Barbara Edwards was waiting for them on the porch. Ashworth noted that she looked agitated — quite understandably — but there was no sign of the neurosis from which Dennis Paine insisted she suffered.
As the car drew to a halt in front of the house, Barbara, despite the fact that she was wearing carpet slippers, ran towards it.
Holly was first out. ‘Come on, Barbara, let’s go inside,’ she coaxed, shepherding the woman towards the house.
‘Thank goodness you’re here, Holly,’ she cried.
By the time Ashworth had locked the car and followed them into the lounge, Holly had seated Barbara in a large armchair by the fire and was crouching down in front of her.
She was saying, ‘Right, Barbara, tell me what happened.’
Ashworth felt like an onlooker as he remained standing by the door.
Barbara, trembling violently, said, ‘I know it sounds silly but I felt so happy this morning. Last night, Dennis — he’s my brother, if you remember.’
‘I remember, Barbara. Carry on.’
‘Well, Dennis convinced me that Simon would come home today and everything would be all right. When the phone rang I picked it up, thinking it would be Simon . . .’
Her voice cracked and Holly had to wait a moment before she continued falteringly. ‘There was nothing for a few seconds. Then a man’s voice said, ‘I’ve got your husband, Mrs Edwards. These are my instructions: Don’t go to the police or I’ll kill him. Be by the phone tonight.’’
Holly — aware that, even now, Ashworth would be assessing her ability — asked, ‘Were those the caller’s exact words?’
‘I can’t remember, Holly,’ she sobbed. ‘It was all such a shock.’
‘But he definitely said — be by the phone tonight?’
Barbara nodded furiously, causing hot tears to escape her eyes.
‘The voice, Barbara . . . what was the voice like?’
With a shudder, Barbara said, ‘It was horrible . . . muffled . . .’
Then the door burst open.
Ashworth stepped aside just in time to clear the path of Dennis Paine who stood framed in the doorway, his face white with anger. ‘What the hell’s happening here?’ he stormed.
The outburst brought Barbara’s attention swiftly to her brother. She ran to him, threw her arms about his neck, and cried pitifully into his chest.
He patted her back, awkwardly. ‘There now, Babs, I came as soon as you called.’ Then to Ashworth, ‘I’m still waiting.’
‘If you’ve already spoken with your sister you know as much as we do,’ Ashworth replied gruffly.
‘That’s not what I asked,’ Paine said harshly.
‘Don’t, Dennis. Don’t . . .’ Barbara pleaded. Then she ran from the room and her muffled footfalls could be heard on the stairs.
‘Look what you’ve done now,’ Paine said accusingly. ‘Don’t you bloody people realise how serious this matter is?’
‘We’re well aware of the gravity of the situation,’ Holly threw in, ‘but your rudeness is only upsetting your sister.’
‘My brother-in-law has been kidnapped, and you people are doing nothing about it. I think that entitles me to ask questions.’
‘If we’re finished here, sir, I’ll wait in the car,’ Holly stated flatly.
Ashworth nodded.
‘God,’ Paine muttered. ‘How much of the council tax goes on funding the police?’
With temper rising, Ashworth retorted, ‘Mr Paine, a lot of people might claim your behaviour was unreasonable. Yesterday, you didn’t want me to do anything about Mr Edwards’s disappearance. Today, you’re lambasting me because I haven’t. Like I say, there are those who would claim that was unreasonable. But being less charitable, I’d say you were behaving like a bloody fool!’
Paine glowered at the Chief Inspector. ‘You’d better watch it. I know the Chief Constable.’
‘So do I,’ Ashworth responded hotly. ‘Now, what I want from you is permission for my officers to be here tonight, for the kidnapper’s call.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Paine snapped. ‘I won’t be able to be here. Someone has to run the factory, or Babs would starve to death.’
Making no attempt to conceal the insult, Ashworth said, ‘It may be just as well you won’t be here.’
‘You’re getting on my nerves—’
‘And you’re getting on mine,’ Ashworth confirmed briskly. ‘If we’re not too careful, we could fall out. We’ll be here about five.’
