THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Make it difficult for him, but at the same time, feed his ego so that he feels he’s really achieving something. But, I warn you, a lot is going to depend on your own judgement.’

  All of a sudden Ashworth could feel responsibility weighing heavily on his shoulders. He slowly rose to his feet. ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. It’s nice to see you . . . and it’s getting to be a rare event nowadays.’ She smiled suggestively, moving to his side. ‘I sometimes think you’re avoiding me.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Gwen,’ Ashworth protested, feebly.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘I can’t decide whether it’s because you don’t like me . . .’ A pause. ‘. . . or you can’t trust yourself when you’re with me. I like to think it’s the latter.’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely not the former,’ Ashworth confirmed, realising that she was unashamedly flirting, and that he was responding.

  Gwen pounced on that immediately. ‘Ah, now you’ve made a statement — you can’t trust yourself in my company. Anyway, I shall be finding out in the very near future.’

  Catching his puzzled expression, she explained. ‘Ken Savage telephoned me. He’s fixing something up with the Home Office. You’ll be representing the police, and I’ll be there in my capacity as a pathologist.’ She laughed lightly. ‘We’ll be staying at the same hotel, Jim. You’ll have to buy me dinner.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Ashworth said with a grin.

  ‘Oh, so shall I, Jim. I really shall.’

  For a few breath-stopping seconds it seemed that a kiss would be inevitable, but then the front door slammed, and the old stairs creaked as someone started to climb them.

  ‘Drat,’ Gwen muttered, glancing at her watch. ‘That’s my husband, come to prepare for evening surgery.’

  She moved back to her desk and Ashworth breathed easily once more.

  Chapter 8

  Holly shunned the office telephone. The call was likely to be difficult enough without Alistair and Mike interjecting at every opportunity, so she used the payphone in the busy main corridor.

  ‘Come on,’ she muttered, as the ringing tone sounded for what seemed like an age.

  The connection was made and Emily’s ‘Hello?’ thundered down the line.

  Holly winced. Her mother-in-law was not fond of the telephone, would only answer if the ringing persisted for too long, and then her response would be bellowed impatiently into the mouthpiece.

  ‘Hello, mum. It’s Holly.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, her voice heavy with suspicion.

  ‘I’ll be late home tonight.’

  After a pause steeped in malice, Emily managed, ‘Why?’

  Two uniformed constables were now waiting to use the telephone. Holly felt like an errant schoolgirl as she whispered, ‘Because I’ve got to work late.’

  There was another silence. Then Emily said, ‘There was a programme on telly last week, and they said the most common excuse people committing adultery use is working late.’

  How was it possible to commit adultery against one’s mother-in-law? Holly thought, sourly. But she let it go and ventured on, ‘So I don’t know what time I’ll be home.’

  ‘You want to be careful, my girl—’

  ‘I’ve got to go, mum. ’Bye.’

  Holly replaced the receiver with relief, thankful that she had at least managed to avoid Emily’s latest bulletin on the spread of the Aids epidemic.

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the Edwardses’ house was laden with tension. The heating was full on and, despite the arctic conditions outside, its rooms were oppressively hot.

  An aura of expectancy lay heavily in the air. All present were restless and edgy, silently willing something to happen, yet dreading that moment when it came.

  Josh Abraham sat with Holly in the lounge. Neither spoke; they sat staring at the telephone and recording equipment which occupied the coffee table in front of them.

  Ashworth had surprised them both by gently taking Barbara Edwards under his wing. Holly had assumed that would be her role.

  But Ashworth’s show of kindness hid an ulterior motive: he needed to gain Barbara’s confidence in order to extract as much information about her husband as was possible. To gain a full picture of the man, Ashworth needed to become familiar with the state of their marriage, his movements, his enemies — if any — and the million and one other details that made up a life.

  They were, at present, ensconced in the kitchen, and the predominant sound in the lounge was the ominous ticking of the clock.

  The lack of dialogue between Holly and Josh was due not so much to inhibitions or shyness, but to a feeling that frivolous small talk would appear irreverent.

