Tragedy at Two (22 page)

THE NEXT DAY DAWNED SLOWLY. BY EIGHT O’CLOCK IT WAS barely light, with heavy grey skies and rain sheeting across Lois’s garden, blown almost horizontally by a strong gale-force wind.

“And I’m supposed to be fixing an array of security lights outside that new mansion. Y’ know, that monstrosity that’s gone up where Boreham’s old farmhouse used to be,” Derek said, standing by the window.

“Not in this downpour!” Lois said. “Elec and water don’t mix. I won’t have you brought home shrivelled and scorched,” she said. “I smell breakfast,” she added. “Let’s see what it’s like when we’ve eaten Gran’s special.”

She was halfway down the stairs when the telephone rang.

“Hello? Is that Mrs. Meade?” For a moment, Lois could not place the voice. “It’s Mark Brown here.”

There was a silence, and Lois waited for him to say more. In the end, she said, “What can I do for you, Mark?”

He coughed, and then in a hoarse whisper said, “Can you spare me a few minutes this morning? Got something to tell you. Could be important.”

Lois looked at the clock. “Come at half nine,” she said. “I’ve got a client to see, but not until eleven. See you then.” She hoped it
was
important, and not just another rant about the evils of his father.

“Lois! Breakfast is getting cold on the table!” shouted Gran.

 

 

MARK RANG THE DOORBELL PUNCTUALLY AT HALF PAST NINE. Gran was there to let him in, and said, “Hello, boy, come on in.” She had no idea what he wanted with Lois, but, from a motherly point of view, saw in front of her a young and vulnerable lad.

“Hi, Mark,” Lois said. She came out of her office, and added to Gran, “No coffee at the moment, thanks, Mum, We’ve only just had breakfast.” She waved Mark into her office and shut the door firmly. Gran shrugged huffily and went back to the kitchen.

“Sit down, Mark,” Lois said. She had decided to let him know straight away that she was well aware of his record of lies and drugs, and added, “Now, you know I have to take everything you say with a pinch of salt, so don’t waste my time. Tell me the truth, whatever it is you’ve got to say.”

“Wow!” he replied. “Here I am, come up here to help, and you give me the bum’s rush before I get started! Okay, okay, I swear on the Bible—”

“That’s enough of that,” Lois snapped. “Just get on with it.” Mark had rather liked the idea of telling his story to Mrs. Meade. He could spin it out and show he was one up on her, at least.

“Well, I was going to the police,” he said, “but they ain’t likely to listen to me, so—”

“So I am the next best thing,” said Lois. “For God’s sake, what is it you come for?”

Mark stood up, offended. This wasn’t what he had expected at all. “Perhaps I’d better be going, then,” he said, trying a new tack.

Lois slapped her desk with the flat of her hand. “Off you go, then!” she said, and began to shuffle her papers.

Mark sat down again. “It was yesterday,” he said. “I biked up to the hall to see Sally. She’d said her aunt would be out, and we could listen to music in her room.”

“Listen to music? That’s a new one.”

“Well, we’d been up there a while, and we had the curtains drawn. Then I heard a noise outside in the yard. It was that horse, making a row enough to wake the dead. I went to the window, and saw these two men. One was sort of keeping watch, and the other was inside a stable, filling up a rucksack sort of bag with all sorts of stuff. Apparently Mrs. T-J keeps all kinds of rubbish that should’ve been taken to the dump ages ago.”

He paused, and said he knew his mother was like that. Never threw anything away. He smiled at Lois, but she did not smile back. “Get on with it,” she said.

He sniffed, and continued. “I tried to wake Sally, but couldn’t, an’ I was just wondering what to do when the look-out suddenly shot off round the back of the stables, and the other one followed. Then, to my horror, I saw a car pull up in the yard, and I recognised it.” He paused dramatically, but met with stony silence from Lois.

