Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  “Had you got anyone in mind, John?” Derek said, though he had a good idea who it might be.

  “Well, yes and no. Young Hickson mentioned it, and then some of the other kids wanted to be in on it. We shall have to give ’em all a go down on the playing field, and see who’s fastest.”

  “I votes anyone over fifteen,” said Hazel.

  Tony Dibson shook his head. “Why don’t we leave it open to all, provided they can reach the brake? We could have the starter checking them over before they start. I don’t think anybody would be stupid enough to drive without a brake.” Tony knew Jack Jr. was thirteen, desperate to drive, and undoubtedly capable of doing so. “After all,” he added, “I remember lads of all ages having soap boxes, and none of us ever got hurt.”

  “Let’s have a vote, then,” said Derek, looking at his watch. “All those in favour of an age limit?”

  Only Hazel raised her hand.

  “Right, that’s carried. Thanks everybody. Next meeting we’re walking the course first, then coming in for business. I shall have a list of points for us to check, including the other entertainments. All going well there, Hazel? Right, I close the meeting for this evening.”

  GAVIN WENT ALONG WITH THE OTHERS TO THE PUB, CONFIRMED that he could do the trial run in the pub’s Speedy Willie, and then said he had to go home. “Kate’s got a migraine,” he said, “so I promised to go straight home to be there if Cecilia wakes.”

  The others chorused good wishes for Kate’s recovery, and got down to the serious business of ordering.

  As Gavin walked back along the High Street, he tried to imagine it on race day. Straw bales would line the road, with a gang of the biggest lads from the Youth Club making sure people didn’t stray off the pavements. Loudspeakers were to be placed along the course, and Derek had agreed to do the commentary. He’d been practising in the bath, and although Lois said he sounded like a man in severe pain, he had assured a doubtful Gavin he could be mistaken for Murray Walker anytime.

  Then the soap boxes, careering down the street, hopefully gathering momentum from the sloping length of it. The ramp would give them a good start, and the better they were built, the faster they would go. At least, he thought that was how it would be. Lightest or heaviest? He had no idea, but some of the technical chaps would know. It would be a day to remember, he said to himself as he turned into his lane.

  And saw a white van pull away from the pavement next to his cottage, increase speed and disappear round the corner towards the church.

  He broke into a run, but couldn’t catch it. He turned into his gate and rushed up the path. The house was in darkness, not even a soft light coming from Cecilia’s room. He opened the front door and panicked. There were toys everywhere, and story books had been ripped from their covers. He rushed upstairs and as he reached the landing he stopped. A small cry from Cecilia. “Christ!” he said aloud. “Thank Christ.” He sank on to his haunches with his head in his hands. Then he stood up slowly and went in to check his small daughter. She had cried in her sleep, and was lying peacefully on her back, thumb firmly in her mouth.

  Kate! He went quickly into their bedroom, as quietly as he could. “Gavin? Is that you? Oh my God, thank heavens you’re back.” And then there were loud sobs.

  He wrapped her in his big dressing gown and helped her down to the sitting room. “You sit there, and I’ll get us a cup of tea before I tidy up this lot,” he said. “And don’t try to tell me what happened until you’re ready.”

  When she had downed the hot, sweet tea, Kate held Gavin’s hand and began. “It was after you’d gone,” she said. “Cecilia was asleep, and I was picking up toys and things before going to bed myself. I was feeling sick, like I usually do with a migraine,” she said, “and when the doorbell went I just ignored it. I could see a white van parked outside and reckoned it was somebody trying to sell something. I could see out of the window the man at the door. He wouldn’t stop ringing the bell. He just kept his finger on it, and I was worried he’d wake Cecilia. So I went and opened it.”

  “Was it Froot?” said Gavin hoarsely.

  “No, thank God. But it was one of his henchmen. He pushed his way in and made me sit down. Then he said he had a message from Mr. Froot for me. I was to meet him in the Café Jaune in Tresham. On my own. On Saturday. I should make up some story to tell you, and be there prompt at one o’clock. Or else. He said that several times . . . or else.” She began to cry again, and Gavin hugged her tight.

