Ann Purser - Threats At Three

More and more lately, she had thought back to their happy days before he lost his job and everything went wrong. If only they could get together in some kind of normal circumstances, without all this mystery of what happened to Jack Jr. Then maybe they could have a go at sorting things out calmly. She had begun to think they’d have a reasonable chance. The thought of being a proper family again brought tears to her eyes, and she reminded herself that she had a job to do and had better get on with it before Mrs. T-J’s euphoric mood changed.

AFTER PAULA HAD FINISHED HER MORNING’S WORK AND GONE home, Mrs. T-J went to have another look at Jam & Jerusalem . What a beauty! she said to herself, and stroked the shiny red bonnet. Maybe she would take her out for a little run, just to make sure the wheels were performing smoothly. She went back into the house and fetched her hard riding hat. She would need to tow it behind the car to the top of the sloping drive, and then coast back, practising her steering and crouching down in her seat as Doug Meade had told her to, in order to lessen the wind resistance, or something like that.

She had parked her Land Rover halfway down the slope on the grass verge and unhooked the soap box when there was a hooting from behind. She looked round and saw to her irritation a dirty white van veering from side to side up the drive. What on earth did it want? She wasn’t expecting a delivery, and in any case would never buy from such a scruffy-looking outfit.

“Go away!” she shouted, as it drew up closer. “You’ve got the wrong road! This is a private drive. Go away at once. And keep off the grass!”

But the van had stopped now, and a man got out, walking towards her. He was grim-looking and scowled unpleasantly at her.

“Keep yer hair on, missus,” he said. “How can I go back? Not room to turn round, for a start. And anyway, I’ve got some business to do with you. So you’d better tow that thing back to the house, and I’ll follow.”

Mrs. T-J bristled. “Don’t you order me about! If you don’t go at once, I shall call the police. And yes, I do have a mobile with me, and I am a close friend of the commissioner.”

“I don’t care if you’re a close friend of the Almighty. I ain’t doing nothing wrong, so if you won’t let me up to the house, we can have a little talk here. It’s not a criminal offence to talk, is it?”

“Very well, but be quick about it. My time is precious.”

“I doubt it,” he muttered, and then added more loudly, “I just wanted to know if you’ve seen a friend of mine. Used to work here in y’ garden. He always kept in touch, but for a couple of weeks I ain’t heard nothing.”

Mrs. T-J’s eyes narrowed. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“Hickson. Jack Hickson.”

Mrs. T-J shook her head. “Nobody working for me of that name,” she said, silently asking God to forgive her lie. Hickson was, of course, her cleaning woman’s name, but the gardener had given her another, which for the moment she could not remember. But she knew it wasn’t Hickson.

“You sure? I heard he was definitely working here. Used to be a workmate o’ mine, but we got made redundant and lost touch.”

“I thought you said you heard from him regularly?”

“Don’t try and trick me, missus!” he said, and moved towards her, fists clenched.

“Ah, now you’ll have to move,” Mrs. T-J said calmly. “I see a police car coming up the drive. You’d not want to obstruct their enquiries, I presume?”

He hesitated, sure that she was lying. But as he turned, he saw the familiar striped vehicle, and jumped into his van, revved up the engine and shot off towards the house.

“Any problems here, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones?” the sergeant said, stopping his car and getting out to greet her.

She shook her head. “No, no. Nothing I cannot handle. Just an itinerant salesman. I directed him to the tradesmen’s entrance at the back of the hall. He’ll find his way back to the main road along the grassy lane. How can I help you?” she added, smiling as she saw him take in the glories of Jam & Jerusalem .

THE 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.”