Threats At Three Part 23

"No, only you. And about time, too. Don't just stand there! Come in, do. You'll wear out the pavement."

She settled him in her best armchair, and put a large gin and tonic in front of him.

"Middle of the afternoon, Dot? You got depraved habits since your man died! Still, I reckon I need it after all the work I done for you."

"Get on with it, then. What did you find out?"

"Your man is still around. That's the first thing. The second is that he's on the move, and for the moment we've lost track of him. He was working at Farnden Hall, we know that."

"So do I!" snapped Dot. "You better tell me something more recent than that."

"Hold your horses," Victor said. "Not s'fast, Dot. We tracked him down after that. You know his kid went missing-"

"-that was all over the papers, for G.o.d's sake! Where is he now?"

"We thought he scarpered out of the area, but then we picked up the scent on a train. One of ours had a bit o' business in that direction and sat near this bloke. He thought he recognized him from the picture in the paper, though he wasn't sure. Said the man on the train was much older and thinner. Still, he thought there might be a profit to be made in following him. He shadowed him almost back to Tresham, then lost him. But that was not long ago, so we got men out looking right now."

"So what you're tellin' me is that he's probably still around these parts, but you don't know where?"

"Not exactly where, nor are we sure it was him," Victor said, taking a large gulp of his gin.

"Is that it, then?"

"No, there is one more thing. Might be useful. You know old Carl who runs the joke shop in that little alleyway off the marketplace? Still on our list for past misdemeanours?"

Dot nodded, scowling at him in a threatening way.

"Well, he reported a skinny, ill-looking bloke who came into the shop asking for a false beard and mustache. Said he was doing kids' parties, but Carl said no sane person would employ him anywhere near kids."

"And?"

"And he reckoned he was a bit like that father of the kid that went missing. Carl still had the picture in the paper, but there wasn't much of a likeness. Could've been his brother, he said."

"Did he ring the cops?"

"Did he h.e.l.l! You know better than that, Dot! Nimmo friends don't communicate with the law. They wait for them to approach, then decide whether or not to be helpful."

Dot sighed. Sometimes she wondered how these Nimmo idiots had kept afloat all these years. Still, there was one nugget of information that might help. Jack Hickson could be around town wearing a false beard and mustache. The idea was so ridiculous that she burst out into a raucous cackle.

"What's funny, Dot?" Victor said, getting to his feet. He had decided to go while the going was good. Dot had a reputation, and he would be happier on his way back home in the limo waiting for him outside her door.

"Nothing, nothing at all," she replied, sobering up. "Thanks for not much, Victor. Anyway, if you hear anything more, let me know." She saw him to the door and secured it after him.

Mustache and beard? Where would that be more of an everyday sight than a joke disguise? Where down-and-outs congregate, that's where. She tidied her kitchen, found her handbag, and left the house, walking swiftly down Sebastopol Street and waving to Hazel as she went by the office.

MRS. T-J WAS NOT CONCENTRATING. SHE HAD JOINED HER FELLOW magistrates in the anteroom and discussed the cases coming before them this afternoon. They had had a difficult one this morning, but now the list consisted mostly of vagrants picked up off the streets, drunk and disorderly, and one parking offence committed by an eighty-year-old man accused of sc.r.a.ping the wing of a car parked in front of him, then leaving the scene of the crime without reporting to the police or his victim.

Now it was time to convene the afternoon session. She took off her gla.s.ses and rubbed her eyes. Sometimes she thought of retiring, considering she could now use her time more profitably than sitting in judgment on an old man who was probably a lot more capable of safe driving than many a youngster. "Let's be off, then," she said.

"All rise," said the court official, and Mrs. T-J entered, followed by her companion JPs. The first thing she noticed was a wasp. It was careering round the courtroom, bashing into windows that were set high in the wall to prevent observation either in or out. There were few things that frightened Mrs. T-J, but wasps were at the top of a short list.

