Fear on Friday (30 page)

Not the time to ask Josie anything, Lois concluded. In any case, she had only wanted to see if Josie remembered handling letters with handwriting like the one in her pocket. It was a long shot, and not worth risking Josie’s sharp tongue. She posted the letter and made her way home.

D
AISY
F
ORSYTH HAD NOT BEEN IN TO COLLECT HER
bread because of an almighty family row that was still going on. Fergus had shut the shop and arrived in the middle of the morning with a long face. “What’s wrong with you, boy? And who’s looking after the shop?” Rupert had said crossly.

“Are you ill, dear?” Daisy had said, pushing Rupert to one side, and reaching up to kiss Fergus’s pale cheek.

“No,” he said. “I’m not ill, and the shop can look after itself for one morning. Trade is not that brisk. In fact most mornings not a single punter comes in. So can we sit down. I need to talk.”

“Talk about what?” Rupert was angry and impatient. What on earth did the boy think he was doing?

Daisy led the way. “Shall we have a coffee and calm down?” she said soothingly. Whatever Fergus said, she knew that something was very wrong.

Rupert and Fergus sat hunched in their chairs saying
nothing, while Daisy made coffee and brought it in on a tray. “Biscuit, dear?” she said to Fergus. He shook his head. “Let’s get this over with,” he said.

“Right,” said Rupert firmly. “Get going, and then we can get back to the business that keeps us all in food and drink, and a roof over our heads.”

“Bull’s eye, Dad,” Fergus said. “It’s the business. And my life in the business. I hate it, if you want the truth. I hate the goods, the customers, the shifty looks and sideways smiles of my so-called friends. I hate sitting in that cramped little shop, nowhere near the centre of town, wasting my life doing bugger-all most of the time. No, don’t interrupt, Dad. You can—and, I am sure, will—have your say in a minute. I want out. The way things are going, we’ll be losing so much business anyway, and it won’t be enough to do all those things you just listed so pleasantly.”

Daisy looked at him admiringly. This was a new, more confident Fergus. He sat up straight and looked his father in the eye. “I suggest,” Fergus continued, “that we either sell the business or wind it up and you and Mum can retire. I mean to get some training to do something completely different. A new start, Dad. Before it is too late.”

He sat back, and waited. Daisy took a deep breath and looked at Rupert, who seemed to be stunned into silence. “Excellent, Fergus!” she said. “Just what I’ve been thinking myself. We can all have a new start.”

Rupert came alive. “And what shall we bloody well live on?” He glared at Daisy, as if it was all her fault.

“Our pensions, and we shall get some money from the sale of the business … or the property.” She felt a rising excitement at the prospect.

Fergus nodded. “The area is going up,” he said. “Prices of houses round there are rising all the time. I was talking to Hazel and Maureen—”

Rupert leaned forward and interrupted him with venom. “
If
,” he hissed, “you spent less time talking to those stupid women, we might be gaining business instead of losing it. The shop always looks a mess, and your sales talk is
pathetic. You’re a waste of space, and the answer to your ridiculous proposition is No, No, No!” His voice had risen to a shout, and his face was apoplectic.

Fergus stood up. He looked at his parents, squared his shoulders, and marched out, slamming the front door as he went. Daisy heard his car driving off and put her head in her hands.

“Stop that blubbing!” Rupert yelled, and raised his fist. At that moment, the doorbell rang. And then the knocker rapped several times.

“Morning, sir.” A man in a well-cut suit stood there. “Inspector Cowgill, Tresham police. May I come in? Just a few more questions I’d like to ask you and your wife.”

L
ATER THAT DAY
,
WHEN NOT A SINGLE CUSTOMER HAD
crossed the threshold of Rain or Shine, Fergus Forsyth considered shutting the shop early. He had returned after his abortive conversation—if you could call it a conversation—with his father, and had spent the rest of the day planning his future. If his father would not co-operate, then Fergus had decided to carry out what he planned, regardless of what happened to the business. He would wash his hands of his father, and start straight away on applying for further education courses and grants. He had a fair amount of money put safely away, and he had hoped his father would reward his years of faithful service with a share of any sale. Ha! Those hopes were dashed this morning. But no matter, he would stay afloat whatever happened.

He looked out of the window. The lights were on in the New Brooms office, and he could see Hazel talking on the telephone. She was a good listener. Maybe he’d walk over and have a chat. He needed someone to confide in. The day’s events had left him very determined, but at the same
time he felt shaky when he thought of how Rupert would take it out on Daisy. Fergus was fond of his mother, but had never found a way of helping her. She always laughed away his concern, saying she was tough, tougher than his father any day, and Fergus was not to worry.

Just as he was locking the safe and preparing to leave, a car drew up outside. Ken Slater. Fergus looked at his watch. Still a quarter of an hour to official closing time. He sighed and went back inside the shop, switching on the lights.

“Ah, good lad!” said Ken. “Thought you were shut, for one awful moment …”

He walked not too steadily behind Fergus, and sat down on a stool, narrowly missing falling off the edge. Oh my God, thought Fergus. Ken Slater the worse for wear. He was a boring enough companion sober, but drunk …

“Been playing golf with a lovely lady,” Ken said happily. “Thought I’d pop in for a chat. You going to the gun club tonight? There’s the big competition, and you’d stand a good chance. I shall be there—give you a lift if you like?”

Ye gods, Fergus muttered. If Ken turned up in this state, he’d be shown the door and probably exit into the arms of the police bearing breathalyser. “Not sure, Ken,” he said. “Better go under my own steam. I shan’t decide until later.”

