Then the world swam around her. She knew her pants were being removed and that she was lying on the bed with her skirt pushed up.
Whitworth’s skilful foreplay soon pushed her over the brink of control, and she pleaded urgently, ‘Do it to me, Mike. Please do it.’
Holly felt him enter, and she gasped with the pleasure of it. His long sliding movements seemed to unlock every thwarted orgasm she had kept hidden over the last three years. They built, mingled, then exploded into one glorious feeling which filled her, and she cried out, tears streaming down her face.
Whitworth’s movements became more furious, and there were tiny animal cries in his throat.
‘Yes, Mike, yes . . . oh, yes.’
Then, with one deep growl of pleasure, Whitworth finally became still.
He rolled off her and, as the bed could not accommodate both of them, stood up. He was completely naked, and Holly thankfully saw, through a haze of fulfilment and inebriety, that he had managed at some point to put on a condom.
‘Jesus, Hol, that was something.’
‘It’s right what they say about ugly women then?’ she grinned.
‘Don’t say that. Stop putting yourself down all the time,’ Whitworth chided, making his way to the bathroom.
Holly could hear the sounds of his bare feet on the floorboards. She looked down at herself and giggled. Her legs were still wide open and raised at the knees. ‘You did it, Holly,’ she whispered triumphantly.
The lavatory flushed and Whitworth, now wearing a white bathrobe, came back into the room, a lighted cigarette clamped between his teeth. ‘Right, girl, I’d better get you a taxi,’ he said awkwardly. ‘You ain’t in any fit state to drive that heap of junk you call a car.’
‘I’m not going,’ Holly said defiantly. ‘I want another drink and I’m staying the night.’
‘I think it’s time you went, Hol.’
Whitworth was a man who shunned even the hint of involvement.
‘Maybe you’re not up to it again,’ Holly teased.
‘I’d wear you out, girl,’ Whitworth retorted.
‘Prove it then.’ She sat up abruptly. ‘Look, Mike, this is a one-off for both of us — right? A never-to-be-repeated offer. Let’s make the most of it.’
He thought for a moment, then said reflectively, ‘Ships that—’
‘Mingle in the night,’ Holly finished, deliberately misquoting.
Chapter 26
Ashworth stared at the flats and wondered how people could live in such contraptions.
In the late ’70s, architects and designers, anxious not to compound their high-rise mistakes of the ’50s and ’60s, had gone to the opposite extreme and constructed double-tier flats in long uniform rows. To further distance these from the ‘concrete jungle’ image, they had added wooden cladding to their façades, which merely served to give the buildings a ‘shanty town’ appearance.
This row of thirty-two dwellings was within five minutes’ walk of Paine’s factory.
Ashworth located number 13, on the ground floor. Each double flat had its own porch housing the front door to the lower flat and narrow stairs leading to the one above. Ashworth squeezed into the confined space and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a man of about fifty-five, medium height and build, wearing grey trousers and cream shirt beneath a dark green cardigan.
‘Mr Leonard Warren?’ Ashworth asked.
‘Yes.’
Almost everything about Warren was so average that he would have passed unnoticed in any crowd, but for the port-wine-coloured stain, about the size of an orange, running from the cheekbone to the corner of his mouth on the left side of his face.
‘I’m Chief Inspector Ashworth—’
‘Yes, I’ve seen you at the factory. What do you want?’ Warren asked curtly.
‘A few words, if I may, sir. Perhaps I could come inside?’
Warren seemed reluctant, but said, ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
The hall was no larger than the porch. Ashworth was across it in two strides.
One look at the lounge confirmed that Warren was a bachelor. If the compact room had been furnished in a normal manner it would have no doubt appeared cluttered. However, one easy chair, a television on a stand, and a coffee table made it seem positively spacious.
A large bookcase covered half of one wall and Ashworth wandered over to it. ‘A fine collection of books you have here, Mr Warren,’ he remarked. ‘You’re interested in the works of the Bard, I see.’ He pointed to a leather-bound edition of the complete works of Shakespeare.
