THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  Little by little, she managed to pick herself up, returning to work where she swiftly gained promotion to the rank of Detective Constable.

  After a time, as fond memories of Jason mellowed, she began to resent the grave, seeing it as the manifestation of all her emotional problems. The feeling grew inside her that, if only she could get away from that plot of land, she would be able to put her past life into perspective. But before such an opportunity could present itself, fate dealt her another cruel blow; one which further entwined her with a husband who had been dead for a year.

  Jason’s father died from a heart attack. It struck suddenly, swiftly, granting him only enough time to savour the prospect of escaping from the terrible woman he had married.

  Out of some misguided sense of duty, Holly felt obliged to offer Emily a home, and although her own parents counselled strongly against it, she remained insistent.

  From the start it was apparent that the situation could not work. Emily Bedford was a woman who demanded her own way. All through her married life she had achieved that end by giving full vent to her dominant personality. When Holly would not succumb, Emily resorted to every possible type of emotional blackmail.

  Then the opportunity of a career move to Bridgetown came about — with rapid promotion prospects for the right applicant — and Holly jumped at it, hoping that her mother-in-law, not wishing to uproot herself, would apply to the council to be rehoused.

  But Emily, true martyr that she was, forsook her roots, relinquished her memories, and stuck — leech-like — to her daughter-in-law.

  No one in CID yet knew that they would soon be spending several evenings away from home. Holly would be the only member of the team to rejoice at the news.

  Chapter 6

  Ashworth was breakfasting lightly on crispbread, low-fat margarine, sugar-free marmalade, and coffee with skimmed milk and sweeteners. The diet, despite his excesses when away from the fold, was still working.

  It was eight thirty. He rather absently kissed Sarah’s cheek, reminded her to leave the heating on low all day, and left for the station.

  Front reception seemed quiet and normal. Young Bobby Adams was behind the desk, his uniform neat, his mane of blond hair parted on the right and — to use a phrase from Ashworth’s youth — ‘larded down’.

  A slight colouring crept into his young face when he saw Ashworth walking towards him.

  ‘I’m sorry about yesterday, Chief Inspector,’ he stammered, as Ashworth leant on the desk.

  ‘It’s all right, Bobby,’ Ashworth cajoled, then, motioning to the boy, he said kindly, ‘I just want to have a word with you, son. When you first join the force a lot of people try to wind you up. It’s happened to all of us.’ He laughed, expecting Adams to laugh with him. The young constable, however, merely swallowed loudly.

  ‘Anyway,’ Ashworth persevered, ‘if you don’t let them see it’s upsetting you, after a time they usually stop being silly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Adams clicked his heels as he stood to attention, interpreting the Chief Inspector’s speech as a dressing-down.

  Ashworth sighed and turned to walk away.

  ‘Sergeant Dutton would like to see you, Chief Inspector,’ Adams informed him nervously.

  Ashworth turned back to the desk. ‘Well, where is he, Bobby?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, sir.’ Adams marched stiffly to a door at the rear of the reception area. He gave a cautious knock, then popped his head round to announce Ashworth’s arrival.

  Sergeant Martin Dutton emerged and came round from behind the desk to where Ashworth was waiting.

  ‘I’m off duty actually, Jim, but I waited for you. I think you’ve got problems.’

  ‘Yes?’ Ashworth asked as Dutton guided him away from the desk.

  ‘It’s Starsky and Hutch . . .’ Dutton stopped and cast Ashworth an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, that’s . . .’

  ‘Yes, I think I know who Starsky and Hutch are.’

  ‘Well, the good news is, last night they arrested four men for burglary.’

  ‘And the bad news?’

  ‘They ignored a command to wait for back-up. Two of the men are in hospital, and the two we’ve got in the cells claim Whitworth drove straight at them, forcing their van off the road and into a brick wall.’

  Ashworth digested this. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘With that pair there’s always going to be more.’ Dutton studied Ashworth’s stony expression before continuing. ‘We’ve had a social worker in, complaining that DC Whitworth stamped on the foot of one of her charges, badly bruising it.’

