THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  As Ashworth had gone to bed with the same woman for almost thirty years, the remark annoyed him. ‘What has this to do with anything?’ he quickly asked.

  Paine let out a long breath, before saying, ‘Simon has done this sort of thing before. He isn’t exactly a paragon of virtue when he’s away from home.’

  ‘He picks up women?’

  ‘Not in the kerb-crawling way you’re insinuating. There are women — society women — who are only too happy to accompany us at business dinners, that type of thing. Respectable women . . . not at all out of place.’

  ‘And good to their mothers, no doubt,’ Ashworth muttered, with heavy sarcasm. ‘You think that’s where Mr Edwards is now, then? With some high-class prostitute?’

  ‘Or a succession of them . . . yes.’

  Ashworth was far from convinced. ‘No wonder your business has financial troubles. Why hasn’t he contacted his wife?’

  Paine now had the air of a man who, finding himself in a compromising situation, was doing his level best to extricate himself from it.

  He smiled fawningly, then said, ‘Chief Inspector, my sister may tell you differently, but believe me, once Simon is away he never feels any compelling urge to contact Babs. I’m always having to remind him. There have been quite a few occasions when I’ve had to make the calls myself, on the pretext that Simon is in a late meeting.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him this time?’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t have the chance. It was put before me as a fait accompli. Anyway, we were expecting a buyer from Brewsters — the chain store — yesterday; we’re trying to expand our home market. I had to be here to deal with him. Are you satisfied now, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’m satisfied that you’ve wasted a lot of our time,’ Ashworth replied sharply.

  ‘I refute that,’ Paine said angrily. ‘My sister reported Simon missing . . . what could I do? I couldn’t tell her the truth. If Babs ever finds out what Simon gets up to, she’ll have a nervous breakdown.’

  Although Ashworth disliked the man he felt forced to concede that Paine had simply been acting in his sister’s best interests.

  He cut short Paine’s earnest protestations that he was doing all he could to find his wayward brother-in-law, saying, ‘All right, Mr Paine, I think we can leave it there.’

  ‘You’ll call the whole thing off then and wait for Simon to turn up?’

  Ashworth shook his head. ‘We can’t do that. Mr Edwards has been reported missing, and until he turns up, he remains a missing person.’

  ‘This is bloody ridiculous. What are you intending to do?’

  ‘We have a procedure that has to be followed.’

  ‘And what does that involve?’

  Ashworth sighed; this was an area he would rather not go into. ‘We drag the waterways, sir. Lakes and rivers. Send frogmen in, if we can. Then—’

  ‘What?’ Paine exploded, before glancing at the closed door and lowering his voice. ‘Do you realise the effect that would have on my sister? I promise you . . .’ He stabbed a manicured forefinger at Ashworth. ‘. . . if anything happens to her because of this, I’ll sue the police for mishandling the situation.’

  ‘And if your theory — because that’s all it is — proves to be incorrect,’ Ashworth said, his temper beginning to fray, ‘and Mr Edwards is in some sort of difficulty, you’ll sue us then for not acting quickly enough. Am I right?’

  Paine slumped back on the sofa and said with exasperation, ‘It’s all a waste of time. Later today or tomorrow, Simon is going to walk through—’

  ‘Then there’s no problem,’ Ashworth snapped. ‘This type of search takes a couple of days to organise, and there’s a big freeze on the way.’

  ‘I have your word then that nothing will happen today or tomorrow?’

  ‘You have,’ Ashworth confirmed. ‘And after that the utmost discretion will be used. No television. No press.’

  ‘Good,’ said Paine, much appeased.

  The door opened and Barbara Edwards followed Holly into the lounge.

  She immediately reproached her brother. ‘Did I hear you raise your voice, Dennis?’ Turning to Ashworth, who had risen from his seat, she said, ‘You must excuse my brother, Chief Inspector, but this is all so trying.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Edwards. I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure everything will be just fine.’

  ‘Yes,’ Barbara agreed, a touch doubtful. ‘You haven’t finished your tea.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Now, if DC Bedford is finished, I feel we should be on our way.’

  Holly nodded. ‘Bye. Barbara,’ she said, kindly. ‘Don’t forget to phone if you need me.’