Outside, the snow was settling; it crunched beneath Ashworth’s shoes.
Holly, unable to gain access into the car, had been forced to stand in what was fast becoming a blizzard.
She looked thankfully at Ashworth as he held open the passenger door, saying, ‘I’m sorry, sir, I just couldn’t stay in there with that man.’
Ashworth, settling behind the steering wheel, glanced at the large house. ‘He is a charmer, isn’t he?’
‘You can say that again,’ Holly agreed. ‘And have you noticed how Barbara seems to be all right till he appears on the scene?’
‘I have. Yes, I think I’ll ask a few questions about our Mr Paine. He seems too hostile to me. It might be a good idea to get someone to stay at the house with Mrs Edwards . . . another relative.’
‘There is no other relative, sir . . . just the three of them. They’ve no children, and both sets of parents are dead.’
‘Fancy having Dennis Paine as your only living relative,’ Ashworth mused. ‘Holly, can you be available for duty tonight?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘It could be a long one.’
‘No problem, sir.’
‘Good. So, it’ll be you, Josh, and myself. I don’t want Starsky and Hutch anywhere near this. If Whitworth finds out there’s been a kidnapping, he’ll probably start taking hostages.’
Holly laughed, surprised that her boss knew about the nicknames, let alone used them.
She wondered if he knew hers: Pussy Galore. A natural title, given that she was an expert at martial arts.
Stimpson and Whitworth, however, after having had all of their sexual advances rejected, were forever throwing grave doubts upon its accuracy. Holly never bothered to respond, much to their chagrin.
The snow had already covered Paine’s incoming tracks. As Ashworth eased the car along the sweeping drive an uneasy silence settled upon them; each was lost in their own thoughts, Holly anticipating Emily’s reaction on hearing she must spend the evening alone, Ashworth thinking of all he had to do, with little time to do it in, and cursing the snow which dictated their slow return to the station.
* * *
The afternoon proved hectic.
Ashworth reported to Chief Constable Savage, who sat with lips pursed as the situation was explained to him.
‘I’ll leave it all to you, Jim,’ he said, neatly shouldering the responsibility on to Ashworth and leaving his own evening free. Nothing displeased Savage more than a night of sobriety. ‘Do you think this man could be a crank?’
‘As no one outside his immediate family knows Edwards is missing, I very much doubt it. I want to keep this out of the news for the moment, Ken. No media coverage.’
Savage lit a cigarette. ‘Right. If you handle the newspapers, I’ll contact the television people.’
When Ashworth made no move to leave, Savage asked, ‘Is there anything else, Jim?’
‘Yes. I believe you know the brother-in-law, Dennis Paine.’
Savage caught the irritation in his Chief Inspector’s tone. Ah, Paine’s sharp tongue has already ruffled his feathers; a little diplomacy is needed here. ‘Yes, I do. Paine by name . . . as they say. He’s a very abrasive man, Jim. Self-made; works like a Trojan, but finds it difficult to delegate. He simply doesn’t think anyone can do a job as well as he can.’
‘Well, if he continues being abusive towards me or my officers, he can have the job of finding his brother-in-law,’ Ashworth stated flatly.
Savage laughed. ‘I�
��ll have a quiet word with him. It’s so much a part of the man’s nature, he probably doesn’t realise he’s doing it.’ Then, hoping to change the subject, ‘By the way, Stimpson and Whitworth did a fine job on those burglaries. When I first heard about the crashed van, people in hospital, I thought, God, what’s happening? But when I read their reports . . . They acted very well, Jim. Perhaps you’ll pass on my congratulations.’
‘Yes, Ken, of course,’ Ashworth muttered with a strained cheerfulness.
* * *
Later, with road conditions hazardous, Ashworth steered his Sierra through the mounting traffic and parked at the Bull and Butcher public house in Bridgetown High Street.
It did not take much to make this man happy, and a walk along the high street was always guaranteed to lift his spirits.
He loved what he called ‘Bridgetown proper’: the small nucleus of shops and cottages; the maze of narrow roads and alleyways. Each building had retained its original character. Even the town’s two banks still had the appearance of crofters’ cottages. Take away the cars, street lighting and telephone wires and one could easily be transported back to the eighteenth-century.
