Theft on Thursday (24 page)

There’d been no sign of any of that lot tonight, of course. Cowgill did not expect it. But this time, if it
was
Cockshutt and his cronies, they had gone too far.

Cowgill had no doubt in his mind. This was murder.

M
ARION MACKERRAS STOOD AT HER WINDOW
,
STAR-
ing out at the quiet, surburban road. Everything was familiar. The garden, neat and tidied for the winter, with the trees that Gerald had planted. The sundial, with its small cherub telling sun time. She remembered when they bought it, she and Gerald. She had been pregnant with Sandy …

She turned away from the window, consumed with grief. It was a terrible pain, doubling her up and increasing, instead of fading away. She moaned and ran from the room. Where could she go? Into the kitchen? The bedroom? Sandy’s old room, with all the tangible memories of his boyhood? There was nowhere to escape from the unacceptable truth. Sandy was dead. Her only son, only child, was dead. The second death.

Brian’s telephone call had come early. She had not recognized his voice, and had to ask several times who it was, ringing her before breakfast. He had finally mastered a sudden stutter, and said the awful words. God, oh God,
they were such awful words! If she had not answered the phone, or slammed it down when she knew who it was, she would have had a little more time. But sooner or later … She wrenched open the back door and screamed loudly in a desperate effort to erase the picture from her mind’s eye. Sandy caught in the flames, his clothes on fire, his lovely hair and strong limbs … Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus Christ help me!

Her screams floated out over the garden and into next door, where her neighbour was hanging out washing. A face appeared over the fence. “Marion? What on earth’s the matter?”

T
HEY PACKED
M
ARION
’
S BAG
. T
HERE WAS NO QUESTION
of Marion driving, and her neighbour insisted on taking her to the station. “Just give me a ring when you’re coming back, and I’ll meet you,” she said. She leaned over and kissed Marion’s cheek. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she added anxiously.

Marion nodded. She felt completely numb now, but reassured her neighbour that she would be able to do what was necessary for the journey to Long Farnden. Brian had said he would be there to pick her up. He was the last person she wanted to see, but there was no one else. Brian Rollinson … and two deaths, first her husband and now … Oh, Sandy … She shivered. She could stay in a hotel in Tresham, she supposed. But the thought of an anonymous hotel room, with its television and Jerusalem Bible, was worse than contact with Brian Rollinson. After all, he could have been the last person to talk to Sandy.

“Are you all right, missus?” An old man with a battered suitcase sat opposite her in the train.

With a huge effort, she said, “Yes, thank you. Thanks.” After half an hour or so, she closed her eyes and tried to doze. But the pictures behind her eyelids began again. This
time she was looking down into Sandy’s coffin, seeing his friendly face, his reddish curls. But as she watched they blackened and shrivelled, and she opened her eyes with a gasp.

“Here, you’re not well,” said the old man. Marion shook her head, but could not control her tears, which were now spurting in a rush.

There were only two of them at the grimy table, and other passengers dotted around the carriage were busy with their newspapers and mobile phones. The old man silently handed her a spotless white handkerchief. She took it and mopped at her face, but the tears would not stop.

“P’raps you’d better try and tell me what’s up,” the old man said quietly. “But not if you don’t want. Nobody’s goin’ to mind you havin’ a cry.”

Marion began to speak, but choked. She tried again, and this time said, “There’s been an accident. A fire …”

“Somebody hurt?”

No answer, but a nod of the head.

“Close to you?”

Again the nod.

“Yer Mum?”

“My son.” Marion clamped her lips together in a vain effort to stop the tears.

“Dear God,” said the old man. He reached out and took her wet hand. “Don’t say no more, dear. You just sit there, an’ I’ll talk. You’ll not be interested, but that don’t matter. I’ll tell you about my old lady, her what’s in a home in Tresham. That where you’re goin’? Yep, well, it all come about like this …”

When the train drew into Tresham station, the old man was still holding Marion’s hand, and he looked at her sadly. He would have to wake her now. Still, at least that bit of the journey had been got through. But she still had a long way to go, in a manner of speaking.

She opened her eyes, and looked puzzled. Then, with a
pain in the pit of her stomach, she remembered where she was, and looked out of the window. Brian Rollinson stood on the platform, and she hardly recognized him. His face was a mask, grey and hollow-cheeked. He raised his hand, and moved away to the carriage door.

“Is he meetin’ you?” The old man had struggled to his feet, clasping his suitcase. “Right then,” he continued, “I’ll be off now. Goodbye, me duck. Chin up.” And he moved surprisingly swiftly to the door and disappeared.

“Where’s he gone?” said Marion urgently to Brian, who took her case.

“Who?”

“The old man! I must thank … Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. He was so kind.” She looked at Brian, forcing herself to meet his eyes. Then she put out her hand and touched his arm. “It couldn’t be bloody worse, could it,” she said.

H
ALFWAY TO
L
ONG
F
ARNDEN
, M
ARION SAID SUD-
denly into the silence between them, “Where are we going to stay? Isn’t your house …?”

“Completely ruined,” said Brian. He seemed glad of a chance to speak about something practical. “But there’s a very nice woman—runs a cleaning business in the village—has offered to put me up until I find somewhere to rent. She’s got spare beds now her children have left home.”

“What about me?”

“Room for you, too. It’s a nice old family house, used to belong to a doctor.”