“It was Auntie, of course,” he said, sighing. “She got out, and to my surprise, she immediately legged it out of the yard after the men. She must’ve seen them as she drove in. Then along came the Hound of the Baskervilles—”

“Who?” said Lois angrily. How much of this was true? He seemed to be making it up as he went along.

“Her bloody great dog,” Mark said. “You know, Sherlock Holmes—”

“I know, thanks,” Lois interrupted. “So then?”

“I saw my chance to get away, and took it,” he said.

“Leaving Sally to face the music?”

“Nobody else knew I’d been there,” Mark said defensively.

“Did you recognise either of them?”

“Well, I did think I’d seen them before. I’d need to have a better look, really. But I was in Tresham on market day last week, and saw a stall run by a couple of dids. They were rubbish. They weren’t in the marketplace proper, but just round the corner, by the Crown. It was mostly junk on the stall, but they’d got a queue waiting.”

“Just the once, then?”

Mark paused, weighing up whether to tell Lois the rest, or keep it to himself. It might incriminate him in the fire investigation. He decided to tell. “I reckon I might’ve seen them on the night of the fire on the gypsy site. Saw the back of two similar, yanking their dog along towards that spinney. They disappeared fast, and I never thought any more about it. But these two at the market had a similar sort of bull terrier chained to the leg of the stall.”

Lois leaned forward towards him, and he saw he had caught her attention now, good and proper. Oh God, he thought. I’ve said too much now. He got up quickly and made for the door. “I should’ve kept it to myself,” he muttered.

“No, you did the right thing,” Lois said. “Could be really helpful. And Mark,” she added, as she saw him out of the house, “just be careful with Sally. She’s reckoned to be a right handful.”

“Spoilt brat?” he said, and ran down the drive.

 

 

COWGILL ARRIVED IN HIS OFFICE AND ALMOST IMMEDIATELY THE telephone began to ring. He picked it up, frowned, and held it a good six inches from his ear.

“Morning, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones,” he said. “Could you just hold on a moment. Can’t hear you very well.” Another blast issued from the phone, quite audible to his assistant, who had followed him in.

Cowgill sat down, made signs of drinking and desperation, and his assistant nodded. “Coffee,” she said, and disappeared.

After listening for a few minutes, he nodded. “Of course, madam,” he said. “We shall be investigating this immediately, you can be sure of that. Yes, I shall keep you informed on progress. Right away. Good morning, madam.”

He sighed deeply, looked at his watch, and dialled. “Hello,” said Lois impatiently. “Oh, it’s you. What d’you want? I’ve wasted enough time this morning.”

“Sorry about that, Lois. You might be interested in what I’ve just heard.” He began to tell her the substance of Mrs. Tollervey-Jones’s call, but she interrupted him.

“I know all about that,” she said. “Tell me something new. Like who killed Rob.”

His voice changed, and he said sharply, “You know very well we have just about every man in the station working on that. This theft might even mean something. Do you know any more than I do about the men?”

She told him what Mark had said he knew of them, including recognising them from the gypsy site.

“So what we need to know,” she said, “is where they are holed up now. Must be somewhere around here. Shouldn’t be beyond the best detective in the county to find out.”

“I only wish I thought you were serious, Lois,” he said.

“I am serious,” she replied.

ATHALIA LEE SAT ON THE STEPS OF HER TRAILER, SOAKING up the sun. She looked across the scrubby patch of ground at the old railway track that had run beside the main channel of the river. It had been built in an attempt to popu larise the village and the surrounding countryside as a tourist attraction, but the muddy banks and treacherous marshland had not appealed to day trippers. The railway had fallen victim in the nineteen-sixties to Dr. Beeching, then Chairman of British Rail, who closed down thousands of miles of track in a misguided plan to improve railway efficiency. It had deteriorated sadly over the years, but lately had become the Loare Pathway, equipped with bird-watching hides and warnings about the danger of deep mud, which could entrap the unwary.