Ashworth was lucky: he had Bridgetown, a happy, secure homelife, and a job he loved.
He always needed a problem to unravel, though. When his workload was light, he became bored, crotchety and ill-tempered. He was always at his best when embroiled in what others would regard as insurmountable problems; then his step became jaunty, his sense of humour keen, his brain alert.
He was on his way to the offices of the town’s two newspapers: the old-established Bridgetown Chronicle, and the more recent free newspaper, the Bridgetown Post.
The editors — both of whom, in print, were pugnacious crusaders, ever willing to highlight the shortcomings of the police and politicians — proved to be charming, helpful and co-operative.
Ashworth approached the third call of the afternoon with mixed feelings. Even though he had never been unfaithful to Sarah, he still had an appreciative eye for a beautiful woman.
The opportunities to stray had been there, but he had always stopped to consider the consequences, had seen a fleeting sexual experience for what it was — trivial.
Still, there had been times when the chemical reaction had been so acute that the urge to resist had proved difficult.
Such was the case with Dr Gwen Anthony, GP and locum pathologist. The fact that the attraction was mutual made it doubly embarrassing.
Married to her partner, in a practice they had taken over five years ago, Gwen had often dealt with Ashworth during the course of her work. She was highly knowledgeable, totally professional, and a flirt, who — in Ashworth’s opinion — was hard to resist.
Although he was resigned to the fact that some things can never be, the romantic in Ashworth still yearned for just one hour free from conscience and commitments.
With his thoughts running along these lines he approached the doctor’s surgery. It was a beautiful building, originally a large cottage, and the quaintness of it held an appeal for him. The living room was now the waiting area, from where patients trooped up winding creaky stairs to what had once been the master bedroom, which had hardly changed at all over the last hundred years.
An early Victorian fireplace graced the chimney breast. An old porcelain washstand filled one corner. The white plastered walls were decorated with the doctor’s framed qualifications. The dark stained floorboards were bare. A cheerful coal-effect gas fire seemed to be the only concession to the present day.
The centre of the room was home to a cluttered redwood desk, and a comfortable, highly scuffed, green leather chair.
Gwen Anthony was scrubbing her hands as Ashworth entered. Straightaway she smiled. ‘Hello, Jim. What a lovely surprise,’ she enthused, drying her hands hurriedly on a paper towel.
Ashworth felt the usual surge of desire as he watched her. She was in her late forties, tall — perhaps five feet eight. Her loosely tailored dark grey suit did little to conceal the swell of her voluptuous breasts, the curve of her hips and buttocks. Her thick dark hair was tied back, but the severity of the style was softened by a hint of amusement in her clear blue eyes and the permanent half-smile on her lips.
She crossed to Ashworth and kissed him lightly on his cheek, moist lips just brushing his skin. She smelt clean, fresh, her natural odour unmasked by perfume; it was how Ashworth liked a woman to smell.
‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating the chair in front of her desk.
As he settled into it, Ashworth watched her returning a patient’s notes to their file.
Gwen sat down with a sigh. ‘People,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ve just had a woman in here — thirty-five years old — who’s missed three periods, hoping with all her might that she’s in the change of life. She’s pregnant, of course.’ Gwen huffed. ‘Can you believe unwanted pregnancies in this day and age?’
‘Actually, Gwen, I’ve never given it a great deal of thought,’ Ashworth replied, smiling.
Gwen laughed. ‘No, I suppose not.’ She sat up straight and gave him her full attention. ‘Right, you look perfectly healthy to me, and I presume this isn’t a social call, so what can I do for you?’
‘Gwen, I know I can rely on you to be discreet—’
‘My God, Jim,’ she said, with mock horror, ‘what are you going to suggest?’
Ashworth chuckled. ‘Relax,’ he said, then sobering, ‘I’ve got a kidnapping.’
Gwen’s smile faded abruptly. ‘I see. How can I help?’
‘Well, with your knowledge of psychiatry, I wondered if you could provide me with some sort of profile on the type of person who’s likely to carry out a crime of this nature. And, of course, advise me on how to deal with him.’
