THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  He had ordered Holly to report to the house in the morning and spend the day with Barbara Edwards. Josh was to take over in the evening, until ten p.m., when Dennis Paine would arrive from late shift at the factory. He had also arranged with the post office for the Edwardses’ mail to be diverted to Bridgetown Police Station.

  As Ashworth started his journey home, he mused that this find had destroyed all possibility that the telephone calls had been the work of a crank.

  The drive was proving to be far easier than he had anticipated: a snow plough had cleared all major roads and gritting ensured ice-free surfaces. The lane in which his house stood was treacherous, however, and his car skidded badly as he turned into it. Selecting a low gear he crawled up the hill, looking forward to sharing a drink with Sarah in front of a cosy fire.

  Turning into his drive he was warmed by the cheerful glow emanating from the curtained lounge window, and, eager to get inside, he wasted no time in garaging the car.

  But when he opened the front door, the house was strangely silent: no television noise, no barking dog, and — more worrying — no Sarah coming out to meet him.

  With trepidation he hurried to the kitchen, and as he switched on the light a sleepy puppy looked up from her bed and greeted him with a prolonged yawn.

  In the dog’s mind, her only duty was to protect her owners and, when either of them was at home, she would bark at the slightest disturbance. An empty house was a different matter altogether: with no one to look out for, she could curl up and sleep. Ashworth sometimes wondered whether burglars would be met with furious barks or affectionate licks.

  She stood up, wagging her tail with little enthusiasm, then curled up again and closed her eyes.

  Ashworth chuckled at the sight of her plump body in the bed. Then he noticed a sheet of writing-paper propped up against the teapot. The message read: ‘Jim, I’ve gone to a meeting of the Samaritans with Jean Tebbit. They’re recruiting counsellors. I shouldn’t be too late. There are sandwiches in the fridge. Love, Sarah.’

  He sighed, but realised it was selfish of him to be irritated by her absence. After all, it was past ten p.m.; it was unreasonable to expect her to spend the whole evening waiting for him to return and discuss his day with her — even though he had been looking forward to doing just that.

  The corned beef sandwiches looked cold and unappetising, so he left them and fetched a large whisky and soda from the lounge.

  Sitting at the kitchen table he thought about his day as the scotch spread its warmth inside him.

  Gwen Anthony’s assumption that the kidnapper was of high intelligence was proving to be an accurate assessment, the man having chosen a period when weather conditions would hamper a police investigation, and would make swift movement an impossibility.

  Actually, Gwen Anthony had occupied his thoughts far too much during the long evening. Was he simply flattered by her attentions, or did it go deeper than that? Had he reached a point beyond his middle years when he longed to experience again the unique bliss associated with the start of a relationship?

  He finished his drink and fetched a refill, chastising himself as he did so — here he was, in the middle of a dangerous case, thinking about Gwen’s body!

  A stanza of verse came to him:

  The gods created women, shaped their forms,

  Each promised joy, to drive all thoughts

  From the minds of men.

  Well, that was true enough. But then Sarah’s key in the lock, her cheery ‘Hello’, made him put aside this reverie. He finished his drink and went to her.

  * * *

  Emily realised she had overstepped the mark but — unaccustomed as she was to being confronted like that — was unsure of how to put things right.

  Her late husband had always been kept firmly at heel by a combination of bullying and nagging. The fact that the poor man would have done almost anything for a quiet life had probably given Emily a totally false impression of her powers.

  Having always regarded Holly as a wilful, spoilt girl, bent on making her life a misery, Emily now realised that she must change her ways, or be in danger of bringing about the very set of circumstances that she had worked so hard to avoid.

  She made herself a hot drink and swept up the broken mugs as it cooled. Taking her time over the drink, Emily then washed the mug and put it away, wanting Holly to get up to a nice clean kitchen the next morning.

