Fear on Friday

by Ann Purser

  Josie just looked at her, and Lois left, grinning broadly.

  She walked briskly across the road, and encountered Doreen. “Be with you in a minute!” she said to Lois. “Do go in, Mrs. Meade. You’ll find Bill in there somewhere!”

  Lois hovered for a moment, then walked into the crowded front hall. It was the usual scene of house-moving: boxes everywhere, carefully labelled, some half-empty, with piles of newspaper and bubble-wrap cluttering up every space.

  “Sorry about that,” said Doreen, following close behind. “So much to do, Mrs. Meade.” But she sounded cheerful and competent.

  Well, thought Lois, hardly the grieving widow. “You seem to be managing very well, Mrs. Jenkinson,” she said. “I just called to see if you needed any help—not just from New Brooms, but from the village in general. We like to make newcomers welcome.”

  This was a lie, of course. Newcomers were regarded with deep suspicion by most in the village, especially the old guard, the families who had been in Farnden for generations. Still, Lois had every reason to be different. She had a natural gift for good public relations. Then there was the village shop, desperately in need of custom, and just keeping its head above water. If Mrs. Jenkinson could be snared, if only for one or two of the specialities that Josie now stocked, then it might encourage others.

  “That’s really kind of you,” Doreen said. “But so far, my friends, Jean and Ken, have been great, and your Bill is a tower of strength. Ah, Jean, there you are, come and meet Mrs. Meade.”

  “My daughter runs the shop over the way,” Lois persisted, “and she has various services, as well as the post office. Clothes cleaned, shoes mended. You name it, Josie’s got it. I heard that even the police are setting up mini-stations in village post offices. Mind you, I hope you won’t need that! Crime in Long Farnden is not exactly rife …”

  Another lie. Lois had been involved over the years in no less than four serious cases in the area, and was beginning to think that fate sent them her way, knowing her fondness for amateur sleuthing. But the latest, Howard Jenkinson, had died in Tresham, and she’d not heard from Cowgill for sure that anything sinister had plunged him head first into the fish pond. So that didn’t count.

  Bill came from the depths of the crowded house, and looked anxiously at Lois. “Did you want me, Mrs. M?”

  “Nothing urgent, Bill,” she said. “Just wishing Mrs. Jenkinson well. But if you could look in on your way home, there are a couple of things I need to tell you.” Bill nodded, and disappeared again. “So I’ll be off now, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Lois continued. “Goodbye for now, and don’t forget, I’m just up the street, and Josie’s in the shop.” She smiled at Jean Slater and the man who stood at her elbow, and made her way out and up the street.

  As she opened her gate and walked up to collect her car, she pondered on the odd fact that neither Mrs. Slater nor her husband had reciprocated her smile.

  RUPERT AND DAISY FORSYTH HAD CERTAINLY NOT turned up to welcome Doreen Jenkinson to Long Farnden. Both were very aware of her presence, and intended to steer well clear of her. Howard’s association with Rain or Shine was now more or less common knowledge, and the general opinion seemed to be that Fergus and his shop had led the Mayor astray. Daisy privately wondered what Doreen herself thought. There was not much chance that she would gel to ask her.

  “I wonder if she’ll join the WI?” Daisy said fearfully. She herself was a new and not very keen member, and wondered if she should retire gracefully in case Doreen joined. “She’s just the sort,” she continued. “Bossy and confident. Good at making jam, turning the heel of a sock, conducting a meeting, arranging flowers.” She broke into a hearty, throaty chuckle. “All the things I loathe! No, I shouldn’t miss it if I never went again.”

  “I don’t know why you joined in the first place,” Rupert said.

  “Because that Mrs. Weedon in the shop asked me so nicely, I couldn’t refuse,” Daisy replied. “And anyway, I’m being a bit unfair. They do have more interesting things these days, some of the time. Like playing Scrabble, and learning how to gift-wrap presents, and watching holiday slides …” She was off again.

  Rupert shrugged. “You’re hopeless, Daisy,” he said. “How are we ever going to be accepted as a respectable couple here?”

  “That’s your problem,” Daisy said. “I shan’t change. And Fergus takes after me, luckily for you. Now, isn’t it time you got going on answering letters? Looks like there’s one from the council in that lot. Might be some news on our extension.”

