‘Very,’ Ashworth commented. ‘And if the husband found out . . .’ He got to his feet abruptly. ‘Right, Mr Paine, there’s nothing we can do about this while the news black-out is in place. When will you collect the money?’
‘First thing in the morning.’
‘One of my officers will accompany you to the bank and take the money back to the station.’
‘You’re not going to mark the money, Ashworth,’ Paine barked, back to his old form. ‘I will not allow it.’
Ashworth smiled. ‘I preferred you when you were whispering,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘I just want that amount of money in a safe place. We’ll bring it to the house tomorrow night, at ten p.m.’
Ashworth caught Paine’s look of relief as he ushered Holly out of the office.
Outside, a thaw was well under way: icicles, hanging from the gutterings were diminishing rapidly; snow, still lingering around the periphery of the car park, was turning a slushy yellow.
Holly lengthened her stride to keep up with Ashworth. ‘I can see the line of enquiry you’re following, sir,’ she said, ‘but would someone who actually worked at the factory, someone who knew Mr Edwards, be stupid enough to abduct him, and then demand a ransom?’
When they reached the Sierra, Ashworth turned to look back at the L-shaped building, over whose main entrance a disgruntled worker had chalked the word ‘ALCATRAZ’ in bold letters.
‘Holly, if the kidnapper is in that building, then I just pray to God that Simon Edwards isn’t already dead.’
* * *
Stimpson, with an exasperated Whitworth in tow, was executing house-to-house enquiries in the immediate vicinity of Jane Taylor’s house. It was laborious work and, so far, had achieved nothing — no one, it seemed, had seen anything or anyone suspicious at the time of the crime.
They now knew the identities of the perpetrators of the rape, but without concrete proof, this knowledge was of little use.
Whitworth longed to search their homes for incriminating evidence, but knew that no magistrate would sign a search warrant on such scant informaton — hence his mood of irritation.
As Stimpson knocked at a house three doors down the road from Mrs Taylor’s, he muttered, ‘I’d sell my body to get a result,’ just as the door was opened by a pretty blonde of around thirty.
Although her face, framed by thick fluffy hair, was attractive, the focal point was her body: a perfectly proportioned five feet nine, which seemed to have been poured into blue jeans and white blouse; garments which showed off her delicious shape to its best advantage.
‘Hello,’ she smiled.
‘Hello, I’m DS Stimpson, and this is DC Whitworth.’ He showed her his warrant card. ‘We’re making enquiries in the area, and I wondered if we could ask you a few questions.’
She glanced at the warrant card, then looked more intently at Stimpson’s handsome face.
‘This is nice,’ Stimpson exclaimed as they entered the living room. ‘A country cottage in the middle of town.’
Whitworth viewed the plastic ceiling beams, the cottage-style lounge suite, the rustic coal-effect gas fire, with anything but enchantment.
‘Thank you,’ the woman answered shyly. ‘That’s the effect we’ve tried to create. Please sit down.’
They sat on the sofa which had been wedged into the bay window recess.
‘Mind if I smoke, love?’ Whitworth asked.
‘No, of course not,’ she said, reaching for an ashtray on the hearth and placing it on the occasional table in front of the officers. Whitworth lit a cigarette.
‘We’re sorry to bother you—’ Stimpson began.
‘It’s no bother at all.’ She was obviously attracted to the good-looking policeman, and flattered by his attentions. ‘What can I do to help?’
Stimpson did not want to mention rape at this juncture, for fear of compounding Jane Taylor’s ordeal by making her the subject of curiosity amongst her neighbours; such victims had been known to withdraw their complaints when events became too traumatic.
He said, ‘We’re making enquiries about a burglary in the area. We’re asking people if they’ve seen anything suspicious recently.’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, I haven’t seen anything suspicious that I can think of.’ She smiled at Stimpson. ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’
He smiled back. ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’
‘That would be nice,’ Whitworth mimicked after she had left the room. ‘What are you playing at?’
