Threats at Three (39 page)

“Surprise entry?” said Gran innocently.

“All will be revealed tomorrow,” Lois said. “Well, I must be getting home. Lots to do before the morning. See you all first thing.”

In the back room of the pub, the soap box committee met for the last time before the great event, and there was an air of apprehension and excitement mixed with the smell of stale beer. “Are we all here?” Derek said, looking round.

“All except John,” Gavin said. “He’s coming as soon as they’ve roped off the ramp so the kids can’t play on it. He’s thought of everything, our John.” And I devoutly hope that I have, too, he added to himself. However hard he tried, he could not banish thoughts of Tim Froot and his designs on Kate. Supposing he showed up tomorrow, while Kate and Cecilia were unprotected? But he’d thought of that. He’d asked Irene if she would like Kate to be with her all day, allowing Tony to be off with the blokes around the course. It would be all hands to the plough tomorrow. Cecilia could toddle beside the chair and Kate could push. She could still stop every now and then to do some filming. That would fix any attempts Froot might make to corner her into threatening conversation.

Dry throats were taken care of by the landlord, and the meeting commenced. “We won’t have the formality tonight, Hazel,” Derek said. “Each one of us can bring up any last minute concerns, and then we’ll get back to our jobs around the village.”

“I’ll make notes, anyway,” said Hazel. “Might be important. You never know, do you?”

 

 

DOWN BY THE CANAL, DEEP INSIDE THE CRUMBLING WAREHOUSE, a huddle of sad characters grouped around Ross. He’d questioned them one by one to see if any knew the whereabouts of Jack Hickson, but most were too befuddled with sour beer and meth to be of any use. He made a bed for himself out of old car seats dumped in a corner, and stretched out. He’d wait until the best one of them was sober, and then by offering him something to put him back into nirvana, he would tease out any information there might have been going the rounds regarding Hickson.

He had picked up the evening paper, and opened it to the news page. A large photograph of a scarlet soap box occupied a quarter of the page, and the accompanying story advertised the grand prix taking place tomorrow in Long Farnden, first race at one o’clock. Right! Ross stood up and waved the paper in the air. “He’ll be there, for sure!” he said to an unresponsive audience. “His whole family out on the street, and the kid probably involved in the racing. How can he keep away?”

 

 

JACK HICKSON HAD SEEN THE SAME STORY IN THE PAPER, HIGH UP in his eyrie above the street and out of sight of the shoppers in town. He had been out among the crowds earlier, this time shielded by an old panama straw hat he found dumped in a bin in the park. Pulled down over his eyes, he had slouched along in a raincoat that came down to his shoes, and was grateful that he had a day free of the hot, prickly beard. He was now adept at changing his identity in small ways, and was confident that sooner or later he would find Ross. And when he did, he had planned down to the last detail what he would do.

But now, tomorrow was the soap box grand prix in Farnden, and his family would be certain to be out with the visitors on the streets. By now he was expert at slipping between groups of people, becoming invisible when cops or sniffing dogs loomed. He would go and observe. At least he could take a look at little Frankie and the twins, and above all at his firstborn, Jack, who was certain to be there amongst the vehicles. He remembered taking him to a race meeting at Silverstone, and even though he was only six, he had been fascinated by the cars and the noise and the smell of high octane fuel.

And, of course, Paula would be there.

F
ATHER RODNEY WAS ON HIS KNEES IN THE CHURCH, PRAYING for fine weather and a successful day. It was cool and quiet, and the powerful scent of flower arrangements set in place for the visitors filled his head and gave him a strange otherworldly sensation. Perhaps this was what heaven would be like? He pulled his thoughts back to the matter in hand. “Above all,” he prayed aloud, “keep us all safe on this important day. Amen.”

“Hear, hear, vicar,” said a voice from the back of the church. It was Mrs. T-J, and she walked briskly down the aisle towards him. “Just thought I’d pop in for a quick word with the Almighty,” she said.

“Not for help in the ladies race, I hope,” joked Father Rodney. “Fair play for all must be our watchword.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. T-J. “I shall win without divine help No, my prayers would echo yours, more or less.” She knelt down in the front pew, and bowed her head. All was silent for a few minutes, and Father Rodney did not quite know what to do. Obviously Mrs. T-J had a hotline, and did not need his assistance. When she stood up, he smiled and said he would no doubt see her around the village. He wished her luck in her race, and she nodded confidently. “Make sure you’re watching,” she said. “It will be something to remember when
Jam & Jerusalem
crosses the line.”

 

 

ALTHOUGH THE DEW WAS STILL ON THE GRASS IN LOIS’S FRONT garden, there were plenty of people walking to and fro past her gate. Most of them waved cheerily and commented on the sunny morning. “Hope it lasts!” Lois shouted back a dozen times. She picked a bunch of flowers to put in a vase, which, as Gran said, would sweeten the ladies’ toilets at the back of the village hall.

Derek had been up at dawn, and Lois had not set eyes on him since. He had said he would see her this evening, if not before, but they could keep in touch on their mobiles. She had agreed with Gran that one of them would take a flask of coffee and a sandwich and force him to down them, wherever he was and however busy. “He’ll want to be in good shape for the dance this evening,” Gran said, as Lois stuffed the flowers in a glass vase. “And here, let me do that. I don’t know where I went wrong, Lois Meade, but you can’t knit or sew, nor arrange flowers. I don’t know what your grandmother would say.”

