THE
PRICE OF
MURDER
A totally gripping British crime mystery
BRIAN BATTISON
Detective Jim Ashworth Book 2
Originally published as
Fool’s Ransom
Revised edition 2021
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 1994
as Fool’s Ransom
© Brian Battison 1994, 2021
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Brian Battison to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN: 978-1-78931-685-8
This book is dedicated to the memory of my late parents: Frederick and May Battison
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
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Prologue
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The mock Tudor house stood well back from the road, nestled behind a vast expanse of immaculate lawns and flowerbeds. A wide gravel drive swept through the centre of the lawns, to a large parking area in front of the house whose façade was decorated with white stucco and dark oak timbers.
A fine Boston Creeper encompassed the building and now seemed set to encroach upon its roof. In summer these vines would envelop the structure in a green leafy splendour, in autumn a deep glossy red-brown, but now they merely appeared as fissures in the white mortar.
The drawing-room was grand, opulent, rich with the scent of cut flowers, but Barbara Edwards was impervious to it all as she nervously paced about the room. She was, thanks to money and hard work, a well-preserved woman of forty-five. The face beneath the short blonde bob was clear-skinned, and seemed to have escaped the usual ravages of age. Her figure was youthful, elegant in a Catherine Walker suit.
Her clear blue eyes showed signs of agitation as they flicked up the drive towards the entrance between tall privet hedges bounding the property. A dark blue Jaguar car came into view.
In the hall, Barbara slipped on a green quilted jacket and hastened outside to meet the visitor.
The Jaguar was parked beside her large Renault. The driver got out of the car quickly. He was a tall man, grey-haired, distinguished.
He came hurrying towards Barbara as she asked anxiously, ‘Any news?’
The man shook his head grimly.
‘Haven’t they located his car yet, or anything?’ she asked, concern and disappointment mingling in her voice.
‘Calm down,’ he soothed. ‘The police won’t even start looking for at least forty-eight hours.’
‘I can’t calm down, Dennis, I’m out of my mind with worry.’
‘I know,’ he replied patiently. ‘Just come inside.’
Together they entered the house.
Chapter 1
Sarah Ashworth stood patiently on the landing, listening to her husband’s size twelve shoes on the rafters in the loft, the drone of his voice as he muttered indistinct oaths.
The closer the sounds edged to the open hatch the more agitated Peanuts, their Jack Russell, became, and when her master finally began to descend the aluminium ladder, she gave full vent to her recently acquired ability to bark.
‘Thank God we’re detached,’ Jim Ashworth grumbled above the din, as he folded the ladder back into the loft-space.
‘Be quiet, Peanuts,’ Sarah commanded, to no avail.
‘Well, the tank jacket’s all right,’ Ashworth told her, slipping out of his overalls. ‘The best thing we can do is leave the heating on low twenty-four hours a day.’
The weatherman on Breakfast News had just predicted a big freeze. Sarah, since their first year of marriage, had always taken appropriate precautions with the central heating system in such conditions. Nevertheless, Ashworth had always performed this ritual, during which Sarah would dutifully listen and nod agreement.
Following her husband down the stairs, she noted with some satisfaction that his hips and waistline now bore testament to the strict diet which had, in the ten days since Christmas, trimmed seven pounds from his fourteen-and-a-half-stone frame. A further seven would need to be shed before he reached his ideal weight and these, Sarah knew, would prove more difficult due to Ashworth’s growing disenchantment with low calorie meals.
In the kitchen she put before him one half of a huge grapefruit, which he consumed with neither relish nor comment. His expression was gloomy as he sipped his saccharine-sweetened coffee.
Eventually, he proclaimed, ‘I’ll go and work on the book.’
‘Very well, dear,’ Sarah replied brightly.
Ashworth had always regarded the study as his exclusive piece of world: his domain. But during the last few days, as he sat in the captain’s chair behind his impressive mahogany desk, sorting through old press cuttings, he had come to regard it as his prison.
Here he was, Chief Inspector Jim Ashworth, head of Bridgetown CID, in the last few days of his leave, and after that — if no overtures for his return were forthcoming — he would be retired.
Not that he regretted tendering his resignation; in the circumstances there had been no alternative. How could he have continued after his Detective Sergeant, Owen Turner, had attempted to usurp his position; after almost the entire establishment had conspired in an effort to force him to charge an innocent man with murder?
He had proved them all wrong and had walked out with his dignity intact, which was important to him.
