Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  After they had finished their coffee, and cleaned up Cecilia’s massacre of a chocolate muffin, Kate said it was time they went off. “See you on the early bus, with a bit of luck,” she said. “And thanks for coffee.”

  Father Rodney said it was he who should thank both of them for their company. In truth, he had enjoyed it so much that when they went off, with Cecilia waving an enthusiastic goodbye, it made his loneliness twice as bad. But he was being stupid, he told himself. He had God’s work to do in his parish, and he must concentrate on that, though he couldn’t help thinking it would be so much easier if he had a loving companion, and maybe even a small Cecilia. . . .

  Kate’s heart was thumping as she approached the Café Jaune, and she was relieved to see that it was fairly full of customers already. She maneuverd the pushchair through the door and looked around. For one wonderful moment she thought he was not there. Then a bulky figure stood up from a table in a dark corner. It was Tim Froot, and he was smiling. Like a snake, thought Kate. Smiling like a poisonous snake.

  “Well done, Kate!” He came across and helped her move the pushchair between the tables.

  “She’ll stay in her chair,” she said, as he began to undo the straps that held Cecilia in. She had already planned a quick getaway after she had said her piece. She sat down and glared at Froot. Let him make the first move. He offered her the menu, and asked what she fancied to drink.

  “Water, thanks. Tap water.”

  “And Cecilia?”

  “I’ve got her drink in my bag.”

  “Right, now what will you both have to eat. I’ve been looking forwards to this meeting for days!”

  “I’ll have a pizza, and Cecilia can have some of it. She doesn’t eat much at lunchtimes, and still has an afternoon sleep.” She had worked this out as a useful time limit on their meeting. His next remark, oh so casual, scuppered this.

  “I thought we might have a stroll in the park after lunch,” he said. “Cecilia will probably drop off as we go. I seem to remember my young ones were always lulled to sleep by movement. Car, pushchair, train. Quite useful, really, when they were bored on journeys.”

  Anyone overhearing this conversation would think it the most natural thing in the world, thought Kate. A young mother and her child, with maybe an uncle or father, even, meeting for a pleasant lunch. If that was all, fine, but the new suggestion of a walk in the park was not so pleasant. Anything could happen. It was a big park, and there were always deserted paths through tall shrubbery areas.

  “Something wrong, Kate? You look a bit alarmed. I’m not planning anything harmful, you know. Nor am going to ravish you behind the bushes! Not this time, anyway, and not in front of an infant. No, I asked you here for a talk, and mostly about your wayward husband.”

  “What do you mean, ‘wayward’? The only other girl he’s ever looked at has been Cecilia!”

  “Not wayward in that sense. Do relax, Kate. This is a very preliminary talk. Ah, here’s our drinks.” He downed half his glass of red wine in one gulp, and then said that Gavin had been wayward in not fulfilling a bargain that he had with Froot, and this was not satisfactory.

  “Nothing to do with me,” said Kate. “And if I had my way, we’d be rid of you for good. I personally would be happy never to set eyes on you again.”

  Tim Froot put back his large head and hooted with laughter. Two women at the neighbouring table looked across and joined in the laughter, nodding approval. How nice to see the little family enjoying themselves! Even the little girl was chortling with delight.

  “That’s how I like my women,” Froot said. “Good and feisty. A real challenge.”

  “I’m going,” said Kate, putting down her glass of water.

  Froot’s tone suddenly changed. “No, you’re not,” he hissed. “Stay exactly where you are, and smile.”

  Kate subsided back into her chair, but did not smile. Oh my God, she whispered to herself in panic. Why did I come? What is he going to do? Then common sense took over. What could he do, right here in a crowded café? She would have to tell him what she had rehearsed and then leave, regardless of what he might say. He could do nothing.

