Fear on Friday (26 page)

“Hello, stranger!” Daisy said. “Mind you, Fergus has told us you’ve been into the shop and had a couple of chats with him.”

Ken frowned. “Is that lad as discreet as his father? I’ve always known Rupert could be trusted, but Fergus … and anyway, is Rupert at home?”

Daisy nodded. “He’s upstairs, working on accounts. We’ve had the planning application turned down again, and our new extension seems as far away as ever. As for Fergus,” she added defensively, “he knows when to keep his mouth shut, never fear.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Ken, unsmiling. “Now, why don’t you put the kettle on, Daisy, and give Rupert a call. I have some urgent business to discuss with him.”

Rupert was halfway down the stairs, having heard Ken’s voice, and walked into the sitting room with outstretched hand. “Good afternoon, Ken,” he said formally. “How are you, and how is Jean these days? Enjoying her retirement?”

“Plays a lot of golf,” said Ken, and smiled now, remembering his afternoon’s visit to Jean’s golfing partner. “Still, keeps her out of mischief.” He reflected that there seemed to be no mischief in Jean’s life now, unlike those early clays when she first worked for Howard, the randy sod. But it had all been a lot of silly fun and no harm done.

“Was there something particular you wanted to talk about?” Rupert said, polite as ever. He and Ken were settled with cups of tea and biscuits, and Daisy had taken herself tactfully off to the kitchen, muttering about ironing.

“Yep,” Ken said. “It’s about Norman Stevenson. You knew that he … ?”

Rupert nodded. “Nasty one, that,” he said, giving nothing away. “Has there been a final verdict on what killed him?”

“His heart, apparently,” Ken said. “No foul play suspected.”

They were silent for a few seconds. Then Ken began again. “But there were letters, I have been told.”

“Who told you?” Rupert frowned.

“A little bird,” answered Ken. “But the important thing is, they were blackmailing letters. And it puts a whole new complexion on Norman’s death. We both know there were things in his past that made him vulnerable. And that he was not a particularly attractive character. There was that financial scandal, duly smothered by Howard but known about by most of us.”

“And his patronage of Rain or Shine,” Rupert said. “And more than our usual straightforward blow-up dolls and saucy videos. Oh dear, yes, we knew far too much about Norman Stevenson, Daisy and me. And he was married. Less permissive days then, of course. But confidentiality is the life-blood of our business, Ken.”

“And Fergus?” Ken’s voice was sharp.

Rupert stared at him.

“What are you suggesting, Ken?” he said.

“I’m suggesting that any one of us would have plenty of ammunition for successfully blackmailing Norman Stevenson. You, Daisy, Fergus, Howard, me, Jean … and it wasn’t either Jean or me. And it’s the last thing Howard would have done.”

Rupert stood up. “I think you’ve gone too far, Ken Slater,” he said. “What you are insinuating is a slur on the honour of my business and my family.” He looked like an offended cockerel, with his chest puffed out and his face suffused with colour.

Ken guffawed. “
Honour
?” he said. “The honour of Rain or Shine? Don’t make me laugh, Rupert Forsyth. Now I’m
going,” he added, “but if you think of anybody else who would have had reasons to blackmail Norman, let me know. Whoever it was, he could well know more uncomfortable facts … uncomfortable for the rest of us.”

Daisy appeared suspiciously quickly—had she been eavesdropping? “Thanks for the tea. Sec you soon,” Ken said, and Daisy thought it sounded like a threat. Ken left then, and directed the green Audi home.

T
HE PUB WAS FULL BY THE TIME
B
ILL TOOK
L
OIS
‘
S ADVICE
and went in for a pint or two. He had persuaded Rebecca to come loo, and the warmth and chatter lifted Bill’s spirits. He spotted Derek by the bar, and waved. “Got one set up for you, lad,” Derek yelled above the noise. “What’ll you have, Rebecca?”

Time passed, and conversation had quietened to a mellow buzz. Bill and Rebecca sat with Derek and one or two of his friends at a table by the fire, and a needle dominoes match was going on at the next table. Old Fred won again, and there was cheering as he made his way reluctantly to the bar to buy his round.

