by Ann Purser
“And Tony Dibson,” said Gran. “You could hardly expect Mrs. T-J to come out with buckets and boots, could you?”
“Don’t see why not,” Lois said grumpily. “Anyway, I have to go out this morning. Possible new client. I’ll be back in time for the meeting.”
Gran retired to the kitchen. Her daughter was obviously in a bad mood, but she had no idea why. But then, she had always been a moody girl. Took after her grandmother, so her father always said. Best to leave her to get over it, he used to advise and was usually right.
A nagging worry had haunted Lois on and off all night, and she was tired from lack of proper sleep. She could not decide what to do about Paula and her missing husband. Would it be better to tell her that the body in the canal had an appendix scar, and leave it to the machinery of the law to involve her in endless questions and identification of the corpse, and all that entailed? Or should she persist on her own, following up the sightings of a tramp who could be Jack Sr., still alive, and do what she could to help Jack Jr. sort himself out? She could see no need to pile more worries on to Paula unless and until it became really necessary.
The possible new client lived in Waltonby, on a new development on a parcel of land sold off by Mrs. T-J. The poor old thing must be feeling the pinch, thought Lois, slumming along on a frequent cleaner, a full-time gardener, and Floss, who loved all things equine, to help with the horse.
The front door opened as soon as Lois pulled up outside. Mrs. Belvoir, an elderly woman supporting herself on a stick, had a welcoming smile. “Come along in, Mrs. Meade,” she said, and led the way into the house.
Lois hung back, wiping her wet, muddy shoes on the door mat, and noticed a portrait hanging in a prominent place in the hallway. A distinguished military man, with neat mustache and plenty of gold braid, looked out at her sternly.
“My late husband,” said Mrs. Belvoir. “He wasn’t really as fierce as he looks! It was having to sit for hours being painted. Very difficult to keep up a smile, he said.”
“Very handsome, though,” said Lois pleasantly, and followed Mrs. Belvoir into an inoffensively bland sitting room.
Lois went through the motions of explaining New Brooms to a new client, taking notes, promising excellent service, and all the while her mind was on a thirteen-year-old boy walking away from her with a defiant shrug and misery in his dark eyes.
“Mrs. Meade?”
Lois realised that she had not heard Mrs. Belvoir offering her coffee, and apologised. “Just sorting out my best girl for you,” she lied. “Mind you, they’re all good,” she added hastily. “All my girls are excellent, and I’m sure you’ll have no problems. If you do have any queries, here is my card and I’m available day and night.”
She refused coffee, saying that she had to get on to her next appointment, and left Mrs. Belvoir standing on the step waving a friendly hand. What a nice woman! Probably Dot Nimmo would be the best to look after her. Dot was a character and tended to act independently of Lois’s rules, but she had a heart of gold and a nice way with old ladies. Yes, Dot would be the one for Mrs. Belvoir.
Halfway back to Farnden, she saw a large obstacle in the road and braked to avoid it, but too late. There was a nasty crunching sound from under the van, and she stopped immediately.
“Sod it!” she muttered, as she saw the exhaust pipe hanging loose. The offending obstacle proved to be a jagged piece of masonry which had tumbled from a heap at the side of the road.
She looked at her watch. Half past eleven, rain pelting down, and the team would be arriving at noon. This small back road, a short cut to Farnden, was little used, and there was not much hope of being rescued. Nothing for it, then, but to walk. She had her mobile, but was reluctant to ring Derek. He had a complicated rewiring job to finish, and wouldn’t be too pleased to be asked to collect her. She slung her bag over her shoulder, collected the briefcase, and locked the van. With a backwards glance to make sure she had pulled off the road as far as she could, she set off at a smart pace towards home.
A couple of miles from the village, she passed a ruined cottage with gaping windows and a splintered door banging in the wind. The rain had soaked her to the skin, and seemed to be increasing. Maybe she should shelter for a few minutes while she tried to find the number of her garage on her mobile.