  “Now,” he said, “listen to me, Kate Adstone. Your husband is deeply in debt to me. His part of the bargain was to wreck all chances of restoring your pathetic village hall, and instead to persuade the oafs on the parish council to go for the rebuild option. He did not do this. Not only that, but he now appears to be determined to wreck plan B, which was to make sure the soap box grand prix will be a financial disaster. It will be closed down on the night before the event. By the police, of course, who I understand have not been consulted. You can’t just organise this kind of thing without consulting them, you know. Gavin is to see that this happens, at the last minute, of course, to cost the organisers the most possible trouble in terms of money and disappointment. You are to see he does that, Kate. Otherwise, I shall take steps to make your marriage unbearable. A total disaster. Oh yes, don’t interrupt. I can do it. You can be sure of that.”

  He sat back in his chair and smiled again. The pizzas arrived, and Kate cut up small pieces to feed to Cecilia. Her head was reeling. Most of what Froot had said was a complete surprise. But one odd thing occurred to her.

  “But why do want the village hall rebuilt? Surely not a job for contractors of your size?”

  “Not just the village hall, Kate. It would be a package, taking in the playing fields. Lots of lovely executive dwellings for young families with children to play with Cecilia. And before you ask, I shall of course make sure alternative playing fields are provided.”

  “But even so,” she protested, “it could only be a small development compared with your usual projects. There’s another reason, isn’t there?”

  “That’s where the bargain comes in,” Froot said, leaning forwards confidingly. “When Gavin brings off his part of the assignment, I have promised to waive the debt and make a place for him at the top of my team. He’s a clever lad, Kate, as I’m sure you know. I want him back.” And his wife, too, if possible, he thought, but kept that to himself.

  “You must be mad,” Kate said. “Gavin is no performing monkey! He has principles and a mind of his own. We’ll pay off your rotten loan, if it takes everything we’ve got.”

  “Everything?” said Froot, and now his smile was slimy.

  Kate shivered. “Come on, Cecilia,” she said, standing up, glaring at him. “We’re off home. And don’t send your disgusting heavy round to intimidate me again, or I’ll be the one going to the police. And not to shop the soap box lot! I’ll see you in jail, Tim Froot, if you put one more foot wrong. We’ll make regular payments until we’re clear of you and everything to do with you.”

  She turned her back on him and pushed Cecilia out of the café and walked as fast as she could along the crowded pavement, away from the worst half hour of her life.

  OVER THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN, IN THE SMALL TERRACE OF houses by the canal, Froot’s faithful henchman was slumped in front of his sister’s television. They were watching her favourite soap, and he was nearly asleep. Then his mobile rang, and when he saw who was calling he ran into the kitchen, slamming the door.

  “Hello, boss? How’s life?”

  “Shut up!” said Tim Froot. “Listen carefully, you idiot. I shall say these instructions only once, so get it right. If anything goes wrong this time, you’re a dead man. Perhaps floating gently past your sister’s house in the murky canal? No, that’s too good for you. So just listen.”

  FORTY-NINE

  FATHER RODNEY HAD DRIFTED AROUND TRESHAM, BUYING things he didn’t really need but passing the time until the bus to Farnden returned. He was early back at the bus station, and looked round, vaguely hoping that Kate and Cecilia would also be in time. They were nowhere to be seen, and in due course the bus was almost full. The driver climbed into his seat and started the engine.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” a woman called from the rear of the bus. “A woman with a baby is coming! Wai
t a minute, driver!” she repeated.

  Fortunately, the driver was the good-humored one who usually drove this bus on a Saturday. He nodded, and opened the doors again. Father Rodney got up from his seat and rushed to help Kate aboard, taking the pushchair from her and stowing it, and then sitting the two of them down next to him. “You made it, then,” he said calmly. He supposed it was the dash for the bus that had caused Kate to look so upset and shaky, and when Cecilia tried to climb on to his lap, he lifted her up gladly.

  Kate nodded and tried to thank him, but instead she choked and put her hand up to her mouth.

  “My dear, are you all right?” he asked with concern. “Has something happened in town? Anything I can do to help? No, don’t try to answer. Take your time.”

