Threats At Three Part 18

The door opened and the vicar came in. Lois nodded to him, and then pretended to look at the notice board by the window.

"Dreadful business, Mrs. Meade," Father Rodney said. "I pray to G.o.d that the child will be returned safely very soon."

"And so do we all," said Lois sharply.

The vicar shook his head sadly, and muttered something about moving in mysterious ways. Then he collected up a basket of shopping and took it to Josie. "Are we all ready for the big soap box day?" he said.

"Most of us think it should be cancelled," Josie said. "You couldn't put your heart into it, could you?"

"Not long to go," Father Rodney said. "But I'm sure we'll have good news before then."

"Well, that's a relief," Lois said. "So glad you're sure."

After he had gone, Josie turned on her mother. "You were a bit sharp! Poor bloke's only doing his job. And anyway, maybe he's right. I reckon a miracle would be just what we need at the moment."

Lois was suitably chastened, and said that probably the most useful thing was that Kate Adstone was still with Paula Hickson, and in her opinion that was worth more than a fistful of prayers.

THE VAN STOPPED AT LAST, AND JACK JR. BLINKED AT THE LIGHT as the man opened the doors at the back.

"Get out," he said.

"Where are we?"

"Never you mind, just get out!"

"I've got cramp. Can't move."

The man advanced on him. He took him by one ear and dragged him out of the van and on to a rutted track. "Cramp all gone?" he said, and laughed. "You don't fool me, little Jack Horner! Good at deceiving yer teachers and your mum, aren't you? But I know you from way back. Lying little toad then and still are. Now, get going. We've got a long way to go."

KATE ADSTONE FINALLY LEFT PAULA AND HURRIED TO THE PLAYGROUP to collect Cecilia. Like every other mother in the village, she couldn't feel at ease until her toddler was safely cuddled in her arms. There were still police patrolling, knocking on doors and stopping people in the street. It occurred to Kate that even if the kidnapper had thoughts of returning Jack, he, or she, was unlikely to bring him back with this lot all around. More likely the boy would be dumped. Alive, Kate wished fervently.

She had been surprised by how much Paula Hickson had told her. Probably only too glad to open up to somebody, she thought now, fixing Cecilia firmly into her pushchair. But all that stuff about Tim Froot! So he'd had a pretty grim reputation around the offices! And apparently, so the canteen gossip said, he'd also had fingers in lots of pies, dodgy business ones, with a posse of henchmen protecting him. She supposed the one who'd threatened her was one of them. This reminded her that she had agreed to meet Froot in Tresham the day after tomorrow. Gavin had forbidden it, and she had put off thinking about what would happen if she failed to turn up. It.i.t was too horrible to contemplate, and she quickened her pace, wanting to be at home on her own territory. Gavin had told her to lock herself in for the moment, and that is what she intended to do.

So Froot had been after Paula, among others! But unlike herself, the poor woman had had to stay there, needing the money. One of the dodgy businesses had had to do with laundering money, Paula had said. And what else? Froot had come from Holland. Amsterdam . . . drugs?

"Gavin? It's me. Yes, I'm safely home, and yes, I've locked the doors. Listen, I've got something to tell you. You're just off out? Oh, all right then, I'll tell you tonight. Say h.e.l.lo and goodbye to Cecilia . . . come on, sweetie, say h.e.l.lo to Daddy."

FORTY-TWO.

JACK HICKSON'S CAREFULLY THOUGHT-OUT PLAN HAD BEEN scuppered. He had set out from the woods at the crack of dawn, just when the pigeons were starting to greet the light, and all went well until he reached the road. He had relied on getting a lift to Tresham with one of the long-distance lorries that took shortcuts through the villages in the early morning, aiming to miss rush-hour traffic round the big towns and cities.

This morning, unbeknown to Jack, as part of their strategy for protecting the Hickson family, the police had put a block on all heavy goods traffic going through a radius of twenty miles round Farnden. Only domestic vehicles were getting through. Jack waited in vain, knowing that it would be disaster guaranteed if he thumbed a lift from a local driver. He needed a stranger, a foreigner preferably, who would drive straight through the village and on to Tresham, where he could be dropped off and make the rest of his way on foot.

After waiting for an hour, when local traffic was beginning to appear, he decided he would have to walk, skirting the village through the fields, and then on to Tresham as best he could. When he looked at his watch, his heart sank to his boots. It would be much too late when he got there to carry out his plan of surprising the sleeping kidnapper, dealing out rough justice, and then rescuing his son and taking him back home to his mother. Then he would go to the police and tell all.

None of this was now likely, so he needed plan B. His feet were soaking wet from dew-covered meadows and inadequate boots, and he s.h.i.+vered. He had had nothing to eat since last night, and the early morning chill was not helping. But the thought of Jack in the hands of that corrupt villain drove him on, and in time he was within three miles of Tresham.

