Jigsaw (12 page)

He
. She was thinking of the note's author as male, but that wasn't necessarily the case. The capital letters gave no hint of gender. She smoothed the crumpled paper with her fingers, turning it over for some clue as to its origin, but without success. It was torn from a small, spiral notepad, much like the one she'd been using herself, though hers, thank God, was safely in her bag.

So – what should she do? No point in going to the police; the cassette wasn't commercially valuable, nor, she thought with relief, was there anything confidential on it. Strictly speaking, it had not even been stolen, and from what Nuala had said, the police already had their hands full with mugging victims. Should she then warn the people she'd interviewed that she'd mislaid it? She couldn't see any advantage; some would be annoyed, some, perhaps, worried, and they would all think her irresponsible – as, indeed, she had been.

The best course, she told herself, moistening dry lips, was to do nothing, put the whole thing out of her mind. She was going home today, thank God, and the unknown watcher would soon get bored when her car didn't return. If, of course, there
was
a watcher. She'd been in too much of a hurry to notice anyone around, but perhaps some boys using the road as a short cut had seen what happened, and decided to play a trick on her. Surely that was the most likely explanation? She'd been over-reacting, she told herself; no real harm was done.

She set off again, flicking a wary eye up and down the street. No one else was in sight and she walked quickly and purposefully past the row of houses, inscrutable behind their windows, to the cobbled pathway leading to the square. At the end of it, instead of turning left as she usually did, towards the pub and Clement's Lane, she veered right, past the church. Someone was mowing the grass and a coffee stall had been set up in the porch. Rona hesitated, but decided to continue with her exploration.

However, she'd gone only a few paces, bringing her level with the vicarage garden, when a voice from behind the hedge hailed her and she turned to see the blonde woman she'd spied from her bedroom window. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days.

‘You
are
Mrs Parish, aren't you?' she continued, approaching the gate. ‘Staying with Nuala Banks?'

‘Yes, that's right. At least, I'm Rona Parish.'

‘Lois Breen.' The woman eyed her keenly, reaching over a hand, which Rona took. ‘But not Mrs?'

‘Parish is my professional name,' Rona explained; ‘I'm actually Mrs Allerdyce, though I don't think of myself as that.'

‘I see.' Mrs Breen surveyed her for a minute, digesting this. ‘You're a writer, I believe? My husband was telling me about you.'

‘He was very helpful, putting me in touch with Nuala.'

‘To your mutual benefit, I'm sure,' Lois Breen said briskly. Her short blonde hair framed a face that consisted of keen grey eyes, a long nose and a large mouth. Rona's instant impression was of a woman who spoke her mind, who, though compassionate, did not suffer fools gladly and stood for no nonsense. It would be interesting to see if her assessment proved right.

‘Have you actually started yet?' Lois Breen enquired.

The lost tape flashed through Rona's mind but she answered steadily, ‘Yes, I've had one or two interviews. People are being generous with their time.'

‘Shall I also be coming under the spotlight?'

Rona smiled. ‘I'd be delighted to interview you, if you wouldn't mind.'

The grey eyes showed amusement. ‘Don't look for any revelations, though. The vicar's wife has to be the soul of discretion.'

‘Then we'll keep it strictly factual. Perhaps you could fill me in on previous incumbents?'

‘Done! Why don't you come round to supper this evening, so we can get to know each other?'

‘That's kind of you, but I'm driving home this afternoon. I'm only here two nights a week.'

‘Your next visit, then? Monday?'

‘Thank you, I'll look forward to it.'

‘Where are you off to now?'

‘I thought I'd explore a bit, try to get the feel of the place.'

‘Wednesday's market day, did you know? You might find that interesting. You know where Market Square is?'

‘Yes, I spent a large part of yesterday at the library.'

‘Worth a look, anyway. Well, enjoy yourself, and we'll see you about seven thirty on Monday.'

