Fear on Friday (15 page)

“It
was
a nice evening, wasn’t it?” she said conversationally. “Successful, would you say?”

He stared at her.

“How dare you!” he spat at her.

“I beg your pardon?” she said politely. There was a strength in Doreen that always prevailed when under attack. Howard knew this, and though he would like to put
her over his knee and smack her bottom as hard as he could—well, yes, he would quite like to do that!—he knew that her careful refusal to quarrel, or even raise her voice, always won in the end.

Useless, then, to attempt a confrontation, and ask what the hell she and Jean Slater thought they were up to. He knew, anyway. Jean was angry at him because of her job, and Doreen was angry on Jean’s behalf. Funny, that, he thought, as he managed a half-smile and a grudging apology. It was funny that Doreen should be so close to a woman who’d happily tumbled with him in the hay. Well, women were a mystery. A lovely mystery, but very puzzling to a straightforward chap like himself.

“Yes, well,” he said, “I suppose it was quite a good do. Last one for me, unless I do another Mayoral year sometime. Now, time for a little drinkie before lunch. Your usual, pet?”

After that, Doreen spent the rest of the day in the garden. Jean came round after work and they strolled about the immaculate lawns chortling over the previous evening. Howard was still at home, and looked at them from inside the sitting room, wondering what they were talking about for such a long time. Perhaps he’d ring Ken and fix up a round of golf. It looked like being a fine evening. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He always won, and Ken never seemed to mind. He opened the French windows to join the girls and tell them what he planned.

I
N
L
ONG
F
ARNDEN
, D
EREK WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN
and pecked Lois on the cheek. “Hi, love,” she said. “Good day?”

“Not bad,” he said. “Traffic was bad in Tresham. I stopped to get an evening paper, and wished I hadn’t. Anyway, there’s a picture of one of your clients. His Important Worship the Mayor, seen chatting at a champagne reception in the Town Hall. All right for some, I reckon. Especially as my taxes are probably paying for it.” He put the
Tresham Chronicle
down on the table, and washed his hands at the sink. Lois idly took up the paper and looked closely at the photograph.

It was indeed Howard Jenkinson, towering over a familiar figure. Howard was not smiling. In fact he looked frighteningly angry. Somebody had mischievously chosen an unflattering aspect of Tresham’s Mayor.

“I reckon a few harsh words are being said,” Lois laughed. “Here, Derek. Isn’t that young Forsyth? Our Rupert’s son? Hazel and her pal are chums with him, seeing as his shop’s opposite ours. A surprise guest, from the look of it. What a joke!”

“Wheels within wheels, if you ask me,” said Derek. “Corruption in high places. You stay well clear of it, me duck,” he added, seeing Lois’s expression. “Nothing to do with us.”

But Lois remembered the anonymous telephone call. She looked again at the photograph, and decided she’d not want to meet Howard Jenkinson in a narrow passage on a dark night. Especially if she’d somehow got on the wrong side of him. Whoever made an enemy of Howard Jenkinson would have cause to regret it. She was sure of that.

A
MONTH OR SO LATER
, H
OWARD HAD
,
AS
D
OREEN AN
ticipated, pulled out all the stops. He’d arranged to buy the Farnden house, had put their own on the market, sold it within a week, and got builders working on old Cyril’s roof and windows. A moving date was fixed, and the removal vans ordered from a local company who owed Howard one or two favours.

“They’re doing all the packing, pet,” he said to a dutifully impressed Doreen. “And all at a very good rate. I’ve got some chaps from the yard coming to help sort it all out at the weekend, and we should be straight by Monday.”

“I might go up to London tomorrow,” Doreen said lightly. “Get new curtain fabric and one or two other things. Probably go to Harrods.”

“You’ll be too busy see your sister, then?” Howard dreaded Doreen’s visits to her sister. She always returned with stories of how emancipated and successful the wretched woman was. Unmarried, she had made a brilliant career in banking, and Doreen was exceedingly proud of her. And, thought Howard, more than a little envious.

“Of course I shall. It’s only a step away from Harrods. I’ll probably be fairly late back. She likes me to have supper with her.”

“You’ll need some extra cash, I suppose,” said Howard grudgingly.

“That’s nice of you, dear,” she said. “My account’s healthy, but curtains and things aren’t personal, are they? Don’t worry, Howard, I’ll go easy.”

Privately, Doreen had no qualms about the spending spree she intended to have. They’d sold the Tresham house for well over a million, and Howard had beaten down the Farnden price. The work being done was all in the trade that Howard knew so well. It would be cost price for everything at old Cyril’s. She always thought of it as old Cyril’s. Maybe she’d have a house nameplate engraved “Old Cyril’s.” That would annoy His Worship!

She was a wonder, this wife of his, Howard thought. He congratulated himself on choosing her from all the others. And now, as the move drew closer, she was unflustered, and seemed to think the whole thing was a great adventure.

T
HE WEEK BEFORE THE MOVE SAW A GREAT DEAL OF
A
CTIVITY
in Farnden. The village knew all the details, of course, and was looking forward with eager anticipation to having such a rich source of gossip living amongst them.

In the shop, Gran and Josie were laughing at Derek’s suggestion that they should put a welcome card through the Jenkinsons’ door, with a list of specialities available. “Fat chance,” Bill had said. “Mrs. Jenkinson has shopped at Waitrose since time began. She ain’t likely to change her ways now.”

