Hell Hath No Fury

by Rosie Harris

  He hadn’t changed at all, except that he looked older, more knowing, more arrogant. And, she noted with a smile, he had grown a moustache that helped to hide his thin sneering mouth.

  Smiling to herself, Maureen studied the properties Jackson was offering. There was a good mix, but one house in particular, with an address in Englefield Drive, aroused her interest. It was in the more elite area of Benbury, and the picture showed an imposing, detached property with high hedges around a large garden. Central, yet private. Exactly the sort of place she had in mind.

  She picked up the phone to make an appointment to see over it the next day. ‘I would like it to be Mr Jackson himself who meets me there,’ she told the receptionist.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Jackson will be free. Our negotiator—’

  Maureen cut her short. ‘Surely he can manage half an hour sometime during the day. Otherwise I’ll leave it.’

  ‘One moment while I check his diary again.’

  Maureen crossed her fingers and held her breath, willing Dennis Jackson to meet her there.

  ‘Can you manage four o’clock? It’s rather late on in the day, and the best of the light may be gone, but—’

  ‘That will do fine.’

  ‘May I have your name, please?’

  Maureen bit down on her lower lip. She hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Maitland. Mrs Margaret Maitland.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Maitland. Now, have you had one of our brochures giving details of the property?’

  ‘No. Perhaps you could ask Mr Jackson to bring one with him.’

  ‘Better still, if you give me your address I’ll pop one in the post tonight. If I send it first class you should receive it in the morning.’

  ‘Please don’t bother. Mr Jackson can bring it with him,’ Maureen said firmly, and put down the phone before the girl could answer.

  She felt unnerved by the girl’s attitude. She had sounded amused, and she had been so pushy. It was almost as though she was used to women ringing up and making an assignation to meet Dennis Jackson; as though seeing over a property was a standard excuse.

  For a moment, Maureen was almost tempted to cancel the appointment.

  Maureen Flynn spent the rest of the day anticipating her meeting with Dennis Jackson. For years she’d tried desperately hard to forget him, but now all the suppressed memories came floating to the surface of her mind.

  By the time she went to bed that night she felt so overwrought that she was sure she wouldn’t sleep. She was tempted to take a sleeping pill, but the fear that it might leave her muddle-headed next day deterred her. Whatever happened, she needed to be one hundred per cent alert if she was to carry through her plan efficiently.

  Before she went to bed she laid out ready the clothes she intended to wear next day, checking over every item.

  As she had feared, sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned for hours, her mind a seething cauldron of unpleasant memories. When she finally did fall asleep it was into a nightmare world of horror so that she awoke bathed in perspiration and profoundly disturbed.

  Fighting back the sour taste in her throat, she showered, hoping the jets of scalding water would cleanse her mind as well as her body.

  Over a meagre breakfast of tea and toast she studied the morning papers. There had been no new developments in the Benbury murders so all references to them had been consigned to an inside page both in the tabloids and the broadsheets.

  Only the Mail had anything new. A profile-interview of Agnes Walker.

  The picture the writer painted was of a wife embittered by her husband’s philandering. The article spoke of her hate for him, coupled with her animosity towards the woman who had taken the name Walker and had been living with her estranged husband, Tom, at Sixteen Accrington Court. She was far from flattering about Tracey. A flashy blonde strumpet, a money-grabbing whore who’d had her talons into poor Tom, were only a few of the vilifications she used.

  Agnes Walker’s vindictive condemnation of Sandy Franklin, because he had been associating with Tracey behind Tom Walker’s back, was what really amused Maureen. Especially when she read the veiled suggestions Agnes had made concerning Tracey’s possible implication in Sandy Franklin’s death.

  ‘I’d quite like to meet Agnes Walker, we’d have a lot in common,’ she mused aloud as she folded up the Mail and placed it with the rest of the pile of newspapers.

