she added confidingly, lowering her voice.

Brian raised his eyebrows. “You do?” he said.

“Yep.” Sharon leaned back in her chair with an oracular nod. “There’s a nasty lot started comin’ round here,” she said. “They get in the pub sometimes. I was in there havin’ a drink with your Sandy. He knew one or two of them.” She watched the vicar carefully, waiting for his reaction.

“Oh, yes? Who are they?”

Sharon shrugged. “I don’t know anything much more about them,” she said.

Brian’s heart sank. He wondered if these were the socially acceptable friends Sandy had talked about. Surely not! He had heard about racism and associated violence in Tresham. But that had been thugs. Neo-fascism, Nazism, any ism that caught the fancy of ignorant bigots. He sighed. “Well, we must keep our ears to the ground, Sharon,” he said gently. “These things are best nipped in the bud. If you hear or see anything that bothers you, please don’t hesitate to come to me.”

She smiled happily. It had been a good morning so far. Kissed by Sandy, encouraged by the vicar. Even so, she thought, if she heard anything more, she wouldn’t tell the vicar. No, it would need to be someone tough. Like Mrs. M. Yes, she’d tell Mrs. M if there was anything really bad to tell. Just like she’d said.

G
RAN HAD PUT A BLUE AND WHITE CHECKED CLOTH
over the kitchen table, deciding that the scarred and stained top—especially the clear outline of a red-hot iron left by Josie in her teens—would not do. It wasn’t every day that Jamie brought a girlfriend home for tea. In fact she couldn’t remember a single time. He’d had loads of girlfriends, of course. First the pairing-off that goes with gangs at school. Then the dating, and fallings-out and jealousies and hopeless yearnings. All part of growing up. Gran smiled. Some things didn’t change all that much. She remembered her own romance with Lois’s dad. Alf Weedon had been a catch. All the girls lusted after him, but she had kept her distance, reeling him in like a fish on the hook. And then Lois, treating Derek with casual carelessness, but planning her campaign like a seasoned politician. Poor old Derek! He never knew what hit him when he first saw Lois in Woolworths in her mini-skirt and eyelashes!

Now it was Jamie. Her lovely boy, the baby of the family. But of course he wasn’t a baby any more. He was a
young man, tall, dark and handsome, gentle in his manners, but tough when he set his heart on something. Like the piano! Goodness, that had been a battle, with Derek scathing about his son poncing about on the piano keys. Jamie had taken no notice, and now here he was, on the verge of a career in music. Had he set his heart on Annabelle? That might be even more of a battle.

Gran filled the kettle, put milk in a seldom used jug, and looked happily at the table set with the best china, and in the centre a perfect Dundee cake, covered in almonds and baked to perfection.

The back door opened, and Cyril’s dog rushed in, followed by Derek. “Brr! Brass monkeys out there, Gran!” he said. He handed her a bag of shopping from the village shop. “They hadn’t got no lump sugar,” he said. “No call for it, they said. So I reckon Annabelle will have to spoon it out like the rest of us.” He smiled as he said it, not wishing to hurt Gran’s feelings. She had gone to a lot of trouble to make a nice tea for Jamie and his girl, and though he knew Lois would tease her, he was touched.

“Here, what’s this?” said Gran, delving into the shopping bag. She pulled out a packet of doggy choc drops.

“Ah, yes, I got those,” Derek said defiantly. “Look, Betsy! Look what Derek’s got for you.” The little dog sat on its hind legs and begged. Gran and Derek both laughed delightedly.

“So she’s staying, is she, Derek?” said Lois acidly, coming in and catching them red-handed. “No need for me to go to the dogs’ home?”

Derek’s reply was drowned by the roar of Jamie’s motorbike appearing in the yard, with Annabelle clinging close behind.

“Lucky for you,” repeated Derek, giving Lois a peck on the cheek. “Can’t let Annabelle see me beating up the wife. Mmmm!” he added, sniffing behind her ear. “Your new scent? Blimey, perhaps I’d better put me best suit on.” But
he made do with swilling his hands under the tap and drying them on the tea cloth. He turned to his smiling son as he came through the door, with Annabelle behind him. “Come on in, then,” he said. “Too cold to hang about in the yard!” And he walked forward and planted a firm kiss on Annabelle’s cheek. She beamed, took hold of Jamie’s hand and walked confidently into the warm kitchen.

W
HEN THE SALMON AND CUCUMBER SANDWICHES
, homemade shortbread and Dundee cake had been demolished, Gran relaxed. Everything seemed to have gone very well, apart from Annabelle refusing milk in her tea. Gran had sniffed the milk, but it was fresh. Now, she reckoned her spread had been much appreciated. There was still an hour to go before the young ones needed to leave for the cinema, and Lois suggested they might move to the sitting room.