“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” Ken replied expansively. “Plenty of room in the old Audi …” He swayed on his stool, and his eyelids drooped. Then he snapped awake. “Did I ever tell you,” he began in a portentous voice, “about the time I took Howard to the club? Not golf … no, the gun club, I mean.” Fergus nodded, but Ken continued anyway. “Disaster!” he said. “The bugger’s hands shook so hard he nearly dropped the gun. Terrified! Never got anywhere near the ranges. Had to take him home, shaking like a jelly. Luckily Doreen was there. Took his hand like he was a kid. Knew just what to do. He asked me—well, paid me, if you want the truth—to keep quiet
about it, and I did. You’re the first person I’ve told, and I know you’ll keep mum. Good old Fergus!” He began to laugh, and couldn’t stop.

Fergus said, “I’ll get you a glass of water,” and rushed out to the back room. He pulled out his mobile and dialled the Slaters’ home number. No reply. Sod it! He got the water and considered throwing it over Ken to sober him up.

When Fergus returned the laughter had stopped, and Ken sat up to the counter with his head resting on his hands. “All right now,” he said morosely, all his good humour evaporated.

There was a short silence, whilst Fergus wondered what on earth to do. He couldn’t let the fool drive his car, but he was sure that Ken wouldn’t agree to a taxi, or a lift from Fergus. He had the supreme confidence of a man fuelled by far too much alcohol, and anyway, he was bigger than Fergus.

“Came in useful, later on,” Ken muttered, as if to himself.

“What did?” Fergus was still thinking desperately, not really concentrating on what Ken had said.

Ken turned and looked at him. “What did you say, young Fergus?”

“What did?”

Ken looked puzzled. “You’re talking in riddles, boy,” he said. “Riddle, diddle, dee … I need a pee!” This sent him off into another fit of uncontrollable laughter, and Fergus looked around desperately for the mop bucket.

At this inauspicious moment, just as Fergus found the bucket, the door flew open and Jean Slater appeared, followed by Doreen Jenkinson. They ignored Fergus completely, and positioned themselves either side of a surprised Ken. “Come on, you fool,” Jean said. “Ready, Doreen?” Doreen nodded, and they frog-marched him out of the shop and into the back seat of his car. A swift consultation between the two women, and then Jean drove off in the Audi without once looking back.

Fergus stood motionless, staring after the car. Doreen took his arm and propelled him back into the shop. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Doesn’t happen often, but oh boy, when he does go on a bender he does it thoroughly. Funny thing was,” she added lightly, “I was playing golf with him this morning. He did seem a bit abstracted, but otherwise the same old Ken. Still, we had a drink after the game, and when one of my friends offered me a lift home, he said he’d stay for a while and get some lunch. A liquid lunch, I reckon. Jean got a call from the club after he left, and we finally tracked him down. Something must have upset him …”

“Perhaps he was celebrating,” said Fergus.

L
ONG AFTER CLOSING TIME NOW
,
BUT THE EIGHTS WERE
still on in New Brooms. Fergus felt even more the need to unburden himself to Hazel, and after locking up, crossed the road and greeted her with relief.

“Hi,” he said. “Can you spare a minute to listen to a desperate man?” He was smiling, and Hazel offered to make him a coffee.

“No thanks,” he said. “I just need a sympathetic ear, and who better to come to than the lovely Hazel?”

“That’s quite enough of that! Just get on with it,” Hazel said, and leaned back in her chair.

“Well, it has to be kept very confidential. Not repeated to anyone. Is that all right with you?”

He must be barmy, thought Hazel, but nodded in agreement.

Fergus began at the beginning and related in a neatly chronological order all the events of his day. By the time he had finished, Hazel was sitting up straight, listening hard. “I feel much better now, thanks,” he ended. “Everybody should have a Hazel to talk to,” he ventured.

He got a caustic reply. “Try finding a girlfriend,” Hazel said, and looked at her watch. “Time to shut up shop,” she said, and ushered him out.

She watched him safely across the road, and then switched off most of the lights. Then she lifted the telephone and dialled. “Mrs. M? Hazel here. Have you got a few minutes? I’ve just heard some stuff that might be of interest to you. Fine. Here goes, then.”

J
EAN AND
D
OREEN SAT IN
J
EAN
‘
S SMALL KITCHEN
,
WITH
a defeated-looking Ken on the opposite side of the table. Jean had made quantities of strong, black coffee, and replenished Ken’s mug as soon as he emptied it. “Steady on, Jean,” Doreen said. “He’ll be having the heebie-jeebies with all that caffeine.”

“Serve him right,” Jean said.

After a moment’s silence, Doreen said, “How’s your head?”

“Migraine’s gone,” Jean replied. “It’s like that. Some sudden unexpected shock can do it. Only silver lining to this particular cloud,” she added, glaring at Ken.

“Oh, for God’s sake leave it, Jean,” Ken muttered. “I’ve said I’m sorry … what more do you want? Grovelling? I’ll grovel, if it will shut you up. And I don’t want any more sodding coffee!”

He rose unsteadily to his feet and emptied his mug down the sink. He was no longer drunk, but had the shakes, and stumbled back to his chair.

“So you had a matey chat with Fergus?” Jean said.
“And what was it about? How you were still mourning your best friend, and every time you went on the golf course you were reminded of him? Especially when you landed your ball in that wood, in the thick bracken? So you’d decided to drown your woes?”

“Jean …” Doreen said softly. She felt sorry for Ken. But if he’d blabbed to Fergus, then it was serious. She doubted if he remembered any of the conversation, but that didn’t deter Jean.