  “What happened to the toys and books?” he said, when she calmed down.

  “I said he could tell Tim Froot to go to hell, and he started picking them up, one after another, breaking the legs off the dolls and tearing up the books. I couldn’t bear it, Gavin. All Cecilia’s precious dolls! So I said if he’d stop I’d make sure I would be there on Saturday. Then he went. Next time, he said as he was leaving, it wouldn’t be just the doll’s legs that would get broken. As soon as he’d gone out of the door, I put off all the lights and hid under the bedclothes. And then straightaway you were home. Thank goodness, Cecilia slept through the whole thing. Oh, Gavin,” she said, weeping again. “What are we going to do?”

  “What was he like, this villain?”

  “Tall, thin, in his thirties or forties. Shaky hands. Funny look in his eyes. That’s about it.”

  “Don’t worry, Katie,” Gavin said, quietly. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it for good.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE CHURCH CHOIR WAS ASSEMBLING IN DRIBS AND DRABS and Father Rodney greeted them at the door. Much to their relief, he had announced early on that he would not be joining them, but would give them every support. “Evening, Tony,” he said. “Did you have any luck with young Hickson?”

  “Don’t know yet, Vicar,” he said. “We shall see if he turns up. Irene had a word with his mother, and she was all for it. Promised not to tell anyone. The lad was worried about what the thugs on the bus would do to him if they found out.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of,” said the vicar vigorously. “But I do understand. Young people today are so obsessed with being cool, and sadly anything to do with church seems to be about as uncool as they could imagine.”

  “Not all, Father Rodney. A lot depends on the church.”

  Father Rodney frowned. Was there a criticism there? He would have to give it some thought. Anthea had been the one most in touch with the new, edgy generation, and would gently guide him into the best way to handle them, if he ever got the chance. For the first time, he wondered whether he should perhaps think about another partner to share his thoughts.

  “Right,” said Tony, “are we all here?”

  “No need to keep looking at the door, Tony. All present and correct,” said the lead soprano, an upright, chilly figure with a loud voice and deaf ear, so that every hymn or anthem was for her an opportunity for a solo performance.

  Tony looked anxiously at his watch. Irene, sitting in her chair at the end of one of the choir stalls, beckoned to him. “He’s not coming, I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Better get started.”

  “Right, everybody,” Tony said, looking sadly at the assorted group. You couldn’t blame the lad. Who’d want to be numbered amongst this little lot? Certainly not a scared boy of thirteen. It was possible he might come along late, but he doubted it.

  Choir practise was scheduled to last an hour, and although Tony added another hymn for them to go through, Jack Jr. did not appear. Then only Tony and Irene remained in the church, and he asked her if she minded waiting a short while longer. “These books are in a terrible state,” he said. “I could just sort them out, so it’d be easier to find them next time.”

  Irene said that was fine, and thought to herself that poor old Tony was still hoping the boy might turn up with a good excuse. Finally they locked up the church and started on their way home. Halfway down the street, just as they were about to turn into their lane, Tony saw a figure hurrying towards them. It was not Jack, but his mother, and she hailed them without pl
easantries.

  “Where’s my Jack?” she said baldly.

  “We’ve not seen him, Mrs. Hickson,” said Irene.

  “He didn’t turn up,” Tony added.

  “What? But he . . . Well, he set off about quarter past seven, saying he was going to church, to choir practise! I was so pleased!”

  Irene shook her head sadly. “He must have gone somewhere else,” she said gently. “Maybe one of his friends?”

  “Oh, God, not again,” Paula said. “I thought he’d stopped all that lying and staying out late an’ not telling me. I’ve left the kids, anyway,” she said, turning back, “so I’d better get home. Sorry about that, Mr. Dibson. He’ll get a good telling off from me when he does appear.”

  Tony and Irene were silent for a moment, and then Irene said, “What d’you think? He did seem honest enough, that time he pushed me back.”

  “Don’t ask me,” he replied. “I sometimes think children are a mixed blessing.”

