Theft on Thursday by Ann Purser

was pale and drawn.
    “Mum! Better go and lie down. I’ll bring you a hottie—come on, I’ll help you up.” They just made it to the top ofthe stairs, when Gran had to rush into the bathroom to throw up again.
    “Right,” said Lois, who had heard from Hazel about the Sandy Mackerras episode, “I’m ringing the doctor right now.” She settled her mother in bed, and went down to telephone. “She’s not a young person,” she said firmly to the receptionist, who, as usual, said couldn’t Mrs. Weedon manage to come into the surgery? “There’s no way I’m bringing her down,” Lois added. “And it’s urgent. I’ll expect the doctor shortly.”
    The surgery was a client of New Brooms and they all knew Lois Meade. A message was sent through to the doctor out on his rounds, and within an hour of Lois’s call, he was there. “What nonsense!” Gran said. “No need to send for you at all. Just eaten something, I expect.” But the doctor told Lois not to let her mother get up for at least twenty-four hours, and gave her a number of other instructions out of Gran’s hearing.
    “Is it a bug going round?” Lois asked. The doctor shrugged. “Well, there was that Sandy Mackerras,” Lois continued. “He was throwing up all night, the vicar said.”
    “Yes, well,” said the doctor, uncommunicative as ever. “Goodbye, Mrs. Meade. I’ll look in again tomorrow.” He strode off down the path, and Lois shrugged. All right, then, she said to herself, don’t break the Official Secrets Act. She went back into the house, and rushed upstairs as she heard Gran heaving again.
    S ANDY M ACKERRAS PULLED UP OUTSIDE THE LIBRARY in Tresham, and Sharon struggled to let herself out. He leaned over her, rather longer than necessary, and opened the door. He caught a whiff of a flowery scent, and then she was out on the pavement, leaning down to thank him profusely for the lift. “A pleasure, Sharon,” he said, “always a pleasure to give a lovely girl a lift!” She blushed again, anddropped a library book. Confused and burning, she finally reached the library door and disappeared. Was real life catching up with her fictional world at last? She handed in her books with a flourish, and ignored the librarian’s raised eyebrows as he noticed the titles of some of them.
    The estate agent’s office was busy with potential house-buyers when Sandy walked through to his desk. A housing boom had been a godsend to the proliferation of agents in Tresham. This particular one was known to be pushy. Sandy fitted in very well, and had quickly developed the agent-speak which had just worked its magic on Sharon. Flattery, hand-in-hand with exaggeration, was his stock-in-trade, and he loved it.
    “Morning, everyone,” he said bouncily, and turned his charming smile on to the first customer.
    A T THE VICARAGE , B RIAN R OLLINSON LOOKED THROUGH the door into Sandy’s room and saw chaos. He sighed. It wouldn’t do for Hazel Thornbull to see this mess. He began to clear the clothes and magazines, and sort them into tidy piles. Everything you would expect to find in a young man’s room, he thought. No surprises. He picked up a photograph from the table by the bed. It was Sandy’s mother and father in earlier years, smiling at the camera in the first flush of a new marriage. Gerald had been such a handsome fellow. That smile. The pain he had almost forgotten stabbed Brian once more, and he put down the photograph quickly. Glancing round the room and approving it as presentable for Hazel, he left and went downstairs to his study to immerse himself in Sunday’s sermon.
    But his mind kept returning to Sandy and his parents. When had he first met them? Must have been after college, while he was studying accountancy. He put down his pen and stared out of the window. The Tate Gallery, that was it. He’d dropped in to pass away an hour or so, waiting tomeet a friend from college, and he had stood in front of a painting next to a young man who was