Fear on Friday (16 page)

“Let me finish,” said Cowgill patiently. He had to get her to agree. Not only was one of her cleaners working for the Jenkinsons, but the Mayor had been moving to Long Farnden, Lois’s daughter ran the village shop, Jenkinson was now known to patronise Rain or Shine, and Lois’s town office was right opposite in Sebastopol Street. He needed Lois now, more than ever.

“I have an arrangement with the manager,” he continued. “There is a small room behind the staff toilets that is not used. Except by me. You will see me waiting by the bread, then just follow me, not too closely. You’ll see the door. And,” he said, anticipating her reaction, “can you think of a better place than a supermarket for you to be seen without arousing suspicion?”

Clever bugger! thought Lois. Very proud of himself, our Hunter Cowgill. Ah well, she supposed it would be okay. She could always say she was taken short if anybody questioned her. Permission to use the staff toilets. “Not a bad idea,” she said grudgingly. Then the overwhelming idea of Howard Jenkinson, Mayor of Tresham, dead in his own fish pond, drove everything else from her mind. She said a quick farewell and dialled Bill’s number.

T
HE NEWS SPREAD QUICKLY
. “I
T WAS ON THE TELLY
news,” said Josie in the shop. “The whole village is in a state of shock, I reckon. What with him moving here, and everything. Everybody’s very sorry for his wife. Seems
she’s been coming here on and off, measuring up and seeing to things, and people have liked her. No side, they say. A really nice woman, poor soul. What did you say you wanted, Mum?”

“Can’t remember,” said Lois. “It’ll come back in a minute, but I’m just as shocked as the rest. Poor old Bill was speechless. I’ve told him to take the morning off, then he’s at the vets this afternoon, so he’ll be fine. Nothing like having your hand up a cow’s arse to take your mind off murder.”

“Murder! Mum, d’you know something?” Josie’s eyes widened, and Lois hastily backtracked.

“No, no, Josie. Of course I don’t. Just a figure of speech. For God’s sake don’t spread that around, else I’ll be in trouble.”

“Oh, so you’re in touch with your copper again, are you?” Josie was not pleased, not just for herself and worrying about her mother’s safety, but for her father’s sake. She knew how much he hated Lois’s involvement with Cowgill.

“I’ve just remembered!” Lois said quickly. “We’re out of Dad’s chocolate ice-cream. Have you got one of those big tubs? And some digestive biscuits, too, please.”

Josie was well aware that Lois had changed the subject, and sighed. “Do be careful, Mum,” she said. “Old Jenkinson has an evil reputation in some circles. Made one or two enemies, apparently, and close to home. There’ll be a lot of muck-raking, and you’d be well advised to stay out of it.”

“Yes, dear,” said Lois, smiling. “And the ice-cream?”

J
EAN
S
LATER WAS WOKEN BY
K
EN
,
WHO HAD GOT UP
early to make their usual cup of tea.

“Jean! Jean! Wake up! Something terrible has happened to Howard!”

Jean jerked up in bed and stared at him. “Howard who?” she said stupidly.

“Howard Jenkinson, of course! Are you awake?”

She nodded, and rubbed her eyes. “Has there been an accident?” she said.

Ken nodded. “He’s been found dead in that pond in his garden. You know, the one he boasts about.” Ken sat down heavily on a chair by the bed. “Doreen found him,” he continued, “and the police have been on the phone, wanting you to go round to the house. Seems Doreen is asking for you. Doesn’t want to see her family. Just you. So you’d better get up and get round there.”

Jean put down her mug of tea untouched, and got out of bed. “Right,” she said briskly. “Ring back and say I’ll be there in half an hour … no, make it an hour. I’ve got arrangements to make.”

“I expect you have,” said Ken dully. “And so have I. Howard … we were going to have a round of golf this afternoon …”

Jean snorted. “Golf? Again? You’ll be wanted for questioning about a lot of things besides golf, Ken dear. Now go and make that call, and I’ll gel dressed.”

