She returned to her car, and drove slowly back to Farnden. She was early, and hoped that Mrs T-J was at home. Luckily, she spotted the old lady in her back garden, sweeping up leaves and debris from particularly hard frosts, and greeted Lois with a big smile.
“Wonderful! You could not have arrived at a better time, my dear! I’ve done quite enough for a woman of my great age. Come along in now, and we’ll have a nice hot cup of tea.”
As advertised by chimps, thought Lois, and, with a sudden feeling of hopelessness at the thought of the huge and shady trade they were up against, she followed her into the house.
“You’re looking a bit down, Lois. Are you sure you’re feeling better? Shock can be quite difficult to recover from. You must give it time, my dear. Anyway, here’s tea, and I’ve baked old-fashioned currant buns for us. To hell with slimming, I say!”
Lois laughed. “I think you’re fine as you are, Mrs T-J. What was it that nice Japanese friend of yours called you? A lovely English gentlewoman. And quite right, too. Now, you did say you had something to tell me? Was it about possibly spotting your burglar in the cattle market?”
“Yes, it was that. But there was more to it than I said on the phone. After the auction had finished, I made my way round to the auctioneer’s office. An old friend, you know. I asked him about the man I saw, and he remembered him, but couldn’t tell me his name. He’s often there, at the auctions, and sometimes has a woman with him. Doesn’t bid for anything. But Sam Downing, the auctioneer, said he’d seen him afterwards, when he went to get his car, in a huddle with a couple of other people. So is he the charming Justin Brookes? Or am I mistaken?”
Lois brightened, and said she was sure it could have been. “Did you notice anything unusual about the burglar, anything you might recognise again about the man at the market?”
“I’ll give it some careful thought. He was quite a pleasant burglar, in his way.”
“Mm, well, we shall see. These buns are delicious! May I have another, please?”
*
In a private ward in Tresham General Hospital, Robert Pettison stared out of the window at the wintry scene. He was bored. Each day, his condition had improved, until he had no tubes or monitors attached to him, and was able to walk with a stick around in his room, holding on to the furniture. Daytime television was appalling, and he hadn’t sufficient concentration to read a book. The newspapers were full of bad news. A magazine brought to him by a kindly nurse, full of pictures of the royal family and their relations, had bored him further. He knew one or two of the distant ones, and had thought perhaps he could make a few pounds telling a more juicy story than the one in the magazine. But blackmail was a dicey business. He had no interest in it, except where it had become vital, such as with Justin’s father, and that was hardly blackmail!
Who would have thought that the young Desmond Brookes, so promising a pupil at their school, until they were summarily dismissed, would have thought it beholden on him to go back to the dreary fenlands and take over the family farm? A first at Oxford, and offers of good jobs galore. That could have been his future.
And now his son, Justin! Nothing like his father, who had grown into a mild man with a dread of trouble, dating back, no doubt, to his bullied days at school. Justin was for years a biddable young chap, and he, Pettison, had made use of this. Now he had changed, with the death of his father.
A nurse knocked at the door and came in. “You have a visitor, Mr Pettison. May he come in? Ah, I see you’re sitting out in a chair. Well done, my dear!”
“Who is it?”
“A Mr Smith. Says he is an old friend.”
“Smith? Unlikely. But let him in,” said Pettison. “And turn him out again in ten minutes’ time, please.”
The nurse showed him where the alarm button was, and then opened the door wider. A strange-looking man came in quickly. He was small and thin and had dark brown hair and a moustache. He wore cotton gloves and a black jacket and trousers.
“Who the hell are you?” said Pettison.
“Never you mind,” the man said in a muffled voice. He seemed to be having trouble with his moustache. “Put your arms above your head and keep them there, now!” he added, and before Pettison could reach for the bell to summon a nurse, the man produced a gun from his pocket, and pulled the trigger. Red paint squirted out and hit Pettison on the side of his face, and then directed downwards, until his whole visible body was covered. He spluttered, touched his bell to summon help, and then slumped to one side
The visitor ran, like a shadow, out of the hospital and away. The whole episode had taken no more than five minutes.