A Choice of Victims (2 page)

‘Jesus!’

He was worried and frightened. And angry. As the debts mounted he had consoled himself with the thought that it could be only a matter of months, perhaps even of weeks, before Claud Philipson died and Kate inherited his wealth. And it was not just the cottage and a few quid in the bank; there were a couple of other properties and a fat portfolio of shares. They would be well off with that little lot. But if Kate were right…

He moistened his lips. ‘We’ve got to stop it,’ he said hoarsely. ‘We’ve bloody got to.’

Kate had placed the pastry over the pie-dish. ‘How?’ she asked, trimming the edge. ‘Tell her husband? Could be he knows. He might even have put her up to it. There’s talk he’s not doing so well at the shop.’

‘I don’t know how,’ he said. ‘But I’ll think of something. They’ll not get their hands on that money. Not if I can help it. It’s ours.’

‘Mine,’ Kate said. As he picked up the bills her eyes searched the table. ‘Where’s Monica’s list? I left it on the table.’

He sorted the bills. ‘This it?’

‘Yes.’

He studied the sheet of paper. It was a list of names and addresses of those who had volunteered for the local Meals on Wheels service, together with the dates on which each was scheduled for duty.

‘What’s it doing here?’ he asked.

‘It was in a book Monica lent me. Yesterday. I’ll take it back this afternoon. She’ll be wanting it.’

‘Yes.’ He spoke absently, scanning the list of names. ‘No, I’ll take it. Save you the bother. I’m going that way.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she said, her voice suddenly sharp. But there was pain in it too. ‘I know where the Falcon is.’

*

Most of the older houses in West Deering are grouped around the large triangular green, which is also the village cricket ground. The church and the Vicarage are situated at the northern vertex of the triangle, at the junction of the roads that lead north-east to the market town of Limpsted and south-east to the village of Yellham and the main road to the coast. At the two other vertices are respectively Plummer’s Garage and the Deering Arms. There is a post-office-cum-general-store, a sweet shop that also sells toiletries and a whole assortment of other essentials, and the ‘Antique Market’, open only on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons (the owner lives in Limpsted) and known locally as the ‘junk shop’. Beyond the church the relatively modern Glendale estate sprawls along the Limpsted road, a curious mixture of flats and small houses devoid of character and beauty but sufficiently distant not to spoil the picturesque charm of the village proper.

Andrew Doyle closed the tall wrought-iron gates of the Manor with a loud clang and walked across the green to the post office. Rory Bates, secretary of the cricket club, was driving the ancient gang mower round the field in preparation for the morrow’s match against Yellham and waved to him as he passed. Sunk in a deep depression, Andrew’s answering wave was limp. On that August Friday morning, after considerable thought, he had arrived at the grim conclusion that life would continue to be as meaningless in the future as it had been in the past. Real living was to be denied him. For the foreseeable future, he would merely exist.

At the post office he waited while Ed Mason berated his elderly female assistant for something she had or had not done, and then bought stamps and a couple of Mars bars and walked on to the garage. Derek Mollison was busy at the pumps, and he went into the building to gaze at the shining red Spitfire. It was one of the last of the Mark IV sports models with the 1296cc engines, first registered in September 1974, and months ago he had come to regard it with a proprietary air and dream of owning it. It had arrived in the garage, shortly after his seventeenth birthday, as an insurer’s write-off and, at first at odd moments and later more regularly, he had helped Derek strip, repair and reassemble it. Now, sleekly immaculate, it awaited its new owner, whoever that might be. Derek reckoned it could fetch sixteen hundred, possibly more, but he would let Andrew have it for a thousand. ‘I’d still make a modest profit,’ Derek had said, ‘and after all the work you’ve put into it I’d like you to have it.’ But Elizabeth had said no, two cars in the family were enough; he would do better to give proper thought to his future rather than chase around the countryside in a sports car. I have given thought to it, he had said. Oh, that, she had said; I’ve told you before, Andrew, that’s out. And a confirmatory if slightly reluctant nod from his father had seemed to kill what little hope was left.

He was still gazing at the car when Derek Mollison joined him. ‘Well?’ Derek asked. ‘Any luck?’

‘No.’

‘And that’s final?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Derek pondered. ‘How about hire purchase? I hump up the price and give you the extra for a deposit. Would that help?’

