by Ann Purser
Then came the family, and a respectful hush fell upon the watchers. At the head of the group was Doreen, immaculate, very upright and dignified. Her face was blank, expressionless. With her the next two generations, some dabbing their eyes. “But who’s that next to her?” said Lois curiously.
Gran shook her head. “Don’t know—maybe her sister?”
Lois looked closer as the group passed by, and recognised Jean Slater, the mayor’s secretary, who’d once called in at the office to rearrange dates for Bill, when Howard and Doreen were away on holiday. Must be very close to Doreen, then. There had been rumours about Howard and his secretary some while ago, but it looked as if they were false.
“That’s the mayor’s Deputy, young John Middleton,” said Gran, fount of all knowledge. “He’ll take over, I expect.”
“Little short, fat bloke.” Lois could not resist. “He’ll need a new robe, then.”
Gran bit back a reply, and concentrated on the procession of Councillors, their local MP, and other worthies, all wearing black rosettes according to the rules laid down. It was a very splendid, solemn occasion, and Gran fumbled for her handkerchief.
“Mum!” said Lois, “what’re you doing? You didn’t know him, never even met him! And from what we hear, he wasn’t worth shedding a tear over.”
“Sshh, Lois! That’s really enough,” Gran said, and turned away, to push her way back to the market place. She stumbled, and accidentally pushed the tall man in front of her off the pavement into the gutter. He had a hat pulled down over his face, and looked a bit like a tramp in his long, shabby coat. “Oh, goodness,” Gran said, “so sorry! I overbalanced … I’m really sorry …”
The man turned around and smiled briefly. “No problem,” he said. “Just take it steady.”
Gran muttered her thanks, adding, “We’ve got some shopping to do.” But the man had slipped quickly away into the crowds.
As they walked through to the market, Lois frowned. “Mum,” she said, “have you seen that man before? He was familiar, somehow …”
Her mother shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “Nobody I know.”
Then it dawned on Lois. It was his voice. Though he hadn’t said much, she knew the voice. And the last time she had heard it, it had been on the telephone, asking her if she would take on a snooping job. Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt a stab of alarm.
“Come on, then, Lois,” Gran said, quite restored. “Step out. I’m in the shop this afternoon, while Josie goes to the wholesaler.” Lois quickened her pace, following her mother into the crowded Market Square. Who was that man? How far had he come for the funeral, if it was the same man? An old friend of the family, now out of favour? Bill might have an idea, maybe had heard something. Bill had got quite close to Mrs. Jenkinson, supporting her in all kinds of ways, as well as keeping her house clean. And then there was that dirty den of Howard’s. Yes, Bill might well have a suggestion who might want to see without being seen.
• • •
NORMAN STEVENSON WAS TOO HOT IN THE COAT, BUT kept it on. He’d been careful to look as uninteresting and insignificant as possible. The sun shone cheerfully, and Norman reflected that funerals should have rain, and a cold wind that would carry off aged relatives. Norman had not shed a tear, and nor, he’d noticed, did any of the watchers. Except that little woman who shoved him into the gutter. She was the only person he spoke to, and he returned to the station and caught the next train home. He was not at all sure why he had been there. It was a long journey for the sake of fifteen minutes staring at the long procession. Just to make sure, he supposed. Doreen had impressed him. No veiled, sorrowing face for her. She had been dry-eyed, and had no doubt sanctioned all the trappings of the ceremony. She would have known without question that Howard would have wanted as much pomp and circumstance as possible. Good old Doreen.
Norman went to sleep on the train, and awoke just in time to alight. He felt light-headed with relief, now that no more of those letters would land on his doormat. Not even Howard could send blackmailing messages from the other side.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A FEW WEEKS LATER, BUT NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME, Norman woke up sweating and shaking. He had dreamt that Howard had appeared at the foot of his bed, smiling that mirthless smile of his, and holding out his hand. In it, a white envelope with blue capitals gleamed in a ghostly, sunless light. He had screamed, and then awoke. Now he lay looking at the comforting reality of sunbeams penetrating the gap in his curtains and calmed down, reassured once again by the memory of that long coffin with its lifeless occupant. One who could threaten him no more.