‘That surprise you, does it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘That somebody working in a factory can enjoy the arts?’
‘Not at all, Mr Warren, I was merely being pleasant.’
Warren appeared not to have heard. He said bitterly, ‘When I was at school the powers-that-be categorised children as factory fodder or better at the age of eleven.’
‘Yes, it was the same when I was there,’ Ashworth said, then went back to scrutinising the books as Warren talked.
‘Well, that system didn’t allow for late developers, did it? God knows how many people successive governments have condemned to live as second-class citizens, just because they don’t have pieces of paper to say they’re clever.’
Ashworth saw a large collection of modern crime fiction, and some political works which were predictably far left of centre. Then, just as he was about to look away, something caught his attention. Resting between The Workers’ Struggle and Basic Rights in the Workplace was a book on forensic science.
Warren was in full flow. ‘Every staff job that’s come up at the factory, every full-time official post in the union, I’ve applied for,’ he complained sourly, ‘but I’ve never even been considered.’
‘You’re interested in forensic science, are you, sir?’
‘What? No, I’m not.’ He looked puzzled. ‘Oh, the book. No, I read a lot of detective thrillers and I like to check the writers have got their facts right. I don’t know how much money those people get, but you’d be amazed at some of the technical mistakes they make. I used to write to the publishers, but they always came up with the same twaddle about artistic licence. Well, if I . . .’ He jerked his thumb at his chest. ‘. . . or millions like me, made a mistake in my job, I’d get short shrift if I offered that as an excuse.’
‘It’s your job I want to talk to you about,’ Ashworth told him, relieved to be changing the subject.
‘What’s my job got to do with you?’ Warren asked belligerently.
‘Nothing as such,’ Ashworth answered mildly. ‘I meant the factory really. You’ve heard about Simon Edwards’s death, I take it?’
‘Oh, that.’ Warren sounded uninterested.
‘You don’t seem surprised or shocked.’
‘I’m not. The only thing that surprises me is that somebody didn’t bump him and Paine off years ago.’
Come the revolution . . . Ashworth thought. ‘I find that strange. Simon Edwards seemed to be almost universally liked.’
‘People will tell you that,’ Warren sneered, ‘because they haven’t the backbone to say what they really think. Yes, Edwards had charm, and a certain amount of panache, I grant you, but underneath he was just the same. His policies were just the same as Paine’s — lower pay, plus less rights, equals more profit.’
Ashworth feared he knew the answer to the next question before it was even asked. ‘Would you know of anyone who might have wished Simon Edwards harm?’
‘Just about anybody who’s ever worked for him.’
‘Thanks, it’s been nice talking to you, Mr Warren. I’ll let myself out.’
Tailor-made, Ashworth thought as he stepped out into the street. He began the hundred-yard walk back to where he had parked the Sierra.
If he had ordered a model to fit Gwen Anthony’s profile of the kidnapper, Len Warren would have been delivered by return post. The man did not seem outwardly concerned by his b
irthmark, but the fact that he imagined that most of the world saw him as unintelligent matched Gwen’s description exactly. And, by his own admission, he would go to great lengths to show how clever he was, even on such trivial matters as an author making a mistake in a work of fiction. Also, Warren definitely gave the impression that he disliked everything and anything that was breathing God’s air.
‘Tailor-made,’ he said to himself, inserting the key into the car door.
* * *
Warren watched Ashworth until he was out of sight. Had he imagined it? Did that busybody of a policeman look back at his window to see if he was watching?
He was all right, he reassured himself, they were just trying to panic him. Yes, he knew what their game was — coming along here and chatting about books.
He went into the kitchen. There was something he had to get out of the flat. He stood on a chair, reached into the top shelf of a built-in cupboard and withdrew a large cardboard box. Balancing it, he stepped off the chair and placed the box on the table.
Opening it up he took out a black leather executive case. His hands were trembling.
He’d ring the factory and tell them he’d not be in today — make out he was ill.
