THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  ‘. . . but we are making enquiries in certain areas.’

  ‘When . . .’ Paine hesitated. ‘When was Simon murdered?’

  ‘That’s proving rather difficult to establish. I’m hoping the post-mortem will come up with something definite, but at the moment I believe your brother-in-law was killed on the day he went missing.’

  While Paine seemed to digest this, Ashworth said, ‘Tell me about his movements that day.’

  ‘How many more times?’

  ‘As many as are needed,’ Ashworth said firmly.

  Paine began resignedly. ‘He came into my office—’

  ‘No, before that, tell me about earlier in the day.’

  ‘Earlier in the day,’ Paine repeated. ‘Now there you have me. Wait a minute, I remember now, Simon did one of his vanishing tricks — he was always doing them.’ He stopped, his mouth slightly open. ‘Oh God, what a thing to say in the circumstances.’

  Remorse, however, did not come easily to Paine, and on this occasion it did not linger long. ‘But I have to say,’ he continued, ‘Simon was missing a good deal of the time, and I’m not sure things didn’t run more smoothly for that.’

  ‘Do you know where he was that morning?’ Ashworth asked, steering Paine back to the matter in hand.

  ‘Yes, the river,’ he said with a distasteful sniff. ‘He and Alan French went to peg out a stretch of the bank for a fishing match.’

  ‘Alan French?’ Ashworth queried. ‘The husband of your secretary, who Edwards was so friendly with?’

  Paine glanced towards the door of his secretary’s office. ‘Yes,’ he answered in a low voice.

  ‘And you definitely saw Edwards after that?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did, I told you — he asked me to visit his home and collect his overnight bag. That was in the afternoon.’

  ‘So Edwards was having an affair with your secretary, and he was also on good terms with her husband.’ Ashworth’s tone suggested disbelief.

  Paine laughed. ‘I can see you’re not an adulterer, Ashworth. What better cover than to be a friend of the family, always coming and going? Nothing to make the neighbours suspicious, you see.’

  ‘Yes, I do see. She’s in today, I take it? Julie French?’

  Paine nodded.

  ‘And does she know about Edwards’s death?’

  ‘Yes, I told her. She’s been blubbing ever since.’

  ‘Right, I’d like to have a word with her.’

  ‘Help yourself. She’s next door. Now, if there’s nothing else, Ashworth . . .’ He pointedly picked up a pile of invoices from his desk.

  Ashworth did not move. ‘Well, yes, there is. Edwards’s car disturbs me. When it was found, it was locked and the keys were missing. Now, why should the murderer take the keys?’

  ‘Is it so important?’

  ‘Yes, vitally so. If we can find those keys, they’ll lead us to the last person to see your brother-in-law alive.’

  ‘Fascinating, I’m sure.’ Paine waved the invoices. ‘I don’t want to appear mercenary, but I do have a heavy workload and Babs needs my support in so many ways.’

  Ashworth stood up. ‘With a good deal of respect, I must say that you don’t seem unduly distressed by your brother-in-law’s death.’

  Paine seemed to be on the verge of a verbal outburst, but with noticeable effort, he controlled himself. ‘Ashworth, this may surprise you, but I just wish all of this would go away. I’m one hundred and eighty thousand pounds out of pocket, but I’d willingly let that money go. What’s happened so far has been bad enough for my sister, but you probing about can only worsen the nightmare.’

  ‘Surely apprehending the murderer would go some way towards setting your sister’s mind at rest?’

  ‘You think so?’ Paine asked tartly. ‘If you, as you put it, apprehend someone — what then? A year before the case gets to court. The trial. Can’t you appreciate the effect that will have on Babs? She’ll be lucky to come through it. So, yes, I’m sorry Simon’s dead, but if anything happens to my sister, it will just about finish me. I hope that clarifies my apparent lack of feeling.’

  ‘Admirably so,’ Ashworth said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a word with Mrs French.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Paine had already turned his attention back to the invoices.

