DON’T MISS ANN PURSER’S OTHER
DIABOLICAL DAYS OF THE WEEK
THEFT ON THURSDAY
“Clever, engaging, and suspenseful … [The] best Lois Meade adventure yet.”
—Booklist
WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY
“An inventive plot, affable characters, and an entertaining look at village life.”
—Booklist
TERROR ON TUESDAY
“Skullduggery of all sorts greets housecleaner Lois Meade when she opens a cleaning service in the village of Long Farnden … Notable for the careful way Purser roots every shocking malfeasance in the rhythms and woes of ordinary working-class family life.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“This no-nonsense mystery is competent, tidy, likable, and clever.”
—Booklist
MURDER ON MONDAY
“A refreshingly working-class heroine, a devoted wife and mother of three, plays reluctant sleuth in this winning cozy … A strong plot and believable characters, especially the honest, down-to-earth Lois, are certain to appeal to a wide range of readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“First-class work in the English-village genre: cleverly plotted, with thoroughly believable characters, rising tension, and a smashing climax.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“For fans of the British cozy, here’s one with a different twist. Purser’s heroine is not one of the ‘traditional’ apple-cheeked, white-haired village snoops … The identity of the killer—and the motive—will be a shocker. Fresh, engaging, and authentically British.”
—Booklist
“Fans of British ‘cozies’ will enjoy this delightful mystery with its quaint setting and fascinating players.”
—Library Journal
Titles by Ann Purser
Lois Meade Mysteries
MURDER ON MONDAY
TERROR ON TUESDAY
WEEPING ON WEDNESDAY
THEFT ON THURSDAY
FEAR ON FRIDAY
SECRETS ON SATURDAY
SORROW ON SUNDAY
WARNING AT ONE
TRAGEDY AT TWO
Ivy Beasley Mysteries
THE HANGMAN’S ROW ENQUIRY
FEAR ON
FRIDAY
ANN PURSER
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
FEAR ON FRIDAY
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Severn House Publishers Ltd.
PRINTING HISTORY
Severn House hardcover edition / 2005
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2006
Copyright © 2005 by Ann Purser.
Cover illustration by One by Two.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: Severn House Publishers Inc.,
595 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10022.
EISBN: 9781101567470
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen properly. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Deceive boys with toys, but men with oaths.
Lysander, Spartan, d 395 BC
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
A MAN IN A LONG, DARK-COLOURED COAT STOOD OUTSIDE the narrow shop window and stared in. Stick-thin models draped in black shiny macs stared blankly back at him, their lifeless hands arranged to smooth the tactile rainwear. RAIN OR SHINE, said the discreet sign above the shop. A small smile of pleasurable recognition crossed the man’s face.
He looked furtively to right and left. Nobody about, except for a postman, slowly approaching, from the far end of the terraced street. It was very quiet. Then a motor-bike turned the corner and roared past him, its rider anonymous inside the oversize helmet. The man turned his face back to the window, and the shopkeeper, glancing out, saw him and recognised a familiar face.
“Hi, there! Got your letter, thanks. Come along in. Got some new stuff to show you …”
The ma
n followed the shopkeeper, shutting the door quickly. The customer relaxed. “Right then,” he said, his eyes brightening. “New girlfriend, new games … what’s new with you, young Fergus?”
ONE
LETTERS IN THE POST CAN BE DANGEROUS. From a handful of envelopes in the morning post, most are junk. But there is always a potential disaster, that one particular envelope examined back and front, and opened gingerly with a butter knife. Even so, given that possibility, most of Long Farnden residents would still rather have the postlady walk neatly up their path and deliver. No mail at all is an insult, a confirmation that the world has forgotten you.
The postlady never missed Rupert Forsyth’s house. There were always letters for him, from all over the country. He easily came top of the list of those who got the most post in the village. What’s more, they were real letters, with handwritten addresses and stamps stuck on by hand. Occasionally, there were names and addresses of senders on the backs of envelopes. This singled him out from the rest of the village, and was duly noted.
