Fear on Friday (6 page)

“Landing and stairs next, he said.” Doreen looked closely at Howard. What was he up to? He never came home early, preferring to stay in the Mayor’s Parlour and spend the morning fixing up games of golf, checking the stock market, looking in on various offices and obstructing work in progress. He was known for being one of the most “hands-on” mayors that Tresham could remember. Most of the Town Hall staff counted the months to the end of his term of office.

“You remembered to tell him, Doreen!”

“Course I did. For heavens’ sake, Howard, anyone would think you’ve got a body in there!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped. “A man can have a bit of privacy without being constantly got at by his wife, I hope! I’ll be up there ‘til lunchtime.”

He left the kitchen in a whirlwind of self-righteousness, and Doreen heard him fling a couple of words at Bill before slamming the door of his den behind him. She sighed, and picked up a package that had come in the post. Addressed to Howard, but no clues as to what it was or where it came from. Oh well, it could wait. She was damned if she was going to trail upstairs like some servant. All the euphoria engendered by nice Bill had evaporated, and she decided to call her daughter and fix up a shopping trip. That would have the advantage of annoying Howard on two fronts—wasting telephone time, and spending money on fripperies. His favourite word, that. Fripperies, fripperies, said Doreen to herself, and felt a little cheered.

S
OME DAYS LATER
, L
OIS TOOK
D
EREK OVER TO SEE THE
shop, and he cast a professional eye. “Needs re-wiring,” he said. “Shouldn’t be too bad. Then me and the lads can redecorate throughout.” The lads were Derek’s fellow Tresham United supporters, who met regularly at Farnden pub, and supported not only the team but each other as well. “We’ll go through this dump like a dose of salts,” he said reassuringly to Lois. Privately he was not at all sure it was a good idea, but he trusted Lois’s judgement, and was very sure that anything that kept her away from Inspector Cowgill and dangerous sleuthing
was
a good idea.

They went cautiously upstairs, with Lois sniffing hard. “Somethin’s died in here,” she said. “Must be a rat in a cupboard.”

“Leave it to us,” said Derek, opening a window overlooking the street. “Let in some air. Soon sweeten it up.”

Lois moved beside him and peered out. “That shop over there,” she said. “The one opposite. Look, it’s got somebody goin’ in and out. So people do come to this part of town.”

Derek grinned. “Yeah, well,” he said. “That ain’t just rainwear they sell, m’duck.”

“I weren’t born yesterday,” retorted Lois. “And it doesn’t bother me. Many a marriage has bin saved by them kind of shops.”

Derek laughed loudly. “Right you are!” he said. “Reckon I should call in on me way home?”

Lois turned on him. “If you think,” she said, “that I’m going to dress up as a maid in frilly cap and apron—”

“—and black fishnet tights,” chipped in Derek, grabbing her round the waist. He kissed her roundly, and a minute or two later they turned again to the window. A young man was standing in the dark doorway of the shop, staring up at them. As they watched, he smiled and waved.

“Cheeky devil!” said Lois.

But Derek said, “Can’t see him very well, but there’s something … haven’t we seen him before somewhere? Isn’t it old Rupert Forsyth’s son?” Then he waved back and yelled out of the window, “See yer later, mate,” and started off down the stairs with a huffy Lois following. After they’d been out at the back of the shop, and Derek had investigated the unsavoury outbuildings and a narrow yard, Lois said she reckoned they’d earned a drink. They locked the shop door behind them and walked towards the van. Lois suddenly stopped dead. A familiar dark-coloured car had drawn up outside the rainwear shop, and a man got out. He looked across and remained on the pavement for a second or two. Then he crossed the road, and Lois frowned. “What are you doing here?” she said. “Not following me, I hope.” Derek hung back, his face thunderous.

“Just thought I’d pass the time of day,” said Detective Inspector Cowgill smoothly. “Morning, Derek. And no, Lois, I’m not following you. Just a regular call at the shop opposite.”

Lois pounced. “Never’ve thought it!
You
of all people!”

Hunter Cowgill did not smile. “In the line of duty, Lois,” he said firmly, and added, “When you move in, it’ll be very handy if I have a job or two for you.”

“She’ll be much too busy,” snapped Derek. “Come on, Lois, we’re late already.” He took her arm and headed for her van.

“No need to pull,” said Lois irritably. “And anyway,” she muttered, “how did Cowgill know I was taking that shop?”

“Snoopin’ is his job. Just ignore him,” Derek advised, with little hope of Lois taking any notice.

Hunter Cowgill watched them drive off and allowed himself a small smile. Yes!—what a piece of luck Lois being so handy. He walked into Rain or Shine and greeted the owner. “Morning, Fergus,” he said. “What’ve you got for me this week?”

U
PSTAIRS
,
IN THE TINY BACK ROOM OF THE
F
ORSYTHS
‘ house, Rupert sat at his desk opening letters. All around him were boxes stuffed to the gills with invoices, old catalogues, packs of photographs yellowing at the edges, newer piles of videos and books. He sorted the letters into small heaps and sighed. That bloke from the Council hadn’t been very forthcoming. He hadn’t given them any reason to hope—or otherwise, come to that. It was a difficult one, Rupert reflected. He needed extra space urgently, and no doubt could find somewhere to rent in the village. But security and confidentiality were essential to his business, and he could not trust anyone but himself and Daisy to have access to this lot. He looked around. This small room represented years of building up connections, enlisting outworkers, finding storage space and a shop in town when they moved from London—generally oiling the wheels of a business that had been a nice little earner. They had to keep up with the times, of course. What with the internet, and more and more retail outlets appearing, he had to think of new ways of marketing. Daisy was good at that. She had ideas that he would never think of, never in a million years! Even at her age!

