The World's Finest Mystery Part 27

It was comical but it was serious, too. It was serious because it was impossible... ridiculous and impossible. Where on earth could she find a hit man around Luddersedge... or even in the comparative metropolises of Halifax and Burnley and Bradford? The watery autumn suns.h.i.+ne through the kitchen windows was already making the whole idea seem a nonsense, the idle dream of a woman too long in one place and far too long in one relations.h.i.+p; a relations.h.i.+p which had sp.a.w.ned nothing but familiarity and indifference.

The answer came, as answers so often do, when Maureen was quietly but firmly prepared to abandon the problem that had called for it.

It came with the clatter of the post-box in the front door and the dull plop of something landing in the hallway, resounding so emphatically over the sound of the radio that Maureen half expected Terry Wogan to comment: Well, listeners, let's find out what's in the "Big Goody" that the postie's just dropped through the post-box of Luddersedge's very own Maureen Walker!

The Big Goody in question was neither big nor good: It was only an update catalogue from Empire Stores. It lay on the mat with two letters at its base, looking briefly, for all the world, like a skull and crossbones. One of the letters, Maureen saw even as she stooped to pick them up, was a window envelope containing the gas bill. The other, a franked brown job, had Stan's name carefully typed in bold.

It was accepted in the Walker household that all post could be opened by whoever picked it off the mat in front of the door, no matter who it was addressed to. Thus it was that Maureen opened the official-looking letter that turned out to be from the local council.

The letter, from a clerk (of unknown gender and indecipherable signature) who went by the unlikely multisyllabic name of S. Willingtonton (surely a typo), said in formal tones which oozed insincere regret that, as had been "previously intimated," the "allotment facility" in which Stan "heretofore owned a one-sixth portion" was to be "compulsorily withdrawn" and sold to a "local consortium" for "extensive redevelopment" by their (unnamed) client. Stan would be, S. Willnigtonton continued, "duly recompensed." It closed with (a) a request for Stan to contact the council offices as soon as possible and (b) the a.s.surance that the author remained- "sincerely," no less- Stan's.

She clutched the single sheet of paper in a quivering hand and smiled up at the ceiling.

Her husband's beloved allotment was soon to be no more and he was about to become depressed. Very depressed. Moreover, though he did not yet know it, he was about to become suicidal.

Maureen had her hit man- it was Stanley himself.

The next day was a maelstrom of activity for the soon-to-be-widowed Maureen Walker, but then speed was essential.

Clearly, Stan could not be allowed to see the letter. Even a man as docile as Stanley Walker would be spurred to frenetic activity by the prospect of losing all that he held dear in life. Telephone calls would be made and, perhaps (G.o.d forbid), in the face of organised resistance on the part of the gardeners affected, the council might even reconsider its decision.

The letter therefore duly disappeared into the labyrinthine recesses of Maureen's handbag, a shadowy and even hostile (being overtly feminine) terrain of mirrors and lipsticks and thick bandages with flyaway wings that Maureen inserted into her pants for a few days every month. It was a domain into which Stan seldom ventured unless pressed.

However, if Stan were to be rendered so uncharacteristically distraught, Maureen reasoned that the letter from S. Willingtonton- effectively her husband's suicide note- would not realistically be sat upon for too long. For the scenario she had concocted to work, he must receive it and he must take action immediately, while the balance of his mind was on the blink (or whatever they usually said in such cases).

Poison was the answer. And, with Stan's allotment shed undoubtedly containing all manner of suitable candidates for the job- slug pellets, greenfly sprays, and other a.s.sorted insecticides- Maureen recognised an almost comical irony in the situation: An enemy for so long, the allotment was proving to be the means of her very salvation.

How to administer the answer to her prayers, however, posed something of a problem... but not for long. The solution, when it came, brought with it a pleasantly appropriate subtext: It would be in a healthy gla.s.s of Masham's finest. Stan would be put to rights by a Black Sheep.

Who done it? Maureen mused to herself as she sat in bed on the night of the fateful letter's arrival, with her husband happily snoring by her side, oblivious to the trip he was about to make out of her life forever. Ewe done it!

It was all she could do to keep from laughing out loud. But she didn't think that would be either appropriate or fair: After all, letting him sleep undisturbed, even without the usual pinching of the fleshy pads masquerading as Stan's b.u.t.tocks, was tantamount to a last meal. Let him enjoy it.

