Standing shoulder to shoulder, Partial Sue and Daisy stood in front of Fiona like a Saxon shield wall. Not a particularly wide shield wall, granted. However, their two-person phalanx only had to bar her from leaving and doing something she would later regret to Sophie Haverford and her pretentious establishment.
Fiona had never lost her temper before because she didn’t have a temper to lose. Level-headed with the smarts to back it up, she preferred rationalising and reasoning her way out of problems rather than throwing her toys out of the pram. She could tell Partial Sue and Daisy were scared by the unprecedented rage that currently had Fiona in its spikey grip.
It hadn’t surfaced straight away. After Sophie and Gail had left and Fiona had cleared up the mess Simon Le Bon had made, she had sat at the table clutching her coffee cup as if she wanted to squeeze the life out of it. Partial Sue had retaken her position by the whiteboard, attempting to put Sophie’s rude interruption behind them by resuming their brainstorming session. It hadn’t worked. While Partial Sue and Daisy had contributed suggestions, Fiona had not. Instead, she had brooded silently, her simmering, hissing anger threatening to bubble over. They’d asked if she was okay. Fiona had stood up, eyes burning as she’d looked out of the window to the Cats Alliance across the street. Someone had left a shopping trolley out on the road nearby.
Fiona calmly but through gritted teeth had said, “See that shopping trolley? I’m going to hurl it through Sophie’s window.”
Hence the impromptu shield wall to stop her.
“Let me through!” demanded Fiona. “Get out of my way.”
Partial Sue had her skinny arms planted firmly on Fiona’s shoulders. “No way. You’re not going over there and giving her what she wants.”
“Yes, I am! And what she wants is a shopping trolley through the window.”
“Please,” Daisy said. “Don’t do this. Think about it.”
“I have thought about it, and the solution is a trolley in her window.”
“She’s a rubbish human being,” Partial Sue said. “But don’t stoop to her level.”
Fiona barged forward. “I don’t mind stooping to her level. Honestly, I don’t.”
The pair stood firm, two against one. Partial Sue’s attempt to calm her was a bit like attempting to reason with an angry sea. “This is not you, Fiona. Think about what’s happening to you at the moment. Your life’s being threatened. You’ve got a lot of fear in you right now. It’s making you do rash things.”
“I’m not frightened. Far from it.” Fiona attempted to prise both women out of the way, as if she were pulling apart a pair of jammed lift doors.
“Remember what Yoda said,” Daisy remarked.
Fiona stopped struggling and regarded her curiously. Partial Sue did too. “Yoda?”
Thankfully, she didn’t attempt to do the voice. “Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to something or other. I can’t remember the rest.”
“Yoda’s right. I mean, Daisy’s right,” Partial Sue corrected. “Fear is making you do this. It’s morphed into anger, and it needs an outlet. You need someone to lash out at, and because you don’t know who, you’ve got Sophie in your sights.”
“Yes, but—”
Partial Sue held her hand up to signify that she’d like to finish. “Usually, Sophie annoys you, winds you up. This isn’t anything new. You always rise above it because you’re more dignified than her. You’re a better human being than she is. Now she’s got you wanting to vandalise her shop, not because you really want to but because of the stress you’re under. These are not normal circumstances. Having a murderer after you will do that to a person. That’s what’s causing you to act like this, not that show-off Sophie Haverford.”
Fiona’s shoulders slumped. She turned and dawdled back to the table and collapsed down in her chair. A large sigh escaped from her lungs.
Daisy and Partial Sue waited a beat, hanging around by the door. Fiona presumed they did this because they thought her actions were a ruse and the second they relinquished their supervision of the door, she would bolt and fulfil her mission.
She didn’t. She just sat there breathing heavily, all the fight gone out of her. Sensing her hurt, Simon Le Bon hopped up and snuggled into her lap. She didn’t mind that he smelled vaguely ripe and sickly. A dog can be a calming presence, preferably after it’s finished throwing up.
They joined her at the table, no one wanting to speak first. After a while Fiona said, “You’re right, of course.”
The other two didn’t respond. Cast their eyes down.
“I would have regretted doing it. That would have been the end of my days with Dogs Need Nice Homes. The end of my days as a volunteer with any charity for that matter. Staving in windows is frowned upon in the voluntary sector.”
“No, it wouldn’t have been a good idea,” Daisy said. “Not a good idea at all.”
The three of them went silent again. Partial Sue broke the quiet. “Still, I would’ve loved to have seen it.”
“Me too.” Daisy giggled.
Fiona smiled devilishly. “I can still make it happen.”
“No!” they chorused, standing up, ready to resume their posts.
Fiona held up her hands in surrender. “I’m joking. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I’m not going to do anything. Much as I’d like to.”
Slowly and tentatively, they both sat back down.
“The sheer cheek of the woman though,” said Partial Sue. “Stealing your idea and our customers. What is her problem?”
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Fiona suggested.