S
EBASTOPOL
S
TREET WAS DESERTED
,
AND THE DOOR OF
Rain or Shine firmly locked. A furtive-looking man tried several times to alert Fergus, clearly visible speaking on the telephone inside, but had no luck. He went away, hurriedly glancing up and down the street as he went.

Fergus had heard the news and immediately telephoned his father, who had scarcely been able to speak. Rupert had finally managed to instruct him to keep the shop closed all day, and to talk to nobody. Nobody at all. “Not until I get over there,” Rupert had said. Fergus had started to argue, saying they’d already lost a potential customer, but Rupert had interrupted, “Do as you’re bloody told, boy!” Fergus had put down the phone without replying.

Rupert had turned from the telephone to find Daisy beside him, looking puzzled. Now she followed him out of the hall, and said, “What’s going on?”

“Disaster,” Rupert replied in a choked voice, and
brushed past her to go into the sitting room. He gave her a quick account of what Fergus had told him, and was shocked to see the pallor of her face. She raised her hands in horror, shook her head, and then slid gently to the floor in a faint. A glass of cold water and gentle coaxing from Rupert brought her round, and he lifted her bodily and set her down on the sofa.

He stroked her face, and eventually she opened her eyes and said, “Sorry.” Tears splashed out on to his hands, and she tried ineffectually to rub them away. “How …?” she said.

“Drowned,” said Rupert. “At least, he was found by his wife in their fish pond. Apparently she’d been in London all day, and got back late.”

“Oh, poor Howard,” Daisy said shakily. “He was so proud of that pond. Told me all about it when we …”

“Yes, well,” said Rupert, his jaw set. “The less we say about that, the better. I expect we’ll get a visit from the police. Howard’s shopping chauffeur is bound to be questioned. Don’t forget he was always nipping round to Rain or Shine in the Mayor’s car.
And
they’ll be wanting to talk to us about Jenkinson’s Town Hall do, where Fergus represented the business. The whole town saw that picture in the paper—remember Howard glaring angrily at Fergus? What on earth made the little fool decide to go?” he added furiously.

Daisy turned her face away from him, and began to cry again, softly and quietly. “Poor Howard,” she murmured, and Rupert walked away, his face thunderous.

I
N HIS DUSTY FLAT IN THE
M
ANCHESTER SUBURB
, N
OR
man Stevenson sat listening to the local radio station. He had heard an early news item about Howard’s death, and was now rooted to his chair in a state of shock. He had listened to every bulletin after the first, until the story slipped out of the headlines and was finally superseded by more recent items. But Norman remained in his chair, ignoring
the telephone which had been ringing repeatedly all day. Finally, after listening blankly to persistent knocking on his door, he got unsteadily to his feet and looked out to see his secretary, a worried frown on her face, standing there.

“Norman!” she said, as he opened the door. “Are you all right? We were worried in the office. You never said anything about not coming in, or …” Her voice tailed off as she saw that he was unshaven, fully dressed in a rumpled suit, and stared vacantly at her as if he had no idea who she was.

“And it’s Friday again,” was all he said.

S
ATURDAY
,
AND
L
OIS SAT AT THE LUNCH TABLE WITH
Gran and Derek, reading the Tresham paper. The front page was edged in black. A large portrait of Howard Jenkinson in full Mayoral rig occupied most of the page, and a single line of text expressed the town’s feelings exactly. It was all-embracing, and Lois nodded approval. “ ‘Tresham Mourns a Legend,’ “ she read. “Read on for details of the legend,” she continued, handing the paper to Derek. “Mayor found dead in eighteen inches of water,” she improvised. “Floating bum up. Wife distraught. Questions asked. What d’you think, Derek?”

“Lois,” interrupted Gran sharply, “I do think you should show more respect for the dead. The poor man did a lot of good in the town, you know. Helped a lot of people, and worked very hard. Harder than most mayors we’ve had in Tresham. I don’t know what you’ve got against him.”

Lois shook her head. “Nothing at all, Mum. You are quite right.”

“And so are you, Lois,” Derek said, head down and reading avidly. “There’s a lot of stuff in the inside pages
about suspected corruption and waste of money, as well as the usual guff about being kind to old ladies and dogs.”