"Want a lift, mate?" A large van had stopped and a cheery-looking, totally bald driver leaned out.

Jack thought rapidly, and decided it was worth the risk. The van had come from Birmingham, and the driver was a stranger to him. He got in, glad to rest his legs and feet. The warmth inside the cab made his head swim, and he swayed.

"You all right, mate? You look all done in. Get a bit of shut-eye, if you want. Where're you going? I'll give you a nudge when we get there."

"Only into Tresham," Jack said. "You haven't got anything I could eat, have you? Didn't have time for breakfast this morning."

The driver fished out a bread roll with a thick piece of ham liberally spread with mustard, and held it out. "Thanks a lot," Jack said. "This is the best thing I've eaten for months."

"On the road, are you? You don't look like a vagrant."

"No, I'm a professional gardener. It's just that I lost my job and've been out of work for a good while. I'm going into town to try for another place." He did not mention the hall.

The driver nodded approvingly. "Job situation is really bad at the moment, and I suppose people can do their own gardening if necessary. Mind you, in my case it's a hobby. I love it. Out there, on my allotment, away from the wife! Nothing to beat it."

They talked gardening for the rest of the way into Tresham, and then the driver dropped Jack off at a suitable place on the ring road. He remembered the way, and set off through a network of roads lined with redbrick terraces, all built in the affluent nineteenth century, when the town mushroomed. There it was, Barcelona Street, down-at-heel, with wrecks of old cars and wheelie bins spilling over onto the pavements. Number thirty-eight. Ah, yes, there it was, in all its glory!

Jack wondered briefly why the local authority allowed such a place to exist. Surely the site itself would be worth a fair bit? He crossed the road and stood outside. It would have to be a straight confrontation, and now that he was here, fortified by the ham roll, he felt more confident.

A middle-aged man came down the path and stopped. "You looking for somebody, mate?" he said.

Jack gave him a grateful smile, and answered that he had been searching for his young brother for weeks, but had had no luck. "Our old mum's going crazy," he lied. "Can you help at all?"

"I can, a bit," the man replied. "But you're just too late. Sorry about your brother, but the lot who lived here have all gone. Did a moonlight flit, the lot of 'em, thank G.o.d. Let's hope they never come back. The council should've evicted them years ago. Anyway, if I were you, I'd turn back to where you came from. Nothing but tragedy and trouble from that house. Several of us have been in, and we found the body of a young girl, about fourteen, needles everywhere. She was still warm. Makes you sick."

He turned away, rubbing his eyes. Then he looked back at Jack. "We've told the police, an' they'll be here any minute. I suppose you could wait and talk to them. One of the women who lives next door said she'd seen out of her bathroom window a man with a kid going in there yesterday, but they weren't there when we looked."

Jack waited until his informant was out of sight, and then ran fast in the opposite direction.

AT THE END OF THE RUTTED TRACK, JACK JR. AND HIS MINDER stopped. Jack had been looking all around him as they walked. It was difficult to see far, as the track was lined with high thorn hedges with only the occasional field gate. All the way, the man had hurried Jack along, shoving him forwards if he lingered by an opening in the hedge. "No dawdling," he had said. "I know your tricks, young Hickson. I'm not taking my eyes off you for a second."

"What's the point of all this?" Jack said finally. "They'll have every road covered. Why don't you b.u.g.g.e.r off and leave me to find me own way home? I won't say nothing. I'll pretend I was stayin' with a new friend. I'll be really sorry to Mum. I'm good at that. I promise I won't tell."

He looked straight into the man's eyes, and saw him hesitate. Jack knew something had gone wrong in the house this morning, and that's why they were miles from anywhere with not a building in sight. The track had come to a dead end, and only the remains of a big straw stack hinted at a reason for its existence. Why would his captor bring him here? Jack s.h.i.+vered. He'd probably hoped to find a derelict barn where he could dump Jack, duly dealt with, and hop it. There'd be no farm traffic down here until next harvest.

The man shook his head. "You're a lying little toad. I don't believe a word of it. You'd have nothing to lose by telling."

Jack shrugged, the gesture older than his thirteen years. "Please yerself," he said. "But you ain't got no option really. Without me, you stand a chance of disappearing without trace. With me around, you ain't got no chance."

"If you don't shut y' mouth, I'll get rid of you forever! That'll be good enough for me, plenty enough for yer father to remember me by." He stepped towards Jack, his fists clenched.

Jack turned and ran.

FORTY-THREE.

LOIS SAT IN HER OFFICE, STARING INTO s.p.a.cE. SHE HAD EATEN only half the lunch Gran had prepared and, as expected, had listened to a mercifully short lecture on the folly of employing Paula Hickson and thereby becoming involved in this mess.

"What can you expect?" Gran had said, playing her trump card. "Anybody who gives her son the same name as her husband must be not quite right in the head."