  However, Holly’s demure appearance masked her true feelings of bubbly effervescence caused by Josh’s close presence.

  Earlier on, due to Ashworth’s distrust of her dilapidated Mini, Josh had been instructed to drive her to the Edwardses’ house.

  During the journey, Josh had proved himself to be stimulating company. They had discussed many things, including music, and had been thrilled to discover that they shared an obsession for the classics — a fact that neither would have admitted to back in the office for fear of ridicule.

  When Josh had expertly brought his Nissan Sunny to a halt at a red traffic light, he had casually mentioned that there was to be a performance of Henryk Górecki’s Third Symphony at Bridgenorton the following week, and had asked if Holly would like to go with him. She had said that she would love to, and a sudden surge of adrenalin had caused her stomach to flutter deliciously.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, the thought of that date was never far from Holly’s mind, and she was happier now than she had been for a long time.

  Even so, time marched on, and as seven p.m. became eight p.m., the tension mounted in all of them.

  Having left Barbara in the kitchen, Ashworth had taken to prowling around the house. Josh had loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt, and Holly’s inner mood had become more serious as the minutes ticked away.

  Terrifying howls of pain and anger rent the night air as two cats fought out a territorial dispute, somewhere on the snowy landscape. The sounds only added to the feelings of suspense and unease inside the house.

  Ashworth was highly susceptible to atmospheres and felt that this one was thick with malevolence, but, he reasoned, it was all part of the kidnapper’s ploy to unnerve him.

  At nine p.m., when all were convinced that nothing was going to happen, the telephone rang.

  Barbara’s anguished cry came from the kitchen. Then everything was reaction. Josh was on his feet, activating the recording equipment.

  Holly fetched Barbara, whose face was drawn and pale, and led her to the telephone in the hall. ‘All right, Barbara, answer it,’ she said gently.

  Barbara did not move, so Holly picked up the receiver and placed it into her trembling hand. She heard a slight click on the line — Ashworth must have picked up the receiver in the lounge.

  ‘Hello?’ Barbara whispered, her tone tremulous.

  The acid note in the muffled, distorted voice made her gasp out loud. ‘You’ve told the police . . . bitch! Now, this is what I want you to do. The police will want proof that I’ve got your husband. Tell them to go to the disused barn on Parker’s Farm. Then you’ll have to wait for my further instructions in the post.’

  The line went dead.

  In a state of near-collapse, Barbara repeatedly muttered, ‘Oh, my God. Oh, my God,’ as the full impact of the situation finally hit her. Then, as Holly slowly steered her back to the kitchen, she let out a series of shrieking wails which Holly’s soothing utterances failed to stem.

  In the lounge, Ashworth could only listen, impotently. ‘Damn!’ he cursed, as the sounds became muffled by the closing of the kitchen door.

  The call had been too short,
too rushed for him to glean anything from it, the voice too distorted to catch even a hint of dialect or accent.

  He cast a frustrated glance at Josh. ‘Not much to go on, was there?’

  ‘There was a sound on the line, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I heard it. Sounded like metal hitting metal.’ He walked to the window, pulled the curtain back and looked outside. ‘Fine night for tramping about all over Parker’s Farm.’

  ‘Do you want me to look into it, sir?’ Josh asked eagerly.

  ‘No, give it to uniform. You’d better ring Pain-in-the-backside — let him know what’s happened.’

  Ashworth, unwilling to risk another confrontation with Paine within Barbara’s earshot, waited outside. By the time the undipped headlights of Paine’s Jaguar illuminated the long drive, he was cold, dispirited, and in no mood for tantrums.

  The car skidded slightly as it drew to a stop. Paine hurriedly climbed out. ‘Is my sister all right?’

  ‘She’s upset, obviously, but one of my officers is with her. My DC told you what was said on the phone, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paine moved to enter the house but Ashworth blocked him, making it plain that he intended to talk outside. Their breath fogged the night air.

