Threats at Three (9 page)

Derek groaned, and Gran nodded in sympathy. “So we’re right in it, Lois, once more,” he said.

“Trust you, Lois,” Gran added. “All the nice women there are around needing jobs, and you have to take on a single mother with four sons, living on Social Services, abandoned by a violent no-good husband who could turn up any minute. Great. Well done, Lois.”

Lois stood up. “Have you finished, both of you?” she said coldly. “Then I’m off to bed. I’ll make the call first thing in the morning, Derek. And for your information, Paula Hickson is a very good, responsible mother, desperate to earn a bit of extra and not be a total drag on the state.
And
, unless I’m a lousy judge, she’ll be a reliable, honest member of my team. Don’t wake me up when you come to bed,” she added, barely suppressing her anger. She left the room, leaving Derek and Gran looking at each other in dismay.

“The end of a perfect day,” Derek said gloomily.

“She’ll come round. She always does.” Gran knew she was on thin ice here. Living with your daughter’s family was not always a cushy billet.

D
ON’T FORGET,” DEREK SAID NEXT MORNING, AS HE PULLED on his boots ready to go up to the allotment.

“I don’t need reminding,” Lois said. “I reckon something very nasty is going on, and I don’t mean gypsies and passing tramps. You go, and I’ll tell you what Cowgill says at lunchtime. He may not be in his office yet, but I can get hold of him anyway. Cheerio, love. See you later.” She smiled sweetly at him, and he went off to start his van, pretty sure he was forgiven.

Around nine o’clock, Lois dialled Cowgill’s number, and he answered with a brisk, “Good morning, Lois. How are you and the family?”

Must have someone with him, thought Lois. His opening words were usually something silly, like “how’s the light of my life.” She always snapped at him, but now missed the affection in his voice.

“There’s been another go at firing the village hall,” she said, and told him what had happened.

“Why weren’t we told straightaway?” he said, and then obviously turned away from the phone to say goodbye to someone. After a pause, he said, “But before we start, how’s the love of my life?” he added, his voice softened in the daft way that immediately triggered a sharp reply from Lois.

“Why don’t we just start again, instead of all that rubbish?” she said. “It was Derek’s decision to leave it ’til today, and the others backed him up. They made sure the hall was safe, then went home. Derek said they agreed it should be me phoning you. Can’t think why.”

“I can,” he said. “I am taking this seriously, Lois. Arson is a very nasty thing. It doesn’t necessarily stop at destroying a building. People can be involved, too. Remember the fire in the gypsies camp? A miracle nobody was hurt. No, I’ll get the best men for the job to look further into it. One attempt may well be a kids’ prank, but this second go at it nearly succeeded. If Derek and friends hadn’t noticed the smell of smoke, the fire could have taken hold and then God knows where it might have spread. Can you meet me down there at ten o’clock. I’ll have Chris with me.”

“Chris? Who’s he?”

“She,” Cowgill said. “Chris Botham is my new assistant. You’ll like her. She’s not unlike a certain dear girl who runs a cleaning business. Bright and quick. Not bad looking. Doesn’t tolerate fools gladly. Sharp tongue at times . . .”

“Ah, you can’t mean she’s like me, then,” said Lois. “I’m known for being a soft touch.”

“Ha!”

Lois could hear Cowgill chuckling, and then he said, “See you in a while, then.”

 

 

THE ANONYMOUS-LOOKING CAR DROVE INTO THE VILLAGE HALL car park, and Lois watched the tall figure of Cowgill get out, then a slim, dark woman wearing a grey jacket and skirt that revealed a pair of well-shaped legs and sensible shoes. The two of them headed across to join Lois in the hall porch, and after the introductions were made, she showed them the charred beam where the smoldering stick had been shoved in behind.

A burst of loud, jolly music came from inside the hall. “Aerobics,” said Lois.

“Very good for you,” said Chris Bowler.

“Not for me,” Lois said. “Tried it once an’ it nearly killed me. Anyway, I get exercise enough in my job. Scrubbin’ and cleanin’ and—”

“—washing and ironing, not to mention gardening and cooking,” finished Cowgill, and he put his hand on Lois’s shoulder. “She’s a wonder,” he said, turning to his new assistant. “I couldn’t do without her,” he added, and to Lois’s embarrassment, his voice was husky.

She changed the subject, said they should go inside. She added that Inspector Cowgill might like to see aerobics in action. He’d certainly get an eyeful of the female form, she said innocently.

Once inside, Lois was interested to see Kate Adstone with a sleeping baby in a pushchair. And there was Floss, waving to Lois from behind the rest, a surprised look on her face.

Cowgill walked up to the instructor, a trim-looking woman, blonde hair tied back and not an ounce of fat on her. Lois could see the old charm working its magic on her, and then a break was announced. Cowgill signalled Lois and Chris to go around the edges of the hall with him.

“How’s your sense of smell, Lois?” Chris said.

“Good, more’s the pity sometimes.”

“Great. Any whiffs of smoke or petrol, call me over.”

“I’ll go into the kitchen,” Lois said. “That’s where the villain would be most likely to break in, if he wanted. Mind you, I reckon they planned to set the fire going from outside, without bothering to come in. Quick getaway, an’ that. After all, this old wooden building would go up like bonfire night, once the fire took hold.”

Chris nodded. “Still, worth checking,” she said.

Lois stood in the kitchen and sniffed. Instant coffee. Damp. Mice. Drains. Nothing unexpected. She walked into the toilet, which was old but clean. Disinfectant and air freshener. And then, yes, petrol . . .