It was time he got up. He switched on his bedside radio and listened to jaunty voices conveying disaster and a leaven of feel-good stories. Nothing could depress him now. Howard was gone, gone for good.
Only one more day at work, and then the weekend. Norman had his eye on a new girl he had met in the pub, and meant to her give a ring. If he read the signs right, she might well be willing to come to the golf club dinner dance with him. Just as a friend, to give him the status of a couple, instead of a deserted husband. And then who knew what might develop? He pulled on his dressing-gown and fumbled in last night’s jacket pocket, pulling out the scrap of paper where the girl had written her telephone number. What was her name? Heather? Hannah? Something like that. He set off down the stairs, laughing at his faulty memory. Halfway down, his laughter dried up. He swayed, and clutched the banister with both hands. It couldn’t be … It was not possible.
Galvanised by fear, he ran down the last few steps and stared at the door mat, where a scattering of letters waited for him. As if a spotlight had been trained on it, Norman’s horrified eyes saw a square, white envelope with blue capitals. “No, God, no!” he yelled, and sank to his knees, picking up the envelope and tearing it unopened into half a dozen small pieces.
The telephone rang. Norman rose up unsteadily and staggered towards it. He caught his slipper in the edge of the mat, and fell heavily, descending into blessed blackness as his head slammed against his pottery umbrella stand. The little figures sculpted on the sides of the heavy stand, each carrying an umbrella and sheltering from a downpour, stared at him with eternal smiles, uncaring and dry as a bone.
“Hello? Hello?” The busty blonde, who had kept Norman company the evening before, shrugged and muttered, “Oh, well, tick that one off, Hattie dear,” and put down the phone.
It was Friday, of course.
TWENTY-NINE
DOREEN AND JEAN STOOD IN THE BARE SITTING ROOM of the now nearly empty Jenkinson house and stared out of the windows into the garden. It looked exactly the same as always, now that the police had finished and gone away. “That pond,” Doreen said. “I never liked it. He loved those enormous great fish. I thought they were sinister.”
“I expect they’d have eaten him, if he’d been in there much longer,” said Jean reflectively. An eavesdropper would have been aghast at her lack of sensitivity.
Doreen just shrugged. “Fair enough, really, Jean,” she said. “We eat fish, so why shouldn’t they eat us?”
They turned away from the window and walked together out of the room.
“What did you do with all that stuff in his den?” Jean was curious. That young bloke who cleaned for the Jenkinsons had helped Doreen with boxes and boxes of very dubious videos and photographs. Jean had been amazed at how sanguine Doreen had seemed, when the whole distasteful truth had come out about Howard’s liking for the merchandise offered by Rain or Shine. The family had agreed to keep it as quiet as possible, and hoped that nothing would become public. It had been a while since the photograph of Howard and Fergus Forsyth had appeared in the newspaper.
“Bill offered to take it away. Said he could destroy the whole lot for me, so I let him. I was glad to see the back of it.”
“And of Howard?” said Jean.
“Don’t know what you mean,” said Doreen, meeting Jean’s eye with a straight look. “Fancy a glass of wine before you go? Might h
elp us to keep our eyes on the ball.” Jean had spent as much time as possible since the funeral with Doreen, and their leisurely games of golf gave an opportunity for Doreen to talk and Jean to listen. They both had a lot to talk about, of course.
The move to Long Farnden had been postponed, and many of her friends had advised Doreen to back out of the whole thing. “Stay where you are, dear,” they said, “until you have time to decide what you really want to do.” Doreen was quite certain what she wanted to do. She wanted to leave this too-large house, with all its associations, and start a new life. That is what she had planned from the beginning, and Howard’s death had not changed her mind. As soon as it was decently possible, she had set in motion once more the half-finished arrangements.
Now she and Jean linked arms and set off for the remaining few bottles of wine that Doreen had reserved. The rest of the stuff had been loaded on to removal lorries and was due in Long Farnden next day.
