go round bothering people. Not enough to do, that woman. Rachel was scared of horses, she’d admitted to Lois, but liked to be thought of as one of the set.
She returned to the table and finished off the brass. I hope that lasts for a few weeks, she thought, sneezing, as she washed the dirty dusters. Her thoughts wandered on inconsequentially as she took the dusters out to the washing line. No sign of anyone now in Gloria’s garden – she wondered if it had been the Prof, and if so, what was he up to? From what Gillian Surfleet had said, her neighbour didn’t socialise much in the village, being very choosy about her friends.
Ah well, none of her business. She hurried round now, anxious to finish and be off. She had planned to drop in on that woman the Prof had mentioned – Janice Britton, the Special Constable. If she was at home, that is, and willing to talk to Lois for a few minutes.
¦
Janice Britton glanced out of her window, and saw Lois walking up the path. She knew who she was, having seen her around, in and out of various houses in the village. A nice woman, she’d thought, and attractive. Always smiled, if they met in the shop. She went to open the door.
“Excuse me,” said Lois, “sorry to interrupt…”
“I’m not busy,” replied Janet. “Do you want to come in?” She was used to hearing tales of woe, marriages degenerating into violence, youngsters off the rails, drugs found in school bags.
“Just wondered if I could have a quick word with you about being a Special,” said Lois, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Janice persuaded her to sit down, and soon had Lois talking about her own life, her teenage daughter and young sons, and her own ambitions. It made a change from the usual appeals for help.
“It’s not all that glamorous, you know,” she said, noting Lois’s dark good looks and her natural grace even in working clothes. “Some people think it’s all smart uniforms and flirting with the blokes. But it’s not like that at all, as you can imagine.” She started with the success stories; reuniting lost children with their mothers, settling differences in a street punch-up, helping old ladies across the street. Then moved on to the tragedies, failures and disappointments that figured largely in her work. She told her of extricating a middle-aged postwoman from under lorry wheels, letters spilled all over the road and the bicycle and post-woman mangled into a twisted heap. She described her feelings when a fourteen-year-old girl, who’d taken an overdose, died in spite of all the help that could be given. At this, she noticed Lois’s face lose colour, and recalled her mention of Josie. She wondered whether Lois’s real reason for wanting to find out about being a Special was a fear that her daughter might be in trouble. But she knew better than to pry, and quickly moved on again to the long hours when boredom was the greatest hazard, like the time when she’d been on a five-hour vigil in an empty car park, waiting for action, and nothing had happened.
After Lois had gone, Janice cleared away coffee mugs and prepared for duty. Had she answered the questions honestly? Had she herself really known what she was getting into at the beginning? The truth was, you never knew from one day to the next what would happen. That was part of the attraction, she supposed. And she could not imagine anything more boring than cleaning other people’s houses. She had said as much to Lois, but later had reason to eat her words.
¦
Josie arrived back from school looking pale and tired. She had insisted on going that morning, partly to get away from her ranting father. As Lois had watched her walking off down the road in her school uniform, long thin legs wobbling on clumpy heels, head down against the bright sun, she’d almost cried. Such a little girl, really. If only they wouldn’t grow up.
Josie sat down wearily at the kitchen table and looked up at Lois. Her eyes were deeply shadowed, her pale face snowing up the freckles that peppered her nose and cheeks. “Cuppa tea goin’?” she said bravely.
“Headache?” said Lois gently. Josie nodded, and bit her lip. Lois put her arms around her and rocked her quietly to and fro. “It’s all right, baby,” she said. “Just so long as you’ve learnt…”
Much later, when Josie and all the others were in bed, Derek and Lois did what they’d never done before; they looked carefully through Josie’s school bag, putting everything back in its place. They found nothing – nothing but innocence – and were reassured.
? Murder on Monday ?
Five
The post came early on the Churchill Estate. The postman went round as quickly as possible, occasionally throwing a bundle of post into an unlocked door, avoiding, with a skill learned of bitter experience, dangerous Alsatians and Jack Russell terriers. He stopped for two cups of tea only, one with old Fred, his uncle, and the other with Lois’s next-door neighbour, a youngish, flashy-looking blonde with no kids and a succession of ‘friends’ who came and went at all hours of night and day.
“We’d get
Lois was on the way out when Pat O’Henry came smiling up the path. “One for you, Lois,” he said with a smirk. “Police…what you bin’ up to now?”
“Bugger off,” said Lois, snatching the letter from him and retreating into the house. She ripped open the envelope and found what she had hoped for. There were a couple of vacancies in Tresham for Specials, and she was given an appointment for interview next week. “Derek!” she yelled, and then remembered she was alone in the house. Excitement rising inside her, she tucked the letter behind the clock in the kitchen and went off to work.
Thursday was Lois’s day for the Reverend Peter White, bachelor, and inevitably suspected by most of Farnden of being gay. Lois, however, knew otherwise. She had found the magazines by mistake, thinking she would give the laundry basket in his bedroom a good turnout and wash some of the grubby socks that had lurked at the bottom for as long as she could remember. And then, underneath them all, she’d seen a picture in glorious colour of a plump, pink, naked female on all fours, pneumatic boobs dangling like udders, with a dog biscuit between her regular white teeth, and a tartan lead clipped neatly round her neck. Oh, my God! she’d muttered, and sifted through the small pile, all of the same genre, before putting them back as she found them. Kinky he may be, she’d said often enough since, but gay he is not. She’d never told how she knew, though, and never would.
You’ve got to feel sorry for the silly fool, she said to herself as she dusted round the laundry basket and saw again the tell-tale magazines through the wickerwork. Anybody who has to rely on that muck for getting it up is in a bad way.
“Lois?” It was him, the Reverend, calling her for coffee. He was another who would have liked her to sit down and have a chat. “I promise not to try and convert you,” he’d said playfully one morning. “Just keep me company for a few minutes.”
Why not? Lois had thought. He’s probably lonely. Even a suspect bachelor vicar is put on a pedestal and finds it difficult to make real friends. But Lois had reminded herself of her rules, and said she’d never get through if she stopped, and had left him sadly stirring his coffee.
This morning, however, she needed to tell someone her news. “Do sit down, Lois,” he said, as always. He was tall and thin. Everything about him was thin: thin, mousy hair, thin beaky nose, thin lips and thin, scrawny neck, with a prominent Adam’s apple that moved up and down like a frog swallowed by a snake. In the pulpit it was hypnotic, and many a good Farnden church-goer had been kept awake during the sermon watching its efforts to escape. His fingers, wrapped around the coffee mug for warmth, were long and thin with chewed nails. His eyes, pale behind thick glasses, were shifty, never focussing on anything for longer than a few seconds.
Not a happy man, thought Lois this morning, as – to the Reverend’s great surprise – she sank down onto a kitchen chair and accepted his offer of a coffee before she began her work.
The kitchen was cold, its early morning warmth having vanished quickly; the central heating programmed for economy. The vicarage was modern, built when the old one was sold for a large sum of money to a rich couple reputed to have won the lottery. (All newcomers who paid fancy prices for old village houses were unreliably reported as having won the lottery.) Peter White was the first to occupy the new vicarage, and found it small, anonymous, and either freezing cold or overwhelmingly hot. It was nothing like he’d imagined when he applied for the job. No oak-panelled study, no large kitchen with a comfortable old cook providing plain but delicious meals, no
