Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  “Morning, Mrs. M!” Three more were standing on the step, and Lois brought them in to her office. “This is Paula Hickson, new member of the team,” she said. “Sheila Stratford, Hazel Thornbull from our office in Tresham, and Bridie Reading, Hazel’s mum.” They all smiled and said welcoming things to Paula.

  Last to arrive was Andrew Young, a cleaner on the team but also an interior designer who combined the two. The arrangement was a comparatively new development for Lois and had proved very successful. She was beginning to wonder if Andrew might one day soon give up cleaning and concentrate on what was, some would say, though probably not Gran, a more manly profession. So far, Andrew had insisted that he loved cleaning, was not gay, and found the two jobs complementary. He could drop in a commercial for his design business whilst polishing the silver, he joked.

  One by one, the girls gave their reports. The previous week had been uneventful, until Bridie’s report caused Lois some concern.

  “All was going well, Mrs. M,” Bridie said, “until I went to the pub in Waltonby on Friday. The new landlady there, Mrs. Coppice, is really nice, and we were having a quick cup of coffee halfway through the morning when the bell on the bar counter rang. Almost nobody comes in the pub on a Friday morning before midday, and Mrs. Coppice asked me to go through, saying it was probably a salesman on his rounds, and to get rid of him. I was to say she had popped out to a neighbour.

  Lois happened to glance at Paula, and was alarmed to see her sway on her chair. “So what happened, Bridie? Was it a talent scout, wanting you to star in the next Bond movie?” Lois tried to keep her voice light. Bridie was known for her love of telling a good story.

  “He weren’t a salesman, for sure,” Bridie said. “Big bloke, looked as he’d bin living rough. Filthy jacket, black hair needed cutting, black eyes that didn’t look straight at you. Real shifty, he was. He asked if the missus had any jobs needed doin’, and I said straightaway that we was fine and taken care of. Told him to try up the road at the farm, just to get rid of him, though I knew they’d not touch him with a barge pole. Gave me quite a turn though, and Mrs. Coppice insisted I took a very small brandy. Just tellin’ you this, Mrs. M, in case somebody smelled alcohol on my breath in the afternoon and got the wrong idea.”

  The others listened spellbound. Wherever else Bridie was at fault, it was certainly not in the spinning of a good yarn. Lois turned to Paula, who had been staring at Bridie with a horrified expression.

  “You did well, Bridie,” she said, “and I reckon I would’ve needed a brandy in your place. Thanks for keeping us informed. It might be useful if he turns up anywhere else on our patch.”

  As the others drifted off after the meeting, Lois said quietly to Paula that she would like her to stay behind for a few minutes. When they were alone, she motioned her to a chair, and Paula sat down.

  “You know who he was, don’t you, Paula,” Lois said. Best not to beat about the bush.

  “It was him, my Jack,” Paula said, her lip quivering. Her knuckles were white with the strain of keeping her hands steady. “He turned up at the hall this morning, when Mrs. Tollervey-Jones was out down the village. Luckily she came back before he could get at me. But he saw me, and he’ll try again.”

  Then the strain was too much, and she covered her face with her hands. In a muffled voice she said that she would be going home now, and was really sorry that it had all come to an end before she’d had a chance to show what she could do.

  “What d’you mean, come to an end?” Lois said. “Do you think I’d give you your cards just because of that? Blimey, what kind of a person d’you think I am? No, you just sit here and I’ll get Gran to make us a cuppa. Take it easy, Paula. You’re a New Brooms team member now, and we’ll stick by you.”

  Reflecting that she sounded like a character from a bad movie, Lois went off to the kitchen to persuade Gran.

  “ALL WELL?” SAID DEREK WHEN HE CAME IN FOR LUNCH. HE sniffed good smells and said he was starving. “Running up and down stairs on the new rewiring job has given me an appetite,” he said, patting Gran on her shoulder. She smiled, and said a bit of running up and down stairs would not do Lois any harm.

  “She’s been sitting at her desk all morning,” she said.

  “How did the meeting go, me duck?” Derek gave Lois a peck on the cheek, just to even things up.