Then he’d have time to think of a safer hiding place for this.
* * *
It was 10.30 a.m. when Holly pulled up outside her house. Her leg ached deliciously as she depressed the brake pedal.
‘I’ll give you one thing, Mike,’ she murmured to herself, ‘you really are macho man.’
She had telephoned the office; her official excuse was that she had overslept — the truth, however, was far more erotic.
Even her slight headache could not dampen her spirits. As is so often the case, when the route to a hangover has been a pleasurable one, its effects pass largely unnoticed.
She glanced up at the house and dread edged its way into her mind. She vaguely recollected telephoning Emily the previous night, but what she had said eluded her. She had made the call from the landing below Mike’s flat; he had been there with her, and the fact that she was not even able to remember whether she was dressed or not did nothing to clear a path through the confusion.
Firmness, she told herself, that’s what you need to deal with Emily Bedford — a firmness born of practicality and devoid of emotion.
She tried to shake off the gloom which met her whenever she entered the house, but it clung to her like an invisible cloak.
As her key turned in the lock it was obvious that Emily was advertising her presence in the kitchen by making as much noise as possible with the pots and pans. From the din, Holly half expected to find her juggling with them. But, in fact, when Holly entered, Emily was sitting at the table.
‘Home at last,’ she sniffed.
‘Yes,’ Holly said. ‘I’ve just popped in to change, then I’m off.’
‘The station phoned.’
Holly had visions of her overslept-alibi disintegrating. ‘What did they want?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.
‘Don’t know. Didn’t answer it.’
‘How the hell do you know it was the station then?’ Holly could feel herself getting annoyed.
‘Who else would it be?’ Emily mumbled. ‘It’s no good you staying out all night, then coming home shouting at me and causing all this upset.’
Holly recognised the tactic but had no intention of playing the game. ‘I’m going to change,’ she announced.
As if on cue, Emily appeared in the bedroom doorway at the precise moment when Holly became totally naked. She could feel the old woman’s eyes raking over her body.
‘I called the station last night,’ she said accusingly. ‘They said you weren’t on duty. I said, excuse me, but she must be, she’s just rung me from there. But they said, no—’
‘You had no right to do that, Emily.’ Holly could no longer bring herself to call this woman ‘mum’.
‘You shouldn’t tell stories. With this leg of mine, I could fall down, then I wouldn’t know where to turn for help.’
Holly began to get dressed. ‘You force me to tell stories,’ she said evenly. ‘The fuss you make whenever I do anything, or see anyone. You bring it on yourself.’
‘You were with a man, I suppose,’ Emily said slyly.
‘Yes, Emily, I was with a man. I’m sure you’ll want to know all the details.’ With a great effort, Holly was managing to keep her tone completely matter of fact. ‘Well, I got myself laid — for the first time in over three years. And I’ll tell you something else — it was bloody beautiful.’
Emily staggered back in feigned shock as Holly fastened her dark blue skirt. ‘May the Lord forgive you.’
‘I’m sure he will.’
‘You’re just telling me this to upset me. My, you’re a wicked daughter-in-law.’
‘No, that’s not why I’m telling you,’ Holly corrected her. ‘I’m serving you notice. I’m a young woman with the whole of my life in front of me, and I’m going to live it.’
‘You want me out. I know what’s behind this — you’re just trying to get rid of me,’ Emily wailed.
‘You’re quite welcome to stay . . .’ Holly put on the matching jacket and studied her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, ‘. . . but the days of you making me feel guilty all the time are over. You must understand that.’
‘I can’t stay here,’ Emily moaned, sniffing, her eyes screwed up but devoid of tears, ‘not with you and men laying — or whatever you call it — all over the house. I’d rather be dead.’
Holly picked up her handbag from the bed. ‘Your choice, Emily, your choice.’
Then without looking at her mother-in-law, Holly pushed past her, strode down the stairs and straight out of the front door.
