Fear on Friday (11 page)

“Yes, dear,” Doreen said meekly. “Maybe the fish are hiding under a lily pad. They do sometimes, you know. Or they could be right at the bottom. It’s quite deep up one end, isn’t it? Have another count in the morning, and you’ll probably find they’re still there.”

Howard was mollified for the moment, and switched on the television, choosing a mindless quiz game that he loved, and Doreen loathed. “I’ll just be in the kitchen for a while,” she said. “Finishing touches to supper. I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”

She closed the kitchen door behind her, and picked up the local paper, turning to the property pages. Now, which agent was it likely to be? Oh, Lord. Could be any of them. A half-page of ads for properties in Waltonby, Fletching and Round Ringford, caught her eye. Ah, yes, and there were a couple in Long Farnden. Bill had said the house was not yet on the market, but as soon as Howard had gone tomorrow, she would ring these agents and ask. Bound to be the ones! She made a note of the telephone number in her diary, in case Howard look the paper off to the Town Hall, as he sometimes did. He loved to read over
and over again the reports of his own visits to schools and fêtes and newly opened swimming pools. There were a couple of photographs of him in this issue. In one, she was there with him. They’d been invited to the dedication of a new multi-faith church in an expanding area of town. Howard had a suitably solemn expression, and Doreen saw herself unsuitably smiling at a rogue choirboy picking his nose. In the other photograph, she was not there, and now looked closely at Howard presenting prizes at the local College of Further Education. Resplendent in his golden chain, he had a fatherly hand on the arm of a nubile blonde student.

One of these days … Doreen thought, taking a deep breath as she set two trays for supper. They would have supper on their laps, watching the telly. Then she wouldn’t have to listen to his report of the day’s triumphs in his Mayoral duties.

“Just coming in, Howard. Would you like a beer with yours?” she shouted.

“Good girl,” he answered. “What should I do without my Doreen?”

And what would your Doreen do without you? she said silently to herself.

L
OIS COULD SEE OLD
C
YRIL
‘
S HOUSE FROM HER OFFICE
window. She had kept the office going in the Farnden house, although some of the paperwork had been moved to Sebastopol Street. For one thing, she liked having a bolt-hole where she could escape from Gran occasionally. Her mother was a gem, but sometimes her love of gossip, and memories of the old times, were too much for Lois.

The team still met on Mondays in Long Farnden, as it was more convenient for all of them. Hazel closed the Tresham office for a couple of hours, and they all gathered in Lois’s house to go over schedules of work and for a chance to say anything that was on their minds—good or bad.

Last Monday, Sharon Miller had said she’d applied for a business studies course at the college in Tresham, and might not be able to give so much time to cleaning. Lois had thought privately that she’d have serious doubts about any business run by Sharon, but wished her well, and thought how fortunate that Sheila had come up with her niece, Susanna. She’d liked the girl at interview, and they’d agreed she could start in a month’s time. This
would give Lois a chance to reorganise things, and Susanna could quit the Town Hall job without leaving them in the lurch.

L
OIS LOOKED UP AND DOWN THE STRUCT IN THE TIME
-honoured fashion, and saw no one. Then a car drew up outside old Cyril’s house. She always thought of it as old Cyril’s, although the vicar had been living there for some while. Poor old Cyril. He was much missed in the village, even though—or perhaps because—he had been such an awkward old sod.

Two women got out of the car, and Lois strained to see if she recognised them. Both were middle-aged and both well-dressed. The car was small, but Lois knew a luxury model when she saw one. What are they after, then?

At this point, Gran knocked at the door perfunctorily and came in. “Like a cup of tea, Lois?” she said.

Lois knew this was a signal that Gran was bored, and needed someone to talk to. “Not really,” she said. “But come here and have a look down the street. See those women? D’you recognise them?”

Gran looked out, and considered. “One of ‘em,” she said, “looks a bit familiar but I can’t think why. Hey, Lois, they’re going into Cyril’s garden—and now they’re peering in the windows! What’s going on? And where’s the vicar? He’s usually at home at this time of the day.” Everybody in Farnden knew where everybody else should be at any given time of day.

“Well, they’re knocking on the door now,” Lois said. “Maybe he’ll let them in.”

But the door was not opened, and the women hovered uncertainly.

Gran was galvanised into action. “Just going to the shop,” she said. “I need to tell Josie something,” she added, and was out of the front door and into the street before Lois had time to answer.

The telephone rang as Gran left, and Lois picked up the
receiver. “New Brooms,” she said. “Lois Meade speaking. Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” said a man’s voice, “but I don’t need a cleaner. Well, maybe I do, but that’s not what I’m ringing about.”

“Who is this?” Lois was instantly on guard. Not another caller asking about yard brooms and leather dusters. The man didn’t give a name, but said, “I hope you’ll forgive my ringing if I’ve got it wrong, but I’m told you have a detective agency on the side?”

Lois snapped. “Whoever told you that was wrong! Completely wrong. This is a cleaning business, with a good reputation, and I have nothing more to say.”

“Hold on a minute! Don’t fly off the handle,” the man said. “I just wanted a bit of enquiring done on the quiet. An old colleague of mine in Tresham. Man in high office, all that sort of thing. Your name was mentioned once. Something to do with clearing up that business of a fire in Farnden? Young man died? Anyway, sorry if I’ve got it wrong. I’ll try somewhere else.”

