Tragedy at Two (10 page)

“But I’m not sorry I agreed to do it,” she said. “Them gypsies are a lot better behaved than some of the kids I could name. They keep themselves to themselves.”

“I reckon it’s the tall one is the stirrer,” Derek said. “The little ’un hardly ever speaks. But the tall one looks as if he’d not mind a challenge. Knew a lot, too, Gran. Maybe not a true gypsy.”

“Do you reckon it’s too late to ring Sheila?” Lois said. “Sam looked as if he might teach her a lesson when they got home.”

“He’d not hurt her, Lois,” said Gran. “Not Sam Stratford. He may have a sharp tongue, but he’s never hurt a fly. Never would.”

“Leave it ’til morning, me duck,” Derek said. “It’ll all look different in the morning.”

WE SHOULD BE GOING,” ATHALIA SAID TO GEORGE, WHEN they were inside. “I feel it. Surely y’ know in your bones when you should move on, when you’re not wanted?”

“We’re not wanted anywhere,” George said. “But at least Alf Smith doesn’t mind us being here. He likes us around, he says.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Athalia replied. “He has this fancy idea that he is a gypsy way back. Likes to think he’s one of us.”

“Maybe he is,” said George. “After all, he wouldn’t be the first one to claim Romany ancestry. We’re a mixed up lot, aren’t we?”

Athalia shook her head. “Only a few of us have married outside,” she said. “You of all people should know that. It’s not easy once you’ve done that. Your father found out the hard way.”

George drew himself up to his full height and banged his head on the caravan ceiling. This made Athalia laugh, and the tension dispersed. “Yeah, I know,” he said, “but we survived. Anyway, we weren’t talking about me, we was talking about Alf Smith. He’s a good bloke. Wants to come to Appleby with us again. What d’you reckon?”

Athalia shook her head. “He could go by himself this time, but not try to be one of us. You know what the others are like, us being blamed for that murder. Appleby could be a foreign country in fair week. Romany families from all over the world, exchanging news. Appleby folk lock their doors and batten down the hatches. Shops shut, and hotels turn us away. Mind you, I blame us for a lot of it. There’s always the bad ’uns. And none of us try to mix in. I remember bein’ with my daughter and her dog, crossing the bridge. An elderly woman came by and said something nice about the dog. My girl glared at her and walked on, pulling the dog behind her. Now that wasn’t doin’ us any good, was it?”

George shook his head. “But about tonight,” he began, and gave Athalia a brief account of what happened. “They were waiting for us. Me and Jal going along at our own pace, minding our own business. We’d joined in the quiz in the pub, and caused a lot o’ barracking. Then on the way home, kids outside the phone box called out after us, but we kept going. Jal was pulling me along, scared I’d have a go at them! Then there they were, this gang of big kids, waving sticks and shouting.”

“Who were they? Did you get a look at them?”

“It was very dark, but I reckon I know the ringleader.”

“Who?”

“Can’t tell you. Not until I’m sure. Then we’ll know what to do.”

Athalia shook her head. “We should be moving on,” she repeated. “I don’t like it at all. Bad things will happen. Listen to what I say, George, and trust an old gypsy woman.”

He smiled at her. “We’ll go, Athalia,” he said, “but not until we’re ready.”

IN A COMFORTABLE MODERN HOUSE IN BLACKBERRY GARDENS, Nancy and Joe Brown turned down the sound on their television and listened. There were unmistakable sounds of their seventeen-year-old son stumbling his drunken way into the kitchen in the dark. Joe turned the sound up again and stared at the screen without taking anything in. His wife, Nancy, got up from her chair. “Shall I go to him?” she said in an anxious voice.

“No. Let him get on with it. I’ll sort him out in the morning.”

“But he might—”

“Might what? Throw up? Break a leg going upstairs? Whatever happens he deserves it. Leave him alone to suffer. Maybe he’ll learn that way.”

Nancy said nothing, but sat down again, her hands clenched. She wished for the hundredth time that they had not moved out to this small village. If they’d stayed in Tresham there would have been youth clubs, bowling alleys, all sorts to keep teenagers off the streets. It had been Joe who was keen on the move, just because his ancestors had lived in Long Farnden. They’d been farmers until the family line came to an end. A bad end, as it happened, when his great uncle had gone bust and the farm had been sold. Joe didn’t want to farm—he was doing nicely in the property business—but he said he felt the call of the land. Call of the land, indeed! It was as much as Nancy could do to get him to cut the lawns.

To their surprise, the sitting room door opened and a grinning Mark stood there, holding out a pair of muddy boots.

“Get these clean for me, Mum, there’s a love,” he said. “Got to go for that interview tomorrow, early. Hi, Dad. Dad? Anyone at home?” he added to his father, who had not bothered to look at him.

“Bugger off! And clean your own boots!” Joe said. He turned off the television and stood up. “No, wait a minute,” he said. “Where’ve you been all this time? In the pub, from the look of you. You know what the police said. If you and that no-good friend of yours should catch their eye again you’ll be in trouble.”

“God, I’m so scared!” Mark said mockingly. “And you’ll be pleased to hear me and the rest have been out in the fresh air. Training for the local marathon we are. Your son is fit and strong, just like you wanted.” He swayed a little, and put out a hand to steady himself on the door post. “Ready for anything, we are now. We’ll show you,” he giggled, and until his father slapped him around the face, he was unable to stop.