‘Not really. I couldn’t meet the repayments. Not without her help. I couldn’t even pay the road tax or the insurance.’ Andrew shook his head. ‘Forget it, Derek. Put on a sticker and shove it out on the forecourt.’

‘I don’t need to,’ Derek said. ‘I’ve already given a first refusal. But I’m sorry you can’t make it. I really am.’

‘So am I.’ Andrew reached into the pocket of his anorak and handed Derek a Mars bar. ‘How’s Alice?’

‘All right.’ They each took a bite. ‘I saw you come out of the post office. Was Cheryl there?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No reason,’ Mollison said. ‘I just wondered. I mean, she seldom is, is she?’

Andrew nodded. He knew Derek’s reputation as the village Lothario, and Cheryl Mason, although married and considerably older than Derek, was an attractive woman and, according to Rory Bates, not averse to ‘a bit on the side’.

‘Ed Mason seemed upset about something,’ he said.

Derek grinned. ‘That figures. What was it this time?’

‘I don’t know. But he was giving poor Mrs Barnes a right bollocking.’ Andrew crumpled the Mars bar wrapper and tossed it into a nearby bin. ‘How about coming out for a drink? Or can’t you leave the shop?’

Derek hesitated. Then he nodded. ‘We’ll go over to the Falcon,’ he said. ‘I need to have a word with George Grover about his Vauxhall. It’s got hidden defects. Hang on while I tell Joe.’ Joe Oliver was his assistant. ‘Where’s the pooch, by the way?’

‘Sick.’ The ‘pooch’ was Blondie, Elizabeth’s 3-year-old Golden Retriever bitch. It had seemed right to Elizabeth that the Lady of the Manor should have a dog, and the right sort of dog. But although in her imperious way she showed it attention, it was mainly Andrew who exercised it. ‘A bug, the vet said. She has to go easy on exercise for a few days.’

Although Compton Rye (referred to locally as ‘The Rye’) is less than a mile south of West Deering via the ride through Rye Woods, by road it is two and a half miles via Compton Morris (referred to as ‘The Morris’) to the west or over three miles via Yellham to the east. The Falcon stands in the middle of the village, in a wide clearing among the trees; a small, rectangular box of an inn, with a pleasant beer garden that is popular in the summer. Derek Mollison led the way into the one long bar and ordered pints of real ale, and entered into a discussion with the landlord about work needed on the latter’s Vauxhall. Andrew sipped beer and reflected gloomily on his future. Why was his father not like other fathers, why was it not he who had the money and not Elizabeth? Forget your silly grandiose dreams, Elizabeth had said, not once but many times, look for a job that offers security. And his father had concurred. The old hypocrite, Andrew thought. Until he found Elizabeth, what had he ever done to secure his future?

His reverie was interrupted by the sight of Bob Marston staring at him from further along the bar. It was an unfriendly stare—not surprising, Andrew reflected, under the circumstances—and, uncertain how to respond, he raised his hand in acknowledgement. Marston scowled, seemed to mutter something under his breath and turned away. Andrew was not bothered by the scowl. It was in keeping with his mood.

A man detached himself from a group of three and put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. ‘The brakes have gone soft on me, Derek,’ he said, giving Andrew a friendly nod. ‘Could you do it next week? Any day except Thursday. I’ve got a job on Thursday.’

‘Not local, I hope,’ Derek said.

The man grinned. ‘Nothing like that. Strictly Cosher. All right?’

‘I’ll have to check,’ Derek said. ‘Ring me this afternoon, eh?’

‘Will do,’ the man said.

He patted Derek’s shoulder and rejoined his friends. ‘Do you know who that is?’ Derek asked.

‘No. Who?’

‘Tony Bassett, our local burglar.’

‘Eh?’ Despite his depression, Andrew was intrigued. ‘You’re joking!’

‘Straight up. He’s done time, too. Makes no bones about it.’

Andrew looked across at the man. Short, slim and middle-aged, he wore a hacking jacket and corduroy breeches under a short mackintosh. He was talking animatedly, an amused expression on his rugged face.

‘He looks pleasant enough,’ Andrew said.

‘Oh, he is. A very popular chap is our Tony. Always the life and soul of the party. But he’s a thief and a poacher and just about anything else, criminally speaking, that doesn’t involve violence. As crooked as they come.’ Derek looked at his watch. ‘I’ll have to go.’

