Cross My Heart and Hope to Die Page 4

  Her star pupil had been Janet Thacker. Recognizing the child’s promise, Miss Griggs had done everything in her power to encourage and coach her, opening her eyes to the existence of a world beyond the village and far beyond rural Suffolk. As a result, Janet had been the first child to progress from Byland school, via Breckham Market grammar school, to university.

  The girl’s achievement had given Miss Griggs a great deal of pride. Pleasure, too, though with a mixture of sadness. Janet had never visited her after leaving the village school, nor even sent her so much as a Christmas card. If they happened to meet, Janet always made some excuse to hurry away. It hurt Miss Griggs deeply, and puzzled her because she had never shown the girl anything but kindness; but she had long ago learned to practise a stoical acceptance.

  Her pride in her pupil remained. Miss Griggs herself, she told Hilary, had never had the opportunity to go to university, but putting Janet on the right road was a kind of fulfilment. She had been delighted to hear from Betty Thacker that after graduation Janet was going to make her career in London, surrounded by cultural opportunities she herself could only dream of.

  Janet’s subsequent return to Byland had been a great disappointment to Miss Griggs. The role of village sub-postmistress was trivial, requiring no qualification at all beyond a good character. Miss Griggs felt that everything she had done to widen Janet’s horizon had been rejected, if not thrown back in her teeth. And Janet was so abrupt with her when she went to the post office that she had gladly accepted a neighbour’s offer to collect her weekly pension.

  Hilary tried to be patient as Miss Griggs unburdened herself. Her own interest in Janet Thacker was limited to the woman’s knowledge of the Krzecszczuk family, and as she made what she hoped were soothing remarks she looked covertly at her watch. It seemed to her that Miss Griggs was being over-sensitive. Janet Thacker was brisk with everyone; she had been Byland’s sub-postmistress for ten years now, and it was high time the old lady swallowed her disappointment.

  ‘Thank you for listening,’ said Miss Griggs. ‘You’re the only person I have told this to, and I assure you that it’s less irrelevant than you think. You see, when she was living in London, Janet wrote an autobiography covering her years in Byland. It deals in detail – distasteful detail – with her relationship with the Krzecszczuks.’

  ‘Has it been published?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. At least, not the whole book. But a chapter of it was published in an anthology called Writers of East Anglia. I borrowed it from the library without realizing that Janet’s work was in it. She’d used a pen name, and she’d also changed the names of the villagers, but what gave her away was that she used the name Crackjaw. As soon as I saw that, I knew it was Janet’s work.’

  ‘What did she say about the Crack – the Krzecszczuks?’

  ‘Nothing significant, in the published chapter … That’s in the rest of the book.’

  ‘Which you’ve read?’ suggested Hilary.

  The old lady’s cheeks went a defiant pink. ‘Without Janet’s knowledge,’ she admitted. ‘I told Betty Thacker how much I’d enjoyed the published chapter. She had read it and was proud of it, without realizing that it was a small part of the whole. She looked among Janet’s books, found the original typescript, and lent it to me. The names in it are real, including mine –’

  ‘Do you think Janet would let me borrow it?’

  ‘Don’t ask her, please! She’ll wonder where your information came from, and I don’t want her to know, for her mother’s sake as much as mine. Betty was most anxious that Janet shouldn’t get to hear about the loan. Not that Betty knew what’s in the book – she couldn’t have read it herself, or she would never have lent it to me. It’s full of indiscretion and unkindness …’

  The old lady declined to say any more, and Hilary rose to leave. Miss Griggs followed her to the front door.

  ‘I must beg you, Sergeant,’ she said earnestly, ‘not to mention my name to Janet when you ask her about the Krzecszczuks.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry.’

  ‘But please don’t think I’m being vindictive towards her. I feel no ill-will, though I admit to being hurt and disappointed. You see –’

  Standing on the doorstep, frisked by the cold wind, the old lady shivered her cardigan round her. Her lips framed her words before she spoke.

  ‘You see, Janet makes it quite clear in the book that she disliked me as a teacher. She says she found my lessons boring. Oh, one doesn’t expect to be remembered with affection or gratitude by one’s pupils. But an acknowledgement of one’s help, a little respect for one’s life’s work – surely that isn’t too much to ask?’

