Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  “I’ll give you until tomorrow to tell me your plan,” he said. “No more mucking about, Gavin. I need to have a positive plan of action. You have a meeting tonight. Well, that should concentrate your mind. Either you convince me that your shack will be demolished and a builder—this builder—given a contract to develop, or our deal is off. No more time allowed. Pay me back, or else. I have a couple of ideas how to guarantee you’ll find the money. Did Kate tell you I called? Good.”

  Tim Froot had signed off, giving Gavin no time to reply, no time to prevaricate, no time to tell the monster that if he touched his wife, or even threatened her, he would kill him.

  Gavin had had a plan for the village hall, in the beginning. Invited on to the parish council soap box subcommittee, he had seen his chance. He would scupper their feeble efforts at fund-raising, ostensibly helping but actually making sure it would be a dismal failure. As things were going, it would not be difficult. He was pretty sure that if he told the police about the many ways the grand prix would flout regulations, the parish council would be loaded down with so many safety measures that whatever profit there was would be eaten up in putting them into place. A total loss from what was intended to be the big event, the grand fund-raiser, should dishearten the parish council sufficiently for the demolish-and-rebuild lobby to triumph. Grants would be forthcoming, especially if there was emphasis on the hall as a sporting facility. And, of course, Froot was known to be adept at securing contracts from local authorities, promising extra facilities alongside his rows of new houses.

  So then Gavin would be in the clear and Kate would be safe. They would pay back the loan in installments, and have nothing to do with the monster in future. This, then, was his original plan. But now things were different, Gavin said to himself as he plodded down the road to the village hall for tonight’s meeting. For one thing, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t sabotage the grand prix. How could he face Tony Dibson and his nice, brave wife? And good old Derek, wise and patient. He had been a good choice for chairman, and Gavin was beginning to see his worth, and respect it. Then there were Hazel and Floss, both of whom had been so nice to Kate. John Thornbull, a bluff farmer with his head firmly screwed on, who had clearly not liked the look of Gavin but was giving him a chance. No, he couldn’t do it.

  “Evenin’, Gavin,” Tony said, as they met at the door of the hall. “How’s your Kate? And that lovely Cecilia? She’s made quite a conquest of my Irene. Dear little soul doesn’t seem a bit scared of the wheelchair, like some of the bigger kids.”

  “Ready to start?” Derek called from inside the hall. Gavin and Tony were the last to arrive, and hurried to their seats. “Shall we have the minutes of the last meeting?” Derek said.

  “Apologiesfirst,” Hazel said. “Anybody not here?” She looked around. “Father Rodney is missing. Anybody seen him?”

  Nobody had, though John Thornbull said the vicar had made his usual lightning visit to the pub last evening. “We tried to get him to play dominoes, but he wouldn’t. Looked a bit tempted though, so we shall try again. I’m pretty sure he said he’d be here tonight.”

  “May have been delayed,” Derek said. “We’ll make a start, Hazel.”

  They listened to the minutes, then had a progress report from committee members. There was some hilarity on hearing that Mrs. T-J would be driving a jar of jam. Derek protested that they shouldn’t mock too much. “That woman could be a fiend at the wheel,” he said. “And if any of you men have seen the WI in action at the Albert Hall for their AGM, well! Remember how they cut the PM down to size? The famous charm failed completely. Never underestimate a group of women, that’s what a lifetime married to my Lois and her mother has taught me!”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the men, and sympathetic looks for Derek.

  “I still say the old trout will end up in the ditch,” Tony Dibson said, chuckling. “It’ll be a big moment for the whole village.”

  “So how’s the Youth Club entry getting on?” Derek asked Floss.

  “John knows more about that than me,” Floss said. “He’s deeply involved now. Got the kids really going. Including the newcomer, Jack Hickson Jr. He’s a bit of loner, and we’re really glad he’s joined. Clever, too. Apparently his father could turn his hand to anything.”

  “Is the father dead?” Tony said bluntly.

  Floss shook her head. “Left the family. Not been seen since, so Mrs. Hickson is bringing up the kids on her own. She’s working for New Brooms, as Hazel knows.”

