THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  Chapter 24

  The lounge of the Crofter’s Arms was always deserted at six fifteen on a weekday evening, which was the main reason why Ashworth had chosen it for his slightly clandestine meeting with Gwen.

  The pub’s interior was warm, cheerful; it had not yet been invaded by piped music, pinball machines or jukeboxes, which probably accounted for its lack of patronage.

  Ashworth was at the serving hatch to the main bar, ordering a large gin and tonic for Gwen, a non-alcoholic lager for himself. He carried the drinks to where Gwen was sitting at a small corner table, and pulled up a stool to sit facing her.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, sipping the drink. ‘Now, after the day I’ve had, this tastes good.’

  Ashworth sampled his lager and, pulling a face, said, ‘I wish I could say the same.’

  ‘You’re a man who needs the real thing, Jim.’ She studied his pensive face. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He sounded distant. ‘Gwen, how can you tell that Edwards was conscious when he went into the river? When you explained in the car, I couldn’t understand.’

  ‘How can I simplify it then? Death by drowning is caused by asphyxia, meaning that signs of anoxia show up during the post-mortem. Anoxia simply means lack of oxygen. The greater the signs of anoxia, the more the victim struggled in the water. Edwards put up a considerable struggle.’

  A thought struck Ashworth then. ‘Is it possible he was unconscious when he went in, and the shock of the cold water revived him?’

  ‘Yes, it is, Jim, but it’s impossible to reach a conclusion either way.’ She drained her glass. ‘What is it that bothers you so much about this?’

  His earlier detached air had now been replaced by enthusiasm. He said, ‘The kidnap — there’s something wrong with it. It’s almost as if someone added it as an afterthought.’

  ‘A pretty elaborate afterthought. And what would be the point?’

  ‘You may be able to supply the answer to that. Edwards’s body is in the river. The killer knows there’s a freeze-up on the way, which means the corpse won’t turn up for, what — possibly six weeks? But then he gets worried that Edwards could be found before the river freezes over. Now, if that had happened, would it have made any difference to your findings?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Yes, it most certainly would. If I’d had access to the body within, say, two days of death, I could have told you a lot more about the head wound.’

  Ashworth leant forward. ‘Tell me what you can now.’

  ‘Well, I won’t get too technical, but when a body has been immersed in water, the appearance of wounds can become misleading because the water causes the blood to change. The longer the body is in the water, the greater the changes. In Edwards’s case — because of the amount of time he’d spent in the water — it was impossible to determine whether the injuries were caused before or after death. But I don’t think most lay persons would have that sort of knowledge.’

  ‘So it would have to be someone who knew something about medical science?’

  ‘Or forensic science,’ she offered. Then she hesitated, and said, ‘Look, Jim, do you mind if I have another drink? It’s been a cow of a day.’

  ‘Oh, Gwen, of course. I’m sorry,’ he said, reaching for her glass, ‘I’m so wrapped up in this case.’

  ‘No, no, I’ll get it,’ she laughed.

  Their hands met around the glass, and Ashworth felt a slight electric charge pass through him.

  Since their arrival a few more customers had trickled into the lounge, and as they were both well-known local figures, there was bound to be some speculation as to what the GP and Chief Inspector were doing together in this out-of-the-way country pub. But in no way did their curiosity disturb Ashworth; he found Gwen’s company relaxing, and he was enjoying talking about the case.

  She squeezed back behind the table with her refill which, he noted, was another double measure. Glass clinked on glass as the tonic water mingled with the gin. ‘I shall have to make this the last one. I don’t eat lunch on post-mortem days,’ she confided. ‘I’ll end up tipsy.’

  As she settled back with her drink, she changed the subject. ‘I think you’re complicating it too much, Jim. You believe the killer to be a local man?’

  ‘Yes, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘And the motive was some grudge he had against Edwards?’

  ‘That’s about it, yes.’

  ‘So why dismiss the red herring theory — get the police hunting nationwide for a kidnapper, and overlooking things closer to home?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head resolutely. ‘The kidnap and the ransom drops were ploys to delay us in finding the body — I’ve made up my mind about that.’

