Fear on Friday

by Ann Purser

  When they were outside on the pavement, Howard looked at Doreen and nodded. Then he turned to the agent, and said, “I’ll be in touch. Quite a bit to be spent on it, so I’ll work out the figures and make an offer. Hold it for us, will you? You know who I am, don’t you? Contact me at the Town Hall. Mayor’s Parlour. Don’t want to bother the little woman with the details, do we, pet?”

  Doreen restrained herself with case this time. She couldn’t believe it was all going so well. Maybe Howard wasn’t a total philistine, after all.

  She watched him drive off, and noticed he had taken the wrong road for Waltonby. A passing suspicion reminded her of his shifty performance at breakfast. He’d probably got another call to make. She looked up and down the street, a villager in spirit if not in fact yet. A familiar car was parked outside the shop, and she saw Bill coming out with a bag of shopping.

  “Hi, Bill!” she called. He stopped and stared, then waved, and walked towards her. “Hello, Mrs. Jenkinson,” he said. He noted her car parked outside Cyril’s, and added, “Glad to see you’ve had a look at the house. What d’you think?”

  “I love it!” Doreen’s face was alive with enthusiasm. “And what’s more, Howard seemed keen too. We’re going to make an offer. It’s bigger than I thought, with those bedrooms in the roof, so I’ll certainly need you to carry on cleaning for us. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your suggestion.”

  “What about the bathroom?” said Bill slyly. “You’ll need to re-do that—install a heart-shaped bath!”

  Doreen was ready for him. “Oh, I dunno,” she said lightly. “I thought maybe a jacuzzi?”

  “Point taken,” said Bill, laughing. “Well, I must be going. Rebecca’ll be home early, and we’re going in to Tresham. Shopping, cinema and meal afterwards. High life for us today. Cheers, Mrs. Jenkinson.”

  “But Bill,” said Doreen, “isn’t Rebecca needed at the Open Evening?” Bill had told her proudly about Rebecca’s teaching job in Waltonby. “Oh, no, that’s next week,” said Bill, leaving her speechless on the pavement.

  HOWARD DROVE AROUND THE BACK STREETS FOR A BIT, until he was sure Doreen would be on her way home, then he cruised back and parked twenty yards or so on from the Forsyths’ house. Daisy opened the door as soon as she saw him at the garden gate. “Howard! How nice of you to call,” she said in a society lady voice. After the door closed behind him, she became her old self.

  “Hey! Watch out,” Howard protested, as she gave him a smacking kiss, leaving lipstick traces that he swiftly rubbed off in front of the hall mirror.

  “Just can’t believe you’re here and all mine again,” she said, grinning apologetically.

  She settled him into a comfortable sofa, and brought in tea. “You’ve remembered my favourites,” he said, selecting a chocolate digestive biscuit.

  “How could I forget?” she said softly, sitting down beside him.

  Later, she told him about the extension and their difficulties with planning permission. As she had hoped, he waved an expansive hand, and said not to worry, he would take care of it. “Leave it to me, Daisy,” he said, relieved that she had not asked for money.

  “We’re trying to tidy up the business, you see,” she confided. “Fergus is fed up, says nobody but his father knows where anything is to be found. Rupert gets cross with him and says he’s an idle boy, but he has agreed to sort out everything with Fergus. And so we’ll need the extra space for getting records and files in order, Rupert says. He’s kept records of every transaction since we started.”

  Was there a tiny hint of a threat? Howard said quickly, “No problem, Daisy dear,” and eased himself out of her front door, looking round furtively to see if anyone was watching. “And I’ll try to call in again soon. Thanks for the tea—the perfect hostess, as always.”

  She blew him a kiss, and shut the door behind him. What a dear old plonker, she thought. Pompous as ever, but still lovable. Besides which, she told herself as she stacked the dishwasher, if entertaining Howard was a means to an end, she was not complaining. And when the planning permission was granted, Rupert would be grateful and make a fuss of her again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH, AND NORMAN STEVENSON woke up feeling terrible. He had, as part of his new fitness regime, played golf yesterday evening with three other friends, and had enjoyed himself. His golf was improving, and he certainly felt belter for the exercise. They had had a bite to eat in the clubhouse, and then he should have come home. But he didn’t. He stayed, playing cards and drinking, until closing time, and his friends had dropped him off outside the house. He’d managed the stairs, and fallen into bed in a more than usually befuddled state.