  “I knew a chap called Hickson,” Tony said slowly. “Nice bloke. Worked for the Parks and Gardens Department in the town where my brother lives. He was a friend of my nephew. Met him once or twice. I don’t suppose it’s the same man.”

  Derek felt they were getting off the main subject, and asked Gavin how he was doing with entries and publicity. “Low-key publicity, Gavin. You’ve remembered that, I hope,” he said.

  “I’m thinking in terms of it being a village event,” Gavin replied. “Spreading the net no wider than surrounding villages. The way the entries are coming in, we shall have to close the list soon, anyway!”

  “How long to go?” said Tony Dibson, counting on his fingers. “There’s one, two, three full weeks, then it’s the following Saturday. Most of the course is planned anyway.”

  “I’ve got the straw bales ready on a trailer,” John said. “And the ramp is done. Gavin’s getting the races sorted out. Four soap boxes at a time, we reckon, will be safe enough. Then we’ll have the final.”

  “We need somebody to check the vehicles at the start,” Derek said. “I can do that, if you like. The main thing is to make sure they’ve all got brakes, and the wheels are secure. That should cover it.”

  “There’s some real work being done with the entries,” Gavin said. “I’ve seen lights burning late in several garages round the villages! I reckon it’s going to be a lot of fun.”

  “How’s the rest of it coming along?” Derek said.

  Hazel looked at her notes. “We’ve got a lot going on in the playing field,” she said. “The big marquee is full now. Craft stalls, gardening and plants, homemade cakes and stuff, rugs and harness for ponies, and lots more. The school has got a stall, showing the extension they’re planning, and we’ve got a nice display of work to be done on the Shed, with a mock-up of how it will look when it’s finished. Oh yes, and the school is happy to select the soap box queen. Not necessarily the prettiest, said the head, but the one who is all-round hardest worker.”

  “Sounds good,” said Derek. “I can tell you a bit more about Jam & Jerusalem. That’s what they’re calling the WI entry. They’re planning to have a player blasting out ‘Jerusalem’ as Mrs. T-J goes first past the post.”

  “I hope somebody’s filming it,” said Gavin. “I could get my mother-in-law to come over and look after Cecilia, then Kate can have our cine-camera and make a film record. What d’you think?”

  “Wonderful,” said John. “Good lad, Gavin.”

  The door opened, and Father Rodney rushed in looking flustered. “So sorry, everybody! I was called away to give the last rites. Poor soul in the nursing home over at Waltonby. At least, they all thought she was a poor soul, but when I got there she was sitting up in bed drinking brandy and insulting the nurses. Dear me, I should have been pleased for her, but all I could think was that I was about to call on the Almighty for nothing. Still, I am sure he’s all forgiving.”

  “As we are,” said Derek. “Sit down, Vicar. Hazel will fill you in quickly with what’s been decided. I’m glad to say everything’s going brilliantly, and all we shall need the Almighty for is to send us a fine day.”

  “I shall do my best to intercede,” said Father Rodney, and smiled benignly round the rest.

  “That’ll be a big help,” muttered Tony.

  “Ssh!” said Floss, who was sitting next to him. “He’s doing his best.”

  Tony grunted. His Irene was still a devout believer, but sometime
s, his heart breaking as he watched her struggling to get into her clothes without bothering him, he had begun to doubt. But then he put it to the back of his mind. No point in wondering why, he had decided that long ago.

  “Well, if there’s no other business, I shall close the meeting for tonight.”

  “And reopen it in the pub, shall we?” said Gavin.

  “That’s my boy,” said Tony Dibson.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  GRAN SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, WATCHING THE GOLD-FINCHES sitting neatly on the feeder in the garden, scarlet, black and white flashing brightly now as they flew away, startled by a large pigeon landing on the grass.

  They don’t look British, she thought, more like something escaped from an exotic aviary. Now a group of chattering, quarrelling sparrows flew in. That was more like it! A football crowd at a big match. She laughed aloud and got up, taking her empty mug to the sink. Lois and Derek had both gone out, and she had a free morning for once. She looked again out of the window. It was a beautiful morning, and Jeems was standing by the door, looking hopefully at her lead.