Lois put down the phone, and then immediately checked the call. “The caller withheld their number,” said the disembodied voice. Ah well, she supposed her name had been in the local paper at the time. Cowgill had tried to keep her out of it, but intrepid journalists had come asking questions.

“Lois?” It was Gran, swiftly returned from the shop and a conversation with the two strangers. “I asked if I could help them, and they said they were meeting someone. Quite cagey, they were. I reckon I’ve seen one of ‘em before somewhere. Face looked very familiar.”

Lois picked up the local paper, and turned to the property pages. “You don’t think the house is up for sale, do you? The vicarage is nearly ready for Rev Rollinson to go back.” She flicked through the paper, and suddenly stopped. A group of people outside the new church caught her eye. In the centre, standing next to Mayor Jenkinson, and wearing the chain of office of the Lady Mayoress, was
the woman down the street. “Look, Mum. This is her, isn’t it?”

Gran nodded, pleased. “Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out,” she said. “Now then, I’m ready for a cup of tea if you aren’t.”

Lois heard her filling the kettle in the kitchen, and thought she might as well be sociable. But the odd telephone call stuck in her mind. “Man in high office,” the voice had said. High office in Tresham? “They don’t come any higher than Mayor,” she said, as she sipped her tea.

“What’s that?” said Gran.

“Nothing,” said Lois, “just thinking aloud.”

“W
E
‘
D BETTER SIT IN THE CAR UNTIL THE MAN FROM
Schofields comes. We are a bit early, aren’t we, Jean?” Doreen turned back to the car.

“Why don’t we have a wander up the street and get the feel of the village?” Jean said. “After all, the village in general is just as important as the house.” Privately, she had grave doubts about this idea of the Jenkinsons moving to a village. They were town people, born and bred, and she could not see Doreen leaving behind town amenities. Nor could she imagine her joining the WI, making jam and shopping at the little village store over the road. Still, Long Farnden wasn’t that far from Tresham, and Doreen would probably continue to shop at the supermarket she’d always used. And the dress shop! Jean had felt so sorry for her friend that she’d lent her the money to balance her account without thinking of the ludicrousness of it. There was Howard, rich as Croesus, while Ken and she still had to watch the pennies. Well, she had saved a bit, and knew Doreen would pay it back without fail. She’d promised, and that was good enough.

As if reading Jean’s thoughts, Doreen said, “Should be able to pay you back next week. It was ever so kind of you.”

“No hurry,” said Jean lightly, though in fact she would
need the money soon if Howard managed to unseat her from her job. She knew for a fact that he wanted her out, but she hoped it wouldn’t be too easy for him.

“Oh, look, Jean! Look at that dear little shop. Shall we go in and buy something?”

Jean smiled. Good old Doreen. She couldn’t see a shop window without wanting to get out her purse! “Fine,” she said. “There’s still no sign of the agent. And your car is parked outside the house, so he’ll know we’re about.”

They went up the steps and into the shop, the jangling bell announcing their arrival. Josie smiled at them over the counter, and said could she help? Doreen thought quickly, and said she needed a birthday card. Did they stock cards? Josie pointed to the rack of pleasant designs and busied herself with sorting out an order book. After a few minutes, Doreen came up with a card and opened her handbag.

“Are you staying in the village?” Josie said. This was the stock question for people she did not recognise, though one of the women was vaguely familiar.

Doreen shook her head. “No, just looking around,” she said. She was not sure that the old house was officially on the market yet, and did not want to spread rumours that would attract other buyers. If Howard could be persuaded to move quickly, they could probably get it cheaply. She could see already that a lot of work was needed on the stonework and roof. But the ancient mullioned windows and heavy oak door appealed to her already. Small dormer windows indicated a third floor in use, and her imagination was busy with exciting bedrooms for the grandchildren, tucked away under the eaves. It would be a new life all together. The house would mould them into something different.

Jean walked over to the shop door and looked out. If they didn’t leave soon, this girl behind the counter would certainly worm out of Doreen the reason for their visit. She never could keep a secret for long. It had been child’s play to get a confession about her affair with Jean’s husband Ken. Armed with this, Jean had been able to reciprocate, and the pleasant truce between them had held.

“Hey, Doreen! I think that’s the person we’re meeting,” she said. “Come on, let’s go before he drives off again.”

They left the shop, and Josie quickly followed them to the door. She looked across at old Cyril’s house, and watched a smart young man get out of the shiny Toyota. Wasn’t that …? Yep, now he’d taken off his sunglasses, she was sure. He was Sharon Miller’s new boyfriend from the estate agents in Tresham. She was known to be partial to estate agents. So that was it. Cyril’s house was up for sale.

Josie picked up the telephone and dialled. Gran answered, fortunately. Josie was never sure whether her mother’s strictures against gossip were genuine, or just a chance to appear virtuous in a family of gossips. “Hello, Josie dear. Nothing wrong?”

“No, just thought you might like to know those women are looking at Cyril’s house with an agent. So it
is
up for sale. Yes, Gran, quite sure. Yes, see you tomorrow. Bye.”

By next morning, most of the village knew that Cyril’s house, at present rented by the Reverend Rollinson, was for sale.

“H
ELLO
? L
OIS
,
IS THAT YOU
?” I
T WAS A BAD LINE
, breaking up, and Cowgill guessed Lois was on her mobile.