the back of Miss Hathaway’s cottage, thereby denying Keith the fun of watching her ignominious retreat through Gloria’s front garden to the road.
? Murder on Monday ?
Fifteen
Melvyn Hallhouse cycled home from school on the last day of term and parked his bike in the backyard of the house where he lived with his family. Home to my family, he said to himself. But it’s not a family like young Josie and her lot; Douglas and Jamie looking so like their father that there was no mistaking their relationship. Melvyn didn’t look like his mum or dad, or any of his brothers. They were all fostered, except him and he was adopted. Although there was affection from his mum shared out equally between them, he had never felt a real sense of family as other people knew it. Affection wasn’t quite enough. There was always a fair hearing if you did something wrong or lied to Mum, but he couldn’t remember a time when, like other mothers, she’d stormed off to school to tackle his teacher with arms akimbo, regardless of whether he had been right or wrong. Melvyn had come to the conclusion his family was different just because of his mum’s even-handedness and fairness. It wasn’t natural. His mates at school from an early age had been toughened up with a quick vent of temper from an angry mother. They knew when to dodge. But they also knew that their mothers were, when push came to shove, on their side. Melvyn was far from sure that he would always have his mum solidly behind him – he tried not to think about his dad at all.
He opened the back door and greeted his smiling mother. “Hi,” he said, and gave her a peck on the cheek. If only he’d known how her heart lifted when he did that, how he was her first and her favourite, though of course it was against all the rules to show favouritism. He dumped his school bag, and changed quickly into clothes that transformed him from a schoolboy into the young man he nearly was. “Can I just have a sandwich, Ma?” he said. “Got to get out early to meet Charlie. We’re going up the centre to do a bit of late shopping.”
“Christmas shopping?” said his mother, taking out the loaf and thin slices of turkey that Melvyn liked.
Melvyn nodded. “Make a start, anyway,” he said.
His mother pushed the pile of sandwiches down with the flat of her hand. “Have you got enough money?”
“Yep, enough for now,” Melvyn said, stuffing his mouth full, and turning on the television.
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
¦
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.
? Murder on Monday ?
Sixteen
When 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
