Theft on Thursday (7 page)

“I’ll be bringing job opportunities,” promised Don Miller, and he had been true to his word. Two of his original apprentices had stayed with him, and local car-owners
were quick to recognize that his prices were reasonable and the care he gave to their cars painstaking and personal. “Yes, yes,” he said to Mrs. T-J, when she finally brought the old Daimler for his attention. “We’ll get it all tickety-boo for you. Lovely job, these were,” he added, running his hand lovingly over the bonnet.

The Millers were good parents, if over-protective. Sharon found ways of covering up her bids for liberty, but so far had had few serious transgressions to conceal. She resisted treatment for her eye, saying Mr. Right, when he came along, would love her for herself. It would be a good test. Her parents had given up trying to persuade her, although they wondered if she was giving herself the best chance of a husband and children. This was all-important to them, and up until now, lads were not particularly attracted to their Sharon, seeing no further than the eye and the glasses. Sharon’s Mr. Right, who would notice her soft hair, her peachy skin and ripe curves, had not yet turned up.

Now she worked in the village shop, efficient and relied upon totally by the ageing shopkeepers, Mr. and Mrs. Carr. They were childless, and had taken to Sharon straight away. “Like a child to us, she is,” they said to their friends. “Heaven-sent, under the circumstances.”

Sharon was uninterested in the concerns of her peers. She didn’t much like the taste of alcohol, resisted with ease the temptation of drugs, and found clubbing disappointingly noisy and boring. But she did have an addiction. This was innocent enough, on the surface, and merely made her mother and father smile. Romantic fiction filled her leisure hours. She borrowed four such novels at a time from the Tresham Library, and read compulsively. “Just wait until she has a boyfriend of her own,” said her mother, “and then she won’t need those. Meantime, they’ll do her no harm.”

Which, of course, they did not. It was the other books she had to conceal in her library bag. Richly written tales
of sex and violent crime lurked at the bottom of her wardrobe, well concealed behind her shoes. The latest, an account—satisfactorily dramatized—of Madeleine Smith, the Victorian Glasgow girl who poisoned her treacherous lover by anointing herself with arsenic-laden cream and then encouraging him to lick it off, had caused her one or two tumultuous dreams. The wily Scottish girl had somehow escaped punishment, and Sharon’s imagination filled in the gaps left by the writer’s decorum. But she’d nearly finished that one, and this afternoon was off on the Tresham bus to find more stories to feed her habit.

“Will you manage all right?” she asked her elderly boss.

“O’course we will. Don’t miss the bus, now,” he said.

Mrs. Carr added with a chuckle, “You run along, Sharon. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” As if Sharon would! Their little guardian angel, they described her to themselves. They dreaded the day when some man would recognize her worth and carry her away from them. But for the moment, they were grateful for their good luck. They had been the village shopkeepers for nearly forty years, and could not manage without her.

On her way to the bus stop, a car passed her slowly, and then pulled up by the path. When she drew level, the window was wound down, and Sandy’s cheerful face looked up at her. “Need a lift, Sharon?” he said. “I’m on my way to Tresham.”

“Goodness, that’s kind of you!” said Sharon, her face scarlet.

“Hop in, then,” said Sandy.

“You’ve been poorly, I hear,” Sharon said, when she had settled herself. Her skirt was shortish, and she tugged it down, but it would not go far enough to conceal a very appealing pair of knees.

Sandy shifted his eyes away from them, and said, “Oh, it was nothing much. Something I ate, I reckon.”

“Her up at the Hall?” said Sharon with a smile. “That
party? Them tiddly bits were a bit off, I expect. She puts ‘em in the freezer if they’re left over, then out they come again next time round! That’d be it. The tiddly bits.”

She laughed now, and Sandy glanced across at her. Her profile was very pretty, he realized. Pity about the eye. “Next time up at the Hall I’ll know to abstain,” he said, and they both laughed. The sun blinded Sandy momentarily, and he reached across Sharon to pick up his sunglasses. “Oops!” he said, as they dropped into her lap. She handed them to him, and he fumbled with her hand, his eyes on the road. “Sorry!” he said, and finally got hold of them.