The small puzzle as to how Maureen might gain access to Stan's allotment shed without Stan being there was also neatly and unexpectedly solved the next morning when Stan announced over his breakfast that he wouldn't be needing his customary pack-up because he had to go into Leeds. Maureen didn't ask what the reason for this expedition might be: She didn't believe in looking a gift horse in the mouth and, anyway, Stan occasionally made the trip to Leeds when something was needed for his allotment. (They had shops there that actually catered for the devoted gardener, their shelves replete with all manner of equipment and tools... not to mention a healthy supply of poisonous substances: Maureen hoped that Stan already had plenty of these in his shed.) "Will you be coming straight back?" she asked, hardly daring to hope too much for the response she wanted. "I mean, do you want me to make you some sandwiches for later in the afternoon?"

Stan shook his head silently and spooned sugar into his pot of tea. Without even looking up from his Sun newspaper, Stan explained that he would get something in Leeds.

Maureen felt like doing a little dance but managed to maintain her self-control and, instead, put two more pieces of bread into the toaster by means of celebration. "Getting something in Leeds" meant that Stan would call in at one of the pubs that served Black Sheep- he knew them all- but, more importantly as far as Maureen was concerned, it meant that his palate would, she hoped, already be so suitably fogged by the time she presented him with her "special" bottle that he might not notice any unusual additional ingredients... or, at least, not until it was too late.

Stan left the house for the ten o'clock Rochdale-to-Halifax bus (he would change for the Leeds bus in Halifax) and Maureen watched him walk along the path with something that might almost- almost- have been sadness, short-lived though it was.

The rain started as she finished the was.h.i.+ng-up, further evidence- if any were needed, she thought- that the G.o.ds favoured her plans: The rain meant that any other would-be market gardeners would think twice before spending time in their allotment, so there shouldn't be too many (if any) witnesses to her visit. Even Stan was reluctant to venture out of the house in the rain and, for a moment, Maureen became concerned that the change in the weather might dissuade him from the trip to Leeds.

She sat on the bed watching out of the window until the bus came. She could see the top of it through the gardens across the street, though she couldn't see if anyone was standing at the stop. But the bus stopped- so there must have been someone there- and then, just to make sure, she waited a few minutes to see if Stan returned before setting out, her hands encased in a pair of light blue Marigold gloves and the shed key tucked safely in her coat pocket, on the first part of her mission.

By the time she reached Honeydew Lane, the rain had grown heavier and the skies across Luddersedge- and across the entire valley, Maureen reasoned, looking over to the horizon in each direction- were slate grey and menacing.

Maureen slipped through the metal gate, cringing at the sound of hinges in desperate need of a drop or two of oil, and made her way to Stan's section.

She pa.s.sed the two other neat sections, with rows of trimmed plant-tops (whose ident.i.ty Maureen neither knew nor cared) that appeared clonelike in their similarity, and felt a wave of animosity towards them. It seemed as though, as she pa.s.sed them, they sn.i.g.g.e.red at her in the wind and she felt like running amongst them, kicking at them with her shoes and swinging with her bag, tearing them out of their loamy houses with a vicious strangulating hold inflicted by her light blue Marigolds. If she had not been so preoccupied with these thoughts of garden-murder, she might have wondered why the three plots across from these three neat ones were so comparatively uncared for.

But she didn't.

As she reached Stan's shed door and inserted the key into the old lock, Maureen felt her pulse quicken. When she was inside, amidst the sudden silence and the smell of creosote and earth, under the accusative eyes of hoes and rakes and spades, she felt even worse: She suddenly felt her bowels loosen. Must be nerves, she thought to herself, scanning the carefully lined-up bottles and cans on the shelf at the back of the shed. After all, weren't there lots of stories about crooks leaving a mess on the carpet of the homes they burgled? Maureen now had some sympathy for their situation.

She read the various labels, taking care to remind herself mentally every few minutes that under no circ.u.mstances must she remove the Marigolds, until she found what she wanted: EXTERMINATE!, an old, tall can whose t.i.tle appeared on four separate lines- EXT, ERM, IN and ATE!. The label carried numerous warnings printed in bold red capital letters (DANGER!, CARE!, and CAUTION!) and the top around the cap had rusted. Trying to loosen the cap, Maureen doubted that this product was still being made, and she hoped (a.s.suming she would eventually get inside) that the contents were still in good working order.

