Fear on Friday

by Ann Purser

  “Something to do with Howard?” Daisy asked.

  “Isn’t everything?” Jean said, and went out to her car.

  THIRTY-THREE

  NORMAN STEVENSON LOOKED AT HIMSELF IN THE hall mirror and made a disgusted face. Ugh! What a wreck.

  The police constable had been kind, and stayed with him for ten minutes to give him time to recover himself. He’d reassured him that there’d be no problem in getting his insurance company to replace the car, though Norman privately doubted this. Then, in accordance with his views on how to treat victims of crime, the policeman changed the subject. In an inspired moment, though not exactly changing the subject, he had begun to talk about his passion, Formula One car racing. Norman had once worked in administration at the Silverstone circuit, and his eyes had brightened. The young constable had regarded him with awe and envy, which was an unfamiliar experience for the hounded Norman. He’d begun to cheer up, and grew visibly taller. A sudden, wonderful thought struck him. Now that Howard was dead, he had no need to stay in this alien northern suburb, but could chuck in the job and move back to his beloved Midlands. Maybe even get a job back at the track. And, best of all, with any luck, escape from the fearful white envelopes. He would move quietly, tell no one where he had gone. Perhaps even change his name.

  This encouraging daydream had been broken by the policeman saying he must be going, and would Norman be OK now?

  “Yes, indeed, I’ll be fine,” he’d said. “And I’m eternally grateful to you, lad. Good luck, and good racing!”

  Pleased with himself, the well-trained young lad had driven off with renewed zeal.

  Now, Norman said to himself, taking his eyes off his empty driveway, first I need a wash and brush-up. He must see about hiring a car. He’d get a hair cut, collect a suit from the cleaners, and then write a letter of resignation.

  The plans he now had to make, including contacts to renew at Silverstone, but above all the prospect of escape, filled him with optimism. He felt years younger, and noted with pleasure that the sun had come out from behind dark clouds and lit up his garden. No assassins lurked behind the bushes, nobody would knife him from behind. He was free—or would be, in no time at all.

  “Yippee!” he yelled, and took the stairs two at a time.

  This was not a good idea. He had forgotten just how bad a shape he was in, and halfway up he clutched his chest, blacked out and tumbled higgledy-piggledy backwards, ending up in an awkward heap at the foot of the stairs.

  MONDAY MORNING, AND IN NORMAN‘S OFFICE, HIS SECretary looked at her watch. “Oh, God,” she said to her friend. “He’s late again. Better give him a ring.”

  There was no reply from Norman’s number, nor from his mobile. “Must be on his way,” she said. But an hour later, he had not turned up, and she tried again. No reply. “I suppose I’ll have to go and find him,” she said. “If this goes on, both him and me’ll be out of a job. Hold the fort for me, will you?”

  She walked up Norman’s garden path, and banged hard on the door. Then she peered through the frosted glass and gasped. She could see him now, lying where he had fallen, and she yelled at the top of her voice. He didn’t move.

  “Norman! For God’s sake, Norman, wake up!” There was no stirring. He was so still, and rising panic made his secretary delve in her bag for her mobile. “Police? I’m not sure, but I think this is an emergency.” She gave the details and renewed her efforts to attract Norman’s attention. But after a while she gave up and went wearily to sit in her car and wait for the police.

  The ambulance arrived first, and with no trouble forced a way in. Norman’s secretary watched as the paramedic knelt down by his side. She held her breath, willing the still figure to move. Or groan. Or anything to show that he was not …

  “I’m afraid he’s dead,” the paramedic said gently. “Looks like he fell down these stairs. So sorry, Miss.” He put his arm around her shoulders, and she said in a muffled voice, “Poor old Norman. I wish I’d been nicer to him and now it’s too late.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “OH NO, MONDAY AGAIN,” SAID LOIS, RELUCTANTLY opening her eyes and slapping the alarm clock firmly to stop its insistent ringing.

  “So why aren’t you leaping up and making me a cup of tea?” said Derek, putting his arms around her, knowing exactly how to cheer her up.

  “Mmmm, don’t,” murmured Lois, turning to kiss him sleepily. But he did, and so they were late up.

  Gran had breakfast keeping hot on the Rayburn when they arrived down into the warm kitchen. “Morning,” she said, without further comment.