  Now, his head pounding and feeling sick, he made his way gingerly to the bathroom, and then decided to go downstairs and see if a cup of tea would help. He had forgotten it was Friday the thirteenth.

  As he approached the bottom stair, he noticed the post had come. It must be late, and he wondered whether to call the office and plead sickness. But one of his fellow golfers was a colleague, and would know the truth. He picked up the letters, and was about to put them aside for later, when he drew in his breath sharply, his head swimming. A square white envelope, with his name and address in blue capitals.

  A sudden fierce surge of nausea sent him running to the cloakroom, where he heaved and shuddered for a few agonising minutes. He sank to the floor, his head in his hands, until the cramps ceased. Then he struggled slowly to his feet, picked up the letters from the floor, and tottered into the kitchen. Maybe he would just tear it up and put it straight in the bin. What could Howard do to him now? The threats were empty, surely. He knew as much about Howard as Howard knew about him. He picked up the envelope and twisted it in his hands. On the other hand, Howard had an enormous amount of influence, and he had none. Somehow Howard would be able to wriggle out of any accusations, whereas he would just go under. Old evidence would be resurrected, and he would very likely end up in court—maybe in jail! Serious cases of fraud could end in a jail sentence, couldn’t they?

  He took a knife and slit open the envelope. The neat blue capitals spelled it out: he was to send money—ways and means detailed—to a box number. It was a large amount, but not so large that he would be unlikely to be able to comply. Once more, the message ended with a threat, DO AS YOU ARE TOLD, NORMAN, OR ELSE. That was all. Or else what? Norman did not need to be told.

  He began to shake, and it was not hangover shakes. It was pure fear. The fear of the helpless victim who can only obey. He struggled to his feet again, and went back to bed, pulling the blankets over his head, all thoughts of work gone. He had to think. There was something he could do, and there was now no alternative. Blackmailers never gave up. Even though Howard could not possibly need the money, Norman knew that it was a demonstration of power, the power of the strong man over the weak. Yes, he could afford the few hundred in this demand. But how much next time? His resources were not large, and Howard knew that.

  Norman reached out for a pill, took a swig of water and swallowed it. When he awoke, he would have a shower, get dressed and pull himself together. He would show Howard Jenkinson just who was the stronger of the two. Then a thought struck him. Was it really Howard? He couldn’t quite square Howard with a demand for money. But who else? An unknown enemy was worse. No, nobody else would know about those business irregularities. It must be Howard.

  IN THE SMALL OFFICE IN SEBASTOPOL STREET, HAZEL sorted the post and found no nasty surprises. It was mostly junk mail, with one or two invoices for goods ordered for New Brooms, and a nice letter from a client who was moving away and no longer needed their services. She put that to one side to give to Mrs. M, who had telephoned to say she’d be looking in this morning on her way to market. Hazel smiled. Gran was perfectly capable of doing all the shopping required in the Meade household, and loved an expedition on the bus to Tresham on market days. But Lois reserved this for herself. She seemed determined to keep her feet on domestic ground, reflec
ted Hazel. Just like when I first knew her. It was a small outfit, but Lois ran it with a firm hand even then. She knew exactly what she wanted, and worked hard to make sure her children, husband and the business, all received a share of her attention. Of course, it was better when Gran went to live with them. She was a good old thing, and although she and Lois had sparks between them sometimes, mostly because they were so alike, the arrangement worked well. Hazel looked at her watch. Lizzie was next door, and Maureen usually brought her in to have a kiss and cuddle from Hazel for a few minutes. “Just to remind her I’m not far away,” Hazel had said to Lois, who had nodded and agreed it was a good idea, so long as no clients were in the office. That was Lois all over. First things first. Still, you knew exactly where you were with her.

  Hazel’s reverie was interrupted by Maureen arriving with the baby, and handing her over with a laugh. “She knows now when it’s time to come,” she said. “Began titling a couple of minutes ago. Made it quite plain what she wanted!”