  As soon as he’d said it, he knew it was a mistake. “I could do with a blessing, mixed or otherwise,” Irene said, and again relapsed into silence.

  BY TEN O’CLOCK, PAULA WAS REALLY WORRIED. SHE HAD RUNG Jack’s friend, but he was not there and they hadn’t heard from him. Then she tried the one teacher at his school who had taken an interest in him, and who lived in Fletching. He had probably broken rules in giving her his phone number for emergency purposes, and she had never rung him before. Now he advised her to ring the police, saying that even if Jack Jr. turned up, they never treated it as a waste of time, not with a thirteen-year-old.

  Lastly, Paula rang Lois, the one she trusted most, but had least wanted to disturb at this hour. Her boss’s levelheaded dealings with the New Brooms team had given Paula reassurance when she most needed it, and now, when she heard Lois’s firm voice, she took a deep breath and explained the situation.

  “He’s stayed out all night before, hasn’t he?” Lois said.

  “Yeah, but it’s always been after school, an’ when I’ve checked, he really was where he said he was.”

  “And this time? Had he been home for tea?”

  “Yes. He’d even washed his hands after. Unheard of. I teased him a bit about being clean in church, and he’d laughed. He was in a really good mood, Mrs. M. Not like when he was late after school.”

  “Give me a few minutes, Paula, and I’ll ring you back,” Lois said. She had a cold, sinking feeling and wanted to have a word with Derek. Why was she assuming the worst? Because absentee fathers had been known to abduct a child for various reasons, and not just for ransom money.

  To her surprise, Derek didn’t dismiss it with a view that Jack Jr. would turn up sooner or later. He asked her the same questions she had asked Paula, and then said, “Go on, then. Ring him.”

  Lois stared at him. “Ring who?” she said.

  “You know perfectly well who,” Derek said. “But you’ll have to tell him everything you know, else it’ll not be fair. Go on, do it.”

  COWGILL HAD HAD A PLEASANT DAY ON THE GOLF COURSE, AND was sipping a small whisky nightcap when the phone rang. Ah, well, he said to himself, it was too good to last. Then when he heard Lois’s voice he knew that much as he loved her, it was not good news. She would not ring him at this hour unless something bad had happened.

  “Cowgill?”

  “Evening, Lois. How are you, my dear?”

  “Never mind about that,” Lois said. “I’m reporting a missing thirteen-year-old boy. And before you say anything, it’s young Jack Hickson. Yes, the Hicksons who live in Farnden. Runaway husband, four young kids, Jack’s been in trouble at school.”

  “Yes, yes,” Cowgill said swiftly. “I remember. How long has he been missing? Why is it you ringing me and not his mother?”

  “Just be here,” Lois said, “in twenty minutes. Come here first. And,” she added, “tread softly. Paula Hickson doesn’t know I’m talking to you.”

  “But, Lois . . .” She had ended the call abruptly, as usual, and he got up from his chair at once. He knew his Lois. If she considered the matter an emergency, he did not doubt her. He took his car key off the hook and went out into his garage. In twenty minutes time, he was drawing up outside Lois’s house and saw her waiting on the doorstep for him.

  To his amazement, she took his hand, and he could feel her trembling. “Thanks,” she said. “Come in. Derek knows all about it, and Gran’s babysitting for Paula.”

  When they entered the sitting room, Cowgill saw Derek standing by the window and a woman he vaguely recognized sitting on the sofa. He realised she was Jack’s mother, and when Lois introduced them, he thought he had never seen such an anxious-looking woman, and he’d seen a few in his time.

  It was Paula who spoke first. “It wasn’t me who phoned you,” she blurted out. “It was Mrs. M. I didn’t want to waste police time. . . .”

  Cowgill said quietly that he knew it was Mrs. Meade who had asked him to come over. “Please be assured that young boys go missing all the time, but every time we take it very seriously. It’s often part of growing up. Giving their parents a good scare and proving they’re not children anymore.”

  “Parent, Inspector,” Derek said. “Mrs. Hickson is a lone parent at the moment.”