  “Right, dog,” she said. “We’ll go for a healthy walk. Up to the hall and back over the meadows. Will that do?” Jeems’s tail wagged ferociously, and in a couple of minutes they were off, heading along the road towards the hall.

  Only two cars passed her, causing her to jump on to the verge, dragging Jeems up after her. For some reason, the dog hated walking on the verge, preferring the middle of the tarmac road. Lois said it was good for her claws. It saves having them cut at the vets, she’d said. The second car had been Paula Hickson’s old banger, and she saw it turn up the long drive to the hall. The woman was a good worker, so Lois reported. But Gran had overheard one or two conversations, and had come to the conclusion that the children were suffering from lack of a father. Certainly the eldest, young Jack, was not right, not right at all. There was trouble there, Gran was certain.

  As she approached the big, wrought iron gates, operated automatically, she saw at the far end of the drive a figure on a bicycle. She stopped, pretending to adjust Jeems’s lead. It was a man, and he was going at quite a speed. Gran wondered if the gates would open up to a bicycle.

  They didn’t, and the man dismounted, hauled his bike round the edge of the gates, and came towards her. He was neatly dressed in gardener’s overalls, and smiled at her. She thought he had a nice face, but reckoned he was too thin to be doing hard physical work. Didn’t look well. His hand, as he bent down to stroke Jeems, was bony and she could see the blue veins standing out.

  His voice was cheerful as he wished her a good morning. “Just the morning for a walk,” he said. “And a nice little dog to keep you company. I might get myself a dog. What make is she?”

  “Cairn crossed with farm terrier,” Gran said. “My son-in-law got her for my daughter. She’s thoroughly spoiled,” she added. “That’s what happens when children grow up. The parents get a dog instead. We all need something small to love, don’t we?” What am I rattling on about? she thought, and then was horrified to see the man wipe his eyes. For God’s sake, what had she said?

  “I must get on,” the man said. “Just going to the shop to get a sandwich for my break.”

  “I should’ve thought your wife would make you a sandwich,” Gran said sourly. Another of these working wives too busy to look after their husbands properly.

  “Ah, if only,” said the man, and, mounting his bicycle, he rode off towards the village.

  Gran walked on, past the farm where the farmer’s wife had started a small herd of llamas. More foreigners, thought Gran. They don’t look right in our fields, silly fluffy things. What’s wrong with sheep, anyway, if you want good wool for knitting? She’d seen some alpaca wool garments in the new fancy shop over at Waltonby. The farmer there had developed his old barns, now too small for huge modern machinery, into retail units, and one of them had this fine, hairy wool. Gran had looked at the price tickets and nearly exploded in front of a party of visiting tourists.

  “Just as well we can still buy proper lamb’s wool at a decent price,” she said to Jeems, and added that even so, it would probably vanish from the shops soon, since no young folk these days knew how to knit.

  She had taken off Jeems’s lead, as the road was quiet and the dog would come to heel obediently. At least, she usually did, but when a rabbit shot across the road and through the hedge into a field, Jeems followed. Gran called until she was hoarse, but with no response.

  Damn! Just when she was enjoying the morning, this had to happen. Gran walked on until she came to a gate into the field, opened it and looked around. No sign of Jeems. At the far side of the field, the woods began, and if she had followed the rabbit in there, it would be impossible to find her. Lois would never forgive her!

  Gran stepped out across the grass, fortunately grazed close by cattle, who were still in the field. Hoping there wasn’t a bull amongst them, she took the quickest route and reached a ditch dividing the wood from the field. Finding a rotten-looking plank stretching across the ditch, she stepped gingerly on to it and was quickly inside the trees, thanking her lucky stars she had found the footpath that led back to the village.

  “Jeems! Jeems!” she yelled, but her voice had nearly given out, and she hoped to see the little white dog somewhere in the murky darkness of the trees. It was very quiet, until a sudden squawk from a frightened blackbird caused her to stop and look carefully into the undergrowth. There she was! Almost disguised by the surrounding thicket, Jeems’s wagging tail showed up clearly. Gran forced her way through, scratching her hands and legs and cursing all dogs, until she could grab the tail and haul Jeems out of the rabbit hole.