  Paine hesitated, then blurted, ‘Look, Ashworth, about this morning . . . I was out of my mind with worry. Still am, in fact . . .’

  And that was it, as close as Paine would ever come to an apology.

  Nevertheless, Ashworth began to feel some compassion for the man. He said, easily, ‘That’s all right, Mr Paine, I understand.’

  During the evening, Ashworth had debated about how much of Gwen Anthony’s theories he should divulge to Paine. Now he took the decision to pass on all relevant details, in the hope that this would go some way to alleviating the stress, which lay ahead.

  Paine listened thoughtfully. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘So, you anticipate a long wait before Simon is released?’

  Ashworth nodded. ‘We’ll maintain a media black-out in the hope of forcing the kidnapper’s hand.’ He had wisely left out what could happen should the kidnapper have second thoughts about releasing Simon Edwards.

  ‘How much danger is Simon in?’ Paine asked, hesitantly.

  ‘Considerable, I’m afraid.’

  ‘God.’ Paine’s face was beginning to show signs of strain. ‘If anything happens to him, it will finish Babs.’ He shivered. ‘Can we go inside?’

  ‘There’s just one thing I’d like to discuss with you . . .’

  ‘Well, can we discuss it inside, Ashworth?’ Paine was growing irritable.

  Ashworth answered in kind. ‘No, we can’t, Paine. I feel there are certain aspects of this that are best kept from your sister.’

  ‘Very well. What is it?’ Paine snapped.

  ‘The ransom money. The demand is likely to be for a substantial amount. It’s unlikely the kidnapper will get—’

  ‘Are you asking if I can raise the money?’ Paine asked shortly.

  ‘I was leading up to that, yes.’

  ‘Well, I can. Now, I want to see my sister.’

  He stamped towards the house. Ashworth followed, hoping his association with this abrupt man would not be a lengthy one.

  * * *

  Emily Bedford’s routine rarely varied. Always one hour before Holly’s return, the central heating was switched off, and windows opened all over the house. These, of course, were always firmly closed as soon as the indoor temperature became low enough to allow Emily to wallow in her martyrdom.

  Such behaviour did not appear strange in the old woman’s twisted mind. A guilty daughter-in-law was a loyal daughter-in-law.

  Tonight was different though. She did not know when Holly would be home, and this had ruined her timing. She had been sitting in the freezing house for over an hour now, and still no sign of her.

  Emily, who disliked the cold, wrapped a thick green cardigan around herself and sat, mentally picking at the scab of animosity she felt towards the girl.

  She had never been able to come to terms with relationships. Her husband had been a provider — pure and simple. Her son, she had seen as a buffer against the rigours of old age.

  When Holly had first come into her life, Emily had viewed her as a threat; someone who had lured her beloved, innocent son away with forbidden fruits.

  Holly and Jason had not been many weeks into their courtship when Emily, an avid searcher of pockets, had discovered a packet of contraceptives in the breast pocket of her son’s best suit. And Holly’s intimate letter — which Emily had read, shocked and horrified — describing the pleasure derived from a sweet encounter in the back of Jason’s car.

  Sex, to Emily’s mind, was an irksome duty expected of a wife and, over the years as she grew more and more self-centred, it became an obligation she refused to fulfil.

  Emily’s dogma allowed for two distinct categories of women: those who were pure and chaste and — in the spiritual sense, at least — remained virginal throughout life; and those strumpets who used sex to lure sons away from their mothers — the fact that these women actually enjoyed it seemed, to Emily, to beggar belief.

  When Jason had died, she had felt a mother’s grief; at her husband’s death she had felt a wife’s sorrow. But neither of these occasions had been allowed to interfere with the obsessional pursuit of her own well-being.

  The move to Bridgetown, not to mention Holly’s new job, had caused her considerable worry. Being tied to a grave had kept Holly from straying. Now, in a new place, at a police station crawling with men, a girl such as she, so lacking in moral fibre, could soon form a sexual liaison, and the last thing any man wanted was a mother-in-law from a previous marriage queering the pitch.

