“How can two people be single-handed, Lois? No, of course not! It’s a WI committee meeting at Joan’s house. Derek’s lot have got the village hall, so we can’t go there.”
“Sounds like we need a bigger village hall, with meeting rooms an that,” said Lois.
“I shall ignore that,” Gran said. “Sometimes, Lois, you can be very irritating. Oh, and by the way, that policeman of yours rang. I told him to try your mobile, and he said he had, but it wasn’t switched on. Now, haven’t you got some work to do, and let me get on with supper?”
Lois dialled Cowgill’s number and waited. “Ah, there you are,” she said, as he finally answered. “You wanted me?”
All the time, Cowgill said to himself, but aloud thanked her for ringing back. “It’s just that we’ve had a complaint from a woman living in Fletching. She says her garden shed was raided.”
“Ah, serious crime,” said Lois.
Cowgill proceeded smoothly, “And the reason I’m telling you this, is that it is the third complaint we’ve had where theft has occurred locally in unlocked outhouses and sheds, and on each occasion it is food stolen. Apples stored on racks, sacks of potatoes broken into, strings of onions. And where freezers were kept, two or three ready-meals missing. Never any great quantity, but a pattern is emerging.”
“I see it already,” Lois said caustically. “Hungry bear on the rampage. Large brown bears with claws and fangs dripping with massacred cat’s blood.”
There was a few seconds’ silence, and Lois began to think he had finally lost patience with her. But no, now he was laughing. Real, throaty laughter.
“You sound a bit rusty,” she said. “Not laughed much lately?”
“Not for years,” Cowgill said. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”
“Anyway, seriously, you think this might be a tramp, a real desperate one, and on our patch?”
“Seems likely. Worth following up. Chris is having a look round, visiting the complainants. Just thought you might like to know, and maybe keep your eyes open even more than usual. Also,” he added, risking it, “it is an excuse to talk to the only girl who can make me laugh.”
“Forget it,” Lois said. “But before I go through the emails from my other fans, have you heard any more about the identity of the canal tramp?”
Cowgill’s voice became instantly cool. “Not so far, I’m afraid. We are still making enquiries.”
“Great,” said Lois. “And so am I. Bye.”
DEREK HAD COLLECTED LOIS’S CAR AND FIXED THE EXHAUST PIPE. She had not told him or Gran about the tramp, unwilling to provoke another burst of disapproval. But now she settled down in her office and tried to face the Hickson problem. The police knew less than she did, she guessed. And in any case, to them the whole thing was small beer. A friendless nohoper, probably a drunk, who fell into the canal. Case quietly closed. Then there were a few unconnected petty thefts of food in the Farnden area. Nothing that would keep Cowgill awake at night.
So what did she know that was more disturbing? First, Paula Hickson, now one of her team, had been deserted by a violent husband and was making a new life in Farnden. Second, although all seemed to be going well for Paula, there was her firstborn son, Jack Jr., who was far from doing well. He was being approached by a stranger-or maybe his father?-outside the school and in other places, and she did not know whether he had told his mother. The boy was disturbed, unhappy and possibly in danger.
This last thought was the crux of the matter. She should tell Cowgill or Paula, or both, what she feared, and enlist their support. But she knew in her heart that if she alerted Cowgill, the might of the welfare state would be put on the case and young Jack would probably do something drastically awful. When Josie had been a teenager, she had gone off the rails and had run away with an older mixed-up lad. It had been a desperate time for them all, and needed very delicate handling by her and Derek. And yes, the police had been brought in, but only because the lad had committed a crime.
That was it. In what seemed to be his present frame of mind, Jack Jr. was quite likely to flout the law, if it was only to draw attention to himself. The classic cry for help.
“Coffee,” said Gran, coming in with a steaming mug. “You going to be much longer?”
“Why?”
“The sun’s shining, there’s people going up and down the village street, the garden needs weeding and you’ve got a grandson in Tresham who’d probably like to see his grannie more than once a month.”
“Oh! Right! Thanks for the lecture, Mum! I’ll certainly bear in mind your helpful suggestions.”
“Huh!” said Gran, and banged the door behind her.
Lois sighed, stood up and looked out of the window. Gran was right, as usual. She opened the window, letting in fresh air and sunlight. This afternoon she would go into Tresham and see Susie and little Harry, maybe stay until bath time. She could also call in at the office first and see if Hazel had any news about the local thefts.
But for now, she would ring Paula and ask her to call in on her way back from the hall, just to have a chat.
MRS. T-J WAS IN THE ROOM SHE CALLED THE DEN. THE BELL ON the board in the kitchen, no longer in use, was labeled “The Den,” and she perpetuated the name in an attempt to preserve something of the old atmosphere at the hall, when her father had sat at his big desk working on the affairs of his estate, collecting rents, hiring and firing workers, dealing with his bank manager.
As she now settled down in the big leather chair, more like a throne than a chair, she was reminded of hiring and firing as she checked her diary. A hopeful applicant for the gardener job was due at eleven o’clock for interview. His letter was in good English, clear and comprehensive, listing the jobs he had done. He had worked in municipal parks, as well as in smaller private gardens, and was looking for work only because he had been made redundant in the present climate of financial squeeze.
It was a shame, she thought, as she put down the application on her desk, that there were earthy smudges on the paper. Still, perhaps that was a good sign! At least he could have no qualms about getting his hands dirty, unlike one young man who’d expected to be supplied with gardening gloves at her expense.
Paula, busy cleaning silver in the kitchen, looked at the clock. A quarter past ten. She just had time to finish her favourite job before making coffee. Mrs. T-J had said she was expecting a possible new gardener, and would have her coffee early. “I don’t wish to offer him refreshment,” she had said firmly. “You never know with these out of work people. They’ll trump up any kind of a story to get a job.”
Paula thought to herself that if Mrs. T-J was desperate for money and work, she too might tell a few white lies. But she just nodded, and said she would bring in coffee at half past ten.
At eleven o’clock exactly, there was a knock at the kitchen door. “Damn!” Paula said. She supposed it was the gardener man, and she was on the point of collecting Mrs. T-J’s coffee cup. Still, at least he had not rapped loudly on the front door, opened it and yelled, “Anyone there?” which had scuppered another applicant’s chances.
She walked over to the door and opened it. A man stood there, and he was very familiar. She saw first that he was very thin, with dark hollows beneath his eyes. For a gardener out in the open air, he looked very unhealthy. Then he smiled and spoke to her.
“Morning, Paula,” said her husband. “I have an appointment to see Mrs. Tollervey-Jones.”
AN HOUR LATER, GRAN USHERED A WHITE-FACED PAULA HICKSON into Lois’s office. Lois could almost see a “Told you so” think bubble form above Gran’s head, and said at once that they’d be really grateful for a couple of cups of strong coffee. Gran shrugged, and left the room.
“Sit down, Paula,” Lois said, “before you fall down. You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” Paula said in a small voice.
Lois could see she was fighting to keep control. “No hurry. Take some deep breaths, and then we’ll have a coffee before you tell me what has happened. I’ll just finish these schedules, so you can sit quietly.”
After hot strong coffee and encouraging smiles from Lois, Paula began to speak. She described the shock of seeing her husband at the back door, and the superhuman effort needed to take him through to the den and announce him to Mrs. T-J. As they had walked through the long corridor, Jack had whispered to her that there was no need to say who he really was. His name was Jack Stevens now. He relied on her to keep her mouth shut, he said, and there was menace in his voice.
“He was so changed, Mrs. M!” Paula said. “Thin as a rake, but cleaned up.” Her lip wobbled. “He used to be