  She thought about Agnes Walker as she dressed ready to drive to Benbury to meet Dennis Jackson. It would be highly entertaining to have a party, and to invite Agnes Walker, Marilyn Moorhouse, Tracey Walker, and Brian Patterson’s wife, and give them a chance to talk things over together.

  Maureen frowned. There hadn’t been very much in the papers about Sara Patterson, and she wondered why. With or without Mrs Patterson, it would still be a grand wake!

  She wondered if they knew each other. Agnes Walker and Sara Patterson had probably met, since their husbands belonged to the same Masonic lodge.

  Maureen laughed to herself. Her party would start off as prim and proper as a Masonic Ladies’ Night. They’d all be sympathizing with each other over their recent bereavements. A few drinks, though, and if she was any judge of character, Agnes would give vent to her real feelings about her Tom and Tracey. After that the others were bound to join in, and there would be all kinds of revelations.

  If they were too reserved to let their hair down then she’d do it for them, Maureen thought vindictively. She’d tell them things about their dear departed that would wipe the tears from their eyes and have them shaking with rage.

  By the end of the evening they’d all be secretly relieved that John Moorhouse, Sandy Franklin and Brian Patterson had died when they did.

  Dennis Jackson’s dark-green Mercedes scrunched to a stop on the gravel driveway outside the Willows in Englefield Drive at ten minutes to four.

  Although there wasn’t any other car parked in the driveway, he took a quick look round to make sure his prospective client hadn’t already arrived, left her car in the roadway and wandered round to the back of the house. Satisfied that he was ahead of her he let himself into the house and made a rapid tour, switching lights on and off, checking taps, flushing toilets, and generally making sure everything was in good working order.

  He prided himself on attention to detail, especially when the property was worth over a million. It was a magnificent place: five bedrooms, three reception rooms, a study and a luxuriously fitted kitchen. It was set in half an acre of landscaped gardens; it was the sort of house he dreamed of owning himself one day.

  The previous owner had been born there, and after he married he’d returned to bring up his own family there. He’d died a few months ago at the age of ninety-two, with his children and grandchildren gathered at his bedside. Dennis Jackson considered that was a wonderfully dignified way to end one’s life, especially when it was in a setting such as the Willows.

  He’d been rather shocked when the family had decided to put the property on the market, but Brian Patterson had told him in confidence that it was on account of death duties.

  Satisfied everything was as it should be, he let himself out, locked up, and went back to sit in his car until the prospective buyer arrived. While he waited he studied the details recorded by his receptionist.

  It annoyed him that June hadn’t insisted on Mrs Maitland giving her address. It told him a great deal if he knew where the client was already living. He could see at a glance whether they were moving up market, or down, and it helped him to judge if it was worth holding out for the asking price or not.

  He hoped it wasn’t going to be a wild goose chase. If she was merely ‘looking the place over’ he might well be wasting his time. In his experience, a family home of this magnitude was usually a joint husband and wife decision.

  There was always the chance, of course, that she was a wealthy widow and able to make a decision without having to refer to anyone else.

&nb
sp; He looked at his gold wrist watch. There was still a minute to go before four o’clock, so he’d give it another five minutes. If she hadn’t arrived by then he’d write it off to experience and go back to the office . . . or go home.

  He suppressed a shiver. He might as well do that since his mind certainly wasn’t on work. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t concentrate.

  It was unusual for him to let anything distract him from estate agency matters, but he’d been on edge for several days now. It was all to do with the murders in and around the town. Especially Brian Patterson’s!

  Looking back, it was almost as if Brian had had some kind of premonition. They’d met by chance, Dennis Jackson recalled, when he’d nipped into the Feathers for a drink on his way home one evening. Brian had been standing at the bar, and right away he’d started talking about the murders.

  Dennis had ridiculed Brian’s theories as to why John Moorhouse and Sandy Franklin had been murdered. ‘You’re talking a load of rubbish,’ he’d scoffed, incensed that Brian was stirring up memories that he’d tried desperately hard to forget. ‘That all happened nearly twenty years ago. We were just kids larking about.’