  “Come here, you little devil!” she said, and stood still to catch her breath. Then she peered more closely across the thicket. What was that over there? “Looks like a poachers’ lair,” she said to Jeems, and began to work her way towards it.

  It had clearly once been a gamekeeper’s hut, but long disused. Somebody had patched it up with bits of wood and tarpaulin, and to Gran’s disappointment, had padlocked the door. She peered through a crack, but could see only a dead pheasant hanging head down from a crossbeam. The glorious feathers were still quite bright, so Gran knew it hadn’t been there long. She turned and made her way back to the footpath, dragging a reluctant Jeems behind her. “Our woods are full of surprises,” she said. “A secret world, dog Jeems.”

  By the time she had followed the footpath round three sides of the wood, and then negotiated another field and into the main road, both she and Jeems were hot and tired. Back home in her kitchen, she filled the dog’s water bowl and looked at the clock. It was twelve o’clock, and she saw Lois going by the kitchen window.

  “Hi, Mum. What’s for lunch? Had a good morning?” Then she looked down at Jeems seemingly drinking an entire bowl of water. “Good heavens! Where’ve you two been? Gossiping in the sun round at Joan’s, I expect. Well, don’t look like that, Mum. I was only guessing.”

  This clinched it. Gran had been going to tell Lois about the hut in the woods, but now decided against it. She could hear Lois’s mocking voice, teasing her about being a townie and having no idea about the foolishness of taking a rabbit-hunting terrier off the lead right next to an open field. Anyway, the hut was just another old tumbledown place for poachers or them bird-watchers. She put it firmly from her mind.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I WOULDN’T MIND DRIVING IT,” SAID JACK JR., STANDING AMONGST the others, looking down at the skeleton of their soap box. “I reckon it’s going to be the best.”

  “How old are you, Jack?” said John Thornbull.

  “Fifteen,” said Jack.

  “No you’re not,” said one of the other boys. “I know which class you’re in at school, an’ they’re all thirteen or fourteen.”

  “I’m a slow learner,” said Jack, and then burst out laughing. “All right, then, I’m thirteen but nearly fourteen. I know I could drive it. I think we should all have a chance. Maybe a
competition to see who’s fastest? When it’s finished, Mr. Thornbull?”

  John had been so charmed by the sight of Jack Jr. laughing that he didn’t think for a minute as he answered that that was a good idea. “But wait a minute,” he said, “there’s probably an age limit.”

  “I don’t see why,” Jack said. “There’s no engine, an’ as long as I can reach the brake, I’m no more of a risk than somebody older.”

  “I’ll look into it,” John said, thinking privately that a lad as handy as Jack was probably safer than some of the young farmers who drove like madmen round the village.

  Jack had to be content with that, and in due course went back home, his spirits sinking as he reached his front gate. The police had been to see his mother, and she had told them about the dealer who had been pestering him. He was doubly scared now. If they caught him, he’d probably know it was Jack Jr. who had told on him. The dealer had threatened him over and over again with reprisals, not just from himself but from his mates. He’d got a lot of mates, he’d said to Jack, and none of ’em too particular about who they cut up. “Spoil your chances with the women, they will,” he’d said with a leer.

  He couldn’t decide who had told his mother. It could have been Mrs. Meade, or her receptionist at New Brooms, Mr. Thornbull’s wife. Hazel Thornbull had been really nice, shielding him, and because he liked her he had blurted it out. Well, it didn’t matter now. In some ways he was relieved. Nothing he could do about it now the police were on the case.

  The twins were playing on the swing Mum had bought with her New Brooms wages, and little Frankie stood unsteadily with his arms outstretched and a broad smile. Jack Jr. scooped him up and hugged him hard. If only they’d had a different dad, one like all the other kids at Youth Club, then Frankie could have a real father to look up to. Jack hated his own father now, and had stopped looking in the mirror in case he saw a likeness. He just hoped Mum wouldn’t be tempted to take him back. They were managing, weren’t they?