Fear on Friday
Page 6
She saw the Forsyths’ car approaching and sighed. Old Rupert, no doubt, wanting stamps. He got through dozens every week. Should she quickly put up the Closed sign? No, he was a good customer. She went back into the shop and waited. It was Daisy Forsyth who ran in. “Are you closed, Josie?” she asked breathlessly. “Rupert will be so cross with me—I completely forgot about the stamps today.”
“Don’t worry,” Josie reassured her. “Post Office is shut, but I’ve got stamps in the till. How many d’you want?”
Daisy sank down on the stool placed by the counter for the elderly and infirm, and sighed with relief. “Thank goodness,” she said. “He’s a bit of an old sod when he’s cross,” she added.
“I know,” said Josie. “When the post is late, for a start.”
Daisy nodded. “It’s the letters, you see, dear,” she said. “Our livelihood, they are. And we can’t keep the needy waiting, can we?” She burst out laughing, an unexpectedly fruity sound.
“In need of what?” Josie said innocently.
“Ah, that’d be telling, wouldn’t it,” Daisy said, paying for her stamps and heading for the door. “But I’ll tell you this,” she added, pausing on the threshold, “it ain’t a cure for rheumatism or arthritis we’re selling!” And she laughed again, so infectiously that Josie joined in, although she wasn’t sure of the joke.
This time she managed to bring in the board and lock up before any more last-minute hopefuls—”runners,” Rob called them—got a foot in the door. She pulled down the window blinds and walked through the darkened shop to the small garden at the rear. Derek had given her young plants, and she lingered with a watering can, savouring the fresh air after a day indoors.
I wonder, she thought. I wonder what exactly old Rupert supplies? She had a pretty good idea, but was intrigued by Daisy’s part in it. Such a respectable, round little person, with her neat skirts and blouses. Ripe for the WI, Gran had said, and sure enough, Daisy had joined soon after arriving. But Josie guessed none of them had heard her laugh like that, a jolly, unrestrained hearty chuckle, suggesting another, riskier side of Daisy Forsyth.
Josie tipped the last of the water over the garden, and speculated. Maybe I can get her talking one day in the shop, when nobody else is in, she thought. I’m getting quite good at that. Chip off the old block!
“Oh gawd,” she said aloud. “Just as Rob predicted … Josie Meade back in the village and turning into a real old shop gossip.” She put away the watering can and set her mind to what they were having for supper.
FOURTEEN
FRIDAY IN COLCOMBE, A RESPECTABLE SUBURB OF Manchester, and Norman Stevenson, middle-aged, overweight and losing his hair, looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and wondered what he could do with the freedom of the coming weekend. It had come to this. He dreaded weekends. His wife had gone off with one of his young employees, children were busy with their own lives and seldom in touch. His girlfriend was losing interest, and no wonder, since his prowess was more than a little diminished lately. He doubted if she’d want to see him. The two days stretched ahead of him interminably.
The downward slide had started years ago, he considered, when he’d had that major row with Howard Jenkinson. It had been about the timber business, of course, and Howard had been so cunning he’d managed to put all the blame on Norman for irregularities which had come to the notice of the Inland Revenue.
Since then, he’d managed the Manchester depot, but was always aware that he’d been sidelined, and the best he could do was to keep his head down. And keep quiet. That was the big thing. Short of threatening him, Howard had made it quite clear that if the slightest whisper of anything, business or personal, came to his notice, Norman would be out on his ear, with his name blackened so thoroughly that he might as well emigrate.
Now that Howard had retired, Norman had wondered if the bonds would at last be loosened. But no, the new Mayor of Tresham had renewed his vows. Now that he was a public figure, it was even more vital to protect his spotless image.