  She then trundled upstairs and politely knocked on Holly’s door before opening it. ‘I’m sorry, Holly,’ she called softly into the darkened room. ‘It’s just that I worry about you.’

  When there was no response, she gave a resigned sigh, muttering, ‘I never thought I’d live to become a burden. Never mind, I’ll be dead and gone soon . . . out of everybody’s way.’

  Holly waited for the door to close, then sobbed into her pillow, ‘Die then . . . die. Just bloody die!’

  Chapter 9

  Two youths strolled aimlessly along a road on Bridgetown’s council estate. Their black leather jackets, dark torn jeans, and expensive trainers stood out menacingly against the snowy background.

  They were both fourteen years old and adjusting well to puberty. Although often absent from school, they never missed a sex education lesson and were, therefore, aware of the changes taking place within themselves, and — devoid of any guidance or discipline from parents or teachers — were eager to demonstrate their new sexual abilities.

  Although little more than children, they possessed the drives, instincts and appetites of adults. These, coupled with an adolescent belief that the authorities were powerless to act against them, produced a dangerous combination, and both viewed crime as an easy game.

  Damon Cain was the taller of the pair; his bored face showed signs of mild acne, and his blond hair was shaved off, apart from a lank, greasy strip on top of his head.

  The other boy, Delvin Bennett, had the face of a choirboy, dark perfect skin, and black hair which shone with health.

  ‘We’ll go up to Cherry Tree Estate tomorrow,’ Damon informed his friend. ‘I’ve got this old bird sussed out.’

  Delvin was apprehensive. He said, ‘I dunno. We nearly got caught today. I reckon we should stick to Kirsty. She lets us have it—’

  ‘Yah . . . Kirsty,’ Damon jeered, digging into the pocket of his jacket, and pulling out a knife with a six-inch blade. ‘I’m fed up with her — she lets everybody. And we only nearly got caught ’cause we was doing it wrong.’

  He plunged the knife into a refuse sack which was standing at the end of someone’s drive, then pulled it sharply upwards until noxious rubbish tumbled from the gaping split.

  ‘How do you mean, we were doing it wrong?’

  Damon had moved on to the next drive and was working on another bag of rubbish. ‘We was trying to break in with the birds already inside.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Delvin agreed.

  ‘That gives ‘em plenty of time to ring the police — yeah?’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Damon, spreading refuse all over the garden, said, ‘This woman up on Cherry Tree goes shopping most days, and when she comes back she uses the side gate — yeah?’ He kicked an empty cat food tin towards the front door of the house, but it veered off, missing the ground-floor window by inches.

  ‘So we break in while she’s out?’ Delvin enquired.

  An upstairs window of the house was thrown open, and a man’s voice called, ‘Here, what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Piss off,’ Damon shouted back, with indifference. Then turning to his friend, ‘Yeah, and we grab her when she comes in. Easy — see?’

  ‘I’ll give you, piss off,’ the man shouted angrily.

  The boys stood and watched as the bedroom light came on, to be quickly followed by the one in the hall.

  Unconcerned, Delvin asked, ‘What’s this bird like then?’

  ‘About thirty.’

  The front door was flung open. A man, wearing pyjamas and dressing-gown, carrying
what appeared to be a baseball bat, came striding down the drive. Several dogs were barking and a woman called to him, warningly, from inside the house.

  The boys made no move. ‘As old as that?’ Delvin gasped.

  ‘Yeah, but she’ll be a good screw.’

  They waited until the man was half-way down the drive before running away, not stopping until they had covered thirty yards. Glancing back, they saw him standing at the end of his drive, shaking his fist, and looking around at the mess all over his garden.

  The boys jeered, middle fingers aimed crudely at the man. When he still did not approach them, Delvin made a masturbatory movement with his hand until, bored with the episode, they turned their backs and started walking.

  ‘Let’s go nick a car,’ Damon suggested.

  ‘Yeah,’ Delvin replied with boyish enthusiasm. ‘Then torch it.’

