‘In the river,’ he replied, with insensitive cheerfulness, ‘just on the bend of Beggars Meadow. Bobby Adams is attending officer. He’s summoned half the nick to seal off the area.’ The officer sniggered. ‘Probably felt lonely with only a body for company—’
‘Cut the patter,’ Ashworth snapped harshly. ‘This is a murder investigation, not the Des O’Connor Show.’
Holly exchanged a doleful glance with Josh at the mention of the word ‘murder’.
The officer continued soberly. ‘The police surgeon is in attendance, and Dr Anthony’s been informed.’
‘Right.’ Ashworth replaced the receiver. ‘Simon Edwards’s body has just turned up in the river,’ he announced sombrely. ‘Holly, you come with me.’
As he reached for his waxed jacket, he said, ‘Where’s Stimpson?’
‘I think he’s taking a statement from Mike Whitworth,’ Holly said, zipping up her anorak.
‘Why doesn’t anybody ask me, before they go charging off?’ Ashworth demanded, as he stormed out of the office.
Holly took in a deep breath, gave Josh a wan smile, then hurried after him.
Beggars Meadow had been bequeathed to the town by the Lord of the Manor in late Norman times, for the purposes of sport and recreation. It had derived its name from the fact that, in the Middle Ages, it became a meeting place for beggars and vagrants. The netless goal posts, standing on the five-acre site, bore evidence that the English were staunch sticklers for tradition.
Ashworth dismally noted the thirty or so uniformed officers forming a large semicircle around a small off-white tent, pitched near to the river’s edge.
He parked the car on a gravelled area, close to the road, as a rather embarrassed Martin Dutton strode across to meet him, the gravel crunching loudly beneath his shiny black boots.
‘Morning, Jim. Dr Anthony’s with the body now.’ He looked towards the river. ‘Bobby Adams answered the call. A local angler hooked the corpse. It was tangled in a submerged tree in the eddy there. Lucky it was, too — with the flood flow on that river, it could have been out to sea by now.’
Ashworth nodded grimly.
‘Young Bobby’s handled things really well, all things considered . . .’ His eyes moved to the multitude of officers. ‘. . . but I’m afraid he rather misinterpreted securing the site. I plan to have a word with him later.’
‘Get most of them back to the nick, Martin,’ Ashworth scowled. ‘If there’s a major incident in town, we’ll be in trouble.’ Then he almost smiled, saying, ‘And tell Bobby I didn’t seem to notice.’
As Dutton shouted orders, Ashworth and Holly began the trek towards the tent. The ground was wet, spongy, and the light wind sweeping across the meadow carried with it sounds of the rushing river, and — Ashworth imagined — the decaying smell of death.
Inside the tent the smell was strong, no longer imagined. Gwen Anthony was crouching beside the corpse as they entered. ‘Jim,’ she said solemnly, reaching for him as she stood up.
Ashworth took the proffered hand, giving the fingers a gentle squeeze. Holly was startled by the intimacy of the gesture and looked away quickly.
‘Procedure, procedure,’ Gwen complained. ‘As if I need a police surgeon to tell me Edwards is dead.’
Ashworth reluctantly looked at the body lying on a clean sheet. The face and neck were discoloured, swollen to such an extent that the eyes had all but vanished behind mounds of puffy purple flesh; the mouth was horribly distorted.
Much of the skin had begun to peel, and some of Edwards’s hair which had come adrift from the scalp was now plastered around his face and neck.
Around the nostrils and lips hung a fine white foam; the hands were chalky white and heavily wrinkled. Edwards’s expensive suit was tattered, with most of the dye washed out of it in places.
Holly had the taste of acid vomit in her mouth, and she could not help noticing Ashworth’s Adam’s apple bounce as he too had to swallow hard.
‘Cause?’ he managed to ask in a steady voice.
‘Drowning,’ Gwen replied. ‘See the foam around the mouth and nostrils? That’s a mixture of air, water and mucus — it’s one of the few external signs of drowning. I’m certain the post-mortem will confirm that.’
Ashworth forced himself to lean closer to the remains of Simon Edwards. ‘There are a lot of injuries to the body.’