“Now we’re fine,” he said, speeding up.

Sharon stared straight ahead, and wished the journey could go on for ever.

I
N HER OFFICE OVERLOOKING THE ROAD
, L
OIS STOOD AT
the window, thinking about Jamie and his posh girlfriend, and Derek and Gran, and what would be the best way of sorting it out. She had decided that doing nothing at all would be the best policy, when her eye was caught by Sandy Mackerras’s car, picking up speed on its way to Tresham. Somebody was in the car with him … was it Sharon Miller? Well, that would be a turn-up! A reversal, really. Jamie and Annabelle … Sandy and Sharon … Wouldn’t it have been better for Jamie and Sharon to …

“Lois!” It was Gran, and sounded urgent. As Lois went through to the kitchen, she saw her mother sitting in a chair, doubled over and moaning. “Mum! What on earth’s the matter?”

“Sick,” was all Gran could manage before getting up and rushing away to the lavatory. When she returned, her face was pale and drawn.

“Mum! Better go and lie down. I’ll bring you a hottie—come on, I’ll help you up.” They just made it to the top of
the stairs, when Gran had to rush into the bathroom to throw up again.

“Right,” said Lois, who had heard from Hazel about the Sandy Mackerras episode, “I’m ringing the doctor right now.” She settled her mother in bed, and went down to telephone. “She’s not a young person,” she said firmly to the receptionist, who, as usual, said couldn’t Mrs. Weedon manage to come into the surgery? “There’s no way I’m bringing her down,” Lois added. “And it’s urgent. I’ll expect the doctor shortly.”

The surgery was a client of New Brooms and they all knew Lois Meade. A message was sent through to the doctor out on his rounds, and within an hour of Lois’s call, he was there. “What nonsense!” Gran said. “No need to send for you at all. Just eaten something, I expect.” But the doctor told Lois not to let her mother get up for at least twenty-four hours, and gave her a number of other instructions out of Gran’s hearing.

“Is it a bug going round?” Lois asked. The doctor shrugged. “Well, there was that Sandy Mackerras,” Lois continued. “He was throwing up all night, the vicar said.”

“Yes, well,” said the doctor, uncommunicative as ever. “Goodbye, Mrs. Meade. I’ll look in again tomorrow.” He strode off down the path, and Lois shrugged. All right, then, she said to herself, don’t break the Official Secrets Act. She went back into the house, and rushed upstairs as she heard Gran heaving again.

S
ANDY
M
ACKERRAS PULLED UP OUTSIDE THE LIBRARY
in Tresham, and Sharon struggled to let herself out. He leaned over her, rather longer than necessary, and opened the door. He caught a whiff of a flowery scent, and then she was out on the pavement, leaning down to thank him profusely for the lift. “A pleasure, Sharon,” he said, “always a pleasure to give a lovely girl a lift!” She blushed again, and
dropped a library book. Confused and burning, she finally reached the library door and disappeared. Was real life catching up with her fictional world at last? She handed in her books with a flourish, and ignored the librarian’s raised eyebrows as he noticed the titles of some of them.

The estate agent’s office was busy with potential house-buyers when Sandy walked through to his desk. A housing boom had been a godsend to the proliferation of agents in Tresham. This particular one was known to be pushy. Sandy fitted in very well, and had quickly developed the agent-speak which had just worked its magic on Sharon. Flattery, hand-in-hand with exaggeration, was his stock-in-trade, and he loved it.

“Morning, everyone,” he said bouncily, and turned his charming smile on to the first customer.

A
T THE VICARAGE
, B
RIAN
R
OLLINSON LOOKED THROUGH
the door into Sandy’s room and saw chaos. He sighed. It wouldn’t do for Hazel Thornbull to see this mess. He began to clear the clothes and magazines, and sort them into tidy piles. Everything you would expect to find in a young man’s room, he thought. No surprises. He picked up a photograph from the table by the bed. It was Sandy’s mother and father in earlier years, smiling at the camera in the first flush of a new marriage. Gerald had been such a handsome fellow. That smile. The pain he had almost forgotten stabbed Brian once more, and he put down the photograph quickly. Glancing round the room and approving it as presentable for Hazel, he left and went downstairs to his study to immerse himself in Sunday’s sermon.

