Fear on Friday (18 page)

The move to Long Farnden had been postponed, and many of her friends had advised Doreen to back out of the whole thing. “Stay where you are, dear,” they said, “until you have time to decide what you really want to do.” Doreen was quite certain what she wanted to do. She wanted to leave this too-large house, with all its associations, and start a new life. That is what she had planned from the beginning, and Howard’s death had not changed her mind. As soon as it was decently possible, she had set in motion once more the half-finished arrangements.

Now she and Jean linked arms and set off for the remaining few bottles of wine that Doreen had reserved. The rest of the stuff had been loaded on to removal lorries and was due in Long Farnden next day.

“It’ll be a long day tomorrow,” Doreen said, pouring out two generous slugs of wine into plastic tooth mugs.

“Don’t worry,” said Jean. “Ken and me’ll be there to help you. You can get it all just as you like it.”

“I hope so,” said Doreen, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face.

•    •   •

“S
O YOU
‘
LL BE BUSY WITH THE
J
ENKINSON MOVE ALL
day tomorrow,” said Lois, sitting opposite Bill in her office in Long Farnden. He nodded, and there was a pause. “So why did you want to see me, Mrs. M?” he said.

“Well, it’s not much really,” Lois said. “I’ve just got this feeling …”

Bill sat up straighter. “Ah,” he said. “A feeling that something’s wrong? Police still investigating? Mrs. M not far behind?” Lois did not smile, and Bill wondered if he had gone too far. You never knew with Mrs. M. She took her cleaning business very seriously, and it followed that her long-standing association with old Cowgill was serious, too.

“I’m worried, Bill,” she said finally. “I had an anonymous call just before our late Mayor snuffed it, asking if I could do some private-eye stuff on him. I sent him packing and then forgot about it.” This was not strictly true, but it was near enough. She then told him about the funeral procession and the man whose voice she had recognised. And then, this morning, a very groggy sounding voice, but the same, she was sure, had called and asked if New Brooms was a detective agency. “When I snapped back that it certainly wasn’t, he sort of groaned and put clown the phone. What the hell’s going on, Bill? If it was the one who wanted me to snoop on Howard Jenkinson, what did he want this time, now Howard’s dead?”

“An old enemy, maybe,” said Bill. “Scores to settle—money owing—something like that?” Lois stared at him, and he realised that this was indeed serious. “So what do you want from me?” he said.

“Just to know if you’ve spotted anything in the Jenkinsons’ house, anything that Doreen has said, to give us a clue about this man. Any letters left lying about that you have accidentally run your eye over before replacing.”

“Mrs. M!” said Bill, in mock affront.

“Yes, well,” said Lois. “Think back, Bill. Can you remember anything?”

“Not really,” he said slowly. “It was all porno stuff in the
den. All pretty mild, really, but not the sort of thing the Mayor of Tresham would want revealed to his adoring public. Or have his wife know about, come to that.” He thought for a moment, and then added, “It was a surprise, you know, how well Doreen took it. I was there when we opened up the room, and she seemed almost amused. Strange, when you think what kind of woman she is. Respectable grandmother, pillar of the golf club, charity coffee mornings, all that.”

“Women are full of surprises,” said Lois, smiling suddenly at stocky, straightforward Bill sitting across from her. “Well, anyway, if you remember anything, let me know. And keep your eyes and ears open, won’t you.”

Bill got up, relieved to be dismissed. He was more at ease with a sick sheep than this kind of thing. But he had a great respect for Lois, and would do, more or less, anything legal to help her.

“Cheerio, then,” he said. “And watch your back.”

N
ORMAN
S
TEVENSON WALKED SHAKILY BACK AND FORTH
in his sitting room, fortified by a couple of glasses of wine, trying to think. He had a fleeting cautionary thought that perhaps he should have tried something to eat as well, but his stomach turned at this, and he promised himself a good meal this evening. His head hurt, and he could feel a bump like an egg. If sleep would come, he would rest until lunchtime, and then force himself to get up and make a couple more calls. He needed more information, and Ken Slater would be the one to supply it. Good old Ken. And Jean, too, of course.

