JACK HICKSON’S CAREFULLY THOUGHT-OUT PLAN HAD BEEN scuppered. He had set out from the woods at the crack of dawn, just when the pigeons were starting to greet the light, and all went well until he reached the road. He had relied on getting a lift to Tresham with one of the long-distance lorries that took shortcuts through the villages in the early morning, aiming to miss rush-hour traffic round the big towns and cities.
This morning, unbeknown to Jack, as part of their strategy for protecting the Hickson family, the police had put a block on all heavy goods traffic going through a radius of twenty miles round Farnden. Only domestic vehicles were getting through. Jack waited in vain, knowing that it would be disaster guaranteed if he thumbed a lift from a local driver. He needed a stranger, a foreigner preferably, who would drive straight through the village and on to Tresham, where he could be dropped off and make the rest of his way on foot.
After waiting for an hour, when local traffic was beginning to appear, he decided he would have to walk, skirting the village through the fields, and then on to Tresham as best he could. When he looked at his watch, his heart sank to his boots. It would be much too late when he got there to carry out his plan of surprising the sleeping kidnapper, dealing out rough justice, and then rescuing his son and taking him back home to his mother. Then he would go to the police and tell all.
None of this was now likely, so he needed plan B. His feet were soaking wet from dew-covered meadows and inadequate boots, and he shivered. He had had nothing to eat since last night, and the early morning chill was not helping. But the thought of Jack in the hands of that corrupt villain drove him on, and in time he was within three miles of Tresham.
“Want a lift, mate?” A large van had stopped and a cheery-looking, totally bald driver leaned out.
Jack thought rapidly, and decided it was worth the risk. The van had come from Birmingham, and the driver was a stranger to him. He got in, glad to rest his legs and feet. The warmth inside the cab made his head swim, and he swayed.
“You all right, mate? You look all done in. Get a bit of shut-eye, if you want. Where’re you going? I’ll give you a nudge when we get there.”
“Only into Tresham,” Jack said. “You haven’t got anything I could eat, have you? Didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.”
The driver fished out a bread roll with a thick piece of ham liberally spread with mustard, and held it out. “Thanks a lot,” Jack said. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten for months.”
“On the road, are you? You don’t look like a vagrant.”
“No, I’m a professional gardener. It’s just that I lost my job and’ve been out of work for a good while. I’m going into town to try for another place.” He did not mention the hall.
The driver nodded approvingly. “Job situation is really bad at the moment, and I suppose people can do their own gardening if necessary. Mind you, in my case it’s a hobby. I love it. Out there, on my allotment, away from the wife! Nothing to beat it.”
They talked gardening for the rest of the way into Tresham, and then the driver dropped Jack off at a suitable place on the ring road. He remembered the way, and set off through a network of roads lined with redbrick terraces, all built in the affluent nineteenth century, when the town mushroomed. There it was, Barcelona Street, down-at-heel, with wrecks of old cars and wheelie bins spilling over onto the pavements. Number thirty-eight. Ah, yes, there it was, in all its glory!
Jack wondered briefly why the local authority allowed such a place to exist. Surely the site itself would be worth a fair bit? He crossed the road and stood outside. It would have to be a straight confrontation, and now that he was here, fortified by the ham roll, he felt more confident.
A middle-aged man came down the path and stopped. “You looking for somebody, mate?” he said.
Jack gave him a grateful smile, and answered that he had been searching for his young brother for weeks, but had had no luck. “Our old mum’s going crazy,” he lied. “Can you help at all?”
“I can, a bit,” the man replied. “But you’re just too late. Sorry about your brother, but the lot who lived here have all gone. Did a moonlight flit, the lot of ’em, thank God. Let’s hope they never come back. The council should’ve evicted them years ago. Anyway, if I were you, I’d turn back to where you came from. Nothing but tragedy and trouble from that house. Several of us have been in, and we found the body of a young girl, about fourteen, needles everywhere. She was still warm. Makes you sick.”
He turned away, rubbing his eyes. Then he looked back at Jack. “We’ve told the police, an’ they’ll be here any minute. I suppose you could wait and talk to them. One of the women who lives next door said she’d seen out of her bathroom window a man with a kid going in there yesterday, but they weren’t there when we looked.”
Jack waited until his informant was out of sight, and then ran fast in the opposite direction.
AT THE END OF THE RUTTED TRACK, JACK JR. AND HIS MINDER stopped. Jack had been looking all around him as they walked. It was difficult to see far, as the track was lined with high thorn hedges with only the occasional field gate. All the way, the man had hurried Jack along, shoving him forwards if he lingered by an opening in the hedge. “No dawdling,” he had said. “I know your tricks, young Hickson. I’m not taking my eyes off you for a second.”
“What’s the point of all this?” Jack said finally. “They’ll have every road covered. Why don’t you bugger off and leave me to find me own way home? I won’t say nothing. I’ll pretend I was stayin’ with a new friend. I’ll be really sorry to Mum. I’m good at that. I promise I won’t tell.”
He looked straight into the man’s eyes, and saw him hesitate. Jack knew something had gone wrong in the house this morning, and that’s why they were miles from anywhere with not a building in sight. The track had come to a dead end, and only the remains of a big straw stack hinted at a reason for its existence. Why would his captor bring him here? Jack shivered. He’d probably hoped to find a derelict barn where he could dump Jack, duly dealt with, and hop it. There’d be no farm traffic down here until next harvest.
The man shook his head. “You’re a lying little toad. I don’t believe a word of it. You’d have nothing to lose by telling.”
Jack shrugged, the gesture older than his thirteen years. “Please yerself,” he said. “But you ain’t got no option really. Without me, you stand a chance of disappearing without trace. With me around, you ain’t got no chance.”
“If you don’t shut y’ mouth, I’ll get rid of you forever! That’ll be good enough for me, plenty enough for yer father to remember me by.” He stepped towards Jack, his fists clenched.
Jack turned and ran.