  “Morning, Gran,” Derek said. “Good smells … sausages?”

  “And bacon, tomatoes and fried bread,” said Gran. “Should set you up for a day’s work. Are you having some, Lois?”

  Lois frequently settled for a plate of muesli and an apple, but this morning she nodded. “Team meeting at twelve,” she said. “I need fuelling up, too.”

  Gran raised her eyebrows, but dished up platefuls of her undoubtedly unhealthy fry-up to each.

  Derek left for work whistling, and Lois disappeared into her office, where she stayed, making notes and telephone calls, but mainly thinking. She had called at Cyril’s old house, now rechristened Hornton House. “Why Hornton?” Lois had asked Doreen.

  “It’s built of Hornton stone, of course,” Doreen had replied.

  “Well, fancy me not knowing that,” Lois had replied drily. Jean Slater had been there again, and was marginally more polite. But the atmosphere was cool and unwelcoming, causing Lois to wonder afresh what was going on, and she had left promptly.

  Now she took a pen and a clean sheet of paper, and began a list of people involved. At the top, she put “Howard Jenkinson,” underlined in red, to indicate he was dead. Then she added “Doreen,” “Jean Slater,” “Ken Slater,” and after a pause for thought, she wrote “Rupert, Daisy and Fergus Forsyth.” Under all that, she drew a line with a question mark. This was the anonymous caller, the man in the crowd at the funeral, the mystery man.

  She turned over the events of the murder—it was now certain to be that—in her mind once more. Someone knew Doreen was to be in London that day. Doreen herself had the perfect alibi. The Slaters had everything to lose by Howard’s death—she her job, and he a good and helpful friend. She could not believe the Forsyths would have had any reason to want Howard out of the way, unless it was revenge. One of the most compelling reasons for murder, wasn’t it? But revenge for what? Surely not that rumpus at the Town Hall reception. Rupert had a bad temper, but so had lots of men, and Fergus was, according to Hazel, a bit of a wimp. And the story had apparently done nothing but good to their business. Free advertisement, and all that.

  So she was left with a blank space. The mystery man. Cowgill had said they were on his track, but she knew from his tone of voice that they hadn’t got far along the track.

  “Lois! There’s somebody at the door, and I can’t leave this saucepan,” yelled Gran.

  Lois looked at her watch and was surprised to see it was midday. She opened the door and let in Bill and Hazel, and the rest arrived minutes after. Enid Abraham, from the mill, Sheila Stratford from Waltonby, Hazel’s mum, Bridie, and last of all, Susanna Jacob.

  “Morning everyone,” said Lois, sitting at her desk. “Schedules first, as usual, then we can have reports and a chat about the week.”

  All went smoothly, with nothing alarming to report, until it was Susanna’s turn. “Um, well everything’s fine,” she said, “except for this week’s jobs.” She hesitated, and Lois waited. “I see you’ve put me down for working at Mrs. Jenkinson’s,” Susanna continued.

  “Well?” Lois frowned, suddenly alert. What was this?

  “Um … I wonder if you could send someone else?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a bit awkward for me,” Susanna blurted out. “I was working in the Mayor’s office now and then, just before he … um … well, you know …”

  “Died, do you mean?”
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  Susanna nodded dumbly.

  “So what?” said Lois. “You might be able to help the poor widow. Seeing as you knew the late Howard. Listen to her if she wants to talk. I don’t see your problem?” Lois asked herself why she was being so unrelenting. It would have been relatively easy to switch Susanna with one of the others. She knew why, of course. A spy in the camp, one who had been close to Howard, would be very useful. She’d have to tread carefully with the girl, who’d obviously taken the no-gossip rule to heart.

  Bill stared at Lois. What was she up to? He’d expected to continue at Cyril’s old house indefinitely. “Isn’t Mrs. Jenkinson satisfied with me?” he said. The others sat motionless, feeling a ripple of trouble.

  “Of course she is,” Lois said positively. “But I need you to start on a job over at Ringford next week. Miss Beasley has had a fall and broken her hip. She’s chairbound at the moment, so needs help.”

  “Ah,” said Sheila Stratford, a long-time member of the WI, and well acquainted with Miss Ivy Beasley, “so that’s it. Susanna lives in Round Ringford, and could go there easily. But you’ll need to send Bill!” she added, laughing. “Nobody else could handle the old battle-axe.”

