Lois Meade 01: Murder on Monday (EN, 2002) (13 page)

That was a good word. Things rotting under the surface. Villages were like that, in Lois’s considerable experience. All thatched cottages and roses round the door on the surface, but like a muck heap underneath.

There was quite a lot more, odd facts and snatches of conversation that she had noted down, and she realized she had amassed some useful inside information, some of which, in due course, she should probably pass on.

Lois looked up at the kitchen clock and was amazed to see that in ten minutes the first of her brood would be bursting through the door, hungry, irritable and overexcited by the approaching season of goodwill. She sighed. She loved Christmas when it came, but at this stage saw it more as the season of spending, drinking and eating enough to feed two starving families for weeks. Lois stood up, pushed her chair back, and closed her notebook. She put it back in its hiding place, pleased that she had several positive lines of enquiry to pursue. Got the jargon, Lois, she said to herself, and went to the freezer to see what she could rustle up for tea.

A
s Christmas approached, Keith Simpson decided it was time he had another word with Lois Meade before the school holidays and seasonal shutdown put her out of his reach for weeks. He was certain she was beavering away on her own, gathering information about the murder of Gloria Hathaway, and telling him as little as possible. In fact, telling him nothing. There was, of course, nothing to prevent her from her own investigations, but if he felt she was withholding vital information from the police, then he had every right to put on some pressure.

The morning he had caught her in Gloria Hathaway’s house had been proof that she was still very curious. Her feeble excuse about a trapped cat had not fooled him for one minute. However, he’d judged it best to let her off the hook. Well, not exactly off the hook, but play out the line a bit, just to see what she would do next. Trouble was, she was elusive. He knew which houses she went to, but if he turned up asking for her that would give the game away and her clients would stop talking to her at once, suspecting her of colluding with the police. As for her own home, she’d agreed to cooperate with him and Janice Britton only if he promised not to come bothering her family. So far, her idea of co-operation had not amounted to much, and Hunter Cowgill was asking pointed questions. He seemed to be more interested in Lois’s potential, rather than the information garnered from her so far, and Keith himself was still convinced she could be a valuable source if she chose.

He decided to take another turn around the Hathaway cottage and if he happened to see Lois in the village, well and good. All most irregular, he worried. Still, at the moment he had no option but to play it Lois’s way, and keep his Inspector informed.

∗

Lois unloaded Nurse Surfleet’s clothes from her washing machine and glanced out of the window. High clouds and a fresh, cold wind. Rain had been forecast, but there was no sign of it yet. She fetched-the peg bag and went out into the back yard, where she fixed the washing line and began to hang out the wet, cold clothes. The wind blew a pillowcase slapping against her face, and she swore, wishing she’d put them in the drier as usual. But, as her mother frequently reminded her, waste not, want not, and if the wind would dry the clothes, why waste money on electricity? Lost in such thoughts, Lois did not at first hear the faint knocking. It grew louder, and she turned around. It seemed to be coming from Gloria’s cottage, and she peered up at the window where the sound came from. The window opened and she saw Keith Simpson beckoning to her and nodding fiercely. Blast! She’d been keeping out of his way, too busy with Christmas looming to have had time to think much about Gloria Hathaway. She turned away. Best to ignore him. She took the now empty basket and was about to return to the house, when a thought struck her. If she went over there now, it would be an opportunity, however constrained, to look around the cottage again. It might be her only chance.

She took a quick look around. Nobody on the footpath and Nurse Surfleet not due back until lunchtime. She put the clothes basket in the kitchen, locked the door, put the key in her pocket, then went through out to the path at the back of the cottages and into Gloria’s back garden. Not a soul in the street and only Keith’s car parked outside. Lois headed for the back door, which she saw stood ajar, and slipped inside.

“Up here, Lois,” said Keith’s voice, and she climbed swiftly up the stairs.

As she reached the top, she said, “This had better be something good, fetching me over from…” Her voice tailed away, as she saw a man who was not Keith Simpson sitting at Gloria’s dressing table, his back to the mirror.

“Morning, Mrs Meade,” said Hunter Cowgill. “Very nice of you to come over. We shan’t keep you long.”

