Fear on Friday (21 page)

When the others had gone, Bill lingered. “Something else, Bill?” Lois said.

“Any further forward with the mystery caller?” he asked casually.

Lois shook her head. “Keep your ears open,” she said. “Miss Beasley is reckoned to be the fount of all local knowledge. She might remember something. Introduce the subject of our ex-and-not-much-missed Mayor, and see what comes up. Now, I must get going. Cheers, Bill.”

I
VY
B
EASLEY WAS FURIOUS
,
AND WHEN FURIOUS SHE WAS
formidable. She had been walking along a narrow lane with her two friends when she’d caught her foot in a snaking bramble and fallen heavily. For once, she was helpless and had had to rely on others for assistance in getting her home and calling the doctor. A spell in hospital had not sweetened her one jot, and now she was back home, still relying on friends and social services, and having to agree against her will to hiring help from New Brooms. This morning, the new cleaner was coming to see her and had been told to collect a key from the shop next door, making sure she presented her credentials.

Miss Beasley waited, arms metaphorically akimbo. She heard a knock, and called “Come in.” On seeing Bill, she
had a moment’s fear of an intruder, and said sternly, “And who might you be, young man?”

Bill introduced himself, and presented his authorisation. He was used to seeing suspicion and surprise in clients’ eyes at first. “I’ve worked for New Brooms for ages,” he said. “You’ll get used to me.”

“I doubt it,” Ivy said firmly. “Still, now you’re here, you’d better start work. Can’t waste money on gossiping. And,” she added with emphasis, “I’ll be watching what you do, and if it’s not up to my standards, out you go!”

Bill smiled disarmingly at her, and set to work. Old spins were always the worst. But quite often, they warmed up quicker than you’d think. This one was going to be tough, but Bill was not a Yorkshireman for nothing. Not been beaten yet, he said to himself, and polished and dusted with extreme thoroughness.

At eleven o’clock exactly, Ivy Beasley called him into the kitchen. “Put the kettle on,” she ordered. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be expecting a cup of tea.”

Bill shook his head. “I don’t drink tea,” he said, “and anyway, I prefer to continue working.” He thought this would please her, but Ivy Beasley was as unpredictable as ever.

“You’ll do as you’re told, while I’m paying you,” Miss Beasley replied. “There’s Nescafe in the cupboard. You can have that. I like a good strong cup of tea. Milk in the fridge. There’s the kettle.” She pointed towards the kitchen worktop.

Bill shrugged. “Right,” he said. “I’ll happily make you a cup, Miss Beasley. And where d’you keep the sugar?”

“I’m plenty sweet enough already,” she answered. “Can’t speak for you. Sugar’s in that top cupboard.”

He made the drinks and set a little table by her chair. “Anything else I can get you?” he asked.

“There’s home-made buns in the tin,” she said shortly. “My friend Doris. Help yourself and give me one. And you can sit down for a couple of minutes. Don’t like to see food taken round the house, dropping crumbs and sloshing coffee about.”

Bill was beginning to appreciate Sheila’s warning, and he perched on the edge of a stool and sipped his hot coffee. Conversation did not exactly flow, but he persisted, asking her about her life in Ringford, and how long she’d been there.

“All me life,” she said proudly. “Born and bred. My father came from Tresham, and my grandfather. Grandad was a fishmonger and poulterer in the High Street. Important man. They made him Mayor several times.”

“Oh, really?” Bill pounced. “They were real mayors in those days. Pillars of society, weren’t they?”

Ivy fell straight into the trap. “Unlike the present no-goods,” she said, getting into her stride. “It’s who you know, these days, that gets you into high office. Take that Jenkinson, him that ended up in a fish pond. I remember him as a snotty kid at the Grammar School. Always was a twister. They said he cheated in his exams. Him and his friend, that Slater who works at the Tourist Office now. No, if you ask me, there’s more to his demise than meets the eye.”

“Had enemies, did he?” Bill said.