“So how’s New Brooms goin’?” Derek said. “Lois never tells me nothing about it. Says it would bore me stiff, just like me going on about electrics gives her the yawns!”

“It’s fine,” Bill said. “Never a dull moment. My favourite client at present is Miss Ivy Beasley at Ringford. Quite a challenge, that one! But we’re hitting it off well now. I wouldn’t say she was exactly fond of me, but at least she doesn’t give me the evil eye so often.” Rebecca laughed, and said it would teach Bill to be nice to old ladies, which could only stand him in good stead. That reminded him of the old lady who’d sobbed over her dead Labrador, and he fell silent.

“Ivy Beasley?” said Fred, returning with the pints, and listening in to others’ conversations as usual. “She were a holy terror when she were young. One or two o’ the lads fancied her, but she frightened ‘em off afore they had a
chance!” He laughed throatily, and went into a spasm of coughing.

Derek saw Bill’s face, and tried to cheer him up. “Still, you got that young Susanna Jacob on the team now,” he said. “Best pair o’ legs for miles around.”

“Huh!” interrupted Fred. “No better than she should be, that one. You should tell your Lois to get shot of her quick. My granddaughter’s a nurse up at the ‘ospital, and she could tell you a thing or two about Susanna Jacob.” And then he was off again, bent double with a coughing fit.

The conversation wandered off to the comforting subject of farming, and how awful the weather had been and what a rotten harvest it was again. “Who’d be a farmer?” Derek said.

“I would,” Bill said. “But I’d rather be a vet.”

“And a cleaner?” one of the others chipped in maliciously.

Bill nodded. “As I said,” he replied, “never a dull moment, and girls with the best pairs of legs for miles around.”

And one, he added to himself, with a past that grew more mysterious by the minute.

“A
RE YOU SHOOTING THIS WEEKEND
?” J
EAN
S
LATER
was washing up the supper dishes, resentment in every word. They had a dishwasher, but Ken said it was a waste of money for only two people. She was idly speculating why Ken was in such an unusually good mood this evening. At home with her, he lapsed into a grumpy silence most of the time. Perhaps the prospect of firing at targets and hitting as many as possible had put him in a pleasant humour. It could be that. She had wondered more than once whether her own face had been superimposed by Ken on the target, as he lined up his sights.

“Yep. I shall be there. I mean to win a competition tonight.” He was almost conversational, adding, “Golf tomorrow?” His voice was casual, but his question was not. He never quite trusted Doreen and Jean together. He suspected they confided most things to each other. But he had no option but to hope that both were loyal girls, and that Doreen’s affection was strong enough to prevent betrayal.

“Certainly,” Jean replied. “It’s a regular fixture. Nine o’clock on the tee. Rain or shine …”

Ken stared at her. “What did you say?”

“ ‘Nine o’clock on the tee.’ Why? What’s wrong with that?”

“No, after that.” Ken shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s golf on the telly, so hurry up with that.”

“You could dry up the dishes,” Jean said acidly. But Ken had disappeared. Jean finished at the sink, and went through to join him. She knew perfectly well what she had said that startled him. Rain or shine. Those letters to Norman Stevenson—had they been something to do with the Forsyths? Surely Ken himself wouldn’t have sent them? He had absolutely no reason to do so. She dismissed the thought, but a nagging doubt stayed in her mind.

W
HILE
D
OREEN AND
J
EAN STOOD ON THE TEE NEXT
morning, flexing their muscles and looking forward to a morning’s gentle exercise, followed by a slap-up lunch in the clubhouse and a game of bridge after that, Lois set off on her rounds. Today she planned to go via Round Ringford, and see if she could find Doris Ashbourne. She would have to think of a convincing reason, other than the real one, and decided to invent a mythical old friend of her mother, one who had lived in Ringford many years ago. Doris would be flattered to be asked, she hoped.

