Threats at Three (38 page)

T
HE VAN ROCKETED DOWN THE NARROW, POTHOLED LANE until it reached the junction with the main road to Tresham. Ross turned left, having no idea where he would go next. That had been a near thing. That woman must have spies everywhere. He’d certainly not go near her again. And what was that bloody stupid soap box doing? She must be mental, playing with kids’ toys. Ah, well, the rich could indulge themselves. Not like us ordinary sods, living from hand to mouth. A small voice in his head reminded him that if he had not tormented Jack Hickson until there was a punch-up, he would still be on the payroll of Parks and Gardens in Tresham.

Where to go now? His sister had turned him out, but he had no intention of leaving the area. He would find Jack Hickson if it was the last thing he did, and finally settle the score. The Hickson kid had outwitted him, he had to admit, but he’d think of something else, once he’d located his target. He took the next turning to Tresham, intending to investigate the now run-down factory site by the canal. There would be one or two contacts making use of the empty building down there, in touch with the underworld network of useful information. He accelerated, hooted and shook his fist at an elderly woman travelling at twenty miles an hour in the middle of the road, leaving him no room to pass, and felt better.

 

 

IN HER HOUSE IN SEBASTOPOL STREET, DOT NIMMO HEARD THE church clock strike two o’clock and stretched out her hand to the telephone. She had heard nothing from Victor since her visit to him on Monday, and now considered he had had enough time to do what she had asked. She knew these things took time, making contacts with care and tact. Victor was not of the brightest, but he knew the form. He would tread carefully, she was sure of that. But a less than gentle reminder would do no harm. As she lifted the telephone, there was a sharp knock at the door. Damn! She replaced the receiver and went through her narrow hallway to the front of the house. As usual, she did not open the door at once, but went into the sitting room and peered out from behind the curtain. Victor!

She slid out the chain, unbolted and unlocked, and opened the door.

“Good God, Dot,” he said, “are you expecting the Mafia?” He had not forgotten her jibe when she came to see him.

“No, only you. And about time, too. Don’t just stand there! Come in, do. You’ll wear out the pavement.”

She settled him in her best armchair, and put a large gin and tonic in front of him.

“Middle of the afternoon, Dot? You got depraved habits since your man died! Still, I reckon I need it after all the work I done for you.”

“Get on with it, then. What did you find out?”

“Your man is still around. That’s the first thing. The second is that he’s on the move, and for the moment we’ve lost track of him. He was working at Farnden Hall, we know that.”

“So do I!” snapped Dot. “You better tell me something more recent than that.”

“Hold your horses,” Victor said. “Not s’fast, Dot. We tracked him down after that. You know his kid went missing—”

“—that was all over the papers, for God’s sake! Where is he
now
?”

“We thought he scarpered out of the area, but then we picked up the scent on a train. One of ours had a bit o’ business in that direction and sat near this bloke. He thought he recognized him from the picture in the paper, though he wasn’t sure. Said the man on the train was much older and thinner. Still, he thought there might be a profit to be made in following him. He shadowed him almost back to Tresham, then lost him. But that was not long ago, so we got men out looking right now.”

“So what you’re tellin’ me is that he’s probably still around these parts, but you don’t know where?”

“Not exactly where, nor are we sure it was him,” Victor said, taking a large gulp of his gin.

“Is that it, then?”

“No, there is one more thing. Might be useful. You know old Carl who runs the joke shop in that little alleyway off the marketplace? Still on our list for past misdemeanours?”

Dot nodded, scowling at him in a threatening way.

“Well, he reported a skinny, ill-looking bloke who came into the shop asking for a false beard and mustache. Said he was doing kids’ parties, but Carl said no sane person would employ him anywhere near kids.”

“And?”

“And he reckoned he was a bit like that father of the kid that went missing. Carl still had the picture in the paper, but there wasn’t much of a likeness. Could’ve been his brother, he said.”

“Did he ring the cops?”

“Did he hell! You know better than that, Dot! Nimmo friends don’t communicate with the law. They wait for them to approach, then decide whether or not to be helpful.”

Dot sighed. Sometimes she wondered how these Nimmo idiots had kept afloat all these years. Still, there was one nugget of information that might help. Jack Hickson could be around town wearing a false beard and mustache. The idea was so ridiculous that she burst out into a raucous cackle.

“What’s funny, Dot?” Victor said, getting to his feet. He had decided to go while the going was good. Dot had a reputation, and he would be happier on his way back home in the limo waiting for him outside her door.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” she replied, sobering up. “Thanks for not much, Victor. Anyway, if you hear anything more, let me know.” She saw him to the door and secured it after him.

Mustache and beard? Where would that be more of an everyday sight than a joke disguise? Where down-and-outs congregate, that’s where. She tidied her kitchen, found her handbag, and left the house, walking swiftly down Sebastopol Street and waving to Hazel as she went by the office.

 

 

MRS. T-J WAS NOT CONCENTRATING. SHE HAD JOINED HER FELLOW magistrates in the anteroom and discussed the cases coming before them this afternoon. They had had a difficult one this morning, but now the list consisted mostly of vagrants picked up off the streets, drunk and disorderly, and one parking offence committed by an eighty-year-old man accused of scraping the wing of a car parked in front of him, then leaving the scene of the crime without reporting to the police or his victim.

Now it was time to convene the afternoon session. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Sometimes she thought of retiring, considering she could now use her time more profitably than sitting in judgment on an old man who was probably a lot more capable of safe driving than many a youngster. “Let’s be off, then,” she said.

“All rise,” said the court official, and Mrs. T-J entered, followed by her companion JPs. The first thing she noticed was a wasp. It was careering round the courtroom, bashing into windows that were set high in the wall to prevent observation either in or out. There were few things that frightened Mrs. T-J, but wasps were at the top of a short list.