“More enemies than friends. One of ‘em’s just passed away up north. In the local paper this morning.” She indicated a folded newspaper on the kitchen table, and Bill picked it up. A small photograph, and a couple of paragraphs announced that former Tresham man, Norman Stevenson, had been found dead at his house in a suburb of Manchester. He’d once worked at Jenkinson’s timber yard in town, but had been gone from the district for some while. That was all. But Bill read it several times, committing it to memory. It just might be of interest to Mrs. M. He tried asking Miss Beasley more about the man, but she clammed up, and told him it was time to get on with his work.

At the end of the morning, Bill packed up his things and said, “Now, before I go, is there anything more I can do for you, Miss Beasley?”

“Yes,” she said. “You can shut all those windows
you’ve opened. I’ll be dead from pneumonia, let alone a broken leg. And don’t forget to shut the front door quietly and take the key back to the shop. You can drop the snib. Doris is here next, and she’s got a key.”

“Right,” said Bill. “See you next week, then.”

Miss Beasley nodded without looking up from her magazine, and Bill tiptoed out.

B
ILL CALLED IN TO SEE
L
OIS ON HIS WAY HOME
. N
O
sooner had he told her about the man called Norman Stevenson than she pulled on her jacket and said she would give him a ring later. She disappeared clown the street faster than he could reply.

“Josie! Have you got last night’s
Gazette
?
Please
say yes!” Lois was breathing hard.

“Good heavens, Mum, what can possibly be urgent in the local?” said Josie.

“Just look, there’s a good girl,” Lois said, collapsing on the old person’s stool.

“Hang on … yep, here’s one. They usually take the unsold ones away, but he’s not been yet. Here you are.” She handed the paper to her mother, and watched her turn the pages feverishly. Then she stopped turning, and Josie saw the colour drain away from her face.

“Thai’s him,” she said. “That’s the man.”

“What man? Really, Mum, could you be a bit less mysterious? Gran says you’re working with that Cowgill policeman again. Is it something to do with that?”

“Sort of,” Lois said, and explained about the anonymous calls and the man at the funeral. “It’s the same,” she said. “I’m sure of it, but I’ll take this and check with Gran. She was there, and has a good memory for faces.”

Gran was certain. “Yes, that’s definitely him,” she said. “Oh clear, what a shame, he seemed a nice sort of man, though a bit shy. Docs it say how he died?”

“No, it doesn’t say much at all. Except …”

“Except what, Lois?”

“It does say he used to work at the timber yard in Tresham. You know, Howard Jenkinson’s place …”

“Blimey,” said Gran, “hope he didn’t end up face down in a fish pond.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lois said, but felt a cold shiver down her spine. She clipped out the photograph and paragraphs, and took the cutting through to her study. “Just got a call to make,” she shouted back to her mother.

“And I know who to,” muttered Gran disapprovingly.

“Is that you?” Lois said.

“Of course it’s me, Lois. Who else would it be? And how are you today?” Cowgill could not keep the delight out of his voice.

“Never mind about that,” Lois said. “Just listen. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed it in yesterday’s evening paper.” She read it out to him, and said that the photograph was definitely the man she’d seen at the funeral, and whose voice she had recognised. “And it says he was living in a Manchester suburb,” she added.

“Right,” Cowgill said briskly. “Leave it with me, Lois. I’ll gel back to you. We were nearly there, hot on his trail.”

“Liar,” said Lois, “but never mind. Have a good day.”

B
ILL LEFT
F
ARNDEN
,
AND DROVE BACK TO HIS COTTAGE
in Waltonby thinking hard. He had an uncomfortable feeling that Mrs. M was on the edge of some murky goings-on that could get dangerous. If only she’d left him working at Hornton House. He could have tactfully asked questions
and maybe discovered something more about this Norman Stevenson chap. What was it Miss Beasley had said about Mayor Jenkinson? More enemies than friends. And she’d seemed to include Stevenson among the enemies. He had forgotten to tell Mrs. M that. He stopped the car and dialled her on his mobile. “Yes?” Lois said. Bill filled her in on what he’d just remembered, and she sounded excited. “Thanks, Bill. I might just pay a call on old Ivy. Just to see that she’s satisfied with everything. You know, like I usually do.”