‘Getting the information we need,’ Stimpson grinned. ‘You just wait here.’
He quietly let himself into the large kitchen. The woman was filling a kettle at the stainless steel sink. Stimpson’s sudden appearance startled her. ‘God, you made me jump,’ she cried, placing hand over heart.
‘Sorry,’ Stimpson said, earnestly. ‘I thought I’d give you a hand.’ He glanced around the room at the oak units. ‘I really do admire your taste.’
‘Thank you, kind sir.’
‘Right, where’s the teapot?’ he said cheerfully, busying himself with the tea-bag container. ‘I’d better have your name . . . just for the record.’
‘Clare Johnson.’
‘And are you married, Clare? You don’t mind if I call you Clare, do you?’
‘Not at all and, yes, I am married.’
‘I knew it,’ he said, with feigned disappointment. ‘Anyone as beautiful as you would have to be.’
‘I can see I’ll have to watch you,’ she giggled, carrying the steaming kettle to the teapot. ‘My husband works on the oil rigs. He’s away for months at a time.’
‘That must be very lonely for you.’
She looked into his eyes. ‘Sometimes it is, yes.’
‘And dangerous — an attractive woman like you on her own. I may have to keep an eye on you.’
‘What would the neighbours think about that?’ she countered.
‘Ah, they need never know.’
‘Stop it,’ she reproved gaily, replacing the kettle on the worktop beside the sink. ‘I’m a respectable married woman.’
‘You’re right, I must stop it. But your looks just drive everything else out of my head. I’d almost forgotten why I’m here.’
Giggling again, she said, ‘Oh, you are a fool.’
‘Clare,’ Stimpson said seriously as he joined her at the sink. ‘We have to be very careful when asking questions. We mustn’t be seen to be leading people.’
‘How do you mean?’ Clare asked, obviously disappointed by this change in conversation.
‘Well, why we’re here is, we’re trying to find out if anyone saw two young boys on the estate this morning. They’re about fifteen years old.’
After a moment’s thought, Clare said, ‘Hold on, I think I did. Yes, they looked rough — out of place.’
‘Good, Clare. What time was this?’
Her brow furrowed as she concentrated.
‘Could it have been around eleven a.m.?’ Stimpson prompted.
‘Yes, it must have been, because the news had just been on the radio. I always switch it on at ten thirty and it must have been on for about half an hour.’
‘Even better, Clare. Now, can you show me where you saw them?’
‘You’ll have to come upstairs with me . . .’
‘Can’t that wait until after the questioning?’
Clare shrieked with laughter. ‘You really are terrible. Stop it.’
They went upstairs to the front bedroom. Stimpson noted the double bed and, with an effort, brought his mind back to the case.
Clare Johnson eased herself round the corner of the dressing table which stood in the bay window. Stimpson squeezed in beside her; their bodies touching in the confined space. ‘There.’ She pointed out of the side window. ‘The house on the corner — they were outside that.’
Stimpson found himself looking at Jane Taylor’s house. ‘They were definitely standing outside that house?’
‘No, not standing. I w
as making the bed and I stopped to look out of the window. They walked past here and stared at the corner house, then they came back.’
‘How were they behaving?’
‘I don’t know really,’ she said vaguely.
‘Think carefully, Clare, because that’s the house we’re interested in. Would you say they were behaving suspiciously? Walking backwards and forwards, sort of staking out the property?’
‘Now you come to mention it, yes, I suppose they were.’
‘And you must have got a good look at them.’
‘Not really, I wasn’t taking that much notice.’
‘But you’ve some idea of what they looked like? Just think, take your time . . . I’m quite enjoying having your leg pressed against mine.’
‘I bet you’re a devil on the quiet,’ she said, smiling shyly, dimples appearing in her cheeks.
‘The boys,’ Stimpson persisted. ‘What did they look like? Start with their clothes.’
