ONE

‘We call them “serial offenders”,’ the tall, and rather alluring, delivery man explained. ‘People who order goods when they know they’re going to be out all day. This one’s for number thirty-four.’

Neither of them smiled. It was not a joke. For her own part, Jane never ordered anything online, preferring to visit the shops and check goods face to face, so to speak. Presumably, her neighbours sat at their computers, clicking away, without a thought as to when the garden lights or digital pedometers or babies’ play centres would arrive.

‘What’s your name, love?’

Jane opened her mouth to say “Seymour”, but the word came out differently. ‘Marple.’

‘Initial?’

‘J.’

‘Sign here, please.’

Taking the stylus from his outstretched hand, she signed “Jane Marple” with a flourish, and took the package – it was lighter than she expected – speculating as to what something so large and bulky might contain.

‘I’ll leave a note at number thirty-four.’

‘If you must.’ The package was addressed to Willa Molloy. Last time it had been number twenty-one and the owner had rung Jane’s bell when she was in the bath and she had been obliged to dry herself hurriedly and open the front door in her dressing gown. Her hair had been wet, and would not have looked its best. Once auburn, it was now a steely grey, although the freckles on her face and hands were a reminder of the colouring she had inherited from her father. In her youth, she had been what people call “a fine-looking woman”, with her high cheekbones, and lacking the glasses she now wore, more as a defence against the world rather than because she was unable to see in the distance.

The parcel had been badly wrapped, either that or someone had tossed it across the sorting room and it had landed awkwardly. Ripped paper, and sticky tape that was coming away at one end. Why had she signed “Jane Marple”? So silly, but one made these gestures to keep up one’s spirits. One’s spirits? She sounded like the Queen but, as well as leaving you at a bit of a loose end, retirement meant losing your status, something she was finding a little hard to bear.

Miss Marple. The Miss Marple Day. She had enjoyed the books, preferring unassuming Jane Marple to pompous Hercule Poirot, but later she would look back on that day with a faint shudder. Of regret? Or was it guilt? How little control over events one had and it was easy to see how one thing led to another. Easy with hindsight.

Just now, Rousseau was writhing round her legs, demanding food. According to a website she had visited, cats’ purring lowered your blood pressure, and certainly Rousseau had one of the loudest purrs, jumping onto her knees and purring like a ... like a what? In the past, she had thought of herself as something of an expert in similes and metaphors, but recently her brain produced only clichés. Purring like a steam engine. Gorging like a pig. The thought that the tabby cat had no knowledge of his namesake, Jean-Jacques, made her smile.

‘I have never shared Rousseau’s belief that human beings are good by nature, but I did believe in my pupils developing a healthy sense of self-worth.’

Rousseau looked up, with traces of meat on his whiskers, and she felt obliged to explain. ‘Self-worth, Rousseau. All this depression and anxiety is the result of low self-esteem. People rarely suffer from it in times of severe stress. In wartime, for instance, when the wish to survive is stronger than the wish to compete.’

She had put it badly so it was not surprising Rousseau’s tail was disappearing through the cat flap. She picked up Willa Molloy’s parcel and gave it a squeeze.

If it had contained any small items they would have fallen out through the rip. What was it? Willa Molloy went in for ethnic clothes, brightly coloured and not very flattering, but she thought she could feel something hard. Shoes? No, normally they came in boxes. A close neighbour ordered numerous pairs and the parcels were marked with the name of an expensive store, one into which Jane had never ventured.

Taking a pair of scissors from a drawer, she cut through a short length of sticky tape – it would be simple enough to re-stick it – and dragged four polythene-wrapped objects through the outer packaging. The invoice that accompanied the items fell to the floor. Jane retrieved it and checked the contents, and how much each item had cost. A fair bit, but that was true of most things these days.

The description, “pink fluffy handcuffs” was self-explanatory. Of more interest were the teacher’s outfit, mortarboard and black patent leather underwear. Not real leather, of course, and consisting mainly of strips and buckles, together with a pair of knickers that would be extremely uncomfortable, but perhaps that was part of the fun.

The fact that fetishists liked teachers amused her. Freud had explained it as an association between an object and a first sexual experience. That thought was less appealing. Sit down, child, and do as you’re told. The boy’s hand on his groin – was that what Freud had meant?

Willa Molloy’s husband, Brian, was Jane’s doctor, a decent enough man, if on the dull side. Or so Jane had believed. Unwanted images sprang to mind. Willa cavorting in the teacher outfit, and Brian dressed as a schoolboy, in shorts and knee socks. Stuffing the mortarboard and patent leather back into their respective bags, she snipped off a small strip of fresh sticky tape, and returned the package more or less to its previous state.

Parcels were often damaged in transit. When she delivered it to number thirty-four, Willa would be none the wiser.

As it turned out, it was Brian who answered the door. Still dressed in the casual outfit he now wore at the health centre, in place of his grey suit, he gave her one of his benign smiles. ‘Jane – what can I do for you?’

‘Parcel for Willa.’

‘Ah. Thank you. She’s at her Zumba dancing.’ He gave a little laugh – because he knew what the parcel contained, or was it the dancing class he found amusing? ‘Birthday coming up. I was hoping for binoculars, but this is the wrong shape. What d’you think? I know, a kite. I mentioned how flying a kite might be good exercise.’ He fingered his thinning hair. ‘I expect you take in plenty of other people’s parcels.’

‘I do.’

‘What would we do without you?’

‘What indeed.’

He hesitated and she was afraid he had noticed the damaged state of the package, but he was only preparing to ask after Eddie.

‘She’s fine. Much the same.’

‘It’s a good place, The Spruces. You were fortunate they agreed to take her. But I expect you know that.’

‘I do.’ How crass he was. At one time, she had thought doctors the crème de la crème, but, according to Willa, Brian had only gained a place at medical school because his doctor father had been a rugby blue.

‘You look tired, Jane.’

‘Didn’t sleep terribly well.’

‘Of course.’ He had adopted his professional GP’s expression. ‘Missing your friend. Grieving. These things have a tendency to manifest as physical symptoms and the symptoms are telling us—’

‘Goodbye then, Brian. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’ He pushed up the cuff of his green sweatshirt. ‘Programme about breastfeeding and hypochondria in ten minutes’ time. Fascinating.’

‘I’m sure.’ Jane turned her back on number thirty-four and made for home. How did Willa stand the man? On the other hand, Willa would not be the easiest person to live with. With whom to live. In spite of the changing directives of whichever Education Minister was in office, Jane had insisted her pupils became familiar with at least the rudiments of good grammar.

Lost in thought, she reached her house, put her key in the lock, entered her sitting room, and was stopped short by a dull thud in the pit of her stomach. In the centre of the cat basket Rousseau normally scorned, lay the fluffy pink handcuffs.