When the top finally succ.u.mbed to pressure, Maureen removed it fully and peered inside. There seemed to be plenty there for her purpose and, even better, EXTERMINATE! had no noticeable smell. Of course, there was always a possibility that Stan was simply using the can to store some other potion- possibly one with few or no harmful effects to humans- but a quick glance across the shelf showed that Stan always used Sellotaped labels denoting the contents when those contents were different from the can containing them.

She replaced the cap, tightly, to make sure there could be no leakage into her pocket (even though she intended first wrapping the container in an old Netto's plastic bag) and checked around to make sure there was no evidence of her visit. Once satisfied, she pushed the shed door open slightly and peered out: The coast seemed clear- no doubt thanks to the continued rain- and, without further ado, she slipped out, closed and locked the door, and went on her way.

This time, the plants in the allotment rows did not sn.i.g.g.e.r. This time they were still (though it was probably just that the wind had dropped) and altogether more respectful. "You're all going to die," she whispered into the rain, thinking of the council letter. "Every one of you."

Once she was safely back on Honeydew Lane, Maureen removed the Marigolds and walked down the hill to the Threshers on Eldershot Drive, where she bought three bottles of Black Sheep bitter. Then, pleased that she had not seen anyone that she knew (another vote of thanks for the rain!), she made her way back home.

The stage seemed to be pretty well set: Now all she needed was the star performer to return from his jaunt.

Maureen's star performer arrived back in the house at a little after four o'clock. Allowing for time spent each way on the bus and an hour or an hour and a half in the pub, he had been in Leeds for more than four hours. You could buy a lot of tools in four hours, Maureen thought. And so wasn't it a little surprising that he arrived back without so much as a single bag? Maybe so. But by this time, Maureen was concerned only with the job in hand.

Thinking ahead, she had realised that leaving the addition of EXTERMINATE! until the actual pouring of the beer itself left room for all kinds of unpleasant developments. Thus, with considerable dexterity, she had opened the bottle- carefully, without bending the cap too much out of shape- poured out a little of the beer, and topped it up with the special brew retrieved from Stan's shed. She had considered repeating the exercise with a second bottle (it could only be two at the most because she needed one "untreated" bottle for another purpose) but felt that one should be enough. Anyway, she had ensured a generous dose.

The cap had then been carefully replaced and tapped down with a small claw hammer Stan kept in the bureau drawer in the hall for when Maureen wanted pictures moved around.

Trying to think of all the things she needed to do had caused her head to ache, so Maureen had written them down on one of the sheets of paper by the phone- itemised thus: * add poison to bottle and replace cap * put bottles in pantry (Stan hated his beer to be too cold, so the fridge was out of bounds.) * give Stan a drink!

(After this particular item, Maureen a.s.sumed Stan would be dead although she refrained from any additional note to that effect but opted instead for the exclamation mark.) * put bottle in dustbin * pour out the contents of the spare bottle and leave it by the gla.s.s (Maureen was particularly pleased with this point. Although she stood by her decision to add the poison to the bottle itself and not to the gla.s.s, she knew there would have to be a bottle alongside the dead man and she also knew that, although it was hoped that the whole thing would be an open-and-shut case, traces of the poison in the bottle- when the "victim" had drunk from a gla.s.s- would cause unnecessary suspicion.) * make sure Stan's fingerprints are on the EXTERMINATE (She omitted the exclamation mark on this.) and leave the can beside the bottle and the gla.s.s * leave the council letter by the bottle, can, and gla.s.s Stan's first port of call on arriving home- with little more than a grunted acknowledgement of Maureen's presence- was the toilet. Interrupting the Niagra-like cacophony of his flow as it resounded through the house, Maureen shouted up to see if her husband would like a beer. The answer was an emphatic "Great!" followed by another stream of water (no doubt caused by excitement at the prospect of more beer or the need to make more room for same). The toilet flushed as Maureen took the treated bottle of Black Sheep from the pantry. She was opening it when Stan arrived in the kitchen behind her, an arrival announced by two things: the slurring noise of his feet and Stan's voice saying, "What's this?"

When Maureen turned around, Stan was frowning at her list of things to do... albeit, she was delighted to note, the wrong side.

"It's someone's telepho-"

"Sheila Hilton," Maureen said, springing across the room and doing her best to get the paper back without appearing to s.n.a.t.c.h it. She stuffed it into her pinny pocket and turned back to the table where Stan's final drink was already half poured. "I saw Jackie Cartwright the other day at the market in Tod- getting black pudding," she added, filling the lurking silence with unnecessary information that she knew would blank out Stan's concentration (and, more importantly, his curiosity). "And she said she'd call me with Sheila's number. Haven't seen her in years," she added, pouring the final drops from the bottle and squinting down at the now-full gla.s.s for any telltale signs.