  He was quite sure there must have been some nasty incident, but when Kate had recovered herself she just gave him a crooked smile and said no, she was just out of breath from running.

  Father Rodney then made small talk and pointed out a passing fire engine to Cecilia. “Wha-wha! Wha-wha!” she said dutifully.

  For Kate, the journey seemed endless. She desperately wanted to be in her small cottage, safely locked in until Gavin came home. She had decided to risk his wrath and tell him what she had done. At least that would put him on his guard in case Froot decided on violent retaliation. She knew now that the man could do it. The expression on his face as she stormed out of the café was scary, and all eyes had been turned on him. She hadn’t looked back, but guessed that he would not have followed her. That would have made him too conspicuous, and he was a man who liked to be in the shadows. It would be that villain in the dirty white van. He was the one they should be looking out for.

  When they got off the bus, she assured the vicar that she would be fine walking home. She did not explain that there were plenty of people about, and she meant to walk fast. As she passed the Hicksons’ house, she heard Paula’s voice. For a moment, she wanted to walk on, pretending she had not heard, but in the end slowed up and stopped, looking round.

  “Got time for a cuppa?” shouted Paula. “Been shopping in town? Thirsty work,” she added hopefully.

  Kate sighed. “Oh, well, thanks,” she said, turning the pushchair round. “Kind of you. Can’t stay long, but a quick cup would be great. Thanks.”

  “I’ve been alone with the kids all day,” Paula said, as they went into the house. “You get desperate for a bit of adult conversation, don’t you?” she added. “I could almost have my husband back, just for that.”

  “Are you serious?” Kate asked, suddenly aware of a change in her new friend. So this wasn’t just a casual invitation. She took her mug of tea and sat down, watching Cecilia and Frankie sparring over a pile of toy bricks.

  “Not really,” Paula replied slowly. “But yes, I suppose I am. It’s Jack Jr. that I’m thinking of. He needs his father. He’s a difficult boy—always was—but I thought I could manage him on my own.” She gave a rueful smile, and added, “But it’s obvious that I can’t. O’ course, he’s bright. Everybody says so. But if I’m not careful, it’s all going the wrong way. He’ll use his cleverness in bad ways, and end up one of them dropouts outside the town hall in Tresham.

  “You might meet some other guy, who’d be a better influence than Jack Sr.,” Kate suggested. She could concentrate with only half her mind, her thoughts still whirling round her encounter with Tim Froot. Supposing he got to Gavin before she did? She drank her tea in big gulps, and shifted in her chair, preparing to leave.

  “Better the devil you know,” Paula answered, with a half smile. “My old man was a good husband and father until he lost his job, you know. It was the disgrace, really. Where he was brought up, losing your job was your own fault. This time it wasn’t. But anyway, it was the stigma what really got him down.”

  Kate subsided back into her chair. This was costing Paula quite a lot, telling her this stuff about her husband. She wanted to say that if all she had to worry about was a depressed husband, she was lucky. Then she reminded herself that Paula had had a terrible few days, and tried again.

  “Well, when they find him, why don’t you suggest getting together with one of those marriage adviser people. Maybe you could both try hard and make a go of it again?”

  “If they find him, Kate. That’s the number one problem at the moment. I’m just crossing my fingers that he doesn’t do anything stupid. Anyway,” she added, making an effort to brighten up, “I mustn’t keep you. It was really kind of you to come in for a few minutes. And to offer to meet Frankie and have him for a couple of hours. I’ll pay you, of course, the going rate! I shall tell Mrs. M that I can be available extra hours.”

  “So where’s young Jack now?” Kate said, as she and Cecilia walked back down the garden path.

  “In his room,” Paula said. “He doesn’t seem to want to leave it. The social worker said he’s probably still a bit shocked.”

  “Do you think that?”

  “No,” said Paula. “I think he’s plotting something.”