She stepped across the dripping, soggy grass and walked gingerly over a broken paving stone leading into the house. A startled mouse looked at her and then scuttled away. Mice I can take, Lois said to herself. But not rats. Oh God, I hope there’s not rats! Apart from the swinging door, it was completely quiet, a threatening, heavy quiet that made Lois shiver. She found her mobile and switched it on. Nothing, except the signal for low battery showing. She groaned. Why now? This was the worst morning of her life, she decided, and was later to regret tempting fate.
A creaking sound broke the silence, and she turned round in alarm, looking into the shadowy depths of the cottage. A shadow moved. “Who’s that!” she said loudly.
There was no reply, and she turned to run, when a man’s voice said, “Stay where you are. Don’t move, else you’ll be sorry.”
“COME ON IN,” GRAN SAID, LOOKING WORRIED. “I DON’T KNOW what’s happened to Lois. She said she’d be back well in time for the meeting.”
Hazel Thornbull, Sheila Stratford and Dot Nimmo looked at each other in dismay. In the entire time they’d been working for New Brooms, Mrs. M had never been late. In fact, she was such a stickler for punctuality that the team had learned to be on time or suffer a sharp reprimand.
Half an hour ticked by, and the team ran out of things to say. Andrew voiced all their thoughts by saying that he thought they should get hold of Derek. He must have a mobile, and might know where she was. Gran was called in, gave them Derek’s number, and said she was thinking of ringing the police. One particular policeman, she said, who would certainly be worried if Lois went missing.
“Let’s ring Derek first,” Dot Nimmo said. She had a natural reluctance to ring the police at any time, being the widow of a successful boss of Tresham’s dodgy underworld. “I’ll speak to him,” she added.
“Perhaps it would be better if Andrew . . . ?” Sheila came from a generation who thought important jobs should be handled by a man, but Dot said no, she was most likely to have an idea what to do, where to look. She dialled the number and waited.
“WHO ARE YOU?” LOIS SAID, KEEPING AS COOL AS SHE COULD manage. She could hardly see the owner of the voice, but thought she caught a northern accent. Geordie? That was it. “And how dare you threaten me!”
“You’d be surprised what you’d dare when you’re desperate,” he said.
“For God’s sake come out where I can see you,” said Lois, beginning to lose her cool.
The man stepped forwards, and she could see that he had all the sad signs of being down and out. Straggly, unkempt hair, rough red complexion and rheumy eyes. His clothes were layers of rags, and he had a filthy rucksack over his shoulder.
“I see,” she said. “So what do you want from me, and what will you do if I don’t give it to you?”
“Answer to the first question, money. If you don’t hand over what you got in that bag, I’ll take it by force. Christ knows I’ve never hurt nobody, but I’m frozen and hungry and tired of tramping about. Hand it over, then I’ll let you go.”
Lois peered more closely at him. His eyes were bloodshot, but without question a deep, unfathomable black. “Who are you?” she repeated. “Answer me a couple of questions, and I’ll give what money I’ve got in my purse. Bargain?”
“How will you know I’m telling the truth?” he said, and in that instant he could have been young Jack. Intelligent, cunning and wary.
“Oh, I shall know, Mr. Hickson,” she said, and immediately knew she had gone too far. He moved towards her, and she ran, out of the cottage, across the wet grass, almost blinded by the heavy rain. But she was well nourished and sheltered, and he was weak and hungry. She outstripped him easily, and fina
lly turned and looked back. She could see him stumbling back towards the cottage, and then he disappeared.
A familiar van came slowly towards her, and she knew it was Derek. The girls and Gran must have told him. He stopped, opened the door and walked towards her, holding out his arms.
“IT WAS LIKE ONE OF THEM FILMS, WHERE THE MAN AND WOMAN run towards each on a sunset beach, into a passionate embrace. Me and your dad,” Lois said to Josie later that afternoon.
“And what romantic thing did Dad say?”
“ ‘You got wet feet, me duck.’ That’s what he said, bless ’im. We managed to have the meeting, anyway, and I didn’t say anything to Paula. But I’m sure it was him, Josie. Same eyes, same way of speaking as young Jack.”
“You’ve got a lot of thinking to do now, then, Mum. Shall we just tell Matthew and Cowgill and let them find Hickson? It might be for the best.”