Stan grunted, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

"Do you want a few crisps?" Maureen asked. "Or some nuts?" Considering the imminence of the condemned man's execution, nuts and crisps was as close as she could get to the obligatory "hearty meal."

Stan shook his head and plonked himself down at the table.

Maureen watched as he reached for the gla.s.s.

Stan looked at her as he raised the gla.s.s to his mouth.

Maureen knew that this was the moment beyond which there was no return: If she were to save her husband, now was the time to knock the gla.s.s from his hands. But by the time she had thought up an excuse for such a strange action (telling Stan that she had seen a wasp on the rim of the gla.s.s seemed like the favourite explanation), Stan had drunk half of the contents. He sat the gla.s.s on the table, looked at it for a moment, and then reached for it again, frowning.

"Something up with it?" she asked, hoping he could hear her voice above the drumming thunder of her pulse.

Stan didn't respond. He lifted the gla.s.s again and sniffed.

"Is it off?" Maureen enquired, keeping her voice calm.

Stan did one of his usual facial shrugs- a strange lifting of the nose and eyebrows- and put the gla.s.s to his mouth. He was halfway through the remaining beer when the gla.s.s dropped from his hands and he doubled over on the chair.

Maureen backed away against the cabinet where she kept her best blue-flowered crockery, wincing at the sound of the delicately positioned piles s.h.i.+fting as she hit the cupboard with her bottom.

Stan hit the floor jackknifed, his big hands anxiously kneading his stomach all the way and even when he was flat out.

The sound that Stan emitted was a long drawn-out groan, but not the kind of sleepy groan he gave when the alarm clock went off (always an alarm clock, even though the only place he ever had to go since leaving the buses was his d.a.m.ned allotment). This groan was the collective sigh of all the souls in h.e.l.l bemoaning their eternal torment. It was the sound of organs deflating and dying, being seared into immediate submission by a concoction of age-old poison and bottled beer.

"I'll get the doctor," Maureen said, rus.h.i.+ng out into the hall, keen to avoid the spectacle of her partner for these past three decades and more melting into the checked and threadbare kitchen linoleum.

She lifted the phone and pretended to hit the b.u.t.tons, staring at Stan as he writhed around. He called out again a couple of times- words and phrases that Maureen could not recognize- and then he began to howl. Maureen thought about switching on the radio to drown out the noise, so that Stan didn't attract attention from the neighbours, and then he went quiet. She ran back to the kitchen and knelt down beside him, thinking he might be gone, but when she rested a hand on his shoulder she could feel it shuddering deep down inside her husband's body, as though Stan were a road-digger. "Doctor's on his way, love," she said softly against his ear.

Stan nodded and gave a low whine.

He opened his eyes slowly and the shuddering stopped.

His stare moved slowly until it rested on Maureen's face. She raised her eyebrows, expecting him to say something... to maybe get to his feet and say, Well, nice try old love: Now it's my turn! ...stretching his meaty hands out to her throat...

But none of that happened.

What did happen was that Stan's eyes locked on Maureen's and in that split instant she knew that he knew what she had done. Then, without another movement, he went. His eyes were still wide and still in the same position but the life just went from them... fell away from the body like a mist banished by the sun and captured on fast film for one of the nature programmes on the TV.

Maureen got to her feet and thought about doing something about the high-pitched hum she could hear... until she realised that she herself was making it. She clenched her teeth tightly and swallowed.

She got out her piece of paper and read the notes.

The bad bottle went into the peddle bin until she thought better of that and retrieved it to put it into the dustbin outside (along with the light blue Marigolds: a sudden afterthought, just to be on the safe side), beneath all the other stuff they'd thrown away over the past few days.

The contents of a second bottle went down the sink, flushed away by a long run of the cold tap, and the bottle went onto the table. (The third bottle, spared for a while, would languish in the fridge for a few weeks before being consigned, untouched and unused, to the bin long before its sell-by date.) The letter from the council also went on the table.

She left the gla.s.s on the floor.

The poison (duly fingerprinted by Stan's limp right hand) went on the table next to the letter.

Then she went and looked out of the windows. n.o.body was around.

Maureen went into the hall and phoned the police.

