‘A letter’s turned up,’ the voice informed him. ‘Addressed to Mrs B. Edwards.’
‘Good. I’ll send someone over to collect it.’ The ensuing chaos almost made him forget his manners. He added hastily, ‘And many thanks.’
Josh and Whitworth were leaving the office as Stimpson came over, a self-satisfied grin on his face. ‘Looks like I was right about the rape, sir.’
If he was expecting praise, some acknowledgement of his cleverness, then he was disappointed for all he got from Ashworth was a grunted ‘Yes.’ Then without looking at the Detective Sergeant, he said shortly, ‘I want you to go down to the post office and collect what appears to be the ransom note.’
* * *
In another part of Bridgetown Police Station, Dr Gwen Anthony was washing her hands as sounds from a running shower came from an adjacent room. She was filled with an overwhelming pity as she imagined the vigour with which Jane Taylor would be scrubbing her body, vainly attempting to wash away the feelings of desecration and humiliation.
The examination — even for someone as experienced in the profession as Gwen — had been harrowing. Her findings had proved beyond doubt, though, that the woman had been raped.
After despatching Jane to the shower, she had passed her notes on to the two policewomen in the counselling room, and was now preparing to leave.
Feeling more than a little saddened, she donned her brown sheepskin coat, picked up her black bag, and left the room.
In the corridor outside, Ashworth was restlessly prowling. His presence, despite the severity of the occasion, brought a glowing smile to Gwen’s face. ‘Jim,’ she said warmly.
‘Gwen, what’s the verdict?’
‘She’s been raped all right.’ Her tone was briskly professional. ‘Bruising to the inner thighs — some of it quite severe. Bruising also to the vagina, shoulders and back. There’s a cut across her throat.’ She indicated where by touching the spot on Ashworth’s neck. ‘Not deep, but if a little more pressure had been exerted, it would have been. No evidence of any semen present. Either the little darlings didn’t ejaculate — which is very unlikely — or they wore condoms. So, Jim, you won’t get any help with identity from that source. It was a very nasty attack. What kind of animal could do that to a woman?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ashworth replied heavily. ‘But I’m beginning to believe there are a lot of them out there.’
Gwen glanced at her watch. ‘Walk with me, Jim. I’ve left my husband with the surgery — I’ll have to get back straightaway.’
Ashworth realised that he had never heard Gwen refer to her husband by name and was curious about their relationship, if indeed they still had one.
She fell in beside him and they started along the corridor. Ashworth said, ‘I probably shouldn’t be telling you this—’
‘Oh, you can trust me with your secrets,’ Gwen interrupted cheekily.
Ashworth gave her a smile, then said, ‘The kidnapper’s been in touch.’
‘Oh? When?’
‘Last night, by telephone, and today, by post — or so I believe.’
‘What’s he asking for?’
‘I don’t know yet. I haven’t seen the letter. One of my officers is collecting it.’
They stopped at the lift and were silent as they waited for the doors to open.
Once inside, Gwen said, ‘It doesn’t fit, Jim. It’s too soon. He should be making you sweat.’
‘He is,’ Ashworth replied darkly. ‘I could have done without a rape on my hands.’
‘Mrs Taylor could have done without it too, Jim,’ Gwen rebuked lightly.
‘Sorry . . . that was insensitive.’
‘I know what you meant,’ she said. ‘Actually, this could be something to bring up with the Home Secretary’s lot.’
Ashworth let out a scornful laugh, saying, ‘Yes, I think I may well invite the Right Honourable Minister and his team to come here for a month and try running things.’
Gwen chuckled merrily. ‘Oh, Jim, with your ‘straight from the shoulder’ approach, I think I’m going to enjoy this conference. Do you know when it is?’
‘No, I’ve heard nothing. Please God, not yet.’
Gwen’s eyes sparkled wickedly as she whispered, ‘When we’re there, I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’ It was meant as a light-hearted joke, to draw a response.
But Ashworth was serious when he replied, ‘I don’t think you realise how tempted I am, Gwen.’