Lois shook her head. “He may be desperate, but he’s also clever. He’s been keeping out of sight for a long time now. Probably got regular hidey-holes where he can lie low for as long as it’s safe. Then, when it isn’t, move on. And anyway, Josie,” she said, “s’far as we know, he ain’t committed a crime. Leaving his wife and kids is not a police matter. And I’m not at all sure yet that Paula wants him back. She’s making a new life for herself in Farnden.”
“What about the boy?”
“Ah, young Jack. Yes, well, he is a problem, and probably needs a father. But maybe not that father! But you’re right there. Something has to be done.”
She slipped off the stool by the shop counter and picked up her shopping. “Better get back and do some serious thinking. I don’t have to ask you—”
“—to keep it to myself,” finished Josie. “Of course I’ll not say a word. But I do think you’re taking a bit too much on yourself.”
“Don’t I always?” said Lois, and set off for home. She had decided to take Josie into her confidence for two reasons. First, she knew her daughter was a good source of village gossip from her listening post in the shop. And second, her encounter with Hickson had shaken her up, and Josie was the obvious person to confide in.
TWENTY-SIX
THE RAIN HAD CLEARED AWAY IN THE NIGHT, AND A BRIGHT sparkling countryside failed to grab Gavin’s attention as he drove much too fast along the narrow tree-lined lanes to work. He was late, having been drawn into an anxious discussion with Kate about three spots on Celia’s chubby cheek. Was it measles? No, she’d had the jab. Chicken pox? Not the right kind of spots. Ringworm, then, caught from other children at the Mums and Tots group? Finally they had agreed that Kate should take her to the surgery and check with the doctor. Couldn’t be too careful, Gavin had said.
Now he arrived in the office car park, locked his car and ran towards the front entrance.
“Gavin!” A tall, heavily built man with sandy hair carefully combed over a pinkish scalp, emerged from behind a car parked to one side and blocked his way.
Damn! Gavin said to himself. What the hell did Tim Froot want with him now? And surely he had more sense than to come here to find him?
“In a hurry!” he gasped, hesitating for a moment. “Can I catch up with you later?”
“Now,” said Froot flatly. “In my car. Get in.”
The darkened windows shielded them from onlookers, and Gavin said again that he was late for work and in a hurry.
“I need some action, Gavin,” Tim Froot said. “Time for you to come up with something positive. Do we have a development site or not? I can’t waste any more time on it. Either you produce something definite, and earn your commission, or I lose interest and take my money elsewhere. It’s not exactly the biggest deal, is it? But I like you, and I like Kate, and I’ll put this thing your way if you play your part. Do I make myself clear?”
Gavin nodded. “Very clear,” he said. “Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll come up with what you want. Now I have to go, else I’ll have no job to go to.”
The office was quiet as he slipped into his place, hoping not to be noticed. But as he bent over his computer as if he’d been there since dawn, he felt a presence stop beside him.
“Gavin Adstone?” He looked up, and saw a broad-shouldered young man smiling at him.
“That’s me. Something amiss?”
“Douglas Meade. And no, there’s nothing wrong! Just thought I’d introduce myself. You’re newly moved in to Long Farnden, my grandmother tells me. She’s Mrs. Weedon, and my mum’s Lois Meade. Runs New Brooms cleaning service. Gran monitors everything and everybody in Farnden!”
Gavin stood up and stretched out his hand. “Glad to know you,” he said. “Actually, I’d heard about you, too.” He didn’t mention the post boy. “Yes, we’re incomers in the village, but I hope we’ll be accepted in ten years’ time!”
“Make it twenty-five,” said Douglas. “Anyway, must get on,” he added, looking at his watch. “Hope you’ll be happy there. Nice village, if handled tactfully . . .”
Gavin watched him walk away briskly. Friendly chap, he thought. But no fool. Have to watch your step there, Gavin boy.
TIM FROOT COASTED SLOWLY INTO FARNDEN, AND HIS SATNAV told him to turn right. “Destination on the left,” said Prudence, the name he had given the calm, patient voice. She never blamed him for taking a wrong turn, never sulked when his own route was more sensible than hers.