First shop in Ringford. Lois drew up outside, and went in. A pleasant-faced woman behind the counter asked if she could help. “Some of those tomatoes on the vine, please,” Lois said. They were Derek’s favourite, and she’d got some of Josie’s best ham for tea. “A kilo?” the woman said. “Goodness, I don’t know,” Lois said. “Whatever a couple of pounds is now will do.”

The woman smiled. “I’m only just used to the new system myself,” she said. “Some of my elderly customers have real trouble with it. And one or two still think in shillings!”

“Like your neighbour, Miss Beasley?” Lois said with a laugh. “And her friend … Doris Ashbourne is it?” She explained how she knew about them.

The woman confirmed that Miss Beasley had washed her hands of the whole metric system. “Though Doris is quite up with it all,” she added. “Up there in her bungalow in Macmillan Gardens she has plenty of young neighbours to keep her up to date. Very popular, is our Doris, though mostly I think it’s her baking the kids are after!”

Lois thanked her kindly, and set off for Macmillan Gardens. This was a small development of old folks’ bungalows and semi-detached council houses, now mostly privately owned. She cruised round the central square of grass, and pulled up. A bulging lady with a white terrier looked at her enquiringly. “Which one is Mrs. Ashbourne’s, please?” Lois said, looking reassuringly at the woman.

“What was it you wanted?” the woman said suspiciously. There had been frightening visits from men disguised as electricity inspectors and water company operatives, and money had been taken fraudulently.

“Just to chat about a mutual friend,” Lois said. “She will remember me.”

“Up there, number four,” the woman said. “I shall be in my front garden, in case you want to know anything,” she added, in a threatening rather than helpful voice.

“Thanks very much,” Lois said, sighing for the untrusting world around her, and went to ring the doorbell of number four.

The door was opened, but the inside chain left on while Doris peered through at Lois. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Meade,” she said, and released the chain. “Come in, do. Is it about Ivy? I saw her this morning early, and she seemed fine.”

“No, no. Nothing to do with Miss Beasley. She’s very lucky to have such a good friend. No, Bill’s getting on fine, and she seems pleased with him.”

“And that’s quite an achievement with our Ivy!” Doris laughed.

“I was passing by, and remembered my mother—she lives with us in Farnden—talking about an old friend who’d lived in Ringford years ago. They’ve lost touch, and I wondered if you might remember her and what became of her. She was Mabel Richards. I
think
that’s right.”

To her amazement, Doris’s face brightened. “Mabel Richards! Goodness, that was a long time ago.” Just as Lois was beginning to think she had conjured up a ghost from the past, Doris added, “But it wasn’t Mabel, was it? I think her name was Mavis. Yes, I’m sure it was Mavis.”

They talked about Mavis for a while, and Lois promised to pass on the details to her mother. Fortunately—though not for Mavis—she had emigrated to New Zealand, and had been killed soon after in a road accident. “What a shame,” she said hypocritically, wondering how she could get the conversation round to Susanna Jacob.

But Lois’s luck was in. Doris herself introduced the subject. “Did you sort out Ivy on changing her cleaner?” she said. “Got it into her head that Bill was leaving, and you were sending Susanna Jacob instead.”

Lois said that had been straightened out, but asked Doris why Ivy had been so against the idea?

“Oh, that’s Ivy all over,” Doris said. “Most particular who she has in her house. She’s a very churchy person, you know, and everybody has to be as blameless as she is. Well, chance would be a fine thing, I often think. Who would want to lead Ivy Beasley astray?”

“Was that what happened to Susanna?” Lois tried to sound casual.

“Well, I shouldn’t really tell you,” Doris answered, “what with her being your employee, an’ that. The truth is, Susanna was working in the Town Hall. Not much of a job for a girl with her education, but apparently she wasn’t all that bright. What she lacked in brains, though, she made up for in looks. Really lovely, she was and is. Heads turned, all that. Loads of boyfriends and men friends too. Then it happened.” Doris paused and looked out of her window at the starlings fighting on the bird-table.

“Shall I guess?” Lois said finally. “Like Ivy said? Susanna got pregnant?”

Doris nodded. “She did. And got rid of it. Her father organised all that.”