car, one six-year-old and a next-door mother. She dialled the number and after a few seconds a light, flat voice answered. Yes, she was Joanne Murphy, and would be pleased to see Lois at any convenient time. She was doing a bit of bar work, but that was flexible. Lois arranged to see her the following morning at eleven o’clock, and put down the telephone feeling uneasy, but could not think why.
She had decided to interview the women in their own homes, then she could get a surreptitious look around, see how they lived. She knew only too well how easy it was to hoodwink employers. One story had stuck with her, about a woman who’d claimed all kinds of grand references and on the first day had pinched a valuable piece of silver and never turned up again.
She worked her way down the list, making appointments and checking details. “We shall be working in villages around Tresham,” she said to each one. “I don’t intend covering Tresham at first, Unless there are urgent jobs.” The kind of village client Lois had mind was the well-heeled worthy, well-known in the community and easily managed. Vicars, doctors, teachers, solicitors, accountants – they were the ones she had in mind. Not farmers… they were too tight-fisted, and anyway, seldom wanted cleaners. She’d heard one the other day declare loudly in the shop that he didn’t need a char. He’d got a wife, hadn’t he?
The sixth woman on the list was a talker. Lois could hardly get a word in, and mentally crossed her off the list. Then again, perhaps she’d better give her a chance. She arranged the appointment and went off to the kitchen to make herself a strong coffee. She felt tired and tense. When she heard the telephone ring, she went to answer it in a less than euphoric mood.
“Lois?”
“Yes…who’s that?”
“Hunter Cowgill. You remember?”
“Of course I remember. What do you want?”
“Well…and how are you, too? Don’t sound so suspicious, Lois. I said I’d keep in touch, and I just wondered how you were doing, now you’re living in Farnden. How does the family like village life?”
“OK,” she said.
“So, how’s the cleaning business going? New Brooms? A really good name, that. Have you got going yet?”
Lois remembered that there was not much that escaped Cowgill’s eagle eye. “No,” she said, “but I’ve just fixed some interviews with possible women.”
She made an effort not to sound too hostile. In fact, it wasn’t too much of an effort. In spite of all that Derek had said, she’d had a lurch of excitement at hearing Cowgill’s voice. It wasn’t that she fancied him…no, no…It was suddenly being part of that other world again, the shadowy, risky world of the dark side of the law. And having to think, to think hard about something else that wasn’t family. A while ago, she’d volunteered to be a Special Constable, but was turned down: “Get in touch with us later, dear, when your family has grown up a bit.” That had been the old bag at the police station. Well, Lois had early on in life found her own way of side-stepping the law. She was a respectable wife and mother now, but, as Derek said, her leopard spots were still there underneath. She certainly could listen to what Cowgill had to say now. No harm in that.
“Excellent,” he said. “Well, I’d be most interested to hear when you start. Perhaps we could have a little chat? Just something I’m trying to set up…”
“Like what?” said Lois.
Hunter Cowgill was vague. “Oh, you know, along community involvement lines…new thinking in police practice…all that…”
“What use would I be now?” Lois was curious. She hunched forward in her chair, holding the telephone closer to her ear.
“Much as you were before,” said Cowgill. “Ear to the ground, that sort of thing.”
“Well,” said Lois, “we’ll be operating in the villages. But there’s not too much in the way of weekly murders there, thank God.”
“There’s always crime,” he replied, and sighed. “Anyway, Lois,” he continued, in a brighter voice, “it’d be good to see you again, so I’ll give you another ring when you’ve got going, and we’ll talk. Bye for now.”
Lois felt the usual pang of guilt. Her involvement had come so near to disaster last time, and she had then been tempted to promise Derek anything he asked. But now…well, it sounded more official. She would just think about it.
? Terror on Tuesday ?
Four
When Lois had put Gary Needham on the list of six, Derek laughed in scorn. “A bloke doin’ housework!” he’d said incredulously. But Lois was intrigued. There could well be clients’ places where it would be safer, or more tactful, or more useful, to have a man going in to strange premises. And anyway, the application had intrigued her. It was well-written, on good quality writing paper, and whoever he was had a nice line in self- mockery.
“I don’t care what you say,” she answered Derek, “and I know what you think. But I reckon any man who’s brave enough to opt for house-cleaning as a job – can you imagine his mates at the pub? – must be worth a look.”
“
Lois laughed. “There you are then, you silly sod,” she said, “that proves my point.” She passed by him on her way to get her coat, and he grabbed her.
“Now then, young woman,” he said, holding her against him, “just because you’re about to be a big tycoon, don’t mean you can’t take a bit of advice from your lord and master.”
She broke free good-humouredly. “Must go,” she said. “First stop, Joanne Murphy, then take Mum’s shopping, and then Gary Needham. And no! Don’t say a word.”
Derek shrugged his shoulders, picked up his jacket and followed her out to the garage, where he helped to start her car and waved her off down the road to Tresham. Why couldn’t she be like other women, contented with house and kids and looking after him? But he knew that if she had not been exactly as she was, he would probably not have married her.
¦
Lois drove into Tresham and it seemed as if the car turned automatically on to the short cut route to the Churchill Estate. She and Derek had started their married life here, and her mother still lived in one of the old people’s bungalows.
She found Joanne Murphy in a semi-detached house still belonging to the council, with a garden reminiscent of the municipal tip, and a front door with so much paint chipped off that most of it was the original salmon pink undercoat. The door was ajar, and a whiff of stale air wafted out. Inside, on the door frame, Lois observed with a sinking heart a patch of deep grime where child-height hands had grabbed it when passing through.
“Hello?” Lois called in a loud voice to penetrate the sound of a television quiz game. “HELLO!” This time she yelled as loud as she could and knocked so hard that her knuckles hurt.
“Who’s that?” The woman’s voice was followed up by her appearance at the door. She was wearing dirty jeans and a boy’s T-shirt with a rude message stretched tight across her ample chest. “Oh, ‘ello,” she said, smiling crookedly. “You Mrs Meade?”
Lois wondered whether it was worth even stepping inside, but she hadn’t the confidence yet to end it there. The living room was untidy, dirty and sombre, chiefly owing to the windows not having been cleaned for months…or years…Lois’s heart was now in her boots, and she sat gingerly on the edge of a rickety chair.
“Like a coffee?” said Joanne Murphy, quite relaxed and friendly.
Lois declined hastily. The television continued unabated, and no attempt was made to turn it off, or even lower the volume. Finally, after a few desultory questions about the woman’s experience, the answers to which were before Lois’s eyes, she stood up.