  As he stood in the doorway of her office, Ashworth had time to study Julie French before she became aware of his presence.

  She was seated behind an ancient desk, staring at a mug of cold coffee in front of her. Her shiny black hair was shoulder length, cut in an unfussy style which suited her pretty face. Although her large blue eyes were red and slightly puffy from crying, and her full mouth was set in a solemn line, she was still undeniably attractive.

  Her garb — heavy cord jeans, white polo-neck sweater, and thick green quilted body-warmer — was chosen to combat the low temperature inside the factory, rather than to create an impression.

  She looked up as Ashworth gave a diplomatic cough. ‘Mrs French?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Ashworth, Bridgetown CID.’ He produced his warrant card as he walked into the room. ‘I’m making enquiries into the death of Simon Edwards.’

  She barely glanced at the card. ‘Oh dear.’ There was a tremor in her voice. ‘This has come as such a shock. I didn’t even know he was missing. We all thought he was on a business trip.’

  She took a tissue from a box on her desk and blew her nose as Ashworth pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but this is upsetting. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ His eyes twinkled as he glanced back in the direction of Paine’s office. ‘I’ve just been next door with your boss, and hospitality seems a little thin on the ground,’ he said, making no attempt to lower his voice.

  ‘Like a lot of other things.’ Julie French’s whispered reply was accompanied by a sad smile. ‘I’ll make you one.’

  She stood up slowly and walked across the office to where a small kitchen was partitioned off. Ashworth followed her, noting that she was taller than he had expected.

  The room — equipped with the bare essentials: chipped white sink, dilapidated cooker, and power point — was hardly enough to accommodate four people; he squeezed his way into it and closed the door.

  ‘Do you mind if we talk in here?’ he asked. ‘I’ve some very delicate questions to ask and I’d rather we were not overheard.’

  ‘I see, the gossip-mongers have been at work already, have they?’ She looked at him pointedly as she filled the kettle and plugged it in.

  ‘You could say that, I suppose. Look, Mrs French, there’s no easy way to ask these questions . . .’

  ‘Ask away,’ she said resignedly.

  ‘I believe you and Simon Edwards were friends.’

  ‘Yes, we were.’

  ‘And what was the nature of your relationship?’

  She avoided his eyes and busied herself, washing two mugs beneath the cold water tap. ‘Alan — that’s my husband — and Simon went fishing together.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. So you’re telling me he was your husband’s friend and that was the only contact you had with him?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed as she turned off the tap. ‘No.’

  ‘You were on very intimate terms, I believe,’ Ashworth said bluntly.

  ‘Oh, my God, if Alan and I had known this would all come out, we’d never have done it.’ She lowered her head and stared into the sink.

  ‘You were on intimate terms?’ Ashworth persisted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was your husband aware of this?’

  She turned to face him, the coffee temporarily forgotten. ‘Yes, he knew about it.’

  ‘I’ve been told that your husband was with Edwards on the morning he went missing. They were at the river together.’

  ‘Yes, they were . . . and in the afternoon, too.’

  ‘In the afterno
on?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘About three — they still had a stretch to peg.’

  ‘Now think about this very carefully, Mrs French,’ Ashworth cautioned. ‘You were having an affair with Edwards, your husband had found out about it, and he was with Edwards around the time that he died.’

  The colour drained from the woman’s face, and alarm surfaced in her eyes. ‘But Simon was kidnapped . . .’

  ‘We believe he died on the day he went missing.’

  ‘Oh God, what a bloody mess,’ she said dejectedly, close to tears again. ‘Why did I do it?’

  ‘What have you done?’

  There was a mixture of fear and embarrassment on her face. ‘Not only was Alan aware that I was having sex with Simon . . . he encouraged it.’

  Ashworth looked at the boiling kettle. ‘I think we’d better turn this off or we’ll have a Turkish bath.’ He reached for the wall switch and clicked it up. ‘So your husband encouraged you?’