Lois propped herself on a stool by the post office window and said she thought it was an extremely good idea. The Jenkinsons already employed a Farnden cleaner, so why shouldn’t they patronise the village shop? Josie agreed to think about it, and Gran disappeared to the store room to check supplies. “Looks like they’re just about
finished across the road,” Lois said. “The big day is almost here. Bill says Mrs. J is very organised. Everything labelled and sorted. He’s been helping her, as there’s not much cleaning to do now. Mayor’s useless, apparently. Just walks about giving orders, which Mrs. J ignores. The only thing old Jenkinson has done is pack up his mysterious den himself. Bill offered to help, but no, it was to be left to him.”

“Well, we all know now what he’s got in there, grubby old sod,” said Gran, coming in with a pile of boxes. “Anyway, who cares? Probably keeps the likes of Rupert Forsyth in business, from what I hear.”

“Is there anything you don’t hear, Mum?” said Lois, laughing. “Now, what did I come in for? Oh yes, Josie, have you got any more of that cheese your dad likes?”

N
EXT MORNING
, D
OREEN LEFT
T
RESHAM ON AN EARLY
train. She parked at the station, and bought a return ticket to Euston. Once on the train, she felt all the heavy weight of being Howard’s wife, Mayoress of Tresham, mother and grandmother, gradually slipping away. Now she was just Doreen, on her own with a pleasant day ahead. She had one duty job to do, and then she could relax in Harrods, meet her sister and talk about a different world altogether.

“You look good, for a woman about to move house,” her sister said. They were sipping martinis before supper, and Doreen looked around approvingly at her sister’s cool, elegant flat.

“I’m looking forward to it. Chose some gorgeous stuff for new curtains, and ordered a new suite for the lounge. Howard will be furious, but he’ll get over it.” She settled comfortably in her chair.

“Here,” said her sister, “you’ve dropped a letter.” She looked at it idly. “Ay it yours?” she added. “It’s addressed to a PO Box.”

Doreen took it swiftly and put it in her handbag. “I just collected it for a friend,” she said. “Now, how d’you make
this martini? It’s really delicious! I think I could be persuaded to have another.”

And so they moved on to other topics, were relaxed and happy with each other, and consumed a supper of salmon and strawberries with relish.

It was late by the time Doreen collected her car from Tresham station, and set off for home. She was pleasantly tired, but alert enough, she told herself. How had Howard managed? she wondered. Probably spent the evening at the Club with Ken Slater. She hoped all had gone well. So far, her plans for the day had been trouble free. She turned into the drive and saw the house in darkness. Fair enough, she said to herself, it is very late.

She walked through to the sitting room and put on a low lamp. There were newspapers on the floor where Howard had dropped them, and a whisky glass left on the table by his chair. All perfectly normal. She tidied the papers, stretched out a hand to pick up the glass, but then left it where it was. Then she walked over to the French windows, opened them wide, and walked out into the starry night.

“How lovely!” she murmured to herself. “A perfect end to a perfect day.”

She walked through the shrubbery that Howard claimed was his idea, though in fact she had selected the plants and overseen the planting. Strolling out on to the lawns that swept up towards the pond, she smiled to herself. One day away from Tresham made her see things in perspective. Could I have lived my life differently? she wondered. Set out on a different course right from the beginning, more like my sister?

Now she was by the big pond, and a full moon shone down, its reflection shimmering in the water. By its light, Doreen could see the water lilies and the shadows of somnolent fish.

And something else.

Doreen peered down, and saw a long, dark shape floating on the surface, half covered by the wide leaves of the lily
plants. It was the shape of a man, and she recognised the back of his head. She drew in her breath sharply, and then, looking round and seeing lights still on in the neighbouring house, she opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her voice.

She went on screaming, until her neighbour came running round and took her back into the house. He then took over, making the necessary telephone calls, and left his wife to sit with Doreen, who sat perfectly still and quiet, staring straight ahead, apparently oblivious of everything around her. Shock, thought her neighbour, and took Doreen’s small, cold hand.

“L
OIS
?”

“Oh, it’s you. What d’you want at this hour of the morning?”

“Have you heard? About Jenkinson?”

“No, what about him? Bill’s due there today to help with the packing up.”

“Ah,” said Cowgill. “I think not necessary today. Howard Jenkinson has been found floating face down in his ornamental pond. Dead, of course. We’ll be there today, checking everything over. You know the form. No,” he continued, “it’s not your Bill I want to see, though I will be speaking to him. I need to speak to you, privately as usual.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” said Lois, stunned at Cowgill’s news. “Was it an accident?” Even as she said it, she knew that it was exceedingly unlikely that a grown man would drown in his fish pond, provided that he was alive and well when he went in, and alone.

“That remains to be seen, at this stage,” replied the ever-cautious Cowgill. “Now,” he continued, “I want you to be at a new meeting place at two thirty tomorrow.”

“Hey, hey, wait a minute,” said Lois sharply. “Let’s have less of this ‘I want,’ if you don’t mind! If I am free, I will certainly try to be there, wherever it is, but I do have a business and family to run, in case you’ve forgotten.”

There was a slight pause, and then Cowgill said, in a softer tone, “Sorry, Lois. I’ll rephrase my request. Could you possibly be at your usual supermarket, by the bread counter, at two thirty on Saturday?”

“You’re joking!” said Lois. “In the supermarket? How private is that?”