The business scandal had been a long time ago now, but on the personal side, Norman—a fellow customer of Rain or Shine—knew much that Howard would do anything, anything, to keep secret. Norman’s last meeting with Fergus Forsyth had been difficult. Questions had been asked, prying questions, and he hoped he had given nothing away. Fergus had remembered his connection with Howard Jenkinson, but then, he must know many people with closer connections than Norman. Perhaps his curiosity about Howard was idle. The young bloke never seemed to have enough to do. But his questions were persistent, and Norman hoped he had given nothing away.
Taking a clean shirt from the drawer, he sighed again. The buttons were tight across his stomach, and he cursed. Better sign on for another session at the gym. How he hated it! But he hated loneliness even more, and if, with the help of Fergus Forsyth, he could brighten his relationship with the girlfriend, life might be worth living.
He heard the post landing on the door mat and went downstairs. Mostly junk, as usual. But here was a more interesting-looking envelope. Norman’s name and address written by hand, and PERSONAL, underlined in red, prominently in the corner. He put it by his breakfast plate, and went quickly through the other mail. Two bills, and a charity appeal. The last went straight in the bin, and the bills he tucked behind the clock on the kitchen shelf. He sat down, poured himself a cup of coffee, and slit open the handwritten envelope with a knife.
The message was in neat capitals, written with a blue ballpoint, and the paper had been anonymously torn from an exercise book. His heart stopped. Then began again at a thumping pace. He dropped the letter on the floor as if it was on fire, and stared down at it fearfully. He hadn’t felt this dizzying fear for years, not since the big row with Howard. Finally he stooped and picked up the paper. KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT—OR ELSE. That was all.
With trembling fingers, Norman found the envelope. Postmarked with a London district number. So it could have been from anyone. But it wasn’t from anyone. Norman had no doubts. For some God-knows-what reason, it was from Howard. Or from one of his loyal servants. Ken Slater? He was a quiet one. Never knew what he was thinking.
His legs buckling slightly as he stood, Norman lifted the telephone and dialled the Slaters’ number. Might as well settle this straight away, he comforted himself, and began to speak.
FIFTEEN
JEAN AND KEN SLATER TRUDGED AROUND TRESHAM golf course in the pouring rain, silently slicing balls into the rough, three-putting on sodden greens, and only speaking to discuss abandoning play and heading for the clubhouse.
“But we can’t, Jean,” Ken said. “What will Howard and Doreen say?”
“Thank God, I should think,” muttered Jean, kicking her ball out of a deep hollow. “You didn’t see that, did you, Ken,” she said.
“No, but you bet Howard did,” he answered, as he spotted the tall figure, kitted out in waterproof garments from head to foot. “He can see round corners, that one,” he added darkly.
Sure enough, Howard loomed above Jean and looked down. “You lose a stroke there,” he said firmly, “but you have got a much better lie. Should get on in two from here.”
There are times, said Jean to herself, when I could fetch him one round the ear’ole with my putter. And when he was out for the count flat on the fairway, I could trample on him with my spiked shoes until he looked like he’d been put through a grater.
Cheered by this thought, she waved to Doreen, who was plodding gallantly on through the driving rain. “Last hole,” Jean shouted. “Then we’re going in. Whatever these two say,” she added, and whammed the ball so hard that it soared into the air and landed two feet from the flag.
“Well done, Jean!” said Howard with false magnanimity. “Now, Doreen,” he shouted across the waterlogged grass, “let’s see what you can do!”
Doreen hesitated, took a club from her bag, and positioned herself for the shot. Ken looked at her wiggling bum and fell a welcome warmth. Then she swung the club, hit the
ball and watched it trickle ten yards in front of her, coming to a halt at the edge of a deep, sandy bunker. She turned and looked across at Howard, and mouthed something, her voice lost in the rising gale.
“What did she say, Jean?” asked an irritated Howard.
“Couldn’t hear,” said Jean diplomatically. But she’d lip-read, and heartily agreed. “Drop dead!” had been Doreen’s succinct and heartfelt reply.
THE ATMOSPHERE WAS NOT MUCH BETTER IN THE Forsyth house in Farnden. Among the usual pile of letters that morning, Rupert opened an official-looking envelope. “Damn!” he said loudly. “Here, Daisy, look at this. How dare they?”