  Assuming that Julie would perhaps talk more easily if he was not watching, he occupied himself with making the drinks.

  ‘Yes, it started when a group of us had too much to drink one night. Oh God, I’m so embarrassed.’

  Ashworth poured boiling water on to the coffee granules and waited.

  ‘I believe it’s called . . . having a modern marriage, or swinging. Anyway, Alan and I found we liked it and started doing it on a regular basis.’

  ‘I see.’ Ashworth passed her the mug. ‘So you had an affair with Edwards. And your husband was doing the same with whom?’

  Her look was evasive but Ashworth could not decide if this was simply out of embarrassment, or because she was hiding something.

  ‘Various women,’ she said eventually, ‘and they were not affairs. We would all be together.’

  Ashworth sipped the coffee; the harshness of the cheap brand was not to his liking. ‘Your husband will confirm all of this?’

  ‘Yes, I think he will.’ She chewed on her bottom lip. ‘How much of this will have to come out?’

  ‘As long as none of it has anything to do with Edwards’s abduction or murder, it won’t have to,’ he assured her.

  She seemed relieved by this.

  ‘But there is one thing,’ he added. ‘I shall need to see you and your husband together this evening.’

  ‘I’ll ring Alan and tell him, then he can take today off.’

  ‘It will be about seven, or later, and I shall have another detective with me.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, do you know of anyone who may have wanted to harm Edwards?’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head vigorously. ‘He really didn’t have an enemy in the world.’

  Ashworth thought, if the news of your swinging sessions had ever got out, I can think of one he’d have had.

  He left Julie French, and was passing Paine’s door when the man called, ‘Ashworth, can I have a word?’

  ‘Surely,’ he said, looking enquiringly into the office.

  ‘Look, I feel that I shall be forever apologising to you,’ he said, ‘but what I should have said was, I wish it would go away, but I know it won’t. So, keep me posted and if there’s anything I can do, just let me know.’

  ‘You can rely on that,’ Ashworth said.

  As he left the factory, the thought which had entered his mind shortly after Simon Edwards’s disappearance came back to him, and he knew it would keep on returning until the question it posed was answered.

  Chapter 23

  Gwen Anthony need not have asked Ashworth to come alone for the results of the post-mortem at the hospital; the way events were going, he was guaranteed to do so.

  By nature he had always been something of a loner and, when deeply involved in a case, with a collection of intriguing facts waiting to be pieced together, he saw other people as an encumbrance. True, he liked others to act as sounding boards for his ideas, but he resented their own contributions.

  Holly and Josh were not aware of this, but very shortly they would be, and both would put the wrong interpretation on his taciturn behaviour.

  As he waited for Gwen in the Victorian wing of Bridgetown General Hospital, the lethargy that had been with him over the last few days vanished before a surge of restless energy which pulled him in many differing directions.

  He hated this place. Not even the primrose-coloured walls could camouflage the depressing antiquity of the building, nor could the freshly cut flowers that abounded on window sills disguise the clinical ambience which hung in the air.

  The sound of Gwen’s footsteps, echoing and re-echoing against the high walls and ceilings, broke the silence. She was wearing a smart two-piece black suit; the skirt, long and full, swished around her calves as she walked.

  When she reached Ashworth, her usually smiling face was sombre. ‘Jim, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’ She managed a tight smile.

  ‘No, Gwen. What have you got for me?’

  The double-meaning joke which sprang into her mind was quickly dispelled as she viewed his preoccupied expression.

  ‘Much the same as I told you this morning,’ she said.

  As she talked, they walked to the visitors’ reception area and sat down.

  ‘He died from drowning. Time of death impossible to determine — but you know my views on that. There are countless injuries on the body, but it’s impossible to ascertain with any confidence whether these were received before or after death. There is a wound on the back of the head though, which could have been caused by a blow before he went into the river . . .’

  Ashworth looked at her hopefully.

  ‘. . . but I need to run some tests to establish whether Edwards was conscious when he entered the water.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ he asked, looking at his wristwatch.