"Lots of people do," Lois said wearily. "I think it's nice. Anyway, I've got work to do, so I'll be in my office if you want me."

"What about this pudding?"

"No thanks. I'll have some for supper. Sorry, Mum."

After Lois had shut herself away, Gran cleared up the kitchen and then stood at the sink, looking out of the window. She hadn't been very helpful, she knew. But it angered her to see her daughter so worried about a situation that should not really be her concern. If only she could think of something she could do to help. Practical help, that's what she was good at. As she watched Jeems digging in the flower bed, she knew she should go out and stop her. Lois had just planted out new seedlings. Then the little dog p.r.i.c.ked her ears and shot off across the garden. Gran craned her neck to see what had caught her attention. It was a c.o.c.k pheasant, squawking loudly as it rose slowly into the air and escaped over the fence.

A pheasant! Gran caught her breath. Last seen hanging by the neck in a poacher's bothy in the woods. She rushed out into the garden and saw Jeems coming towards her with a sheepish expression, carrying a long tail feather in her mouth.

"Good dog," she said, holding out her hand. Jeems obediently dropped the feather and Gran picked it up. She rushed back into the house and straight into Lois's office without knocking.

"Look! I should've told you before, but I completely forgot! This brought it all back!"

Lois frowned at her mother, and took the proffered feather. "What are you talking about, Mum? I am rather busy."

Gran sat down heavily and said, "Just listen, and don't interrupt." Then she told Lois about chasing Jeems into the wood and finding the hut with a padlocked door. "There were things inside, including a newly killed pheasant, odd bits that somebody had left there and would be coming back for."

Lois snapped alert. "So that's it," she said. "That's where he was living. Young Jack's father. I wish you'd told me before, Mum. It's very important."

She picked up the phone and dialled Cowgill. Chris answered once more. "Sorry-he's not back yet."

"It is very, very important that I speak to him. You can get in touch and tell him to ring me. Do it now, Chris. Please. Trust me."

"Can't I help?"

"Probably. But I need to speak to Cowgill. Sorry. Just get on to him, now."

Gran stood up. She was near to tears, and Lois held out her hand. "Mum, don't worry. You might still save that kid's life. Go and make us some coffee, can you? I'll tell you what happens."

Cowgill phoned back in minutes. His voice sounded strange, and Lois realised he was still suffering. She told him exactly what Gran had said, and he mumbled that he would get on to it at once. "I'll 'ing 'ou back in 'en minish," he said, and rang off.

It was more than ten minutes, of course, and when he did ring, the news was not good. His men had found the hut, but the padlock had gone and it was empty. No trace of any kind of occupation. Completely cleared out. The only sign that there had been anyone there was a pile of ashes neatly swept into a corner.

"That was him, then!" Lois said. "He'd have camped out there. Boiled a kettle on a little fire, an' that. Oh, sod it," she added tiredly. "Poor old Mum, she'd forgotten all about it, and now she's crucified with guilt."

"Tell her we'll find him, and not to worry. If it's his father who has him, the lad won't come to any harm. According to information we now have about Jack Hickson, he was not a bad sort of bloke until he got made redundant and consoled himself with the drink. Adored his children, apparently. He won't harm his son. Tell Gran that. Must go, Lois. Keep in touch."

As soon as she put down the phone, it rang again. This time it was Hazel from the office in Tresham. "Just had a call from somebody over the other side of Ringford," she said. "It may be too far away for New Brooms, but this woman's desperate. She's had an op and her cleaner's just given in her notice. Can we help?"

Lois gave her head a shake to clear it. "Of course we can. Give me the name and address and I'll go across right now. It'll give me something else to think about."

"How is Paula?" Hazel said.

"As bad as can be expected," Lois replied. "And that goes for most of us here in Farnden. Can you ring this woman and tell her I'm on the way?"

THE HOUSE WAS ON ITS OWN, SMALL AND IN GOOD ORDER, WITH A neat garden and well-trimmed hedge, high enough to s.h.i.+eld the house from a busy road. Lois parked the New Brooms van outside on the gra.s.s verge, and went in. As the door opened, she could see a small, youngish woman holding a stick and not unhooking the chain until Lois had announced her credentials.

"I'm rather isolated here," the woman said, "so I've promised my husband I would be very careful. But do come in, Mrs. Meade. I'm so glad you're able to help."

As Lois sat listening to yet another sad story of ill health and bad luck, she reflected that a large part of New Brooms' work involved being a sympathetic ear and a comforting presence for a short time whilst involved in clients' lives. In Mrs. Brown's case, her husband had a job which kept him abroad for long periods of time. She herself was sickly, and had had one operation after another. "So you see, I can't possibly join him. And now, in this present financial crisis, he can't give up his good job over there and return to be with me."

"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 rea.s.surance, 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 rea.s.suringly, 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. n.o.body 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 gra.s.s 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.