Theft on Thursday (34 page)

“Thank God for that,” said Annabelle. “He’s very dangerous, you know … you were so brave …”

“Rubbish,” said Jamie. “How d’you know he was dangerous? Didn’t show much sign of it in London.”

“Off his patch, I suppose. But he and Sandy cooked up that fire, you know.” Her voice was light, casual. “It went wrong, of course, but it was meant to be the vicar on his pyre.”

“What d’you mean!” Jamie felt suddenly cold. “The vicar … Brian Rollinson?”

Annabelle nodded. “Sandy fixed it. Poured petrol round the outside of the house, and all the Society had to do was light a match. Fires are their thing. But I reckon Sandy went to sleep or something. And the vicar stayed too long in the pub. So bingo! Sandy cindered instead.”

“How do you know all this? And why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I had a good reason,” Annabelle said loftily, “not to tell all of it. Even to you. Anyway, I suppose it’s OK now if you say they’ve picked him up. I heard too much, Jamie. It was one night when Max and Sandy were having a meeting in the stables. They didn’t know I was in the tack room, and could hear every word. You can see now why we had to keep quiet …”

Jamie’s face fell, but Annabelle didn’t notice, and continued, “I’m probably the only one except slimy Max who knows what really happened. So that makes me target number one.”

“Annabelle.” Jamie sat up, moving her gently away from him. “I don’t know for certain they’ve got him. He could’ve given them the slip, be anywhere … around here maybe. You’ve got to tell the police straightaway!”

Annabelle froze. “You said they’d got him! I wouldn’t’ve
told you all that!” Her eyes were wide and staring. “I’m not safe anywhere! Oh God, if he’s still on the loose … And how do you know they were after him? You didn’t tell …? Christ, I’m not going near the police!” She rushed to the window, as if an army of men in white hoods marched down the drive.

“Listen, Annabelle,” he insisted, but she shrank back from him, shaking her head. “Give me a chance to explain,” he begged, and gave her a brief account of his conversation with Cowgill.

It was as he expected. She retreated further from him, and when he’d finished telling her, said in her grandmother’s iciest voice, “How could you? I thought I could trust you. Should’ve known better. Just get going, Jamie Meade.” And she disappeared into her bathroom and shut the door. He made his way out of the cold, echoing Hall, and went off into the night, weighed down with the terrible facts Annabelle had given him, knowing they’d have to be passed on. He stopped outside his house and saw lights were on. Mum would still be up, thank God. She’d be the one to tell. Jamie had never felt so miserable.

C
ONVERSATION WAS SPARSE AS
D
EREK
, L
OIS
, J
AMIE
and Gran, journeyed to Sandy’s funeral. Derek had borrowed a neighbour’s car. “Can’t turn up to a funeral in a van,” he’d insisted.

“I don’t know why we’re going, really,” Lois muttered. “Not knowing what we know.” She glanced at Jamie, whose glum face was turned away, staring out of the window.

“Don’t be silly, Lois,” Gran said. “We’re going for Marion’s sake. He was her son, whatever else he was. Like Jamie is your son. The poor woman has nothing but sorrow to look back on, what with her husband and now Sandy. Surely it’s not asking too much of you, is it?”

Lois was quiet. Gran was right, of course. But she couldn’t help thinking that justice had been done as far as Sandy Mackerras was concerned. As for Max Wedderburn … She glanced at Jamie, and felt a stab of panic. After what Annabelle had told him, he would not be safe until Cowgill had got that mad idiot. If anything happened to Jamie …

They pulled up outside an ugly, redbrick Victorian
church, where a small crowd had gathered. Publicity about the fire had stimulated the usual macabre curiosity, and Derek and family were stared at as they parked the car and walked into the churchyard. Flowery wreaths lined the path, and Lois stopped to read one or two cards. Then she saw Bill, with Rebecca walking a couple of paces behind him. Oh dear. Still, if Bill could turn the other cheek and bring her to Sandy’s funeral, surely Rebecca would see she’d made a big mistake? Then Rebecca paused and looked down, her hand covering her mouth, curbing emotion. Lois joined her, and saw a child’s colourful drawing, neatly framed. It was of a house, four-square, with four windows, two chimneys with smoke curling from them, a red front door, and a large, brightly shining sun. In crooked letters, a small hand had written:
“For Sandy, from Waltonby C of E Junior School.”

“The competition,” muttered Rebecca. “It never got going, but …”

Bill took her hand and drew her away and into the church.

