At Risk

41

It took Diane Munday several minutes to come to a decision. She hadn’t picked up Elsie Hogan’s call, she’d let the answering machine do the work, as she always did. That way she didn’t have to relay tedious messages backwards and forwards between Ralph and his golfing chums-crashing bores to a man, in Diane’s opinion.

When the call had come in-“Mrs. M? Mrs. M…”-something had stayed her hand. “It’s Elsie, Mrs. M,” the voice had shakily continued. “I’m at the bungalows, and I’ve-”

Then a shout of some kind. Not Elsie’s voice, but stifled and indistinct. Two plinks, like a teaspoon on bone china, and a long gasping groan. The plinking sound repeated, a thump, and silence.

Elsie was on Diane’s speed-dial list, and Diane tried calling her back, but got the engaged tone. Then, mystified, she rewound and played back the message. It made no more sense than it had before, but Diane knew that she ought to react in some way. Drive over there, perhaps. But she decided against this. Her fear was that some sort of tiresome medical episode had occurred. If this was the case, driving up to the bungalows could well entail driving Elsie to hospital, hanging around in King’s Lynn, signing things and otherwise having her Sunday morning well and truly ruined, rather than merely spoilt.

She looked around her with mounting irritation. She had just dusted her cappuccino with slimline chocolate powder, the Mail on Sunday and Hello! were waiting on the kitchen table, and Russell Watson was singing on Classic FM.

Really, she thought. I’m not the woman’s keeper; the whole cleaning arrangement had always been strictly cash in hand. If Elsie Hogan had had a dizzy turn down at the bungalows, then she should have rung that fat lump of a daughter of hers. The pub didn’t open till 11:30 and Cherisse would almost certainly be at home, painting her nails or watching TV or doing whatever people did on Sunday mornings in council flats. Unless of course she hadn’t come home, which was equally within the realm of possibility.

In the normal run of things Diane would have been tempted to ring the emergency services and leave the worrying and the problem-solving to them. On this occasion, however, she hesitated. She didn’t want the police turning up at the bungalow and discovering that the girl was a cash-paying customer. She wasn’t quite sure how the police and the tax people and the health and safety people connected up, but she was pretty sure that if they started talking to each other about her it could lead to problems. So she waited and she sipped at her coffee, telling herself that she should sit tight in case Elsie rang back.

After five minutes, during which the phone remained resolutely silent, Diane reluctantly punched out Elsie’s number again. The mobile phone that she had called, an electronic voice informed her, was out of service. She glanced out of the French windows. It was still pouring with rain. From somewhere beyond Dersthorpe, a slender column of smoke was winding into the steel-grey sky.

Staff, Diane mused irritably, wondering where she’d left the keys to the four-wheel drive. One couldn’t survive without them, but my God they could take it out of you.

On the way out she glanced at the kitchen clock. It was 10:30.