‘Then why wait for some conference?’ she asked earnestly.
A look of annoyance clouded her face as the lift came to a halt before Ashworth could respond. The doors slid open to reveal a bustling reception. Uniformed officers stood respectfully to one side as they came out.
Sergeant Dutton was behind the front desk. He called to the Chief Inspector, putting an end to their conversation.
‘Sorry, Gwen, I’ve got to go.’
‘Ring me — but not with any more rapes or madmen.’
‘I will. Drive carefully.’
Chapter 11
The rape counselling room, unlike normal interview rooms, was comfortable and informal. A flower-patterned lounge suite dominated with a cheerfulness that took attention away from the clinically white walls. A coffee table, with large ashtray, completed the sparse furnishings.
Holly sat in one armchair, and WPC Jill Thompson — a pretty, dark-haired girl of twenty-five — occupied the other. Both were facing the settee.
Holly watched carefully as Jane Taylor, dressed in a plain white bathrobe, mechanically crossed the room to sit in front of them.
She still appeared dazed, deep in shock, and when Holly spoke, she jumped, as if unaware of another presence in the room.
Speaking very softly, Holly said, ‘Jane, I’m DC Holly Bedford, and this is WPC Jill Thompson.’
‘My husband . . . Peter, where is he?’
‘He’s been told what’s happened,’ Holly said gently. ‘He’s on his way here now. Do you feel like talking, Jane?’
‘What about?’
Holly shot a glance at Jill who looked back glumly. ‘About what happened to you. Can you talk about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. When you’re ready then. We’re in no hurry. Just take your time.’
Jane turned vacant eyes towards Holly. ‘They must have been inside the house when I got back,’ she began, cautiously. ‘I went into the hall to take my boots off . . . and they jumped on me.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Two.’
Jill asked, ‘Did you see their faces?’
Jane shook her head. ‘No, they were wearing those things over their faces . . . I don’t know . . . balaclavas, I think they’re called.’
Holly wanted to extract as much information from Jane as was possible before they actually got on to the rape itself. So, channelling her questions in that direction, she asked, ‘Can you tell us anything about the two men?’
‘They were boys, not men.’
‘What made you think they were boys?’ Jill asked.
Jane sat considering for a while, then said, ‘I don’t know . . . they just seemed like boys . . . their voices. And their clothes . . .’
When she did not go on, Holly prompted with, ‘What were they wearing?’
Jane frowned, shuddering violently at the memories. ‘Black leather jackets, blue denim jeans. And one of them had a grey sweatshirt with ‘Mean Man’ in big letters on the front. That’s all I can remember . . . I’m sorry . . .’ She faltered as her tears fell unchecked.
Holly moved to comfort her and Jill took over the questioning. ‘What happened after they jumped on you in the hall, Jane?’
Holly supplied a handkerchief and Jane mopped at her eyes. ‘They got me on to the floor. One of them was behind me, kneeling on my shoulders . . . he had a knife pressed against my throat . . .’
An hysterical tremor had crept into her voice but she fought to control it. She went on, ‘The other one pushed my ski
rt up and pulled my pants off. Then he took his jeans down and . . . he just stood there, showing it to me. He’d got a contraceptive on, and I remember thinking, at least I won’t get pregnant or catch Aids or anything. Isn’t that ridiculous?’
The hysteria finally took hold. With Holly’s arms around her, Jane wept quietly and gave herself up to an aguish trembling.
‘It’s okay, Jane, you cry. Let it out,’ Holly soothed. ‘We have to ask these questions, though — you do understand, don’t you? We have to know.’
‘I know,’ Jane said finally, as the tears subsided.
‘What did they do then?’
‘The other one was urging him on to do it to me. Then he . . .’ Her voice broke completely.
‘Raped you,’ Jill said softly.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘The other boy . . . did he rape you too?’
‘Yes, yes, they both did it,’ Jane screamed, before burying her head into Holly’s chest.
Holly looked despairingly at Jill, who said, ‘Did they leave the house then?’
