Threats at Three Page 2

  Now they were planning a big renovation, Derek Meade had said, to celebrate the old building’s hundredth birthday. Well, good on them, he thought. That hall had been part of village life for generations. Wedding receptions, christening parties, WI meetings, concerts of local talent, and a hundred other uses marking high points in the lives of village families.

  In due course, Tony walked slowly down the street to his home in the row of cottages on the corner where the High Street met Church Lane. He could have found his way with his eyes shut, without slipping or tripping.

  He had told Derek he would think about it. As he unlocked and opened his front door, his wife sat as always in her chair by the window, although it was dark and she couldn’t have seen anything outside, even supposing she still had her sight. She turned her head towards him with her usual sweet smile. Now disabled by arthritis and various ailments the social worker called “age related,” she relied on Tony for almost everything. He didn’t mind. He would do anything to keep her from going into one of those places where he knew the heart would go out of his beloved Irene.

  “Any news?” she asked. It was always her first question, even if he had only been to the shop and had a chat with shopkeeper Josie Meade, daughter of Derek and Lois.

  He took off his coat and told her about the village hall. “And Derek Meade wants me to help fund-raise,” he added. “Be on some committee or other. They need my experience of village needs, but I reckon I don’t have time for all that rubbish.”

  “So you said no?” said Irene, frowning. He said that he had told Derek he would think about it, but he had made up his mind on the way home. He would refuse. “Too old and too busy,” he said, and turned off the boiling kettle to fill their hot-water bottles.

  “Tony Dibson!” his wife said. “You’ll do no such thing. People rely on you to represent the real village people, like you and me. Families who’ve been here for years. Not the newcomers who buy up houses for weekending, nor them that say they love the village and then try to change it.”

  “So you think I should do it?” She nodded, and after a couple of seconds added that if she could she would love to do more to help. Smitten by the suggestion he had been criticising her, he kissed her fondly on the top of her head. Flattening out the hot water bottles to release hot air, he screwed them up and trudged upstairs to warm up their bed. Then he returned to his wife and began the long and arduous business of getting her undressed, and carrying her upstairs.

  “Good thing I’ve always been a little ’un,” she said.

  “Light as a feather,” he said, as he always said every night, and picked her up in his arms, trying not to notice the stab of pain in his back.

  JOHN THORNBULL GOT OUT OF HIS CAR IN THE YARD AT THE BACK of the farmhouse, and thought he should check that his wife Hazel’s bantams were shut up. If she had forgotten, as she often did, the stupid things flew up into a tall silver birch tree and roosted in the high branches. Sometimes he took the clothes line prop from the garden and tried bashing them down to go into their perfectly comfortable house. But they squawked like banshees and flew up even higher.

  Tonight she had remembered, and he went into the farmhouse calling for her as he went.

  “Here!” she said, and when he went into the sitting room where she was watching television with the sound turned down low, she put her finger to her lips. “Sssh! Lizzie is restless tonight,” she whispered. “Hope she’s not sickening for something.”

  She did not ask him how the meeting went, knowing that he would tell her, all in good time. First things first, he would have said, as he poured himself a good-night snifter from the whisky bottle. Now he settled down beside her and watched the end of the news bulletin.

  “Same old stories of death and disaster,” he said. “I don’t know why we bother to watch.”

  “There was a nice one before you came in,” she said. “A jockey who’d entered every Gold Cup race since he was a lad, actually won for the first time today. You should’ve seen his face, John!”

  “Hope for me yet, then,” he said, though he had never entered a race more important than the local hunt point-to-point every year.

  There was a companionable silence, and then he said, “Meeting got a bit warm tonight. All about the village hall, believe it or not.”

  “Tell all,” Hazel said, and switched off the television.

  He gave her a colorful account, and said that he and Derek were setting up a committee to raise funds for renovating the old hall. Would she be willing to take care of the secretarial side of it? Write letters, put up posters, all that kind of thing?

  Hazel groaned. “Blimey, John,” she said. “As if I haven’t got enough to do!”

