Ann Purser - Threats At Three

“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.

THE 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.