Whitworth’s laugh was a humourless sound as he reached beneath the machine, slowly lifting it from the floor until ‘Tilt’ appeared on the screen.
‘What the friggin’ hell you doing?’ Like a caricature of a hard man, Wayne Spencer sprang round, adopting a crouch, hands bunched into fists.
‘I’m removing any distractions, Wayne, because I want you to pay attention,’ Whitworth replied, laconically.
Spencer’s arrogant eyes looked towards his friends at the coffee bar but no one came to his assistance.
The expression on that face, which had not yet lost the fullness of youth, was one of perplexity. He had made his play, but without any back-up he now had to make a choice: put up or shut up.
Lowering his hands, he said grudgingly, ‘What you want then?’
‘That’s better,’ Whitworth responded easily. ‘Someone’s told me you’re carrying illegal substances.’
‘What? I’m not carrying. I’m clean, man.’
‘I’ll still have to take you to the station. Just to make sure.’
Spencer’s bravado resurfaced. ‘You won’t get me outta here,’ he shouted, looking pleadingly towards the other youths.
Unimpressed, Whitworth said, ‘I’m arresting you, Wayne, but I won’t bother to read you your rights because as far as I’m concerned, you don’t have any.’
‘My mates won’t let you walk outta here with me.’
‘Your gang is it, Wayne?’ Whitworth allowed his heavy-lidded dark eyes to sweep over the silent, hostile group. ‘They look as if a good fart would deck most of them.’
Stimpson was tense as he watched the incident build, certain that his colleague was mishandling a potentially volatile situation. But Whitworth possessed far more shrewdness than people realised; he knew just how far a display of fearlessness could take him. More importantly, he understood the psychology of the mob.
Quietly but firmly, he said, ‘Now, if your mates tried to stop us taking you out, there’d be a ruck and someone would get hurt. I promise you, Wayne, if that happens, I’ll see to it you get badly damaged.’
He saw some of the fight go out of Spencer’s eyes. ‘Walk, Wayne. Don’t look or speak to anybody. Just walk out the door and get into the car.’
For a few seconds it hung in the balance. If just one boy came forward to help Spencer, the rest would follow, and Whitworth, instead of enjoying this uneasy peace, would be faced with a near riot. Even he exhaled with some relief when Spencer turned on his heel and walked towards the door.
Outside, Stimpson ushered the boy into the rear of the vehicle. As Whitworth sauntered to the driver’s seat he looked back to where the other youths were spilling out of the arcade, no doubt contemplating their loss of face for having passively stood by and done nothing to help one of their own.
He took his time getting into the car, then drove back up the high street, turning right as if heading for the police station, but then taking a first left which led into a network of narrow lanes.
Stimpson was noticeably alarmed. ‘Where are you going, Mike?’
‘Wayne wants to talk to us somewhere quiet before we take him in. Isn’t that right, son?’
‘No, it ain’t.’ He looked imploringly at Stimpson. ‘Make him take me in, man.’
Stimpson was strongly debating whether he should pull rank when Whitworth slowed the car, bringing it to a halt on a snow-covered grass verge.
Turning to confront the youth, he said flatly, ‘Right, Wayne, the word is, you’re dealing grass, LSD, crack—’
‘Here, what you on? I’ve got enough on me for a couple of smokes — that’s all. There’s no crack in this dump anyway.’
With a wolfish grin, Whitworth said, ‘There will be if I get some and put it with your things at the station.’
‘I want to talk to you, Mike,’ Stimpson ordered, climbing angrily out of the car.
‘Think about it, Wayne,’ Whitworth cautioned, before following.
Keeping the boy in view, Stimpson led Whitworth a few feet away from the car before rounding on him. ‘What the fucking hell are you doing? You’re fitting the kid up — I can’t go along with this.’
‘Stay cool, Alistair—’
‘We have to take the kid to the station, Mike. I don’t want to make that an order, but you’re way out of line.’
Whitworth scratched his head, then lit a cigarette. ‘Give me two minutes with that kid and I’ll have the names of the rapists,’ he said persuasively.