She thought for a while, then said, ‘A lot of this is going to be generalisation, Jim — rather like those serial killer profiles.’
‘I realise that, but anything you can tell me will help.’
‘Okay. Firstly, you were right to assume that it’s a man — the strength needed indicates as much. He’s highly intelligent. In fact, his intelligence could probably border on genius.’
‘Marvellous,’ Ashworth interjected morosely.
‘But for some reason he’s never fulfilled his potential. How can I put this? He may have a physical deformity, or a speech impediment. But whatever it is has grown out of all proportion in his mind.’
‘And he sees it as holding him back?’
‘Not quite, Jim. Because of it he has to try harder, prove how clever he is. Remember you’re dealing with a personality disorder. If you or I couldn’t say our ‘r’s, for instance, we would simply tackle the problem and put it right. Our man can’t do that and is convinced that no one can see beyond the disability — that’s the real problem.’
Gwen noticed Ashworth’s blank expression. ‘I’m not explaining this very well, I know.’ She tried another tack. ‘You’re seeing this as a crime committed for gain, but it’s not—’
‘You’re saying the ransom money isn’t important?’
‘No, I’m not,’ she stated emphatically. ‘It’s vital, but not in the way you think. The money’s going to be marked, or the numbers taken, so it’s going to be years before he can spend it — if ever. You or I would probably regard it as fool’s ransom.’
Realisation suddenly dawned on Ashworth. ‘I think I’m with you — it’s the fact that he can take it from under my nose—’
‘You’re getting there, Jim. You see, that would force you to acknowledge just how clever he is. For this man the ‘Police Baffled’ headlines would be worth more than money.’
‘So it’s a game?’
‘You could look at it that way, but a pretty dangerous one. Always remember you’re dealing with an unbalanced mind.’
Ashworth frowned. ‘You said he sees it as a game between himself and the police, and yet he’s warned against us being called in.’
‘But he means the exact opposite,’ Gwen said earne
stly. ‘And it’s not between him and the police. Sooner, rather than later, he’ll personalise it. You against him.’
‘And what form will this take?’
‘Now there, Jim, you have his weak point. He’ll taunt you . . . all the time finding it impossible to leave you alone . . . will point out how stupid you are. He’s really saying, ‘Look at me . . . aren’t I clever?’ Egotism is this man’s Achilles’ heel.’
‘So, we’ll catch him?’
‘Oh yes, be certain of that.’ She raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘It’s just a matter of when.’
‘Why do I feel you’re about to tell me some bad news?’ Ashworth said pensively.
‘Don’t base any police operations on this,’ she said hesitantly, ‘it’s pure conjecture, but I’d guess the first two runs with the money will be dummies. Your man will be there watching, but only because he wants to prove how superior he is. The third run will be the important one.’
‘And if he gets the money?’
‘Then you’ve entered the really dangerous area, because then he’s faced with a choice. Which would be the best way to demonstrate his cleverness? Release his hostage, who could undoubtedly give some clue to his identity, where he had been held, and countless other things . . .’ She looked pointedly at Ashworth.
‘Or kill him,’ he said flatly.
Gwen shrugged. ‘That’s about it.’
‘So what can I do?’
‘Maintain a media black-out . . . even if he gets the money. That way you’ll be robbing him of the one thing he craves — attention.’
‘But if he murders the victim, he’ll be sure of the publicity.’
‘Quite. You’re walking a tightrope, Jim. When you reach that point, there’s no knowing which way he’ll jump.’
Ashworth sighed heavily, then asked, ‘What’s the man like? How does he look?’
‘Not much help there, I’m afraid. To the ordinary person he probably seems perfectly normal . . . a little reserved, perhaps.’
‘So, I’m looking for a psychopathic genius who appears normal. And I thought this was going to be difficult,’ Ashworth said drily.
‘There’s one thing that may help you enormously — remember, this man sees you not as an enemy, more as an opponent, and if he finds you to be a worthy opponent, that will influence his behaviour quite a lot.’
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 7