  The atmosphere warmed up, and Lois sighed with relief. Thank you, Sheila!

  “So will you give it a try, Susanna?” Lois said more kindly. “We can always switch things around if there’s a good reason.” Susanna nodded miserably, and was the First to leave at the end of the meeting.

  When the others had gone, Bill lingered. “Something else, Bill?” Lois said.

  “Any further forward with the mystery caller?” he asked casually.

  Lois shook her head. “Keep your ears open,” she said. “Miss Beasley is reckoned to be the fount of all local knowledge. She might remember something. Introduce the subject of our ex-and-not-much-missed Mayor, and see what comes up. Now, I must get going. Cheers, Bill.”

  IVY BEASLEY WAS FURIOUS, AND WHEN FURIOUS SHE WAS formidable. She had been walking along a narrow lane with her two friends when she’d caught her foot in a snaking bramble and fallen heavily. For once, she was helpless and had had to rely on others for assistance in getting her home and calling the doctor. A spell in hospital had not sweetened her one jot, and now she was back home, still relying on friends and social services, and having to agree against her will to hiring help from New Brooms. This morning, the new cleaner was coming to see her and had been told to collect a key from the shop next door, making sure she presented her credentials.

  Miss Beasley waited, arms metaphorically akimbo. She heard a knock, and called “Come in.” On seeing Bill, she had a moment’s fear of an intruder, and said sternly, “And who might you be, young man?”

  Bill introduced himself, and presented his authorisation. He was used to seeing suspicion and surprise in clients’ eyes at first. “I’ve worked for New Brooms for ages,” he said. “You’ll get used to me.”

  “I doubt it,” Ivy said firmly. “Still, now you’re here, you’d better start work. Can’t waste money on gossiping. And,” she added with emphasis, “I’ll be watching what you do, and if it’s not up to my standards, out you go!”

  Bill smiled disarmingly at her, and set to work. Old spins were always the worst. But quite often, they warmed up quicker than you’d think. This one was going to be tough, but Bill was not a Yorkshireman for nothing. Not been beaten yet, he said to himself, and polished and dusted with extreme thoroughness.

  At eleven o’clock exactly, Ivy Beasley called him into the kitchen. “Put the kettle on,” she ordered. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be expecting a cup of tea.”

  Bill shook his head. “I don’t drink tea,” he said, “and anyway, I prefer to continue working.” He thought this would please her, but Ivy Beasley was as unpredictable as ever.

  “You’ll do as you’re told, while I’m paying you,” Miss Beasley replied. “There’s Nescafe in the cupboard. You can have that. I like a good strong cup of tea. Milk in the fridge. There’s the kettle.” She pointed towards the kitchen worktop.

  Bill shrugged. “Right,” he said. “I’ll happily make you a cup, Miss Beasley. And where d’you keep the sugar?”

  “I’m plenty sweet enough already,” she answered. “Can’t speak for you. Sugar’s in that top cupboard.”

  He made the drinks and set a little table by her chair. “Anything else I can get you?” he asked.

  “There’s home-made buns in the tin,” she said shortly. “My friend Doris. Help yourself and give me one. And you can sit down for a couple of minutes. Don’t like to see food taken round the house, dropping crumbs and sloshing coffee about.”

  Bill was beginning to appreciate Sheila’s warning, and he perched on the edge of a stool and sipped his hot coffee. Conversation did not exactly flow, but he persisted, asking her about her life in Ringford, and how long she’d been there.

  “All me life,” she said proudly. “Born and bred. My father came from Tresham, and my grandfather. Grandad was a fishmonger and poulterer in the High Street. Important man. They made him Mayor several times.”

  “Oh, really?” Bill pounced. “They were real mayors in those days. Pillars of society, weren’t they?”

  Ivy fell straight into the trap. “Unlike the present no-goods,” she said, getting into her stride. “It’s who you know, these days, that gets you into high office. Take that Jenkinson, him that ended up in a fish pond. I remember him as a snotty kid at the Grammar School. Always was a twister. They said he cheated in his exams. Him and his friend, that Slater who works at the Tourist Office now. No, if you ask me, there’s more to his demise than meets the eye.”