  At that moment, Lois’s van drew up outside, and she walked briskly into the office. “Morning all,” she said, and kissed the baby’s soft cheek. “I’ll bring her back later,” Maureen said quickly, but Lois said, “No, don’t go for a minute or two. I’d like a chat. Why don’t we all sit down and have a coffee? And Lizzie can have some juice, can’t she?”

  Hazel was puzzled. Lois was not a known fan of small babies, and usually had no time for socialising in the office. An ulterior motive?

  “I haven’t had much of a chance to get to know you,” Lois said in a friendly fashion to Maureen. “How’s it working out with young Lizzie here? She’s certainly growing fast!”

  Maureen said all the right things, and then Lois asked her how long she had lived next door. “Three years,” she replied. “My mum lives a couple of doors up. She’s a big help when I’ve got a lot of work on.”

  “Work?” said Lois quickly. “You mean looking after children?”

  Maureen shook her head. “No, I think I told you. I do outwork sewing. Garments and things. The money’s quite good, and I do it in my own time.”

  “How interesting,” said Lois, although Hazel thought she couldn’t imagine anything more boring. She supposed Maureen had to take on anything that supplemented her meagre income.

  “Remind me, what kind of garments?” asked Lois, keeping the subject going. “Designer work, is it? One-offs for the very rich?”

  Maureen laughed. “No, not really. Mind you, some of the clients might be very rich for all I know. They have very squashy cars, some of ‘em. I see them coming and going across the road.”

  Lois smiled. “Ah, now I remember. The stuff for Rain or Shine? Shiny macs, frilly aprons, nurses’ uniforms, that sort of thing?”

  Maureen nodded. “Very quirky, some of it. Still, there’s no accounting for taste, and so long as the money comes in, it’s none of my business.” She got up, saying, “Well, I’d better be taking Miss Lizzie back. Time for her rest. Come on, sweetheart, come with Auntie Maureen. We’ll see Mummy later. Bye, then. Bye, Mrs. Meade.”

  “Nice to talk to you,” Lois smiled. “See you again, I expect.”

  Hazel narrowed her eyes and looked at Lois. “What’re you after, Mrs. M? Don’t tell me all that was just polite interest. You got something going with Cowgill again?”

  There was a touch of envy in Hazel’s voice. She missed her own association with Cowgill, the edge of excitement in providing him with information that only she knew how to find. Still, she had plenty to do at home now, with husband and baby, and her job here in Sebastopol Street. “Not that you’re going to tell me if you have,” she added. Lois laughed. “That’s right,” she said. “Now, what’ve you got in the post?” Hazel showed her the nice letter, and they agreed that it made it all worthwhile. A few minutes later, Lois said she’d better get going, else all the bargains would have gone, and disappeared.

  A car went slowly past Rain or Shine, and Hazel got up to look out of the window. It was a large one, and familiar. Yep, it had the town crest on the side, and stopped up the road. It was there for only a few minutes, and when the errand was done it moved off at speed. He’s playing with fire, muttered Hazel, and returned to her desk.

  IN THE STUFFY INTERIOR OF RAIN OR SHINE, FERGUS Forsyth opened the note the chauffeur had brought and was puzzled. An invitation to meet the Mayor at a reception for local business people next week. Why on earth should he be invited? Surely His Worship would want to keep him as far away from the Town Hall as possible. Anyway, it should be Dad going along. He’s the boss. Fergus scratched his head. Very odd. Oh well, he’d talk to Dad about it. Maybe he’d have a clue what was behind it. He stuck the note in his jacket pocket and got on with sorting a new delivery.

  TWENTY-TWO

  JEAN SLATER WALKED ALONG THE CORRIDORS OF THE stately Victorian Town Hall, carrying a sheaf of papers. It was the second year that Howard had organised a reception for the business worthies of the town. Or rather, thought Jean bitterly, that she had organised it. Howard had waved his hands around a lot, issuing ideas and orders and lists of dos and don’ts. It was her job to sort this out, and present him with a plan for the event which appeared to be lavish and generous, but was, in fact, all done on a light budget.

