Fear on Friday

by Ann Purser

  In the club? Lois sat in her car, pondering, Up the spout? A bun in the oven? She turned the key, and drove off slowly, deep in thought.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  JOSIE MEADE HAD AN IDEA. IF HER MOTHER WANTED to know more about Susanna Jacob, there was one person who might well know her. The local lady of the manor, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, had a niece who had spent some time in the village and was one of the yah set who hunted and played polo, and talked very loudly in pubs. Susanna, daughter of a solicitor, was very likely one of them.

  What was that girl’s name? It was on the tip of Josie’s tongue. Arabella? No, that wasn’t it. Josie remembered her brother Jamie having a fling with Miss Tollervey-Jones, so she could ask him. She picked up her mobile and was about to call when the shop door opened and Daisy Forsyth walked in, grinning as always.

  “Hello, dear. How are you today?” she greeted Josie.

  Anyone would think they’d lived here for years, Josie thought. These newcomers—and there were more and more of them buying up the old houses—they moved in and took over, or tried to. But Josie smiled back, telling herself she was not really being fair. Daisy was a nice woman, unlike her tetchy husband. She seemed to be quite happy with her garden and gossiping in the shop. She’d been once to the WI, but Gran said she hadn’t come back. Never been to church, either, apparently, but that applied to most of the villagers, old and new.

  “What can I get for you today, Mrs. Forsyth?” Josie asked politely.

  “Call me Daisy, dear. I’m not used to formality.” Daisy giggled. “All these years I’ve been married,” she said, “and I still can’t get used to being Mrs. Forsyth.”

  “Well, Daisy’s a very pretty name,” Josie said diplomatically, wishing the woman would get on with whatever she wanted. Jamie might have his phone switched off, and she’d have to think again.

  But Daisy was in a mood for conversation. “Are they settled in now, over the road?” she said. Josie assured her that Mrs. Jenkinson seemed very happy in the old house.

  “A bit too happy, don’t you think?” Daisy asked. “For a woman not long widowed?”

  “Perhaps she’s just being brave,” Josie said, and sighed. “Was there anything else?” But Daisy was not to be got rid of that easily. She looked around the shop, as if checking nobody was listening. “I knew her husband, you know,” she said, leaning over the counter. She winked. “Knew him quite well,” she added. “We went back a long way, Howard and me.”

  Oh, please, Josie thought. Not the old nostalgia trip. I don’t care what you got up to with our late Mayor. Please just go away and let me ring my brother.

  By the time Daisy had collected up a basketful of groceries, there were several customers waiting, and it was not until lunchtime that Josie was able to dial Jamie’s number and hear his familiar voice.

  “Annabelle, you twit,” he said cheerfully. “Blimey, are you getting old and losing your marbles, or something?” Josie retorted that she hadn’t known the girl as well as Jamie had. “I’d forgotten all about her,” he said laughing. “There’s bin a few on the list since Annabelle.”

  “Yes, well, thanks. And yes, we’re all fine at home, in case you were wondering. I don’t suppose you’ve still got Annabelle’s number?” There was a pause, then Jamie rattled off a London number. “Cheers, then,” she said, “talk again soon.”

  Josie looked at the old wall clock, which had ticked its way through a number of shopkeepers in Long Farnden, and went to get herself a quick sandwich. She had thought of closing the shop at lunchtimes, but it was surprising how many people came in during that hour.

  So now she had Annabelle’s number. But what could she say to her? Did she know Susanna Jacob? And if so, what salacious secrets did she know about her? Josie bit into a succulent piece of ham, and wondered what exactly her mother wanted to know. Perhaps the best thing would be to ring Annabelle and say someone—an old school friend?—had come into the shop asking for details of her whereabouts. Annabelle hadn’t been seen in Long Farnden for a long while now, and maybe wouldn’t know that Susanna was working for New Brooms. It was worth the risk.

  Josie washed her hands, and took out her mobile again. She dialled the London number, and after a few rings, a bright voice answered, “Yes, hallo?”

  Josie explained, and there was a short pause. “Are you Josie Meade?” said Annabelle. “Yes, that’s right,” Josie answered.

  “Um, how’s Jamie?” Annabelle’s voice was light and casual.

  “Fine, he’s up North now. We don’t hear a lot from him … you know what lads are like.” Josie wondered what was coming next, but Annabelle just coughed, and said, “Okay, fine. Now, it’s Susanna Jacob you wanted—let me think.”