  Barbara managed a weak smile. ‘Thank you, Holly.’

  Paine let them out. They stood for a moment in the open porch. It was bitterly cold, and Ashworth wished he had taken off his coat inside the house so that he could now feel the benefit of it.

  Snow was still threatening, occasional flurries being buffeted about by the strong east wind that cut through clothing and flesh to chill the bone beneath.

  They hurried to the car, frosty gravel crunching with every step. As Ashworth held open the passenger door, he quipped, ‘This isn’t regarded as patronising, is it?’

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ Holly replied icily. I’m not a bloody feminist, she thought, I was just waiting to come on — men have no idea!

  Ashworth looked rather embarrassed as he climbed into his seat. He shot Holly a repentant smile. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t very funny.’

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ she said in a non-committal way.

  She was feeling quite good now; the two paracetamol tablets she had taken back at the station had eased her stomach pain, and restored her equilibrium.

  Ashworth struggled into his seat belt and started the engine. All at once the radio spluttered. A countrified voice came through. ‘Foxtrot Tango to Delta One. Come in, please.’

  Ashworth started at the radio, bemused. The coded message was repeated four times before he reached for the handset. ‘Bobby,’ he barked. ‘What’s all this Tango Delta business?’

  The voice became hesitant. ‘I’m sorry, sir . . . I . . . well, er . . . actually, DS Stimpson and DC Whitworth said that’s how I’d got to do it.’

  At Ashworth’s exasperated sigh Holly quickly turned to face the side window, lips clamped tightly together to stop herself laughing out loud.

  They had been winding up Bobby Adams, the naïve new recruit.

  ‘I don’t think so, Bobby,’ Ashworth said briskly. ‘Just stick to what we usually say: Bridgetown Station to Chief Inspector Ashworth. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  Ashworth waited, and after a few seconds’ silence, asked quietly, ‘What did you want, Bobby?’

  ‘Oh yes. Sorry, sir.’ Bobby Adams was flustered. ‘Um, there’s been another break-in, sir, and DS Stimpson says it definitely looks like juveniles this time, sir.’

  ‘Well, tell Stimpson and Whitworth to get on and investigate . . . and stop wasting my time.’

  A whispered, ‘Yes, sir,’ and the radio went dead.

  ‘Roger and out,’ Ashworth said, with a hint, of humour in his voice. ‘Morecombe and Wise . . . that’s all I need.’

  Holly was laughing. ‘It was funny though, sir.’

  ‘I know,’ Ashworth chuckled. ‘A little cruel but funny, I grant you that. I’m not without a sense of humour, you know. Despite what you may have heard.’

  He steered the car along the drive. ‘I think we’ve got off to a bad start, so why don’t I take you to lunch, and we can discuss what we’ve found out about Simon Edwards? Perhaps that way we can begin to develop a good working relationship.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’d like that.’

  Ashworth fell silent as he manoeuvred the car along narrow twisting lanes, leading back to the heart of Bridgetown.

  Holly noticed two cassette tapes stored beneath the dashboard. As one was Pavarotti and the other Handel�
�s Water Music, she assumed that her new Guvnor was a classical music fan. However, if she had lifted them up, she would have found a third: The Best of The Four Tops.

  It was very difficult to fit Ashworth into any particular slot. These apparently conflicting tastes in music reflected his character perfectly: Ashworth liked what he liked; full stop.

  Once in Bridgetown he shunned the two smart restaurants in the high street, ignored the upmarket café with the Continental look, and opted for an apparently shabby eating house, with the glorious name of The Crispy Bacon Café, which was hidden away down a side street. The inside was scrupulously clean, filled with the pleasant aroma of fried food.

  Because it was early — only just twelve noon — lunchtime proper had not yet begun, and only two of the ten yellow-Formica-topped tables were occupied.

  Ashworth steered Holly towards a rear table. The owner greeted Ashworth loudly as they sat. ‘Hello, Jim, haven’t seen you for a few weeks.’

  He came from behind the counter: a large man, in his fifties, with the build and broken nose of a boxer.