‘Yes,’ Gwen agreed, ‘but don’t get your hopes up. Don’t forget, it’s been buffeted about in the river for a number of days, so it’s hit a few things. Then there are the pike — they’re not averse to taking a chunk of flesh out of a human body.’
The thought made Ashworth visibly shudder. ‘How many days had he been in there?’
Gwen glanced at Holly’s ashen face. ‘Do you think we could continue this outside, Jim? The Scene of Crime boys want to come in with the cameras.’
‘Of course,’ Ashworth said with relief.
They all three gulped in fresh clean air as they emerged outside.
‘Wait here, Holly,’ Ashworth ordered.
He wandered with Gwen along the riverbank, relieved to be out of the makeshift tent. ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ he remarked.
‘We’re supposed to be immune to it, Jim.’
‘Yes, I know. Are you?’
Gwen’s expression was desolate as she replied, ‘No — and I’ve got the job of cutting him up.’
They stopped, and Gwen rested her black bag on the ground. The river was a swirling, ugly mass of dark brown water. Ashworth watched as the complete branch of a tree was propelled downstream faster than a man could run.
‘How many days has he been dead, Gwen?’
‘It’s going to be vague, I’m afraid — the low temperatures of late have slowed down putrefaction. I’d say four to ten days.’
‘As vague as that?’
‘Sorry, Jim, that’s all I could put before a coroner.’
‘And what could you put before a Chief Inspector?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Well, for my favourite Chief Inspector, I’d say the peeling skin and loose hair suggest the body has been in the water for about ten days.’
‘Since Edwards went missing,’ Ashworth mused.
‘Off the record, Jim, yes.’
The sun showed itself briefly, lifting Ashworth’s spirits as it twinkled and danced on the surging water.
‘When will you be doing the post-mortem?’
‘I’ll have to do it today. I can’t put him on ice because that could destroy evidence, and with this mild weather—’
‘Don’t go into details,’ Ashworth said hurriedly. ‘Just give me a time.’
Gwen smiled. ‘I’ll do it first thing this afternoon, so if you call by the hospital at four, I’ll give you what I can. Is that a date?’
‘Yes, but I can think of more pleasant places.’
‘And come alone, Jim,’ she said, stooping to pick up her bag.
Ashworth watched her walk away; even hidden under a thick blue anorak, with coarse jeans tucked into green wellington boots, her body looked inviting.
With leaden reluctance he turned away and fixed his eyes on the hostile river. His thoughts were centred on the horrifying fragility of human life as he set off back to the tent.
‘All right, Holly,’ he said, briskly, ‘we’re finished here.’
‘Anything, sir?’ Holly asked, striving to keep pace with his furious march.
‘Yes, plenty to go on,’ he replied abruptly. ‘Now we have to break the news to the family.’
Holly felt quite offended that Ashworth had not shared with her the information gleaned, and her tone was sharp as she said, ‘Do you want me to take a couple of WPCs and go to see Barbara Edwards?’
‘Yes, and I’ll take Paine,’ he said without relish. ‘And we’d better hurry up before the press get wind of this.’
They reached the Sierra. ‘Tell me,’ he said gruffly, ‘what do Stimpson and Abraham do all day?’
‘Maybe you should ask them, sir,
’ she said, repaying his earlier snub.
* * *
Of the many unpleasant duties a police officer is obliged to perform, the most disturbing by far is having to break the news of an untimely death to the victim’s relatives. Holly had had to do this many times in her short career, but it had not become any easier.
As she pulled up outside the Edwardses’ house, Barbara’s tired pale face was at the window. With her, in the car, were WPC Jill Thompson and WPC Ann Kimble, both of whom were experienced and sympathetic to this part of the job. Before they were even out of the car, Barbara had the front door open.
Holly’s heart sank as she viewed the look of hopeful anticipation on the woman’s face.
‘Have you found Simon?’ she asked, her tone excitable, highly strung.
‘Can we go inside, Barbara?’ Holly said gently.
Barbara looked in alarm from one to the other, trying to decipher their expressions. ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’
‘Let’s go inside,’ Holly urged, more strongly this time.