  ‘And I’ve heard, once you’ve done that, it’s very difficult to get you to change it.’

  ‘So they say.’

  Gwen glanced at her watch. ‘Jim, we really ought to be going. I’d like to get home before my husband gets back from his surgery . . . and I also want to talk to you somewhere a little more private,’ she added confidentially, before finishing her drink in two quick swallows.

  In the car park she linked arms with him as they walked towards the Sierra. ‘This is the first date I’ve been on where the main topic of conversation has been dead bodies.’

  ‘Sorry, Gwen,’ he chuckled. ‘Now, there’s something I want to ask you about Barbara Edwards.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling you’re going to ask me to divulge information I shouldn’t,’ she said gravely as Ashworth opened the car door for her.

  He did not reply until he had climbed into the driver’s seat, then he said, ‘How bad is her drug addiction?’

  ‘Jim, this is not fair,’ she protested lightly. ‘Barbara’s my husband’s patient, but the confidentiality rule still applies.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,’ he assured her persuasively.

  Ashworth heard her exhale, then, ‘It’s bad — and, not surprisingly, it’s worsening. Simon Edwards wanted her to go into a clinic for treatment.’

  Ashworth started the car and eased it into the narrow lane. ‘And how did Barbara take that?’

  ‘Badly. Contrary to general belief, most addicts are quite happy with their lot — they’re not seeking a cure.’

  ‘And Dennis Paine?’

  ‘I don’t know what his reaction was to Barbara having treatment, but after Simon went missing he was on to my husband to increase the strength of her medication. He said she needed it to calm herself down.’

  ‘I see.’ Ashworth turned left at the crossroads.

  ‘But I think he’s seen the light now because he wants Barbara admitted to hospital for her own safety.’

  The lane was becoming narrower; branches from the hedges bordering the road brushed against the car windows.

  ‘Why the interest?’ Gwen asked.

  ‘Nothing really, I just like to know everything,’ he said, smiling. ‘God, Gwen, you do live in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘It’s just round the next bend.’

  Ashworth slowed the car and crept around the sharp turn.

  ‘There’s a little lay-by set back from the road,’ Gwen informed him. ‘Pull in there.’

  Ashworth almost missed the turn, which was no more than a gap in the hedge, barely wide enough for a car to pass through. The tyres bumped on hard earth as he brought the vehicle to a halt. He turned off the engine, killed the lights, and for a few moments everything was inky blackness.

  ‘Have you thought about us, Jim?’ Gwen asked bluntly.

  His eyes became adjusted to the dark and he studied her profile. ‘Gwen, there are so many things to consider.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as your husband and my wife.’

  ‘Your wife? How often do you have sex with her?’

  Ashworth opened his mouth to protest.

  ‘No, tell me, Jim.’

  ‘Not frequently,’ he grudgingly admitted.

/>   ‘Not frequently — if ever. Remember, I’m Sarah’s doctor. Thank God I’m not yours. There are enough complications in this already. So — would I be taking anything away from your wife? Anything she really wants?’

  ‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘but what about your husband?’

  ‘Huh, my husband.’ She made a sound of exasperation. ‘We’ve been married for twenty years and, well, he just doesn’t seem to do anything for me anymore.’ She turned to stare out of the window. ‘What do I have to do to get you to make love to me?’

  ‘Gwen—’

  ‘Jim, I’ve spent the day cutting up the corpse of someone who got out of bed one morning, and didn’t make it back that night. Believe me, it’s an experience that makes you want to grab what you can, while you can.’

  Ashworth heard himself ask, ‘Where?’

  Gwen gave a low throaty chuckle. ‘At last,’ she breathed, placing her hand on his thigh and leaning towards him. ‘Shush,’ she said urgently, ‘I thought I heard a car.’

  Ashworth listened and caught the approaching sound of a revving engine.

  ‘It must be my husband,’ Gwen whispered.

