This display of reticence angered Savage. ‘You asked me to come and see you,’ he said heatedly. ‘The significance of that wasn’t wasted on me . . . the mountain must come to Mohammed.’
‘I see your temper hasn’t improved,’ Ashworth said lightly.
‘Nor is it likely to. Look, I sold the ideas for the changes in CID badly and you over-reacted. Now that’s as far as I’m going along that road.’
Their incompatible characters clashed and threatened to ignite as they locked eyes. Savage was the first to look away as Sarah entered with the coffee. If she was at all surprised that the two men were already engaged in hostilities, it registered in neither her expression nor her manner. She quickly served the coffee, excused herself, and withdrew.
Silence reigned for a few moments after the door had closed. Ashworth broke the impasse by saying casually, ‘What’s happening at the station — case-wise?’
‘Very little. The burglaries are still going on.’
‘Yes, I gathered that from the local press. They’re really roasting your carcass,’ Ashworth remarked mischievously.
‘What’s new?’ Savage complained morosely. ‘About the only other thing is a possible missing person. Simon Edwards, the industrialist.’
Ashworth, after a sip of coffee, said, ‘Oh, I know Simon slightly. What’s happened to him?’
Savage looked around hopefully for an ashtray but was disappointed, so reaching forward for his coffee cup, he said, ‘He went to London yesterday on business. When he’s away he always phones his wife around 8 p.m. Anyway, he hadn’t phoned by ten so she called the hotel but he hadn’t checked in. She waited until this morning, rang the people he was supposed to be doing business with and it seems he hadn’t turned up.’
Savage drained his cup and replaced it on the desk. ‘He’s very likely on a bender. He’ll come back in a few days, no doubt.’
‘He didn’t seem like that sort to me.’
Savage studied the sixteenth-century framed map of Bridgetown which hung on the wall behind Ashworth before saying briskly, ‘Can we stop sparring, Jim? I want you back at the station.’ He searched Ashworth’s face but could read nothing into his expression.
‘What about Turner?’ Ashworth snapped.
Savage smiled. ‘I realise you could never work with him again, Jim. I’m not that insensitive,’ he said benevolently. ‘So does he, as a matter of fact. Offered his resignation — which I refused.’
Ashworth’s eyes became hostile.
Savage jumped in quickly, ‘He’s a good man, Jim. He just made a mistake.’
‘A series of them,’ Ashworth replied gruffly.
‘Got a list of people who haven’t?’ Savage countered.
‘Point taken,’ Ashworth conceded, and Savage relaxed slightly. ‘So what’s happened to him?’
‘Transferred back to his old patch.’
‘And who’s replacing him?’
‘I’ve got a new team, Jim. Four detectives.’
‘So why do you need me?’ Ashworth asked cautiously.
Savage leant forward. ‘Because they’re young . . . experienced, but new to Bridgetown. I need someone to pull them into shape.’ He studied Ashworth’s thoughtful, undecided face. ‘But there’s more to the job than that. I’m looking for someone to argue the force’s case for funding with the Home Office.’
Ashworth gave him a sharp stare. ‘Again . . . why me?’
‘Jim, you’re the most awkward bugger I know . . .’ He deliberately omitted the world ‘old’. ‘. . . But you’re also honest and intelligent. You know what’s been happening these last few years: the Home Office telling us to cut costs and put more coppers on the beat—’
‘And when we do, Whitehall uses that as an excuse to cut our budget,’ Ashworth concluded.
‘Exactly, it’s a vicious circle. That’s why I want someone in there who’ll fight our corner, not just fold up the first time some pumped-up, self-opinionated politician raises his voice.’
‘This is a carrot.’
‘Yes, it is, but it’s a real one.’
Ashworth frowned. ‘That wouldn’t be a full-time job.’
‘No, it wouldn’t. You’d remain head of CID at the same time.’
Ashworth still appeared to be unsure as he asked, ‘And when would that part of the job start?’
Savage shrugged. ‘Three months . . . six at the outside.’ He spread his hands. ‘So, that’s it, Jim, I can’t be any fairer with you. I could get someone in from outside but if you want the job you can finish your leave and start back Monday.’