Daisy took the letter and read the first paragraph. It was from the Planning people, and they had sent a list of features in the proposed extension to which they took exception. “Well,” said Daisy, “at least they haven’t turned it down all together. We can work on the plan and have another try.”
“And that’ll take another couple of years!” said Rupert, exaggerating furiously. “Not to mention the expense of producing another set of plans, etcetera etcetera …” He snatched the letter back from Daisy and read it again, his colour rising angrily.
“Calm down, dear,” said Daisy. “We’ve managed up to now, and I’m sure we can manage a bit longer.”
“Huh! That’s what you always say,” Rupert shouted at her. “If it wasn’t for me, nothing would ever get done! And your son takes after you. Lazy so-and-so … he spends all day gossiping with that girl in the cleaners’ shop opposite. Pity they ever look over that place. And now if I phone, it’s Hazel this and Hazel that, and nothing about how business is going or any ideas for improving it!”
He sat down suddenly, and Daisy went over swiftly to him. She took his hand. “You really mustn’t take on,” she said. “It’s not good for you at your age. Now, let’s think what we can do.” She didn’t argue with him over Fergus, having learned long ago that this was useless. It had been a disappointment to her that her only son had done nothing more ambitious than working in his father’s shop. He wasn’t stupid, and could have gone on with his education. She blamed Rupert, though had never said so to him. He had chivvied the boy, never leaving him alone to find his own way, and in the end he had taken the easiest option, following in his father’s dubious footsteps.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Daisy said, “What we need is someone with influence. Someone who can put in a good word. You know, the old boys’ network an’ all that.”
“So who do you suggest?” said Rupert sourly.
“I think you know who I’m thinking of,” said Daisy, and grinned. “A certain person who has enjoyed our services—mine especially—for years, and still does. A certain person in a position of importance in the rapidly expanding town of Tresham? Are you with me, dear?”
Rupert stared at her. “You mean Howard Jenkinson?”
She nodded.
“Why should he do anything for us?” said Rupert. “He’s got everything he needs in life, has recently retired to a cushy life of golf and holidays, and has more money in the bank than most of us can count. He’d not lift a finger for us.”
“Ah, now that’s where you might be wrong,” said Daisy wisely. “Just think a minute, Rupert. Yes, he’s got everything his heart desires, and what he values most of all is his Mayor of Tresham chain of office. Now, I’m not stealing a gold chain, but I am suggesting we could drop a few careless words here and there which would make his elevated position very shaky indeed. Are you still with me?”
“You’re talking about blackmail!” said Rupert. “No, no, no! I’ll certainly not stoop to that!”
Daisy was unruffled. “No need for you to do anything,” she said. “I’ll do the stooping. Leave it to me, dear. I shall enjoy myself,” she added, and burst out laughing. “I might be a little out of practice, but it won’t take long to brush up the old skills. You concentrate on the changes Planning wants, and leave the rest to me.”
Rupert looked at her. Her neat body was in good shape, her hair carefully coloured and cut in a youthful style, and her clothes—though perfectly respectable—perhaps not quite so conservative as her village contemporaries. A low-necked blouse with frilly sleeves, her skirt slit so that it showed her still trim knees. All quite subdued, but a hint there of secret pleasures? Oh, for heavens’ sake, Rupert said to himself. They were a couple of middle-aged fogies. Whatever it was that Daisy had in mind would be decorous and trouble free. He decided to let her get on with it. He’d always respected her judgement in the past, and had no reason to doubt her now.
THINGS WERE CERTAINLY MORE CHEERFUL IN THE SMALL office of New Brooms in Sebastopol Street. Lois had called in to see Hazel and pick up any new client details. She also wanted to see if Hazel had any information on the applicant for the new cleaner job. All Lois knew so far was that she was Sheila’s niece and wanted to get out of a bureaucratic job.