Josie Meade had been postlady in Long Farnden for only a short while, but she was fascinated by this one exception to the general rule. She was the daughter of Lois Meade, who was proprietor of a cleaning business, New Brooms, and an experienced amateur sleuth on the side. Josie, her mother and grandmother, had taken on the village shop and post office, when the old couple who ran it were more or less forced out of business by neglect and financial decline.
“It’ll be your job,” Lois had said to her daughter. “If you and Rob want to come back and live in the village, we’ll all chip in and buy it, and you can run it. It’ll be an investment. I’ve enough to do with cleaning, but I’ll be around if you need help. And there’s always Gran.”
There was always Gran, stalwart mother of Lois and a reliable prop for the whole family. She had been thrilled at the idea of taking on the shop, and in a quiet way proved to be a backstop in many ways. Rob, Josie’s partner, though with a job of his own in Tresham, worked shifts, and was often able to give a hand. This way, Josie could be postlady and shopkeeper, and was in her element.
In no time at all, Josie had had everything under control, and with Gran manning the shop first thing, the early morning post delivery was the best time of the day for her. The birds were singing, the air fresh, roads empty. Rupert Forsyth, almost alone of her calls, was always up and about, and opened the door of No. 2 Albert Villas, holding out his hand for his fat packet of post.
Rupert and his wife had moved into the village six months ago, buying a house which sat solidly on a plot in a side road off the main street. Albert Villas had been built by a nineteenth-century farmer for his best workers, using a plain, no-nonsense red brick, and the Forsyths had known at once that this house, four-square and reliable, was exactly what they wanted.
This morning, Rupert Forsyth appeared at the door in his shirtsleeves. “Lovely morning, Josie!” he said. “The forecast is good for the weekend too. You’ll be off on your bikes, I expect.”
Josie nodded. Rob was a biking enthusiast, and had given her an amazingly speedy model with twenty-five gears, every possible gadget she could need, and a safety helmet that made her feel like an elongated snail. She handed Rupert his letters, and warned him against going out with too little protection against the wind. “Still sharp, you know, Mr. Forsyth,” she cautioned. “You know what my Gran says: “Ne’er cast a clout ‘til May be out.” And it’s only the twenty-sixth today.”
“I do indeed know what your Gran says,” Rupert laughed ruefully. “A very great deal! Not a lady to meet if you’re in a hurry.” His tone was pleasant, but Josie bridled.
“She’s wonderful for her age,” she said. “Been a widow for ages, and helps Mum no end, as well as me. I couldn’t manage without her. And anyway,” she added, “most people in the village like her. They come in just for a chat, and then buy something. Very good for business, is Gran.” Which is more than you are, Mr. and Mrs. Rupert Forsyth, Josie said silently to herself. I see you coming back on a Friday afternoon with your bargain buys from Tesco’s. I’m lucky if you buy a box of matches from me.
She walked smartly back down the path and out into the road. “Shut the gate, please!” called Rupert, but Josie pretended not to hear and cycled off without looking round. It’s not his place to criticise Gran, she thought angrily. He’s not been here five minutes. Who cares about his stupid letters? But she had to admit that, along with the rest of the village, she could not resist speculating about the Forsyths.
TWO
LOIS MEADE, JOSIE’S MOTHER, SAT IN HER OFEICE AND chewed the end of her pen in the comfortable family house that had once belonged to the village doctor. New Brooms, her cleaning business, had expanded, and she was seriously considering opening a branch office in Tresham, the nearest big town serving Long Farnden. But how to staff it? Accustomed to absolute freedom herself, she hated the idea of being stuck all day in an office. Perhaps it could be done on a part-time basis?
One of New Brooms’ first cleaners, Hazel Thornbull, had recently had a baby, and was now itching to get back to work. With her mother-in-law close by, and only too ready to help, for lively-minded Hazel it would be an opportunity to get away from the farm and back to the variety of New Brooms’ working life. Much as she loved her young husband, cows and sheep had nothing much to say, and Hazel loved to talk.
Could Hazel manage some hours in an office in Tresham? She was certainly the best candidate, bright and experienced. She’d stand no nonsense, but was good with people. Lois thought on. Did she need another office? She’d always managed from home, but lately had begun to think she’d like a small place in town, with New Brooms over the door, where clients could walk in and discuss their requirements in person.