  Emily had no intention of being forced to exist in a council flat on her meagre state pension. No, Holly had responsibilities and Emily would make sure she abided by them.

  The deafness of which she so often complained temporarily deserted her as she listened to a car turning into the cul-de-sac. Her limp was strangely absent too as she switched off the light and scuttled to the window, pulling the curtain back a chink.

  On seeing that the car was not Holly’s Mini, Emily was about to turn away, but it stopped outside the house and her interest was fired. A young man got out and skirted round to open the passenger door.

  Emily gave an indignant snort as Holly appeared, laughing at something the young man was saying, then kissing him before running towards the front door. She was almost certain that Holly had waited on the step and waved as the man drove off.

  Holly let herself in quietly. Emily — even though there was no one in the darkened room to see her performance — limped across to her chair and painfully lowered herself into it.

  She groaned slightly as Holly opened the door and flicked on the light switch.

  ‘Mum, what are you doing in here, with the light off and no heat on?’

  ‘I couldn’t go to bed till you got in, and I didn’t want to waste money,’ she mumbled weakly.

  ‘Oh mum, I wish I’d never mentioned bloody money,’ she said with exasperation. ‘I just meant we’ve got to be careful. I didn’t mean for you to freeze to death. I’ll make us a hot drink.’

  Emily sat for a while, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen, then, spurred on by her moral victory, she hobbled through to Holly. ‘If my leg gets much worse,’ she said, through teeth gritted against imaginary pain, ‘I’ll have to use a stick.’

  Holly, spooning Horlicks into mugs, smiled weakly. She knew full well that Emily’s knee was a ruse with which to gain sympathy and was about to oblige, when Emily said, ‘Who was that man who brought you home?’

  Holly stiffened. ‘Just a colleague,’ she answered lightly.

  Emily sniffed. ‘I hope you don’t kiss all your colleagues. They might get the wrong impression.’

  Speaking firmly, Holly said, ‘Don’t be silly, mum. Josh is a friend — and it was only a peck on the cheek. That doesn’t mean anythi
ng nowadays.’

  ‘Your skirt looks creased,’ Emily observed tartly.

  The kettle boiled, filling the small room with steam. Holly turned it off and rounded on her mother-in-law. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing, just that it looks like you’ve been sitting down with it pushed up—’

  ‘Mother!’

  Emily changed tack. ‘Where’s your car then?’

  ‘I left it at the station car park because—’

  ‘Then went off with that man in his.’

  Holly banged the Horlicks jar onto the table. ‘Look I know what you’re trying to say and I resent it. Contrary to what you think, I don’t take my knickers off every time somebody wants me to.’

  ‘What a terrible thing to say,’ Emily said, in a voice now clear and strong. ‘If my Jason could hear you talking like that—’

  ‘Let it go, mother!’ Holly cautioned.

  If Emily had possessed one small degree of sensitivity she would have realised she was encroaching on sacred ground. As it was, she simply squared up for another attack. ‘Jason—’

  ‘Leave Jason out of this,’ Holly ordered.

  ‘I will not. He was my son and I loved him,’ Emily retorted. ‘And if you had, you’d have a bit more respect for his memory.’

  At that moment, years of resentment and pain surfaced in Holly. ‘You evil bastard!’ she shrieked, sweeping the mugs from the table.

  So violent was the movement that Emily cringed against the wall as the mugs shattered on the floor.

  Tears were streaming down Holly’s colourless face. ‘I loved Jason,’ she cried, her slight body convulsed by sobs. ‘It broke my heart when he died. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it . . . but I can’t spend the rest of my life . . .’ She stopped abruptly and fled from the kitchen.

  Emily sat down slowly as she listened to the angry slam of Holly’s bedroom door.

  * * *

  Prior to leaving the Edwardses’ house, Ashworth had been informed by uniformed branch that they had found Simon Edwards’s car, hidden in the disused barn on a remote part of Parker’s Farm. Bad conditions and lack of lighting meant that Forensic would not be able to look at it until tomorrow. Meanwhile, a patrol car would stay on watch.