Fear on Friday (5 page)

T
HE MAN FROM THE
C
OUNCIL
P
LANNING
D
EPARTMENT
knocked on the Forsyths’ door and waited. He quickly checked that he had all the papers concerned with the application, and put on his serious face. Almost all applications, if not turned down in this conservation village, had to be modified, and he believed in making it quite clear that whatever the applicant was planning, it was not just a case of what suited them, but how it affected others in the village, their close neighbours, and the Council’s own overall plans for the area.

Unless, of course, it was a plan for development by the Council itself, like the school extension in Waltonby. There, in spite of strong local protests, they had cheerfully felled a perfectly healthy hundred-year-old sycamore which had sheltered generations of schoolchildren from sun and rain in the school playground. This was to make way for a couple of extra classrooms, because local elections were coming up, and money was made available suddenly for school building extension. Rebecca Rogers had watched the tree come down from her classroom window,
and felt sick, as if observing a particularly brutal murder. One of her small students had tucked her hand in Rebecca’s, sensing her distress. Bill had stood at the playground railings, taking before and after photographs, and the butchered stump haunted Rebecca’s dreams for days afterwards.

None of this had made any impression on the Council official standing at Rupert Forsyth’s door, and he had half a dozen other applications to see to in his document case. Uppermost in his mind was the worrying fact that it was his wedding anniversary and he had forgotten to buy his wife a present.

“Good morning,” he said briskly, as Daisy Forsyth opened the door. “County Planning Office, Mr. Collins.”

“Oh, yes,” said Daisy quickly. Rupert was upstairs in the bathroom, but she ushered Mr. Collins into the sitting room and went off to make coffee. Mr. Collins looked around, then walked over to the windows overlooking the garden. The application was for an extension—quite substantial—and he checked the intended use again. “Seating area, cloakroom and boot room.” Boot room? He hadn’t encountered this before.

“You learn something new every day in this job, Mrs. Forsyth,” he said accusingly. “What on earth is a boot room?”

Rupert appeared and said firmly, “Where we put our boots, Wellington and walking, muddy and wet, also umbrellas, walking-sticks, folding garden chairs, sunshades—”

“All right, all right,” said Mr. Collins. “I get it. Now, let’s have a look at the plans.” He walked to a drop-leaf table by the wall, and Daisy rushed to open it up. The plans were spread out, and the two men pored over them.

“Is this supposed to be a sort of conservatory seating area?” Mr. Collins asked. “And if so, why in brick and with very few windows? Why not have a perfectly good prefab, wooden framed job in a style harmonising with the house? You’re much more likely to get permission.”

Silence. Daisy looked nervously at Rupert, praying that he wouldn’t have one of his explosions.

“Ah,” he said calmly. “Now, Mr. Collins …” He spoke slowly, as if to a dim child. “If I had wanted an off-the-peg, gimcrack conservatory, with flimsy Victorian trimmings, I would have asked for one. This is an extension carefully thought out to meet our requirements, mine and the wife’s, and we are hoping the Planning Department will approve it as such. Of course, if there are small adjustments suggested, then we shall be only too happy to co-operate.”

He beamed good-humouredly at Mr. Collins, who did not smile back. We’ve got a right one here, he thought to himself. Well, we’ll see just how happily Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth co-operate when they gel the Council’s decision!

Secure in the knowledge that his report and recommendations were all-powerful, he left the house and immediately dismissed the Forsyths from his mind. He remembered the village shop, and pulled up in the forlorn hope that it would offer something suitable for his wife.

N
OTHING IN
L
ONG
F
ARNDEN WENT UNOBSERVED
. J
OSIE
had seen Mr. Collins’s car arrive outside the Forsyths as she cycled back from delivering. Now he had parked outside the shop and was coming up the steps. A strange car. Who was he, then? And what did he want with the Forsyths? These thoughts were routine in the village. Everybody had them, and the answers fed the network of information that kept the gossips going.

“Morning! Can I help you?” Josie was always cheerful.

Blimey, thought Lois, coming in behind Mr. Collins. Can this really be our Josie, the sulky teenager who caused us so much trouble? She waited discreetly until he had wandered round the shelves, not seeming to know what he was looking for.

“I don’t suppose you have any … er … any special chocolates, flowers, or …”

“A present?” said Josie. “For your wife?” Oops, she thought. Is that a step too far?

But the man nodded. “In the doghouse,” he said, with the trace of a smile.

“Right,” said Josie briskly. “You’re in luck. I can just hear the flower van out the back, so there’ll be fresh flowers. And over here …” She walked across the shop to shelves in the corner. “Over here we have our Swiss chocolates. We put them away from the window. First mistake I made,” she added chattily. “I put some new stock on the front shelves so’s people would see them, and the afternoon sun melted the lot.”

When Mr. Collins had paid and was about to leave looking infinitely more cheerful than when he came in, Josie asked lightly, “Are you a stranger round here? Need any directions?”

Mr. Collins gave a gravelly laugh and shook his head. “No, I’m from Tresham. Been to see about plans for an extension.” It was said with a purpose. You never knew what useful information would result from a word in the right place.

“Oh, you mean the Forsyths,” said Josie cheerfully. “Yeah, we know about that. Looks quite a good idea, for him and his letters! Needs a new building to house that lot!”

“Letters?” said Mr. Collins, his nose twitching like a rat’s. Was this a business Rupert Forsyth was intending to conduct from his home? If so, there would be regulations to consider. Regulations were meat and drink to Mr. Collins.