“Good idea,” said Derek, getting up smartly. “We can get the results on the telly.”

This was not what Lois had in mind. She planned to steer the conversation somehow round to the fiery cross and see what emerged. If, as Cowgill said, Annabelle knew something about it, Lois was sure she could get it out of her. She was very straightforward, and although she had the confident air of a girl whose grandmother was Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, she happily gossiped at the table about village goings-on with apparent enjoyment. Derek turned on the television and settled back in his chair. Lois had forbidden her mother to do any clearing or washing up, and she and the rest sat comfortably wanning themselves by the leaping fire.

“How cosy!” whispered Annabelle, as she snuggled up to Jamie on the sofa.

The local magazine programme unrolled inconsequentially in front of them. School football matches, fundraising
bazaars, an old man of one hundred years clutching his telegram from the Queen.

Suddenly Annabelle gasped. The screen was showing an unsteady piece of film, obviously the work of an amateur running hard in half-darkness, following a fleeing group of young men, who were shouting and laughing and raising their fists. “Max!” she said involuntarily, and Jamie stared at her.

“Someone you know?” he said.

“No, no, just a mistake,” she replied quickly.

The scene had changed now to a reporter standing in the same street, but in daylight, a group of children gaping behind him. “This is not the first incident of its kind here in the multi-ethnic area of Tresham,” he was saying. “Broken windows, stones thrown, excrement dumped through letterboxes. These are daily occurrences for people like Mrs. Merrilees.” The camera focused on a grim-looking, middle-aged black woman.

“That’s enough of that,” said Derek firmly, and switched channels. Talk turned desultorily on sports results and the chances of the Meades ever winning the lottery.

Jamie looked at his watch. “Better go,” he said to Annabelle. “You OK?” he added, seeing her pale face in the firelight.

“ ‘Course I am,” she said, and with genuine enthusiasm thanked Gran and Lois for a lovely time. “Wish we could stay here in the warm,” she said with a shiver, “instead of tramping around the streets of Tresham.”

Lois looked at her closely, missing nothing.

“Come on!” said Jamie heartily, pulling her to her feet. “Exercise will do you good. Cheero, Mum, see you later.”

After they had gone, Lois and Gran washed up together. They were quiet, until Gran suddenly said, “Who’s Max?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” said Lois.

“R
EBECCA
,
CAN YOU SPARE A MOMENT?
” T
HE HEAD
teacher at Waltonby school appeared at Rebecca’s classroom door.

The children stared. When Mrs. Thorpe came unexpectedly into the classroom, it usually meant trouble for someone. But she was smiling, so it couldn’t be that. They waited. Rebecca beckoned her in, told the class to get on with their reading books, and began a conversation. Eyes were turned down to books, darting up occasionally to check what was going on. Several children—the usual rebels—began to relax. Then Rebecca, her face flushed, turned to the class and spoke.

“Mrs. Thorpe would like a few words with you, children. Pay attention, now.”

All eyes obediently turned to Mrs. Thorpe, who began pleasantly. “I have had a call from a Mr. Mackerras, who works for an estate agent’s in Tresham. He has launched a competition—painting or drawing—for children in our area, and the winner gets a giant construction set to build
his own model village! Sandy—he would like you to call him Sandy—wants to come and talk to you about it—well, to all the children in the school, but class by class, as there are various age categories—and tell you what you have to do. What do you think, children?”

“Yeah!” They reacted with one voice, and the rebels punched the air with small fists.

Mrs. Thorpe turned back to Rebecca. “Well, that seems pretty conclusive!” she said. “Such a nice young man. It will be a pleasure to meet him. Goodness knows what the agents are getting out of it … It’s not pure philanthropy, I’m sure. Estate agents have such a bad name! But anyway, it’s harmless enough. Right!” she added, “I’ll leave you to get on.”

B
Y THE TIME
R
EBECCA HAD CALMED DOWN THE CHILDREN
, finished a day’s teaching, called in at Farnden shop and noted that Sharon Miller was monosyllabic in serving her, she arrived home exhausted. All through the day Sandy Mackerras’s competition had reared its head in the school. At lunchtime, the school secretary had enthused, and in the playground the children gossiped like old women. The news spread after school amongst the mothers and fathers waiting for their excited children. Rebecca was glad to be home in her quiet cottage, collapsed on the sofa and mindlessly watching television. However, it was too banal and irritating and she switched off. Why was Sandy doing it? Surely not just to have an excuse to see her for longer than the usual choir practice? No, that was ridiculous, although …