  “No so bad,” Lois said. “Bit hairy at the end, when the new woman—”

  “Oh, yes,” interrupted Derek, “the new woman. Paula Hickson? Not trouble already?”

  “No, not her,” Lois said hastily, remembering that Paula was a big mistake as far as Gran and Derek were concerned. “I meant Bridie. She’s back at work after her operation. Sort of a new start.”

  “Nice try,” said Derek. “Anyway, what happened?”

  Lois gave them the gist of Bridie’s story, and said that the others had looked a bit alarmed. “Not Andrew, of course, but the girls said they often have to answer the door, when clients are out, an’ that.”

  Gran shrugged. “There’s always been tramps trudging round the villages,” she said. “I remember when I was a kid, one bright moonlight night I heard this terrible singing. More yelling than singing, it was. I got out of bed to look out the window, and there was this man, drunk as a lord, stumbling by in the middle of the road, and I was scared stiff! I shot back into bed and pulled the covers over my head. O’ course, it was just some poor old sod on his way to the workhouse.”

  Derek chuckled. “You and Bridie Reading,” he said, “should set up as a double act as storytellers. You could have a tent on the playing fields for Soap Box Day.”

  “If you want your dinner,” Gran replied huffily, “you’d better sit down and be grateful, in case I decide to give it to Jeems here. At least dogs don’t answer back.”

  IN A DESERTED BRICK BARN ON A FIELD OUTSIDE WALTONBY, JACK Hickson Sr. snored on a heap of dirty straw in a dark corner. He had managed to coax a sandwich out of a scared housewife up the road, and while she’d gone to make it he’d snitched a couple of bottles of Old Best from the outside toilet. Funny place to keep supplies, he’d thought, but very handy. Now he whiled away the warm afternoon in an alcoholic doze. The problem of where he would be next day had been postponed. All he knew was that he had to keep moving, but never too far away from Paula and the kids. Especially his namesake, Jack Jr.

  SEVENTEEN

  AFTER THE MEETING ANDREW YOUNG HAD SET OFF ON FOOT to find Gavin Adstone’s wife, Kate. There was nobody at home, and as he had not made an appointment he decided to wander about for a while. She couldn’t have gone far, as a car was parked in the open garage.

  Andrew had met Gavin in the pub a couple of evenings ago, and in the course of conversation had mentioned his interior décor business. Gavin had said that his wife had been talking about giving the cottage a makeover. It was very dingy, he said, but as they’d been so busy with bringing up baby since they moved to the village, they hadn’t had time to think about what they would want to do about decorating.

  Now he walked briskly around the village, turning back into Church Street, and if she had returned, he intended to say he had just been at a meeting in the village and thought he would look in as he was passing. There had obviously been some kind of family service in the church, and knots of young mothers with pushchairs and small hangers-on were grouped on the pavement. Andrew had no idea what Kate Adstone looked like, so kept going until he reached the cottage. He knocked at the door, and heard a shout from behind him. An attractive, dark-haired girl was running towards him, the pushchair bumping over the uneven pavement.

  “Looking for me?” she gasped, out of breath as she approached.

  “Are you Kate?” Andrew asked.

  He didn’t look like a salesman, Kate thought. He was dressed casually, had curly dark hair, and an open smile. “Yes, I am. Can I help you?” she said.

  Andrew explained that he had met Gavin in the pub, and that as well as cleaning for New Brooms he ran an interior déc
or business, and wondered if she would like to have a chat. Gavin had said they might be interested in brightening up their cottage.

  “We had talked about it,” she said. “He mentioned meeting you in the pub. But I think it would be best if you came when he was at home. He hates being left out! How about this evening? He usually gets back around half six. Would that be any good?”

  “Fine,” replied Andrew, abandoning his plan for an evening with a takeaway and a film. “I’ll come around seven, shall I? Or half-past, maybe? We men always think better on a full stomach.”

  As he made his way back to his car, still parked outside Meade House, Andrew remembered Bridie Reading’s dramatic story, and wondered who the poor sod was who’d been looking for work. It was a downwards spiral, being homeless, as he knew from his work in the Tresham shelter just up the road from his flat. No permanent address, so no job. Stealing money to buy alcohol and drugs was all part of the sad decline.