  “Had enemies, did he?” Bill said.

  “More enemies than friends. One of ‘em’s just passed away up north. In the local paper this morning.” She indicated a folded newspaper on the kitchen table, and Bill picked it up. A small photograph, and a couple of paragraphs announced that former Tresham man, Norman Stevenson, had been found dead at his house in a suburb of Manchester. He’d once worked at Jenkinson’s timber yard in town, but had been gone from the district for some while. That was all. But Bill read it several times, committing it to memory. It just might be of interest to Mrs. M. He tried asking Miss Beasley more about the man, but she clammed up, and told him it was time to get on with his work.

  At the end of the morning, Bill packed up his things and said, “Now, before I go, is there anything more I can do for you, Miss Beasley?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You can shut all those windows you’ve opened. I’ll be dead from pneumonia, let alone a broken leg. And don’t forget to shut the front door quietly and take the key back to the shop. You can drop the snib. Doris is here next, and she’s got a key.”

  “Right,” said Bill. “See you next week, then.”

  Miss Beasley nodded without looking up from her magazine, and Bill tiptoed out.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  BILL CALLED IN TO SEE LOIS ON HIS WAY HOME. NO sooner had he told her about the man called Norman Stevenson than she pulled on her jacket and said she would give him a ring later. She disappeared clown the street faster than he could reply.

  “Josie! Have you got last night’s Gazette? Please say yes!” Lois was breathing hard.

  “Good heavens, Mum, what can possibly be urgent in the local?” said Josie.

  “Just look, there’s a good girl,” Lois said, collapsing on the old person’s stool.

  “Hang on … yep, here’s one. They usually take the unsold ones away, but he’s not been yet. Here you are.” She handed the paper to her mother, and watched her turn the pages feverishly. Then she stopped turning, and Josie saw the colour drain away from her face.

  “Thai’s him,” she said. “That’s the man.”

  “What man? Really, Mum, could you be a bit less mysterious? Gran says you’re working with that Cowgill policeman again. Is it something to do with that?”

  “Sort of,” Lois said, and explained about the anonymous calls and the man at the fune
ral. “It’s the same,” she said. “I’m sure of it, but I’ll take this and check with Gran. She was there, and has a good memory for faces.”

  Gran was certain. “Yes, that’s definitely him,” she said. “Oh clear, what a shame, he seemed a nice sort of man, though a bit shy. Docs it say how he died?”

  “No, it doesn’t say much at all. Except …”

  “Except what, Lois?”

  “It does say he used to work at the timber yard in Tresham. You know, Howard Jenkinson’s place …”

  “Blimey,” said Gran, “hope he didn’t end up face down in a fish pond.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Lois said, but felt a cold shiver down her spine. She clipped out the photograph and paragraphs, and took the cutting through to her study. “Just got a call to make,” she shouted back to her mother.

  “And I know who to,” muttered Gran disapprovingly.

  “Is that you?” Lois said.

  “Of course it’s me, Lois. Who else would it be? And how are you today?” Cowgill could not keep the delight out of his voice.

  “Never mind about that,” Lois said. “Just listen. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed it in yesterday’s evening paper.” She read it out to him, and said that the photograph was definitely the man she’d seen at the funeral, and whose voice she had recognised. “And it says he was living in a Manchester suburb,” she added.

  “Right,” Cowgill said briskly. “Leave it with me, Lois. I’ll gel back to you. We were nearly there, hot on his trail.”

  “Liar,” said Lois, “but never mind. Have a good day.”

  BILL LEFT FARNDEN, AND DROVE BACK TO HIS COTTAGE in Waltonby thinking hard. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Mrs. M was on the edge of some murky goings-on that could get dangerous. If only she’d left him working at Hornton House. He could have tactfully asked questions and maybe discovered something more about this Norman Stevenson chap. What was it Miss Beasley had said about Mayor Jenkinson? More enemies than friends. And she’d seemed to include Stevenson among the enemies. He had forgotten to tell Mrs. M that. He stopped the car and dialled her on his mobile. “Yes?” Lois said. Bill filled her in on what he’d just remembered, and she sounded excited. “Thanks, Bill. I might just pay a call on old Ivy. Just to see that she’s satisfied with everything. You know, like I usually do.”