Tragedy at Two (18 page)

Mmm, thought Sheila, and sniffed. Obviously not an innocent ciggy, then. Well, what they were up to was none of her business, but trespass was, and she told them briskly to get themselves together and be off as quickly as they could, before Mr. Smith came after them with a pitchfork.

This time it was the girl who laughed. “Nobody uses pitchforks now! Anyway, Mrs. um—” Her posh accent reminded Sheila of someone. Oh, yes, now she guessed at the girl’s identity. Well, better confirm it.

“I’m Mrs. Stratford,” said Sheila. “And what’re your names? No, on second thoughts don’t tell me. If I don’t know who you are I shan’t be tempted to tell your parents. Now get going, both of you.” She remembered what Sam had said about not going too far, and started on her way back home, thinking nostalgically of the sweet-smelling haystacks where she and Sam had done their courting on balmy summer evenings.

 

 

MARK AND SALLY STRAIGHTENED THEIR CLOTHES IN SILENCE. “Have you done this before?” Sally said.

Mark shook his head. “Not all the way,” he said, his voice muffled in embarrassment.

“Nor me. D’you think I’ll get pregnant?”

“For God’s sake! Don’t even mention it! That would really be the end for me. I’d be turned out, all my belongings in a red spotted kerchief, and told to go as far away as possible, never to return.”

Sally laughed, peals of teenage laughter. “I expect they’d make me get rid of it.”

“Costs a lot,” said Mark. “At least, I think it does.”

“Money’s no object,” said Sally. “They think money can fix everything. Well, they’d be wrong this time. If I’m pregnant, I shall go through with it. I fancy the idea of being a teenage mum. And if it bothers you,” she added, suddenly angry, “I won’t say who dunnit. I’m used to managing on my own. I’m off, anyway. See you around.”

Mark followed slowly. He watched until she vanished round a spinney at the corner of the field. Perhaps his reaction had been a bit selfish? Oh, God, if only he could think clearly. At the moment, his head was full of the swirling effects of the shared smoke. And, he admitted to himself, of his fir st go at the real thing, better than he had ever rehearsed.

 

 

“HI, SAM,” EDWINA SAID. HE WAS STANDING BY THE KITCHEN door, watching her approach from her vegetable garden.

“Alf about?” he said. “I’ve knocked and shouted, but no answer.”

Edwina shook her head. “He’s gone to see his sister over the other side of Tresham,” she said. “Won’t be back for a couple hours. She’s a bit poorly. How’s Sheila?”

“Much better, thanks,” he said. He moved towards her, but she sidestepped him and went into the kitchen.

“My hands are covered in dirt,” she said, “but come on in. We can’t be too careful, can we, Sam. We’ve had one or two trespassers here lately.” She shivered at the thought of the man with the dog.

“Where?” Sam said. “What were they after? There’s been some barn thefts locally.”

Edwina smiled. “Not exactly barn theft,” she said slowly. “Anyway, they soon scarpered when they saw Alf.” She dried her hands, and Sam moved towards her. She felt the old, dangerous, spreading warmth as he put his arms around her.

“Two hours, me duckie,” he whispered in her ear, and led her towards the stairs.

JOSIE WAS BUSY IN THE STOREROOM WHEN SAM CAME IN. HE called her name, and she yelled “Hello, Sam. Just coming.” She had known Sam Stratford ever since Mum and Dad had moved to Farnden.

“How’re you, me duck?” Sam said, as she appeared, smiling her usual welcome. There were times when she felt very far from smiling, but she always managed. A warm welcome to all comers had paid off. The village shop was doing well, when all around were closing down. Josie enjoyed being the hub of the village, and she was the recipient of many secrets and private thoughts. “You won’t tell anyone, will you, Josie,” yet another confidante would say, and Josie promised. What is more, she kept her word.

“A dozen eggs, please,” Sam said. “And Sheila says a couple of those fresh chicken breasts you get from the farm.”

He had remembered the eggs on his way home. What with this and that, and Edwina being on edge in case Alf came home early, he’d forgotten to ask for eggs. Never mind, Sheila wouldn’t know the difference. Josie sometimes took Edwina’s surplus.

“How is Sheila?” Josie asked. She knew from Mum that Sam’s wife had been ill. “On the mend, I hope?” Sam said yes, she’d be back at work in a day or two. He looked around and took a box of Milk Tray chocolates from a shelf. “Dragon food,” he said.

“What?” said Josie. “What did you call them?”

“Dragon food. A German student working on the farm told me. He said that’s what they call presents bought by husbands who are late getting home. Roses from the roadside, an’ that. Dragon food. Food to appease the dragon!”

Josie laughed and wondered privately why Sam needed to appease Sheila. Being late home wasn’t anything unusual in the farming community. If a job needed finishing, the worker stayed until it was done.

The doorbell jangled behind Sam, and he turned. It was Alf Smith.

“Thanks, Josie,” Sam said, picking up his purchases. “Cheerio, gel.”

Alf Smith stood in the doorway, not moving.

“’Scuse me, Alf,” Sam said.

“Not so fast,” Alf said. “I want a word with you.”

 

 

“YOU’RE NOT SO LATE AS I EXPECTED,” SHEILA SAID APPROVINGLY. “Did you get the chicken breasts? And the eggs from Edwina?”

