Fear on Friday (8 page)

Lois remembered the day she had seen Hunter Cowgill outside Rain or Shine. What was it he’d said? “In the line of duty, Lois.” What kind of duty? She supposed Fergus Forsyth would be a good source of information. No doubt some of his business verged on the dodgy.

“Well, don’t pry, Hazel,” she said. “Just if it comes up in the course of conversation. Might be useful. You know
what I mean.” Hazel knew exactly what Mrs. M meant, and made a mental note to steer Maureen round to the subject when she went to collect Elizabeth at the end of the afternoon. The arrangement was successful, with the babies getting on well and Maureen grateful for the extra money. Her partner had gone off one weekend and never returned, and she found it hard going at times.

“Well, I’d better get going,” Lois said. “Sec you, Hazel. Give me a ring if there are any problems.” She turned to the door, and stopped. A big car drove slowly by, and pulled up two or three hundred yards up the street. After a minute or two, a uniformed chauffeur appeared and went quickly into Rain or Shine. In less than a minute, he reappeared with a parcel, and half-ran back to the car, which he drove off at speed.

“What car was that, then?” said Lois. “It had a sort of coat of arms on the door. Have you seen it before?”

Hazel made a face. “Certainly have,” she said. “Talk about corruption in high places! That car is for the use of the Mayor of Tresham. Old Jenkinson, to be exact. Interesting, Mrs. M?”

“You’d think he’d be more careful,” Lois said.

Hazel shook her head. “He’s thought of that. What that chauffeur buys at Rain or Shine is for himself. Fergus told Maureen—”

“—who told you,” smiled Lois. “Anyway,” she continued, “do we believe that? And if not, how does Howard Jenkinson persuade his driver to carry the can?”

“Very influential, is old Jenkinson,” said Hazel, looking at her watch. “Very influential indeed. Now, I must do a bit o’ paperwork before I collect Lizzie.”

“And I must be going,” Lois repeated. “Take care, then. See you tomorrow.”

I
N THE
T
OWN
H
ALL
, J
EAN
S
LATER FINISHED
H
OWARD
‘
S
letters and took them in for him to sign.

“Morning, lovely Jean,” he said.

Oh God, thought Jean. Not that old thing. Who’d stirred him up this morning? On cue, there was a knock on his door and he said, “Come in!” in a firm voice.

A girl in her twenties, blonde and slender, walked tentatively into the office and looked at Jean. Then she said, “You wanted me, Mr. Jenkinson?”

I’ll say! thought Howard, but he nodded, turning to Jean. “Just sorting out a problem with the staff,” he said. “If you’d give me a few minutes with Suser, Miss Jacobs?”

“Jacob,” said the girl. “Susanna Jacob.”

Jean glared at her, collected up the signed letters and left the office, banging the door behind her. Surely he was past all that? But no, they were never past it. Her old Dad, who’d had a roving eye all his life, had almost lost his wits in the final old folks’ home, but that hadn’t stopped him propositioning a buxom nurse. “I’ve booked us a room at a luxury hotel, my dear,” she’d heard him say confidingly to her one visiting time. “Keeps ‘em going, you know,” the nurse had said afterwards to Jean.

So what would Doreen say? Well, she needn’t know.

“B
ILL
? M
RS
. M
HERE
. C
AN YOU STAY ON FOR A FEW
minutes after the meeting today?”

Monday morning, and the team were meeting at midday. Lois put down the telephone and shuffled her papers. There were already several new contacts from the office in town, and she had begun to think seriously about the need for more cleaners. Now that Hazel spent most of her time in Tresham, she was finding it difficult to spread the team efficiently. She would bring it up at the meeting, see if they had any ideas. A recommendation from one of them was more useful than any number of ads in local papers.

As she had hoped, at the end of the meeting the team had several useful suggestions. One of them—the most likely—was a girl from the nearby village of Round Ringford, a niece of Sheila Stratford. She was working at the Town Hall at present, but Sheila had been talking to her mother, who’d said that she was looking for another job where she’d meet more people, and did not have to sit in front of a computer all day.

“Fair enough,” said Lois. “Give me her particulars, and I’ll get in touch.”

They settled a few last problems, and then dispersed, leaving Bill standing awkwardly by the door. “You wanted to talk?” he said, looking apprehensive.

“Yeah, close the door,” Lois said. Gran was lurking somewhere, she knew, and this was going to be a very confidential matter. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to know, except for a nagging curiosity about a potentially explosive matter. But why? It was none of her business, and for sure no crime had been committed … yet.

Bill shut the door, and turned to face her. Lois laughed. “Don’t look like that,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong. Just wanted to ask you about the Jenkinsons. Well, about that room of his. Have you had a look inside?”

Bill shook his head. “Always locked,” he said. “But I think our Doreen would like to know … she was hovering outside the door the other day when I went up to do the bedrooms. Asked me if Howard had mentioned having it spring-cleaned. I said no, and she went off. But I reckon she’s dead curious.”

“With good reason, if I’m guessing right,” Lois said, and told Bill about the mayoral limousine.

Bill was unimpressed. “Nothing much wrong in that,” he said. “Bit of an old fool, but not exactly a dangerous secret. Anyway, it’s between him and her, Mrs. M, as you’re often tellin’ us. We don’t get mixed up in clients’ private business.”

Lois felt rebuked, and snapped back, “And quite right too. Glad you remembered. Still, I have a reason for asking.” She hadn’t really, nothing concrete, but continued, “So if you notice anything about that room—door left open by mistake, Howard gets taken short, that kind of thing—and you spot anything odd, let me know.” She sat down and began collecting up papers, dismissing him.