Ashworth slowly stood up and crossed to the window, his mind pulling him in opposing directions.
Along one path lay the thankless task of trying to maintain law and order, while fighting the system which funded the force, pledged its support, and then seemed to thwart the wheels of justice at every turn.
He peered down at his large garden, which promised a far more tranquil future; soon, in a matter of months, it would need constant attention; there was a growing dog to exercise; a chance to become involved in Sarah’s projects.
The wheezing of Savage’s breath seemed terribly loud behind him.
He made his decision.
Slowly shaking his head, he said, ‘No, Ken.’ Then he turned. ‘I’ve had enough leave to last me a year. I’ll start back tomorrow.’
* * *
Ashworth was sitting in the carver at the dining table. Outside the wind had finally swung round to easterly. It moaned, sighed, but as yet its arctic chill had failed to penetrate indoors.
He sipped his malt whisky appreciatively, then placed the glass on the table among his jumble of papers.
He liked the dining room; it was comfortable, relaxing. Whenever his children and grandchildren descended on the house, mealtimes were always happy, chaotic affairs, and the atmosphere seemed to linger, to become part of the room.
He had left Sarah in the kitchen, ironing a sufficient number of shirts to last for the rest of the week — and ironing was the one domestic duty which Sarah did not consider bliss.
As Ashworth studied the papers in front of him, an acrimonious oath sprang from her direction. With a knowing grin, he crossed to the doorway, and called, ‘All right, Sarah?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, Jim, thank you,’ came the curt reply.
Ashworth chuckled as, returning to his seat, he continued to study the papers on which were accounts of the four new detectives. Names which tomorrow would have faces and characters, but for the moment Ashworth had only Savage’s assessments to go by; assessments with which he would no doubt disagree.
Alistair Stimpson — Detective Sergeant, he read. Formerly with the Metropolitan Police. Joined as a cadet, fifteen years ago. Awarded a commendation for bravery, after tackling two men armed with sawn-off shotguns during a post office robbery.
Michael Whitworth — Detective Constable. Previously stationed in Manchester. Ten years’ service; last two spent with the Drugs Squad. Backbone of the team, according to Savage, and on paper Ashworth found it difficult to dispute.
Nevertheless, he had reservations. Both officers had spent their time in violent areas, and although Bridgetown was becoming increasingly so, compared with any inner city, it was still relatively peaceful and sleepy. These officers, in Ashworth’s view, would have to make massive adjustments in their approaches to both public and suspects.
Next came Joshua Abraham — Detective Constable. Ashworth chuckled. This boy’s parents must have had a wicked sense of humour, he thought — why couldn’t they have called him Peter, David or John?
Savage had labelled him a maverick, and it did seem that the DC had lived up to his odd name, had probably been moulded by it. Abraham had joined the force straight from school where he had achieved an excellent academic record. Quiet and reserved, he had spent much of his career in a small Yorkshire village. Computers were his forte. A good base copper, but little to commend him in the field.
The last name on the
list — Bedford — was the one which puzzled Ashworth. Savage, a man who usually went in for detail, had merely divulged that this Detective Constable was ‘a plodder but useful’.
Ashworth was draining his glass — the drink had been his second, and therefore, under his present slimming regime, his last for the evening — when a thought struck him. ‘You wouldn’t dare, Ken Savage,’ he said aloud. ‘Would you?’
Chapter 2
If, next morning, Ashworth had been privy to the interior of a bedroom in a small semi-detached house on the outskirts of Bridgetown, he would have known that Savage had indeed dared to draft a female officer into CID.
Detective Constable Holly Bedford was desperately late, and in a panic. Slipping a bra over her small tender breasts, she fumbled angrily with the catch. Then, muttering crudely, she rifled through her dressing-table drawer in the hope of finding a pair of tights without ladders.
Holly was not a pretty girl and, this particular morning, she could not even lay claim to possessing a nice personality, her period being merely a stomach cramp away. At five feet ten she had a slim, almost boyish, body. Her brown hair, cut in page-boy style, detracted further from her femininity. Her green eyes exuded a haunting pain; her straight nose and thin-lipped mouth added to the plainness of the face.