  As the car crept round the bend, its headlights illuminated the lane. Behind the hedge, Ashworth found he was holding his breath. It passed by and they listened as the sound faded into the distance.

  ‘He won’t miss me for an hour,’ Gwen said softly.

  Far from quelling the driving desire within Ashworth, the incident seemed to have fuelled it, and he said quickly, ‘Where can we go, Gwen?’

  ‘Bed doesn’t have to be bed, you know,’ she said provocatively. ‘Just let nature take its course . . . that’s doctor’s lingo.’

  Ashworth felt the years peel away, pulled from him by her demanding lips, the hand that caressed his thigh before slipping between his legs.

  His fingers felt enormously large and clumsy as they struggled with the buttons of her jacket.

  With her mouth still almost touching his, Gwen murmured, ‘Let’s get into the back.’

  Even in the near darkness Ashworth could see her breasts heaving as her breath quickened.

  Hurriedly they got out of the car. Ashworth climbed into the back and pushed the front seats forward.

  Through the gloom he could see Gwen standing precariously on one leg. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he laughed.

  ‘I’m taking my pants off,’ she replied breathlessly. Then with much haste she climbed in beside him.

  Any control he had left evaporated when his hands met her firm trembling thighs. He pushed her skirt upwards and at last touched her coarse body hair.

  With a panting gasp Gwen reached forward, and Ashworth heard the rasp of his zipper as she pulled it down, then felt the sweet sensation of her cool fingers as they touched him.

  * * *

  He had expected to experience guilt, regret, or at least some sense of sadness after his disloyalty to Sarah, but nothing could push aside the strong surge of euphoria which had overtaken him after his pleasurable encounter with the comely Gwen. Temporarily, he had escaped the shackles of domesticity, had operated as a free spirit, and he had enjoyed it.

  Usually a stickler for punctuality, Ashworth was not at all concerned that he was now thirty minutes late for his eight p.m. appointment with Holly.

  The expressway, bathed in the yellow glow of overhead lights, stretched before him; the Sierra’s speedometer recording seventy miles an hour as it effortlessly cruised along. His side indicator lit up the grass verge as he negotiated the slip road.

  At the roundabout, Ashworth took the first left into Nene Lane, part of the Ethelvale Estate. Holly’s Mini was parked half-way along the road. His gawky DC and her dilapidated car seemed out of place in such a smart area.

  A secretary and a factory worker couldn’t afford this sort of place — not on the wages Dennis Paine pays, he thought, parking behind the Mini.

  Holly’s expression betrayed the fact that she had not appreciated the forty-five-minute wait, but Ashworth was not in an apologetic mood.

  ‘I’ve been with Dr Anthony,’ he explained stiffly, climbing out of the Sierra. ‘Getting the post-mortem results.’

  Holly noticed the creases in his suit, his slightly dishevelled hair as she said, ‘Anything positive from it?’

  ‘No, very little. Edwards was alive and conscious when he went into the water. Apart from that, nothing.’

  His offhand reply, together with his untidy appearance and late arrival, only served to confirm Holly’s suspicions that there was another body — other than that of Simon Edwards — uppermost in his thoughts.

  ‘A bit expensive for the likes of the Frenches, I’d say,’ he remarked, staring at the house.

  It matched the others in the lane; not exactly upmarket, more middle-of-the-range. Very little originality had been displayed in its design but, even so, double-bay-fronted houses with four bedrooms carried a mortgage of around seven hundred pounds a month, and Ashworth doubted that the Frenches’ total income would amount to much more than that.

  ‘I thought the same, sir,’ Holly said, ‘but we can’t start asking where their money comes from, can we?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied stoutly, as the garden gate swung shut behind them. ‘They were expecting us around seven, so if they’ve got anything to hide, they should be nicely sweating by now.’

  Which is more than can be said for me, Holly thought, sitting in the cold for three-quarters of an hour.

  Ashworth ignored the bell and knocked on the door. The hall light was switched on immediately; its glow filtered through the half-glass door.