“Before we start,” she said magisterially to the court usher, “may we expel the wasp?”

The usher frowned. Was she serious? He knew the dear old thing was getting on, but she always seemed in full possession of her marbles. Very sharp, in fact, and she knew that persistent offenders dreaded coming up before Mrs. Tollervey-Jones.

It was several minutes before the wasp was firmly squashed and the business of the court commenced. The magistrate sitting on Mrs. T-J’s left leaned towards her to say that he thought the first case was a nonstarter, and saw that she was gazing up at the ceiling.

“It’s gone. Squashed. It is an ex-wasp,” he whispered. He had great respect for the chairman of the bench, but she really was behaving oddly.

“I know,” she said firmly. “I was thinking. Something on my mind. Settled now, though. Let’s get on, shall we?”

Ever since Mrs. T-J had encountered that unpleasant character with the van who had accosted her on her own driveway, she had repeatedly seen his face in her mind and knew that she had seen it before. So many faces of that sort—closed up, belligerent—had passed in front of her in her time spent in courtrooms. Was it one of them? And now she had remembered. He had been involved in that dreadful case of a young lad dying of an overdose in a house frequented by addicts on the edge of town. And now there had been another death there, a girl found by police curled up on a filthy mattress and clutching a moth-eaten teddy bear. House all boarded up now, of course, but too late for two young people.

T
HE ENTIRE VILLAGE WAS NOW TAKEN OVER BY TOMORROW’S soap box grand prix. There had been last minute objections from the police on safety grounds, but somehow Mrs. T-J had managed to smooth things over.

“She ain’t goin’ to be cheated out of the ride of her life in
Jam & Jerusalem
!” Tony said to Irene, as he pushed her up the street at teatime to have a look at the impressive ramp erected by John Thornbull and helpers. A crowd stood around as bolts were tightened and trial runs made sure that the edifice was safe. A streamlined vehicle, shaped like a rocket and labelled
Silver Streak II
, was repeatedly pushed up the ramp backwards and then released to check that all was well.

“You’ll wear it out, boy!” Tony said to its driver.

“Don’t you worry, Tony Dibson, we’ve got
Silver Streak II
ready for tomorrow!”

Tony and Irene wandered on, turning down to the playing fields and home. As they reached their cottage gate, and Tony turned the wheelchair, Irene said, “Aren’t we going round the field? It’ll be a good opportunity before the crowds get here tomorrow.”

“It’ll be a bumpy ride for you,” Tony said.

“Never mind about that! You’ll want to see everything.” Irene smiled. “I reckon my ride down the field will be nothing compared with them soap boxes. They’ll career down the High Street and try to avoid all the potholes the council hasn’t mended.”

The big marquee had been erected a couple of days previously, and now all the craft and sundry stalls were set out. There were few exhibits, most stallholders having decided it was risky to leave them overnight, and planned to turn up early tomorrow morning. The first race was at one o’clock, and the organisers had reckoned that most of the business on the field would be done during the morning.

Gavin Adstone was watching a couple of men setting up the bucking bronco, and his small daughter, sitting on his shoulders, chortled and pointed at the horse, shouting “Me! Me go on horse!”

“Hi, Irene! Listen to this silly child! As if we’d let her anywhere near a bucking bronco!”

“There will be Shetland pony rides for the little ones tomorrow,” Irene said, blowing a kiss to Cecilia. “Is Kate taking photos? I’m sure there’ll be some for the album.”

“Time for the meeting soon,” Tony said. “Are you coming back our way, Gavin?”

Gavin looked at his watch. “Good heavens, is that the time? Yep, we’ll come back with you. Here, Cecilia can sit on Irene’s lap, and I’ll push the chair. It’s hard going in the field. The meeting’s in the pub, isn’t it? Derek said half an hour at the most. All of us have jobs to do around the village, so it’ll just be for emergency matters.”

“Of which I hope there’ll be none!” John Thornbull said, coming up behind them.

They walked slowly back past the village hall, and on towards the High Street, leaving Tony and Irene to go back home. Gavin lifted a protesting Cecilia from Irene’s lap, and turned into his house next door, emerging again to attend the meeting.

Straw bales were being set out to form a crash barrier down both sides of the street, and a bunch of young boys scratched about in them like chickens, until shooed away by Sam Stratford on his tractor. Outside the shop, Josie and Lois stood talking to Paula Hickson, Frankie and the twins.

“Where’s Jack Jr.?” Gran said, walking up to join them.

“Down with the Youth Club lot,” Paula said. “He’s been there all hours after work at the farm for most of this week. Thank God for the soap box grand prix, I say. They’re going to let him drive, and he’s finally cheered up. My only trouble with him now is persuading him to come back home to eat occasionally. Mind you,” she added hastily, “I know where he is this time, of course. And next week he’s back at school. I’m crossing fingers and toes that he’ll settle in again.”

“Oh, look, here comes Mrs. T-J with her son. He’s opening the whole shebang, isn’t he?” Josie said.

“Not exactly. He’s escorting the soap box queen. Hey, look what she’s got him doing! He has to earn his moment of celebrity.” Lois pointed down towards the church, where a forklift truck hoisted Mrs. T-J’s son high to fix rows of bunting, crisscrossing the street, while she directed operations from the ground.

“The old girl’s a wonder,” Derek said, as he joined them. “She’s really come up trumps. Wouldn’t it be good if she won her race?”

“She will,” said Gran, tight-lipped. “Never been known to be beaten at anything, that one.”

“Ah, but don’t forget the surprise entry in the women’s race,” Derek said, glancing at Lois. She put her finger to her lips.