Minnie Foley felt miserable. Anne had sat with her all evening until it was the end of her shift. Nurse Wainscoe brought her a cup of tea and she sipped it as she kept an eye on Brian. Suddenly she saw Brian stir. He gave a gentle cough and his eyes opened. “Is that you, Mum?” he asked.
“Oh, son! You’re going to be alright!”
Nurse Wainscoe rushed to Brian’s bedside. She took his pulse and looked into his eyes. “You’re doing fine, Brian. I’ll get the doctor to come and check you over again. Now, Minnie, I really think you should go and have some rest. You could do with a decent sleep yourself!”
Minnie couldn’t sleep when she didn’t know where Gavin was, and when she still wasn’t sure whether Brian was going to be OK. She waited outside while the doctor examined her elder son. He came back and told her all was well. Brian was out of danger and would make a full recovery. He was still heavily sedated and needed more rest, and the police would want to question him about what he’d been doing back at Follyfoot.
Relieved that Brian was on the mend, but aware that there was little she could do, Minnie gave her son a gentle kiss on the forehead and left the hospital, taking a taxi back to the Queens Hotel.
As she walked through the lobby a bellboy came up to her. “Scuse me, madam, but a bloke asked me to give you this.” He pressed an envelope in her hand. It was the sort of cheap white paper envelope they sold in Woolworths. She ripped it open. Inside was a message made from letters and numbers cut out of a newspaper and glued onto a sheet of paper: If yOu wAnT to sEE GaViN AgAiN, BRinG £100,000 iN cASh 5PM ToMoRRoW to ThE pHOnE bOx bY tHe ViADuCt oN KirKStaLL RoAd. AnD Don’T CaLL tHe PoLIcE!
Minnie folded up the note and took the lift up to her room. She flung open the door, sank onto the bed and tried to think what she should do next.
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In Holborn Towers, Doreen Bromley was irritated rather than worried. She’d suspected for some months that Jeff had been having an affair. A couple of times the phone had rung but gone dead when she’d answered it. Once, during their lovemaking, she was sure she’d heard him cry out the name “Anita” – but he’d denied knowing anyone of that name. He’d been coming home late from work, and he’d been bringing her a lot of presents – flowers, chocolates – a sign of a guilty conscience, perhaps.
That morning she’d told him there would be a nice beef casserole for dinner, and he’d said “Sorry, love, I can’t make it. I’m working late tonight.” She’d tackled him: “Out with some fancy woman or other” and he’d replied “No, love, I’m doing it for you. It’s a special job for Councillor Earnshaw. He’s asked me to take a lorry load of hardcore from the slum clearance site at Lilian Street to Gallows Farm. He gave me cash in advance for it. Told me he could trust me as I was a good worker.”
Jeff’s story sounded pretty unconvincing, but she couldn’t disprove it. And when PC Grimsdyke and WPC Lawson turned up on her doorstep and told her of the accident, she felt so bad that she’d doubted Jeff at all. So he HAD been in the lorry after all, working late.
As they were escorting her to the hospital, PC Grimsdyke asked her: “I realise how difficult this is, but please could you tell me - does your husband usually work so late at night?”
“He never used to. It’s only been recently. He told me it was a special delivery.”
“Do you know what sort of delivery?”
“It was some rubble from some old houses. He was taking it to a place called Gallows Farm. A man called Earnshaw from the Council had asked him to do it”.
“Gallows Farm” exclaimed WPC Lawson. “That’s next door to Follyfoot. Fairman and Jackson were attending an incident there earlier today… and I think Inspector Garnet’s been over there taking statements.”
“That’s interesting” replied Grimsdyke. He was a young constable and very keen to make his mark on the force. Perhaps he ought to contact Inspector Garnet on the radio. Could there be a connection between the night-time deliveries of hardcore and the strange goings-on at Follyfoot Farm?
“We’re just approaching the hospital” said WPC Lawson. “I’ll take you in to see Jeff now”.
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Back at Follyfoot, Ron and Slugger were sipping cocoa in the kitchen. Hazel had gone up to bed. The Colonel had just phoned to say that Dora was resting and would be staying with him for the time being. Ron got out the mysterious roll of papers that he had extracted from behind the loose brick at Gallows Farm.
“Now, what’ve yer got there, then? The bloomin’ Crown Jewels?”
“Not exactly, Slugs, but I reckon this could be very important. Just look ‘ere!”
Slugger looked at the top paper. It appeared to be a map with a plan of Gallows Farm and Follyfoot, with the two lakes. There were various faint lines that didn’t correspond to any of the farm buildings. Slugger took the next sheet of paper and skimmed through it. “Here, you read it – I can hardly make out this handwriting with me old eyes!”
“Er – this bird I used to go out with, Laura, she told me about this. She’d heard it from her grandfather who was related to the Micklethwaites. Apparently he found these papers when he was playing as a kid. It were Ned’s father who ‘ad the tenancy in them days. Laura’s granddad was scared he’d find out he’d been poking about, so ‘e put them back. I was right chuffed when I found them, I can tell you.”
“Well, go on, Ron, what does it say?”
“It seems that this bloke in Victorian times was a bit of an archaeologist. He investigated the ‘istory of the area, and found out that ‘undreds of years ago this land belonged to Kirkstall Abbey. An’ the monks ‘ad a little farm there, with a chapel, like, and they used to ‘ave a sort of ‘ospital, where the monks went when they were ill. An infirmary, they called it. And the monks made the lakes to keep fish in, ‘cause you see, they were very religious, and they ‘ad to eat fish on Fridays”.
“Why’s it called Gallows Farm, then?”
“I was coming to that. Well, good old King ‘Enry the Eighth, the one with all the wives, ‘e decided to destroy the abbey. But some of the monks didn’t want to leave. So the King ‘ad ‘em all arrested and ‘anged - and they built the gallows where the farm is now”.
“So this is an important archaeological site?”
“Reckon so. Think of all them monks’ skelingtons under there!”