‘Leather jackets and jeans, I think — and, hold on, one of them wore white trainers . . . I remember thinking how bulky they looked. Yes, and they both had woolly hats on.’
‘You see how much comes back when you really try,’ Stimpson encouraged. ‘Was one of them a really nice-looking boy?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t really look at boys.’
‘Think, Clare.’
‘Well, I suppose one was better-looking than the other.’
‘So, one of them was good-looking, and the other wasn’t?’
‘Yes,’ Claire stated definitely.
Stimpson reached into his inside pocket, making sure his forearm brushed against Clare’s ample breast as he did so.
He brought out two photographs. ‘Thanks to your powers of observation, you’ve confirmed what we already know. These are the lads we’re after.’ He showed her the photographs. ‘You’re making a positive identification, then?’
Clare studied the faces. ‘Well, it looks a bit like them.’ She sounded doubtful.
Stimpson moved away from the window. ‘You’re saying these are the boys, then?’
‘Yes,’ she stated, following him to the side of the bed. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’
‘Thank you, Clare, you’ve been a great help.’ He returned the photographs to his pocket. ‘You really have been a great help, you know,’ he murmured, brushing his hand across her cheek and into her hair.
‘Stop it,’ Clare protested weakly. ‘You shouldn’t be coming on to me like this.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Not with your friend downstairs, anyway.’
The message was unmistakable; Stimpson seized upon it immediately. ‘I shall have to come back this evening to take a full statement, I’m afraid, Clare. In fact, I could make it out at the station, then all you’ll have to do is sign it. Okay?’
Alarmed now to find herself officially caught up in a police investigation, Clare said timidly, ‘All right, but it won’t involve me in anything, will it?’
‘You’ll only be involved with me,’ he said, suggestively. ‘There’ll be no comeback on you, I promise. No one outside the police will see or even know about it.’
‘So, I’ll see you tonight then?’ Her smile was back.
‘Yes, and I’ll look forward to it.’
Whitworth strutted towards the car; Stimpson lagged behind, waving to Clare at the door.
Inside the vehicle, he said cheerfully, ‘How’s that for mixing business with pleasure? I can write out a statement — saying anything I want — and this evening I get to sample that very sexy body.’
Whitworth, about to remark that Stimpson’s methods were as devious as his own, merely grumbled, ‘I didn’t get my cup of tea.’
Chapter 14
Ashworth found it hard to delegate, especially as he had only been working with his officers for a matter of days and was, therefore, unsure of their abilities; nevertheless, even he could not cope with two serious crimes at the same time, so felt forced to hand over the Jane Taylor case to Alistair Stimpson.
Although he personally disliked the man, there was nothing to suggest that he was not up to the job; indeed, all evidence pointed to the contrary. Even so, Ashworth, true to character, could not totally relinquish his authority.
He was in the new office, listening to Stimpson’s account of their findings. Whitworth was perched on the edge of his desk, cigarette clamped between his teeth, looking for all the world like a Mafia hit man.
‘So, what have you got that you can pull these two lads in with?’ Ashworth asked, dubiously.
‘We had a tip-off, sir,’ Stimpson lied smoothly, ‘and door-to-door turned up a positive sighting of the two suspects outside Mrs Taylor’s house at about the time of the rape.’
‘That’s good work,’ Ashworth conceded, ‘very good work.’
He slowly wandered over to the glass wall and stared out; the thaw had come earlier than predicted, he thought, as more and more red pantiles and thatch began to show on the roofs below him. ‘Any previous?’
Whitworth made his only contribution to the discussion then: a sound midway between a laugh and a snort.
Stimpson shot him a warning glance. ‘As long as your arm, sir: taking without consent; possession of drugs; vandalism, sex with a minor. They’ve been in and out of juvenile court for years, but have never had more than a slapped wrist.’
‘Right, bring them in.’