Hazel looked at the application and frowned. “Don’t think I know her at all,” she said. “Susanna Jacob … Posh name. I hope she’s not too posh for us. Where does she live? Oh, yes, here it is … Round Ringford. Says here she works at the moment in the Town Hall, but is fed up with sitting in an office all day. Sounds all right?”
“I’ve asked her to come here for interview at eleven o’clock.” Lois looked at her watch. “Just time for a coffee before she arrives. No, stay there, I’ll make it.”
She walked into the tiny kitchen behind the office, and was pleased to see that it was spotless. Hazel was proving a real treasure. She was a good administrator, and her natural acerbic tendencies seemed to have faded with the increased responsibility and respect that went with it.
Hazel smiled to herself. She was not fooled. Mrs. M was checking up on her! Still, she’d do the same if she was the boss. She took the steaming mug, and said, “D’you want me to go upstairs while she’s here?”
Lois shook her head. “No, stay here. Two heads are better than one. But I’ll ask the questions.”
“Of course,” said Hazel, and got up from her desk. “You sit here, Mrs. M. I can see a girl coming down the street, looking for the right place. I’ll be in the corner, where I can take mental notes.”
Lois moved to the seat behind the desk, squared her shoulders and prepared for what she did best: finding out what she wanted to know without any trouble at all.
Across the road, Fergus Forsyth watched from his window as Susanna Jacob halted outside the New Brooms door. “Hello,” he said to himself. “That’s a girl I know, don’t I? Young Jacob? Works at the Town Hall … caught old Howard’s eye?” He chuckled, and had to turn away to answer his persistent telephone.
SIXTEEN
FRIDAY CAME ROUND AGAIN ALL TOO QUICKLY FOR Norman Stevenson. He had spent the week throwing himself into a frenzy of work, checking up on all aspects where fault could be found, and staying in the warehouse office late into the evening. When he finally arrived home each night, to an empty house, he unwrapped his takeaway meal, turned on the television, and sat in a comatose heap until he fell deeply asleep. He did not wake up until the midnight chill forced him out of his chair and into bed.
The nagging pain that knifed him when he thought of the threatening message had refused to go away. The Slaters had denied all knowledge of the letter. Ken had been abrupt and unfriendly. After Norman had read it over a couple of times, he had impulsively torn it into small pieces, but then, in an agony of apprehension in case he should need it, had put the fragments into a small brown envelope, sealed it, and hidden it in his sock drawer.
There was nothing he could do, except put it out of his mind, and this Friday morning, as he lay watching the early morning rain lashing his window, he knew that that would be impossible. The best he could think of would be to fill his life so full that there would be no room for brooding on a malicious anonymous missive. Well, not really anonymous, because he was convinced it had come from Howard. Good old Howard, one of the best, and saviour of the people of Tresham.
His bare foot slipped on the top stair, and he had difficulty regaining his balance. He grabbed the banister and steadied himself. It could be from anyone—his sister in Canada, his old chum who lived in Caithness and occasionally visited him on his way down to London. But neither of them would write in neat capitals. Sprawling black letters, or a typed label, yes, but not a blue ballpoint, clear and legible as a writing exercise on the blackboard.
He took it into the kitchen and considered putting it straight in the bin. But suppose it contained more than an empty threat? He should know what he was up against, in case his plan of action, quickly put together last Friday, should need adjustment.
JUST A REMINDER, NORMAN. AND A SMALL REQUEST. CHECK YOUR BANK BALANCE AND SEE HOW MUCH YOU CAN DONATE TO A WORTHY CHARITY. DETAILS FOLLOW NEXT FRIDAY. AND DON’T FORGET—MOUTH SHUT, NORMAN. OR ELSE.
Norman Stevenson slumped down on a chair and his head fell forward. His hands closed over his ears and he banged his head a couple of times on the hard wooden table. Then his shoulders heaved, and the kitchen was filled with the sound of a large man sobbing with fear.