‘Why? What’s the rush?’

‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Alice?’

‘No.’ Derek’s tone was suddenly curt. ‘Are you coming or aren’t you?’

Andrew shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll hang on here for a while.’

‘How will you get back?’

‘Walk. It’s not that far through the woods.’

Derek turned to look out of the window. ‘It’s belting down,’ he said. ‘You’ll get soaked.’

‘Who cares?’ Andrew said. ‘I’ll probably be drunk anyway.’

*

Clad in a plastic mackintosh as voluminous as a tent, with a plastic hood covering her well-coiffured head, Elizabeth hurried through the rain to the back door of Mrs Pellingford’s cottage and went into the untidy kitchen. An odd assortment of plates was stacked on the stained deal table, and she selected the two cleanest. ‘Morning, Mrs Pellingford,’ she called loudly, and bent to the cupboard to look for spoons.

She was ladling chicken and potatoes and peas on to a plate when Mrs Pellingford emerged from an adjacent room. In addition to being extremely deaf the old lady was badly crippled by arthritis and progress was slow, achieved by a painful shuffle with the aid of an aluminium walking frame.

‘What is it, then?’ she asked.

‘Chicken,’ Elizabeth told her. ‘With stuffing and bread sauce.’

‘Sausages? I don’t like sausages. I told them. I don’t like sausages, I said.’ She crept nearer to peer at the food. ‘That’s not sausages.’

‘No,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It’s chicken. And there’s raisin tart.’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Pellingford managed a quarter turn and stared out at the rain. ‘Very hard. Still, I expect it’s needed.’

Elizabeth gave up. It was always like this. Rather than acknowledge her deafness Mrs Pellingford chose to guess at what was said. She would not know, of course, that mostly she guessed wrong. Unless the situation demanded it, few people bothered to correct her.

‘I expect it is,’ Elizabeth said.

She spooned custard onto the tart, collected the empty dishes and the sixty-five pence left ready on the table, bade Mrs Pellingford good-day and hurried back to the car. The rain was even heavier now, and for a few minutes she sat watching it stream down the windscreen and listening to the staccato patter on the roof and wondering, not for the first time, why she had allowed Frances Holden to cajole her into the service. Cooking meals for elderly and often invalid villagers and then driving round the district to deliver them was not really a task for someone in her position; it was a waste of her time and her talents. She had agreed to help because she had pictured herself as a sort of Lady Bountiful, graciously distributing food to the sick and the needy. But it was not like that at all. Some of the recipients were sick, but in the Welfare State none were really needy, and although the majority were grateful for the service, they paid for their meals, just as she was refunded the cost of cooking and delivering them. So it was not a charity. Nor did it enhance her standing in the community. She was merely one of a group, along with people like Cheryl Mason and Monica Ebbutt and Ivy Bates and others, few of whom she cared to mix with socially. It was all very well for Frances Holden, with her husband a doctor, or for Dorothy Follick, whose family had lived at Yellham Grange for countless generations. They did not have to build a position in the community, it was already assured—even though the Follicks were as poor as church mice and now lived in the gamekeeper’s cottage. For herself it was different. After nearly five years she was still regarded as a newcomer. It seemed that in rural areas wealth did not buy the sort of recognition she craved. She had to work at it.

She decided to ask Frances to omit her name from the new list that would be issued in January. Meals on Wheels were not for her; in terms of recognition it was unproductive. But today she still had three more visits to make, and she turned left at Yellham and drove the three-quarters of a mile to where a track led off across a field to Rye Woods. To her relief the gate was open, and she turned onto the track and bumped slowly over the deeply rutted surface into the shelter of the trees. Here the ruts were even deeper. Then the track petered out into a narrow footpath, and she stopped the car and got out. Extracting two food containers from the hot-boxes on the back seat, she set off along the path for Claud Philipson’s cottage. The thick foliage shielded her from the weeping clouds, but heavy drops of rain plopped noisily off the trees on to the plastic hood, and she kept her head down to shield her face and to watch for the brambles that reached out to tear at her mackintosh. Although the path was little more than one hundred yards in length some of the female helpers were scared by its eerie gloom, particularly in winter, and preferred the longer but more open route that led up to the cottage from Compton Rye. But not Elizabeth. She lacked the imagination to be scared by an atmosphere.