‘I can’t stand by while you plant evidence—’
‘I’m not asking you to. I’m not going to fit the kid up. Just let me get the names. You can claim the credit. A rape case cleared up in a day — think how that would look on your record.’
Stimpson hesitated. ‘You’re not going to do anything that could bounce back on me?’
‘It won’t bounce back on you or me. I know what I’m doing, Alistair.’
‘All right,’ Stimpson said, reluctantly. ‘But I’ll wait out here.’
Whitworth climbed into the back beside Spencer. ‘Right, son, you could save yourself a lot of grief, you know.’
‘How?’
Whitworth drew on the cigarette. ‘You heard about the woman who got raped?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Give me a couple of names.’
‘No way,’ Spencer protested. ‘You’ll get me knifed.’
‘That’s good, Wayne. So you know who did it.’
‘I’m telling you—’
‘You don’t tell me, kid . . . I tell you. Give me those names and I’ll just book you for possession. You’ll be out of the station and back granny-bashing before you know it.’
‘I’m—’
‘Don’t interrupt me,’ Whitworth spat viciously. ‘If you don’t give me the names I’ll plant enough stuff to get you five to seven years. I’ve looked at your record, son: car-thieving, possession, breaking and entering . . .’ He pulled on the cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke waft around inside the car. ‘Now, there’s a thought — breaking and entering,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘If I found a balaclava at your house you’d be in the frame for rape.’
Spencer began to panic. He reached for the door handle.
‘You get out of this car and I’ll break your legs,’ Whitworth said with cold malice.
Spencer looked at him; his startled eyes, his trembling hands, told Whitworth that the tide was turning in his favour.
‘I want my social worker,’ Spencer whined.
‘Your sexual fantasies don’t interest me,’ Whitworth laughed, mockingly. ‘By the time you get to that lady, I’ll have enough to put you away for fifteen years.’
‘You’re a bastard,’ Spencer said, tears brimming in his eyes.
‘You’d better believe it — and this is a good day. You’re eighteen now, Wayne. It’s the big boys’ holiday camp for you this time. Nice place — you’ll find yourself locked up with a couple of old lags for twenty-three hours a day, and when they’ve been banged up for a few years, they develop a liking for young boys. You’d be fresh meat.’
He let this sink in for a few seconds, then, with an air of finality, he said, ‘Last chance, son . . . give or you’ve got grief.’
‘You can’t do this.’
‘I can do anything I like. That’s what you little toe-rags don’t understand.’ He reached for the door handle. ‘Right, I’ll tell my partner you don’t feel like cooperating.’
Spencer muttered something, then stared moodily out of the side window.
‘I didn’t catch that, Wayne.’
‘I said, Damon Cain and Delvin Bennett.’
Whitworth leapt out of the car. ‘We’re in business, Alistair.’ He threw away his cigarette end which hissed as it sank into the snow.
A look of relief stole across Stimpson’s face. Stamping his feet against the cold, and digging his hands deep into his overcoat pockets, he approached Whitworth boldly. ‘Mike, your methods frighten me. You sail too close
to the wind.’
‘I get results.’
‘Yes, well, just calm down when you’re with me. Remember, I want to stay here and work my way up the ladder.’ He studied Whitworth’s impassive face. ‘What would you have done if I’d pulled rank and made you take that kid in?’
‘I’d have done it, of course.’
‘That’s good.’
Stimpson looked smugly confident until Whitworth added, ‘Then I’d have phoned your wife and told her about the little WPC who’s dropping her knickers for you.’
Although Whitworth had been smiling during this, there was little doubt in Stimpson’s mind that he meant it.
‘You are a bastard, Mike.’
‘So everybody tells me. But like my old dad always said — nice guys lose.’
Stimpson had already decided that, for the sake of his future, Whitworth would have to be sacrificed.
Chapter 13
Their footsteps rang out as Holly followed Ashworth up the perilously steep metal stairs to the causeway leading to Dennis Paine’s office. At the top, Ashworth paused to peer over the rail containing the platform. The cloying odour of leather permeated the air.