The interview with the police seemed to go well, as far as Maureen could judge these things. She felt she had displayed a suitable mixture of hysteria and disbelief, both of which, she was a little surprised to note, were fairly genuine.

All she kept saying was that she had no idea why her husband should do such a thing... explaining that she had left everything just as she had found it.

She tried to feel unconcerned when one of the officers carefully removed the gla.s.s, bottle, and EXTERMINATE!, placing them into polythene bags and labelling them.

It seemed to be an open-and-shut case, the detective explained, his voice dripping with regret. Her husband's allotment was his whole life- "No disrespect intended, Mrs. Walker," he had added, to which Maureen had first frowned and then nodded, with a dismissive wave of the hand- and the prospect of losing it had been too much to bear. Stan had brought a can of poison from his shed, mixed it with a gla.s.s of beer, and... "Bob's your uncle," he said. (Actually, none of Maureen's uncles was called Bob, but she didn't think that that mattered too much.) The good thing, the detective (a very nice man with a very nice smile, Maureen thought with a slight colouring to her cheeks) a.s.sured her, was that Stan wouldn't have suffered... he was sure. He may well have been a nice man with a nice smile, Maureen thought, but he didn't know very much at all about drinking EXTERMINATE!

Would she be all right in the house overnight? (It was now after six o'clock and growing dark outside.) Maureen said that she would and, a little before seven, she was alone. Alone the way she would always be.

That night, she slept soundly.

The next morning, Maureen dressed as sombrely as she felt was appropriate and as frivolously as she felt she dare (considering her "unhappy" situation).

After a quick breakfast of Alpen and toast, Maureen left the house early and got the bus to Bradford, where she spent the day wandering around the shops and practicing how she would respond to all the expressions of condolence she would have to endure.

Where the time went, she didn't know.

For lunch, she had egg and chips, bread and b.u.t.ter, two pots of tea, and a jam doughnut from a cafe in the market- it was greasy, a little on the tasteless side, and the doughnut was rock-hard, but to Maureen Walker (newly-made widow of the parish) it was a banquet fit for a queen... and all for less than two pounds.

More shop-wandering (and practising) in the afternoon and then a visit to the cinema- alone: She felt so daring! -to see a film called Dark City that she thought might be a thriller, but she couldn't understand it: All it seemed to be was a load of buildings growing up out of the ground and then shrinking down into it again, and the ending showed them all out in outer s.p.a.ce. Things had come a long way since the likes of Cary Grant and Alan Ladd and, in Maureen's opinion, the trip hadn't been worth the effort.

On the bus going home, Maureen realised that tomorrow she would have to make all the necessary arrangements. Staring out of the windows onto the black countryside, she tried to make a list in her head of how many people she would need to cater for... wondering whether to have a go at making the sandwiches herself or buying them in.

Letting herself into the house, she felt tired and, suddenly, just a little lost. It would pa.s.s: It was just the excitement of the past couple of days. She made sure the doors were well locked- going back to them twice to double-check- and made a cup of camomile tea to go to bed with. No sooner had she drained the last dregs, watching her foot stray under the covers into the cool of Stan's side of the bed, than she settled down and drifted off into a deep sleep in which she dreamt of buildings growing up all around her and hemming her in.

The next day, her second morning of freedom, Maureen slept in.

It was after nine o'clock when she was disturbed by a noise downstairs.

She opened her eyes wide and listened.

What had that been? Had it been the stealthy sound of a slippered foot on the stairs... the sound of her husband, returned from the morgue in Halifax General (a journey that had taken Stan a full day and a night to make), slurring along the lonely lanes to Luddersedge to arrive with the- The postman! That was what it had been.

Maureen got out of bed, slipped into her slippers, and pulled on her dressing gown.

On the way downstairs, she could see the single letter on the doormat. Another brown job.

Maureen lifted it up.

Somewhere nearby, a car engine sounded... growing louder.

The letter wasn't even addressed to them but to Luddersedge Development, Ltd.... in a swirling, italicised script, at their address for some reason. That disappointed Maureen. Here she was on the first day of the rest of her life and the whole thing had been kicked off with a mistake.

She shuffled the letter inside the envelope until another line appeared above Luddersedge Development Ltd. The line read: Stanley Walker Esq., Chairman.

Maureen frowned.

She stretched and turned the envelope over, slitting it open with her finger and removing the single sheet.

As she scanned the letter, she noted that the car engine had stopped. It had stopped somewhere nearby.