“Oh, just a joke,” said Josie hastily, seeing exactly which way the wind was blowing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to the flower man. You had the pick of the lot! I hope your wife’s pleased. Have a nice day.” And she disappeared from Mr. Collins’s prying eyes.

He reluctantly left the shop and climbed into his car, but did not start the engine straight away. Letters, eh? Maybe he should go back and have another word with the
Forsyths, just to make sure. Then he looked at his watch. Oh Lord, he’d only just get back in time to take his wife out to lunch. He couldn’t risk two scenes in one day. There’d be time later to see the Forsyths, he decided, and drove off towards Tresham and humble pie.

B
ILL
‘
S CAR CRUNCHED SLOWLY UP THE CURVING DRIVE
to the Jenkinsons’ house, and parked round the back, as instructed. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock on the dot. Mrs. M was very particular about punctuality, and he got out and walked swiftly to the back door.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jenkinson,” he said cheerfully. “Lovely morning.”

Doreen looked at him suspiciously. “Are you from New Brooms?” she said.

“Yes, that’s me, Bill Stockbridge. How d’you do.” He extended his hand and shook her reluctant one.

“I wasn’t expecting …” Her voice tailed off.

“Weren’t expecting a bloke? Surely Mrs. M told you?” Bill’s voice was light and unfussed. He was used to this kind of reception at his first visit, and prided himself on putting the client at ease in no time at all.

“No, no,” she said. “You don’t look like what I was expecting, I suppose,” she added lamely.

Bill laughed heartily. “I’m just a Yorkshire farmer’s son,” he replied. “And I’ve got a steady girlfriend, who’s
used to me going cleaning. I love it, Mrs. Jenkinson, and I can see you love your home. You can trust me with it, that’s for sure. Now, where would you like me to start?”

Doreen hesitated. She was not at all sure about this strongly-built young man with a determined chin and disarming smile. He was not at all what she had been expecting. So what
had
she been expecting? Well, she thought, leading him through to the kitchen, perhaps a gentle, sensitive lad with delicate hands and … and … well, somebody not quite so
masculine
.

Doreen opened a cupboard door and said, “Look, there are all the things. Our last cleaner kept it in a bit of a muddle, I’m afraid, but seemed to know where to find things.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Bill assured her. “We bring our own equipment and supplies. All you need to do, Mrs. Jenkinson, is show me round the house, say if there’s any routine you’d like me to fit in with, and then relax. Make a coffee, walk the dog, phone a friend, go shopping … whatever. I’m here to make life easier for you, not to give you a headache.”

This was a spiel he had worked on, and had had very caustic comments when he’d tried it out on Rebecca. Still, it worked with most people, and as Doreen gave him the conducted tour, he noticed her visibly relaxing, and soon she was showing him photographs of her grandchildren.

“This is my daughter,” she said. “She lives locally, and has two boys. Look, this is Sam and this is George. Aren’t they lovely?”

Bill peered closely. Two perfectly ordinary, nice-looking lads. “How old? Ten and eight?” he asked.

Doreen nodded delightedly. “How clever! Exactly right. Well, they’re our pride and joy, of course. Very fond of their grandfather, and he spends hours with Sam over his stamp album. Not many boys these days are interested in stamps, but Sam is very keen. Howard saves up interesting ones for him.”

“How wonderful,” said Bill, walking purposefully on.
“Now, I must get started, otherwise you won’t get your money’s worth.”

This was enough to send Doreen smartly ahead of him, up the stairs and towards a closed door off the landing. “First of all,” she said, remembering Howard’s stern strictures before he left for the Town Hall. “This is my husband’s study, and nobody but him is allowed in it. Not even me,” she added sourly.

“Ah yes,” Bill said in an even tone. “Mrs. Meade told me about that. You can trust me absolutely.” Though if I catch him in there, he thought to himself, I shall probably blunder in, because forbidden doors are irresistible to the curious. What could a retired timber merchant have in there that made him so anxious to keep it secret?

They continued around the bedrooms and bathrooms, and Bill admired everything and saw that Doreen was now completely happy with him. Right then, that was the first hurdle crossed. The next would be to persuade her that he knew best. Most women had their own ways of cleaning, but New Brooms had its own. The team was trained, and they all stuck to what they had been taught.

At coffee break time Doreen called Bill into the kitchen. “Sit down,” she said, and he told her that he was allowed five minutes only. “Plenty of time, Mrs. M says, to drink a coffee and get back to work.”

Doreen raised her eyebrows. She’d been looking forward to a bit of a chat with this polite chap, to find out some more about him. His job with the vets, his girlfriend, family up North. All that. Ah well, he’d settle into the job, and then they’d have some good chats later on.

Bill was on his feet on the dot of five minutes, just as Howard let himself in through the front door. The big man jangled his keys in his pocket and marched through to the kitchen. “Morning,” he said dismissively to Bill. “Coffee fresh, Doreen?” he added, turning his back on Bill.

And good morning to you, too, thought Bill, as he climbed the stairs and started to clean an already immaculate bathroom.

“You’re back early,” Doreen said, pouring out coffee and handing Howard the biscuit tin.

“Jean sent me home. Nothing for me to do, she said. But I’ve brought some papers to attend to, so I’ll take the coffee upstairs. Where’s that bloke got to?”