by Ann Purser
“Perhaps things will soon change,” said Lois soothingly. She didn’t believe it, but needed to get down to business and return to Farnden as soon as possible.
This proved to be more difficult than she had thought. Mrs. Brown had a clinging nature, and had perfected the art of pinning her listener down with a seamless monologue. There was no chance of interrupting, and so Lois switched off and let her run on. After all, there was little she could be doing back at home, and at least this would result in another client for the business. Finally, she realised there was a pause, and Mrs. Brown was looking at her enquiringly.
“Um, oh, yes, of course,” Lois said quickly. “Now, when would you like us to start? I could fix you up with a very pleasant person to start next Monday? Morning or afternoon?”
“The afternoon would be best for me. It takes me most of the morning to get going at the moment! Yes, afternoon would be fine. Oh, that will be wonderful! You have no idea how relieved I am.”
Oh well, thought Lois, as she accepted the offer of a cup of coffee and insisted on making it for the two of them, at least I am useful to someone. Why oh why hadn’t Mum remembered sooner about the hut in the woods? Now it was too late. She appreciated Cowgill’s efforts at reassurance, but recalled only too well Paula’s accounts of her husband’s violence. Admittedly, she had always stressed he’d never touched the children, but a man in his present situation must be under enormous pressure.
She rinsed out the cups, made final arrangements with Mrs. Brown, and extricated herself from another tale of woe. “Must be going,” she said. “Nice to have met you. You can rely on New Brooms!” she added reassuringly, and made her way down the garden path.
Inside the van, she switched on the radio and listened to the news. No developments. She switched it off again, and headed for home. As she stopped at traffic lights under a railway bridge, she glanced in her rearview mirror and her heart lurched. There, in the back of the van, she saw something move. She turned around and ignored the cars hooting behind her as the lights turned to green. A dirty, exhausted boy crawled forwards.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Jack Jr. said shakily. “Can you take me home . . . please?”
FORTY-FOUR
YOU FORGOT TO LOCK THE VAN,” JACK SAID. “LUCKY FOR ME.
My legs were giving up.”
Lois thoughts were in turmoil. Yes, she had forgotten to lock the van, and no wonder. This young person squatting behind her, having difficulty keeping his eyes open, had half the country worrying about him. Not to mention the taxpayers money spent on police procedures in the hunt to find him. She hadn’t thought about much else for the last forty-eight hours.
But what should she do now, and in what order? First, call Cowgill? Second, get Jack home to his mother. No, first, drive home slowly and ask him some questions as they went along? Then call Cowgill. She glanced back and saw that there was no dilemma. Jack Jr. had leaned against the back of her seat and was fast asleep.
He looks about five years old, thought Lois, taking the corners slowly so as not to wake him. He is small for his age, poor kid. Where has he been and what’s happened to him? But most of all, who took him?
When she drew up outside the Hickson house, she looked up and down the street. Nobody about. She had been able to cut through a private Tollervey-Jones estate road to avoid the police vigils. It was only a tiny track, with grass growing down the middle, but negotiable. Now she wanted to get Jack, still sleeping, into his house without anyone seeing. After that, she would talk to Paula and see what should be done next. Every maternal instinct in her body told her that the last thing Jack needed was interrogation by anyone. He needed sleep in his own bed, with his mother watching over him. After that, it would have to be the police. But Cowgill would see that this caused as little harm as possible to an already damaged child.
But how to get him out, down the garden path and into his house? He was too big for Lois to carry, and she dare not leave him alone in the van. She looked across at the shop, and saw the vicar, Father Rodney, emerging. He waved a friendly hand, and she made a quick decision. She lowered her window and beckoned. As he came near, she put her finger to her lips, signing him not to say anything. Then she waited until he bent down to the window and she could whisper in his ear, praying that he would do what she hoped.
