THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  ‘How do you mean?’ Stimpson asked.

  ‘Well, she’s a radical, even by social worker standards. She really does believe that if the police could be kept off the streets there’d be no problems.’

  ‘Where the hell is she?’ Whitworth snapped.

  ‘She went to the loo,’ Dutton told him. ‘If I could offer you a word of advice . . . I’d go carefully — she’s got quite a lot of influence with the Police Committee.’

  ‘We’ll sort her out,’ Whitworth said, with a firmness which brought a nervous look to Stimpson’s eyes.

  Jenny Rolands strode purposefully along the corridor. She was perhaps early thirties, a large, big-boned woman, with dark blonde hair pulled back and secured with an elastic band. Her features were harsh, masculine; her expression was fierce. She was wearing a white polo-necked sweater, ill-fitting navy-blue trousers, and a long afghan coat which looked as if it had seen the inside of several charity shops before settling with its present owner.

  Whitworth’s eyes widened at the sight of the gargantuan figure marching towards them. ‘Christ,’ he whispered, incredulously, ‘where did she take a leak — the ladies or the gents?’

  ‘This is DS Stimpson, and this is DC Whitworth, madam,’ Dutton said diplomatically, as she stopped before the group.

  ‘Hello,’ she said brusquely. ‘I believe you’re holding Damon Cain and Delvin Bennett.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Stimpson said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re hoping to talk to them about a rape which took place earlier today.’

  Jenny Rolands shook her head in disbelief, uttering a sound of scornful derision.

  Stimpson went on, ‘We’re having some difficulty in contacting their parents.’

  ‘Neither of the boys has a father—’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ Whitworth interjected.

  ‘. . . living at home,’ she finished, glaring pointedly at the detective.

  Sergeant Dutton, sensing that a confrontation was imminent, melted away.

  ‘What about their mothers then?’ Stimpson pressed.

  ‘I’m not one to beat around the bush — Delvin’s mother is a prostitute; rarely, if ever, at home. In my opinion, the lack of a stable home environment is the cause of the boy’s problems.’

  ‘Shame,’ Whitworth sneered.

  ‘I don’t like your attitude,’ Rolands flared.

  ‘It’ll grow on you,’ Whitworth assured her, pleasantly.

  Stimpson stepped in to defuse the situation. ‘And Cain’s mother?’

  ‘Much the same story.’ She was studying Whitworth with curiosity; usually her reputation and bluster — not to mention connections that went right up to the Chief Constable — were enough to guarantee a greater respect than her position or manner deserved; however, in Whitworth, she saw a man who deviated somewhat from the norm. ‘I want to see the boys,’ she ordered.

  Stimpson said, ‘We’re going to talk to Bennett first.’

  ‘He’s a very sensitive lad, so I don’t want you mentioning his mother. I shall be there to see that he’s treated properly. Is that understood?’

  ‘Very clearly,’ Stimpson stated smoothly.

  Delvin Bennett, totally unconcerned, was seated at the interview table. His angelic young face lit up when he saw the social worker. ‘Why am I here, Jenny? I haven’t done anything — honest.’

  ‘It’s all right, Delvin, I’m here to sort things out.’ She fetched a chair and sat next to the boy.

  Whitworth winked at the uniformed officer to the left of the door, then crossed to the tape recorder. Switching it on, he intoned, ‘DS Stimpson and DC Whitworth interviewing Delvin Bennett at . . .’ He glanced at the wall clock. ‘. . . 7.05 p.m. on 8 January. Also present, Ms Jenny Rolands, social worker.’

  With much concern, Rolands looked the boy up and down. ‘Have they treated you well, Delvin?’

  ‘No, Jenny,’ he blurted, ‘they’ve taken my trainers, and that one . . .’ He pointed to Whitworth. ‘. . . hit me on the head.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Rolands demanded.

  ‘That’s a very serious allegation, Delvin,’ Whitworth said, sitting beside Stimpson to face the boy. ‘Where are you claiming the assault took place?’

  ‘You know,’ Bennett accused.

  ‘Where are you claiming it took place?’ Whitworth asked demurely; indeed, since switching on the recorder, his whole personality seemed to have changed; he had become quiet, polite; his tone, one of fatherly concern.

  ‘In the car — you banged my head when you pushed me into the car.’

  ‘I think the best way to resolve this is to call in the police doctor, don’t you, Ms Rolands? A vicious assault of the type Delvin is alleging would undoubtedly leave marks.’

  Jenny Rolands stood up and ran her hands through Bennett’s hair, fingering his scalp.

  ‘Would you like the doctor to take a look, Ms Rolands?’ Whitworth asked politely.

  Sitting down again, she spat, ‘No, leave it.’

  ‘Am I to take it, Ms Rolands, that you have examined Delvin, and you have found no evidence to support his claim? You see no reason to call in the doctor? Is that correct?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ she replied tetchily.