“Good luck!” said Bill. “She’ll have you for breakfast if you’re not careful.”

“I’m a match for her,” said Lois confidently.

“Fine,” said Bill. But he privately doubted it. Miss Ivy Beasley had perfected stubborn unpleasantness over more years than Lois had been alive. Should be an interesting confrontation, he thought, as he drove on.

T
HE
T
RESHAM
G
AZETTE
LAY UNOPENED ON THE HIGHLY
-polished table in the hall of Hornton House. Doreen had combed through it for so many years, looking for news reports that would interest Howard. Now, though she continued to take the paper, she scarcely ever looked at it. She was no longer interested in Tresham. Long Farnden was her home, and she intended to make it a happy one. She had been to her first WI meeting and had thoroughly enjoyed it. They had been so welcoming, such a pleasant lot of women. They came from several villages around, and were a mixed bunch. It would all be a wonderful change from the would-be friends she’d met in Tresham when Howard was Mayor. She’d never been sure if they were genuine, or just sucking up to her for what could be got out of Howard. Jean was the only one she could trust, and, thank goodness, now that she’d retired they could meet often on and off the golf course.

Doreen ran her finger along the shining surface, and looked forward to Bill coming this afternoon. Her house
had never looked so good, and it was a bonus that he was such a nice young chap. She picked up the local paper and went through to the kitchen to make a coffee. The phone rang, and she picked it up, hoping Jean wasn’t going to cancel their game this morning. “Mrs. Jenkinson? Mrs. Meade here. I’m just letting you know that a different cleaner will be coming to you this afternoon. I’ve had to redirect Bill to Ringford. An emergency job for Miss Beasley—do you know her?”

Doreen frowned. “No I don’t, and what’s so special about her that she has to have Bill and not one of your other cleaners?”

“Ah,” said Lois firmly, “she is a very difficult old lady, and Bill is the only one who can handle her. I did explain, if you remember, that you would not necessarily have the same cleaner each time.
All
my team are excellent workers.”

“I suppose so,” said Doreen grudgingly. “So who am I getting this afternoon?”

“A very nice girl. I’ll bring her along and introduce her. And I know you will be satisfied, Mrs. Jenkinson. Sec you later!” Lois’s breezy, cheerful voice left Doreen no room to complain further, and she went back to her coffee.

She flipped over the pages, not really concentrating, still irritated at having her day spoilt. She looked at her watch. Jean would be picking her up in ten minutes, but all her golf things were ready and she could sit and finish her coffee. Try to relax, she said to herself. Just as she heard the doorbell, her eye was caught by a familiar face on the page. Surely not? She began to read the text quickly, on her way to open the door. “Oh, my God!” she said aloud, and stopped.

“Doreen?” shouted Jean from outside the door. She had heard her friend’s footsteps in the tiled hall. What was she up to? “Doreen! It’s me … Jean!”

The door opened slowly, and Jean was shocked at the sight of Doreen’s pale face. “What on earth’s the matter with you?” she said, pushing her way in. Doreen seemed
to have gone into a trance, but managed to hand the paper to Jean and point to the photograph with a trembling finger. “It’s Norman,” she said in a hoarse voice, and then sat down suddenly on the hard, wooden hall chair that was not designed for sitting.

“The poor old sod!” said Jean. “Doesn’t say what killed him?”

“Or who,” said Doreen flatly.

“Don’t be stupid, Doreen,” Jean said quickly. “There’s no mention of foul play, or whatever it is they always say. Probably his heart. He wasn’t in the best of health when I last spoke to him. Anyway, there’s no need for you to be so upset,” she continued. “I seem to remember you never liked him much when he lived around here.”

Doreen took a deep breath, and with a big effort got up and led the way into the kitchen. “I’ll just finish this coffee,” she said. “And no, I didn’t like Norman Stevenson much. He caused Howard a lot of trouble. A slimy toad, most of the time. But that doesn’t mean I wish him dead.”