Fear on Friday (20 page)

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.

D
AISY AND
R
UPERT
F
ORSYTH 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 coffee.” 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.”

“Something to do with Howard?” Daisy asked.

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

N
ORMAN
S
TEVENSON 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.

M
ONDAY MORNING
,
AND IN
N
ORMAN
‘
S OFFICE
,
HIS SEC
retary 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.”

“O
H NO
, M
ONDAY AGAIN
,”
SAID
L
OIS
,
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?”

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.