* * *
She had a long drawn-out explanation ready for her late appearance, but Ashworth, sitting behind his desk, deep in thought, merely grunted as she bustled into the office, apologetically announcing that she had overslept.
Josh was at his desk looking lost and ill at ease, the VDU silent and lifeless.
Holly felt flustered and clumsy as she took her seat.
‘I just thought you’d taken time off because you worked late last night,’ Ashworth said with the air of a man emerging from a deep trance. ‘I’ll tell you both now, there’s too much overtime being booked, so in future, if we work late we’ll have to take time off in lieu when it’s quiet.’ He banged his palms on the desk and sat erect. ‘Right, I’ll update you on the Simon Edwards enquiry.’
For Josh’s benefit he ran through the details of the French interview and then told them both about Len Warren. ‘In my opinion,’ he concluded, ‘the man has a persecution complex, to say the least.’
‘Just a thought,’ Josh began hesitantly, ‘but I think we should take a good look at Barbara Edwards.’
Ashworth’s eyebrows arched. ‘Whatever for?’
‘Because I feel her drug dependency has got something to do with all this.’
Ashworth did not exactly sneer, but came pretty close to it. ‘So Barbara Edwards killed her husband because he was about to send her to a rehabilitation clinic, and then proceeded to demand money from herself. Clever.’
‘That’s not what I meant, sir,’ Josh faltered, feeling foolish, his cheeks glowing pink.
‘No.’ Ashworth shook his head. ‘I’ve a fair idea who the murderer is, and why he did it, but I want some proof before I go into it with you.’
‘Sir,’ Josh said stiffly, ‘can I take the tape and ransom notes home with me? I want to study them.’
‘Yes, as long as it’s in your own time.’
‘It will be, sir,’ Josh assured him.
‘Good. Now I want some sort of watch kept on Len Warren.’
Holly, finally managing to push the memory of last night to the edge of her mind, was about to ask Ashworth to expand on his theory, but then when he ordered a watch to be kept on Warren she assumed that he was their suspect.
‘I don’t
think it was Warren,’ Josh said stubbornly.
Before Ashworth could deliver his acid reply, the telephone rang. He picked it up. ‘Yes?’ he barked.
‘Jim, it’s Gwen.’
‘Gwen, I’m busy—’
‘It’s all right, Jim, don’t panic.’ She sounded serious. ‘This is an official call. I thought I’d forewarn you — another body has turned up.’
‘Where?’ he asked curtly.
‘Palmerstone Road, Ethelvale Estate.’
Mike Whitworth’s warning flashed across Ashworth’s mind.
‘It’s a nasty one, Jim,’ Gwen went on. ‘A seventy-two-year-old woman, raped and stabbed to death.’
Ashworth felt his heart and spirits sink as he listened to Gwen’s now factual voice.
‘The police surgeon’s there,’ she said, ‘and I’m on my way.’
‘I’ll see you there.’ He replaced the receiver.
* * *
Palmerstone Road was a long narrow street of terraced cottages, tenanted mostly by elderly people who had lived their whole married lives within the confines of these tiny two-up-two-down dwellings.
If any of them had felt a strong desire to leave behind the memories of a lifetime’s joy, pain, triumph, and failure, the meagre state pension — which was, for most of them, their sole income — would have prevented it.
Ashworth had found out the house number from uniformed, alerted Forensic, ordered Holly and Josh to follow him, and driven straight there.
Turning into the road he saw Gwen’s car, two panda cars, and a tight knot of neighbours and passers-by, speculating no doubt what could have happened to warrant such a large police presence.
He drew up behind a panda car and got out. Josh parked behind him.
Pushing his way unceremoniously through the crowd, he pointed to a constable standing by the front door, saying, ‘Get rid of this lot.’
The house had no hall as such, just a narrow passage leading to a steep flight of stairs. Two doors led off the passage. The first opened into what most of the residents referred to as the ‘front room’. But as sounds of activity were coming from the second, grandly titled ‘breakfast room’, Ashworth assumed that was where the murder had taken place.
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 21