  ‘This was in the station?’

  ‘No, Jim, in an amusement arcade. The Chief Constable isn’t due in till eleven, so I thought I’d forewarn you.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Dutton shuffled his feet, seeming reluctant to walk away even though he was already an hour late going off duty.

  ‘Is there anything else, Martin?’

  ‘Yes there is . . . This may sound like tittle-tattle . . .’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It’s young Bobby — DS Stimpson definitely told him you’d ordered the radio messages to be coded from now on. I don’t like telling tales, Jim . . .’

  Ashworth knew that Dutton felt a responsibility towards every raw recruit who enlisted in the police force, and any complaints about the behaviour of CID were prompted by his sympathetic nature, rather than by maliciousness.

  ‘You’re not, Martin, those two have got to be sorted out. Leave it with me. And thanks for waiting for me to come in. I appreciate it.’

  Ashworth shunned the lift and quickly climbed the stairs, all the time thinking of how he should handle the situation, for — contrary to general belief — he did not like being at odds with anyone; it did nasty things to his blood pressure, disrupted his digestive system, but he accepted that it was part of the job.

  Being a scrupulously fair man, he held himself partly to blame — as head of a team of officers he should have stamped his authority upon them from the outset.

  Acrid smoke from Whitworth’s cigarette stung his nostrils as he entered the office. Of the four pairs of eyes focused upon him, he noticed that only Whitworth’s were without apprehension.

  ‘DS Stimpson and DC Whitworth in my office. Now!’ he said stiffly.

  His tone caused Stimpson’s face to lose a little of its colour. But Whitworth, mostly for the benefit of the others, gave a wicked grin as he stood up.

  Ashworth was taking off his waxed jacket as the men entered his office. He ignored them until he was seated at his desk.

  He had noted that Whitworth had bruising round his left eye and that Stimpson was walking with a slight limp.

  ‘Right, what the hell happened last night?’ he barked.

  Ashworth’s abrasive manner brought Whitworth’s volatile nature rushing to the fore. He ignored Stimpson’s wave of the hand, urging caution. ‘I’ll tell you what happened, sir. Last night we solved a series of burglaries that have been baffling this nick for months. And after sitting there for hours, with my balls freezing off, then having some son-of-a-bitch trying to crack my head open with an iron bar, I’m not going to be dragged in here for a bollocking, because that gets right up my nose!’

  ‘I don’t know how you’ve behaved in other nicks you’ve worked in,’ Ashworth thundered, ‘but in this one you do not speak to a superior officer in that manner.’

  He locked eyes with Whitworth, whose expression contained scorn, defiance and hostility.

  Ashworth realised he had subdued the man only by pulling rank, by stating, ‘You will do as I say, because I hold higher office than you.’ This did not rest easily on his masculinity. A pulse beat in his forehead, heavy veins stood out in his bull-like neck.

  When he spoke his voice was calm, but firm. ‘I think there’s something we have to clear up, DC Whitworth. From your record, and, indeed, your attitude, it seems you think you’re some sort of hard man who’s seen it all. I get the i
mpression you regard your term of duty here as little more than a holiday with the yokels.’

  He stood up now and leant forward to lock eyes with the DC. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something, son, I’ve had my moments, and although I’m a little overweight and a few years past my best I’m still quite capable of having a go, so any time you find me getting up your nose, just let me know. Do you understand what I’m saying, son?’

  Whitworth was noticeably shaken by Ashworth’s onslaught. In the past his behaviour had often given rise to criticism and reprimand, but never before had a Chief Inspector offered to fight him; but then, never before had he met a Chief Inspector named Ashworth.

  He said, stonily, ‘Yes, sir,’ but this time the ‘sir’ was uttered without an insulting ring to it.

  Ashworth sat down. ‘Then I’ll ask you again. What happened last night?’