From this vantage point the layout of the factory could easily be seen. Machines which cut out the belts and handbags gave way to the closing department, where female staff nimbly ran the products through heavy duty sewing machines. Further along were partitioned offices, housing various types of machinery — the uses of which Ashworth could only wonder at — and then there was the despatch department, where the finished products were boxed and sent off.
Holly could see that Ashworth was fascinated with the scene below. ‘What are you thinking, sir?’ she asked.
‘Just that from his office, Paine can overlook his whole operation. I bet that’s by choice, rather than by accident.’
‘None of the staff look very happy, do they?’
‘No,’ Ashworth agreed. ‘From what I’ve heard about the place, it’s hard work for low wages. They earn decent money, but they have to work all the hours God sends for it.’
Something had been bothering Ashworth since entering the building. Suddenly he realised what it was. ‘That sound, Holly, where’s it coming from?’
As there were so many sounds coming from different parts of the factory, Holly was puzzled as to which one he meant.
‘That one . . . metal on metal,’ Ashworth said, listening intently. ‘There it is again.’ He looked around, hoping to synchronise a machine with the sound. Then he had it. ‘The cutting room.’
‘I’m not with you, sir.’
‘That sound was on the tape.’
‘You think the phone call was made from here?’
‘It’s beginning to look like it.’
‘But how could it have been?’
‘Why not? Come on, let’s go and talk to Paine.’
They continued along the platform to Paine’s glass-fronted office. He was seated at his desk, behind a clutter of papers, and belt and bag samples, talking earnestly into the telephone.
On seeing the officers, he gesticulated for them to come in and sit down, all the while continuing his one-sided conversation. ‘I don’t care what problems you’re having. Get them here by this time next week or consider the order cancelled.’ The receiver was slammed down. ‘Bloody suppliers. You’d think in this recession they’d be falling over themselves, but all I get is a tale of woe.’
‘We’ve received the ransom demand, Mr Paine,’ Ashworth informed him.
‘I gathered that from your phone call,’ Paine said abruptly. ‘Well? How much?’
‘One hundred and eighty thousand. Can you raise that by tomorrow?’
‘Yes. I’ve had a word with Babs. We can get it together.’
‘Right, the drop is tomorrow night, at a place called Poacher’s Wood. That’s—’
‘I know where it is,’ Paine stated, sharply.
‘Let me finish,’ Ashworth said, with forced patience. ‘The kidnapper has asked that you act as courier. You’re to take the money to Poacher’s Wood at 11 p.m. and leave it on the small stone bridge over the stream, then drive back home.’
‘That’s all the letter said?’
Ashworth shook his head. ‘No, it went on at some length. The money has to be in used banknotes, no consecutive numbers. And if we mark it in any way, our friend will know.’
‘What do you advise on that?’
Slightly taken aback that Paine should request advice, Ashworth said, ‘Normally we’d mark the money, but at the end of the day it’s up to you.’
Paine contemplated this, then shook his head. ‘No, don’t mark the money. I’m not taking any chances. You’ll be in place in the wood, I take it?’
‘I think the less you know about the police operation the better,’ Ashworth replied, curtly. He looked at Holly, who took her cue.
‘What’s that sound, Mr Paine?’ she asked, pleasantly.
‘What sound? Does this have anything to do—’
‘There it is — metal hitting metal,’ Holly broke in.
With an impatient sigh, Paine said, ‘That is a clicking press, young lady. The operative places a knife on the leather, the press comes down and cuts out the belt.’ Then, with heavy sarcasm, ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know? Perhaps I could show you round the factory—’
‘That sound is on the tape of the call your sister took from the kidnapper,’ Ashworth interjected.
Paine’s mouth gaped open. ‘Are you suggesting the call was made from this factory?’
‘The tape suggests it, I don’t.’
‘That’s impossible, Ashworth.’
‘Is it? Would any of your staff have access to a telephone during the evening?’