  ‘I won’t have the results before six, I’m afraid. You could pick me up,’ she said cheerfully, ‘and take me for that drink you promised.’

  ‘What about your car?’ he asked absently.

  ‘My husband dropped me off. Come on, lighten up, Jim,’ she cajoled.

  ‘I’m sorry, there are just so many things going around in my mind.’

  ‘Wrong, Jim, what you meant to say was, yes, Gwen, I’d love to take you out for a drink.’

  Her infectious personality finally got to him. He laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose that was what I meant to say.’

  ‘Good.’ She stood up briskly. ‘Now I can get back to cutting up bodies. See you at six.’

  He watched her walk the length of the corridor; the sway, the shape of her body, the sexuality radiating from her, caused a dull ache of longing inside him. As if aware of his watching eyes, she turned, and as she waved a message passed between them, and Ashworth felt himself beginning to bend towards the inevitable.

  He drove back to the station, the light of the day already gone. Holly and Josh were in the office, the computer bleeping as he settled behind his desk.

  ‘Alistair Stimpson’s taken sick leave, sir,’ Holly informed him.

  Ashworth snorted. ‘Sick leave — just when everything’s starting to happen. Right, that leaves us undermanned. Josh, you’ll have to close that thing down for a few days.’ He waved dismissively at the VDU.

  Josh turned to meet the stern gaze of his superior, as Ashworth said, ‘I’ve been meaning to have a few words with you for some time, young man. You’re spending too much time with that damned thing.’

  ‘My job specification does state—’ Josh began defensively.

  ‘Your job specification states that you’re a policeman,’ Ashworth interrupted, ‘and that requires powers of deduction and reasoning, not to mention a certain degree of bluff. Now, I want you to demonstrate to me how many of those qualities you possess.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Josh said, looking rather bewildered.

  ‘Good. Now, you can make a start by interviewing this Rolands social worker woman. Find out if Delvin Bennett did admit to raping Jane Tay
lor.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ a crestfallen Josh replied. ‘Oh, Mike Whitworth phoned in — he said he’s been watching Cain and Bennett. They’re spending a lot of time on the Ethelvale Estate. He reckons the next rape could be—’

  ‘What the hell’s Whitworth doing that for? He’s suspended,’ Ashworth thundered.

  Josh got up, his colour rising. ‘I don’t know, sir, you’d better ask him. I’m just passing on the message.’ He took his coat from the rack and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Damn, Ashworth thought, I handled that badly — but this office has got to be sorted out.

  An awkward silence prevailed for a few minutes, then Holly said, ‘Barbara Edwards took the news far better than I thought she would.’

  Ashworth grunted in reply and fiddled with the knot of his tie.

  ‘I think she has a drug problem, sir — tranquillisers and other prescribed medication.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Ashworth said, hardly listening. ‘Holly, I want you to meet me tonight at the home of Paine’s secretary, Julie French. Her husband was with Edwards shortly before he went missing.’

  ‘Right, sir. What’s the address?’

  ‘62 Nene Lane. Be there . . .’ He remembered his date with Gwen. ‘. . . at 8 p.m.’

  * * *

  Josh sat in the car, still angered by what had just happened. This was the Ashworth they had been told to expect, but had begun to doubt existed. Now it seemed he had emerged as large as legend, and twice as nasty.

  Ashworth’s dressing-down had completed a circle of isolation which had been forming around him for days. Earlier, Holly had cancelled their date for the following evening on the pretext that her mother-in-law was ill. Josh had realised that this was a lie when his offer to record the concert for her on his pocket tape recorder had been met with nil enthusiasm. What was wrong with these people?

  All of this had made him aware that he was homesick. Something inside him yearned for rolling moorland, sweet clean air, familiar places and things, a sense of belonging which he knew would never be found in this place.

  As he started the Sunny’s engine he felt sure of one thing — he would not tolerate many more of Ashworth’s tantrums.