  “And has had trouble with Jack as a result,” Lois said, putting her hand on Paula’s arm. She had talked firmly to Paula after ringing Cowgill, and persuaded her that now there was no option but to tell the police. She could see the poor woman was torn between finding her son and betraying her husband, if that was necessary, but luckily the maternal instinct won, and Paula had agreed.

  When Cowgill had taken down all the details, he said Paula could go back home. “You’re the best person to be there when he comes back or gets in touch,” he said.

  “I’ll see you safely back,” Derek said, and insisted on taking Paula the few yards to her house. He then waited with her whilst they gave Gran an edited version of what had happened. Gran was unusually gentle and calm. Instead of stating her sharp opinion on the state of the world in general and young people in particular, she recalled the time when Josie had gone missing, but had been found safe and well.

  “Try not to worry too much, dear,” she had said. “And if you want to talk to someone while you’re stuck here with the babies, just give me a ring and I’ll pop over.”

  After Derek and Paula had gone, Cowgill and Lois sat in silence for a few seconds. Then he reached across and took her hand. “Come on, then, my Lois,” he said. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  Lois did not take her hand away, but nodded miserably. “Why didn’t you ask her about her husband?” she said.

  “Because I was sure you would know all about him, and were more likely to tell me the truth. So tell me.”

  She told him about the man losing his job, hitting the bottle and then hitting his wife, being chucked out and disappearing, only to reappear as a gardener at the hall. Now she felt set free and floating with relief at having off-loaded it all on to Cowgill. Gran had warned her, and had been right. But was avoiding all possible involvement in other people’s troubles right?

  The feeling of relief did not last long. Now a child of thirteen had disappeared. And not just any old child. This was Jack Jr., who sometimes behaved like a monster, scorning help and causing endless worry to his mother. And farting in her van! This was Jack Jr., whose father had run away and deserted him, leaving him to cope alone with bullies and a predatory drug dealer.

  Cowgill stood up. “I need to get back straightaway to the station,” he said. “The sooner we get things moving the better. The first forty-eight hours are the most important in cases like this.”

  Lois took him to the door. He leaned forwards and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Lois. Don’t do anything stupid, and keep in touch with me.”

  He met Derek and Gran coming up the drive to the house, and stopped for a brief word. Then he was gone, and Lois touched her cheek with her fingertips.

&nbs
p; “What are you smiling about?” Derek said, as they entered the house. “Has Jack been found?”

  “No, and I’m not smiling,” Lois replied sharply.

  “I see,” said Derek grimly. “Just a facial twitch? Anyway, we’d better have a family conference, see what we can do to help.”

  It was now eleven o’clock, but Lois insisted on ringing Josie and Douglas, and Gran insisted on staying up until they’d all decided what would be best. “I suppose it’ll be on the telly news in the morning,” she said, “and then the Advertiser will be on to it. Let’s hope he’s found before all that malarkey.”

  “It’s important people start thinking about what they’ve seen, and keep their eyes open,” Lois said. “The first forty-eight hours are critical, Cowgill said.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE HOUSE HAD ONCE BEEN A SOLID, MIDDLE-CLASS VICTORIAN residence, but had gradually fallen into disrepair and then dereliction, as a long-running legal battle was fought and refought by the family who had inherited it. In the end, the inheritors had grown too old to care, and the rest of the family had emigrated to South Africa and were no longer traceable.

  So number thirty eight, Barcelona Street, Tresham, had become a squat for any homeless unfortunates and undesirables who needed shelter and a fix. It was no place to take a thirteen-year-old boy, even if he was shut away from scenes of degradation in the only room that still had a lockable door.

  Jack Jr. was very frightened. He had been on his way along the deserted High Street to choir practise, humming “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” the only hymn he knew, under his breath, and thinking about driving Rebellion, when the battered old white van had stopped and his enemy got out. In seconds, he had bundled a fiercely resisting Jack into the back and banged shut the door. Jack had kicked and screamed, but the van chugged off towards Tresham before anyone could have heard him.