“Thank goodness she’s not here to say it, then,” Lois said. “And anyway, I got better things to do than learn how to turn the heel of a knitted sock that nobody would ever wear these days.”

In this mood of amiable disagreement, they set off down the High Street, first to put the flowers in the portaloo, and then splitting up, Lois to help Josie in the shop, and Gran to the village hall to join the team working on WI refreshments.

“Morning, Mum!” Josie said from the shop doorway. “Isn’t it exciting? There’s so much activity, and I’ve had more people in here by nine o’clock than would come shopping in the entire normal day. I can certainly do with another pair of hands. Come on in and get your pinny on!”

Lois was so busy for the next hour that she had no time to look at what was going on outside in the street. Then she heard the unmistakeable sound of the Tresham Silver Band approaching, and knew the soap box queen procession had started.

“Come on, Josie, let’s take a look!” she said, and they both stood at the shop doorway with the crowd that had gathered all along the street. The Silver Band led the way, and behind them came the queen, a ten-year-old ash-blonde beauty, smiling and waving her sceptre from her seat of honor in the gleaming carriage that had served generations of Tollervey-Joneses. This was drawn by Mrs. T-J’s trustworthy black mare, now old and safe. By the queen’s side sat Robert Tollervey-Jones, a mild-faced charmer, taking care of the queen with gentlemanly grace.

“The Tollervey-Jones Show, then,” said Josie.

“Of course,” Lois replied. “But he does look nice, and he’s making sure the queen gets all the attention.”

“Is he married?” Josie said speculatively.

“Yes, and happily,” Lois said. “And, by the way, is Matthew Vickers on duty here today?”

“Naturally,” Josie said. “And did Dad ever tell you subtlety is not your strong point?”

“He wouldn’t know subtlety if it jumped up and bit him on the nose,” Lois said. “Come on, we’d better get back and do some more selling.”

 

 

IN THE FIELD NEXT TO THE RAMP, AT THE TOP END OF THE VILLAGE, the stars of the grand prix were lined up for inspection.
Silver Streak II
, the allotment holders’ entry, stood next to the local estate agents’ vehicle, which was designed with great imagination in the shape of a cottage with roses round the door. Several soap boxes had been pared down to a skeletal essential of frame, wheels and brakes, and a finely honed steering mechanism. Others had been made to a heavy-as-possible design, based on the sound scientific principle that the heavier they are the quicker they go. And then there was the scarlet wonder,
Jam & Jerusalem
, sparkling and confident, with a neat little flag bearing the WI badge tucked behind the driver’s seat.

“I trust there will be a guard present to make sure there’s no attempt at nobbling,” Mrs. T-J had said to Derek. He had assured her that he himself would be at the starting point and with his team on duty there would be no chance of hanky-panky of any sort.

The soap boxes were being carefully inspected by the owner of the local garage, and his chief concerns were sound brakes and efficient steering. As he bent down to examine the Youth Club entry, challengingly labeled
Rebellion
, he scratched his head. “I suppose it’s okay,” he said. “That steering wheel has a bit more play than I’d have liked to see. Still, there’s certainly no danger there. You’d better get a message to John Thornbull to tighten it up a bit.”

The morning passed quickly, and as crowds flocked round the playing field, the bucking bronco and the tug-of-war events were by far the most popular. Derek stayed for the tug-of-war result, and cheered heartily when the oldies won. “Never thought I’d be on the oldie end of the rope!” John said.

“Experience before enthusiasm,” Derek said, as he and John walked back up to the ramp.

Jack Jr. stood on guard beside
Rebellion
, and said that he was sure all was fine. “Nothing to be done to this wonder” he said, patting the silver, rocket-shaped box.

“Right, back to work,” said John, and disappeared into the crowd.

JACK HICKSON SR. WAS, OF COURSE, ALREADY IN THE VILLAGE, today disguised as a woman, in a dowdy brown wig and somber grey coat. He clutched a tatty old bag he’d found in a charity shop for twenty pence, and concealed his hands in his pockets as much as possible. He felt sure nobody would recognize him, and moved freely through the crowds. At one o’clock, he joined the lines of people waiting noisily for the first race. The church clock struck, and with a fanfare from Tresham Silver Band, the soap boxes lined up on the ramp were off, gathering speed as they went down the slope of the High Street, urged on by a huge wave of excitement from their supporters.

In this first race, Lois with Josie at the top of the shop steps, watched with sympathetic shouts as the streamlined
Silver Streak II
coasted to a gentle halt a hundred yards from the start, much to the fury and embarrassment of its driver. Race marshals Gavin Adstone and Douglas Meade moved smoothly on to the track to clear away the offending soap box and attention turned to the winner, a delighted young man in suit, collar and tie, every inch the estate agent, driving the cottage with roses round the door.

“I’ll give you twenty pounds for it!” yelled a wag outside the pub.

Behind the cheering supporters stood Ross, pressed into a corner by the pub door, glass in hand and eyes constantly on the move, scanning the crowds as they passed in front of him.