‘What’s happened?’ There was a tremor of hysteria in the voice now.
Holly firmly took command by gripping the woman’s arm and leading her into the house. Barbara, offering no resistance, allowed herself to be escorted into the lounge.
‘Barbara, sit down,’ Holly coaxed. ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
She would not sit down, but remained standing in front of the armchair; her hands were shaking, and a pulse throbbed in her temple. ‘It’s Simon, isn’t it?’
Holly knew of no words with which to make this easier or more bearable; far better to have done with it and allow Barbara to escape into the soothing balm of shock. ‘I’m afraid your husband is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Now she sank heavily into the chair. ‘Dead? How?’
‘His body was found in the river this morning.’
Holly was ready for tears, a numb silence even, but not the crazed hollow laugh which escaped Barbara’s lips as she said, ‘The river? God, you don’t know how ironic that is. I sometimes think he should have married the river — if he wasn’t fishing there, we were forever walking along its banks.’ Suddenly her smile faded. ‘He lived for that river — and now he’s died in it.’
Holly could not tell whether the memories being evoked were happy ones. She had never encountered a response such as this, so moved quickly on to the next safe stage in proceedings. ‘Ann — tea, I think. The kitchen’s second on the right off the hall.’
WPC Kimble nodded vaguely, then left the room.
‘Just sit quietly, Barbara, we’re organising some tea.’
‘Thank you . . . it’s Holly, isn’t it? Yes, that’s right — I always think of ‘The Holly and the Ivy’. It helps me to remember your name.’
Holly smiled, but inwardly she was panicking; this wasn’t the Barbara she had come to know.
‘Holly, dear, you couldn’t get my medication for me, could you? It’s in the drawer of Simon’s desk.’ She waved weakly towards a neat desk standing in a corner of the room.
Its drawers opened with a smoothness that only money could buy. In the third one down, Holly found a bottle containing white tablets. These she immediately identified as barbiturates, or ‘downers’ as they are more commonly known, because of their ability to relieve stress and bring about a feeling of relaxed well-being.
She handed the bottle to Barbara, who struggled, with shaking unsteady hands, to lift off the ‘child-proof’ top.
Eventually, she gave up and Holly opened it for her, saying, ‘Do you want to wait for your tea?’
‘No, I’m all right,’ Barbara told her, swallowing three of the tablets with an ease which came with familiarity.
Holly pulled up a pouffe and sat at Barbara’s feet.
‘I did a little deal with myself, you know,’ Barbara said with a strained laugh. ‘I said to myself that if I kept off these for today, Simon would be all right. Isn’t that stupid?’
Holly shook her head, looking up as Ann came in and placed the tea tray on the coffee table.
Barbara carried on talking against a background of clinking cups. ‘I was going to get off these things . . . the tablets, I mean. Simon was going to have me admitted to a clinic — but what does it matter now?’
Ann laid two cups on the tiny table to the side of Barbara’s chair.
‘Of course it matters,’ Holly said eagerly. ‘Have you been addicted to pills for long?’
‘I’m not addicted,’ Barbara responded fiercely. ‘Simon used to say that. God, the rows we had about it. I could have killed him . . .’ The tears came then; Barbara buried her face in her hands and sobbed. ‘They’re all prescribed drugs . . . I’m ill. Oh, but when I think I could have killed Simon . . . and now he’s dead . . .’
‘It’s all right, Barbara, you’re bound to feel like that — everyone does,’ Holly soothed. ‘Look, I’ve got to go now, but I’ll leave Ann with you. Who is your doctor?’
‘Dr Anthony,’ Barbara replied numbly, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘Good, now if you need her, Ann will take care of it. Do you understand me?’
Barbara nodded; her eyes were now blank, both from shock and the effects of the drug filtering through into her bloodstream. ‘It’s the husband . . . my doctor. I don’t like his wife — she’s too flirty with the men.’
Holly could not have agreed more, remembering that the sexy doctor seemed to be on very friendly terms with her Chief Inspector.
Outside, as they walked towards the Mini, Jill remarked, ‘Thank God that’s over. What were those pills she took? Christ, she was flying.’