Stepping into one leg of the tights, she exclaimed, ‘Shit!’ There was a hairline ladder the length of her shin. ‘Shit,’ she repeated, tearing them off and attempting to hurl them across the room, only to become even more angry when they fluttered, spread-eagled, to the floor just inches away.
She took another pair from the drawer and proceeded to examine them.
‘You’ll be late, Holly.’ The accusing voice drifted up the stairs and continued in an exaggerated whisper, ‘I never thought a son of mine would marry a girl who’d use language like that.’
Holly made a face with a good deal of venom behind it. ‘Okay, mum,’ she called back, tightly.
Mother-in-law and pre-menstrual tension! Singularly, either was insufferable, but combined they made Holly feel positively suicidal.
She finished dressing and took a quick look in the mirror, making sure her charcoal-grey suit and light blue blouse were free of wrinkles. Satisfied, she stepped into her flat sensible shoes, grabbed her shoulder bag, and left the bedroom.
Half-way down the stairs, she stopped, muttered, ‘Tampons,’ then careered back up to the bathroom, emerging moments later with a pack of eight which she endeavoured to stuff into her already overfull bag.
‘Come on,’ she implored her body. ‘Just come on!’
She found her mother-in-law, Emily Bedford, in the long narrow kitchen. Emily was a small woman, with a podgy shapeless body. Her features were pinched, vindictive; her hair, a dull dirty-grey. She wore a shabby checked dressing-gown and a flesh-coloured elastic bandage on her right knee.
‘I don’t know how you manage to oversleep,’ Emily chided, thrusting a mug of coffee at her. ‘It’s not as if you do anything. I keep the house nice and do the cooking.’
Because I bloody work full-time, Holly thought, but she simply said, ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ and stared through the window at her small rear garden as she sipped the hot drink.
Vainly attempting to remain pleasant, she asked, ‘What are you going to do today, mum?’
‘Some shopping, I suppose,’ Emily replied, miserably. ‘Not much else to do up here. I don’t know anybody.’
‘You’ll settle in,’ Holly said with feigned heartiness.
‘No, I won’t. I miss my Bill too much to settle,’ Emily replied resolutely.
Holly wanted to scream. For forty years that woman had had a cat-and-dog existence with her husband, then when he’d had the luck to die she had taken to visiting his grave and doing what she should have done when he was alive — talking to him as if there was love in her heart. And ever since Holly had taken her in, she had done nothing but whine about the fact that he was gone.
For God’s sake, Holly thought, take your guilt and frustration out on somebody else!
She poured her coffee down the sink, it was still too hot, and she suddenly needed to get out.
‘I’ll see you this evening, mum,’ she said, hurriedly.
She was in the hall when Emily shouted, ‘I don’t suppose you know what time?’
‘No, mum.’
‘Well, don’t mind about me. I’ll be all right — here on my own.’
This, Holly thought, and an ogre of a Chief Inspector who apparently loathes women officers. Holly Bedford, this is your life!
In the quiet cul-de-sac snow had already begun to fall, hard tiny flakes that stung the face like hail.
Holly climbed into her ten-year-old white Mini, slipped the key into the ignition, and muttered warningly, ‘Start, you cow.’
* * *
A solemn air of silence prevailed over Bridgetown CID. Even the usually effervescent Alistair Stimpson was subdued, his nervousness manifesting itself as he drummed his fingers on the desktop.
Well on the right side of forty, Stimpson was impeccably dressed in a dark blue suit. His blond hair was short, slicked back with gel. His height, at over six feet, his strong build and even features, made him a focal point for female eyes.
Michael Whitworth, in contrast, was shorter, five feet ten, with a slim, wiry body. His black hair was unconventionally long and fell over his forehead in an unruly mane. His features, with the large brown eyes which could flash humour or anger with equal speed and the mouth, with its hint of cruelty, were darkly Latin.
Michael Whitworth was a man who enjoyed boasting about his time with the Manchester Drugs Squad, exaggerating the dangers he had faced.