“It’ll be a long day tomorrow,” Doreen said, pouring out two generous slugs of wine into plastic tooth mugs.
“Don’t worry,” said Jean. “Ken and me’ll be there to help you. You can get it all just as you like it.”
“I hope so,” said Doreen, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.
• • •
“SO YOU‘LL BE BUSY WITH THE JENKINSON MOVE ALL day tomorrow,” said Lois, sitting opposite Bill in her office in Long Farnden. He nodded, and there was a pause. “So why did you want to see me, Mrs. M?” he said.
“Well, it’s not much really,” Lois said. “I’ve just got this feeling …”
Bill sat up straighter. “Ah,” he said. “A feeling that something’s wrong? Police still investigating? Mrs. M not far behind?” Lois did not smile, and Bill wondered if he had gone too far. You never knew with Mrs. M. She took her cleaning business very seriously, and it followed that her long-standing association with old Cowgill was serious, too.
“I’m worried, Bill,” she said finally. “I had an anonymous call just before our late Mayor snuffed it, asking if I could do some private-eye stuff on him. I sent him packing and then forgot about it.” This was not strictly true, but it was near enough. She then told him about the funeral procession and the man whose voice she had recognised. And then, this morning, a very groggy sounding voice, but the same, she was sure, had called and asked if New Brooms was a detective agency. “When I snapped back that it certainly wasn’t, he sort of groaned and put clown the phone. What the hell’s going on, Bill? If it was the one who wanted me to snoop on Howard Jenkinson, what did he want this time, now Howard’s dead?”
“An old enemy, maybe,” said Bill. “Scores to settle—money owing—something like that?” Lois stared at him, and he realised that this was indeed serious. “So what do you want from me?” he said.
“Just to know if you’ve spotted anything in the Jenkinsons’ house, anything that Doreen has said, to give us a clue about this man. Any letters left lying about that you have accidentally run your eye over before replacing.”
“Mrs. M!” said Bill, in mock affront.
“Yes, well,” said Lois. “Think back, Bill. Can you remember anything?”
“Not really,” he said slowly. “It was all porno stuff in the den. All pretty mild, really, but not the sort of thing the Mayor of Tresham would want revealed to his adoring public. Or have his wife know about, come to that.” He thought for a moment, and then added, “It was a surprise, you know, how well Doreen took it. I was there when we opened up the room, and she seemed almost amused. Strange, when you think what kind of woman she is. Respectable grandmother, pillar of the golf club, charity coffee mornings, all that.”
“Women are full of surprises,” said Lois, smiling suddenly at stocky, straightforward Bill sitting across from her. “Well, anyway, if you remember anything, let me know. And keep your eyes and ears open, won’t you.”
Bill got up, relieved to be dismissed. He was more at ease with a sick sheep than this kind of thing. But he had a great respect for Lois, and would do, more or less, anything legal to help her.
“Cheerio, then,” he said. “And watch your back.”
NORMAN STEVENSON WALKED SHAKILY BACK AND FORTH in his sitting room, fortified by a couple of glasses of wine, trying to think. He had a fleeting cautionary thought that perhaps he should have tried something to eat as well, but his stomach turned at this, and he promised himself a good meal this evening. His head hurt, and he could feel a bump like an egg. If sleep would come, he would rest until lunchtime, and then force himself to get up and make a couple more calls. He needed more information, and Ken Slater would be the one to supply it. Good old Ken. And Jean, too, of course.
It had been Howard who had introduced Ken to him on the golf course, and they’d met a number of times after that. Several rounds of golf, when Ken had been up in the area. Funny that, he remembered, as he climbed back into bed. Old Ken had seemed such a dry sort, but he’d surprised the chaps with a few jars inside him! Brilliant shot, apparently, and had got into a long, incomprehensible conversation with a couple of fellow shooters at the bar. He picked up the pieces of the envelope and put them on the kitchen table, then went slowly upstairs.
His troubled sleep was broken by a sharp knocking. He looked at the bedside clock. Oh damn! It was two o’clock, and he remembered an appointment he’d made at the office for two thirty. He scrambled out of bed, legs trembling, and made his way downstairs. It was his loyal secretary once more, her face anxious and concerned.