  BILL TAPPED ON LOIS‘S FRONT DOOR, AND WENT IN. HE found Lois in her office, and she told him to sit down. “All going well?” she said. He said it was, and could she make it snappy as he had to be at the vets in half an hour.

  “Right,” Lois said. “Anything to report? Any clues about that stranger who makes anonymous telephone calls and turned up at Howard’s funeral?”

  Bill hesitated. “Yes?” Lois said.

  “Well, there was a call came into the house this morning. I answered it, and a man’s voice with a really phony Welsh accent asked for Mrs. Slater. I asked his name, and he didn’t answer at first. Then he said ‘Jones.’ So I fetched her, and she rushed to the phone. Shut the door in my face, and was in there, talking, for quite a while. Could be nothing but it was a bit strange. If he was a Welshman, I’m Irish. Must’ve known Mrs. Slater would be there, and on the very morning Mrs. Jenkinson moved in. I saw Mrs. J looking several times towards the telephone room, but Mrs. Slater didn’t say anything when she emerged. Just glowered at her husband. Anyway, as I say, it was probably something personal. But I thought I’d mention—”

  “Quite right,” Lois said. “Anything more?” Bill shook his head.

  “Fine,” she said. “Off you go then, Bill. And let me know if there’s anything else.”

  Dismissed, thought Bill, and grinned. “Probably see you tomorrow, then,” he said. “I’ll be back at the house in the morning. Should get it all sorted for her then.”

  Lois watched him get into his car and speed away. It had indeed been a strange story. Perhaps time to put in a call to Cowgill. She turned and picked up her phone.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “THANKS FOR TELLING ME. SO NOW WE KNOW,” SAID Lois. “His Worship the Mayor was done to death by persons or fish unknown.”

  Hunter Cowgill’s voice on the other end of the line was stern. “It is no laughing matter, Lois,” he said. “And we are well on with our investigations.”

  “So you don’t need me?”

  “Of course I—we—need you, Lois. There are a number of areas where we need to fill in gaps.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, all right, Lois. Like who killed him.”

  “Ah.” Lois smiled to herself. “Right then. Listen to this and see if it helps at all.” She filled him in on the latest on the mystery caller. “I’m sure it was the same man. It can’t be beyond the wit of your lads to find out where the call came from?”

  “Do you have an idea, Lois?” Cowgill was suspicious. “Arc you keeping something from me … some hunch, maybe?”

  Lois was silent for a few seconds. Then she said, “Well, since you ask, there is something else, something to do with Jean Slater and her husband—Ken, I think he’s called. She was Jenkinson’s secretary, wasn’t she? If she had a long conversation with this phony Welshman, what was it all about? And why were she and her Ken plainly not pleased to see me?”

  “Odd,” said Cowgill. “We questioned both of them thoroughly, of course. They couldn’t have been more helpful. Jean Slater was very upset, and her husband loo, since he was a very old friend of Jenkinson. Schoolboys together, apparently.”

  “Yes, well,” said Lois. “I think there’s more for me to do there. I might just pop in again tomorrow. A message for Bill. Aren’t you lucky to have an informant with such easy access?”

  “I know when I’m lucky, Lois,” said Cowgill quietly. Just to speak to her on the telephone made him feel it was his lucky day. He
sighed. “How’s Derek?” he said politely.

  “As if you care,” said Lois, and signed off.

  NORMAN STEVENSON WAS NOT MUCH REASSURED AFTER his call to Jean Slater. She had been incommunicative and said it was difficult to talk properly. She’d whispered that she didn’t want Doreen to hear. “She’s got enough to worry about without you and your troubles. We never talk about you. No fond memories of Norman Stevenson for her, I’m afraid, after that business with Howard … and the rest.” He could hardly hear her but he’d managed to keep her answering his questions for quite a while, then she’d slammed down the phone. But the big question, the explanation for the blackmailing messages, especially the last, had been unanswered.