“How about a nice cup of tea?” Daisy asked.
The tea came out and everyone felt a whole lot calmer. Only tea can do that. They drained their cups and decided to have a second one because it was that kind of day, then turned their attentions back to the whiteboard. After squeezing out a few more suggestions, they set about whittling down the list. The majority could be ruled out easily. People such as doctors, tradespeople and even the dear old vicar would only be invited into a house if they had an appointment or had called ahead first. Appointments and phone calls left a trail — evidence of logged calls and diary entries. Far too risky. So they had to assume it would be someone who had turned up unannounced. But no one in their right mind would open the door and just let in anyone who’d randomly appeared on their doorstep. This left only two plausible candidates.
“Police officer and meter reader,” Daisy read off the whiteboard.
“I hate it when the killer turns out to be a police officer,” grumbled Partial Sue.
Fiona agreed. “I know what you mean. It’s always a bit of a let-down. Bit too convenient. However, we shouldn’t rule it out. We shouldn’t rule out any of these. We should put them on the back-burner.”
“Our back-burner’s a little overcrowded, like a stove on Christmas Day.”
“That just leaves a meter reader,” Daisy said. “But everyone knows you don’t let meter readers in your house without the proper identification. They used to ram it down our throats with all those public information ads in the seventies. Do you remember them?”
Partial Sue made a face. “Urgh, they used to give me the willies. Some of them were more terrifying than watching The Shining. Do you remember that one with the spirit of dark water, with the guy in the hood?”
“Oh, yes,” Daisy replied. “That gave me nightmares. Worked, though. I never went swimming in a disused tip.”
“And I never put a rug on a highly polished floor or climbed an electricity pylon to get a kite.”
Partial Sue and Daisy loved to take a stroll down memory lane, which, had you believed the public information films in the seventies, was a dark and terrifying place full of unsuspecting dangers waiting to have your arm off. Fiona brought them both back to the matter in hand. “Speaking of electricity, when was the last time you had a meter reader in your house?”
Partial Sue racked her brain. “Can’t remember. Not for ages, years.”
“Mine’s all done automatically,” Daisy said. “A guy called Jeff came and fitted a smart meter three years ago. I remember because he had bad breath.”
“Me too,” Partial Sue agreed. “Not the bad breath bit, the meter bit. It’s all online now. Everyone has smart meters round here. I saw the van going house to house fitting them. There’s no need for meter readers. Either they don’t exist or they’re very rare.”
Fiona gasped. “That’s it! Everyone has smart meters because they’re all online. It’s just easier. All except our victims. None of them had the internet, which would mean—”
“They’d still rely on a traditional meter reader to come round and do it the old-fashioned way,” Partial Sue jumped in. “They’d definitely open their door and invite them in without a struggle. I think we’re onto something.”
“Hold on,” Daisy said. “Don’t energy companies let you phone and email your reading if you don’t have a smart meter, or post it?”
Fiona nodded. “That’s true, but Ian Richard had trouble walking and Sarah Brown needed a walking frame. Meter cupboards in big old houses are sometimes in awkward places. If someone showed up asking to read the meter, our offline victims would’ve let them in.”
“Really? Falling for the old meter-reader-at-the-door routine. You think it’s that simple?”
“Why not?”
The bell above the door tinkled. In shuffled the portly shapes of Oliver and Stewart decked in their bakers’ uniforms and carrying teetering towers of cake tins.
Oliver deftly edged his way around the shop displays while Stewart bumped and bounced off them like a pinball, distracted by the phone in his hand, which he managed to clutch while also gripping the column of cake tins that appeared in danger of toppling over at any second. Neither of them noticed Daisy’s new look. Oliver offered no greeting and in his usual curt manner simply stated, “Red velvet cake here.” He pulled off the uppermost tin and placed it on the table. “Get a plate for it sharpish because I need the tin back.”
Partial Sue, who was nearest the storeroom, made a beeline for the plates drying on the draining board. She returned and expertly flipped the moist, luscious cake onto the plate. “Shall I wash the tin for you, Oliver?”
“Don’t bother. I’ll do it,” Oliver said, as if he couldn’t trust her to do it properly.
Stewart lifted his head from his screen. “Hey, where’s the Wicker Man?”
Fiona stuttered, “Er, he hurt his back. He might not be in today.”
Stewart looked disappointed. “Oh, I made a new app to show him. Makes your face into toast. Gonna make a mint from it. Get my own place.”
Oliver shook his head dismissively. “Before you become the next Jeff Beeswax, you can help me deliver the rest of these cakes.”
Stewart huffed. “It’s Bezos, Dad. Jeff Bezos.”
“Don’t care.” His dad turned to leave.
“Before you go,” Fiona said, “do you know if there’s still such a thing as meter readers around here?”
“Dunno, I’ve not seen one for ages. Pity the Wicker Man’s not here.”
“Why’s that?”
“You should ask him. He used to be one.”