After Lois had recovered from the shock, and Keith had introduced his Detective Inspector, something like a conversation eventually got going. Lois was angry. She was angry about being tricked by Keith Simpson, she was angry with this cool, polite policeman for putting him up to it, and she was still very angry with the police in general for turning her down. Every time she saw a woman in police uniform she felt a stab of anger. It should have been her. Still, it was clear they wanted her now, but in a very different way.

“You’ve had an unusual arrangement,” said Hunter Cowgill mildly. He suggested that Keith should now go and keep a lookout downstairs.

Dismissed, thought Keith Simpson, and reluctantly withdrew. It had been his idea, after all.

“What arrangement?” said Lois. “There wasn’t any arrangement with Keith and Janice. It was just informal. I’d tell them if anything came my way, and they’d tell me any bits that might help me put things together. In any case, nothing much has happened lately, either way.”

“I know,” said Cowgill. “That’s why I’m here. I’d like you to step it up a bit. I can give you some lines to go on and you can feed back to me what you discover. You’d be recompensed of course.” He was not prepared for Lois’s reaction, and recoiled.

“
What!
” she spat out. “Me a bloody grass! You must be off your trolley, mister!”

“No, no,” said Hunter Cowgill. “You’ve got it all wrong.” His patient voice was the final straw.

“Strikes me I’ve got it exactly right!” she yelled at him from halfway down the stairs.

At the foot, Keith stood, barring her way and looking very uncomfortable indeed. “Hear him out, Lois,” he said pleadingly. “It’s not grassing, not like that at all.”

“It’d be something new, a try-out,” said Cowgill from Gloria’s bedroom. “At least listen to what I’ve got to say.”

Lois’s face was scarlet and her heart thudding in her ears. What the hell would Derek say? She shook her head, and advanced towards Keith Simpson, who did not move.

“There could be another murder,” said the cool voice from upstairs. “Always a danger. We need to move on pretty fast now. Your help could be vital, Mrs Meade.”

For God’s sake, thought Lois quickly. It’s not my business. I don’t even live here! But then, I have made it my business, my cleaning business, and that’s why they want me. Duty? Is that what he’s getting at? Oh, to hell with it. She turned around and went slowly back upstairs. “Go on, then,” she said. “Explain.”

Hunter Cowgill smiled then. “No money, then,” he said. “Nothing to do with grassing, something different. Just information. It’ll be a bit one-sided, I’m afraid. Rules are rules. But I can guide you along lines of enquiry, help you put together what you know. You are interested in that, aren’t you? And all under strict cover, of course. That’s vital for both sides. You’d have to be aware of possible danger to yourself. I’m not saying it will come to anything, Mrs Meade,” he added. “Considering your exceptional position in this village, it should, in my view, be given a try.”

There was a long silence while Lois thought about it. This was different from dealing with Keith Simpson. He was a lowly constable, and she felt quite at ease with him, and with Janice Britton. But this man was an inspector, a boss. Oh well, she thought finally, he’s just a man, like all the rest, and she nodded. “OK, give it a try,” she said, and sank down on to a frilled bedside chair.

“Good!” said Cowgill, sitting up straighter. “Now, anything you want to tell me now? I expect you’re anxious to get back as soon as possible.”

Lois frowned. Ah well, here goes. “Did you know the Prof’s done a bunk?” she said.

“We know he’s away on business,” said Cowgill. “Is there more? Gone to Russia, his wife says.”

Lois hesitated. Was this disloyalty? This was going to be difficult. Still, it could be important. “More like buggering off, if you ask me,” she said. “He’s always been one to spread it about a bit. She was a mess when he went, but manages now, just about.”

“Another woman?” said Cowgill.

“She thinks so,” Lois replied. “It could have something to do with your second round of questioning. That’s what I thought, anyway. He’s not actually gone off before. More the quick fumble before the wife sees – that kind of thing. Anyway, over to you. I shall no doubt hear more next week, if he’s not already back.” She stood up. “Got to go now, else the nurse’ll be back. I’ll pick a bit of holly in Gloria’s garden on my way – a reason for being here…”

“Gloria’s not going to need it, that’s for sure,” said Hunter Cowgill, with a small smile that was quickly gone. “Thanks, then, Mrs Meade. I’ll be in touch.”