‘Yes. They were laughing as they went through the kitchen and out of the back door. I stood up. I was so frightened I wet myself. Please don’t ask me anymore . . . please. I can’t stand it. Leave me alone now.’
Holly hugged her closer. Jane looked at the two officers pleadingly as she said, ‘What will Peter say? What will he think? Oh God, what will he think?’
Holly consoled her as best she could, realising that her feeble platitudes would bring little comfort. Then, leaving Jill with the task of getting Jane dressed, she made her way to CID.
The fact that Jane’s information held few real clues to the identities of the rapists helped fuel the well of anger inside her. This wanton, calculated destruction of a person’s whole life was beyond her comprehension.
By the time she reached the office, tears of frustration were in her eyes. Walking through the door, she was vaguely aware that the office had been rearranged, and it registered that Ashworth had moved into the main office.
She stopped in front of his desk. ‘Notes of the interview with the rape victim, sir.’
On seeing Holly’s forlorn expression, Ashworth diverted his eyes to study the notes. ‘She hasn’t made a formal statement yet?’
‘No, sir, she’s far too upset for that.’
‘I see.’ He looked up, still avoiding her eyes. ‘Forensics are at the house now and we may have a breakthrough there. They’ve found a perfect shoe print outside the garden gate — a type of trainer. The angle of it suggests the wearer was about to enter the garden.’
He bundled the notes together briskly. ‘Here, give these to Stimpson and Whitworth. Tell them to read through them, then come out here to me.’
Holly hesitated, not knowing where the officers were.
‘Oh, they’re through there,’ Ashworth said, pointing to the new office.
Their mindless banter, which was fast becoming an unbearable irritant to Ashworth, started as soon as Holly entered the office.
Stimpson, so assured of his attractiveness that he regarded any female resistance as merely token, gushed, ‘Holly, you’ve come in to brighten my day . . .’
‘No,’ Holly snapped. ‘The Chief Inspector wants you to read this and report to him.’
‘You’re so uptight, Holly. Did you know that an orgasm is the best thing to relieve tension? Now, I can help you . . .’
Ashworth was about to go in there and insist that they conduct themselves with a little more decorum when he heard the sounds of a scuffle, a loud slap, and an exclamation of surprise from Stimpson.
‘Leave it, Alistair, I’m not available,’ Holly said forcefully.
‘I was only joking,’ Stimpson mumbled through his bruised pride.
‘Well, I’m fed up with it. The next time you put your hands on me, I’ll break your bloody arm. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, yes, now back off. Christ!’
Ashworth just about had time to wipe the smile off his face before Holly returned to her desk, bristling with rage.
When the men emerged from their office, Stimpson pointedly ignored her, making straight for Ashworth’s desk. ‘What do you want us to do on the rape, sir?’
‘Door-to-door,’ Ashworth replied shortly. ‘Those two lads would have stuck out like sore thumbs on Cherry Tree Estate. Someone must have seen them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Whitworth remained silent, fixing Ashworth with his insubordinate gaze, which was fast becoming a permanent feature.
Ashworth, returning it, said, ‘Go,’ in a stony dismissive tone.
When the officers had gone, he sat studying Holly’s bent head as she busied herself writing a report. Her pen strokes were heavy and aggressive, denoting her still-seething anger.
Casually, Ashworth crossed to her desk where he sat on its edge. ‘Holly,’ he said gently, ‘I think it’s wise not to get too involved with a case.’
Holly stood up to face him. ‘Sir,’ she said, fighting her tears. ‘I have just interviewed a woman whose marriage is likely to break up because of what happened. Her emotional and mental health have probably been destroyed, if not permanently, then for some time to come. Now I find it very difficult to remain detached in those circumstances. I’m sorry if that meets with your disapproval.’
Once again, Ashworth felt that he had been put, very firmly, in his place. He changed the subject quickly. ‘Would you like me to have a word with Stimpson about sexual harassment?’
‘No, sir. It would look as if I’d run to teacher. I can handle it.’
‘I’m sure you can,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m just a little concerned about how many arms you break in the process.’