He did. Without a change of expression, he looked into the back of the van, nodded briefly and disappeared round the back. Lois quietly opened her door and joined him, and together they slowly maneuvered Jack Jr., until Father Rodney had him securely in his arms. Nobody had appeared in the street, and with Lois shielding the still sleeping Jack from watchful eyes, they moved quickly into the garden and round to the back door. There Paula stood holding a basketful of wet washing, pale as a ghost and apparently paralyzed with shock at the sight of a limp Jack held tenderly by the vicar.
Lois took her by the arm, said quietly that they should take Jack upstairs and try not to wake him. “He’s exhausted, Paula,” she said. “But alive.”
Father Rodney and Lois left Paula with her son, and they returned to the kitchen, where Frankie sat in his high chair, staring at them with a wobbling chin. Lois forestalled a burst of crying, and lifted him out, cuddling him close. “Let’s go and find some toys,” she said and motioned to the vicar to go with them into the sitting room. He followed quietly and they settled down. Father Rodney proved to be a dab hand at wooden puzzles, and whilst he kept Frankie busy, Lois talked.
“Please don’t say anything to anybody,” she pleaded, knowing that the apparently sensible thing would be to contact the police at once. To her surprise, Father Rodney agreed without protest. “A couple of hours good sleep is not going to make much difference to anybody except young Jack,” he said. “I shall leave it you, Mrs. Meade, to know when to make the next move. The boy obviously trusts you, else he wouldn’t have crawled into your van. And Mrs. Hickson works for you? So together you will do the best for Jack. I shall go now. It will not look at all odd for me to be seen leaving, since I was actually on my way to offer what comfort I could to Jack’s mother.”
Lois picked up Frankie and saw the vicar to the door. “I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said.
After half an hour or so, Paula came downstairs. She stood looking at Lois and Frankie, and tried to say something, but choked. Then she walked across the room and put her arms around both. They stood unmoving for a few minutes, then Frankie began to struggle.
“He’s hungry, I expect,” said Lois, sniffing loudly. “Come on, let’s go and find him a biscuit.”
FORTY-FIVE
WHEN LOIS HAD REACHED HOME, SHE PHONED COWGILL, having agreed with Paula that this would be best. She had been so overjoyed on the one hand, and shaken and tearful on the other, that after a while she had begged Lois to be the one to contact the police.
“After all, Mrs. M,” she had said, “you found him. And I’m so scared of the police I’ll not be able to stand up to them if they want to question Jack before he’s ready.”
When Cowgill had answered the phone with profuse apologies for a numbed mouth and not making sense earlier, Lois had said, “Just shut up and listen.” She had gone over several times in her mind what she would say to him, but in the end she imagined him sitting in his office, hand to his painful cheek, completely professional and trustworthy, and had given him a factual and straightforward account.
“Leave it to me now, Lois,” he had said. “You can trust me to organise everything very carefully. You’re sure your vicar will not be tempted to talk? No? Right, then. There will inevitably be a considerable media reaction, but I will see that this is postponed until tomorrow. You did well, my dear,” he added, “but don’t let this stop you locking up your van in future. I couldn’t bear the thought of just any old villain crawling in and cadging a lift—or worse.”
Lois had for once been lost for words to reply to this, and left him with a caution that she was relying on him and he’d better not let her down.
&
nbsp; When she had finally crawled into bed and Derek had cuddled her to sleep, she had not surfaced again until much later than usual. “You’ve made up for God knows how much lost sleep lately, gel,” he had said. “Me and Gran were really worried about you.”
Now, sitting at the breakfast table, she knew that Cowgill had not let her down. There was nothing in the morning paper and nothing on the early news. Derek had gone off to work, sworn to silence on the subject, and Gran had promised not to go anywhere until Lois told her it was all right.
“You know me, Lois,” she had said. “One question from Josie in the shop, or from one of my friends in the street, and I shall spill it all out. Can’t help it. No, best I should stay at home with you, until there’s something on the telly.”
