Fear on Friday (17 page)

Her long blonde hair had fallen over her face, but she didn’t flick it back behind her ears as usual. She stared at the portrait of Howard Jenkinson and the short caption beneath. Her father, a Tresham solicitor who knew more than most about the late Mayor, entered the room, but did not see the tears splashing down until he noticed wet spots on the newspaper.

“Susanna! What on earth’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, and rushed from the room, leaving Howard Jenkinson staring confidently up from the sofa. Her father retrieved the paper, and studied the strong, handsome face. “Come here, dear!” he called loudly to his wife. She would know what to do. His only daughter was very dear to him, but he had long ago acknowledged that he needed her mother to interpret what went on in her lovely head.

T
HE FUNERAL OF
H
OWARD
J
ENKINSON WOULD BE A
grand affair, according to gossip. “Pity he couldn’t have been here to see it,” Lois said to Gran, as they stood in the crowd, waiting for the procession to approach.

They had come into town, claiming they had to do market shopping, but both were keen to see the spectacle. Gran because she was a Royal watcher, and, for her, the Tresham Mayor came a close second; and Lois because she hoped to pick up some clues. They had immediately noticed flags flying at half-mast on all the public buildings.

“Anybody’d think he’d done some really good things,” Lois said, and Gran said how did Lois know he hadn’t? He might have hidden his light under a bushel. “What? Howard Jenkinson? Not likely!” Lois had laughed, and been reprimanded once more for speaking ill of the dead.

“Here they come, Lois!” The crowd had become thicker outside the Victorian red-brick parish church, built optimistically large for congregations who never came. But now, when municipal power and glory were on show, it came into its own. Gran had to stand on tiptoe in order not
to miss anything. First came the Mace-Bearer, with black tie and solemn tread, his Mace draped below the coronet. Then the Mayor’s large coffin, highly polished and with ornate silver handles. “Look, Lois—oh, isn’t that sad? There’s his Mayor’s robe and hat on the coffin, and them red ribbons.”

“I wonder if it all gets buried with him?” Lois said. “I mean, suppose the next mayor was a little short, fat man?”

Gran didn’t answer. She would just ignore Lois and her flippant remarks. The Leader of the Council followed, bearing the Chain of Office on a black cushion, and Gran whispered to Lois that she remembered that Martin Briggs from when he was a pimply youth causing mayhem on the estate.

Then came the family, and a respectful hush fell upon the watchers. At the head of the group was Doreen, immaculate, very upright and dignified. Her face was blank, expressionless. With her the next two generations, some dabbing their eyes. “But who’s that next to her?” said Lois curiously.

Gran shook her head. “Don’t know—maybe her sister?”

Lois looked closer as the group passed by, and recognised Jean Slater, the mayor’s secretary, who’d once called in at the office to rearrange dates for Bill, when Howard and Doreen were away on holiday. Must be very close to Doreen, then. There had been rumours about Howard and his secretary some while ago, but it looked as if they were false.

“That’s the mayor’s Deputy, young John Middleton,” said Gran, fount of all knowledge. “He’ll take over, I expect.”

“Little short, fat bloke.” Lois could not resist. “He’ll need a new robe, then.”

Gran bit back a reply, and concentrated on the procession of Councillors, their local MP, and other worthies, all wearing black rosettes according to the rules laid down. It was a very splendid, solemn occasion, and Gran fumbled for her handkerchief.

“Mum!” said Lois, “what’re you doing? You didn’t know him, never even met him! And from what we hear, he wasn’t worth shedding a tear over.”

“Sshh, Lois! That’s really enough,” Gran said, and turned away, to push her way back to the market place. She stumbled, and accidentally pushed the tall man in front of her off the pavement into the gutter. He had a hat pulled down over his face, and looked a bit like a tramp in his long, shabby coat. “Oh, goodness,” Gran said, “so sorry! I overbalanced … I’m really sorry …”

The man turned around and smiled briefly. “No problem,” he said. “Just take it steady.”

Gran muttered her thanks, adding, “We’ve got some shopping to do.” But the man had slipped quickly away into the crowds.

As they walked through to the market, Lois frowned. “Mum,” she said, “have you seen that man before? He was familiar, somehow …”

Her mother shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “Nobody I know.”

Then it dawned on Lois. It was his voice. Though he hadn’t said much, she knew the voice. And the last time she had heard it, it had been on the telephone, asking her if she would take on a snooping job. Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt a stab of alarm.

“Come on, then, Lois,” Gran said, quite restored. “Step out. I’m in the shop this afternoon, while Josie goes to the wholesaler.” Lois quickened her pace, following her mother into the crowded Market Square. Who
was
that man? How far had he come for the funeral, if it was the same man? An old friend of the family, now out of favour? Bill might have an idea, maybe had heard something. Bill had got quite close to Mrs. Jenkinson, supporting her in all kinds of ways, as well as keeping her house clean. And then there was that dirty den of Howard’s. Yes, Bill might well have a suggestion who might want to see without being seen.