  Stimpson cut in smoothly, determined to twist the facts and show himself in a favourable light. ‘We apprehended four men for burglary, sir. The two detained in the cells have already made statements admitting to most of the outstanding break-ins on our books.’

  ‘Fine, but it’s the manner in which you apprehended them that concerns me. Why didn’t you wait for back-up?’

  ‘We saw them going into the house, sir, and we radioed in. While we were doing that they set the alarm off.’

  ‘They’ve coped with alarmed houses before,’ Ashworth remarked dismissively. ‘You should have waited. Instead, you over-reacted.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, both DC Whitworth and I are fully aware that a good team of burglars can have a normal household alarm disconnected inside ten seconds . . .’

  Ashworth began to relax now that he sensed there was going to be some plausible explanation with which to pacify Ken Savage. ‘So why couldn’t they do this one?’

  ‘Because the guy who owns the house works for a security company. He’d cobbled up the alarm from bits and pieces. To condense it, sir, he’d fitted the type of alarm used in banks and business premises: it had a battery fitted in the box on the outside wall, so whatever is done to the main power supply or the control box inside the house, the alarm keeps going off until the code is punched in.’

  ‘I see.’

  Ashworth was about to ask the men to sit down, but then thought better of it. ‘And why did the van crash? You should have followed it, kept in radio contact with the station.’

  ‘That’s what we intended to do, sir,’ Stimpson lied. ‘But they realised we were police and drove straight at us. If it hadn’t been for DC Whit—’

  ‘Why wasn’t the alarm still going off when back-up arrived?’ Ashworth cut in.

  ‘Simple, sir. Two of the suspects were slightly injured in the crash, but the others became very violent when we tried to arrest them—’

  ‘That’s not answering my question,’ Ashworth said harshly.

  His curt manner was now beginning to ruffle Stimpson but he did not let it show. He said earnestly, ‘While all this was happening, sir, the next-door neighbour, who knew the alarm code, went into the house and turned it off because he was watching the test match and the noise was disturbing him.’

  Ashworth had to swallow a smile; he knew from experience that at times the behaviour of the general public could appear farcical.

  ‘And another thing, sir,’ Stimpson continued in his obsequious manner. ‘We’d arrested the two men, put them in the car, and called an ambulance before back-up arrived. It had been promised for three minutes, but took closer to six. We had to go in or risk losing our suspects.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ Ashworth conceded impatiently. ‘Make out your reports . . . and really go into detail about the alarm system.’

  He paused and allowed his eyes to skim over Whitworth. ‘Now, there are a couple of other matters . . . We had a complaint that a lad came away with a bruised foot after talking to you, DC Whitworth. What explanation have you got for that?’

  ‘I think you’re referring to an incident that took place in the Vegas Amusement Arcade, sir,’ Whitworth replied, his manner still hostile. ‘I was investigating the attempted break-in when this lad accidentally spat on my jacket. He explained that no offence had been intended, it was just that I was standing between him and the spot he wanted to spit at. Immediately after that, I accidentally stepped on his foot. There were a lot of accidents that day . . . sir.’

  ‘So it would seem. Don’t do a report on that. Now the last thing is, if you want to wind a fellow officer up, pick on somebody with the confidence to look after himself. You both know who I’m referring to. And just remember not to step on any toes . . . especially mine. Right, that’s it.’ He motioned for them to leave.

  Back in the main office the detectives strolled casually back to their desks.

  ‘He’s a right do-it-yourself merchant,’ Whitworth remarked casually.

  Puzzled, Holly said, ‘A do-it-yourself merchant?’

  ‘What Mike is saying, in a very polite way, is that our lord and master is a wanker,’ Stimpson answered jauntily, although his tone was hushed.

  ‘That’s not what it sounded like from out here,’ Holly said scornfully, for she was already beginning to develop a loyalty towards Ashworth.

  If any of them had harboured any illusions that their new Guvnor’s reputation had been exaggerated for their benefit, then the last ten minutes had dispelled them.