  Jean had said she had no idea, but was sure that Howard would never have sent them at all. Norman had repeated that his ex-boss and adversary had had a long-standing hold over him, and was quite capable of torturing him for fun. Jean had snorted, and said he was talking rubbish. She had been Howard’s secretary for a very long time, and knew him better than anybody. Better than Doreen, probably. And blackmail was not his style. Shiny macs with naked blondes inside them, yes. But white envelopes and blue capitals, no.

  Norman had said he knew all about the shiny macs. Howard had got him in on all that, and he couldn’t deny that it had been fun. “But it wasn’t that he threatened me with,” he had said to Jean. “It was the business scandal, all those years ago.” At this point Jean had snapped, “Well, why don’t you call the police?” He had replied that she knew very well why, and then she’d hung up on him.

  Now Norman sat dejectedly in his grubby kitchen and tried to think. If those letters were going to continue, he’d soon be bankrupt. He had been so sure it was Howard. The man was a ruthless bully and always had been, even at school. He’d got his fun from tormenting the weakest. And then he’d succeeded in everything, got all that he wanted, including Doreen, who’d been one of the nicest and prettiest girls around town. Howard had beaten him in that race, too. And then she’d stuck to him, though there must have been times …

  But now he was faced with an even more fearful thought. Somebody else knew about the scandal, and hated him enough to put him through hell. It was before Jean Slater’s time, but of course Howard could have told her about it. Did she and Ken need money? No, surely not. He had a good, steady job, and they had had no children. She was earning, and they had few expenses, as far as he knew. So it was another, unknown person. Somehow the thought was more frightening than anything. At least he knew where Howard was. Or used to be. Now he hoped the Mayor had gone to his own version of Hell. The bugger deserved it. No, an unknown person could be anywhere. Could turn up at the door, pushing his way in, threatening God knows what.

  Norman’s heart began to pound, and he stood up, looking out into the back garden, as if the bushes might conceal a lurking stranger, bristling with gun and knife.

  Suddenly a sharp knocking on his front door caused him to sway in terror. He wouldn’t answer. He hid in a corner where he could not be seen through the window and prayed for the caller to go away. But the knocking was repeated, more insistently this time. Norman groaned, and went through to the hall. Through the glass door, he could see the outline of a man … a policeman. Oh my God, what had they found out? He opened the door and stood speechless in front of a fresh-faced young cop.

  “Mr. Stevenson?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I have a word, sir?”

  “What about?”

  “We have found an abandoned car, wrecked I’m afraid, on the waste ground up by the cinema. Joy riders again. All the hallmarks. A lot of it about, sir. We’ve traced the number, and it looks like it’s yours?”

  When Norman looked past him, out into the drive where his car should have been, he saw it was not there. It was the final straw, and, much to the embarrassment of the young policeman, he burst into tears.

  THIRTY-TWO

  HAZEL AND MAUREEN STOOD BY THE WINDOW OF New Brooms’ office, idly talking, and watching the comings and goings across the road. “Looks as if young Fergus has done well out of Jenkinson turning up his toes,” Hazel said. “Free publicity, and all that.”

  Maureen laughed. “I reckon all them closet weirdos reckon what’s good enough for the Mayor of Tresham is good enough for them,” she said. “And, hey, look, there’s a woman going in, bold as brass!”

  “Well, why not? I suppose we can indulge our fantasies just as well as the blokes. But wait a minute, Maureen … don’t we know that smart lady?”

  Both peered across, as a tall, neatly dressed woman disappeared inside Rain or Shine. “I know who that is,” Hazel said. “Seen her in Long Farnden, helping the widow move into Cyril’s old house. It’s Mrs. Slater, her that was secretary to the Mayor. Doreen Jenkinson’s bosom pal.”

  “Maybe it’s bosoms she’s after,” Maureen said, and they both hooted with laughter.

  “Morning, girls, what’s the joke?” It was Lois, who’d parked round the corner and crept up on them. Maureen smiled nervously and left, saying she must go and relieve her mother, who was looking after the babies.

  “That was a sneaky entrance, Mrs. M,” said Hazel, not in the least put out. “There we were, wasting time, watching the passing entertainment in Sebastopol Street, and laughing our heads off. How are you this morning?”

  “Just watch it, young Hazel,” Lois said pleasantly. “What’s been going on then, across the road?” The street was empty now, and Lois sat down behind the desk, establishing her authority.