She turned away and walked back up the garden and Rona, abandoning her planned route, retraced her steps in the direction of the market. It was going to be a hot day; although still early, the sun already blazed in a cloudless sky, and the narrow confines of Clement's Lane were unpleasantly airless.

The square when she reached it looked very different from her last visit. It had been closed to traffic and its centre was a mass of colour as people thronged the aisles between the various stalls, stopping now and then to feel the fruit and vegetables, sample the display of cheeses, and riffle through the racks of clothes and stands of crockery, while above the sea of moving humanity the ancient stone cross rose lofty and apart. Along two sides of the square traders had parked their vans, some of which were being used for direct sales. There was a queue for fish at one, Rona noticed, and another, seizing on the bonus of a hot day, was dispensing ice cream. Anyone not visiting the market was confined to the narrow footpaths that ran round the square, and even there they were likely to be jostled.

Seeking a bird's-eye view, Rona climbed the steps to the library and leaned on the balustrade, unashamedly people-watching. Just below her, two traders were vying with each other, each shouting the value of his wares at the top of his voice. To her far left, safe behind their railings, the children of St Stephen's chased each other round their playground, and to her right she could see the bow window of the coffee shop, and two women seated at the table she'd occupied the previous day.

She made a note to speak to someone about the market; ask how long it had held its charter and whether any interesting events had befallen it in its long history. Idly she ran her eyes over the throng below her – and was disconcerted to find that she, the watcher, was being watched. Her observer was a slight, dark man who was leaning against a lamp post on the corner of the square. As their eyes met, he gave a slight smile of acknowledgement and she looked quickly away, ostensibly turning her attention to the stall immediately below her. When, several minutes later, she again glanced in his direction, he had disappeared.

A sudden shout rose above the general clamour, and at the far side of the square a scuffle broke out. Rona saw a figure break away and run off down one of the side roads, with another in hot pursuit.

‘What happened?' she asked a fat woman who'd just reached the top of the steps and was pausing to regain her breath.

The woman glanced behind her. ‘Bag-snatcher,' she replied laconically. ‘Happens every week. You'd think people would be on their guard.' And, shaking her head at their stupidity, she disappeared into the library.

Keeping a tight hold on her own handbag, Rona descended the steps, and immediately became engulfed in the crowd. She strolled up and down for a while, stopping to buy a can of lemonade and enjoying the generally good-humoured atmosphere. Eventually, when the heat generated by so many bodies became too much, she manoeuvred her way out of the square in search of the
Buckford Courier
. She'd checked their address when she phoned, and located it on the map she and Max had bought. Even so, it took several minutes to run it to earth, by which time, despite the cooling properties of the lemonade, she was uncomfortably hot again.

The newspaper was housed in a three-storey building with a private car park alongside. A placard bearing the paper's masthead was fixed to the wall above the door and she pushed her way inside, finding herself in a small foyer furnished with a couple of desks – one bearing a computer screen – a sofa and several armchairs. From behind one of the desks, a girl smiled a greeting.

‘I'm Rona Parish,' she introduced herself. ‘I've come to see Lew Grayson, if he's available?'

‘If you'd like to take a seat, I'll phone through.'

Rona seated herself on the sofa and looked about her. Potted plants were dotted around and on the walls blown-up photographs recalled past local events. Three doors led off the foyer, and as she glanced at them, one opened and a man came towards her. He wore a red, open-neck shirt and his face, hardly less red, had beads of perspiration at the hairline.

‘Rona Parish? Hi, I'm Lew Grayson. What can I do for you?'

‘I wanted to thank you for the plug last week,' Rona said diplomatically, ‘and I was wondering if there's any way we might be of use to each other.'

Someone else had entered the building and was speaking to the receptionist.

‘It's more peaceful upstairs,' Grayson said. ‘We'll use the editor's office – he's out today.'

He led her through a security door and up some stairs. At the top, a corridor led to what, as far as Rona could see, was the newsroom, an open space where people sat at desks staring at monitors. Grayson, however, had stopped short of it and, opening a door, ushered her into a small office, where he motioned her to a chair and seated himself behind the desk.