"Before we start," she said magisterially to the court usher, "may we expel the wasp?"

The usher frowned. Was she serious? He knew the dear old thing was getting on, but she always seemed in full possession of her marbles. Very sharp, in fact, and she knew that persistent offenders dreaded coming up before Mrs. Tollervey-Jones.

It was several minutes before the wasp was firmly squashed and the business of the court commenced. The magistrate sitting on Mrs. T-J's left leaned towards her to say that he thought the first case was a nonstarter, and saw that she was gazing up at the ceiling.

"It's gone. Squashed. It is an ex-wasp," he whispered. He had great respect for the chairman of the bench, but she really was behaving oddly.

"I know," she said firmly. "I was thinking. Something on my mind. Settled now, though. Let's get on, shall we?"

Ever since Mrs. T-J had encountered that unpleasant character with the van who had accosted her on her own driveway, she had repeatedly seen his face in her mind and knew that she had seen it before. So many faces of that sort-closed up, belligerent-had pa.s.sed in front of her in her time spent in courtrooms. Was it one of them? And now she had remembered. He had been involved in that dreadful case of a young lad dying of an overdose in a house frequented by addicts on the edge of town. And now there had been another death there, a girl found by police curled up on a filthy mattress and clutching a moth-eaten teddy bear. House all boarded up now, of course, but too late for two young people.

FIFTY-FIVE.

THE ENTIRE VILLAGE WAS NOW TAKEN OVER BY TOMORROW'S soap box grand prix. There had been last minute objections from the police on safety grounds, but somehow Mrs. T-J had managed to smooth things over.

"She ain't goin' to be cheated out of the ride of her life in Jam & Jerusalem!" Tony said to Irene, as he pushed her up the street at teatime to have a look at the impressive ramp erected by John Thornbull and helpers. A crowd stood around as bolts were tightened and trial runs made sure that the edifice was safe. A streamlined vehicle, shaped like a rocket and labelled Silver Streak II, was repeatedly pushed up the ramp backwards and then released to check that all was well.

"You'll wear it out, boy!" Tony said to its driver.

"Don't you worry, Tony Dibson, we've got Silver Streak II ready for tomorrow!"

Tony and Irene wandered on, turning down to the playing fields and home. As they reached their cottage gate, and Tony turned the wheelchair, Irene said, "Aren't we going round the field? It'll be a good opportunity before the crowds get here tomorrow."

"It'll be a b.u.mpy ride for you," Tony said.

"Never mind about that! You'll want to see everything." Irene smiled. "I reckon my ride down the field will be nothing compared with them soap boxes. They'll career down the High Street and try to avoid all the potholes the council hasn't mended."

The big marquee had been erected a couple of days previously, and now all the craft and sundry stalls were set out. There were few exhibits, most stallholders having decided it was risky to leave them overnight, and planned to turn up early tomorrow morning. The first race was at one o'clock, and the organisers had reckoned that most of the business on the field would be done during the morning.

Gavin Adstone was watching a couple of men setting up the bucking bronco, and his small daughter, sitting on his shoulders, chortled and pointed at the horse, shouting "Me! Me go on horse!"

"Hi, Irene! Listen to this silly child! As if we'd let her anywhere near a bucking bronco!"

"There will be Shetland pony rides for the little ones tomorrow," Irene said, blowing a kiss to Cecilia. "Is Kate taking photos? I'm sure there'll be some for the alb.u.m."

"Time for the meeting soon," Tony said. "Are you coming back our way, Gavin?"

Gavin looked at his watch. "Good heavens, is that the time? Yep, we'll come back with you. Here, Cecilia can sit on Irene's lap, and I'll push the chair. It's hard going in the field. The meeting's in the pub, isn't it? Derek said half an hour at the most. All of us have jobs to do around the village, so it'll just be for emergency matters."

"Of which I hope there'll be none!" John Thornbull said, coming up behind them.