She looked up and saw that the small window was unlatched. She followed the sniff to the corner of the cubicle behind the lavatory brush, where it became strong. Oh no, was that a small puddle on the floor? Pee? She couldn’t smell pee. A small wad of toilet paper was enough to dip into it. Petrol. Through the open door she called out to Cowgill, and he came quickly, with Chris at his side.

“Here! Smell this.” She held out the toilet tissue, and he took it gingerly.

“If this is some kind of a joke, Lois, I shall be forced to . . .” He sniffed, then held it out to Chris. She nodded. “So we need to lock up the place and get the chaps down.”

The aerobics instructor was not pleased, but dismissed the class and said she sincerely hoped she would see them the same time next week.

 

 

BY THE TIME LOIS REACHED HOME, GRAN HAD LUNCH WELL ON the way and Derek was back from the allotment, his feet up on the kitchen table, reading the local paper.

“D’you mind!” Lois said. “We have to eat off that table, in case you hadn’t noticed, Derek Meade.”

He grinned at her, and didn’t move.

“Any luck with your tame inspector?” he said. He had now come to think that the two attempts to burn down the village hall had been made by the same person, and he was fairly sure he knew which person. A swift and strong warning from the police was all that was needed, he was certain, to stop the young fool. No doubt he’d find other places to vandalise, but as long as it wasn’t in Farnden, Derek could put it out of his mind.

“Three of us met down there. Cowgill, his assistant and me. And I got the lucky break. I found the toilet had been broken into, through that dodgy window, and there was a strong smell of petrol.”

“Did you find the can?”

Lois shook her hand. “Just a puddle,” she said. “But I reckon there must’ve been more than one person. It’d take a skinny bloke to get through the window, an’ he wouldn’t have a hope in hell if he tried carrying a petrol can. Must’ve been handed to him once he was inside.”

“So why didn’t he set fire to it there an’ then?” Gran said, beating eggs as if they had insulted her.

“He’d got to get out first,” Derek said. His attention was now fully on what Lois was saying. “Probably frightened off—maybe by us—before he could throw a match in. Ye Gods, Lois,” he added. “It don’t bear thinkin’ about, the damage they could’ve done. Is Cowgill taking action? You told him about the Hickson lot, I hope?”

He could’ve bitten his tongue out. Lois’s face darkened, and she turned on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen.

“Oh, dear,” Gran said. “I should lay off that one, Derek, if I were you. Let’s wait an’ see what the police find out.”

Derek sighed. “I wish we’d never heard of the bloody police,” he said.

“Language,” Gran said automatically. “Go on,” she added, “go and make your peace. And don’t forget that I’m on your side, as well as Lois’s.”

At this piece of lousy logic, Derek burst out laughing and went off to find Lois.

F
ATHER RODNEY WALKED BRISKLY THROUGH THE OLD CEMETERY, across the road and into the churchyard. The clock struck ten o’clock as he quickened his step through the rose bushes and fragrant lavender to greet the bell ringers, who were already waiting to go into the church.

“We’ve had more turnover than Tesco’s,” Tony Dibson said, catching sight of the vicar. He was pushing his wheelchair-bound wife up the uneven path, just as he did every Sunday for morning service. She listened while the bell ringers, including Tony, rang out the peals, if a little unevenly, across the surrounding countryside. “Come
to
church, come
to
church,” they seemed to call.

The vicar, smoothing his wiry hair in front of the small, cracked mirror in the vestry, wished the call was answered by more people than the elderly faithful few who turned up, rain or shine, to worship their Maker and reserve a place for themselves in the hereafter.

The Dibsons had arrived inside the church, and Irene said, “What did you mean, about Tesco’s and turnover?” Tony pushed her to a suitable place where she would not block the exit in case of fire. The thought of fire reminded him of the village hall and he wondered if Lois had found out anything more.

“Tony! What did you mean?” Irene could see his mind was elsewhere, but persisted.

“Vicars,” he said. “Turnover in vicars. They never stay long in Farnden. Must be something about this village.”

“Nothing wrong with us,” Irene said, “except maybe we could do with a few more in church. Go on, then, I’m all right. Off you go. Get ringing, boy.”

 

 

THE VILLAGE HALL AND THE PLAYING FIELD AT THE REAR WERE approached by a narrow lane, and Gavin Adstone walked along trying to avoid piles of horse dung left by a group of girls on ponies heading for the bridle path that led out of the playing field and over the stream. “More horses than people in this village,” he muttered to himself, cursing as a dollop of the sticky stuff stuck to the toe of his shoe. “And the horses would win in an IQ test every time,” he added angrily.

He was heading for a meeting with John Thornbull, the only member of the SOS committee who might possibly be persuaded to Gavin’s point of view. John was a practical man, a farmer with education and a small daughter a year or two older than Cecelia. He was more likely to be able to see a future for Long Farnden than the rest of the old codgers or dim-witted women Derek Meade had enlisted.

He could hear voices coming through the open door of the hall, but not John Thornbull’s. Damn, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Still, he could go in and have a look round. He’d never really examined the place properly, and with a few informed criticisms of the structure and its proposed renovations, he might still be able to persuade SOS into seeing the folly of the restoration proposal.

The cricket wives were gathered in the kitchen preparing tea for the afternoon match. Gavin looked in, smiled his most charming, and asked if he might wander round. “I’m a newcomer, as you already know,” he said, addressing Floss, who seemed to be in charge. Her Ben was captain of the team, and she presided over sandwiches and cakes and umpteen cups of tea.