  ‘Yeah. Come on, then.’

  Chapter 10

  The morning arrived, grey and dismal.

  Ashworth hardly uttered two words during breakfast, and was decidedly gruff with Sarah as he left the house.

  She was mulling this over while rolling pastry for a batch of steak and kidney pies she was preparing for the freezer, when the reason for his antisocial behaviour suddenly struck her: she had returned home the night before, full of her own news about being taken on as a counsellor for the Samaritans, and had not asked one single question about the kidnap. No wonder he was in a mood.

  She was thrilled with her new role, though. The organiser had described her as perfect for the job: caring, mature, sympathetic, and intelligent. Although not overjoyed with ‘mature’ — that was a word Sarah always associated with Cheddar cheese — she had, nevertheless, felt quite elated.

  She was charitable by nature, and the thought of involving herself in the lives and problems of others appealed greatly. She had reached a time in her life when she needed to feel useful, wanted something to fill the huge vacuum left by her children when they fled the coop.

  Her powerful maternal instincts needed to be given a focal point; not her husband, though — he always strongly resented what he described as ‘fussing’. Nevertheless, she must be careful not to neglect him.

  ‘And I mustn’t be sharp with him either,’ she told the pastry, remembering his look of annoyance the previous evening when, noticing his empty glass, she had pointedly asked him how many drinks he’d had.

  * * *

  Ashworth, however, sitting scowling at his new desk, had failed to connect Sarah with his foul mood. He believed its cause lay in the frustrating realisation that today would see little done.

  Logic dictated that the kidnapper would not be in touch for at least twenty-four hours, and his first job on arriving at the station, had confirmed this assumption.

  He had telephoned the post office, only to be told that there was no mail for Mr and Mrs Edwards. This had deepened his mood, but then hope had been rekindled when the helpful clerk mentioned that, as the post was sorted as soon as it arrived at the depot, anything posted today could be passed to him immediately.

  Cheered by this, he set about reorganising the office while waiting for Forensic to contact him with their findings on Simon Edwards’s car.

  * * *

  Jane Taylor’s happiness was so complete, not even the atrocious weather could dampen her spirits.

  Today was her husband’s thirty-fourth birthday, and his first since their marriage, so Jane wanted it to be special.

  She trod gingerly along the high street, her black boots slipping in the trampled slush; stopping now and then to brush aside her mass of blonde curls, blown about by a trenchant wind.

  Peter had said he fancied a Chinese take-away for his birthday dinner, and Jane was now shopping for the wine to go with it.

  With the ease of a woman who had been beautiful all her life, she shrugged off the admiring glances and occasional wolf-whistles from appreciative males and started, once more, for the wine shop.

  She thought back to when they had met, five years ago — and how those years had flown. Peter had been her boss — her married boss — at the insurance brokers for whom he still worked.

  Jane had been hesitant about becoming involved at first, but their attraction had been too strong to deny, and finally she had bowed to its inevitability.

  Three hard years later, embroiled in guilt, frequently depressed, they agreed to end the affair. Jane gave up her job but found she could not forget him. Then, after weeks of anguish, he turned up at her flat, suitcases and all — he had left his wife.

  A very bitter divorce followed, and with the small amount of money left over after the settlement, they were able to put down a deposit on number 22 Lea Road, on the Cherry Tree Estate.

  They had been living there now for nine months, and Jane was determined to make this birthday perfect.

  With two carefully chosen bottles of white wine in her shopping bag, she called into the Chinese restaurant, arranged for their meal to be delivered at eight p.m., then caught the bus.

  Thankful to be home, she let herself into the garden by the side entrance, humming the tune from a recent television commercial — an old ’70s song which had just shot to number one in the record charts.

  In the kitchen, Jane popped the wine into the fridge. Later, she would recall a slight feeling of unease as she did so. But for now, happy and excited, she hurried into the hall and took off her bulky coat.