  “So you’ll do it, then?”

  “On one condition,” she said. “I get a laptop for my birthday.”

  John thought for a moment. “Reconditioned one?” he asked.

  Hazel took his hand. “Done,” she answered. “But I’m not sure who’s got the best of the bargain.”

  THREE

  THE VILLAGE HALL RENOVATION FUND-RAISING SUBCOMMITTEE had been derided by Lois. “What a ridiculous name!” she had said to Derek. “Let’s call it the No Chance Committee.”

  “Well, thanks for your support!” Derek had replied. “Anyway, it wasn’t my idea. Mrs. T-J coined it. I suppose she thought the longer the name the more authority it had, or summat.”

  “Well, if you don’t like No Chance, why don’t you call the campaign Save Our Shed? It’s always been known as the Shed, ever since I can remember.”

  “Quite right,” said Gran. “All the women at WI call it the Shed. Good idea, Lois.”

  The three were sitting round the big kitchen table in the Meade’s solid Victorian house in the main street of Long Farnden. The Rayburn in the kitchen ticked over day and night, providing not only cooking, hot water and central heating, but also a warm heart for the family.

  The Meades had not always lived in a big house. When the three children were small, Lois and Derek, with Douglas, Josie and Jamie, had squashed into a small council house on the Churchill Estate in Tresham, and Gran, a widow, had lived in a bungalow not far away.

  When all the children had started school, and with Gran’s help taking and fetching them, Lois had fancied the idea of becoming a special constable in the police. The job involved working as a volunteer for the force, but not fully one of them. She had gone for an interview and been turned down because, they said, she seemed to have more than enough to occupy her time already, much to her disgust. After that, she had continued cleaning other people’s houses, and then set up the New Brooms business.

  On the side, by way of revenge, she became a snoop for Inspector Cowgill, but on her terms. No pay, only cases that appealed to her, nobody locally to know what she did. No pressure. She had grown to love the snooping, discovering that she had a flair for deduction. It was like a hobby, but, as Derek frequently said, a dangerous one.

  The move to Long Farnden had been a stroke of luck, in a way. The local doctor, one of Lois’s clients, had been involved in a murder and the scandal had caused him to move away. Because of the grim association, the house had not sold and the price continued to drop until Derek and Lois could just about afford it. Gran had moved in with them as volunteer housekeeper and dispenser of advice. For most of the time, it was an excellent solution, especially since Derek had won the lottery jackpot, when the family financial situation eased considerably.

  The big kitchen in the house had become their favourite room, and now Derek had to agree that Lois’s suggestion was a good one. “SOS, Save Our Shed. Yeah, that’s good,” he said. “I’ll put it to the others at the first meeting tonight.”

  “So are they definitely coming here?” said Gran. She was looking forwards to serving coffee to the five, and planned to make a batch of shortbread to go with it. She loved the idea of being at the centre of the new campaign, and if they wouldn’t include her in their meetings, she would hover and lea
ve the door ajar and generally gather what was going on.

  Lois had refused point blank to be co-opted to the committee, saying she had quite enough to do with New Brooms and a family to run. But seeing Derek’s face fall, she had hastily added that she would always help whenever help was wanted.

  AT HALF PAST SEVEN THAT EVENING, THE FIVE WERE ASSEMBLED. Kate Adstone had spoken with Josie in the shop, and also talked to Derek about Gavin not agreeing with the proposal, but probably willing to change his mind if given a job to do. So Derek had put the request tactfully, stressing to Gavin the importance of his talents and potential contribution, and received an enthusiastic response.

  “Evening all,” Gran said, coming into the sitting room with a laden tray. “What an exciting idea for the village! We shall all have lots of ideas, I’m sure. I know the WI will want to help, and you can always call on me. . . .”

  “Mum!” called Lois from her office on the opposite side of the passage. “Mum! Come in here—got something to show you!”

  Gran reluctantly shut the door on the committee and joined Lois. “What is it?” she said impatiently.