“Yep,” Sam said, dumping them on the kitchen table. His face was pale, and his expression grim. “By the time I’d finished helping with the pigs it was too late to go to the Smiths, so I got the eggs from the shop. Josie said she gets them from Edwina, anyway.” He had decided to make all his stories hang together, but oh, what a tangled web we weave. Echoes of the past! His Dad had been forever using the old adage to young Sam when as a boy he had been poaching, or chasing the vicar’s daughter.

“Well, thanks anyway,” Sheila said. “I went for a little walk, not too far, and I feel a whole lot better. I’ll ring Lois and tell her I can start work tomorrow. It’s my old lady down the road, just a couple of hours, so I’m sure I can manage that. She relies on me to tell her what’s going on in the village, an’ that.”

Sam grunted, and went through to the hall. “You all right?” Sheila shouted after him. “You look a bit ropey. Hope you’ve not got my bug!”

“I’m okay,” he said. “Bit tired, that’s all.” And serve you right, at your age, he told himself silently as he trudged upstairs to change his shoes, Alf’s harsh words still ringing in his ears.

 

 

LOIS SAT STARING AT A BLANK COMPUTER SCREEN, THINKING about Rob. She realized that the urgency had gone out of the family resolve to find his killer. Well, in a way, that was natural. Other problems came to the fore, needing urgent attention.

When Lois last spoke to Cowgill, the case against the gypsies seemed to be hardening. But which gypsies? The whole lot hadn’t formed an avenging posse and ambushed Rob as he came home, drunk and helpless, she was sure of that. The most likely of them was the pair in the ratty old caravan, with the killer dog. But if that was so, why hadn’t the police got them in custody, or in for questioning, or some other ruse for preventing them from disappearing from sight? They were, so Cowgill had said, liaising with the local force where the gypsies had gone.

In a belated blinding flash, Lois saw the answer. The brothers and their dog had not gone with the rest. They had obviously been outsiders hanging on to the coattails of the others while they were in Farnden, and by now could be anywhere in the country. Time for a word with friend Hunter.

Lois looked at her watch. He should still be around, and she dialled his direct number.

“Hello, Lois! How’s my girl today?” He sounded unchar acteristically bouncy.

“No, you’ve got the wrong person. This is Lois Meade, and I’m nobody’s girl.”

“All right, Lois. I am suitably humbled.”

What was he talking about? Had he finally flipped, poor old thing? Lois got down to business.

“It’s about Rob’s killer. You said it was looking like the gypsies were involved. I’ve been thinking. Which of the gypsies did you speak to?”

“All of them,” Cowgill said, his voice now brisk and professional.

“Including the two with the bull terrier? The
illegal
pit bull terrier?”

There was a pause, and then Cowgill said he did not have the necessary papers in front of him, but he would check and get back to her.

“Which means, I suppose, no, you didn’t even
see
the two men with the
illegal
pit bull?”

“If they were on the site of the fire, we talked to them. I’ll call you back, Lois. Five minutes.”

Lois felt better at having done something, moved the whole thing on a step or two. From all her experience of working with Cowgill, she reckoned that you cannot leave it safely to the local police, at least not if you want a swift answer.

“Lois!” It was Gran, shouting from the kitchen. “Have you finished with the phone?” she continued, coming into the office. “I promised Joan Pickering I’d call her. She’s got this idea for a Farnden market in the village hall. Maybe once a month. People take stalls and sell things, and the WI makes a profit from renting out the stalls.”

All this came tumbling out, and Gran’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “What a good idea,” Lois said, thinking how useful it would be for Gran to be involved. It would take her mind off family problems, especially Josie’s tragedy. It had really knocked Gran sideways, tough as she was. And it would be a good place for Gran to keep her eyes and ears open.

“Five minutes, Mum,” Lois added, “then I’m done.”

The phone rang on cue. “Lois? Apparently our men questioned everyone at the gypsy camp immediately after the fire was put out, but they don’t remember seeing the two with the pit bull terrier. They reckon they must have scarpered quickly, before they could be questioned. Can you describe them again? It might be important to follow them up.”

Lois was furious. Of all the gypsies at the camp, the two with the dog were the most likely to have attacked Rob. And now they’d gone—probably where nobody could find them. She described what she remembered of them, and said she’d ask Derek, because he saw them, too.

There was one more thing she could do. She would tackle Alf Smith, and see if he could help. Sam Stratford had been known to call him “gypsy lover” in the pub, but Lois reckoned she could coax a few facts out of him.

NEXT MORNING, MATTHEW VICKERS DROVE SLOWLY ON HIS way to Long Farnden. He was thinking about Josie Meade, and wondering how he could ask her tactfully if she’d like to see the new comedy film in Tresham. He’d checked out that it was a nonviolent family film, and colleagues at work had confirmed with a sly smile that it was a laugh a minute.

His eye was caught by a pile of dirty, wilted flowers by the roadside. Another accident, he thought sadly. Then he remembered. Of course, it was where Rob had been beaten up and left to die. He drew into a gateway, got out of his car, and walked back. The least he could do was take them away. If Josie drove by—although she probably avoided that route into town—it would be a dreary reminder. He gathered them up, not noticing one separate from the rest, propped up against the fence a few yards away.

He placed the pile in the boot of his car, and turned his car around. He would dump the flowers back at the station, but remove the cards and take them to Josie. A perfect reason to go and see her later.