‘With respect, sir, you realise the paraphernalia that entails: their parents and social workers present at all interviews; as many breaks in questioning as they want—’
‘Yes, I do realise — what’s your point?’
‘Well, sir, I think these kids, aided by their social workers, are going to refuse to answer questions . . .’
Ashworth nodded. ‘Yes, go on.’
‘And if they do that, we’ve got very little to go on. So, sir, with that in mind, I’d like search warrants for their homes, and an order to hold them in secure accommodation — at least over the weekend.’
‘Yes, all right, I’ll authorise both of those moves. Apply to a magistrate as and when you need.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Stimpson said, with obvious relief.
‘Good, is that all?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, let me bring you up to date with the kidnap case. The ransom demand is calling for a drop to be made at a local wood at 11 p.m. tomorrow. I’d like you to be with me, DC Whitworth.’
Such was Whitworth’s surprise, he almost toppled off the desk; cigarette ash fell on to his shabby shirt as he slid to his feet. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, hastily brushing himself down.
‘You won’t be requiring me?’ Stimpson asked stiffly, annoyed at being excluded.
‘Yes, I shall, but I’d like to discuss it with you in private,’ Ashworth said, looking pointedly at Whitworth.
The Detective Constable returned the stare before saying, with much sarcasm, ‘I’ve just remembered something I’ve got to do, so if you gentlemen will excuse me . . .’
When he had gone, Ashworth turned to Stimpson. ‘As you’re the only member of the team — apart from myself — who’s married, I’ve decided not to include you in the first ransom drop, in case things go wrong.’
‘The first?’ Stimpson queried.
‘That’s a long story. What I want you to do is go with Paine to the bank in the morning, collect the money, and bring it back here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How certain are you of the case against the two juveniles?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Well, just tread carefully. You know what the Crown Prosecution Service is like — make it watertight.’
* * *
It was five thirty before the officers were able to detain Damon Cain and Delvin Bennett. Calls to their homes had proved fruitless. So, working on the assumption that, sooner or later, the boys would turn up at the amusement arcade, they parked some thirty yards away from it, and waited.
Sure enough, after an h
our, they were rewarded with the sight of the youngsters walking towards them.
As soon as they drew level with the car, Whitworth got out and blocked their way. The boys’ first reaction was one of flight, which Whitworth’s fleetness of foot quickly thwarted. He grabbed the boys by the collars of their leather jackets and, such was his strength, he was able to lift their slight frames clear of the ground as he bundled them into the back of the car.
Grinning wildly, he climbed in beside them. ‘Hi, guys, I’m your friendly community policeman.’
As they had not been arrested, but were merely being brought in for questioning, Whitworth had no right to search them, but he did, nevertheless, on the pretext that they might be carrying concealed weapons. The search, however, carried out discreetly in the back of the car, revealed nothing more sinister than loose change and latch keys.
It was at the station when the problems really began: they could not interview the boys until their parents and social workers were present, and locating them was proving difficult.
Uniformed officers sent to find the parents had drawn a blank. The social worker, Ms Jenny Rolands, was not available, and word had been left for her to contact the station as soon as possible — whenever that was likely to be.
In the meantime, Cain and Bennett were shown to separate interview rooms where uniformed officers watched over them.
Both officers were greatly frustrated by the loss of momentum caused by this delay.
As he paced the corridor, Whitworth glanced yet again at his watch. ‘The little toe-rags are getting plenty of time to make up stories, create alibis,’ he muttered resentfully.
‘There’s nothing we can do about it, Mike.’
Whitworth, sick to death of Stimpson stating the obvious, ignored him and carried on pacing and muttering.
Sergeant Dutton appeared then; as always, his ambling gait suggested that there was nothing in life demanding any degree of urgency, and, being far too good-natured to hold a grudge against the men for their past misdemeanours, he wore a smile on his face as he reached them. ‘Ms Rolands is here, and aren’t you two lucky?’
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 12