He sat at his desk, fumbling in the pocket of his crumpled suit for a cigarette. Once lit, it was left to dangle from his mouth as he fiddled with the knot of his tie.
Stimpson was married, but did not allow the fact to impede his quest in charming the knickers off beautiful women. Whitworth did not crave beauty but did like variety and in order to satisfy his requirements he had wisely remained unattached.
Holly had so far managed to fend off their more serious advances, and parry their suggestive banter, without having to become unpleasant. She was seated at a trestle desk, between the two men, and directly opposite Joshua Abraham.
The whole of Bridgetown nick, especially uniformed, were waiting with anticipation for Ashworth’s return and — human nature being as it was — everything possible had been done to heighten the discomfort of the new detectives.
The station ‘book’ had Holly — because of what she lacked between her legs — as clear favourite to be the first to incur Ashworth’s wrath.
But ‘young Josh’ was by no means regarded as rank outsider, for did not his VDU occupy the exact spot where the great man’s chair had once stood, and over which his map, dotted with red and blue marker pins, still hung?
Holly liked Josh; he was quiet, well-mannered and definitely not a wimp as most people imagined. His reserve lent him a studious air but his six-foot frame, beneath casual leather jacket, brown roll-necked sweater and cord trousers, appeared to be well developed. His face was boyish yet strong, with a firm chin, full mouth, straight nose, and grey eyes that held a softness which often threw Holly’s hormones into disarray, always causing the flush of guilt which came whenever she found a male attractive.
Surely this Ashworth could not be so bad? she reasoned. The anti-Ashworth movement described him as intolerant, insufferable, impossible; a man who ate females for breakfast. The others told a different story: yes, he was difficult, a perfectionist, unable to tolerate sloppy attitudes or practices, expected two hundred per cent loyalty from his people, which was always returned. But everyone, for or against, had to admit that the role of women in CID was a subject on which Ashworth held strong doubts.
Holly’s pre-menstrual tension had reached screaming point, when the door opened. Although she had had no preconceived ideas, she was surprised by Ashworth’s appearanc
e.
As he strode purposefully into the room, followed by the Chief Constable, she stood up along with the others.
‘Please sit down,’ he ordered, his voice quiet yet firm, strong.
Holly saw that he was a large, well-built man, looking far younger than his rumoured fifty-three years. His weathered, heavily lined face, thick black hair flecked with grey, only added to his masculinity.
Had she imagined it or did his startlingly hostile brown eyes appraise her fleetingly?
Chief Constable Savage cleared his throat. ‘This is Chief Inspector Ashworth. At his request I’m going to leave you alone with him.’ He gave a quick nod to Ashworth then left.
Ashworth’s eyes scanned the room, which had changed drastically since he had last seen it. ‘Well, back in the fish tank,’ he remarked, apparently to himself.
There was a door to the right of where Abraham was sitting at his VDU. Ashworth opened it and cast his eyes over his new office: desk and chair facing the door, new metal filing cabinet in the corner, new dark grey carpet; external walls — glass; all others — stud partitions.
‘Right,’ he said, turning back. ‘This is going to be awkward for us all, so I think the best way is for me to see you one at a time in my office. I’ll start with DS Stimpson, then DC Whitworth, followed by DC Abraham and DC Bedford.’ He disappeared into his office.
Bloody typical, Holly thought, as she seethed. He could not have made it more obvious if he had refused to see her.
Stimpson’s interview lasted about five minutes after which he emerged smiling, passing Whitworth who was on his way in.
Winking at Holly, Stimpson said, ‘He’s not that bad.’ Then he slid behind his desk and launched into a lewd description of a sexual act, smuttily suggesting Holly should offer it to Ashworth in return for being allowed to stay on as tea-lady.
‘Ha-bloody-ha,’ Holly replied with rancour.
Ashworth had not been overly impressed by either Stimpson or Whitworth. Good sound men, he had no doubt, but he suspected both were influenced by popular television police series and, in the field, would attempt to emulate their fictitious heroes — a not uncommon occurrence in the police force.
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 2
