Threats at Three by Ann Purser

washing his hands, a pimply youth came in. “Hi,” he said. “Settling in?”
    Gavin recognized a very junior employee, and considered his question as overfamiliar. The lad seemed to think long service with Worldwide Solutions—a whole year—entitled him to take a definitely patronising air.
    “Of course,” Gavin replied. “Nothing difficult about this job.”
    “Worked in this kind of business before, then?”
    “Yes. Back to work then,” he snapped, and headed for the door.
    “Just wondered if you’d met Doug Meade,” the youth said, looking sly. “Higher up the ladder than us, o’ course, but a nice chap. No side, if you know what I mean.”
    “No, why should I have met him?” Gavin was furious at being bracketed with this spotty youth in front of him. But he hesitated. Meade? That was a familiar name, certainly.
    “His mum lives in Long Farnden. Your village, ain’t it?”
    Ah, of course, Gavin said to himself. Derek Meade, chair of SOS. So his son was Douglas Meade, fast-tracked up the ladder at Worldwide, and highly regarded. A useful bit of information from the spotty youth. He forced a smile, and said he’d look out for Douglas and introduce himself. The smile vanished quickly, and he barked out that he had work to do and left.
    When lunchtime came round, he approached his manager and said he needed urgently to collect a parcel from the depot on the other side of town. “Nobody at home to receive it when the courier called. The usual thing. One knock, and if the door isn’t opened in seconds, they clear off and leave a card through the letter box. Shouldn’t be too long, but if I’m a few minutes late back, is that okay?”
    That was the trouble with these out of town business parks, he reckoned, as he set off in his car. Miles from bloody anywhere. Still, he put his foot down and sped out of town, but nowhere near the direction of the courier depot.
    The Silent Man, a pub in the village of Broughton, had been rechristened with its ridiculous new name after it had been bought by a chain and redesigned in a way to attract thrusting young business people from the new park. It was formerly the Greyhound, a sleepy farmers’ inn, which had been there on the drovers’ route to the market town of Tresham for hundreds of years, and had a Scots pine tree in the garden to prove it. It was Gavin’s destination, and he parked the car round the back of the pub, out of sight, and went in quickly through the rear door.
    Inside it was fashionably murky. Small lamps shed pools of light at each shiny new table, and Gavin stood still, looking round. His eye was caught by a figure waving a hand at him from the darkest corner, and he headed over and sat down.
    “Morning, young man,” said the heavily built man, smiling at him from the shadows.
    “Mr. Froot,” said Gavin, with a knowing grin, “a very good morning to you, too.”
     
     
    AT TWO O’CLOCK EXACTLY, LOIS WALKED DOWN THE PATH TO Paula Hickson’s front door and rang the bell. She had a slight shiver of unpleasant memory as she heard footsteps approaching from inside. It was not so long ago that she had been dragged into this house and held captive in order to deliver a baby from an illegal immigrant woman who’d worked for the evil trafficker in human lives.
    The door opened, and Lois caught sight of little Frankie crawling towards her with a broad smile that warmed her heart. Paula asked her to come in, and Lois instinctively bent down and picked up the warm little body, kissing him on his cherry red cheek. He smelled of Johnson’s baby shampoo and freshly washed clothes. A good start, Lois thought, and handed him over to a nervous-looking Paula.
    “Come in here, Mrs. Meade,” she said, leading the way into the sitting room. Clean and tidy, Lois noted, and a bunch of daisies on a table by the window. A toy box in the corner occupied Frankie, and, refusing tea or coffee, Lois began the interview.
    She asked Paula about her life in Tresham