‘Delusions of grandeur!' he said with a grin. ‘Right – shoot.'

Rona explained that she was working freelance for
Chiltern Life
,
and briefly outlined her plans for the articles. ‘I want them to be from the human-interest angle – the development of education and architecture, yes, but principally how they affected the population. And I'm anxious to collect as many anecdotes as I can about eccentric or famous personalities over the years. Would there be any objection to my looking at your archives?'

‘No, they're open to everyone, but it would be as well to make an appointment.'

‘I realize that. I'm only here for three days a week, so it wouldn't be on this visit. And might it be possible to borrow some old photos – those you won't be using, of course? Obviously we'd credit you with them.'

Grayson lifted his shoulders and let them fall. ‘You'd have to speak to someone else about that, but I don't see why not. We're aiming at an entirely different readership.'

Rona gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘It sounds as though I'm simply recycling what other people have done, but I assure you I'm not. What I'm lacking is direct access – a means of obtaining people's memories of different events. How the war affected life in Buckford, how they celebrated VE Day and Royal Weddings – that kind of thing.'

Grayson thought for a minute, pulling at his lower lip. ‘I could run another piece, if that would help. Ask people to get in touch with you if they've anything to contribute?'

‘Would you?' Rona exclaimed eagerly. ‘That would be great!'

He pulled a piece of paper towards him and uncapped his pen. ‘Address and contact number?'

She hesitated, remembering the note on her windscreen. ‘My mobile would be best,' she said.

‘Sure.' He jotted it down.

‘I presume you'll be running special editions yourself when the time comes?' she hazarded.

‘Yep, but as I said, they'll be slanted differently from yours. There shouldn't be any clash.'

‘I really am very grateful,' she told him, rising to go.

He made a dismissive gesture. ‘It could work both ways; let us know if you come across any interesting lines.'

‘I will,' she promised, and he escorted her back to the foyer.

Outside, the heat lay in wait for her, and to her relief she saw the striped awning of a café a little way down the road. Like a homing pigeon she bore down on it, glad to find that not only were there vacant tables, but each one bore a jug of iced water and some glasses. She hadn't accomplished very much, she thought as she seated herself and picked up the jug, but nevertheless it had been an eventful morning.

When Rona emerged after lunch the heat had intensified, and her recharged energy promptly drained away. It was too hot to do anything outdoors, and since she was up-to-date with her notes there was no point in returning to the library. In any case, she didn't know what time the market ended, and the thought of battling her way through it again was more than she could bear.

She'd go home, she decided with a wave of relief. There was no need to stay until four, as she'd intended; she'd go back to Parsonage Place, pack her case, and set off for home. She'd even be in time to take Gus for a walk.

Unfamiliar with this part of town, she took several wrong turns and it was nearly two thirty when she put her key in the door of number two. Immediately raised voices reached her from the sitting room, and she hesitated. Better to announce her presence, before she unwittingly eavesdropped.

‘Nuala?' she called. ‘I'm back. I've decided to leave early, so I'll just collect my things, if that's all right.'

She had started up the stairs when Nuala, her face flushed and upset, emerged from the sitting room, pulling the door shut behind her.

‘Sorry, what did you say? You're leaving now?'

Rona gave her a bright smile. ‘Yes; sorry to barge in like this, but it's too hot to think, so I decided to cut my losses.'

Nuala hesitated, obviously torn between her lodger and the visitor in the room behind her. ‘So we'll see you on Monday?'

‘Yes. Oh, and Mrs Breen has invited me to supper that evening.'

‘One less pea in the soup, then,' Nuala said, with an attempt at a smile.

‘Thanks for looking after me, and I'll see you next week.'

She continued purposefully up the stairs and after a minute Nuala said, ‘Goodbye, then,' and returned to the sitting room. Rona, intentionally clattering about as she put things in her case, could hear the low hum of muted voices, but the argument or whatever it was had clearly been put on hold till she was out of the house.