“And talking to every student as if he was actually interested,” added Hazel, coming into the kitchen. “Kids I know think he was wonderful.” The Tresham office was closed on Saturdays, and she had the week’s report for Lois. “Hope you didn’t mind my coming in—couldn’t make anyone hear. Everybody’s in a state of shock in the village and your Josie’s been rushed off her feet with everybody coming in for news.”

Lois looked at the clock. “Blimey,” she said, “it’s time I was moving. I’m going shopping this afternoon.”

“I might come with you,” Derek said. “I need a few bits and pieces from the supermarket. And I can keep an eye on your trolley,” he added with a grin. Lois was known for sudden bursts of shopping fever, and Derek still paid the housekeeping bills.

Her reaction surprised him. “No need,” she said quickly. “Give me a list, and I’ll get them for you. I can do without you chivvying at my elbow. I’ll be off in ten minutes, so get writing.” She stood up and left the kitchen, leaving Derek and Gran looking at each other.

Hazel filled in the silence. “What’s Mrs. M got in mind, d’you think?” she said lightly. “A secret assignation?”

Derek did not laugh, but made an effort. “What? At the second checkout from the right? You’ll have to do better than that, Hazel.”

Gran said nothing, but knew her daughter too well to doubt that she was up to something again.

L
OIS SPOTTED
C
OWGILL
‘
S TALL
,
UPRIGHT FIGURE ABOVE
the heads of the shopping crowd, and waited until he disappeared before making for the bread counter. She put a bag of doughnuts into her basket, and walked slowly towards the door he had described. A young assistant stopped her. “Excuse me,” she said. “This is private through here.”

Lois smiled at her, and made her prepared excuse. “My
friend works here,” she said, “and I know there’s a staff toilet. I’ve got this cystitis bug, and need to go badly.” She made a convincingly agonised face.

The girl stood aside. “Right, then,” she said. “But we can’t have just anyone …”

Lois walked quickly through and located the room where Cowgill stood waiting for her. He closed the door, and said, “We shan’t be disturbed. Sit down, Lois, and listen for a bit. Then you can have your say.”

“Have a doughnut,” Lois said, offering him the bag.

“This is extremely serious,” he said firmly. Then he gave her an admirably succinct account of the story so far. Howard Jenkinson had been found by his wife, and was taken from the pond to be subjected to a series of tests. These had shown that he was drowned, had been alive before going into the water and, in spite of first suspicions, had not suffered a heart attack. He must have been mildly drunk, judging by the level of alcohol in his blood. A whisky glass had been found by his armchair, and bore his prints only. At this last detail, Lois raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

“What I want from you, Lois,” Cowgill said, “is all the information you and your family and cleaners can supply, as quickly as possible, on the Jenkinsons. We shall, of course, be questioning all the known contacts, but there are some who’ll tell you things they won’t tell us. Not straight away, anyway. Just do your usual ferreting, and keep in touch. This is going to be a nasty case, I’m afraid, so be careful.”

“What
are
you talking about?” Lois said. “It looks pretty straightforward to me. Old Jenkinson is left on his own. Little wifey living it up in London. He sits down with the telly and the whisky bottle, until he feels a bit sick. Goes out into the garden to clear his head, trips on a stone and falls headlong into the pond. Fish scarper and are fine, but old Howard is so befuddled he can’t get out, and drowns. Simple?”

Cowgill shook his head. “You know perfectly well it
isn’t,” he said, moving towards the door. “Howard Jenkinson was a fit, strong man. Even a stomach full of whisky—and there’s still half a bottle left in the cupboard—wouldn’t have stopped him crawling out. The instinct to survive is very strong. And Howard Jenkinson was a great survivor,” he added, as he opened the door. “Keep in touch, Lois. And thanks for coming.” He touched her arm as she passed by him, and she gave him a smile that made him dizzy.

I
N THE NEAT AND TIDY SITTING ROOM OF A PRETTY
stone cottage on the outskirts of Round Ringford, only a few miles from Long Farnden, the television was on with the sound turned down. Hunched on the sofa, Susanna Jacob was also reading the local paper.