MORNING, HAZEL. YOU’RE EARLY?” LOIS WAS STILL IN HER dressing gown. It was a slinky satin number that Derek had given her last Christmas, entirely inappropriate, she said, for a working woman running a cleaning business. But she loved it, loved the smooth, slithery feel of it. If only she hadn’t gone to the pub last night, if only she’d had a long, scented bath and waited until Derek came home, full of bonhomie and love. . . .

She sighed, and dragged her mind back to Hazel, who was saying she was phoning from home and was very sorry she’d not be able to go to the office, as she had a stomach bug that had now resulted in the trots.

“Sorry, Mrs. M—both ends! I’ll let you know how it goes and be in touch later—ooh! Here we go again—’bye!”

Gran was downstairs already, and Lois was drawn towards the kitchen by the irresistible smell of frying bacon. “Morning, Mum,” she said. “Looks like I have to go into the Tresham office today. Hazel’s poorly. Just as well I haven’t got any appointments.”

Gran handed her a mug of hot coffee, and a plate of sizzling bacon. “Better get this down you then,” she said, “I don’t suppose you’ll have time for lunch. Oh, yes, and by the way, I lay awake last night for a long time, thinking about Rob and Josie an’ that. Nothing much seems to be happening on that front. Have you heard anything from your cop friend?”

“No,” Lois said shortly. “But I reckon the village has made up its mind who dunnit.”

“Gypsies?”

“Right first time. If the police don’t move soon, I reckon there’s going to be trouble. Really nasty stuff, Mum.”

“What about them roughs from behind the village hall? What happened about them?”

“Nothing, ’sfar as I know. That was a nonstarter, anyway. Knee-jerk reaction from Cowgill, probably.” She mopped up delicious bacon fat from the plate with a piece of fried bread and stood up. “Derek’s shaving,” she said. “I’ll go and sort some papers, then I’ll be off. Thanks for a healthy breakfast. Yum.”

“I’ll be seeing Mrs. Pickering this afternoon,” Gran called after her. “Might get some useful gossip.” What a mess, she thought to herself. And Lois getting in deeper, as usual. “Derek!” she shouted up the stairs. “Breakfast’s ready!”

 

 

“HELLO? IS THAT YOU, ELSIE?”

“Yes, it’s me,” said Gran. “Are you poorly?”

“No,” Mrs. Pickering said. “You’re coming over this afternoon, aren’t you? Well, I thought of asking my neighbour in for a cuppa. Would you mind? She’s not a bad sort, and has a pig of a husband.”

“O’ course not,” Gran said. “What’s her name? I might have met her in the shop.”

“Nancy, Nancy Brown. Right then, I’ll see you about half past three. Oh, and could you pop into the shop on your way and bring me a packet of those oatie biscuits Josie’s got in stock?”

At half past three exactly, Gran rang Pickerings’ doorbell. “Come on in, Elsie,” Joan Pickering said. “Come and meet Nancy.”

Gran’s first impression was of a neatly dressed woman, greying hair and a wary look that seemed familiar to Gran.

“Hello, Mrs. Weedon,” Nancy said. “You won’t know me, but I know you from the shop. I think you were in the stock-room one day when I came in. It’s your granddaughter, isn’t it, who runs the shop?”

Gran nodded.

“I must say how sorry I was about her—um—partner. What a dreadful thing that was. Are they any nearer to solving . . .” Her voice petered out, and at that moment Gran remembered her. On the front page of the local newspaper, she was standing with her husband behind a couple of youths who had been hauled in for questioning shortly after Rob’s death.

“Not that I know,” Gran answered. Should she mention the yobs or not? She took a cup of tea from Joan Pickering and accepted an oatie biscuit. Well, as her husband used to say, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“I’ve remembered where I saw you before,” she said pleasantly, with a big smile, and explained. “I expect one of the lads was yours?”

Joan immediately chipped in with an offer of more tea and a very obvious change of subject. “I’ve been trying to persuade Nancy to join the WI,” she said. “It’s good fun, isn’t it, Elsie. Back me up. Not jam and Jerusalem anymore.”

Nancy looked gratefully at Joan, but turned back to Gran. “To answer your question, yes, one of the lads is mine. Mark. The one with spiky hair and a row of rings through his ear. Thank God the police let them go with a warning. The man who complained wasn’t very happy, but I think they got a good scare from the police.”

“Is he your only?” Gran asked.

“Yes, more’s the pity. We tried and tried, but no luck. So Mark was always very precious. Still is, even though . . .” Her voice trailed away again.

“Is he still at school?” persisted Gran. “Looks older than school, from the picture.”

“He’s left. Trying to get a job, but who’s going to give him one? They take one look and that’s it. Don’t ring us, we’ll ring you. And none of ’em bother to take a look at his CV and see that he did well at school. Very well. Got good results in GCSEs, and then mixed in with a bad lot in the sixth form. I don’t mind telling you, Mrs. Weedon, his father and me are pretty desperate.”

This is not what Joan Pickering had planned, but she realised quickly that her neighbour needed to talk, and Gran was the perfect listener. At half past four, she began to stack the cups on the tray, and the other two rose to their feet.