It had been Howard who had introduced Ken to him on the golf course, and they’d met a number of times after that. Several rounds of golf, when Ken had been up in the area. Funny that, he remembered, as he climbed back into bed. Old Ken had seemed such a dry sort, but he’d surprised the chaps with a few jars inside him! Brilliant shot, apparently, and had got into a long, incomprehensible conversation with a couple of fellow shooters at the bar. He
picked up the pieces of the envelope and put them on the kitchen table, then went slowly upstairs.

His troubled sleep was broken by a sharp knocking. He looked at the bedside clock. Oh damn! It was two o’clock, and he remembered an appointment he’d made at the office for two thirty. He scrambled out of bed, legs trembling, and made his way downstairs. It was his loyal secretary once more, her face anxious and concerned.

“Come in, dear,” he said. “Sit yourself down, and I’ll get dressed quickly. I can move when I want to!”

His bravado did not deceive his secretary, but she nodded. “I’ll drive you back to the office,” she said. “You don’t look in a fit state to be in charge of a pram, let alone a car. Are you sure you want to come? I can make some excuse …”

“Wait there,” said Norman. “Or go into the kitchen and make yourself a cup of tea.”

He disappeared upstairs, and she went through to the kitchen. The torn up envelope lay like jigsaw pieces on the table, and she idly pieced them together. Then she saw that the letter had not been taken out, and extracted the small squares, assembling them. It took only seconds, and she read the message,
THIS IS THE LAST YOU
‘
LL HEAR FROM ME
.
IT
‘
S BEEN NICE KNOWING YOU
. That was all. Nothing urgent there, then. Norman had not even bothered to open the envelope, so he must have known the contents already.

She heard his footsteps descending, and quickly scrambled the pieces all together in a heap. “I’ve made us both a quick cup,” she said. “And phoned the office to tell them we’ll be late. The client hasn’t arrived yet, so we’re okay. Oh, and do you want these scraps? I’ve muddled them up, I’m afraid.”

Norman looked at them sideways, and said firmly, “No, chuck them in the bin. And thanks, dear. What would I do without you?”

“God knows,” said the secretary, and threw the torn letter in with the remains of several of Norman’s disgusting instant meals.

M
OVING DAY DAWNED
. T
HE REMOVAL VANS WERE ALREADY
packed, but a final, smaller one, arrived to pick up the last bits and pieces. They came early, and Doreen was ready for them. She had hardly slept, but had spent most of the night walking around the house, grappling with haunting memories and trying to imagine what it would be like living on her own in the old house in Long Farnden. She had finally collapsed on to an old sofa that was destined for the dump, and had dozed fitfully until pigeons tuning up outside had intruded into a near-nightmare involving Howard and water and fish. She was relieved not to see it out to its grisly end, and made herself a cup of strong tea with lots of sugar.

“Ugh!” she said to Jean, who, with Ken, arrived on the back doorstep at the exact time they had arranged.

Jean laughed. “Tip it out, and I’ll make some coffee. Ken, you can—” But Ken was already carrying boxes and garden tools to the van, chatting with the driver and generally making a gallant effort to brighten the day for Doreen.

After the first half hour, he realised there was no need.
Doreen was excited, rushing around checking that nothing had been forgotten, and then, at last, closing up the house, locking the doors, and jumping into her car as if off on a luxury cruise.

“She didn’t look back at all,” said Jean, who had turned round to check that Doreen was following them. “Not at all.”

“No,” said Ken. “Well, would you?”

“T
HERE THEY ARE
,”
SAID
J
OSIE TO HER MOTHER
. T
HEY
were standing inside the shop, but with a good vantage point for watching the arrival of the widow Jenkinson and her friends.

“There’s three of them,” Lois said. “I think that’s the secretary, Jean Slater, and the bloke must be her husband. Bill’s in the house already, waiting for them. Mrs. Jenkinson is relying on him quite a bit at present.”