But his mind kept returning to Sandy and his parents. When had he first met them? Must have been after college, while he was studying accountancy. He put down his pen and stared out of the window. The Tate Gallery, that was it. He’d dropped in to pass away an hour or so, waiting to
meet a friend from college, and he had stood in front of a painting next to a young man who was muttering to himself. “Excuse me?” Brian had said, thinking maybe he was being addressed. “Oh, sorry,” Gerald had replied. “Just talking to myself. Trying to explain it! Bit weird, isn’t it?”

After that, they’d walked on together, and then had a cup of tea in the café. Instant rapport, it had been, and they’d kept in touch. Brian had been best man at the wedding, and now he remembered his mixed feelings as he saw his friend become a twosome, more or less out of his reach.

His telephone rang, and he sighed again. “Hello?” he said.

“Sandy here. Forgot to tell you … I’ll be out to supper tonight. OK? See you later. Bye!”

Disappointment drove Brian out to the kitchen, where he cut a thick slice of bread, spread it lavishly with butter and honey, and ate it quickly, despising himself.

“B
ILL
?”

“Hello, Mrs. M.”

“New customer—Trimbles, estate agent’s in Tresham.” Lois had cornered the market in local estate agents some years ago, and this lot had sprung up recently with the explosion of house prices. “Not where Sandy works, you’ll be pleased to hear,” she added, and thought she heard an answering grunt. “I’ve signed them up for regular cleaning. Just the job for you, I thought. Starting after the office closes, but still a couple of long-haired blondes floating about. I’m going over this afternoon. Like you to come with me for a preliminary tour around their extensive premises.”

“Extensive? You mean that two-roomed job in Cross Street? That’s Trimbles, isn’t it? Is that what they said?”

“Yes, well, they
are
estate agents, Bill. You know, desirable property, spacious reception rooms, sweeping lawns, etc., etc.?”

“Ha ha,” said Bill, who was very fond of his boss.
“Right. See you there, or will you pick me up? I’ll be finished at old Madam’s around four.”

“I’ll collect you from home about half-past. See you then.”

When Lois arrived at Bill’s cottage, it was Rebecca who opened the door. “Hello, Mrs. M, Bill’s just on his way. The client kept him cleaning the silver. Family arriving tomorrow, or something. But he rang and said he was just leaving.” She stood aside, and Lois went into the cottage, noticing as always the pleasant smell of cleanliness. “No thanks, no time,” she said, refusing Rebecca’s offer of tea.

“Right …” There was a pause. The two of them had little in common, though friendly enough, and conversation flagged for a moment. Then Rebecca said, “Are you coming to sing in the choir with us? Bill’s joined, and he’s got a really nice voice.”

Lois shook her head. “Not me, Rebecca,” she said. “Voice like a foghorn. And anyway, I’ve not got the time.”

“Bill says he’s heard you singing, when you didn’t know anyone was around, and it was good. It’s only an hour a week.”

“And church on Sundays. I reckon the bells’d crash to the ground if they saw me comin’ in. No, our Jamie’s going, and he likes it. But then he’s musical all round, so no wonder. Says that Sandy is OK. What d’you think of him?”

To her surprise, Rebecca turned away, her colour rising. “Oh, he’s all right,” she said. Then she added with obvious relief, “There’s Bill! Now you won’t have to wait …”

Spinning along to Tresham in the white van with New Brooms in gold lettering on the sides, and “We sweep cleaner!” emblazoned across the rear doors, Lois wondered about Rebecca’s obvious unease. Something to do with Sandy Mackerras? Probably fancied him. He was quite attractive in a freckled, dodgy-quick kind of way.
Bill’d better watch out. Rebecca was quite a catch. Well dug-in at Waltonby school, own cottage, independent.

“Penny for ‘em,” said Bill, glancing across at Lois.

“I was just thinking you’d better watch that Sandy bloke. He’s after all the girls, I hear,” said Lois, who was not one for the subtle approach. The vehemence of Bill’s reply startled her.