elegant drawing-room where he could entertain the gentry. In other words, it was what the Church Commissioners, in their lack of wisdom, thought suitable for a modern man of God. Parochial church council meetings in his study were a fuggy squash, making the already prickly members even more argumentative and un-Christian. The garden was much too small for the summer fete.
He’d never tried inviting gentry for a cocktail, as the sitting room overlooked the sewage works, and even when the fast-growing fir trees had burgeoned into a dense, high hedge and he could no longer see it, there was no time of the year when he could not smell it.
“Wind’s in this direction this morning,” said Lois, sniffing.
Peter – he had asked everyone to call him by his Christian name, but none did – nodded sadly. “Did I ever tell you how Maisie fell – ”
Lois quickly interrupted to say, yes, he had told her, several times. It had been a gruesome story. One awful afternoon Peter White’s ancient cairn terrier, Maisie, had got out through a broken fence and wandered into the sewage beds. She’d mistaken the greenish crust, always present on the village’s excrement, for a grassy place to roll, and would have met a disgusting death by drowning had not Miss Hathaway been passing along the nearby footpath and climbed in to the rescue. Maisie had run into the house, shaken herself vigorously, and Miss Hathaway and the vicar had taken it in turns to shower off the evil-smelling mess. For Peter, there had been a glimpse of a surprisingly generously endowed Gloria Hathaway reaching for a towel. She had gone home in borrowed trousers and jersey, all of which had made the occasion even more memorable for Peter. These last details he omitted when telling the story, of course.
Reminded of Miss Hathaway, Lois said, “Do vicars still call on the sick?” Miss H. was the churchy sort, surely? Ever since she’d discovered the magazines, she’d had a contrary respect for Peter White. His particular frailty had made him more of person, more like the rest, and because of that, more approachable.
Peter White looked round nervously, as if a queue of the halt and the lame was forming at his door. “Ah yes…Miss Hathaway,” answered the vicar. “Just a little out of sorts, it seems. I called this week after noticing she was not at Evensong, and was assured that it is nothing serious. I must go again, though, to make sure.”
“Yes, I should,” said Lois firmly. As she took her coat from the cloakroom, she took a look at the untidy array of dingy coats and jackets. She could spare the time to put them straight, maybe suggest taking one or two to the charity shop. She sighed. Poor man needed a good woman, but who would even look at him in his present state? She began to sort through, and found a greenish-black cloak that needed a couple of buttons, an old tweed jacket that smelt of dog, and a scruffy Barbour with none of its waterproof quality left. She would take these three, anyway. Then she noticed the dark stain, spread across the sleeve of the Barbour, and was reminded of Gloria Hathaway’s visitor. She sniffed at it curiously. Mmm…not sewage, thank heavens. Must have been him, then, though it
? Murder on Monday ?
Six
Lois turned up early for her interview at the police station. She had negotiated the heavy entrance doors, the dark lobby, the queue for attention from briskly efficient women behind the glassed-in reception. Bulletproof, no doubt, thought Lois. They dealt smoothly with an anxious social worker and a girl who bit her fingernails feverishly whilst trying unsuccessfully to quieten her crying baby. The baby was well wrapped against the cold wind outside, but it was tiny, and the girl looked too young, too much of an amateur. Lois tried smiling at the girl but received a cold stare in return. She imagined a grim scenario, single mother, no money, damp lonely flat, no luxuries and scarcely enough food. Lois remembered her own loving mother who stepped in and helped at any time, and resolved that Josie would never find herself here like that poor kid.
Finally a side door opened, and a dark-haired man in uniform – casual jersey over shirt and tie, but clearly uniform – approached her. “Sorry you’ve had to wait,” he said, smiling. “In here, please.” He strode off down a corridor and unlocked a door, leading her into a room with no windows, furnished sparsely with a table and two chairs.
“Where’s the spotlight?” said Lois. A nervous attempt at a joke, ignored by the policeman who pointed to a chair and said politely that he was Police Constable Keith Simpson. He said he was deputed to give her some first- hand information about being a Special, because he’d started as one himself, before deciding to make the police his career. Now he was a community policeman. “The bobby on the beat,” he said, smiling, adding that his ‘patch’ included Long Farnden, where he’d noticed from her application she had several cleaning jobs.
“I’ll have to watch it, then,” said Lois lightly, but he didn’t find that funny. She thought he looked a bit of prat.
“So you want to be a Special?” he said. He reminded her of her old geography teacher, who’d had a knack of making even the most straightforward question sound portentous. However, Lois hadn’t lost her skills with geography teachers, and said, “Yep. That’s why I’m here. I’ve read the stuff, and I’d like to do something worthwhile for the community.”
Keith Simpson was no fool and he recognised the quote from the brochure. Nettled, he glanced down at the details she had sent in, personal and family details, and said, “Well, Mrs Meade, I should have thought looking after three kids, a husband and doing cleaning jobs five mornings a week was a worthwhile enough life! And – ” he added, peering at her application – “a parent governor, too. We know that’s quite time consuming. Where are you going to find the extra time?”
Lois had thought of this one. “I’ve worked it out carefully,” she said firmly, “and my mum is willing to fill in at any time.”
“Lucky you! But how old is your mum? Still active enough, is she?” he said, smiling again.
Lois was not sure whether the smile was friendly, or one of pity. “She’s sixty-four,” she said, “and young with it.”
Now PC Simpson laughed. “I believe you,” he said. He looked down again at her papers. “But have you really thought it through? At least a hundred hours a year, and while you’re training, another hundred on top of that?”
After a fractional hesitation, Lois nodded again. Why was he making such a thing of it? She’d always been able to do anything she’d set her mind to. Now he was rising to his feet. He was tall and loomed over her in his dark jersey.
“I’ll just get my colleague,” he said. “I’d like to bring her in on this.”
A plump, middle-aged policewoman came in and, after hearing Lois’s circumstances, said that her first reaction was to advise Lois to wait for a few years until the children were more independent, pointing out that young kids must come first in a family’s priorities. Lois thought of protesting that her kids were fine, thanks very much, but the policewoman spoke with a finality that was not to be challenged.
Lois frowned and stood up, pushing her chair back with a rasping sound. She ignored their mutterings about talking some more about it, and interrupted harshly. “I’ll be off, then,” she said. “Seems I’ve wasted your time…and mine,” she added.
PC Simpson opened the door for her and escorted her back to reception, walking fast to keep up with her. “See you again one day, I hope,” he said kindly. Lois choked back an inappropriate reply and pushed her way out through the heavy station doors. The world continued to go by; cars in both directions on the dual-carriageway, children with swimming things on their way to the municipal baths next door to the police station, a drunk shouting at passers-by on the pavement opposite. She walked back to the multi-storey car park and was furious to find hot tears of disappointment and frustration running down her cheeks as she climbed into her car.
¦
By the time she reached home, the family were all gathered, waiting for her. Her mother, who sat at the kitchen table with Lois’s largest teapot at the ready, took one quick glance at Lois’s face, and said, “Don’t say anything, dear. Josie, get some fresh milk,” she added, and began to pour.