  Stimpson was, even now, rethinking his earlier assessment of Ashworth; although he still did not really regard him as a force to be reckoned with, he had to admit that the man was not the country bumpkin he had at first assumed.

  Another thing was plainly obvious: Ashworth’s opinion carried a lot of weight, and Stimpson now saw him as a useful ally in his fight for promotion.

  Whitworth watched with distrust as Stimpson returned to Ashworth’s door, flattening his tie and buttoning his jacket before knocking firmly.

  ‘Come.’

  ‘A word, sir, if I may,’ said Stimpson, closing the door quietly.

  ‘Yes?’ Ashworth invited him to sit.

  Stimpson settled into the chair facing his superior. ‘I’m a little concerned about these attempted break-ins.’

  ‘Why?’ Ashworth asked bluntly.

  Stimpson had heard that Ashworth preferred feelings as opposed to theories, so that was the route he pursued. ‘I’ve got a feeling about them, sir.’

  ‘Be precise,’ Ashworth snapped. He had little time for the man, recognising him as a climber who would jettison his own mother, if he considered that to be a good career move.

  ‘There was someone in all three properties at the times of the attempted break-ins. All of them women, late twenties, early thirties.’

  Stimpson had expected some degree of interest, congratulations, perhaps, on his insight, but all he got was a puzzled expression.

  ‘I’m not following you,’ Ashworth said stiffly.

  ‘Aggravated burglary, sir,’ Stimpson explained politely. ‘In London we call it ‘Rape and steal the shopping money’.’

  ‘Rape? How old are these kids?’

  ‘Fourteen, fifteen, sir.’

  ‘And you think they’re looking around for women to rape?’

  ‘Nowadays, sir, lots of fifteen-year-olds have very full sex lives.’

  Ashworth knew Stimpson was right, of course, but when faced with this truth, his initial reaction was always one of sorrow at the passing of the moral values attained in his own youth.

  ‘So maybe they’re just trying to spice it up a little,’ Stimpson speculated, trying not to sound patronising.

  Ashworth looked at him. ‘What are you basing these assumptions on?’

  ‘It’s just too coincidental that lone women were in all three properties. If the burglars had chosen at random, I’d have expected at least one to have been empty.’

  Ashworth grunted. ‘Any description of the youngsters?’

  ‘Very scant. Three different descriptions with only one common factor: the two lads were wearing
balaclavas.’

  Ashworth could remember most of Bridgetown’s mid-teen population being escorted, by their mothers, to primary school, and he found it difficult to associate any of them with the crime of rape. But in the light of what Stimpson was saying, he realised it was a possibility he would have to take seriously.

  ‘Right, you and Whitworth handle it, and report anything back to me.’

  He was on the point of dismissing the detective when he changed his mind, asking, ‘What do you make of Whitworth?’

  Stimpson framed his answer carefully, realising that too strong a condemnation of his colleague’s behaviour would bring his own into question; far better to concentrate on the problems it might cause in the future. ‘He’s good, sir, but . . . how can I put this so it won’t seem like a stab in the back?’ He hoped that the conflict between doing his duty and betraying a friend showed in his face. ‘His methods are too extreme for a place like Bridgetown. My own approach is to try and contain the local element without antagonism.’

  I prefer him to you, Ashworth thought; at least he comes up with straight answers.

  ‘Very commendable,’ Ashworth remarked, cynically. ‘Well, I’m looking to you to keep him in check.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come,’ Ashworth called, hoping this would bring their discussion to an end.

  A pale-faced Holly entered the office. ‘Excuse me, sir, we’ve just had a call from Barbara Edwards. Someone’s telephoned her, claiming to have abducted her husband.’

  Chapter 7

  Holly sat silent in the passenger seat of Ashworth’s Sierra as he drove to the Edwardses’ residence.

  Snow was steadily falling, but the large flakes, as they hit fields and pavements made warm by a weak sun, quickly dispersed into sparkling droplets, and did not hamper the car’s progress.

  At the driveway to the house, however, it had begun to take hold, clinging to the tarmac and making slow progress across the path.