  Ashworth seemed pleased to see him. ‘Hello, Bill. How are you keeping?’

  ‘All right, Jim, all right.’ He beamed down at Holly; his smile was warm, friendly. ‘Is this young lady one of your policewomen . . . or your latest mistress?’ he asked with a chuckle.

  Ashworth was laughing as he removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. ‘This is DC Bedford, Bill.’

  ‘It’s Holly Bedford,’ she interjected.

  ‘And this old rascal’s Bill Willis,’ Ashworth informed her, genially. ‘He does the best fry-up in town. And you can see from his waistline he consumes too many himself.’

  ‘Hello, Bill,’ Holly said, laughing, for she found his warm smile infectious.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Holly. Usual for you, Jim?’ Ashworth nodded. Bill looked questioningly at Holly who was studying the single card menu.

  ‘I’d rather have something light,’ she said, her eyes scanning the list of dishes, all of which seemed to contain an unappetising fried egg.

  ‘I could do you a salad bap.’

  ‘Lovely, thanks.’

  ‘Right. Tea to start with?’

  ‘Yes, please, Bill.’

  Neither spoke until Bill had served the large mugs of strong steaming tea.

  After Holly had declined the sugar and Ashworth had heaped two spoonfuls into his drink, he said, ‘Now. Mrs Edwards.’

  Holly felt, quite rightly, that her effectiveness as a police officer would be judged on what she put forward during the next hour or so.

  Making an effort to remain cool, she retrieved the police notebook from her shoulder bag and began slowly. ‘I don’t think the marriage is an unhappy one, but I got the impression that Mrs Edwards is far from fulfilled. Their sex life is non-existent, although they do still sleep together. There are no money problems as far as she knows, but that’s not very reliable information—’

  ‘Why?’ Ashworth sipped his tea.

  ‘She’s been cushioned for the last five years or so, hasn’t had to work, and her husband has taken care of the finances. Within reason she’s always had anything she wanted, and since that’s still the case she assumes there are no money problems.’

  Bill served the food: Holly’s — white salad-filled bap on a small plate with paper napkin; Ashworth’s — eggs, bacon, sausages and baked beans.

  Ashworth tucked in as Holly continued. ‘Now . . . other women. I don’t know about when he’s away, but when he’s at home, definitely not. It’s work, sometimes goes to the pub for a drink, and fishing . . . he belongs to an angling club at the factory. I’ve got a recent photograph if we need it. Do you want details of when he went missing? When it was reported?’

  Ashworth shook his head. ‘No, I’m familiar with those. What you’ve given me so far is more or less what I expected.’ He cut into one of the sausages. ‘Mrs Edwards . . . would you say she was neurotic?’

  ‘No, sir, she’s a very nice person, a little bit on the shy, nervous side, but not neurotic.’

  Ashworth mounted an assault on the pile of baked beans. ‘So you wouldn’t say there have been other occasions when Edwards has forgotten to ring, and this time, for some unknown reason, his wife just panicked?’

  ‘Definitely not, sir.’ Holly consulted her notebook again. ‘If her husband couldn’t make contact, because he was in a meeting or whatever, he would always get her brother, or someone else, to telephone and let her know everything was all right.’

  ‘Yes, Paine told me as much, and it would seem there were other women.’ Ashworth gave her the information derived from Dennis Paine.

  Holly listened and, although she found the thought of food nauseating, began to nibble the bap.

  ‘Paine seems to think his brother-in-law will turn up today or tomorrow,’ Ashworth concluded.

  ‘But you don’t?’

  ‘I hope he does.’

  Having despatched the last of the bacon, Ashworth put his cutlery on the plate. ‘But there are several things I don’t like about this. If Simon Edwards knew he was going to be away for two or three days, why did he take only one change of clothing with him?’

  ‘Perhaps he planned to spend a lot of time undressed, sir,’ Holly quipped.

  Ashworth laughed. ‘Now I hadn’t thought of that. But there’s something else. Surely a man would know that if he drops out of sight for a few days his wife would be likely to report him missing. He’d need to have a damned good explanation ready when he got back.’

  He drained what was left of his tea and sat back, full up and satisfied. ‘You’ll hear a lot in future about my gut feelings. Well, I’ve got one about this . . . there’s something wrong with it.’