“So does that make things awkward for New Brooms?” Josie said.

Lois shook her head. “Not now that Susanna is with us,” she said. “She’s doing well, so I can use her a lot. There was some problem when she left the Town Hall—some kind of illness. But she’s fine now. I’m keeping an eye on her, though.”

“Bit snotty, isn’t she?” Josie said, moving away from the window, and busying herself behind the counter. “She came in for some stamps, and Gran said she was a bit buttoned up.”

Lois laughed. “Just because she didn’t join in the gossip club, I expect. She’s had the warning, like all the team. Not that they all take much notice, but Susanna’s new and keen.” She too turned away from the scene of activity, and picked up her bag. “Better be off on my rounds,” she said.

“First stop Cyril’s old house?” Josie said with a sly look.

“Well, naturally,” Lois said. “It’s only polite to pop in and see how they’re getting on, isn’t it?”

Josie just looked at her, and Lois left, grinning broadly.

She walked briskly across the road, and encountered
Doreen. “Be with you in a minute!” she said to Lois. “Do go in, Mrs. Meade. You’ll find Bill in there somewhere!”

Lois hovered for a moment, then walked into the crowded front hall. It was the usual scene of house-moving: boxes everywhere, carefully labelled, some half-empty, with piles of newspaper and bubble-wrap cluttering up every space.

“Sorry about that,” said Doreen, following close behind. “So much to do, Mrs. Meade.” But she sounded cheerful and competent.

Well, thought Lois, hardly the grieving widow. “You seem to be managing very well, Mrs. Jenkinson,” she said. “I just called to see if you needed any help—not just from New Brooms, but from the village in general. We like to make newcomers welcome.”

This was a lie, of course. Newcomers were regarded with deep suspicion by most in the village, especially the old guard, the families who had been in Farnden for generations. Still, Lois had every reason to be different. She had a natural gift for good public relations. Then there was the village shop, desperately in need of custom, and just keeping its head above water. If Mrs. Jenkinson could be snared, if only for one or two of the specialities that Josie now stocked, then it might encourage others.

“That’s really kind of you,” Doreen said. “But so far, my friends, Jean and Ken, have been great, and your Bill is a tower of strength. Ah, Jean, there you are, come and meet Mrs. Meade.”

“My daughter runs the shop over the way,” Lois persisted, “and she has various services, as well as the post office. Clothes cleaned, shoes mended. You name it, Josie’s got it. I heard that even the police are setting up mini-stations in village post offices. Mind you, I hope you won’t need that! Crime in Long Farnden is not exactly rife …”

Another lie. Lois had been involved over the years in no less than four serious cases in the area, and was beginning to think that fate sent them her way, knowing her fondness for amateur sleuthing. But the latest, Howard Jenkinson,
had died in Tresham, and she’d not heard from Cowgill for sure that anything sinister had plunged him head first into the fish pond. So that didn’t count.

Bill came from the depths of the crowded house, and looked anxiously at Lois. “Did you want me, Mrs. M?”

“Nothing urgent, Bill,” she said. “Just wishing Mrs. Jenkinson well. But if you could look in on your way home, there are a couple of things I need to tell you.” Bill nodded, and disappeared again. “So I’ll be off now, Mrs. Jenkinson,” Lois continued. “Goodbye for now, and don’t forget, I’m just up the street, and Josie’s in the shop.” She smiled at Jean Slater and the man who stood at her elbow, and made her way out and up the street.

As she opened her gate and walked up to collect her car, she pondered on the odd fact that neither Mrs. Slater nor her husband had reciprocated her smile.

R
UPERT AND
D
AISY
F
ORSYTH HAD CERTAINLY NOT
turned up to welcome Doreen Jenkinson to Long Farnden. Both were very aware of her presence, and intended to steer well clear of her. Howard’s association with Rain or Shine was now more or less common knowledge, and the general opinion seemed to be that Fergus and his shop had led the Mayor astray. Daisy privately wondered what Doreen herself thought. There was not much chance that she would gel to ask her.