“Come in, dear,” he said. “Sit yourself down, and I’ll get dressed quickly. I can move when I want to!”
His bravado did not deceive his secretary, but she nodded. “I’ll drive you back to the office,” she said. “You don’t look in a fit state to be in charge of a pram, let alone a car. Are you sure you want to come? I can make some excuse …”
“Wait there,” said Norman. “Or go into the kitchen and make yourself a cup of tea.”
He disappeared upstairs, and she went through to the kitchen. The torn up envelope lay like jigsaw pieces on the table, and she idly pieced them together. Then she saw that the letter had not been taken out, and extracted the small squares, assembling them. It took only seconds, and she read the message, THIS IS THE LAST YOU‘LL HEAR FROM ME. IT‘S BEEN NICE KNOWING YOU. That was all. Nothing urgent there, then. Norman had not even bothered to open the envelope, so he must have known the contents already.
She heard his footsteps descending, and quickly scrambled the pieces all together in a heap. “I’ve made us both a quick cup,” she said. “And phoned the office to tell them we’ll be late. The client hasn’t arrived yet, so we’re okay. Oh, and do you want these scraps? I’ve muddled them up, I’m afraid.”
Norman looked at them sideways, and said firmly, “No, chuck them in the bin. And thanks, dear. What would I do without you?”
“God knows,” said the secretary, and threw the torn letter in with the remains of several of Norman’s disgusting instant meals.
THIRTY
MOVING DAY DAWNED. THE REMOVAL VANS WERE ALREADY packed, but a final, smaller one, arrived to pick up the last bits and pieces. They came early, and Doreen was ready for them. She had hardly slept, but had spent most of the night walking around the house, grappling with haunting memories and trying to imagine what it would be like living on her own in the old house in Long Farnden. She had finally collapsed on to an old sofa that was destined for the dump, and had dozed fitfully until pigeons tuning up outside had intruded into a near-nightmare involving Howard and water and fish. She was relieved not to see it out to its grisly end, and made herself a cup of strong tea with lots of sugar.
“Ugh!” she said to Jean, who, with Ken, arrived on the back doorstep at the exact time they had arranged.
Jean laughed. “Tip it out, and I’ll make some coffee. Ken, you can—” But Ken was already carrying boxes and garden tools to the van, chatting with the driver and generally making a gallant effort to brighten the day for Doree
n.
After the first half hour, he realised there was no need. Doreen was excited, rushing around checking that nothing had been forgotten, and then, at last, closing up the house, locking the doors, and jumping into her car as if off on a luxury cruise.
“She didn’t look back at all,” said Jean, who had turned round to check that Doreen was following them. “Not at all.”
“No,” said Ken. “Well, would you?”
“THERE THEY ARE,” SAID JOSIE TO HER MOTHER. THEY were standing inside the shop, but with a good vantage point for watching the arrival of the widow Jenkinson and her friends.
“There’s three of them,” Lois said. “I think that’s the secretary, Jean Slater, and the bloke must be her husband. Bill’s in the house already, waiting for them. Mrs. Jenkinson is relying on him quite a bit at present.”
“So does that make things awkward for New Brooms?” Josie said.
Lois shook her head. “Not now that Susanna is with us,” she said. “She’s doing well, so I can use her a lot. There was some problem when she left the Town Hall—some kind of illness. But she’s fine now. I’m keeping an eye on her, though.”
“Bit snotty, isn’t she?” Josie said, moving away from the window, and busying herself behind the counter. “She came in for some stamps, and Gran said she was a bit buttoned up.”
Lois laughed. “Just because she didn’t join in the gossip club, I expect. She’s had the warning, like all the team. Not that they all take much notice, but Susanna’s new and keen.” She too turned away from the scene of activity, and picked up her bag. “Better be off on my rounds,” she said.
“First stop Cyril’s old house?” Josie said with a sly look.
“Well, naturally,” Lois said. “It’s only polite to pop in and see how they’re getting on, isn’t it?”