  Holly dabbed at her mouth with the napkin then hastily dropped it on to her plate so that Ashworth would not see she had left more than half of the bap.

  ‘Did you get Paine’s address?’ Ashworth asked.

  ‘Of course I did, sir,’ Holly answered testily. ‘I take the names and addresses of all interviewees as routine.’

  Ashworth felt he had been put in his place.

  Chapter 4

  Stimpson and Whitworth fully expected some form of mild rebuke for the radio trick, but on Ashworth’s return the incident was not mentioned; he simply asked for their conclusions on the burglaries, listened to their theories, and seemed satisfied.

  He then went on to enquire about the juvenile break-in which, it turned out, had only been attempted; the offenders — two boys aged fourteen or fifteen — had not been detained.

  Then, to their surprise, Ashworth suggested that, as they would both be working that evening on the burglaries, they should take the afternoon off.

  He entered his office, leaving the door open, deposited his coat on the rack, then sat at his desk. The newness of the furniture irritated him beyond measure. He drummed his fingers lightly on the desktop. What to do now?

  The workload — one person who may or may not be missing, a series of break-ins that would soon be cleared up — was light, even by Bridgetown standards, and at a time when personnel had been increased by some forty per cent. This irony was not lost on him.

  Having a group of people idle led to the light-hearted raillery he was now having to endure.

  Through his open door he watched Stimpson and Whitworth as they pulled on their overcoats. Stimpson was making one of his half-joking propositions to Holly.

  ‘Look, Holly,’ he was saying earnestly. ‘We can get these burglaries wrapped up by nine p.m. Why don’t I pick you up then? We could go for a meal, a few drinks, then I can show you what you’ve been missing.’

  Holly snorted. ‘Thanks, Alistair, but I’ve got something far more exciting to do.’

  Stimpson raised his eyebrows inquisitively.

  ‘We’re having chips tonight,’ she confided, sweetly, ‘and I like to sit and watch the fat cool.’

  This brought a guffaw from Whitworth.

  ‘L
ovely girl,’ Stimpson observed, ‘but so lacking in taste.’

  ‘Yes,’ Whitworth agreed. ‘I can understand her not fancying you, but she doesn’t even fancy me!’

  Their noisy exit followed, and then peace, the only sounds the tapping of a computer keyboard, a drawer being opened and closed, a slight traffic hum from the expressway.

  When, a few weeks later, Ashworth looked back on that afternoon, he would ask himself if there was anything he could have done to alter the outcome of so many subsequent events, and he would conclude that there was nothing.

  Several unrelated incidents, all linked to Bridgetown CID, had already taken place; the chain of events was already set in motion. Ashworth was soon to find himself powerless, able only to sit and watch as the consequences devastated the lives of so many.

  He picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

  ‘Hello, Miller here.’ The voice matched the character of Sergeant Ron Miller, the wiry, energetic man in charge of the police frogmen team.

  ‘It’s Jim Ashworth, Ron.’

  ‘Hello, Jim, welcome back. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve got a missing person, one Simon Edwards . . .’

  ‘And you want my lads to go looking,’ Miller assumed.

  ‘Good guess,’ Ashworth grinned. ‘He’s only been missing a couple of days.’

  ‘That’s not long, Jim, and I don’t think my lads will be keen on going underwater. It’s brass monkey weather out there, and they’re rather fond of their wedding tackle.’

  ‘Dragging?’ Ashworth asked hopefully.

  ‘I can make a start on the lakes and ponds tomorrow if they’re not frozen.’

  ‘The river?’ Ashworth feared he knew the answer before the question was asked.

  ‘The river? Who do you think I am, Jim? Paul Daniels? Do you know how much water that is?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Ashworth joked.

  Miller groaned. ‘God, I didn’t think your quips could get any worse, Jim, but they have. Sorry, my old mate, but you’ve got no chance with the river.’ Miller’s tone bore an air of finality. ‘If you knew exactly where and approximately when the body went in we might be able to work something out, but even then we’d probably have to wait the six to ten days it would take for him to pop up on his own accord.’