  Sergeant Lloyd drove straight to Bramley Road, Breckham Market,

  and called on Chief Inspector Quantrill. She found him, with his wife safely out at work, enjoying his convalescence with a mid-day can of beer and the video of a football match.

  ‘Feeling better?’ she suggested.

  ‘Not too bad,’ he said guiltily, switching off the television. ‘I went to the doc this morning and he says I can go back to work tomorrow.’ He offered Hilary a drink, sherry, coffee or whatever, but she said she was too busy to linger.

  ‘What’s been happening, then?’ he asked. ‘Any news of the old couple, the Crackjaws?’

  Hilary told him what she had gleaned from Miss Griggs. ‘Well, we know Ziggy drinks,’ she added. ‘We’ve seen the empties in his house. But it’s the violence that’s interesting, isn’t it? Perhaps he hit his wife, with or without intent, found that he’d killed her, disposed of her body, and took off.’

  ‘Now hold hard,’ said Quantrill. ‘That doesn’t sound like the contented couple their son told us about.’

  ‘Family solidarity?’ said Hilary. ‘Or perhaps they’re on their best behaviour on the rare occasions when Andrew’s at home.’

  ‘Maybe … It’s an interesting possibility, I agree – but there isn’t a scrap of evidence for it. Is there?’

  ‘What about their living-room floor, with the conspicuously washed patch near the hearth? We all assumed that Mrs Crackjaw had cleaned it. But perhaps it was Ziggy who had to do that, to get rid of bloodstains before he left?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Quantrill, clicking back into top gear. He was tempted to issue an instruction, but remembered just in time that his sergeant was in charge of the case, and she was touchy about being told what to do. ‘Right, then, Hilary, what’s your next move?’

  ‘I’ll send the scenes-of-crime team to search for evidence at Longmire End,’ she said. ‘And then I’m going back to Byland post office, to find out why Janet Thacker pretends to know nothing about the Crackjaws.’

  Chapter Five

  Later that afternoon Sergeant Lloyd drove to Byland and spent some time sitting in her car beside the village green, from where she had a good view of the Thackers’shop. She kept an eye on the number of people who approached it, and deliberately chose to enter the premises at a time when the post office was busy.

  Janet Thacker was at her counter trying, between customers, to check a pile of dockets and list them on a calculator. She was not at all pleased when Hilary approached. She hadn’t time to talk, she protested. The mail was due to be collected shortly, and there were official forms that she had to complete and send to head office today without fail.

  Hilary assured her that she was in no hurry, and didn’t in the least mind waiting. And as she had hoped, Janet Thacker unlocked the counter door and invited her – though ungraciously – into the private part of the office.

  ‘Thanks very much. D’you mind if I look round your bookshelves while I’m waiting?’ Hilary asked.

  Janet tossed an answer over her shoulder. ‘Help yourself,’ she said absently.

  It took nearly half an hour for the postmistress to complete her forms, deal with customers’complications, and book out the official mail. As soon as the mail driver had cleared the post-box and driven away, the office went quiet.

  ‘Phew �
�’ Janet Thacker slumped on her stool, pushing her greying fringe out of her eyes and blowing out cheeks that were redder than usual with concentration. She was dressed more conventionally that afternoon, in sweater, skirt and casual shoes, though her bunch of keys was attached to her belt with a length of string.

  ‘Sorry to keep you so long,’ she told Hilary. ‘There’s never an even flow of work in this job, you’re either bored silly or rushed off your feet.’ She went to the corner table and switched on the kettle.

  ‘At least you’ve got your word processor to stave off boredom,’ said Hilary. ‘Are you writing a book?’

  ‘I’m working on a social history of this area: rural life in the twentieth century. I do a bit of freelance journalism, too: I’m the Byland correspondent for the local newspaper. They pay me 35p a line, and you’d be amazed how much I find to report!’

  ‘Have you had any books published?’

