Fear on Friday (31 page)

“Come on, then,” Jean said. “Tell us all. Mind you, we know most of it already, don’t we. You’re a fool, Ken Slater.”

Ken made an attempt to sit up straight. “Thanks very much, wifey dear,” he said. His eyes were like stones. Pinkish stones. “I don’t see why I should tell you anything. Or why the pair of you had to come bustin’ in like a couple of Valkyrie. Well, I don’t intend to be carried off to Valhalla just yet, and I could quite easily have found my way home.”

Doreen raised her eyebrows. “I don’t see you in the home of the Gods, Ken dear,” she said. “More the other place, given the circumstances. Anyway, this is getting us nowhere. And it’s WI tonight, so I’d better get on. I’ll leave him in your capable hands, Jean.” She left quickly, patting Ken’s shoulder lightly as she passed him on her way out.

D
OREEN WAS NOT GOING STRAIGHT HOME
. S
HE DROVE
through the narrow lanes at speed, narrowly missing one or two oncoming vehicles, and squashing a small creature rashly crossing the road in front of her. Instead of heading for Hornton House, she turned down a side road and came to a jerky halt in front of the Forsyth house.

Daisy saw her get out of the car and open the garden gate. “Rupert!” she yelled. But he was upstairs in the little office, with Wagner turned up loud, and did not hear. The
doorbell rang twice, and then again, impatiently. Daisy opened the door.

“Ah, yes,” said Doreen, “I’d like a word.” She walked past Daisy and into the sitting room. “Is your husband in?” Daisy nodded mutely. “Then ask him if he can spare me a few minutes. I need both of you.”

Rupert appeared, silent for once, and sat next to Daisy on the sofa. Doreen settled herself in an upright chair, in a commanding position over the other two. She stared at them for a couple of minutes, until Daisy stuttered, “H-how can we help you, Mrs. Jenkinson?”

“I doubt if you’re even willing to help me,” Doreen said sharply. “But I don’t need your help. It’s the other way round. I can help you.”

The Forsyths exchanged startled glances. “What do you mean?” Rupert said.

“Well, as you must know, and as your wife certainly knows, my late husband was a jolly man. Loved jolly parties and jolly times with pretty ladies. I never minded. Worked off some of his surplus energy, and saved me the bother. And anyway, it was all in the past. But then it came to my ears that Howard had paid Daisy Forsyth a visit, right under my nose, in the village where we intended to live. Now, this was too much. I’m sure you’d agree with that, Mrs. Forsyth?”

“Where is all this leading us?” Rupert said in an even voice. He moved a few inches away from Daisy, disassociating himself from her goings-on.

“To your son, Fergus.” Doreen smoothed down her skirt and clasped her hands together. She almost smiled. “I understand he is a great gossip. Quite a lot to gossip about, in a shop like yours, I imagine. A friend of mine, as it happens, was talking to him this afternoon. He was not quite himself, unfortunately, and could well have burdened your son with things which were on his mind—things which had nothing to do with Fergus, of course.”

“Get to the point, Mrs. Jenkinson,” said Rupert. “I am rather busy.”

“I think you’ll want to hear the rest, Mr. Forsyth,” Doreen said comfortably. “The point is, you do something for me, and I’ll do something for you. You ask—no—tell Fergus to forget anything my friend told him, erase it; and I’ll make sure Daisy’s little interlude with Howard does no harm to her reputation in Long Farnden.” She sat back in her chair and waited.

Daisy looked at Rupert, and back at Doreen. “Your husband, Mrs. Jenkinson, was an old friend of mine,” she said. “I don’t know and don’t care how “jolly” your marriage was, but I am not in the habit of turning away old friends who find my company congenial.”

She paused, and then stood up. “As for your proposition, my husband and I will discuss it with Fergus, and let you know.” She walked towards the door. “Come this way, please,” she said. “We are both rather busy, and I am sure you are, too. WI tonight, isn’t it? Have a good meeting. Goodbye.”

Doreen drove home slowly. She had been so sure of her strategy, but now felt oddly discomforted. Had Daisy one-upped her? That middle-aged scrubber? She turned into the garage, and was dismayed to hear a scrape as she drove too near the wall.

In a thoroughly bad temper now, she let herself into the house and stepped into three inches of water. The dishwasher had stuck on filling up, and flooded most of the ground floor.

J
EAN AND
K
EN SAT IN SILENCE ON OPPOSITE SIDES OF
the breakfast table, which, for all the contact between them, could have been a wide chasm. Ken was pretending to read the newspaper, though the print blurred before his eyes. Jean stared into a cup of cooling coffee and reviewed the last few months.

Since Howard had died, she had enjoyed her freedom, though she was missing the extra cash. With Doreen and Ken, she had picked up the pieces of their lives, and had looked forward to a future without the ever-present grey cloud of Howard and all the trouble he had caused them. She had to admit that her affair with him had been exciting, and had been conducted with a kind of licence from Ken and Doreen, who were at it like rabbits at the same time. She supposed it was that vulnerable time of their lives, when middle age had suddenly been a reality, and dangerous liaisons seemed a good way of keeping the future at bay. Oh, come on, Jean, she said to herself, half-smiling, we were all randy as hell. Simple as that. And it
was
good while it lasted.

“What are you smiling at?” Ken broke the silence at last. “Doesn’t seem much to smile at just now.”

“Thoughts,” Jean replied dully. “But really I was thinking about all the mistakes we have made. Me and Howard, you and Doreen. Feelings out of control. That sort of thing.”

“At least we shared it all,” Ken said, looking hopefully across the table.