In the end, it was the lunchtime radio news that had the story first, and then Lois’s phone did not stop ringing. She looked out of the window of her office, and saw along the street a police cordon outside the Hickson house, keeping all vehicles and pedestrians at bay. As she watched, she saw Cowgill with Chris emerge from the house and walk across to the shop. She would hear from Josie later.
In some ways, Lois thought, although the general relief is huge, just sitting here watching it all from a window is a bit of an anticlimax. There was a knock at the door, and Gran ran to answer it as usual. Lois heard Cowgill’s voice and she went out to rescue him.
“Can I have a word?” he said, and followed her back into her office.
“Sit down,” Lois said. “Thanks for all of it.”
“It could have been so much worse, Lois. Mrs. Hickson is so grateful to you.”
“No need,” said Lois. “How’s young Jack?”
“Amazingly resilient,” Cowgill said, and Lois saw he had a rueful look.
“Ah. Told all?”
Cowgill shook his head. “Not cooperating, I’m afraid. He claims he spent the night in a house in Tresham, tried to thumb a lift home and got taken miles out of his way. He’d then decided to walk back, and that’s when he saw your van. He was anxious to stress he’d not broken into it. The door was open, he said.”
“It was. And that’s all?” Lois said. “No reason why he didn’t contact his mum?”
“He forgot, he said. Just forgot.”
“The name of his friend in Tresham—did he tell you that, or where they live?”
“No. Said it was sudden decision, and he was with a group of boys from another class. Didn’t know any of them. Went along and stayed playing on the computer until it was too late to get home. Slept on the floor. In the morning, he didn’t notice where he was in the town, but just got to the ring road and thumbed a lift.”
“Oh, my God, what a pack of lies!” Lois said. “What did you say?”
“It was Chris. She left it there, sensibly, and said she’d go back later. His mother was with him all the time of course. There are rules and regs in these cases. But don’t worry, Lois. He’s not stupid, and I hope we can make him see the wisdom of telling the truth.”
“But in the meantime, surely he’s still in danger? Even more so now, if there’s some man somewhere in hiding, expecting him to blow the whistle? Perhaps his father?”
“We’ve arranged for him to stay at home for a couple of weeks, and there’ll be police protection. But not obvious, Lois. We have to find whoever it was. I have never been surer that this boy was abducted, but he’s decided to keep quiet. Maybe he’s scared, or, if it was his father, perhaps he has some mistaken idea about shielding him.”
“So there’s more work to do,” said Lois, cheering up. “You’re still looking for his father, and or some other sod who snatched the boy.”
Cowgill smiled and got to his feet. “You don’t think I’d let you off so lightly, do you, Lois? I’ll be in touch. Oh, and by the way, there’ll be no objection to your calling to see Paula.”
TWO OTHER PEOPLE HAD BEEN SEARCHING ANXIOUSLY FOR NEWS of young Jack Hickson, but with very different motives. His father, once more a hunted man, had found a temporary home in a deserted warehouse in the backstreets of Tresham. People said the best place to hide was in a crowd. Well, he would try out that theory. He had spent the night on a pile of plastic sacks which littered the floors. He was not the first. There were the usual traces of needles and empty bottles, but none looked recent. With luck, he would be the only occupant. He intended to find his quarry, and was convinced he would still be somewhere around in the town. So he would stay hidden in the crowded streets until he found him.
Now, standing in a nearby newsagent’s with a baseball cap pulled well down over his eyes, he looked at the headlines again to make sure his son was safe. He bought the paper and walked swiftly to the nearby scrubby park, where he sat down next to an old alky so dozy that he would be no threat.
The story had no details. Young Jack had returned home and was safely with his mother. Mother and father were separated, and the police were anxious to contact Jack’s father. There was a photograph and description, which was handy. He could make sure he looked nothing like the senior Jack Hickson casual shoppers would be looking out for.