They walked slowly back past the village hall, and on towards the High Street, leaving Tony and Irene to go back home. Gavin lifted a protesting Cecilia from Irene's lap, and turned into his house next door, emerging again to attend the meeting.

Straw bales were being set out to form a crash barrier down both sides of the street, and a bunch of young boys scratched about in them like chickens, until shooed away by Sam Stratford on his tractor. Outside the shop, Josie and Lois stood talking to Paula Hickson, Frankie and the twins.

"Where's Jack Jr.?" Gran said, walking up to join them.

"Down with the Youth Club lot," Paula said. "He's been there all hours after work at the farm for most of this week. Thank G.o.d for the soap box grand prix, I say. They're going to let him drive, and he's finally cheered up. My only trouble with him now is persuading him to come back home to eat occasionally. Mind you," she added hastily, "I know where he is this time, of course. And next week he's back at school. I'm crossing fingers and toes that he'll settle in again."

"Oh, look, here comes Mrs. T-J with her son. He's opening the whole shebang, isn't he?" Josie said.

"Not exactly. He's escorting the soap box queen. Hey, look what she's got him doing! He has to earn his moment of celebrity." Lois pointed down towards the church, where a forklift truck hoisted Mrs. T-J's son high to fix rows of bunting, crisscrossing the street, while she directed operations from the ground.

"The old girl's a wonder," Derek said, as he joined them. "She's really come up trumps. Wouldn't it be good if she won her race?"

"She will," said Gran, tight-lipped. "Never been known to be beaten at anything, that one."

"Ah, but don't forget the surprise entry in the women's race," Derek said, glancing at Lois. She put her finger to her lips.

"Surprise entry?" said Gran innocently.

"All will be revealed tomorrow," Lois said. "Well, I must be getting home. Lots to do before the morning. See you all first thing."

In the back room of the pub, the soap box committee met for the last time before the great event, and there was an air of apprehension and excitement mixed with the smell of stale beer. "Are we all here?" Derek said, looking round.

"All except John," Gavin said. "He's coming as soon as they've roped off the ramp so the kids can't play on it. He's thought of everything, our John." And I devoutly hope that I have, too, he added to himself. However hard he tried, he could not banish thoughts of Tim Froot and his designs on Kate. Supposing he showed up tomorrow, while Kate and Cecilia were unprotected? But he'd thought of that. He'd asked Irene if she would like Kate to be with her all day, allowing Tony to be off with the blokes around the course. It would be all hands to the plough tomorrow. Cecilia could toddle beside the chair and Kate could push. She could still stop every now and then to do some filming. That would fix any attempts Froot might make to corner her into threatening conversation.

Dry throats were taken care of by the landlord, and the meeting commenced. "We won't have the formality tonight, Hazel," Derek said. "Each one of us can bring up any last minute concerns, and then we'll get back to our jobs around the village."

"I'll make notes, anyway," said Hazel. "Might be important. You never know, do you?"

DOWN BY THE Ca.n.a.l, DEEP INSIDE THE CRUMBLING WAREHOUSE, a huddle of sad characters grouped around Ross. He'd questioned them one by one to see if any knew the whereabouts of Jack Hickson, but most were too befuddled with sour beer and meth to be of any use. He made a bed for himself out of old car seats dumped in a corner, and stretched out. He'd wait until the best one of them was sober, and then by offering him something to put him back into nirvana, he would tease out any information there might have been going the rounds regarding Hickson.

He had picked up the evening paper, and opened it to the news page. A large photograph of a scarlet soap box occupied a quarter of the page, and the accompanying story advertised the grand prix taking place tomorrow in Long Farnden, first race at one o'clock. Right! Ross stood up and waved the paper in the air. "He'll be there, for sure!" he said to an unresponsive audience. "His whole family out on the street, and the kid probably involved in the racing. How can he keep away?"