Keith was still at the foot of the stairs, but now stood to one side as Lois came down. “Rat!” she said, as she passed him, and then, because his face fell like one of the boys in trouble, she added, “You know what’s out of kilter in that bedroom?” He shook his head. “The bed,” she said. “That horrible bed. And them dolls. Blimey, would
you
want to hop in there?” She was gratified at the embarrassment on Keith’s face, and left the cottage, brushing past the trellis surrounding the front door as she escaped. She felt in a turmoil filled with such mixed feelings, which were relieved only by loud cursing when she pricked her hand on the vicious holly in Gloria’s garden.

∗

“Those are lovely berries!” said Gillian Surfleet, walking into her yard as Lois returned. “What a good idea. Thank you!” she added, as Lois gingerly handed her the branches of holly. “Poor old Gloria used to make a lot of Christmas, though she was always on her own…mostly…”

Lois looked at her closely. “What do you mean, ‘mostly’?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Gillian said, shrugging. She took off her coat and put down her bag, full of supplies for the sick and convalescent in the surrounding villages.

Lois thought again how capable she looked, with her generous bosom and sturdy legs. I wouldn’t mind being looked after by her. She wondered if Gloria had come to her for reassurance, spilling out her worries and disappointments. “Gillian,” she said hesitantly. “Gillian, did Miss Hathaway have admirers? You know, boyfriends of any sort? You’d be the one to see them going up and down the garden path.”

Gillian Surfleet looked away, shaking her head. “Better not ask me that, Lois,” she said. “You know what they say: eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves. And I can’t deny I did hear some conversations through the garden hedge that wouldn’t bear repeating to the wrong person.”

“Like the police?”

Again Gillian nodded. “Best to keep things to yourself if you’re not sure what they mean,” she said. “It’s against the rules of my job to gossip. You can just imagine how many secrets I’m privy to on my rounds.”

Well, you’ve told
me
something, thought Lois. So the sharp and solitary Gloria did have admirers or boyfriends or whatever. Men. Men used to go up and down her path and in and out of the little arched trellis. As Lois polished, she wondered where else the men went. Up the stairs and into the scented bedroom with the huge bed and its creepy pile of dolls? And which men?

Her work finished, Lois struggled into her coat. She had more layers than usual to keep out the cold, and felt like an overstuffed armchair with her scarlet scarf round her neck and thick knitted gloves. But it was still cold and the heater had finally packed up in her car. One thing, she said to herself as she drove slowly up Farnden main street, the murderer may not have gone up and down Gloria’s path that night, but he certainly knew where she would be, where he could find her and finish her off in that violent way. Must have been easy. Lois shivered. Skinny woman like that, with a neck like a chicken. She peered round into the Barratts’ to see if there were any signs of the Prof’s return. There were no cars in the drive, and the windows looked blank and lifeless.

Lois changed gear with a clumsy grating sound and accelerated out of the village. The Prof was a strong man. She’d seen him in the garden heaving great rocks about when they were building that fancy pond. He’d wring the necks of those poor pheasants he went shooting without a qualm, she was sure. It was the obvious conclusion. But it was too obvious. Lois had read enough detective stories to know that the obvious suspect is never the guilty one. She wished she had asked Nurse Surfleet if she’d ever seen Professor Barratt knocking at Gloria’s door. Still, she wouldn’t have told Lois. Professional secrecy, and all that. Gloria Hathaway was hardly Malcolm’s type, was he? Lois couldn’t imagine what type would want to jump into that bed with Gloria Hathaway, poor stringy thing, with her gingery hair and freckled skin. But there was always someone, and the attraction could have been that Gloria was willing.

Swerving to avoid a roving dog brought her sharply back to the present. That Cowgill’s got me thinking again, she realized, and felt suddenly happy. It was, after all, what she’d wanted. Put your brain to work, her dad had said so many times, and she hadn’t. Well, now she was, and what the result would be was anyone’s guess. At least I’ll have had a go, she told herself, and turned into Byron Way with a flourish.

When she opened the door, she saw Derek sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in his hand, his shoes off, reading the sports pages. “Home early!” she said. “What went wrong at the Hall?”