  “Photos from Jamie!” Lois said, and showed her a series of photographs of her younger son larking about with a tasty-looking blonde on a sunlit beach in Australia.

  Gran melted. “Ah, look at him,” she said. “Doesn’t he look wonderful, all brown and bonny! And who’s that girl, I wonder?”

  Jamie Meade had become a rising star as a concert pianist, traveling the world for concerts and always keeping in touch with his parents at home. From childhood he had had a special musical talent, and with hard work and all the support his family could give him, he had prospered. Now his email with attachments had provided a useful way of enticing Gran away from the first meeting of Derek’s committee.

  In the comfortable sitting room, Hazel took out her notebook and pen and looked at Derek.

  “First meeting,” she said, “so no minutes. Do we have any apologies?”

  “What for?” said Tony Dibson.

  “For not being able to attend,” said Hazel, smiling at him. Dear old chap. It must seem a load of rubbish to him, but this committee was to be conducted properly, with minutes of meetings kept and circulated to the full parish council.

  “No, we’re all here,” Derek said. “Welcome, everyone. And thanks, Gavin, for deciding to come and help us. A newcomer’s view will be really useful.”

  So that’s put me firmly in my place, thought Gavin. This electrician Derek was not such a thicko as he had expected. “Thanks. Glad to be here,” he said.

  “Now,” continued Derek, “the first thing on the agenda is to decide what our main fund-raising event will be. The sooner that’s settled the better. Then we can get on with planning the campaign.”

  Hazel cleared her throat. “Um, can I suggest something, Derek?”

  He nodded. “O’ course, Hazel. Fire away.”

  “Well, I know we must have a big project to raise a respectably large sum, but to involve all the village—which I think is necessary—we should ask all the various groups, like WI and Guides and Scouts an’ that, to have their own money-raising events as well. It’s surprising how it all adds up, and it would keep people interested.”

  “Hear, hear,” John Thornbull said, looking proudly at his wife. “Great suggestion, Hazel.”

  Gavin thought to himself that this was a very secondary matter, and said, “So shall we get back to the big project?”

  “Do you have a suggestion, Gavin?” Derek said. “We shall need three or four ideas before we decide.”

  “Yep. This is a winner,” Gavin said. “We did this where we lived before. We’ll have a really big summer show. The Long Farnden Festival. Exhibitions, sporting fixtures, concerts, you name it, we’ll have it. I’ve got lots of contacts.”

  Silence followed this, as the others reeled.

  Derek was first to speak. “Wonderful idea,” he said, swallowing hard. “Any other suggestions?” he added, praying that someone would speak up.

  John raised his hand. “I got one,” he said. “I was watching telly last night, and they had a bit on the news about a soap box race up in Derbyshire. All kinds of soap boxes, homemade. Amazing, some of ’em. And quite a crowd watching. We could do that, couldn’t we? Have our own grand prix?”

  Tony Dibson’s face lit up and he leaned forwards. “My God, boy,” he said. “You got it! We used to have soap boxes when I was a kid. High Street’s on a slope, and we’d start one end with a good shove from behind, and pick up speed as we went. Leg power, it was. I were nearly always the winner. That gets my vote,” he said cheerfully, and subsided in his chair.

  “And where would our big profit come from?” Gavin said scathingly. “A quid’s entrance money from half a dozen competitors, and rattle a tin round the spectators?”

  “Good point,” said Derek, but John’s idea had caught his imagination and he could see the others were looking keen. “Any other suggestions?” he said, but they shook their heads.

  Hazel stopped writing, and glanced around the silent room. She looked at Derek, and decided to rescue him.

  “Couldn’t we combine the two ideas?” she said. “We could have the soap box grand prix down the High Street, and then around the village we could have some of the other things Gavin has suggested for his festival. What d’you think?”

  They all nodded except Gavin, who said that wasn’t quite what he had in mind. How about a vote? Festival or grand prix with side shows?

  Derek obediently took a vote. It was as he had hoped. “Soap box has it, then,” he said, “and with Gavin’s expertise, I know the sideshows will be real money-spinners.”