JACK HICKSON HAD SEEN THE SAME STORY IN THE PAPER, HIGH UP in his eyrie above the street and out of sight of the shoppers in town. He had been out among the crowds earlier, this time shielded by an old panama straw hat he found dumped in a bin in the park. Pulled down over his eyes, he had slouched along in a raincoat that came down to his shoes, and was grateful that he had a day free of the hot, p.r.i.c.kly beard. He was now adept at changing his ident.i.ty in small ways, and was confident that sooner or later he would find Ross. And when he did, he had planned down to the last detail what he would do.

But now, tomorrow was the soap box grand prix in Farnden, and his family would be certain to be out with the visitors on the streets. By now he was expert at slipping between groups of people, becoming invisible when cops or sniffing dogs loomed. He would go and observe. At least he could take a look at little Frankie and the twins, and above all at his firstborn, Jack, who was certain to be there amongst the vehicles. He remembered taking him to a race meeting at Silverstone, and even though he was only six, he had been fascinated by the cars and the noise and the smell of high octane fuel.

And, of course, Paula would be there.

FIFTY-SIX.

FATHER RODNEY WAS ON HIS KNEES IN THE CHURCH, PRAYING for fine weather and a successful day. It was cool and quiet, and the powerful scent of flower arrangements set in place for the visitors filled his head and gave him a strange otherworldly sensation. Perhaps this was what heaven would be like? He pulled his thoughts back to the matter in hand. "Above all," he prayed aloud, "keep us all safe on this important day. Amen."

"Hear, hear, vicar," said a voice from the back of the church. It was Mrs. T-J, and she walked briskly down the aisle towards him. "Just thought I'd pop in for a quick word with the Almighty," she said.

"Not for help in the ladies race, I hope," joked Father Rodney. "Fair play for all must be our watchword."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Mrs. T-J. "I shall win without divine help No, my prayers would echo yours, more or less." She knelt down in the front pew, and bowed her head. All was silent for a few minutes, and Father Rodney did not quite know what to do. Obviously Mrs. T-J had a hotline, and did not need his a.s.sistance. When she stood up, he smiled and said he would no doubt see her around the village. He wished her luck in her race, and she nodded confidently. "Make sure you're watching," she said. "It will be something to remember when Jam & Jerusalem crosses the line."

ALTHOUGH THE DEW WAS STILL ON THE GRa.s.s IN LOIS'S FRONT garden, there were plenty of people walking to and fro past her gate. Most of them waved cheerily and commented on the sunny morning. "Hope it lasts!" Lois shouted back a dozen times. She picked a bunch of flowers to put in a vase, which, as Gran said, would sweeten the ladies' toilets at the back of the village hall.

Derek had been up at dawn, and Lois had not set eyes on him since. He had said he would see her this evening, if not before, but they could keep in touch on their mobiles. She had agreed with Gran that one of them would take a flask of coffee and a sandwich and force him to down them, wherever he was and however busy. "He'll want to be in good shape for the dance this evening," Gran said, as Lois stuffed the flowers in a gla.s.s vase. "And here, let me do that. I don't know where I went wrong, Lois Meade, but you can't knit or sew, nor arrange flowers. I don't know what your grandmother would say."

"Thank goodness she's not here to say it, then," Lois said. "And anyway, I got better things to do than learn how to turn the heel of a knitted sock that n.o.body would ever wear these days."

In this mood of amiable disagreement, they set off down the High Street, first to put the flowers in the portaloo, and then splitting up, Lois to help Josie in the shop, and Gran to the village hall to join the team working on WI refreshments.

"Morning, Mum!" Josie said from the shop doorway. "Isn't it exciting? There's so much activity, and I've had more people in here by nine o'clock than would come shopping in the entire normal day. I can certainly do with another pair of hands. Come on in and get your pinny on!"

Lois was so busy for the next hour that she had no time to look at what was going on outside in the street. Then she heard the unmistakeable sound of the Tresham Silver Band approaching, and knew the soap box queen procession had started.