  Andrew had been through bad times himself after his parents were killed in a car crash, and remembered only too well the awful lethargy that overtook him when he should have been out looking for a job, starting a new life. At least he had had money to tide him over.

  “COME IN, ANDREW.” GAVIN ADSTONE SAID HEARTILY. HE STOOD at the door of his cottage, authoritative and welcoming.

  Aha, thought Andrew, he’s been on a self-assertion course. First rule: establish who is boss straightaway, especially when someone is trying to sell you something.

  “Hello,” said Andrew. “Lovely evening. Nice of you to give up some time to see me. I am sure we shall have an enjoyable discussion, and if nothing comes of it, no matter. I shall have gained a couple of friends, I hope!”

  Kate appeared with small Cecilia in her arms. Andrew made a clown face at the little one and raised a laugh. “Three new friends, I should say,” he said. He had been on a course or two himself.

  EIGHTEEN

  I SAW ANDREW YOUNG IN THE PUB,” DEREK SAID. HE OPENED yet another junk mail envelope and added it to an untidy heap on the floor. “Talking to Gavin Adstone like they was old mates.”

  “Perhaps they are,” Gran said. “And don’t expect me to pick up them leaflets.”

  “Oops! Who’s upset you this morning?”

  “My darling daughter, if you must know.”

  “Lois? What’s she done now?”

  “Only offended my best friend, that’s what. Told Joan Pickering that she hoped she’d give that Hickson woman a warmer welcome than the last new member of WI got.”

  “Paula Hickson? Is she joining the WI? Where’s she going to find time, and the money to pay a babysitter?”

  “No doubt New Brooms will subsidise her,” Gran said bitterly. “Lois always did like a lame duck or two.”

  Derek looked at his watch. “Is Lois still upstairs? Time I went.”

  He walked out of the kitchen and called up the stairs. Lois’s voice answered him from her office, and he stamped along the hallway to find her. “What the hell d’you think you’re doin’?” he said. “You’ve had no breakfast, haven’t said a word to me, and now it’s time I went. And,” he added angrily, “your mother is sulking in the kitchen. Seems you’ve upset her friend Joan.”

  “Not a bad morning’s work so far, then,” said Lois, with a smile. “Sorry, love. We’ll talk at lunchtime. Something urgent I just had to see to. ‘New Brooms Sweeps Cleaner,’ as you know.”

  Derek sighed. “Just as well I love you, Lois Meade,” he said, and disappeared off to work in his van, while Lois went to placate Gran in the kitchen.

  “Mum,” she began, “would you do something for me?”

  “I don’t feel much like it,” Gran said without looking at her.

  “Yeah, well, it’s important,” Lois said. “And confidential.”

  This did the trick, and Gran said she supposed she would help if she could.

  “I need to find out where that rough bloke is. The one who frightened Bridie.”

  “So?”

  “So you’ve got friends in the village, and a sharp eye. Can you ask around?”

  “Why d’you need to know? Is it him has been trying to burn down the village hall? Maybe breaking in to find shelter at night? Lighting a fire, like they do, and it getting out of hand?”

  “Possibly,” said Lois. Maybe Gran was on to something here. The last case she worked on with Cowgill involved gypsies. Now tramps? She shook herself, as if to get rid of unwholesome thoughts, and changed the subject.

  “Derek’s SOS meeting is tonight, so we’d better have supper early,” she said.

  “I’d already thought of that,” Gran said. “And you’ll be pleased to know that Joan Pickering plans to sling a banner across the hall for WI tomorrow. ‘Welcome Paula Hickson,’ it says.”

  Lois hooted with laughter. “All right, you win,” she said.

  “I ain’t yer mother for nuthin,” Gran said. “Now leave me to get on. An’ pick up those leaflets off the floor. I’m too old to be bending down clearing up after your husband.”

  THE SAVE OUR SHED COMMITTEE SAT IN A HALF CIRCLE IN THE Reading Room. Derek had drawn the blinds against a fierce low sun, and there was a feeling amongst them that some good progress had been made. Floss had been down to the Youth Club and talked to the kids. All had been strongly enthusiastic about the soap box racing, and had started thinking about what they would build.