  After a pause long enough for Josie to take another bite, Annabelle said slowly, “Yes, she was at the school I went to for a while. I went to a good few, one way and another. I do remember her. Blonde, good shape. We were all a bit envious, being on the puppy plump side ourselves. And she had boyfriends long before the rest of us. I’m afraid I lost touch after … well, after I was asked not too politely to leave!” There was a fruity chuckle, and then Annabelle added, “But I know who her best friend was—she might be able to help. A Tresham girl, not exactly top drawer, if you know what I mean, and a bit older than Susanna. Maureen something-or-other—Smith, it was. That’s right. I knew it was an unusual name.” Annabelle hooted loudly, and Josie held the phone away from her ear.

  “You don’t remember if she got married, or where she lived?” A bit of a blind alley, this, thought Josie.

  “Sorry, that’s all I can dredge up, I’m afraid. Maybe you could ask Tresham Comprehensive? I’m sure she went there. Anyway, I must dash. Love to Jamie, next time you speak to him. Tell him I haven’t forgotten him, dear thing. Byeee!”

  LOIS LISTENED CAREFULLY THAT EVENING TO WHAT JOSIE reported. “That was very clever of you,” she said. “I’d never’ve thought of asking Annabelle.”

  “Not much help, though, is it?” Josie sounded disappointed, but Lois gave her a hug, and said it was very useful indeed. “One of my old mates is a dinner lady at Tresham Comp, been there for years,” she said. “Dinner ladies know everything about everybody. I’ll give her a buzz tomorrow. Now,” she said, catching Derek’s eye, “who’s for a delicious Sleepytime tea bag?”

  THIRTY-NINE

  DOREEN AND JEAN WERE OUT ON THE GOLF COURSE, on the first lee. The sun shone down warmly, the fairway was a long, green-striped ribbon stretching ahead, until it turned out of sight around a small spinney of conifers. It was quite early, and few people were out on the course.

  “I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t play golf,” Doreen said. “It’s a wonderful feeling of freedom, out here in the sun, walking through a lovely landscape, and nobody to warn us off or tell us to put that bloody dog on a lead.”

  “We haven’t got a dog,” Jean said, looking sideways at her friend. “And what about when we get in the rough, and can’t find the ball, and some ruddy men are behind us shouting ‘Fore!’ at the tops of their voices?”

  “Oh, Jean,” Doreen said, smiling, “you’ve got no soul. Sometimes it’s like what I said. Anyway, it’s your turn to go first.”

  Jean took a swipe at the ball with her driver, and the ball soared into the air, sliced off to the right and landed in a patch of thorny bushes. “And sometimes it’s like what I said,” she muttered drily. “Your turn, Doreen. Do your worst.”

  Doreen squared up to the ball, wiggled her bottom to settle into a good position, tucked her head down firmly and brought her club down powerfully. The ball rolled gently off the tee peg, and stopped less than a metre in front of them.

  There was a short silence, and then Doreen looked up at Jean. “Shitty buggers!” she said, and collapsed into hysterical laughter.

  Jean joined in, and finally had to cross her legs to stop an even worse disaster. “Oh, go on,” she said, when they had both sobered up. “Have another shot. I’m not counting.”


  This time, Doreen’s drive was respectable enough, and the two set off side by side down the fairway, pulling their trolleys behind them and talking amiably. “Everything going all right in Farnden?” Jean said. “Your nice Bill back with you yet?”

  Doreen shook her head. “No, still on the emergency job over at Ringford. Mrs. Meade’s coming herself at the moment, though she’s threatening me with young Susanna Jacob. Seems she works for New Brooms now.” Doreen’s head was down, her voice almost inaudible.

  Jean stopped dead. She stared at Doreen. “You’re joking,” she said in a choked voice.

  Doreen shook her head and shrugged. “She’s not been yet. Ill, apparently. But I’ve got a couple of weeks to think about it. Mrs. Meade’s said it’ll take that long for her to recover from flu.”

  “Like last time?” Jean said.

  “I don’t think so,” Doreen said flatly. “But who knows?”