  GAVIN DROVE BACK IN THE EARLY EVENING THROUGH HIS PEACEFUL village with a feeling of relief. He was tired and looking forwards to seeing Kate and Cecilia. He wouldn’t admit to himself that he was anxious for their safety, but all day it had lurked at the back of his mind. Froot was used to getting his own way, and in the past had stopped at nothing to get it. Thank goodness Kate had decided against meeting with him.

  He turned the car into their lane, and saw Tony and Irene in her wheelchair outside his gate. Christ! What was happening? He screeched to a halt and leapt out of his car. To his relief, he saw that Tony was smiling. Nothing too bad, then.

  He greeted them, and then stood, breathing heavily. Irene stretched out her hand. “Evening, Gavin,” she said. “Hasn’t it been a beautiful day? We’ve been having tea in your garden with Kate and Cecilia. Such a treat for we oldies!”

  Gavin looked towards his front door, and saw Kate standing there, holding his daughter, both of them waving to him. He said a silent prayer of thanks, and went to meet them. Apparently Tony and Irene had insisted on coming round to keep Kate company, bringing a sponge cake and homemade biscuits, and she hadn’t been able to refuse. In fact, they had all enjoyed it, and Cecilia had been thoroughly indulged.

  Together, Gavin and Kate put their daughter to bed, and then settled down to a pizza and a bottle of red wine he had bought on the way home.

  “Are we celebrating something?” Kate said.

  “I suppose we are,” he said. “Got a new client, and an offer of a job.”

  Kate gasped. How had Froot found Gavin already? “Who with?” she stuttered.

  “Well, the bloke I went to see, of course. Robin Crossley. He wants me to join his company and take on the side of the business I’m already doing in Tresham. What’s the matter, Kate? Are you ill?”

  “Not really,” she said, “but listen, I’ve got something important to tell you.”

  IN HIS MAKESHIFT HOME IN THE WAREHOUSE, JACK HICKSON HAD cleaned a filthy window so that he could see out into the street below. He had spotted the paragraph in the paper saying that the missing boy had been safely at a friend’s house all the time. There was some adverse comment about wasting taxpayers’ money. Jack could not have explained exactly how, but he knew that his son was lying. The lad had his faults, but he wouldn’t have put his mother through all that worry voluntarily. No, he was absolutely certain that he had been abducted, and he knew by whom. No doubt young Jack was too frightened to tell the truth.

  He knew there was little likelihood of seeing his quarry by chance. He would have to carry out his plan to pace the streets patiently, keeping his eyes and ears open, until he picked up a clue. Every so often he would slip into a public toilet or a menswear changing room or some such, and change his appearance. It was easy, really. A woolly hat, or heavy-framed glasses, or the false beard or mustache bought from the joke shop, and there he was, no longer Jack Hickson, but a perfect stranger. Or so, in his inexperience, he thought.


  Suddenly his attention was caught by seeing a dirty white van pull up outside the newsagents opposite the warehouse. His heart began to pound. A man got out and scurried into the shop like a frightened rabbit. It was him! Jack could swear that it was the man he was hunting. He turned away from the window and dashed down the stairs, taking them three at a time, but when he emerged onto the street, he saw the van pulling away from the curb. Sod it! He thought of running after it, but that would be stupid, drawing attention to himself. No, it was still close enough for him to read the number plate, and Jack, who had a good memory for such things, stored it in his mind.

  But how was he ever going to catch up with it? And what could he do, even if he saw it parked in town? No, he needed wheels. A bike, that’s what he needed. An old bike, not easily traceable, and lightweight enough to manhandle up to his warehouse lodging. Should he buy one or appropriate one left carelessly unattended? Not the latter, he told himself. Even the pettiest theft was a bad idea. He decided to go to the town dump. They always had old bikes that nobody wanted. He could slip a pound or two to the dump chap and be away in minutes, no questions asked. Then if he saw the van again, he would follow it. With the many traffic light stops, he would be able to keep up.

  He returned to his watching position, feeling a lot more cheerful. Progress had definitely been made. And a bike would be good exercise. You can go anywhere on a bike, he said to himself. Even out into the country. Even to Long Farnden, if necessary.