It was very different from the one the Meades were used to. Farnden church was small, plain and comforting. This one had statues and gilding, and rows of shiny pews and liver-coloured stone tiles which echoed as feet clacked dismally to their places. It was cold, the kind of cold that heaters cannot dispel.

Brian Rollinson and Marion had left Farnden early on the day before the funeral, with profuse thanks to Gran and Lois for their kind hospitality. Derek had been there, and had said gruffly that it was nuthin’. The least they could do. And did the vicar know that old Cyril’s house would be up for rent more or less straightaway? It’d be just right for a man on his own.

Now Derek led the way to a pew near the back of the church, and they watched as a seemingly endless stream of
strangers walked solemnly to their seats. “Marion must be well liked,” whispered Lois, feeling contrite.

Derek nodded. “People are sorry for her, I expect,” he replied. “Brought the lad up on her own, didn’t she,” he added, looking past Lois at his own son, sitting straight at the end of the pew. Good grief, he thought, how is that poor woman goin’ to cope?

The church was full now, and a slight disturbance outside the open door signalled that the funeral procession had arrived. Lois was taken back immediately to old Cyril’s funeral, as she heard Brian Rollinson’s voice, not so strong and confident this time, but clear and audible to all. The procession moved slowly down the aisle, and the tension was unbearable. Marion had a veil over her face, just like Jackie Kennedy, thought Lois, to shield her from prying eyes. Good for her.

The closed door of the church creaked open a fraction, and a slight figure crept in. Lois turned, and saw Sharon’s blonde head dip briefly towards the altar. Then she slid into the back pew, alongside a tall, soldierly figure. Sharon had begged her father to bring her to the funeral, but he had refused to go into the church with her. “I’ll wait,” he’d said grimly. “You go in by yourself, if you must.”

Now she fumbled in her pocket for a tissue, and watched the procession reach the chancel steps. The undertakers gently lowered the coffin, and the mourners filled the front pews. Sharon recognized Sandy’s mother and gulped. It was so sad, sadder than anything she’d ever read. And nothing properly sorted out yet. She still woke in the night from terrifying nightmares. No happy ending to this one. She mopped her eyes and turned to her tall, silent neighbour. A military man, she saw, and wearing one of those funny caps with brims that come down over their noses. She couldn’t see his eyes as he turned to look at her, but felt a sudden start of apprehension.

Then he smiled slightly, showing discoloured teeth.

Sharon screamed, a loud echoing scream that reached the vaulting and the altar and penetrated even the closed coffin, though Sandy Mackerras was beyond hearing.

O
UTSIDE THE CHURCH
,
CURIOUS ONLOOKERS WERE
still there, waiting to see the mourners emerge in distress on their way to the churchyard. Much sooner than expected, the church door was flung open and a soldier in a smart uniform ran out at the double, down the path towards them. But just before he reached them, a man in a good grey suit stepped out from behind a tombstone and blocked his way.

“Ah, there you are, Cockshutt,” they heard him say, and then a police car drew up, and they watched him being led away, cursing and shouting.

“What did he say?” said a woman to her friend.

“I think he said, ‘Sod off, Cowgill! I’ll get that bugger Stan if it’s the last thing I do!’ I
think
that’s what he said,” she nodded.

“Blimey,” was the reply. “Best funeral we’ve been to!”

F
OR SALE
NOTICES WENT UP OUTSIDE THE SHOP
soon after the funeral, and Derek came home after celebrating his football team’s triumph to find Lois and Gran setting the table for tea.

“Why the extra place?” he said. He could definitely see one more than usual. He blinked, to make sure. After all, he’d been careful to watch the pints.

“Josie’s coming,” Gran said. “Lois and me and her are having a planning meeting.”

“A
what
?” said Derek, with sinking heart.

Lois smiled at him. “Go and get washed, love,” she said. “All will be revealed.”

She was being much too nice to him, and he frowned. “What’re you lot up to?” he said.

At that moment, his daughter Josie breezed in through the door, bringing light and sunshine and melting away any suspicious thoughts he had had. “Hi, Dad!” she said. “Has Mum told you? We’re taking on the village shop, we three
together,” and she put her arms round Gran’s and Lois’s shoulders.

Three faces beamed at him, and he knew he hadn’t a cat’s chance in hell of opposing them.

“Right,” he said. “Gel the kettle on, Gran. And make the tea good and strong.”