  SUSANNA JACOB WAS FED UP AND SCARED. SHE HAD BEEN keeping to her bedroom for a couple of days now, pretending to be ill and feigning sleep whenever her mother came in with a cup of tea. “No point in calling the doctor,” she had said firmly, when her mother suggested it. “With flu, it’s just a matter of time and painkillers.” She was bored, but too apprehensive to move from her room. Perhaps she would not shake off the flu until she heard Bill was back at Hornton House. Meanwhile, she thought, looking at the sunlit garden, I could go for a gentle walk across the meadow and look at the river. The thought of water and fish brought back memories of Howard Jenkinson, and she had no difficulty in shedding real tears.

  Downstairs, her mother and father were in conference. “I don’t think she’s ill,” her mother said baldly.

  “Why else would she condemn herself to solitary confinement?” said lawyer Jacob.

  “Something’s frightening her,” her mother said. “Mothers know these things.” She went to the window and looked out at the bright morning. “Don’t you remember when she was at school?” she continued. “Always a mysterious illness just before exams.”

  “But she managed to take them, and did reasonably well.”

  “Yes, but maybe this time the escape route is easier.”

  “What do you mean?” Sometimes Susanna’s father wished his wife would not be so elliptical. “Speak plainly, woman, do.”

  “You’re not in court now,” his wife retorted. “I am speaking plainly. Susanna does not want to work for Mrs. Jenkinson, and knows that she can give up the cleaning job to get out of it. If Mrs. Meade gets fed up with her, she’ll get the push—and her escape.”

  Susanna’s father shrugged. “A very good thing, too. Then she can get herself a proper job,” he said. “And we certainly don’t want that Meade woman asking unnecessary questions and upsetting Susanna.”

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive,” said Mrs. Jacob sadly, and left her irritated husband wondering why a woman couldn’t be more like a man.

  • • •

  LOIS LET HERSELF INTO HORNTON HOUSE WITH A KEY Doreen Jenkinson had given her. Doreen had told her she was off golfing with Mrs. Slater very early in the morning. “Early bird hits a straight ball,” Doreen had said, not very wittily. Lois had no idea what she was talking about, but said it would be fine. She would carry on with the routine, and if there was anything special Doreen needed doing, to leave a note on the kitchen table.

  The house, as usual, was immaculate, and Lois reflected that if she whipped round with a duster and the vacuum, she could finish in half an hour, and nobody would be the wiser. She scolded herself; if she suspected one of her team had the same subversive thought, they’d be out on their ear. She glanced at the kitchen table, and saw there was a note for her. It reminded her that the silver candlesticks in the dining room could do with a polish. “Right,” Lois said, “message received.” She crumpled up the paper and threw it into the bin.

  She switched on the portable radio, turned down to a respectful level, and set off upstairs to start on the bathroom as usual. Without interruptions, Lois found a kind of rhythm in the work, and hummed along to the thudding beat. Mrs. Jenkinson had said she would not be back before lunch, and as Lois moved into the kitchen, the last room on her list, she noticed she still had half an hour to spare. Cupboards? She opened several doors in the units, and every cupboard was tidy and regimented. Copper saucepans, ornamental only, hanging on the clean white wall? She took them down to clean. Fumes from cooking discoloured them quickly, so it would be a job well done. Finally it was time to go, and she remembered the rubbish had not been emptied. She took it out to the wheelie-bin, catching sight of Doreen’s serewed-up note as it fell.

  Something clicked in Lois’s mind as she slowly picked the paper out of the messy rubbish. CANDLESTICKS IN DINING ROOM NEED A SHINE-UP!—D.J. Why was that familiar? Lois gazed out at the garden, tamed and conquered since poor old Cyril’s day. Blue capitals? Oh, my God! Cowgill … the mystery man …

  She put the paper in an unused Dogpoo bag in her pocket. Setting the elaborate burglar alarm, she locked the door and headed up the street, reminding herself that anybody could write with blue pen in neat capitals. Even so, she went straight into her office, shut the door, and lifted the telephone.

  FORTY

  THE SUPERMARKET WAS CROWDED. MOTHERS AND small children cluttered the aisles, and as Lois walked casually down towards the bread counter, a toddler suddenly changed direction and walked uncertainly across her path. “Oops!” she said, and then noticed the red-faced mother was Hazel’s friend, Maureen, apologising profusely. “So sorry! Oh, it’s you, Mrs. M. Well, I’m even more sorry. I’m afraid Robert’s not too steady on his pins yet. Oops! Must go …” There was another flurry of anxiety as the toddler crashed into a shelf full of herb jars, which wobbled and then cascaded to the floor, rolling under shoppers’ feet.