  ‘There was more to it than that, and you know it!’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it for years,’ he lied.

  ‘Well, I’ve thought about it often,’ Brian told him. ‘I’ve never been about to put it completely out of my mind. I’ll never forget the look on that girl’s face.’

  ‘I can’t even remember what she looked like!’

  ‘I can still hear her begging us to stop . . . to leave her alone.’

  ‘And are you trying to tell me that you think John Moorhouse, and Sandy Franklin were both murdered because they were there with us that day?’

  ‘I think it’s more than likely! I’m positive there’s some sort of connection,’ Brian insisted, gloomily.

  He’d laughed at that. ‘More likely a husband of one of Sandy’s many girlfriends did him in,’ he’d quipped.

  ‘And what about John Moorhouse?’ Brian persisted. ‘You can hardly say the same about him.’

  ‘I don’t know. He might have had a bit on the side.’

  ‘He was a pillar of respectability, and you know it.’

  ‘Well, perhaps his wife had a lover who wanted John out of the way.’

  ‘Now that is utter rubbish!’ snapped Brian.

  ‘I don’t know why you sound so surprised; most people have secrets of some kind that the people they live with, or associate with, know nothing about,’ he’d argued. ‘I bet you get to hear a lot of things that would make your hair stand on end. A solicitor is like a doctor, or a priest, in that respect, isn’t he?’

  Brian had refused to answer, but he’d stayed on the topic of why John Moorhouse and Sandy Franklin had been murdered. ‘I’m sure there is a connection between the two murders,’ he’d persisted stubbornly.

  And even though Dennis had laughed, and told Brian he was paranoid, nevertheless every word Brian had said troubled him. Especially when he read that Brian, too, had been murdered. Stabbed in the back in exactly the same manner as John Moorhouse and Sandy Franklin.

  Unable to put Brian’s theory out of his mind, he’d rooted through a pile of old photographs when he’d got home, looking for the one that had been taken the day they’d had the results of their A-levels. When he eventually found it he was almost afraid to look at it.

  Both John Moorhouse and Sandy Franklin were on it. He was on it as well, and so was Brian Patterson. There was a fifth boy; he couldn’t even remember his name now, but he didn’t think he was around Benbury any longer.

  The rest of them had all become men of some importance in the town. John Moorhouse had been deputy headmaster at Benbury Secondary School, Sandy Franklin had owned a thriving newsagent’s, and Brian Patterson had been one of the town’s leading solicitors.

  He’d stared at the picture mesmerized. And he owned the largest estate agency in Benbury.

  There was also a girl in the photograph. Thin, dark hair and nondescript, she’d been the studious type; quiet as a mouse. They’d insisted that she went with them when they’d gone off to celebrate. After all, it was quite an achievement for a girl to have done as well as them in the exams.

  Celebrate! Dennis Jackson suddenly felt cold inside at the memory.

  It wasn’t only the fact that they’d all got blind drunk, or that they had spiked the girl’s drinks so that she, too, was legless, it was what happened afterwards.

  That was what tormented him. And he’d been the instigator!

  The others had probably been able to put it out of their minds afterwards. He never had. He’d been haunted ever since by the terrible things he’d done to the girl, and what he’d egged the others on to do.

  He struggled to push the memory from his mind as he heard the scrunch of wheels on the gravel, and a red Ford Escort came to a stop a few yards behind his own car.

  In his rear mirror he watched as a trim, dark-haired woman of about thirty stepped out on to the drive. She was wearing a dark-grey suit with a white blouse, dark tights, and sensible low-heel court shoes.

  His immediate gut reaction was that he was about to waste the next half hour. If he was any judge, this woman was about as likely to purchase the Willows as he was to buy Buckingham Palace. By the look of her car, and the way she was dressed, she wouldn’t even be able to afford the council tax, let alone the house.

  Not unless she’s come up on the Pools, or won on the Lottery, he told himself as he locked his car and strode across the gravel to meet her, an ingratiating smile of welcome on his face.