“Not all of it,” Jean said quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like how Howard died. I think you know, Ken. You and Doreen, perhaps. I have an idea, but I don’t know exactly.”

Silence settled over them once more. Then Ken put down his newspaper and stood up. “I’ll make some more coffee,” he said. “Then I’ll go over it with you, step by step, and you’ll see that whatever your husband’s faults are, he is not a murderer.”

“Convince me,” Jean said, and glared at him.

L
OIS WALKED OUT INTO
D
EREK
‘
S VEGETABLE GARDEN
and studied the neat rows of cabbages, carrots, parsnips and onions. Good, old-fashioned English vegetables, increasingly popular in Josie’s shop, where they were sold on the day Derek had lifted them, fresh as a daisy and unsullied by sprays or plastic wrappings. She walked on to the little gate in the hedge and through to the footpath by the river. She needed to think, and with the flowing water and clear air, no telephone or Gran chattering to disturb her.

She had not yet heard from Cowgill about Doreen and the letters, but was sure it had been she who blackmailed Norman Stevenson. She had probably had some hold over him from the past, when he had worked in Tresham and had that big row with Howard. Possibly an affair? The Mayor’s Parlour seemed to have been a hotbed of how’s y’father! Why the wealthy wife of Howard Jenkinson
should need to blackmail for money was a mystery, but one that Cowgill could easily solve.

Willow branches swept over the footpath, and Lois walked round them, feeling the wet grass cool around her ankles. It had rained in the night, but now the sun was shining and everywhere sparkled. Why am I mixed up in all this? she asked herself. I could be thinking about the business, planning expansion, all that … Maybe this would be the last time she’d be persuaded to help Cowgill. Well, she could postpone that decision. But for now it was back to the fearful foursome. Doreen and Howard, Jean and Ken, linked by so many connections. School, business, sex, Norman, Susanna. Hotbed was probably a good description. A hotbed that overheated somewhere. And now Cowgill’s warning for her to be careful. That meant that one or more of the foursome suspected she knew too much. Perhaps Doreen, alerted by Lois’s questions. Or Jean, who had had access to all Howard’s secrets, more than likely including the Susanna catastrophe. Susanna and New Brooms. It didn’t take much to put two and two together and make five, to add Lois to the foursome—an unwelcome intruder. If Norman Stevenson had known of Lois’s amateur sleuthing, ten to one the Slaters and probably Doreen knew too.

Right. Lois turned purposefully around and headed back to the house. She was due at Hornton House this afternoon, and—watching her back—would quietly open a few drawers and, if she got the chance, ask a few innocent questions. She was pretty sure now that one of them was in some way responsible for Howard’s death, but exactly why and how was still unclear. Doreen had an alibi, but the others did not. They claimed to have been at home, but had no witnesses.

Before she left for work, she rang Cowgill. He was out, but she left a message to say that she would be working at Hornton House that afternoon. That was all. She hoped he could mind-read, but doubted it. She would just have to be extra careful.

•    •   •

T
HE BREAKFAST DISHES WERE NOW STACKED ON THE
draining-board, and Jean washed while Ken dried. It had not taken long for Ken to give his account of what happened, and Jean was numb. Now she paused, resting her gloved hands on the sink. “Is that really all there was to it?” she said. “Just an accident? You’d both had too much to drink? Too foozled to go to his aid? And why didn’t you tell me all this before? You weren’t that drunk when you arrived home …”

Ken sighed. “Scared,” he said. “That’s why I lied to you, said I’d been at the gun club. I’d been with Howard all the time. After golf, we watched some blue movies in his den, then went down and had a drinking session. It was him that suggested a walk in the garden. The cold night air didn’t help. Hit me like a wet sheet, and it was all I could do to walk. He’d gone on ahead of me, up to his bloody pond. Then it happened. By the time I got there, I could see he was dead, and I sobered up and scarpered, like a fool.”

“And persuaded me to say we were both at home all evening, convincing me we’d be the first to be suspected.” Jean shook her head. She muttered, “Now where is it all going to end,” and continued blindly washing the dirty dishes.

Ken said no more, and half an hour later arrived at his office, shutting the door firmly and sitting down at his desk. He took out his mobile and dialled. “Doreen? We need to talk. Well, what time does she come? Fine. Right. Yes, I can make it—but just a sandwich. Not very hungry. See you later then.”

A
FTER
K
EN HAD GONE OUT
, J
EAN TIDIED UP AND HAD
a hot shower. She dressed carefully, choosing the dark grey suit she had bought before Howard died, in a last-ditch attempt to update her image in the face of Susanna Jacob’s youth and beauty. She looked in the long mirror, and decided the general effect was good. Responsible, sensible and confident. She had a call to make, and needed all the ammunition she could muster.

Ken had taken the car, of course, but she waited for the bus into town. Her neighbour looked at her curiously as they waited together at the bus stop. “You all right, Jean?” she said. “Fine, thanks,” said Jean. She was not. She felt remote from everything but her determination to carry through what she had planned. Her neighbour said something else that Jean did not hear. “Sorry?” she said.

“Shall we have a coffee together in town?” repeated the woman.

Jean shook her head. “No, thanks, I’ve got an appointment as soon as we get there. In fact, I wish this bus would
get a move on.” Another lie. She had no appointment, but was sure she would be seen, when she explained.

Finally they reached the bus station, where passengers disgorged and vanished in different directions.

“Which way are you going, Jean?”

Why doesn’t she leave me alone, thought Jean, but shook her head politely and said she was not heading for the shops, not at first. “Hope you find some bargains,” she said, and strode off.