  The discussion then continued until late in the evening, and when the meeting was finally closed, Derek walked into the kitchen where Gran and Lois were waiting.

  “Phew!” he said, and gave them a brief summary. “The thing is,” he said, “all I can think of right now is how I’m going to steer the awkward brigade to achieve what we set out to do.”

  “You’ll do it,” said Gran, “with Lois and me helping.”

  FOUR

  MUM? DOUGLAS HERE.” “Hi, son. What can I do for you?” Lois smiled broadly. If she allowed herself to have a favourite offspring, it would be Douglas. Her firstborn, he had been easy from the start. Even tempered and cheerful, he had lulled her into a sense of false security on the child upbringing front. When Josie came along, she was fretful, needing constant attention and yelling if she didn’t get it. Derek had said that girls were always more difficult, and what did she expect? Three stroppy generations of women, in his view. Gran, Lois and Josie. All dedicated to making his life difficult.

  “It’s what we can do for you, for once,” Douglas said now. “Me and Susie and young Harry are going to the National Space Centre at Leicester on Sunday, and wondered if you and Dad would like to come along?”

  “Isn’t Harry a bit young for the space centre?” Lois asked. She knew that Derek would jump at the idea, but you could hardly expect a one-year-old to take much interest in the wonders of rocket science.

  “There’s something for all ages, it says in the leaflet. A mate of mine has been with his kids, and says its wonderful. D’you want to see what Dad says? You can ring me back. Got to go now. Big meeting.”

  Lois put down the phone and shook her head with a smile. You don’t fool me, Douglas Meade, she said to herself. It’s like that supersize train set Harry had for his half birthday. Doug plays with it all the time, and it’ll be Doug who wants a simulated ride in a space capsule. Ah, well, why not? A family outing would be a nice distraction for Derek, already frowning with worry about how to raise at least twenty thousand pounds in a frighteningly short period.

  AT AROUND THIS TIME, JOSIE MEADE, SHOPKEEPER AND OCCASIONAL helpmeet in her mother’s detecting activities, was thinking about babies. Here she was, living alone after her longtime partner had been killed, now more or less restored with the help of Mum’s cop’s nephew M
atthew, but with a blank future in front of her. When she saw Matthew pulling up outside in the police car, she wondered if this was an omen. Would he make a good father? This was such a ridiculous thought that she laughed out loud, lifting Matthew’s spirits as he came into the shop.

  Matthew Vickers had settled well into Tresham police force, and despite the fact that the chief detective inspector was his uncle, he had finally been absorbed and accepted by his colleagues. He had fallen in love with Josie Meade long before her partner died, and had tried a few forays to see how secure that relationship was. Then the disaster had happened and he had concentrated on being a solid comforting presence for her, nothing more. Her smiling face was a really good sign.

  “What’s the joke, Josie?” he said, and blew her a kiss across the counter.

  “Can’t tell you,” she said. “Except that I was wondering whether to give up the shop and go back to education as a mature student. I’m done with grieving, and have to think about the future.”

  “You can’t!” he said. “What will Long Farnden do without you? The whole place would fall apart if you gave up the shop.”

  “I could sell it. It’s doing really well now, and they say you should sell when a business is doing well, not when it’s on the slide.”

  “Are you serious, Josie?”

  “No. I love my shop and my village.” And maybe you, Matthew, just a little bit, she added to herself. “Now, are you investigating a crime? Or just calling for a packet of Polo mints?”

  “Both,” he said. “But seriously, we’ve had an anonymous call, probably from the usual nutcase, suggesting there is a local conspiracy to burn down your village hall. The caller said he had seen a prowler with a can of petrol, and whoever it was ran off when he saw he was observed. Have you heard anything?”

  “Good heavens, no! Sounds like someone with a fertile imagination. Seeing conspirators where there are only shadows! It is very dark around the village hall. We’ve got a big plan to renovate the old place and proper lighting is on the list.”