"Come on, Josie, let's take a look!" she said, and they both stood at the shop doorway with the crowd that had gathered all along the street. The Silver Band led the way, and behind them came the queen, a ten-year-old ash-blonde beauty, smiling and waving her sceptre from her seat of honor in the gleaming carriage that had served generations of Tollervey-Joneses. This was drawn by Mrs. T-J's trustworthy black mare, now old and safe. By the queen's side sat Robert Tollervey-Jones, a mild-faced charmer, taking care of the queen with gentlemanly grace.

"The Tollervey-Jones Show, then," said Josie.

"Of course," Lois replied. "But he does look nice, and he's making sure the queen gets all the attention."

"Is he married?" Josie said speculatively.

"Yes, and happily," Lois said. "And, by the way, is Matthew Vickers on duty here today?"

"Naturally," Josie said. "And did Dad ever tell you subtlety is not your strong point?"

"He wouldn't know subtlety if it jumped up and bit him on the nose," Lois said. "Come on, we'd better get back and do some more selling."

IN THE FIELD NEXT TO THE RAMP, AT THE TOP END OF THE VILLAGE, the stars of the grand prix were lined up for inspection. Silver Streak II, the allotment holders' entry, stood next to the local estate agents' vehicle, which was designed with great imagination in the shape of a cottage with roses round the door. Several soap boxes had been pared down to a skeletal essential of frame, wheels and brakes, and a finely honed steering mechanism. Others had been made to a heavy-as-possible design, based on the sound scientific principle that the heavier they are the quicker they go. And then there was the scarlet wonder, Jam & Jerusalem, sparkling and confident, with a neat little flag bearing the WI badge tucked behind the driver's seat.

"I trust there will be a guard present to make sure there's no attempt at n.o.bbling," Mrs. T-J had said to Derek. He had a.s.sured her that he himself would be at the starting point and with his team on duty there would be no chance of hanky-panky of any sort.

The soap boxes were being carefully inspected by the owner of the local garage, and his chief concerns were sound brakes and efficient steering. As he bent down to examine the Youth Club entry, challengingly labeled Rebellion, he scratched his head. "I suppose it's okay," he said. "That steering wheel has a bit more play than I'd have liked to see. Still, there's certainly no danger there. You'd better get a message to John Thornbull to tighten it up a bit."

The morning pa.s.sed quickly, and as crowds flocked round the playing field, the bucking bronco and the tug-of-war events were by far the most popular. Derek stayed for the tug-of-war result, and cheered heartily when the oldies won. "Never thought I'd be on the oldie end of the rope!" John said.

"Experience before enthusiasm," Derek said, as he and John walked back up to the ramp.

Jack Jr. stood on guard beside Rebellion, and said that he was sure all was fine. "Nothing to be done to this wonder" he said, patting the silver, rocket-shaped box.

"Right, back to work," said John, and disappeared into the crowd.

JACK HICKSON SR. WAS, OF COURSE, ALREADY IN THE VILLAGE, today disguised as a woman, in a dowdy brown wig and somber grey coat. He clutched a tatty old bag he'd found in a charity shop for twenty pence, and concealed his hands in his pockets as much as possible. He felt sure n.o.body would recognize him, and moved freely through the crowds. At one o'clock, he joined the lines of people waiting noisily for the first race. The church clock struck, and with a fanfare from Tresham Silver Band, the soap boxes lined up on the ramp were off, gathering speed as they went down the slope of the High Street, urged on by a huge wave of excitement from their supporters.

In this first race, Lois with Josie at the top of the shop steps, watched with sympathetic shouts as the streamlined Silver Streak II coasted to a gentle halt a hundred yards from the start, much to the fury and embarra.s.sment of its driver. Race marshals Gavin Adstone and Douglas Meade moved smoothly on to the track to clear away the offending soap box and attention turned to the winner, a delighted young man in suit, collar and tie, every inch the estate agent, driving the cottage with roses round the door.