“Lois? You there?” It was Derek’s voice from the kitchen. A self-employed electrician, he should have been at work.
Lois yelled, “What are you back for?”
Derek appeared at her door. “Forgot something,” he said. “Any coffee going? No sign of Gran. I expect she’s at the shop.” He missed the warm presence of Gran, always ready in the kitchen with a cup of this or that and slice of home-made cake. Lois was just as likely to tell him to get his own.
“You can make it, and bring me a cup,” she said.
“You know what they say,” he grumbled, “y’don’t keep a dog to bark yerself.”
“Huh!” Lois grinned, walked over to him and kissed him warmly. “Well, this old dog’s not barking for nobody. How’s about making it together? Josie’s always goin’ on about togetherness. Reckon we could manage it without bickering. You get the mugs, and I’ll put the kettle on. And then we’ll have a cosy chat just on our own, for once.” Gran’s new role as shopkeeper had its good side for Lois. Sometimes two women in one kitchen was not a good thing.
“Chat about what?” said Derek suspiciously. He distrusted Lois’s cosy chats. They always involved something he didn’t want to do, or didn’t like the sound of. And though they had an agreement that Lois could carry on detecting, provided he knew about it, he still dreaded the signs: Lois abstracted, doors banged shut to keep phone calls private, Gran frowning and Lois snappy. But this time, it proved to be an innocent enough plan.
“I’ve bin thinking,” said Lois, “that I might open an office—just a small one—in Tresham. Just so’s people could come in and talk face-to-face with one of us. Now we’ve got so much work, and bigger clients, I reckon it’d be a good idea.”
A few years ago, Lois had been a solitary cleaner living with her family in Tresham, when one of her clients, the doctor in whose house she now lived, had become involved in a murder scandal. When he moved away, nobody had wanted the house, but Lois and Derek had seen a bargain, and the grim associations didn’t bother them. It had seemed like paradise after the estate semi they’d lived in with three children and Gran down the road.
New Brooms had been a logical development for Lois. She’d recruited a team, and discovered that the demand for
their services was great. An added bonus was that instead of one snoop, she now had half a dozen and more. Not that they knew they were snooping … at least, Lois never spelled it out.
It had all started when she’d fancied being a Special Constable, and been turned down by the police. A middle-aged policewoman had patronised her, and said she had too much responsibility already with children and a job. She should wait a few years. Lois was stroppy, stubborn and did not take kindly to being patronised. Already convinced that a cleaner’s job was ideal for what she liked to think of as investigations, Lois decided to go it alone. But when a murder involving several of her clients struck Long Farnden, her unique position was quickly recognised by local Detective Inspector Hunter Cowgill, and, in a sparky partnership, they had worked together ever since.
Hunter Cowgill, from the beginning, had—not to beat about the bush—lusted after Lois. He had never said a word of it to anyone, and wouldn’t. She knew it, of course, and used it against him at times. It was a hopeless, from afar kind of attraction, and had not dimmed with time. When the need arose to ask Lois for help, Cowgirl’s pulse quickened, and his normally dour countenance softened. But Long Farnden had been peaceful since a particularly nasty fire at the vicarage, and Cowgill was reduced to staring out of his third floor office window in Tresham, hoping he might see Lois striding by on her way to market. Sometimes she turned and looked for his window. He’d wave casually, and she would laugh up at him, causing him to curse himself for being an old fool.
Now Lois was bored. While Derek thanked God for a peaceful life and a normal household, Lois was restless. Taking on the shop had been exciting, but Josie was competent and confident. Nothing there for Lois to get her teeth into. At least the New Brooms office in town would be a challenge, and perhaps a financial risk. Lois began to plan.
THREE
IN THE TOWN HALL IN TRESHAM, THE MAYOR’S PARlour was a suitably impressive place for the most important citizen of the town. Panelling in a mellow dark wood, heavy velvet drapes, and an impressive desk the size of a billiard table, all were an appropriate setting for the present incumbent of the office.