  ‘No such luck. I wrote one years ago and sent it to half the publishers in London, but they all sent it back … Cup of tea? Mum and I reckon to have one as soon as the mail goes.’

  Hilary declined; she could hardly accept the woman’s hospitality when she was about to question her truthfulness.

  Janet Thacker made two half-pint mugs of tea and carried one into the shop. ‘Any news of the Crackjaws?’ she said as she returned.

  ‘None at all. I’ve been making enquiries in the village, though, and I was surprised to hear that you once lived next door to them. I wondered why you hadn’t mentioned it when I was here yesterday?’

  For a moment Janet seemed to freeze, but a customer came in and saved her from an immediate reply. By the time she had dealt with a telephone bill and a savings bank transaction, she had relaxed again.

  ‘Longmire End?’ Hilary prompted.

  ‘Oh yes – you wondered why I hadn’t told you we lived there,’ she said easily. ‘Well, I suppose it was all so long ago that it never crossed my mind. And even if I’d remembered, I couldn’t have told you anything that had any bearing on the Crackjaws’disappearance.’

  ‘You could have told me about their habits,’ said Hilary. ‘That Ziggy was a drinker, for instance.’

  ‘Everybody knows that,’ said Janet. ‘I thought you’d have heard it from the top shop, where he gets his supplies.’

  ‘And that when he’s drunk he can be violent?’

  Janet Thacker shot her a dark look. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Hilary. ‘You must have known whether or not he hit his children.’

  ‘Well, yes … yes, he used to give them good hidings. They were little devils, the lot of them, they usually deserved it.’

  ‘What about his wife? Did he hit her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have no idea what went on in their house, apart from a lot of shouting.’ She frowned at Hilary. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘We’re wondering whether Ziggy might have hit his wife a little too hard.’

  ‘Killed her, you mean?’

  ‘It’s one of the possibilities.’

  ‘Good Lord …’ Janet’s high complexion intensified. Then, ‘Oh no,’ she said vigorously. ‘No, I don’t believe that for a moment. If he’d been going to kill her, he’d have done it long before now!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Hilary. ‘Tell me, when did you last see any of the Crackjaw children?’

  ‘At least twenty years ago …’ The postmistress was beginning to grow irritable. ‘I wouldn’t know them now if I did see them.’

  ‘You’d know Andrew, by his eyebrows.’

  Janet hesitated, controlling her irritation. ‘Ah, well, yes – I have seen Andrew once or twice, when he’s been over here visiting his parents. But as for the rest of the family –’

  ‘When did you last see Andrew?’

  ‘He came to the post office one day last week. I think it was Monday – early in the week, anyway.’

  ‘Did he say anything about his parents?’

  She shrugged. ‘I said, “How’s your Mum?” and he said, “Not too bad.”’

  ‘And that was the extent of your conversation?’

  ‘Yes. That’s how long it took me to sell him a book of stamps. You must have noticed that I don’t encourage customers to linger.’

  ‘I’d have thought it might be different with Andrew,’ said Hilary, pushing her luck. ‘After all, you grew up together.’

  Janet was annoyed. ‘What’s that got to do with it? We never liked each other, we never had anything in common. We exchange a civil word on the rare occasions when we meet, but that’s all.’

  Hilary sat still, looking at her but saying nothing. Janet produced an exasperated smile. ‘Look, Sergeant Lloyd, there is nothing more I can tell you about the Crackjaws. Not even if you sit in my office until closing time –’

  Hilary took the hint, picked up her briefcase and went.

  There was rain overnight, and the lane outside the Crackjaws’ house at Longmire End was soon churned to a brown porridge by the vehicles of the scenes-of-crime team. Among them was Chief Inspector Quantrill’s large Rover.

  When Sergeant Lloyd arrived, the noise and activity from the empty half of the double-dweller – the Thackers’former home – suggested that its rotten woodwork was being taken apart. Hilary changed from driving shoes to wellies, turned up the collar of her trench coat, hoisted her golf umbrella against the residual drizzle and went in search of the chief inspector.

  She found him beside the big apple tree that had been blown at an angle by the gales, surveying what had once been the gardens of the double-dweller. He was impervious to the weather in a waxed waterproof, a fishing hat and outsize wellington boots, but with a woollen scarf by way of acknowledgement that he’d just recovered from bronchitis.

