Ann Purser - Threats At Three

So who was trying to persuade children to take drugs? And why hadn’t the police taken him off the streets? She supposed those kids who knew only too well why he was hanging about were probably hooked already, and would be too scared to tell on him. But now parents had banded together and called in the police.

The chances were they would not ask her about her husband. Why should they? As far as she knew, Jack Sr. had not been in trouble with the law. There had been that scrap with his workmate. Well, it had been more than a scrap, apparently. She’d been told he had had to go to hospital and they found a broken rib. But again, she had not heard that Jack had been reported.

She saw a car cruising slowly along the street, with a man and woman peering out from side to side. Police, for sure. She stubbed out her cigarette under her shoe and returned rapidly to the house. She knew now what she would say to them. Nothing much. There would be no point. They were sure to find out who the dealer was from one of the other parents, and the police would make sure the man was put away, well away from corrupting innocent children. If she told them of her suspicions about Jack Jr., they would question him, and however gentle they were, and with her alongside, it still might tip the poor kid over the edge. No, she would be vague and willing, but not much help. That would be best. After all, Mrs. M had more or less advised her to do this.

GAVIN ADSTONE HAD RECEIVED A CALL TO HIS MOBILE AS HE walked to his car. The signal wasn’t very good, but Tim Froot’s guttural voice was unmistakeable.

“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.”