astray.”
The man loomed over him, his fist raised. “You bastard!” he hissed.
BY MORNING, THE WHOLE VILLAGE KNEW JACK JR. HAD DISAPPEARED. The early morning telly news had the story, with film of the village and the Hickson’s house. Later bulletins had a terrified Paula appealing for help in finding him. The local newspaper had a front page picture of Jack Jr. and one of his mother and the other kids huddling around her.
Jack Sr. had set out from his hut in the woods to go to work at the hall, and halfway there had stopped suddenly at the edge of a field. Something was wrong. He heard the whine of a police car, then spotted a couple of dark figures crossing the next field. They were too far away to recognize, but with the sixth sense that had got him out of trouble so many times, he knew they were policemen.
He did not hesitate. Turning away he ran like a swift shadow in the opposite direction, avoided all roads and well-used footpaths, and did not stop until he was miles away from Long Farnden. He had money in his pocket, and caught the next train that came in to Eastcote Junction. All he knew was that it was going south.
On the seat opposite, someone had left a folded newspaper, and Jack Hickson picked it up. On the front page was a large photograph of his eldest son, smiling at him from years ago, when all had been well. Next to this was a small photograph of himself with Paula, and, stunned and unbelieving, he read the story of his son’s disappearance.
“Are you all right, mate?” A railway employee, going off duty, had seen Jack sway, all color drained from his face.
Jack desperately pulled himself together and turned the newspaper facedown. “Might be getting flu,” he answered. “It’s all round the village,” he added.
“What village is that?” said the railman.
Jack ignored the question, and asked what was the next station and how long before they got there.
“Half an hour, we shall be into Southampstead. Is that where you’re going?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah. I might get a few minutes kip. Can you wake me up if I’m still asleep.”
The rail man was sympathetic. “I should have a couple of days in bed if I were you,” he said. “Flu’s a nasty old bug.”
Jack closed his eyes. He didn’t want any more questions from this man, nice as he was. He had to make a plan. First of all, he would have to find a map, so that he could get back as soon as possible. There would be one on the station somewhere. He would need to disguise himself a bit. Maybe get an old hat from a charity shop and pull it well down over his eyes. Then he had to find out the quickest way to get back to Tresham. He dare not take public transport. Rage was mounting inside him, driving him on, sharpening his brain and fueling his tired body.
When he got to Tresham, he would know exactly where to go, and who he was looking for. And when he found him, he would kill him.
FORTY
THE WI SOAP BOX COMMITTEE HAD GATHERED IN LOIS’S SITTING room for a meeting to discuss the final arrangements. The soap box was secretly concealed at the back of the Meade’s garage, awaiting a final test from Mrs. T-J. She planned to collect in her horsebox after the meeting, and take it with top security measures, that is, Douglas and Lois on guard, to test it out in private at the hall.
Exciting as this was, the primary topic of conversation was inevitably the disappearance of young Jack. All the women were desperately concerned, except for Mrs. T-J, who said she was sure the young tearaway would turn up. “He has a history of disappearing and not telling his mother where he is,” she said, and Lois, not for the first time, was surprised at how well the old lady kept her ear to the ground. “I’m more interested in knowing where my gardener is,” Mrs. T-J continued. “I had a long list of jobs for him this morning, and without a by your leave he’s gone missing.”
“Heavens!” Sheila Stratford said. “Do you think there’s a connection? Is it him who’s taken young Hickson?”
“Um, I’m sorry to change the subject,” Lois said, digging Douglas in the ribs, “but could we talk about the soap box? I know Douglas has to be back in good time this evening.”
She had not spoken to Paula since this morning, and then the poor woman had been too upset to say very much. The news that Jack had not turned up for work this morning was about as bad as it could be for him. If it wasn’t him who’d taken Jack, or if Mrs. T-J was right, then he’d have done better to stay put and answer the police questions honestly. Oh Lord, what a muddle! Although she hadn’t so far done so, it was only a matter of time before Gran said “I told you so.”
“How did the painting go, Douglas?” Mrs. T-J was anxious to get through the meeting and set off for her trial drive in
“Ask Mum,” Douglas said. “She and Josie spent hours on it. The big question was whether the strawberry should be fully ripe.”
There was a general laugh, and the meeting relaxed, relieved to have their minds taken off the worrying problem of Jack Jr.
“So we decided on a really ripe strawberry,” Lois said. “A nice bright red. And Josie, who is the artistic one, painted a really good label: ‘JAM & JERUSALEM-Organic homemade strawberry jam from Long Farnden WI.’ Should make a real impact, trundling down the street.”
“It’ll do more than trundle, Mrs. Meade, with me at the wheel,” said Mrs. T-J. “So I need to dress up as a strawberry?”
There was an awed silence, as they considered this.
“Great!” said Douglas. “I can’t wait!”
The rest of the meeting was taken up with the minutiae of timing and priming, and as soon as they were finished, Douglas, Lois and Mrs. T-J set off to collect the oversized jam jar and take it up to the hall.
JACK SR. HAD COVERED ABOUT EIGHT MILES ON FOOT, HE RECKONED. He was crossing fields and woods, dashing illegally over railway lines and cursing as he made a detour in order to cross a precarious footbridge over a disused canal.
He looked at his map again. If he was lucky, he could be back in his hut by nightfall. He intended to waste no time, and during his long trek across country had made a plan. The most likely time to find his target would be early in the morning. He knew he was gambling on the likelihood of the villain doing Jack Jr. no harm until then, but on balance it was safer than busting in late at night with all guns blazing and causing a knee-jerk reaction.
The light was going by the time he reached the Farnden woods, and with his old hat pulled well down over his face he made his way towards his hut. He did not go straight to it, but made a wide detour around the parkland to check there were no police cars waiting for him. He had skirted the edge of the park and now plunged into the spinney of poplars planted within sight of the drive up to the hall. Nearly there, he said to himself. He planned to have a few hours sleep, then start off towards Tresham at dawn, before the day began.
Suddenly he stopped short, instinctively squatting down on his haunches. Something was hurtling down the sloping approach to the house. It was bright red, driven by a helmeted figure gripping the steering wheel, and, as he watched, it crashed with a shout from the driver into a holly bush planted near the turn into the stable yard.
He stood up and ran like a hare. He pushed his way through the thicket and at last stood, scratched and breathing heavily, at the door of his hut. Good God, what on earth was it? Some new toy of the police-heat-seeking night-vision vehicle? But why bright red? He sat down on the pile of sacks that did duty as a chair and put his head in his hands. “Oh, young Jack, what have I done? Dear God, don’t let him be hurt before I get there. Please.”
“NO HARM DONE,” LAUGHED MRS. T-J, AS LOIS AND DOUGLAS came running to where she had landed.
Douglas helped her to her feet, and quickly examined
