Free Fear on Friday by Ann Purser Page A

she’s not too posh for us. Where does she live? Oh, yes, here it is … Round Ringford. Says here she works at the moment in the Town Hall, but is fed up with sitting in an office all day. Sounds all right?”
    “I’ve asked her to come here for interview at eleven o’clock.” Lois looked at her watch. “Just time for a coffee before she arrives. No, stay there, I’ll make it.”
    She walked into the tiny kitchen behind the office, and was pleased to see that it was spotless. Hazel was proving a real treasure. She was a good administrator, and her natural acerbic tendencies seemed to have faded with the increased responsibility and respect that went with it.
    Hazel smiled to herself. She was not fooled. Mrs. M was checking up on her! Still, she’d do the same if she was the boss. She took the steaming mug, and said, “D’you want me to go upstairs while she’s here?”
    Lois shook her head. “No, stay here. Two heads are better than one. But I’ll ask the questions.”
    “Of course,” said Hazel, and got up from her desk. “You sit here, Mrs. M. I can see a girl coming down the street, looking for the right place. I’ll be in the corner, where I can take mental notes.”
    Lois moved to the seat behind the desk, squared her shoulders and prepared for what she did best: finding out what she wanted to know without any trouble at all.
    Across the road, Fergus Forsyth watched from his window as Susanna Jacob halted outside the New Brooms door. “Hello,” he said to himself. “That’s a girl I know, don’t I? Young Jacob? Works at the Town Hall … caught old Howard’s eye?” He chuckled, and had to turn away to answer his persistent telephone.

S IXTEEN

    F RIDAY CAME ROUND AGAIN ALL TOO QUICKLY FOR Norman Stevenson. He had spent the week throwing himself into a frenzy of work, checking up on all aspects where fault could be found, and staying in the warehouse office late into the evening. When he finally arrived home each night, to an empty house, he unwrapped his takeaway meal, turned on the television, and sat in a comatose heap until he fell deeply asleep. He did not wake up until the midnight chill forced him out of his chair and into bed.
    The nagging pain that knifed him when he thought of the threatening message had refused to go away. The Slaters had denied all knowledge of the letter. Ken had been abrupt and unfriendly. After Norman had read it over a couple of times, he had impulsively torn it into small pieces, but then, in an agony of apprehension in case he should need it, had put the fragments into a small brown envelope, sealed it, and hidden it in his sock drawer.
    There was nothing he could do, except put it out of his mind, and this Friday morning, as he lay watching the early morning rain lashing his window, he knew that thatwould be impossible. The best he could think of would be to fill his life so full that there would be no room for brooding on a malicious anonymous missive. Well, not really anonymous, because he was convinced it had come from Howard. Good old Howard, one of the best, and saviour of the people of Tresham.
    “Right,” he said aloud. “Friday today, Saturday tomorrow, and I need a plan for the weekend. I’ll ring round and fix up a game of golf for a start.” He pulled on his dressing-gown and avoided his reflection in the mirror. Exercise and fresh air might be a good idea for several reasons! Then he heard the click of the letterbox and felt the daily jolt of anxiety. From the top of the stairs he could see three letters on the mat. Two were the unmistakeable jazzy envelopes of junk mail, and the third … oh God, the third was a square white envelope with the address in neat blue capitals.
    His bare foot slipped on the top stair, and he had difficulty regaining his balance. He grabbed the banister and steadied himself. It could be from anyone—his sister in Canada, his old chum who lived in Caithness and occasionally visited him on his way down to London. But