He pulled up, and looked across at the village hall, at its outdated wooden structure and grubby paintwork. The roof was sorely in need of repair, and the window frames were clearly rotten.
“Ripe for it,” he said aloud. If Gavin Adstone didn’t get on with it, he would have to look around for someone else. It was a tiny project compared with his usual plans, but he had taken a fancy to Kate Adstone, and wouldn’t say no to meeting her on a regular basis for a while.
“SUPPER’S EARLY TONIGHT,” GRAN SAID. “DEREK’S GOT HIS MEETING, and I’m going round to Joan’s to talk about what the WI plans to do for the soap box grand prix.”
“What, just the two of you, single-handed?”
“How can two people be single-handed, Lois? No, of course not! It’s a WI committee meeting at Joan’s house. Derek’s lot have got the village hall, so we can’t go there.”
“Sounds like we need a bigger village hall, with meeting rooms an that,” said Lois.
“I shall ignore that,” Gran said. “Sometimes, Lois, you can be very irritating. Oh, and by the way, that policeman of yours rang. I told him to try your mobile, and he said he had, but it wasn’t switched on. Now, haven’t you got some work to do, and let me get on with supper?”
Lois dialled Cowgill’s number and waited. “Ah, there you are,” she said, as he finally answered. “You wanted me?”
All the time, Cowgill said to himself, but aloud thanked her for ringing back. “It’s just that we’ve had a complaint from a woman living in Fletching. She says her garden shed was raided.”
“Ah, serious crime,” said Lois.
Cowgill proceeded smoothly, “And the reason I’m telling you this, is that it is the third complaint we’ve had where theft has occurred locally in unlocked outhouses and sheds, and on each occasion it is food stolen. Apples stored on racks, sacks of potatoes broken into, strings of onions. And where freezers were kept, two or three ready-meals missing. Never any great quantity, but a pattern is emerging.”
“I see it already,” Lois said caustically. “Hungry bear on the rampage. Large brown bears with claws and fangs dripping with massacred cat’s blood.”
There was a few seconds’ silence, and Lois began to think he had finally lost patience with her. But no, now he was laughing. Real, throaty laughter.
“You sound a bit rusty,” she said. “Not laughed much lately?”
“Not for years,” Cowgill said. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”
“Anyway, seriously, you think this might be a tramp, a real desperate one, and on our patch?”
“Seems likely. Worth following up. Chris is having a look
round, visiting the complainants. Just thought you might like to know, and maybe keep your eyes open even more than usual. Also,” he added, risking it, “it is an excuse to talk to the only girl who can make me laugh.”
“Forget it,” Lois said. “But before I go through the emails from my other fans, have you heard any more about the identity of the canal tramp?”
Cowgill’s voice became instantly cool. “Not so far, I’m afraid. We are still making enquiries.”
“Great,” said Lois. “And so am I. Bye.”
DEREK HAD COLLECTED LOIS’S CAR AND FIXED THE EXHAUST PIPE. She had not told him or Gran about the tramp, unwilling to provoke another burst of disapproval. But now she settled down in her office and tried to face the Hickson problem. The police knew less than she did, she guessed. And in any case, to them the whole thing was small beer. A friendless nohoper, probably a drunk, who fell into the canal. Case quietly closed. Then there were a few unconnected petty thefts of food in the Farnden area. Nothing that would keep Cowgill awake at night.
So what did she know that was more disturbing? First, Paula Hickson, now one of her team, had been deserted by a violent husband and was making a new life in Farnden. Second, although all seemed to be going well for Paula, there was her firstborn son, Jack Jr., who was far from doing well. He was being approached by a stranger—or maybe his father?—outside the school and in other places, and she did not know whether he had told his mother. The boy was disturbed, unhappy and possibly in danger.
This last thought was the crux of the matter. She should tell Cowgill or Paula, or both, what she feared, and enlist their support. But she knew in her heart that if she alerted Cowgill, the might of the welfare state would be put on the case and young Jack would probably do something drastically awful. When Josie had been a teenager, she had gone off the rails and had run away with an older mixed-up lad. It had been a desperate time for them all, and needed very delicate handling by her and Derek. And yes, the police had been brought in, but only because the lad had committed a crime.