  The guest list this year had increased, and Jean was finding it difficult to keep within the allotted finance. She reached the Mayor’s Parlour, and went straight into Howard without knocking. He was on his feet, staring out of the window. He turned rapidly, and seeing that it was her, said, “Ah, there you are, Jean. I didn’t hear you knock. Now, sit down. I have something to tell you.”

  He had made up his mind. As he had not long to go in this term of office, he had evolved a plan which he congratulated himself was very cunning.

  “You’re looking tired, my dear,” he began.

  “So would you, Howard, if you had a husband and a job to cope with, and never quite enough money to go round.” She knew immediately what he was about, and decided to forestall him. “If I didn’t have this job—which I hope you’ll agree that I do very efficiently—it would be hard for us to make ends meet. I don’t suppose Ken ever mentions it. Beneath his dignity! But it’s true. I hope you’ve no fault to find with my work, Howard?”

  “Of course not,” he said swiftly. “But I have been thinking about you. I often do, you know. Think about ways of lightening your load here in the office. Now, what do you think of this? We will get you some help, an assistant. I intend to round off my term with a bevy of engagements and activities for the good people of Tresham to remember me by! So there’ll be more for you to do. Too much, I think, to ask of you. I am well aware of how little you are paid. So I have decided to supplement that with a small honorarium from me personally. Then I shall request an assistant for the extra amount of work, and push that through the necessary channels with no difficulty. I have a girl in mind …”

  I am sure you have, most of the time, thought Jean sourly. “Oh yes,” she said. “Who’s that then? Susanna Jacob?”

  Howard sniffed, and did not reply. “All settled then?” he said, after a moment.

  “Except for the small honorarium from you personally,” said Jean flatly. “No thanks. Not in a million years, Howard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make some telephone calls. I’ll have a final report on arrangements for this evening’s reception for you this afternoon.”

  She walked away with a straight, stiff back, and closed the door quietly behind her.

  Howard sighed. That had not gone quite as he’d planned, but at least she hadn’t turned down the assistant idea. He cheered up. Now, he must get that going as soon as possible. He picked up the telephone.

  • • •

  RUPERT FORSYTH HAD BEEN AS PUZZLED AS HIS SON over the invitation to the Mayor’s reception. He knew such things happened, but never dreamt his business would be included on the list. And why Fergus? He was known to many people in Tresham, being the front man, as it were, for Rain or Shine. Had it anything
to do with Daisy’s scheme for persuading Howard Jenkinson to help them with planning permission?

  “Daisy?” She was ironing in the kitchen, and listening to the radio. It was the afternoon play, and she turned to him, frowning him into silence. He waited until it had finished, then asked her if she had any clues as to why Rain or Shine should be honoured by the Mayor in this way.

  She folded a shirt neatly, and shook her head. “God knows,” she said. “Doesn’t sound like Howard, does it? Anyway, things are different these days. Different attitudes, an’ that. Maybe he wants to show how broad-minded and sophisticated he is!”

  “Nonsense!” Rupert was irritated by her light-hearted reaction. He smelled a rat, but couldn’t place it.

  “Oh, don’t be silly, Rupert,” Daisy said. “It’ll be nice for Fergus, won’t it? He can mix with the high and mighty, and maybe do a bit of business on the side. No doubt that’s part of the reason for the whole thing. You know, like Rotary and them.” Rupert had never attempted to join the Rotary Club, though several of its august members were well known to him.

  “I suppose so,” he said. It was no good worrying about it. “I just hope he behaves himself,” he said, and left her to the ironing.

  FERGUS HAD TAKEN GREAT TROUBLE WITH HIS APPEARANCE, and set off for the Town Hall feeling quite pleased with himself. He’d had his hair cut, shaved off his designer stubble, and had his one good grey suit cleaned and pressed. A modest old school tie completed the respectable conservative impression he wished to give, and he walked into Reception with a jaunty air.

  “Up stairs, turn right, and you’ll see the others,” said the friendly receptionist. Fergus nodded his thanks, winked at her, and set off up the wide stone staircase. An attractive girl with a clipboard stood at the door to the large, oak-panelled room, with its long, velvet-curtained windows looking over Tresham. Standing by one of the windows was Howard, monarch of all he surveyed.