  THIRTEEN

  The atmosphere in the incident room at Benbury police station was unbearably tense as Detective Superintendent James Wilson cross-questioned DI Morgan, and DS Hardcastle about the three murders. His manner was both disgruntled and overbearing; it was almost as if they were undergoing a third-degree.

  Reluctantly, Ruth admitted that so far they had had very little success in tracking down the killer or killers.

  Even Paddy, the seasoned detective, was puzzled and disheartened by the lack of evidence. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if it’s the work of a contract killer. Each murder has the same hallmark, especially this sadomasochistic tendency of leaving the victim’s clothes in a state of disarray.’

  ‘Someone so highly experienced that they know exactly how to cover their tracks,’ mused Superintendent Wilson.

  ‘Precisely, sir. So far we’ve virtually drawn a blank even though we’ve interviewed each of the families and their neighbours. In the case of Sandy Franklin, we’ve even interviewed his staff, and most of his regular customers.’

  ‘And what about information from Forensic?’ barked Superintendent Wilson.

  ‘They’ve only been able to say that in each case death resulted from repeated stabbings with a knife.’

  ‘No other clues at all?’ His voice indicated that he was far from satisfied with the answer.

  ‘Not really, sir,’ Ruth affirmed. ‘Nothing substantial. Except . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Except one very indistinct footprint at the scene of the third murder.’

  ‘Traceable?’

  ‘Possibly, sir. We’re still investigating. So far we know it is a trainer type of shoe, and that where the instep has made contact with the ground there appears to be the imprint of a logo of some kind.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘I haven’t, but . . .’ Ruth paused and looked across at Paddy, signalling him, with a lift of her eyebrows, to continue.

  He probably thought the red car was too trifling a matter to mention, but since they were so short of any real evidence at least it would prove that they were leaving no stone unturned in their effort to track down the killer.

  ‘When we were doing house-to-house enquiries two people mentioned seeing a red Ford parked a few yards from John Moorhouse’s house on the night he was murdered,’ Paddy stated.

  ‘Humph.’ Wilson shot them both a glanc
e from under his hooded lids. ‘That’s not much to go on, is it!’

  ‘Fieldway is a cul-de-sac, and most of the neighbours not only know each other’s cars, but also recognize those belonging to regular visitors.’

  So did you get its number?’

  ‘Afraid not, sir. No one thought to note it down.’

  Irritated, Detective Superintendent Wilson drummed with his fingers on the table in front of him.

  ‘It might be worth another try,’ Ruth murmured in an attempt to appease him.

  ‘Yes. Do that! People can sometimes recall numbers or letters, even though at the time they think they hadn’t noticed them,’ he agreed shrewdly. He stood up, his massive bulk towering over her. ‘And make sure you have this shoe imprint checked out, Inspector. You’d better make it top priority since it seems to be the only piece of evidence we have.’

  Questioning the residents in the Fieldway proved to be completely abortive. One of the women who had reported seeing the red Ford Escort now wasn’t even sure if it had been that make of car, only that it had been a red one. She’d only been aware of it at all because it had been parked so close to the entrance to her driveway that it had made turning in rather difficult.

  When they knocked on the Moorhouse’s door there was no answer. A neighbour informed them that Mrs Moorhouse and the two boys had gone to stay with her mother.

  ‘She couldn’t stand being in the house after what happened,’ the woman commented. ‘She said every time she went into the sitting room she imagined she could see poor John lying on the floor there.’

  ‘We wanted to ask her about a red Ford Escort that was parked near here the night her husband was murdered,’ Ruth explained. ‘Did you see it, by any chance?’

  The woman shook her head and made it quite plain that she didn’t wish to be questioned any further. She stepped back into her hallway, closing the door quickly, almost in their faces.

  ‘So what’s next?’ demanded Ruth as they walked back to their car.

  ‘We could go along to Accrington Court and have another word with Tracey Walker,’ Paddy suggested.