SIX

On the way back to her house, a voice called Jane’s name and she tensed. It was Willa. Not the parcel, the missing handcuffs. Would Willa be prepared to admit to what she had ordered? Possibly. Perhaps such outfits were run of the mill these days. Should she feign ignorance, or admit the guilty truth and collect them from behind the herbs and spices?

‘How are you, Jane?’

‘I’m well, thank you.’

‘It must be a relief not having to get up early each morning and go to your school. Apparently, teachers burn out with all the stress. Is that what happened to you?’

‘No, I retired at the correct age.’ A multi-coloured scarf had been wound round Willa’s bush of wiry hair. Some of her clothes were from the Turkish shop. Her round face was not unattractive but, in Jane’s opinion, she applied rather too much lipstick. Today it was fuchsia pink.

‘It’s Arthur.’ Willa let out a long, dramatic sigh.

‘Your son?’ Jane pictured her, dressed in the patent leather knickers. Not a pretty sight.

‘Say if it’s out of the question but I was rather hoping ... I thought ...’

Jane waited but all Willa managed to produce was another heavy sigh.

‘You need some advice?’

‘Not advice, Jane, a tutor.’

‘What kind of tuition does he require?’

‘English. Grammar. How to construct a sentence. No problem with maths and science but you need to pass English or you’re not allowed to stay on for your A-levels and he wants to study medicine, follow in his father’s footsteps. Quite honestly, Jane, I don’t think he’s the first idea what a sentence is. I blame computers. No, don’t tell me now. Think about it. Obviously, I’d pay the going rate.’

Jane had thought about it, but it was never a good idea to sound too keen. Teaching the boy two or three times a week during the summer holidays might be quite amusing. Sentence analysis. Some of the basics of the English language.

‘Just one more thing.’ Willa’s face came rather too close. ‘Would you mind not mentioning it to Brian? He and Arthur, not the best of friends. His age. Arthur’s age I mean. Fifteen, coming up to sixteen.’

‘I won’t say a word.’

‘So, you’ll do it. Oh, thank you.’ Willa planted a kiss on Jane’s cheek, most likely leaving a smudge of lipstick? ‘You’ve no idea what a weight off my mind that is.’

‘You think Arthur will be agreeable to the idea?’ Jane visualised the boy being dragged, quite literally, to her house.

‘Won’t get a say in the matter. I’ve told him to jolly well pull up his socks or I’m going to jolly well confiscate his laptop.’

Two split infinitives. The so-called experts said it was now permissible, but Jane disliked the lazy use of language. Eddie had accused her of being pedantic, but Jane had never altered her strongly held belief that correct grammar was the basis of good written work – and clear speech, come to that.

As she walked away, she recalled the rumours, probably untrue, that Willa drank. What gossips people were – not that she herself was immune. Men complained how women gossiped, but surely an interest in people was preferable to a passion for fast cars and football. Listening to groups of men conversing never ceased to amaze her. All right, mate? New goalie’s crap. You can say that again. Nought to sixty in five seconds. Ref needs glasses. See you, mate. Cheers!

The sun had come out, and Jane felt her spirits lift. Willa’s son Arthur was at that difficult age, neither child nor man, but she liked a challenge. Perhaps she should wrap up the handcuffs and push them through Willa’s door. She could do it in the dark. No, that might arouse even more suspicion. When the time was right she would dispose of the things in someone else’s bin, in a different street, and if anyone saw her she would pretend she was looking for Rousseau.

That weight off her mind, she decided to visit the Portuguese café on her own. There might be someone she knew by sight who would welcome a chat and, if not, Mrs Cardozo was always very friendly, and what was so shameful about sitting by yourself? Worry about the handcuffs had been replaced by plans to provide tuition for the Molloy boy. Arthur, an old-fashioned name that was back in fashion. One of her uncles had been called Arthur and, during her childhood, she had heard her father say it was better to draw a veil over his business dealings. Possibly he had ended up in prison. In those days people preferred to sweep black sheep under the carpet. A mixed metaphor, but a rather good one.

Willa was on her way back to her house. She turned to wave and Jane waved back. The day was turning out rather well after all. Eddie for one night was not such a problem and, once she was safely back at The Spruces, she would concentrate on planning the tuition. She wondered what the boy was like. Good at maths, Willa said, so he must be intelligent. A dislike of written work was a common problem with teenage boys but she felt confident she would be able to help.

Arthur Molloy. Little did she know what an important part in her investigations he was going to play. In her search for a culprit.