if you’ll be in around eight o’clock on Tuesday.’
‘I’ll make it my business to be in,’ Harry responded with energy. ‘Tell him I’ll be delighted to see him. Give my love to Anne and the children.’
She let herself out into the chill air. She wouldn’t be seeing Norman this evening; she was staying in to wash her hair, pack her bag, get an early night.
Friday evening was overcast and blustery, and though the rain held off it was cold enough to keep the strollers from the common.
Mrs Griffin had a good hot meal prepared for Norman, as she had every evening. By the time he had washed and changed she had it ready for him on the table in the kitchen, cosy from the warmth of the stove. She wore a housecoat, her hair was in rollers. She had just had a bath, and would be dolling herself up to go out as soon as she had cleared the table after Norman finished eating. Friday was one of her social club evenings; she went along to the club two or three evenings a week. She always went by bus but could usually rely on getting a lift home. She enjoyed every visit to the club but Friday nights were special, that was when they had the olde-tyme dancing. Tonight she must get there early, there was going to be a little ceremony before the dancing started, the presentation of a retirement gift to the club secretary.
Norman sat down before his piled-up plate and attacked it with a hearty appetite. His mother hovered about, cutting bread, pouring tea. She ran an eye over what he was wearing: his new trousers, good jacket, smartest shirt. ‘You going out?’ she asked.
‘Might go along to the pub,’ he said between mouthfuls. She gave a little nod. He liked a glass of beer with his mates, more to be sociable than anything else, no harm in that; she never ceased to be thankful he didn’t drink the way his father had done.
By seven she was dressed, ready for the evening. She stuck her head round the door of the little workroom opening off the kitchen where Norman was fiddling with his old radios – they had been his hobby since schooldays. ‘I thought you were going out,’ she said.
He didn’t look up. ‘I’ve decided not to bother. Might as well make use of the time while Jill’s away, it’s a chance to get on with this.’
‘You should change out of your good clothes, ’ she advised. When he made no response she let it go. She very rarely pressed a point with Norman, she had learned long ago that it didn’t pay.
He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll miss your bus,’ he warned.
She was galvanized into motion. ‘Right, then, I’m off. I’ll be back around half-twelve or one.’
In the early hours of Saturday morning the force of the wind greatly increased. It blew strongly all day, driving clouds before it, tossing branches of trees on the common. Late on Saturday night it began to slacken in strength. By breakfast time on Sunday it had fallen calm again.
The day was bright and sunny. Householders emerged to wash their cars, tidy their gardens. In the ground-floor flat of a converted Victorian house on Whitethorn Road, Miss Tarrant, a middle-aged spinster, supervisor of the typing pool in a Cannonbridge firm, woke late: gone half past nine, she saw by the clock.
She got out of bed and drew back the curtains. She wouldn’t bother with lunch today, she’d have a good breakfast and then get on with the hundred and one jobs awaiting her. She had recently bought the flat and was currently in the process of doing it up, furnishing it, tackling the garden.
In the kitchen a little later she discovered to her annoyance that she’d forgotten to buy bread yesterday. Fortunately the corner shop across the common was open on Sunday mornings, she could nip out and get a loaf.
She put on her coat and went out into the sparkling sunshine. She walked briskly up the road, crossed over on to the common. As she drew near Fairbourne she heard the sound of shears. She glanced in as she passed the front gate and saw Mr Holroyd at work a few feet away. She had some slight acquaintance with him in his official capacity; before she bought her flat she had been a council tenant. She called out a friendly greeting. ‘Much better weather today,’ she added. He looked up, gave her a few words in reply.
She halted as a thought struck her. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have finished with your copy of the Bazaar? Mine doesn’t seem to have been delivered. I like to read the small ads, I’m still on the lookout for things for the flat.’
Edgar shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. My copy hasn’t been delivered either.’
It occurred to her as she resumed her quick pace that she could ask at the corner shop, they might have a copy to spare.
A few yards ahead, young lads, eight or nine years old, were kicking a football around with more enthusiasm than skill. The ball suddenly came straight at her; if she hadn’t jumped aside it would have struck her in the face. ‘Watch what you’re doing!’ she called out sharply.
One of the lads came racing after the ball, throwing her a grin of apology as he darted by. A few moments later another random shot sent the ball soaring over the gate of the last house on this part of the common. Some of the boys snatched open the gate and ran in after the ball. They began to search about in the long grass bordering the drive, the drifts of dead leaves. One agile lad climbed nimbly up into a tall tree and directed his gaze over the ground below.
Miss Tarrant strode over to the gateway. She clicked her tongue at the sight of the youngsters ferreting about; they had no business in there at all, roaming over a private garden. She said as much in ringing tones.
‘It’s all right,’ a lad assured her. ‘There’s no one at home, there never is this time of year. It’s an old couple live there, they always go to Spain for the winter.’
She wasn’t in the least mollified. ‘That doesn’t give you the right to trespass on their property.’
Another lad suddenly spied the football in a tangle of undergrowth and fell upon it with a cry of triumph.
‘Come along!’ Miss Tarrant ordered. ‘Out of here, all of you!’ They ran shouting and laughing out on to the common again. All except the lad up the tree. He was right at the top now, his feet securely lodged, glancing with lively interest.
Miss Tarrant marched in through the gate and positioned herself at the foot of the tree. ‘You too,’ she called up to him. ‘Come along down. At once.’
He seemed not to hear. He craned forward, staring down into the shrubbery. She called up to him again, loudly and forcefully. He made no reply but suddenly began to descend the tree, scrambling swiftly down, dropping to the ground at her feet. He scarcely glanced at her but darted off at once towards the shrubbery. She set her jaw and went after him.
He came to a halt, stooped and peered under the drooping branches. Her gaze travelled after his, to a heap of bracken fronds. She uttered a gasping cry. A pair of legs was sticking out from the bracken, legs clad in dark trousers, the feet shod in black trainers. Her heart lurched in her chest, and she reached out to steady herself against a tree.
The lad swept aside the bracken, revealing the rest of the body, face down in the undergrowth, clad in a grey quilted jacket, a woollen cap striped in brown and white, darkly stained with blood.
Mrs Griffin liked to dish