“What’s her name, this cleaning woman?”

“Um, she’s a bit more than that, Marion. A business woman, really. Lois Meade, she’s called. One of her staff cleans—er, used to clean—the vicarage. Sandy took the girl out once or twice.” There, he had said his name. It had just come out naturally, and Brian was glad. Perhaps now it would not be so difficult.

Marion was silent. She felt unreal, as if all this was happening
to somebody else, somebody she was inhabiting by mistake. She heard herself say, “Sandy taking out a char? Doesn’t sound like him.” And then wondered how she could say something so awful.

Brian sprang to Sharon’s defence. “I don’t think he saw her as a char,” he said. “Just a pretty girl, and fun to be with. She works in the shop sometimes, too. Her father has a garage in the village. Very respectable folk.”

The initial warmth between them was chilling rapidly. Well, thought Brian, it was more natural. It wouldn’t be long before Marion got around to blaming him. Perhaps rightly? He had not slept at all, although Lois and Derek had been so kind when he had knocked at their door. It had been late, but their welcome was warm. Gran had appeared, too, and in no time he was shown to a pleasant bedroom and told that he could sleep as long as he liked next morning. All night long he had gone over and over his actions before he went to the pub. Had he left an unguarded fire? No. Sandy had accused him of neglecting it, of nearly letting it out. The fireguard was definitely put back. The kitchen, then? Had the cooker been on, with something boiling dry? He could not remember. He wondered if he would ever remember.

Now this morning his thoughts were still confused. He was uncomfortably aware that he had drunk more than intended. His head ached, and beside him in the car Marion was silent again. When they drew up outside Lois’s house, she peered through the window and then curled up in her seat like a child. “I can’t go through with it.” Her voice was muffled by her hands. “I can’t do it, Brian. I want to go home.”

He leaned across and gently took both her hands. “Marion, my dear,” he said. “We have to go through this together, somehow. You have every reason to hate me. I took your husband away, and now I have failed to look after your son. But I loved them both. We have that in common.
It is all we have. Useless to ask you to trust me, but I will do my best to make it as easy as possible for you. The Meades and Gran Weedon are good souls.”

She stared at him, her eyes full once more. “All right, then,” she said finally. “Let’s go.”

L
OIS WAS NOT THERE TO MEET THEM
,
BUT
G
RAN HAD A
gift for making people comfortable, and Marion and Brian found themselves settled in armchairs in the warm sitting room, with cups of coffee and the door shut tactfully as Gran retired to the kitchen.

Marion spoke first. “There’ll be arrangements to make.” She could not bring herself to say “the funeral.”

“The main things, date and time and so on, are taken care of,” Brian said. The cup rattled as he put it down into the saucer.

Marion noticed. Good, she thought. He’s very shaky. Suffering, no doubt, all over again. Well, that’s justice.

“I was sure you’d have details you wanted to discuss, about the service—readings, hymns, that sort of thing.” Brian was terrified. He was usually so good at this bit, consoling the bereaved with his confident expertise. Now he was on tenterhooks, waiting for Marion to burst out at him, accusing him of … well, of the worst thing she could think of. He ploughed on, suggesting suitable music, and perhaps a reading or two she might approve. “The girl I was telling you about, Sharon Miller, plays the church organ, and I’ll ask her to pop in so we can discuss it.”

Suddenly Marion stood up. “We’re not planning a bloody party!” she hissed. “So just shut up! You’ve ruined my life twice now, and I don’t ever, ever want to talk to you again! Sandy will be buried in our town, next to his father, and I’ll find another parson to take the service. You can stay away. As far away as possible. I never want to see you again. Ever!”

She rushed blindly out of the room, looked wildly about her in the hall, and ran down the passage towards the kitchen.

“Ah, there you are, dear,” said Gran, wiping her wet hands on a towel. “Now, sit down in this old chair—move the cat—and we can have a bit of a chat. That’s it, put the cushion behind your back. Now, I’ll just get this in the oven and we can relax.”

L
OIS HAD RECEIVED A TELEPHONE CALL FROM
C
OWGILL
early on. She’d reluctantly agreed to meet him in Alibone Woods, but said there was nothing to tell him. This was not strictly true, as she knew he would be interested in the party in the Hall stables. He’d want to know about Annabelle, too, and what she was doing back in Farnden when her grandmother was away. She wondered whether to tell him the vicar was living temporarily with them. It would sharpen his interest, without a doubt. There’d be questions he’d want her to ask. She could not deny that a tiny part of her charitable offer had been self-interest. With Brian Rollinson in her own house, much was bound to emerge in casual conversation. There would be no need for formal questions.

At breakfast, after the vicar had gone to the station, she had asked Gran casually if she knew anybody in Tresham called Cockshutt. Her reaction had been instant. “Do I!” she said. “If it’s the Cockshutts who used to live down by the river, then there’s quite a lot I could tell you.”

“Could be them,” Lois had said, and listened to a succinctly told tale of generations of Cockshutts following in the family tradition of sailing close to the wind in numberless nefarious practices. “So Darren is no exception,” she’d said. Gran didn’t know exactly which one he was, but there were rumours of a Cockshutt who’d made good, unlikely
as it seemed. “Well, made money, maybe,” Lois had muttered, “though not much good.”

All of this she could relay to Cowgill, who probably knew most of it anyway. Cockshutts had doubtless been known to the Tresham police for years.