Far too outspoken to be truly popular, Ashworth knew there were those at Bridgetown Station who would not mourn his departure, who would feel that the force was better off without his outdated views — particularly his opposition to women serving in CID. It was debatable whether these
people were interested in promoting sexual equality, or just wanting to make the workplace more decorative.
Still, he did not really want to retire, and now the question uppermost in his mind was: What the hell was he going to do with the rest of his life?
Chief Constable Savage wanted him back — no doubt about that. He had given Ashworth one month’s leave initially, during which time the paperwork for his retirement was to have been sorted out.
When at the end of that month, Savage had called to inform him that the paperwork had still not been completed, Ashworth had grinned inwardly with relief. However, when Savage had paused — granting him the opportunity to reconsider, no doubt — Ashworth had maintained a stony silence, forcing Savage to suggest a further month of leave.
Now, with the time almost up, and having had no fresh contact with Savage, Ashworth was beginning to wonder whether he had blown his chances of staying in the job he loved so much.
With little enthusiasm he now picked up a discoloured half-sheet of newsprint and scanned it closely, searching for some small fact that could motivate him into putting pen to paper. After seven hard days all he had was the title and an overflowing wastepaper basket.
He was supposed to be compiling his memoirs. Indeed, there was a publisher — cheque book in hand — waiting to peruse the first draft. Ironic really, for Ashworth’s son, John, a struggling but rising writer, would have given much to be in this position, and yet here he was, with not an inkling of an idea of how to start.
Ashworth would have been only too happy to hand the project over to him but would never have dreamed of broaching the subject, for John had inherited the fierce Ashworth pride, and would have interpreted such a gesture as an act of charity. At least, though, John had promised to read the manuscript when — if ever — it was completed, and offer advice.
Ashworth paused to stare out of the window. A squally south-westerly wind was sending the clouds scurrying across the sky; later, as forecast, it would veer round to the east and bring with it the snow which was creeping across Europe.
After moping around the study for a while, Ashworth picked up his pen and sat looking at the blank piece of paper; he leant forward, elbow on table, chin on wrist; then he sat back, then he replaced the pen and went down to the kitchen in search of coffee.
Sarah automatically filled the kettle as he entered, then returned to the sink where she had been peeling potatoes.
Ashworth moodily circled the room, pausing by the table to glare at his slimline brand meal, which consisted of a small piece of cod in sauce bundled inside its waterproof plastic bag.
As the kettle boiled, Sarah dropped a potato back into the bowl and began making coffee. ‘Chief Constable Savage phoned about half an hour ago,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t you fetch me?’ Ashworth demanded, with a hint of accusation in his tone.
‘Because . . .’ Sarah paused to draw in an impatient breath, ‘. . . two days ago you told me not to disturb you when you’re writing.’
The coffee jar was banged on to the worktop, and the sound of spoon hitting mug had an angry ring to it.
Ashworth had been married to this woman for enough years — twenty-nine, in fact — to know that when she began to bite back he was getting pretty close to the wire.
‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ he mumbled. ‘Trying to write this book is getting me down.’
Sarah’s exasperation finally surfaced. ‘That’s not what it is, Jim, and you know it.’ She poured water into the mug. ‘You want to go back to work . . .’
Taking milk forcefully from the fridge she almost threw it into the coffee before stirring it vigorously. ‘. . . But you feel that unless they come crawling to you on hands and knees, somehow you’ll lose face, and that offends your precious masculine pride.’
The coffee was slammed down in front of him. ‘It’s so bloody silly!’
Ashworth looked to where the mug was sitting in a puddle of coffee. ‘No, it’s not, Sarah,’ he said, smiling sheepishly. ‘Put like that — it’s bloody childish.’
‘Thank goodness.’ Sarah laughed wearily.
Ashworth picked up the mug, his tastebuds already on standby against the harsh taste of sweeteners. He took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. ‘There’s sugar in this.’
‘Yes, there is, two instead of your usual four. Now, will you ring Savage and arrange to go and see him?’
‘No.’ Ashworth shook his head resolutely. ‘But I’ll ring and ask if he’d like to come and see me.’
Sarah’s ‘Oh, my God,’ muttered through clenched teeth, was hardly audible.
* * *
Chief Constable Ken Savage was in truculent mood as he stomped towards his vehicle in the station car park. A slight thumping headache accompanied his hangover; he was a heavy smoker, and the wintry weather was making the congestion on his chest worse, causing his breath to come in short shallow gasps.