‘Well, yes, the offices downstairs aren’t locked. But why should anyone here want to kidnap Simon? It’s ridiculous.’
‘Does Mr Edwards have any enemies here?’
‘Ashworth, when you’re in business, enemies crawl out of the woodwork.’
‘Actually, Mr Paine, I’d have thought that in this particular business, if anyone had made enemies—’
‘It would be me,’ Paine said wryly.
‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’
Paine, with a rare display of civility, said, ‘Chief Inspector, up until three years ago, Simon was managing director, and I was technical director. And — not to put too fine a point on it — Simon wasn’t good at the job. Too damned soft. Let people walk all over him. As we were equal partners, I put my foot down and took over as managing director, which meant that I, and I alone, took the day-to-day decisions in the running of the factory.’
‘This is all very interesting, but—’
‘If you’ll listen, I’ll explain,’ Paine said, brusquely. ‘There were a lot of difficult decisions to be taken; decisions affecting the lives of many. As Simon has a way with people . . . a certain amount of charm, which I seem to lack . . .’
Ashworth smiled but remained silent.
‘. . . I thought it best for Simon to have the job of informing the staff of those changes.’
‘Oh, I see. So, who did he have to upset for you?’ Ashworth asked, bluntly.
Paine glared at him. ‘There were the workers we had to lay off.’
‘Have any of them been reinstated since?’
‘Some, but I’d have to check the personnel records before I could come up with names.’
‘Is there anyone else who could have a grudge?’ Holly asked.
After a moment’s thought, Paine said, ‘There’s Len Warren.’
A mental image of Warren surfaced in Ashworth’s mind. ‘What could he have against your brother-in-law?’
‘He was shop steward, until I decided that the union had to go. I gave my workers a choice: leave the union, or find other jobs. They fell into line.’
‘Did Warren take that badly?’
‘Well, of course he did. You know what these people are like — little Hitlers, the lo
t of them. He was forever complaining about minimum wages, or the factory being too hot or too cold.’ Paine gave a scornful laugh.
Ashworth said, ‘Len Warren has a birthmark on his face, doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t know if it’s a birthmark but, yes, he has a large red mark on one of his cheeks. What’s that got to do with anything?’ Then it registered. ‘You’re not thinking about what that doctor told you?’ he scoffed. ‘Warren? Highly intelligent? The man’s a cretin.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Ashworth intoned. ‘What’s he like?’
‘As a shop steward, when he thought he had some power, he was bolshie. Now that’s been taken away from him, you’d hardly know he exists.’
Sensing that Ashworth had finished this particular line of questioning, Holly asked, ‘Can you think of anyone else who might dislike Mr Edwards enough to want to harm him?’
Paine was silent, thoughtful. Holly was certain he was keeping something to himself. ‘Mr Paine, may I remind you that it’s an offence to withhold information from the police—’
‘Don’t you threaten me, young lady,’ Paine flared. ‘I’m a law-abiding citizen. Save your bully tactics for the yobs who go around stealing cars.’
‘Paine, will you please stop being discourteous to my officers,’ Ashworth retorted. ‘DC Bedford is perfectly correct in saying that withholding information is an offence, as is taking a vehicle without the owner’s consent. Neither offence is committed by law-abiding citizens.’
Paine conceded that point, and Ashworth said firmly, ‘Now answer the question, please.’
‘It’s very delicate.’
‘We’re very discreet.’
Paine leant forward confidentially. ‘It’s about Julie, our secretary,’ he whispered. ‘She and Simon were . . . friendly.’
‘Your secretary and Mr Edwards—’
‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake, she’s in the next office.’
Ashworth looked towards the stud partition and lowered his voice. ‘So, why would she have a grudge against Mr Edwards?’
‘Not Julie . . . her husband.’
‘How was this affair conducted?’
‘That’s the point. Julie’s husband, Alan French, works here. He’s on permanent two-till-ten shift. Julie finishes work at five p.m., so Simon can tell Babs he’s going to the factory in the evenings, when in fact . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It’s convenient.’
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 11