She watched idly as an inoffensive-l ooking man walked slowly past the Black Duck Inn and five minutes later returned. He had walked up and down four times. Athalia had counted, and knew for certain he was a plainclothes cop, checking up on them. He looked across at the gypsies, and then disappeared into the pub. Well, he could check all he liked. He would find nothing wrong.

Then she saw George coming back from the small field where they were allowed to graze their horses, leading his small black and white mare. The field was poor land, not useful for anything much, and gypsies had been using it for generations. Like most of the others, George had no need of a horse. Gypsies had become motorised, but horses were in their blood. Appleby horse fair proved that, and he and the others would soon be moving on there.

“Where’s Jal?” George frowned, and Athalia saw that he was upset.

“What’s happened?” she said.

“I got to see Jal. Have you seen him?”

“Yeah—he’s over there, splittin’ wood. Is something up?”

George did not answer, but went quickly over to Jal. Athalia saw them talking, heads close together, and then Jal put down his axe and followed George back the way he had come.

Athalia stood up and smoothed down her skirt. She walked at a steady pace, taking the same path as the two men, but keeping her distance from them. It was not easy going through the tough, reedy grass and tussocks of moss and lichen, and several times she stumbled. But she was lucky. Neither of them looked back, seemingly intent on finding whatever it was as quickly as possible.

Finally the men slowed down and came to a halt at the edge of the channel. The tide was out, and banks of glistening mud lined each side. Birds were feeding, and a rat scampered away from the carcase of a dead swan. Athalia came up quietly, and looking down from the bank, saw that the swan was not the only dead thing caught in the mud. At first she thought it must be a badger that had fallen into the water and drowned. Then she saw the body was smooth and shiny, and obviously bloated. Her gorge rose. She retched, and the men swung round and saw her.

“Athalia! Get out of here. Now! Get back and say nothing! Not a bloody word!”

George walked towards her and, putting his hand on her shoulder, turned her around and gave her a gentle push. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

 

 

“I’M A ROMANI RYE, I’M AN OLD DIDIKYE,” ATHALIA SANG SOFTLY, as twilight deepened over the estuary of the Loare. Cars were rolling up now, parking in the small yard, and men and wives, some with small children, made their way into the pub. There was a strong smell of frying, and Athalia wrinkled her nose. Ugh! Burgers and chips, no doubt. She disapproved, and had occupied her time since being sent packing by George by preparing and cooking a meat pudding. The old way took time. She made the pastry dough and rolled it out, then tossed the diced beef in flour and piled it on to the pastry. An Oxo cube and a little water, and then the whole lot tied up in a floured cloth and suspended in boiling water, where it simmered for at least two or three hours. She went to her trailer door and looked out. “I live in a trailer beneath the blue sky,” she sang, “I don’t pay any rent, I’d rather live in a tent, that’s why they call me a romani rye.” She chuckled to herself. Songs learned in childhood came back word perfect. One of the consolations of old age, she said to herself. Then she noticed a shadow emerging from George’s trailer. It was him, and he was heading towards her. Now perhaps he‘ll explain, Athalia muttered, and withdrew inside.

“Mmm! That smells good,” he said, sniffin g hungrily.

“Not ready for a long time yet. Then you shall eat your fill .”

George nodded his thanks and sat down. He lived alone now, his wife having run off with a television camera man who came to make a film with a party of university students. He hated the idea of being on show, and had refused to take part, but Bonnie had loved it. Two days after the filming, she vanished. He had received one post card from outside Buckingham Palace, and her message had been brief. “Dear George. The man I’m with is rich. He treats me well. Goodbye. Bonnie.”

Now he sat without speaking, staring into space.

“So tell me what it were all about this morning,” Athalia said.

“Nothing much,” George said.

“Don’t give me that,” she said. “I wasn’t born yesterday.” She laughed. “Nor the day before, neither!”

“It was just an old dog. Must’ve stumbled and ended up in the river. Been there some time from the look of it.”