Bill grinned. “Yes, Mrs. M,” he said. “You on to something again?” he added. Lois did not answer.

•    •   •

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON
, J
OSIE LOOKED AT HER WATCH
and was surprised to see it was half past five, closing time. The shop had been busy all afternoon, especially around school turning-out time. The junior children first, running in with pocket-money to spend, taking hours to decide how to spend it. Then the school bus arrived from Tresham, spilling out the seniors, who sloped up the street and into the shop for cans of drink and peppery crisps. Occasionally, one of the tall lads would take off his school tie on the bus, then walk into the shop nonchalantly and ask for cigarettes. Josie knew them all now, and dealt with this summarily. There was nothing she could do about the gang who collected outside the shop and rolled their own with sweet-smelling substances, and so she looked the other way. Remembering her own teenage days, she trusted they’d grow out of it.

She went out to the street now to bring in the sandwich board she had on the pavement. It had been Rob’s idea, and was useful for chalking up bargain offers. She looked along the street, checking who was about. Villagers always did this. It was a way of telling who were real village people and those who were incomers, moved out from towns, and not yet schooled in the ways of Long Farnden. Josie was not a born-and-bred villager, of course, but was now completely accepted.

She saw the Forsyths’ car approaching and sighed. Old Rupert, no doubt, wanting stamps. He got through dozens every week. Should she quickly put up the Closed sign? No, he was a good customer. She went back into the shop and waited. It was Daisy Forsyth who ran in. “Are you closed, Josie?” she asked breathlessly. “Rupert will be so cross with me—I completely forgot about the stamps today.”

“Don’t worry,” Josie reassured her. “Post Office is shut, but I’ve got stamps in the till. How many d’you want?”

Daisy sank down on the stool placed by the counter for the elderly and infirm, and sighed with relief. “Thank
goodness,” she said. “He’s a bit of an old sod when he’s cross,” she added.

“I know,” said Josie. “When the post is late, for a start.”

Daisy nodded. “It’s the letters, you see, dear,” she said. “Our livelihood, they are. And we can’t keep the needy waiting, can we?” She burst out laughing, an unexpectedly fruity sound.

“In need of what?” Josie said innocently.

“Ah, that’d be telling, wouldn’t it,” Daisy said, paying for her stamps and heading for the door. “But I’ll tell you this,” she added, pausing on the threshold, “it ain’t a cure for rheumatism or arthritis we’re selling!” And she laughed again, so infectiously that Josie joined in, although she wasn’t sure of the joke.

This time she managed to bring in the board and lock up before any more last-minute hopefuls—”runners,” Rob called them—got a foot in the door. She pulled down the window blinds and walked through the darkened shop to the small garden at the rear. Derek had given her young plants, and she lingered with a watering can, savouring the fresh air after a day indoors.

I wonder, she thought. I wonder what exactly old Rupert supplies? She had a pretty good idea, but was intrigued by Daisy’s part in it. Such a respectable, round little person, with her neat skirts and blouses. Ripe for the WI, Gran had said, and sure enough, Daisy had joined soon after arriving. But Josie guessed none of them had heard her laugh like that, a jolly, unrestrained hearty chuckle, suggesting another, riskier side of Daisy Forsyth.

Josie tipped the last of the water over the garden, and speculated. Maybe I can get her talking one day in the shop, when nobody else is in, she thought. I’m getting quite good at that. Chip off the old block!

“Oh gawd,” she said aloud. “Just as Rob predicted … Josie Meade back in the village and turning into a real old shop gossip.” She put away the watering can and set her mind to what they were having for supper.

F
RIDAY IN
C
OLCOMBE
,
A RESPECTABLE SUBURB OF
Manchester, and Norman Stevenson, middle-aged, overweight and losing his hair, looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and wondered what he could do with the freedom of the coming weekend. It had come to this. He dreaded weekends. His wife had gone off with one of his young employees, children were busy with their own lives and seldom in touch. His girlfriend was losing interest, and no wonder, since his prowess was more than a little diminished lately. He doubted if she’d want to see him. The two days stretched ahead of him interminably.

The downward slide had started years ago, he considered, when he’d had that major row with Howard Jenkinson. It had been about the timber business, of course, and Howard had been so cunning he’d managed to put all the blame on Norman for irregularities which had come to the notice of the Inland Revenue.

Since then, he’d managed the Manchester depot, but was always aware that he’d been sidelined, and the best he could do was to keep his head down. And keep quiet. That
was the big thing. Short of threatening him, Howard had made it quite clear that if the slightest whisper of anything, business or personal, came to his notice, Norman would be out on his ear, with his name blackened so thoroughly that he might as well emigrate.

Now that Howard had retired, Norman had wondered if the bonds would at last be loosened. But no, the new Mayor of Tresham had renewed his vows. Now that he was a public figure, it was even more vital to protect his spotless image.

The business scandal had been a long time ago now, but on the personal side, Norman—a fellow customer of Rain or Shine—knew much that Howard would do anything,
anything
, to keep secret. Norman’s last meeting with Fergus Forsyth had been difficult. Questions had been asked, prying questions, and he hoped he had given nothing away. Fergus had remembered his connection with Howard Jenkinson, but then, he must know many people with closer connections than Norman. Perhaps his curiosity about Howard was idle. The young bloke never seemed to have enough to do. But his questions were persistent, and Norman hoped he had given nothing away.