  An apprehensive Alan French opened it. In his late twenties, he was a dark-haired, good-looking man, dressed in a thick fisherman-knit sweater and brown cord trousers.

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Ashworth, Bridge—’

  ‘Yes, I know who you are,’ French said.

  ‘And this is DC Bedford. I believe you are expecting us.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  French ushered them into the lounge. Ashworth’s seemingly casual glance recorded the brown velvet three-piece suite, expensive carpet, large bookcase, and the customary television and video recorder — recent models too, by the look of them.

  Julie French was sitting on the settee; the soft glow from the wall lights lent her an almost angelic appearance. She smiled meekly at Ashworth then returned her gaze to the floor.

  Although Julie’s low-cut blue blouse and short white skirt did not meet with Ashworth’s approval, he had to admit that she and her husband looked just like any other attractive young couple.

  ‘Please sit down,’ French said. ‘Can I offer you a drink, or is it true that you don’t, while on duty?’ His hale and hearty manner was merely a manifestation of his nervousness.

  ‘We do, sir, but not at the moment, thank you,’ Ashworth said solemnly.

  French sat beside his wife and they held hands. Holly and Ashworth sat in the armchairs.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr French. I believe you were one of the last people to see Simon Edwards alive.’

  ‘Yes, so Julie tells me.’ French seemed determined to hold Ashworth’s stare.

  ‘And what time was that, sir?’

  ‘It would have been about three thirty. We were pegging out the bank for a fishing match.’

  ‘Where would that be, sir?’

  ‘The stretch from the bridge, down to the weir.’

  ‘And he just walked off, I take it?’ Ashworth remarked, taking his eyes off French to glance around the room.

  ‘Yes, if my memory serves me right, he said, “I shall have to love you and leave you, Alan. I’ve got something to take care of”.’

  ‘Just that? No mention of his business trip?’

  ‘None, but then Simon never discussed things like that with us.’ French shrugged. ‘And in any case, I was skiving — I should have been at work at two.’

  ‘I see. Nice place you’ve got. How long have you liv
ed here?’

  Holly saw the sly glance which passed between them, but Ashworth missed it; he was still looking around the room.

  ‘About two years,’ French told him.

  ‘And before that?’ Ashworth continued in a conversational tone.

  Julie French spoke up for the first time. ‘Perrybrook Road,’ she said. ‘That’s—’

  ‘Yes, small, terraced houses. I know it well. Quite a step up for you.’ He brought his attention back to the husband. ‘Tell me, how long have you worked at the factory?’

  ‘I’ve been there five years, and Julie, two and a half years.’

  ‘Now,’ Ashworth said, ‘Mrs French told me that she and Simon Edwards had sexual intercourse on a regular basis, and that you were aware of this.’

  Julie clung tightly to her husband’s hand. Holly could see her knuckles turning white.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ French replied in a subdued voice. ‘We want to be open and frank with you because we’ve got nothing to hide.’

  In Ashworth’s considerable experience he had found that, when suspects of a crime declared that they had nothing to hide, he could expect the reverse to be true.

  ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’

  French cleared his throat, looked at his wife, then launched into his explanation. ‘We like to think of ourselves as a modern couple. We’ve been married for eight years—’

  ‘Nearly nine,’ his wife corrected him.

  ‘Yes, nearly nine,’ French went on. ‘Well, just after Julie started working at the factory, Simon took a fancy to her. She was flattered at first, but didn’t think anything of it. You know I was very friendly with Simon?’

  Ashworth nodded.

  ‘Well, he was at the house a lot. He helped us move in here, and at the end of the day we had a few drinks. I told him I couldn’t thank him enough for all the help he’d given us, and he said, let me go to bed with Julie — that’ll be thanks enough. We both thought he was joking. Then he lurched into some half-drunken lecture about American Indians or Eskimos offering their wives to their best friends. We had a few more drinks, then things got silly and . . . well, we all ended up in bed together.’ French both sounded and looked rather shamefaced.

  ‘I see. So when did three-in-a-bed graduate to four?’ Ashworth asked bluntly.