  It was while she was removing her boots, standing there on one leg, that the feeling came again, stronger this time — some primeval instinct warning her of danger — but she shrugged it off as her mind focused on a cup of tea.

  She did not hear the noise behind her until it was too late. Suddenly, a gloved hand was clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream of terror. She struggled to get free, but lost her balance and went sprawling.

  The two assailants followed her down, roughly turning Jane on to her back, and holding her firmly by the shoulders. Something cold touched her throat and she glimpsed a shining knife blade.

  The one behind kept out of her line of vision, but she could see the second youth, kneeling at her legs, well enough. Through her tears she saw he was wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans, and grey sweatshirt. His balaclava revealed wild eyes, a grinning mouth with dirty teeth.

  She felt her skirt being pushed up, a hand viciously probing between her legs, as she thrashed about impotently.

  ‘Get her knickers off,’ said the youth holding her down, his foul breath wafting over her face.

  ‘I can’t. She won’t lift her back up.’

  Again Jane could smell the breath. ‘Lift your back off the floor, you cow.’ These words were coupled with pressure from the knife, digging deeper into her throat. As it was pulled away she felt a line of blood trickle down to her collarbone.

  ‘Don’t hurt me,’ she whispered. ‘Please, don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Get your back off the floor then,’ the voice commanded savagely.

  Terrified, she obeyed, and her pants were pulled off.

  She tried to kick out at the youth, but he simply laughed and gripped her ankles, hurting her needlessly.

  ‘Don’t. Please, don’t,’ she pleaded. ‘I’ll give you anything . . . just leave me alone.’

  Her legs were freed as the figure stood up to unfasten his jeans.

  ‘Hurry up . . . fuck her.’

  With shocking brutality, her legs were pushed apart.

  ‘No. No.’ She tried to scream, but pressure from the knife stifled the sound.

  Then the youth’s dead weight was upon her, and there was a dreadful pain between her legs.

  * * *

  Ashworth sat back, contentedly viewing his empire from his rightful position; he was back in his old spot. It was like visiting a familiar place that he had not seen for years.

  The old dark wood desk, scratched and stained, was far more to his liking than that modern monstrosity he had just relinquished.

  He had moved Stimp
son and Whitworth into the new office, thankful for the wall now between himself and Whitworth’s infernal cigarette smoke. Holly’s unoccupied desk was facing his own, and Josh was in the corner, bent over his computer.

  Ashworth wondered how long it would be before Josh’s posture was affected by his constant slouching over the machine, and was about to make a comment when a knock came at the door.

  ‘Come,’ Ashworth barked.

  Any confidence PC Bobby Adams may have gained shrivelled at the tone of Ashworth’s voice. But as he entered the office, he determined to keep his voice steady. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’ve had word from Forensic on Mr Edwards’s car.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was clean, sir. Nothing on it at all. They said the car was locked when they found it, and the keys appear to be missing.’

  The telephone buzzed. Josh picked it up. ‘CID. DC Abraham.’

  Still with his hand on the door handle, Bobby said, ‘That’s all, sir. They’ll be reporting to you, but I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.’

  ‘Thank you, Bobby.’

  As the door closed, Josh called, ‘Suspected rape, sir. Lea Road, Cherry Tree Estate. Uniformed are in attendance. Forensic on their way.’

  ‘Right,’ Ashworth said. ‘We need Holly for this.’

  Josh was already slipping into his leather jacket. ‘Shall I relieve her at the Edwards’s house, sir?’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘One complication though, sir. Her car’s still in the car park. I gave her a lift this morning.’

  The telephone buzzed again.

  ‘CID. DC Abraham.’ He looked across to Ashworth. ‘It’s the post office sorting depot, sir.’

  ‘Right. Get Whitworth to follow you in his car. He can bring Holly back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ashworth grabbed the receiver. ‘Chief Inspector Ashworth here. What have you got for me?’