  “It’s not just this morning,” Hazel replied, “but these days there’s a fairly steady stream of customers for Fergus Forsyth. Rain or Shine is the ‘in’ place to go. By Appointment to His Worship the Mayor. Anyway, it was something Maureen said about bosoms. Belonging to that Mrs. Slater, the Mayor’s secretary and one or two other things, according to gossip. She just went in. I expect we’ll see her come out again, if we keep our eyes open.”

  UNAWARE OF THE WATCHERS, JEAN SLATER FOLLOWED Fergus into the back room of the shop, and sat down on a stool among piled-up boxes of goodies. “He’s about to crack, Fergus,” she said. “He sounded terrible on the phone. Who the hell has been sending those letters? I think we have to find out, and soon. The poor sod needs some help.”

  “Yes, well, if he gets carted off to some clinic, who knows what he might say about Howard? Could be difficult for you.” Fergus frowned. “Where can we start?” he added. “Haven’t you got any ideas? You were closest to the old bugger. Was it him?”

  Jean shook her head. “No,” she said firmly. “Not in a million years. Howard would not have stooped that low. For all his faults—which were many—he was not a blackmailer. No, it’s someone very clever. Someone who knows Norman Stevenson would never go to the police. Ever since his brush with the law over that embezzlement charge, he’s kept his head down. And needs to keep it down.”

  “So it’s somebody who needs money?”

  “Not necessarily,” Jean said, and got to her feet. “I must be going. Doreen needs my help still, so I’m off to Long Farnden. Is your mother at home? I might call in and say hello.”

  “Mum’s mostly there,” Fergus said. “And Dad. Mind you, he’s not the most cheery of men at the moment. Still, Mum’ll be glad to see you.”

  Jean came out of Rain or Shine, and paused, looking over at New Brooms. She took a step into the road, as if to approach the office where Lois and Hazel sat watching, but then apparently changed her mind and went back up the street at a smart pace.

  “Well,” said Lois, “that was a turn up. What did she want with Fergus Forsyth?”

  “Unfinished business, maybe,” Hazel suggested. She thought it wiser not to mention bosoms.

  DAISY AND RUPERT FORSYTH WERE IN THE GARDEN, INSPECTING a new rose bush that looked more dead than alive, when Jean Slater stopped her car and came over to greet them. “Morning!” she said.

  Daisy looked delighted, and opened the gate. “Come in, Jean, come and have a cof
fee.” Rupert barely managed a smile, but followed them into the house.

  “How’s Doreen getting on?” Daisy said.

  “Pretty well, considering. We should finish the sorting this morning. She’s got all sorts of plans for conservatories and patios and—”

  “Fish ponds?” suggested Daisy maliciously.

  “Daisy!” Rupert was furious. “For God’s sake, woman, have you no respect?”

  Jean looked from one to the other and said, in an attempt to cool the air, “Doreen is bearing up very well, actually. We’re all so glad she decided to go ahead with the move. It has given her something else to think about, and—as she says herself—an opportunity to start a new life. She’s even intending to join the WI.”

  “Ah,” said Daisy. “I thought as much.”

  Rupert drained his coffee, and said, “I’ve got work to do. And so have you, Daisy, so don’t keep Mrs. Slater gossiping. Bye,” he added perfunctorily, not looking Jean in the eye, and disappeared.

  “Don’t take any notice of him,” Daisy whispered. “Bear with a sore head, and all that. Been like this ever since the council turned down our extension plan again. I suppose Howard didn’t have time to push it through before?”

  Jean shrugged. “Don’t know, I’m afraid. Anyway, he didn’t have as much influence as he claimed. I think he deluded himself sometimes. He was prone to fantasize about things.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” said Daisy, and they both chuckled.

  “D’you remember Norman Stevenson?” Jean said, preparing to leave. “Used to be around, working for Howard?”

  “Course I do,” Daisy said. “Still a customer, you know. But not lately. Mostly by post, anyway, since he moved away. Why?”

  Jean sighed. “It’s a bit of a mystery,” she said. “He’s got an enemy somewhere. Anonymous, but persistent. Threats … you know the kind of thing. It’s got to be sorted.”