“Rupert!” Daisy’s voice reminded him they were going shopping in Tresham. He stacked the now empty envelopes
in a small pile and put them together in a plastic bag. He could drop them in to Howard Jenkinson’s secretary whilst they were in town. Some interesting stamps this morning, some from foreign parts. Old Jenkinson’s grandson would be pleased. Whistling softly to himself, he shut and locked the door, and went downstairs.

T
HAT EVENING
,
IN THE
J
ENKINSONS
‘
LARGE AND WELL
-lended garden, Howard felt at peace with the world as he stood by the big pond feeding his goldfish. “All well, dear?” said Doreen, coming up and taking his arm. “How’s the new shubunkin?”

“Fine, of course, Doreen,” Howard replied. He extended a fine mesh net across the water and scooped up a dead leaf that had had the temerity to land on the sparkling surface. “I can never understand,” he continued firmly, “why other people have such trouble with ponds. Take Ken. His wife gave him one of those pond liners—rigid things—and it’s only the size of a baby bath. You’d think he could manage that. But no, the water’s like green soup, and every week there’s a bloated body floating on the surface. He’s been through more shubunkins than you’ve had hot dinners!”

“I’ve never eaten a shubunkin,” said Doreen, with a perfectly straight face. She liked Howard to think she was stupid. Over the years of their marriage she had found it a useful role to play, encouraging him to be protective and indulgent … well, as indulgent as he could ever be. She smiled to herself. “Perhaps it’s too small. Not suitable for fish … maybe he should just have plants, then he’d not have any more bloated bodies … ugh! I hope he gives them a decent burial.”

“Gives ‘cm to the cat,” said Howard with a smirk.

“Oh dear!” Doreen’s mock concern fooled Howard once again. “I always did think Ken Slater had no heart.” Except when he spotted me in me nightie early one morning, she thought, then his heart was going fast enough. That had been the start of it …

They strolled arm-in-arm around the garden, admiring Howard’s flower borders and not mentioning the gardener who came in every week and tackled the tough jobs. “Time for drinky-poos?” Doreen said, and they walked through the French windows and into the sitting room. Howard opened the drinks cupboard and inspected a crystal glass closely. It passed inspection, and Doreen said, “Everything’s really clean in the house now, dear. Such a relief having Bill. Can’t fault him. Are you sure you wouldn’t like him to give a quick dust round your den? He’s absolutely trustworthy, I’m sure.”

Howard rounded on her. “How many more times, Doreen? Nobody, nobody at all, is to go in my den. Very confidential papers in there, and it’s all organised so I know exactly where to find everything. On no account is Bill whatever-his-name-is to enter that room!”

“No need to shout, dear,” said Doreen comfortably. “Just a small one tonight, please. I had lunch with our lovely daughter, and I’m afraid we got a bit giggly. Now—” she added, picking up a programme paper, “—what’s on the telly for our delight tonight?”

“You choose,” Howard said. “I’ll be upstairs for a bit. Oh, and by the way, I’ve got some more stamps for Sam. Jean had them ready for me in the office. Interesting ones, I think.”

“Where does she get them from?” Doreen said curiously. She’d always known about Jean and Howard, but had thought the best policy would be to say nothing. It had worked with all the others.

“Goodness knows,” said Howard carelessly. He had warned Forsyth that there was to be no discoverable connection between them. “She’s got a big family. All around the world. She’s always telling me news of far flung cousins, but it goes in one ear and out the other—you know me, Doreen.”

“Yes dear,” she replied, “I know you. Um, perhaps I’ll just have one more tiny drink, after all.”

Good old Doreen, thought Howard, and poured her a large one.

A
T THE
T
OWN
H
ALL
, J
EAN
S
LATER SETTLED WEARILY
into her chair and looked over the tidy desk. It had been a hectic weekend, with visitors staying and endless cooking of food their children wouldn’t eat. Still, there was nothing much to do this morning. Howard had said he would not be in today, but would telephone her to make sure he had the details right for his visit to a school with a good cultural mix. She had primed him well, but was still uneasy about what he might say off the cuff. Sometimes, in private, he still referred to “darkies,” and “wogs,” but she was hopeful that he had enough instinct for self-preservation to suppress the prejudices of his youth.

She opened a folder and took out a used envelope. It was one of the bunch that Rupert Forsyth had brought in yesterday. As usual, she had cut off all the stamps and disposed of the envelopes, but this one she had kept back. The connection between Forsyth and Howard was supposed to be a secret, even from her, but over the years Howard had surrounded himself with secrets, and she knew the truth of most of them. His world was like that, and she accepted it.
She was well aware of the nature of Rupert Forsyth’s business, and looked at the envelope again, unable to believe that anyone would be so stupid. But yes, there it was, the address of the sender written in small letters on the reverse side of the envelope. Rupert could not have noticed it, otherwise she was sure he would not have brought it. The handwriting was not all that clear, having been smudged by heavy rain at some stage in its journey from the north, so perhaps he’d thought it was part of the post mark.

She reached for her handy magnifying glass, used for referring to the Tresham street map when Howard had official calls to make. Now it was clearer. N.F. Stevenson, 11, Dale Court, Colcombe, Manchester. Good grief! Jean closed her eyes and thought about Norman. He had been one of the directors of the timber business and had moved up to Manchester under some sort of cloud. He was now in charge of the yard there. She was sure he lived in the suburb of Colcombe. Yes, that was it. Norman Stevenson. She’d liked him well enough, but he and Howard had had a major row. Ah well, she’d better not let Howard see it. She was about to return the envelope to the folder when a knock at the door surprised her. She was usually left undisturbed when Howard was not in. “Come in,” she said. The door opened gently, admitting Doreen Jenkinson, Lady Mayoress, carrying an expensive-looking dress-shop carrier bag.