  Smiling to herself, Lois resumed her zig-zag approach to the room where she was to meet Hunter Cowgill. Toddlers were so lovable! She wondered when Josie would get going. What was it like to be a grandmother? Josie was a warm-hearted girl, and would make a good mother.

  Lois idled by the counter, then asked for an oatie loaf and four chocolate muffins, and smiled as she heard a loud childish wail. She was a nice girl, Hazel’s friend. Maureen … Maureen what? Lois suddenly turned around and retraced her steps. But she saw only the girl, her toddler now in his pushchair, and festoons of shopping bags, heading for the car park. A shout from the bread counter called her back, and she collected her purchases. “Just going to use your loo,” she said, and in a stage whisper. “Got permission … bladder weakness, you know.” The salesgirl raised her eyebrows, but turned to the next customer and forgot Lois.

  Cowgill was sitting at a small table, reading a newspaper, but stood up as Lois came in. Her colour was high from chasing uselessly after Maureen, and tendrils of dark, silky hair had slipped their moorings. She had changed from working clothes, and was smartly dressed for once. He took in her easy grace, comfortable in black jacket, shortish skirt and—as always, his heart skipped a beat—her long, slender legs in schoolmarm black tights.

  “Seen enough?” said Lois, reverting to the playground. “Now then,” she added, softening her voice, “sec what I’ve got for you.” She reached into her bag and extracted the Dogpoo carrier.

  “Lois! Is this a joke?” Cowgill retreated in horror.

  “No, o’ course not. This is all I had in my pocket at Hornton House. It’s a clean one!” She pulled out the crumpled note, and handed it to him. He got out an ice-while handkerchief and carefully look the paper from her. “Bit pointless, that,” said Lois. “It’s been in the rubbish bin, and got my prints all over it.”

  “No matter,” Cowgill said. “Does no harm to follow the proper routines.”

  Lois sighed. “Have a chocolate muffin,” she said, handing him the paper bag.

  “Lois! You’ve tried that one before, and the answer’s still no thanks. Now, this is very useful indeed, and a smart piec
e of work on your part. Leave it with me, and I’ll report back when we’ve done the tests.”

  “Have you got those letters—the blackmailing ones? I wouldn’t mind seeing one.” Lois was furious. Just handing over the note wasn’t enough. This was clearly a breakthrough, and she intended to be part of it.

  “Not a chance, I’m afraid,” Cowgill said. “But I’ll keep you informed. Anything else for me?”

  “Wait a minute!” Lois said. “Let’s at least talk about Doreen Jenkinson, and what she was doing blackmailing Norman Stevenson. If you add this to him asking me to snoop on Howard, doesn’t that add up to something interesting?”

  “If is the important word,” Cowgill answered placatingly. “First our experts must compare this note with the letters. We shall know for certain then. I agree with you that it is probably the most important lead we’ve had so far, but it never does to get too excited too soon.”

  Lois groaned. “Thank God your lot never took me on as a Special,” she said. “I don’t think plodding is in my line.”

  Cowgill laughed. “No,” he agreed. “You’re more useful as you are.”

  “Huh! Well, I’m off now,” she replied. She had thought of telling him about Susanna Jacob, but decided to say nothing. Still some work to do there.

  He came towards her and put his hand gently on her arm. “I am grateful, you know,” he said. “You are much appreciated.”

  “Oh, my Gawd,” said Lois, and went swiftly out of the room.

  NEXT STOP, THE NEW BROOMS OFFICE IN SEBASTOPOL Street. Lois was calling there, anyway, but now she wanted to check up on Maureen. She parked outside the office, and noticed a familiar car outside Rain or Shine. Where had she seen that before? It was a dark green, anonymous-looking Audi, but with one distinctive feature. Discreetly stuck on to the rear window was the legend: “Stop Prejudice, Fight Ban.” Hunting, of course. Lois laughed to herself. Outside that particular shop, it could have a very different meaning. Not that there was a ban on Fergus Forsyth’s goods for sale—quite the reverse. Even Boots Chemists were reportedly thinking about planning a sex toys counter, and poor old Fergus would soon be out of business, what with Ann Summers and other like-minded shops everywhere and pictures in the papers of girls brandishing shiny, plastic vibrators! Lois was not easily shocked, but she was the first to admit she was conditioned by generations of her family who firmly believed that sex was what went on behind closed curtains, at night, and in bed, and was a private business between two—what was it? Consenting adults?