‘I have a right to . . .’ She stopped, then smiled. ‘I’m being silly, aren’t I?’
‘You’re being human. Sometimes the two are very similar.’
Easing himself off the desk he reached across for Holly’s arm, pleased to find that she did not recoil from this fatherly gesture. ‘Come on, young lady, let’s go and see Pain-in-the-bum. I’ll fill you in about the ransom demand on the way.’
Chapter 12
Although the traffic was light, Whitworth’s aggressive driving had already enraged several motorists and was slightly unnerving Stimpson, who dreaded the next junction, as Whitworth seemed to regard slowing to take a corner as an act of cowardice.
‘Slow down a bit, Mike,’ he cautioned. ‘You’ll get us nicked.’
When Whitworth eased back on the accelerator, he breathed more easily and studied the map spread across his knees. ‘You should have taken a right back there.’
Whitworth shook his head.
Stimpson consulted the map again. ‘Cherry Tree Estate — yes, it was a right turn back there.’
‘We’re not going to Cherry Tree Estate,’ Whitworth grunted. ‘I thought we’d call in the amusement arcade. Have a chat with some of our friends.’
‘Mike,’ Stimpson protested. ‘Ashworth ordered us to carry out house-to-house—’
‘Ashworth,’ Whitworth snorted. ‘He’s an old woman. We can have this cleared up today.’
‘He does things by the book.’
‘Book?’ Whitworth gazed at him, his face a mask of innocence. ‘What book?’
‘Keep your eyes on the bloody road. Whatever you think of him, he’s our commanding officer.’
‘Not mine, he’s not.’
Whitworth took a left off the high street, then a sharp right. With tyres screaming, the car entered a narrow road where small warehouse units stood on land which had originally been gardens of the shops flanking the high street.
Here, the snow had become blackened. Lorries, continually loading and unloading, had melted most of it, leaving water and sludge — unable to escape due to blocked drains — lying across the road like a dirty lake.
Whitworth’s car splashed through it — the spray from its wheels three feet high — and stopped outside a warehouse half-way along.
Its
conversion into an amusement arcade had been scant: cheap cord carpet covered the concrete flooring; a buffet counter and vending machines had been installed at minimal expense; the residual space was packed almost solid with pinball and fruit machines.
Stimpson was still disturbed by their detour. ‘Mike, I think we should do the house-to-house,’ he said uneasily.
‘Relax, Alistair. Look, half an hour and I can get us a couple of names, then we’ll play knocking-on-doors. I want this cleared up. Like the man said — it’s not the taking part, it’s the winning that counts.’
Reluctantly, Stimpson followed his swaggering partner across the litter-strewn pavement and through grimy swing doors into the arcade.
The high-ceilinged interior was windowless, the only pools of light created by fluorescent strips housed in cheap metal holders, suspended from beams. The place smelt of stale cigarette smoke and damp.
Of the twenty or so youths inside, most were in the coffee area, sprawled on chairs, engaged in noisy discourse.
As the officers entered, one of them looked up and nudged the youth sitting next to him. In a matter of seconds an almost eerie silence had descended, punctuated by the metallic pings of a pinball machine.
The corners of Whitworth’s mouth flicked upwards in acknowledgement of the respect that was being shown to him.
This arcade — along with a few other establishments frequented by the more rowdy youths — was fast becoming a no-go area for the police. Not that they feared attack from these teenagers; most simply felt heartily sick of the barrage of abuse hurled at them, enraged that they were powerless to respond in kind, and therefore only entered such situations when absolutely necessary.
Whitworth held no such reservations. Leaving Stimpson at the door he worked his way through the rows of machines to the lone pinball player. ‘Wayne Spencer?’ he demanded, reaching the denim-clad youth.
‘Yeah, I’m Wayne Spencer.’ He did not look up, but continued to work the machine which bleeped, rattled and emitted an electronic tune as the player score mounted.
Whitworth moved to the side of the table. ‘Do you know who I am?’
Spencer smirked, but still kept his attention on the game. ‘Yeah, you’re King Shit.’
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 10