•    •   •

N
ORMAN
S
TEVENSON WAS TOO HOT IN THE COAT
,
BUT
kept it on. He’d been careful to look as uninteresting and insignificant as possible. The sun shone cheerfully, and Norman reflected that funerals should have rain, and a cold wind that would carry off aged relatives. Norman had not shed a tear, and nor, he’d noticed, did any of the watchers. Except that little woman who shoved him into the gutter. She was the only person he spoke to, and he returned to the station and caught the next train home. He was not at all sure why he had been there. It was a long journey for the sake of fifteen minutes staring at the long procession. Just to make sure, he supposed. Doreen had impressed him. No veiled, sorrowing face for her. She had been dry-eyed, and had no doubt sanctioned all the trappings of the ceremony. She would have known without question that Howard would have wanted as much pomp and circumstance as possible. Good old Doreen.

Norman went to sleep on the train, and awoke just in time to alight. He felt light-headed with relief, now that no more of those letters would land on his doormat. Not even Howard could send blackmailing messages from the other side.

A
FEW WEEKS LATER
,
BUT NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME
, Norman woke up sweating and shaking. He had dreamt that Howard had appeared at the foot of his bed, smiling that mirthless smile of his, and holding out his hand. In it, a white envelope with blue capitals gleamed in a ghostly, sunless light. He had screamed, and then awoke. Now he lay looking at the comforting reality of sunbeams penetrating the gap in his curtains and calmed down, reassured once again by the memory of that long coffin with its lifeless occupant. One who could threaten him no more.

It was time he got up. He switched on his bedside radio and listened to jaunty voices conveying disaster and a leaven of feel-good stories. Nothing could depress him now. Howard was gone, gone for good.

Only one more day at work, and then the weekend. Norman had his eye on a new girl he had met in the pub, and meant to her give a ring. If he read the signs right, she might well be willing to come to the golf club dinner dance with him. Just as a friend, to give him the status of a couple, instead of a deserted husband. And then who knew what might
develop? He pulled on his dressing-gown and fumbled in last night’s jacket pocket, pulling out the scrap of paper where the girl had written her telephone number. What was her name? Heather? Hannah? Something like that. He set off down the stairs, laughing at his faulty memory. Halfway down, his laughter dried up. He swayed, and clutched the banister with both hands. It couldn’t be … It was not possible.

Galvanised by fear, he ran down the last few steps and stared at the door mat, where a scattering of letters waited for him. As if a spotlight had been trained on it, Norman’s horrified eyes saw a square, white envelope with blue capitals. “No, God,
no
!” he yelled, and sank to his knees, picking up the envelope and tearing it unopened into half a dozen small pieces.

The telephone rang. Norman rose up unsteadily and staggered towards it. He caught his slipper in the edge of the mat, and fell heavily, descending into blessed blackness as his head slammed against his pottery umbrella stand. The little figures sculpted on the sides of the heavy stand, each carrying an umbrella and sheltering from a downpour, stared at him with eternal smiles, uncaring and dry as a bone.

“Hello? Hello?” The busty blonde, who had kept Norman company the evening before, shrugged and muttered, “Oh, well, tick that one off, Hattie dear,” and put down the phone.

It was Friday, of course.

D
OREEN AND
J
EAN STOOD IN THE BARE SITTING ROOM
of the now nearly empty Jenkinson house and stared out of the windows into the garden. It looked exactly the same as always, now that the police had finished and gone away. “That pond,” Doreen said. “I never liked it. He loved those enormous great fish. I thought they were sinister.”

“I expect they’d have eaten him, if he’d been in there much longer,” said Jean reflectively. An eavesdropper would have been aghast at her lack of sensitivity.

Doreen just shrugged. “Fair enough, really, Jean,” she said. “We eat fish, so why shouldn’t they eat us?”

They turned away from the window and walked together out of the room.

“What did you do with all that stuff in his den?” Jean was curious. That young bloke who cleaned for the Jenkinsons had helped Doreen with boxes and boxes of very dubious videos and photographs. Jean had been amazed at how sanguine Doreen had seemed, when the whole distasteful truth had come out about Howard’s liking for the
merchandise offered by Rain or Shine. The family had agreed to keep it as quiet as possible, and hoped that nothing would become public. It had been a while since the photograph of Howard and Fergus Forsyth had appeared in the newspaper.

“Bill offered to take it away. Said he could destroy the whole lot for me, so I let him. I was glad to see the back of it.”

“And of Howard?” said Jean.

“Don’t know what you mean,” said Doreen, meeting Jean’s eye with a straight look. “Fancy a glass of wine before you go? Might help us to keep our eyes on the ball.” Jean had spent as much time as possible since the funeral with Doreen, and their leisurely games of golf gave an opportunity for Doreen to talk and Jean to listen. They both had a lot to talk about, of course.