  “The rest of it, they said,” Floss reported, “could be left to the oldies. ‘Let them have their cake stalls and craft bits and pieces, and knittin’ an’ that.’ Those were their very words,” she added, with a sideways look at Gavin Adstone.

  To the surprise of the rest of the committee, Gavin commented pleasantly that he was really pleased about that. It was so important to involve the young people in a village, otherwise it became a community of pensioners.

  “And what’s wrong with pensioners?” grunted Tony Dibson.

  “Nothing at all,” Gavin said hastily. He had worked out—and was keeping to himself for the moment—a major strategy for the SOS fund-raising day, and he needed to keep all persons on the committee on his side.

  “How would we feel about a subcommittee dealing with the soap box side of it?” he said to Floss. “I would be very happy to organise that, with you, perhaps, Floss?” He smiled at her and saw from her expression that he still had some way to go before she joined the Gavin Adstone fan club.

  Derek thought for a moment. He was well aware that Gavin was up to something, and he had to be quick-witted to forestall him.

  “Thanks for offering,” he said, “but I reckon committees are bad enough, and subcommittees worse. We’re all involved here, and all of us want a hand in the way the whole day is organised. After all, some of us remember the Farnden soap box racing from years ago. What say we try our best to stage the same again? There’d be more point to it then.” There were enthusiastic nods of agreement.

  Gavin frowned and said, “But we have to abide by Health and Safety. That’ll make a big difference.”

  “It can be absorbed,” said Derek confidently. “Now, shall we take a vote on a subcommittee as proposed by Gavin? Those in favour?” Only Gavin raised his hand. “And those against? Right, that’s that, then. Shall we move forwards? Item three: entry forms.”

  Gavin opened his mouth to speak. Entry forms were part of his strategy. But he was interrupted by the vicar. “I’ll take care of that, if you tell me what’s required,” said Father Rodney. “I’ve got the copier in the vicarage, so I can print as many as you like.”

  Tony raised his hand. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I could get together with the reverend on that. I’ve still got a form from those old days somewhere. Kept it as a souvenir, after Blunderbuss II won the last grand prix.” He turned to Floss. “That were my old gal. Me and my dad put her together out of this and that. Went like the wind, she did.”

  “Your ‘old gal’ was not, presumably, your wife?” Gavin looked round for a laugh, but none came. People in th
e village didn’t make jokes about Tony’s wife in a wheelchair.

  DEREK WALKED BACK TOWARDS THE PUB WITH JOHN THORNBULL, and they agreed that the meeting had gone well. “Feels like we’re on a roll now,” John said. “If we can keep that Gavin chap under control. You know what, Derek?” he added. “I reckon we ought to give him a job, something that’ll sound important but not interfere with our idea of re-creating the old soap box grand prix. What d’you think?”

  “Good idea,” said Derek. “But what job?”

  “Dunno,” said John. They turned into the pub doorway, and John added that ideas always seemed to come more easily after a pint. “Let’s see what we can come up with,” he said, and walked up to order the beer.

  JOSIE SAW THEM GO BY AS SHE WORKED IN THE SHOP STACKING shelves. It had been a busy day, and several items needed replenishing. She had the local radio station on as she worked, and paused to listen to the news. The first item was an unpleasant one: “Police are searching for witnesses who can help them with the identity of the body of a man found in the canal behind the Tresham Industrial Estate. They have released the following details: The man is in his late thirties, heavily built, with long hair and clothes in poor condition.” Details of the police number and assurances of confidentiality followed, and then the newsreader moved on to the latest case of vandalism at the supermarket.

  “Some poor down-and-out,” Josie said to her mother, who had just come in through the back door into the stockroom. “Probably drunk out of his mind on meth and missed his footing. Ended up headfirst in the canal. Anybody falling into that sewer wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”

  Her mother’s reaction surprised her. “What’s the time?” she asked. “There’ll be local telly news in a minute. Let’s go up to the flat and put it on. Come with me, Josie, I don’t want to miss anything.”