The second person who peered anxiously at a newspaper headline had spent the night in a terraced house in the area of Tresham known as Far Bottom. It was down by the canal, once a hive of waterborne industry, but now dank and full of the usual detritus of an uncaring population. This suited the man who had returned to town overnight in his battered white van to ask for sanctuary with his widowed sister. She had the Sun delivered every morning, and now her brother sat staring at the front page story, his lips moving as he read.
“What’ve you done now, then?” his sister asked, as she set a mug of strong tea in front of him. “I don’t want no trouble here,” she added. “There’s enough of it round here as it is. Don’t you involve me in any of your goings-on!”
“You’ve got a nasty suspicious mind,” her brother said. “I’m as innocent as the driven snow. Ah, well, perhaps not snow. Bad choice of word! As the day is long, then. Innocent as the day is long.”
“I never did know what you were talking about, and nothing’s changed. You’d better sort yourself out and find another place to live. God knows what went on in Barcelona Street, but it’s crawling with police, so the paperboy said.”
“Nothing to do with me,” he said. He had convinced himself that the stupid bitch who had overdosed was not his responsibility. “Anyway, I just need a few nights here, and then I’ll be off. I’m thinking of moving to the country. Maybe get a job on a farm. I rather fancy the fresh air life.”
His sister burst out into raucous laughter. “You? Fresh air? A likely story! The only fresh air you’re likely to get is in a high-walled exercise yard. You had a good job gardening in the fresh air, anyway, and you made a mess o’ that. Now, what d’you want to eat? I got bacon and eggs. Black pudden? Then I’m off out. It’s my morning in the Oxfam shop. Me and Mrs. Wilson do Friday mornings.”
She brought in a fragrant plateful, and turned to go. Then she said, “Oh, have they found that missing kid? Here, let’s have a look at the paper before I go.”
“Yeah, he’s back home. No details. I bet he just went absent without leave for fun. Kids these days don’t think of nothing but themselves.”
After his sister had gone, he looked again to make sure there were no hints of abduction or foul play. The kid was home again, and should be left in peace with his mother in Long Farnden.
So the little sod had said nothing, or made up some story to satisfy the police. Not such a bad kid after all, then. But then, he’d been told what would happen if he blabbed, and even though his father had deserted him, he must have some feeling for the man who’d sired him. He wouldn’t want him hurt, would he? It was a blinding nuisance that everything had gone wrong, but the outcome could have been worse. All right, so he hadn’t been able to find Hickson and demand what he supposed would have been called a ransom. More of a deal, he reckoned. You pay up, and you can have your son back. If not . . . Well, it hadn’t w
orked out. He hadn’t reckoned on the kid being such a slippery little bastard. And Hickson would have been witless with worry. That would have to be enough, for the moment.
The fry-up was good, and he licked the plate clean. Nobody would be looking for him, luckily, and he had work to do, people to see, connections to make.
FORTY-SIX
FARNDEN HAD QUIETENED DOWN, ALTHOUGH THERE WERE still one or two unfamiliar cars parked near the Hickson house. Josie came out of the shop to bring in the buckets of flowers that had not been sold. Only two bunches left. That was good. Maybe Mum would like a bunch, and one for Gran. She had still made a profit.
“Evening, Josie!” A fresh-faced policeman approached, and Josie grinned.
“Hi, Matthew!” she said. “You’re still on duty I see. Busy day in Farnden for your lot. Still, it’s good news, isn’t it. Young Jack home safe again. We’ll all sleep easier tonight.”
“What are you doing later? I’m finished here now, and just have to go home and change. Fancy a meal at the pub in Waltonby? New management, apparently, and the food is really good. What do you say?”
Josie beamed. “Wonderful idea,” she said. “I think we all need a bit of a treat, after the last forty-eight hours. I hope Paula Hickson is able to relax, poor soul.”
“Your mother’s just gone in to see her. We had instructions from Hunter . . . special permission . . .” His smile was knowing, and Josie looked crossly at him. “That’s quite enough of that, PC Vickers,” she said. “Go away and forget you’re a policeman, and I’ll be ready in an hour. Oh, and love you, as the kids say.”