  He greeted his sergeant with even more appreciation than usual.

  ‘You were absolutely right about that washed patch on the Crackjaws’living-room floor,’ he said. ‘The lads have found a smear of blood. There was more on the iron fender in front of the fireplace, and a few grey hairs as well, so it looks as though the old lady might have hit her head in falling. How she came to fall is another matter, but we’re working on the likelihood that she’s dead.’

  ‘No sign of the body, though?’

  ‘Not so far. It’s not in their own house, and it doesn’t look as though it’s going to be found next door. It’s not in any of the old sheds, or the privies, and it can’t be buried out here because the ground hasn’t been disturbed for years. I’ve walked all over it. It’s matted with weeds and couch grass, there’s no newly dug earth anywhere.’

  Quantrill kicked at the base of the leaning apple tree, where some of its roots had been partly heaved up out of the soil. It was the only sign of disturbance in the whole garden, and attributable solely to the force of the wind.

  ‘Anyway,’ he concluded, ‘Ziggy’s an old man, he wouldn’t attempt to dig a grave. I reckon he’s much more likely to have dumped the body somewhere.’

  ‘He couldn’t have carried her far,’ said Hilary. ‘Andrew told us his mother was slight, but even so –’

  ‘You know what I think?’ Quantrill took the handle of her umbrella so that they could walk together to her car, and never mind what interpretation the nosy scenes-of-crime team would put on it. ‘Ziggy could have moved her by putting her over the cross-bar of his bike and wheeling her up to the old farm. He’s bound to know the best hiding-places among the barns and sheds. If we draw a blank here, I reckon that’s the next place to search.’

  ‘But meanwhile’, said Hilary, ‘where’s Ziggy himself?’

  ‘Ah, yes. That’s more difficult. He didn’t leave here on his bike, that’s still in the shed. If he’d walked to the village to catch a bus, we’d have heard about it. So he must have hitched a lift, which means he could be anywhere.’

  ‘Another Press appeal?’ suggested Hilary. ‘This time national, and for Ziggy on his own?’

  ‘Yes – nothing to cause al
arm, we just want to talk to him.’

  They sploshed up to Hilary’s car, and Quantrill sheltered her with the umbrella while she changed out of her muddy wellies.

  ‘Did you see the postmistress yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Did you find out why she wouldn’t tell you anything about the Crackjaws?’

  Hilary laughed. ‘Yes, I saw Janet Thacker, but I got nothing out of her. I didn’t expect to. So I helped myself to the information I wanted – literally helped myself, I mean. I walked out of her office with the typescript of her autobiography in my briefcase.’

  ‘Without her knowledge? You’ve got a nerve!’

  ‘Of course without her knowledge. It was no use asking her to lend it to me, was it?’

  ‘Depends what’s in it, I suppose –’

  ‘I’ve already flicked through it,’ said Hilary, ‘so I’ve a good idea. It tells us a lot more than Janet was prepared to say about the entire Crackjaw family. Also, Andrew’s name seems to crop up quite often. By the time we’ve read the book, I think we may take an entirely different view of the old couple’s disappearance.’

  The Drop In

  by Janet Thacker

  Chapter One

  ‘Teacher’s favourite … get you after school!’

  But I knew better than to hang about waiting to be got. As always, I legged it for home.

  Bolt out of the playground and down the long hot road, summer sandals tacky on melting tar. Off the road and along our lane, slipping now on winter mud while brambles trip and clutch me. Quick look back and here they come, Andy Crackjaw leading; I try to run faster but my feet are clogged with great boots of wet clay and I flounder past Spirkett’s Wood, slowing, slowing. ‘Gotcha,’ jeers Andy, making a grab, but I can see the roof of our house through the trees and I yell, ‘Dad, Dad, Dad!’ and fight off the brambles and the boys as they pull me down in the mud until Dad from miles away says, ‘It’s all right, my lovey, you’re dreaming that’s all,’ and he strokes my head with his long cool fingers and soothes and murmurs me awake.