Murder on Monday

restless, she took Josie into town to look at the sales. Most of the shops were open, and they bought several bargains. Then, after a good Sunday dinner, Derek went to sleep in his chair by the fire, and the boys went off to the playing fields. Josie went up to her room and Lois sat opposite Derek, trying to read the newspaper.

¦

I wish it was the same as every other weekend, thought Lois, watching Derek out of the corner of her eye. I wish Gloria Hathaway had never existed. Derek was snoring with his mouth open and looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But he had told her nothing about his talk with the police and had refused to discuss anything to do with Farnden, saying they’d all heard quite enough of that place, thank you very much. Douglas and Jamie had raised a small cheer and Lois had felt squashed and humiliated, as if it was she who had something to explain, to apologise for. Last night, when Derek came back from the pub, he had climbed into bed and turned away from her. When she had tried to talk to him, desperate to know about the job he’d done for Gloria and why he had kept it secret from her, he had breathed deeply, feigning sleep. Today, she just couldn’t pluck up the courage to confront him and ruin another evening.

¦

Now it was Monday morning, and Derek was out of the house early, saying that he wouldn’t be home at midday as he was working over at Fletcham and it was too far to come back. “See you at tea-time,” he called out, and was gone.

“Everybody ready?” Lois’s mother appeared at the door. She was determined to say nothing more to Lois, knowing from experience that her daughter would tell her if anything was wrong in her own good time. No good asking questions. That made her clam up even more.

Good old Mum, thought Lois. She knows there’s something up. I couldn’t tell her, though. I wouldn’t know where to begin.

Lois drove thoughtfully to Farnden and found the Rixes both at home, the doctor in his surgery as usual, and Mary waiting in the kitchen.

“Morning, Lois,” she said. “Ready for the big turn-out?” She smiled at Lois, who thought she’d never seen Mrs Rix looking so cheerful. But what was she talking about? Turn-out? It was hardly spring-cleaning weather yet, surely?

“I’ve collected up lots of boxes and bought a roll of black bin-liners, so we shall have somewhere to put all the clobber.” Mary Rix laughed, delighted with herself for being able to speak like this about the contents of that sad room.

Of course! Lois remembered. They were going to turn out the baby’s room, pack up all the little garments, the toys and books and pictures, give it a good clean, and set it up as Mary’s sewing room. Good! That was something positive to think about and Lois gradually fell in tune with Mary’s mood. The pair worked away with a will, Lois helping Mary over the occasional tearful moment, and by coffee time the boxes and bags were stacked in the hall ready to be taken away.

“Now, you let me take them to the charity shop in Tresham,” said Lois firmly. She remembered only too well her mother’s distress when they took her father’s clothes to Oxfam after he had died. She’d watched helplessly as her mother hugged an old jacket, tears dropping on to the worn tweed. No, it would be far better for her to take away the last vestiges of Mary’s dream. She could say goodbye to it here and make a new start.

“Time for a break,” said Mary Rix, setting off downstairs. “Coffee or tea, Lois?”

Alone in the now almost empty room, Lois looked around. There was only that chest of drawers in the corner. A nice little piece, it would be useful for Mary’s cottons and pins and things. She pulled open the top drawer and found a baby record book. Oh dear, she thought, and put it straight into a black sack. It opened as it hit the bottom, and something fell from between the pages. It looked like a piece of blank paper, and Lois was about to empty the next drawer, when on impulse she reached down to pull it out. It wasn’t blank both sides. It was a photograph, and peering closely she could see a tiny, new-born baby, wrapped in a shawl, fast asleep. But it couldn’t be! Mary said she’d miscarried! Lois heard footsteps coming up the stairs and swiftly slipped the photograph into her overall pocket. She was shaken and couldn’t concentrate on what Mary was saying. Luckily, Mary was so preoccupied with her plans for the room that she didn’t notice Lois’s monosyllabic replies to her endless excited comments.

The morning was quickly over and Mary Rix helped load boxes and bags into Lois’s spacious car boot. “One good thing about this old banger,” said Lois. “Plenty of room, if not much speed.” She had recovered her equilibrium and, making sure everything was safely packed, she turned to say goodbye. The doctor stood in the doorway, looking at the two women. His face was stony, and Lois thought she had never seen anyone look so sad. “Well,” she said, “see you next week, then.”

To her surprise, Mary leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Lois,” she said. “You’ve probably saved my life. Take care, now.” Lois started her car and drove slowly down the drive. She looked into her driving mirror, and saw Mary waving cheerfully. But the doctor had disappeared, and the doorway was empty.

¦

The photograph lay on Lois’s kitchen table and now she had Douglas’s magnifying glass to look more closely. It was very much like any other baby of that age, she thought, and very like the one Cowgill had shown her in Gloria’s cottage. What was it doing here? Now she could swear it was the same shawl and the same dark little head. She needed to check, and realized she had no idea how to contact the inspector. That was one small thing he had overlooked, she thought sourly. Best thing would be to ring Keith Simpson for help. She quickly dialled the number and he told her to wait one moment. His voice was friendly, but cool. After a few seconds, Cowgill came on the line.

“Yes?” he said. She explained quickly, and he said three words before putting down the telephone. “Jock’s Cafe. Three.”

Luckily, Lois knew where the cafe was. It was behind Woolworths and some of the girls used to go there for a snack at lunch-time. Not a good place for me, she thought. She could see through the window that the cafe was empty of customers, except for Hunter Cowgill’s unmistakeably upright figure sitting at a table in the corner. But the waitress was still the same, hair greying now, and much stouter. Lois caught Cowgill’s eye through the glass and beckoned, then walked on very slowly, causing a log jam on the pavement.

He caught her up, touched his hat and said, “Good morning, Mrs Meade. How are the boys today?” What the hell is he talking about, thought Lois. He had stopped walking, and was smiling at her as if they had just met unexpectedly in the street. “Are you on the way home?” he continued, and added, “My car’s just round the corner. I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

“This is bloody daft,” said Lois, as she sat in the front of Cowgill’s car and they cruised slowly off towards the Churchill Estate. He didn’t answer her, but felt in his pocket and pulled out the small square photograph. She frowned and matched it up against the one in her bag. It was the same, without any doubt, though taken from a slightly different angle. Even the shadow of a hand was the same.

“Right?” he said.

She nodded. “But there’s nothing bad about the Rixes,” she added defensively. “I’d stake my life on it.”

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” said the Inspector, and gave her a brief smile. A crack in the concrete, thought Lois. “This is too dangerous,” she said, “being seen in your car.”

He nodded. “Send me a message through Simpson, if you want to meet,” he said. “Then go to Alibone Woods near Farnden at the time I say. People walk their dogs, but not at this time of the year.”

Lois knew the woods, though she’d never stopped there. “Bit cloak and dagger, isn’t it?” she said.

“Nothing fictional about this murder, Lois,” he said, stopping at the entrance to the Churchill Estate. Nobody about, she noticed with relief, and made her way home. It was only while she was filling the kettle that she realized he’d called her ‘Lois’ and she hadn’t minded.

¦

The day had been so full that Lois had been able to put the necessary confrontation with Derek to the back of her mind. When she reached home, her mother was there in the kitchen, smiling at her and unwrapping a chocolate sponge she had made for the family.

“I know Derek likes chocolate best,” she said, as she had planned, to give Lois an opening if she needed one.

“We all know Derek likes chocolate!” agreed Lois, and then, with a miserable shrug, “I’m beginning to wonder if I know anything else about him, though.” Her mother said nothing. “He’s a close one, you know, Mum,” Lois