very happy to organise that, with you, perhaps, Floss?” He smiled at her and saw from her expression that he still had some way to go before she joined the Gavin Adstone fan club.
Derek thought for a moment. He was well aware that Gavin was up to something, and he had to be quick- witted to forestall him.
“Thanks for offering,” he said, “but I reckon committees are bad enough, and subcommittees worse. We’re all involved here, and all of us want a hand in the way the whole day is organised. After all, some of us remember the Farnden soap box racing from years ago. What say we try our best to stage the same again? There’d be more point to it then.” There were enthusiastic nods of agreement.
Gavin frowned and said, “But we have to abide by Health and Safety. That’ll make a big difference.”
“It can be absorbed,” said Derek confidently. “Now, shall we take a vote on a subcommittee as proposed by Gavin? Those in favour?” Only Gavin raised his hand. “And those against? Right, that’s that, then. Shall we move forwards? Item three: entry forms.”
Gavin opened his mouth to speak. Entry forms were part of his strategy. But he was interrupted by the vicar. “I’ll take care of that, if you tell me what’s required,” said Father Rodney. “I’ve got the copier in the vicarage, so I can print as many as you like.”
Tony raised his hand. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I could get together with the reverend on that. I’ve still got a form from those old days somewhere. Kept it as a souvenir, after
“Your ‘old gal’ was not, presumably, your wife?” Gavin looked round for a laugh, but none came. People in the village didn’t make jokes about Tony’s wife in a wheelchair.
DEREK WALKED BACK TOWARDS THE PUB WITH JOHN THORNBULL, and they agreed that the meeting had gone well. “Feels like we’re on a roll now,” John said. “If we can keep that Gavin chap under control. You know what, Derek?” he added. “I reckon we ought to give him a job, something that’ll sound important but not interfere with our idea of re-creating the old soap box grand prix. What d’you think?”
“Good idea,” said Derek. “But what job?”
“Dunno,” said John. They turned into the pub doorway, and John added that ideas always seemed to come more easily after a pint. “Let’s see what we can come up with,” he said, and walked up to order the beer.
JOSIE SAW THEM GO BY AS SHE WORKED IN THE SHOP STACKING shelves. It had been a busy day, and several items needed replenishing. She had the local radio station on as she worked, and paused to listen to the news. The first item was an unpleasant one: “Police are searching for witnesses who can help them with the identity of the body of a man found in the canal behind the Tresham Industrial Estate. They have released the following details: The man is in his late thirties, heavily built, with long hair and clothes in poor condition.” Details of the police number and assurances of confidentiality followed, and then the newsreader moved on to the latest case of vandalism at the supermarket.
“Some poor down-and-out,” Josie said to her mother, who had just come in through the back door into the stockroom. “Probably drunk out of his mind on meth and missed his footing. Ended up headfirst in the canal. Anybody falling into that sewer wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”
Her mother’s reaction surprised her. “What’s the time?” she asked. “There’ll be local telly news in a minute. Let’s go up to the flat and put it on. Come with me, Josie, I don’t want to miss anything.”
“Mum! Don’t be so ghoulish! One of them no-hopers loses it most weeks. Sad thing is, nobody cares and nobody misses ’em. Sometimes they stay in there for weeks. Nothing for you to get fussed about.”
“Don’t argue,” Lois said sharply. “Just come. Now.”
By the time they got the television on, the story was heading the bulletin. “Oh, look!” Josie said. “There’s Matthew, giving the report!”
“Sssh!” Lois snapped.
“Ah,” Josie continued, “isn’t he lovely? Look at those eyes, Mum…”
Lois glared at her, and said that if she didn’t shut up and listen, she personally would see that Matthew Vickers was transferred to a remote police station in the Highlands of Scotland.
NINETEEN
SO HERE’S A PRETTY KETTLE OF FISH,” COWGILL SAID TO LOIS. They were sitting in his car in a deserted cul-de-sac on the far side of Tresham. “We have the body of a drowned man, with all the signs of being a homeless drunkard who fell into the canal in the dark. He’d not been there long, but long enough. We’ve had no calls, not from witnesses or anxious relatives or friends reporting a missing man. The shelter people say they get a lot of such unfortunates who come in once or twice and are never seen again. In short, Lois my dear, we could wrap this up pretty quickly.”
“Except for me?” Lois frowned.
“That’s right. You say you might know who he is, but are not going to tell me. That right?”
“Not yet,” Lois said. “Sorry to spoil your day. But too bad. Of course, one more drowned tramp is neither here nor there to you. I might know who he is, but I need to find out a lot more details before I tell you. And before you say it, I know I am breaking some law or other. But tough. There are other people involved in this, including children.”
Cowgill sighed. “So how long do you want?”
“A few days. Don’t really know yet. Listen, Hunter-”
His heart missed a beat. Stupid old fool, he charged himself. What’s in a name? Everything to him. In all the time he’d known her he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had used his Christian name.
“I’m listening, Lois dear,” he said, with a fatuous grin.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Lois said. “I was going to say that surely by now you trust me? Haven’t I always come up with the goods when it was the right time? So, give me a few days, and I’ll be in touch.”
“All I can say is that I won’t press you to tell me. Naturally, my team will be carrying on their investigations in the usual way. If we discover something you might need to know, I’ll ring you, as always.”
“Huh!” Lois was only too well aware that Cowgill, who, after all, was a top cop, told her exactly as much as he thought fit, whilst he expected her to tell him everything. Well, in this case it would be different. If the body was that of Jack Hickson Sr., then she was determined to help Paula and her children as much as possible. That might not amount to much, but at least, with luck, she could give her a warning and perhaps a little time.
“I must go,” she said now, opening the car door. “No, I don’t want a lift. I got the bus here and I’ll get it back into town. My car’s in the multistorey. See you.”
Cowgill sat in his car for a long while after she had gone. He wondered what he would do if he retired and had little hope of seeing Lois again for any longer than a brief chat on the street on Tresham market day. Then he remembered Matthew, his nephew. If his romance with Josie blossomed into marriage, then he’d have every reason to be in touch as often as he liked!
Greatly cheered, he started the engine and drove back to his office. Never mind about old tramps in the canal, he thought. I’ll put my mind to fostering certain nuptials, and if it works I’ll retire with good grace.
PAULA HICKSON WAS BACK AT FARNDEN HALL, ON THE LAST stretch of mopping the large expanse of tiled floor at the entrance. She glanced nervously from time to time through the long windows and down the drive. She had seen the news, of course, and had been so shocked that it wasn’t until at least an hour later that common sense had returned, and she considered the likelihood of the drowned man being her missing husband. Tresham was a big town, almost a city, she told herself. There must be dozens of such poor souls tramping the streets. She had seen them herself, but mostly the cleaned-up ones who shivered on corners offering the