‘They were only downers,’ Holly said, getting into her seat and opening the passenger door for Jill. ‘Whatever she said about laying off the pills, I think she was high when we got there. I’d like to know just how much junk is flying around her body.’
Once Jill was settled, Holly started back for the station. ‘Ann’s a bit preoccupied this morning,’ she observed.
Jill’s giggle was mischievous. ‘She thinks she might be preggy.’
‘Careless,’ Holly remarked.
‘Yes, and the might-be father works with you.’
‘Oh, who’s that?’
‘Alistair Stimpson.’
‘Alistair?’ Holly echoed. She knew there had been a good deal of rivalry among the WPCs for the attentions of the handsome Stimpson and, judging by her uniformed colleague’s gloating manner, Holly guessed that perhaps Jill — having been passed over in favour of Ann — was now glad that they were about to get their just deserts.
Jill confided further. ‘Yes, he thought she was on the pill, and she thought he was wearing a condom. As if you can’t tell the difference.’
‘Really,’ Holly said. She did not like gossip, so strove to contribute as little as possible.
‘Mike Whitworth was the one I fancied. He reminds me of a young Al Pacino.’
‘I can’t say I’ve noticed,’ Holly said, becoming increasingly bored with the conversation.
‘But I suppose we’ve seen the last of him,’ Jill lamented. ‘Pity about Josh Abraham — he’s quite dishy.’
‘What do you mean, a pity?’ Holly asked, through a stab of jealousy.
‘Don’t you know?’
Holly did not know, but she found out as she listened. The words hurt; she felt each one stab her like a knife.
As the car weaved through the traffic on automatic pilot, she could hear herself making inconsequential small talk, but her mind was on what a fool she had made of herself. She thought of the small black pants and bra set she had purchased, which had brought on a bout of self-righteous sniffing from Emily. The way she had stuffed herself with food, trying to put back the stone in weight she had lost since Jason’s death. And for what?
You’ll never be happy again, Holly, her mind taunted . . . you’re always going to be a skinny small-breasted little freak that no man would ever look at, except for one thing — and even then
the bag over the head would be compulsory . . .
Chapter 22
Ashworth made his way along the metal catwalk, the ring of his shoes on the hard floor competing with the throb of the machinery below.
The door to Paine’s office was open, and Ashworth could see him sitting behind his desk, staring at the telephone. He coughed to announce his arrival.
Paine looked up. ‘Ah, Ashworth.’ He gestured towards the chair in front of his desk.
Feeling awkward, ill at ease, as he always did when in Paine’s company, Ashworth sat down.
‘Well, you’ve been spared the job of breaking the bad news,’ Paine said gruffly. ‘Ken Savage has been on the phone.’
Ashworth was relieved. ‘I’ve sent someone to tell your sister, and—’
Paine cut short the sentence with a wave of his hand. ‘Yes, yes, I know, Ken told me.’ He stared into the distance, his face devoid of any expression. ‘It’s funny, you know, but I thought that when this finally happened — we both knew it was on the cards — I’d be shattered. Now it has, I feel relieved, almost happy.’
‘I think that’s quite natural.’ Ashworth had prepared himself for a tirade, so Paine’s reasonableness had taken him off guard.
‘Is it? My brother-in-law’s dead, my sister is on the verge of a breakdown — and this news is likely to push her over the edge — and the person who’s caused it all is walking about with one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. Not a great deal to rejoice about there.’
‘He hasn’t walked away. We’ll get him.’
‘How?’ Some of the frostiness had returned to Paine’s manner. ‘There’s no trace on the money . . .’ He stopped and looked at Ashworth. ‘Are you telling me there are clues on the body?’
‘No . . .’
Ashworth was being evasive; he debated whether to tell Paine that they had the serial numbers of the ransom money but decided against it.
His feel for the case told him that someone connected with the factory was responsible for the abduction and death of Simon Edwards, and for that reason he wanted to keep the investigation as low key as possible.
If the kidnapper could be made to believe that he had got clean away with it, start to spend some of the money, it could then be traced back to its source.
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 17