Inside the car he attempted to clear the phlegm from his throat with a series of hacking coughs, before lighting a cigarette and starting the engine.
Skilfully, and with a good deal of aggression, he edged out into the mid-morning traffic.
Savage was, at heart, a city man, so as he drove along the high street its beauty was lost to him; the quaintness of it, the stone cottages and shops, the occasional thatched roof — all escaped his notice, as did the fact that despite its perimeter being surrounded by modern housing estates, Bridgetown proper had somehow retained its rural atmosphere.
His mood was not improved by having to stop at a pelican crossing while an elderly lady trundled across with her shopping trolley. So slow were her steps that she was barely half-way across when the amber light began flashing.
‘Hurry up,’ Savage muttered irritably as he pushed his cigarette filter into the overflowing ashtray, peppering the car floor with burning tobacco.
When, at last, the woman was safely deposited on the pavement, Savage accelerated the automatic car and sped away.
His mind focused on the man who had necessitated this journey: James Ashworth.
Savage knew that if he lived to be a hundred — and, with his lifestyle, that was unlikely — he would never fully see eye to eye with Ashworth. The arrogance of the man! That he should expect Savage to go to him was typical of his attitude.
However, the professional part of Savage’s mind pushed to the forefront: he must not allow personal feelings to interfere with the job.
In his opinion Ashworth was a few years past his best, but recent events had proven that he was still head and shoulders above the average small-town policeman.
Savage now had at his disposal a young enthusiastic team, eager to take advantage of modern technology, but all new to the area. What they lacked was leadership, someone to give them a sense of direction. That was where Ashworth came in. Once the team was up and running, once things were ticking over, Ashworth could be moved to a job where his particular talents would be far from wasted.
Without conscious thought he indicated left and turned into Ashworth’s drive. The detached four-bedroomed house befitted someone of the Chief Inspector’s rank and status; the fact that Ashworth had purchased it while still on his way up was evidence of his thriftiness.
Savage’s shoes crunched on the gravel. He rang the bell on the cottage-style front door. A dog barked within and the sound reached a high-pitched yap, then became muffled, seconds before the door was opened by Sarah.
Her face lit up with a smile. ‘Ah, Chief Constable, do come in.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Ashworth,’ Savage said cordially.
‘May I take your coat?’
Savage struggled out of the dark blue mackintosh which covered his uniform.
Sounds of the barking dog filtered through from the kitchen.
‘The dog,’ Sarah explained unnecessarily. ‘She’s very young, not out of that silly puppy stage yet.’
Hanging up Savage’s coat, she favoured him with another radiant smile, saying, ‘Jim’s upstairs
in the study. If you’d like to come with me . . .’
Savage followed Sarah up the stairway and as he watched her sprightly step and trim figure, he thought what a strikingly handsome woman she was.
Opening the study door and stepping aside to allow Savage to enter, she said, ‘It’s the Chief Constable, dear.’
‘Jim,’ Savage said with a curt nod.
Ashworth was sitting at his desk, and Savage shrewdly observed that the man’s seven weeks of inactivity had not resulted in any relaxation of standards; Ashworth was attired as for a normal working day: dark grey trousers, white shirt and maroon tie with a thin grey stripe.
Ashworth rose from the plush leather chair. ‘Ken,’ he said, extending his hand.
Across the perfunctory handshake, Sarah asked, ‘Can I get you coffee?’
‘That would be nice, Mrs Ashworth,’ Savage replied. ‘White with two sugars, please.’
‘The same for me,’ Ashworth added hopefully.
When Sarah had gone, Ashworth said stiffly, ‘Sit down, Ken.’
Savage settled himself in the chair. ‘You’re looking well,’ he remarked pleasantly.
‘I’m on a diet.’
‘And keeping yourself busy by the look of things.’ He indicated the cluttered desk and the pen with which Ashworth was toying.
‘I’m writing a book. The memoirs of a small-town policeman.’
‘Really?’ Savage said with eyebrows raised. ‘I’d like to read that.’
Ashworth glanced at the empty folder. ‘The first draft’s not finished yet,’ he responded shortly. ‘In any case, I’m sure you’re not here to enquire after my health or how I’m filling my time.’
‘Straight to the point, as ever.’ Savage chuckled, then cleared his throat. ‘You’ve almost finished your extended leave, and I wondered if you’d had any further thoughts about retiring.’
‘Why should I?’ Ashworth’s eyes twinkled.
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 1