  ‘Good. Now Delvin, we’re trying to find your mother—’

  ‘I protest,’ Rolands said, jumping to her feet. ‘I told you—’

  Remaining moderate, Whitworth said, ‘I can see no reason for you to protest. Someone in your position must be aware of the guidelines that apply to the police questioning of minors. Let me remind you — we must make every effort to ensure that their parents are present. I’m sure you’ll want me to adhere to regulations.’ Whitworth flashed her a wicked grin.

  Seething inside, Jenny Rolands returned to her seat, realising that this scruffy, tough-looking individual was aiming to outmanoeuvre her.

  The boy was beginning to show signs of confusion and concern; years of watching the bombastic manners and strident tones of his mentors turning police officers into jelly had reinforced in him a belief that the authorities could do little to control this behaviour — but now, doubts were creeping into his mind.

  Whitworth lit a cigarette. ‘Have you any idea where your mum is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is she working? Does she have a job?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Out walking.’

  ‘Walking? In this weather?’

  Bennett looked imploringly at his social worker, who simply smiled sadly and nodded her head for him to speak. Morosely, he turned his attention back to Whitworth. ‘She’s on the game.’

  ‘I see, and do you know where she works? The area? It’s very important she’s given a chance to be here.’

  ‘I don’t want her here,’ Bennett yelled stridently. ‘She couldn’t care less about me.’

  ‘All right, son, stay calm,’ Whitworth said, exchanging a glance with Stimpson.

  Stimpson asked, ‘Did you know a woman was raped on the Cherry Tree Estate this morning?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘Where were you this morning, Delvin?’ Whitworth jumped in.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Were you on the Cherry Tree Estate?’ Whitworth persisted.

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’ His tone was petulant but the panic was clear in his eyes.

  ‘Someone left a shoe print at the scene of the rape, Delvin. That’s why we took your trainers, to see if they match.’ This was Stimpson, and as he spoke, fear flashed across the boy’s face.

  Whitworth followed quickly. ‘And we’ve got a witness who saw you there. You’re in trouble, son.’

  The boy began to cry. ‘Make them leave me alone, Jenny. I haven’t done anything. Tell them to stop frightening me.’ He bowed his head, sobbing dramatically.

  Jenny Rolands’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere. ‘You really must stop bullying Delvin. I won’t allow you to wear him down till h
e admits to something he hasn’t done. I demand we break for hot food and a drink.’

  Unseen by Rolands, Bennett lifted his head to smirk at Whitworth, who smiled back, saying, ‘Yes, of course you can have a break. We have other enquiries to make, connected with this case. We’ll send someone in to take your order.’ He sauntered over to the tape recorder, stated the time and reason for termination of interview, then switched off the machine.

  ‘How long do you intend to keep Delvin and Damon here?’ Rolands demanded shrilly.

  Her brusqueness was beginning to ruffle even Stimpson’s usually impeccable manners, and he retorted, ‘You want time to eat your hot meal, don’t you?’

  Whitworth was far more forthcoming. ‘You’ll be here for a while yet, lady.’ His customary contemptuous tone had returned now that the tape recorder could no longer bear witness to it.

  ‘Don’t address me as ‘lady’,’ Rolands snarled.

  Whitworth shrugged indifferently. ‘We’re applying for a warrant to search the homes of these two little treasures of yours,’ he told her, ‘then, depending on what we find there, we could be asking for a secure accommodation order.’

  ‘They can’t do that, can they, Jenny?’ the boy squealed. ‘They can’t search our houses?’

  Whitworth spread his hands on the tabletop and leant forward menacingly. ‘Yes, we can, son,’ he said quietly, ‘and when we find the knife, the sweatshirt and the balaclavas . . . we’re going to do you for rape.’

  ‘I’m reporting you to the Chief Constable,’ Rolands blustered. Whitworth studied her disdainfully. ‘Your privilege . . . lady.’

  Chapter 15

  During the drive home, Ashworth was positively gloating over the inaccuracy of the weather forecast. The evening air was extremely mild for January and swiftly melting snow formed babbling rivulets of dirty water gushing towards the drains.

  Chuckling merrily, he turned the car into his drive, relishing the prospect of pointing out this glaring error.

  Unfortunately, Sarah was not there to listen and his good humour died on seeing yet another note waiting for him in the kitchen. It told him that she had gone to a Samaritans’ meeting, would be home at eight fifteen, and would prepare a meal then.

  With an angry flourish, Ashworth crumpled the note and deposited it in the pedal bin. He looked down at the dog circling his feet, tail wagging hesitantly, slightly perplexed by her master’s lack-lustre welcome. ‘Come on, Peanuts, let’s go into the garden.’

  Moodily, he strolled around the lawn. The wind was soft, and although spring was still a long way off, the promise of it was in the air, but this did little to brighten his disposition.

  Inside once more, he checked the kitchen clock; eight fifteen had already come and gone. It was, in fact, eight fifty when he heard Sarah’s key in the lock.

  The dog, fearing an invasion, bounded to the front door, coat bristling, a growl deep in her throat, but the sight of Sarah set her tail wagging furiously and, barking with enthusiasm now, she scurried back to impart the good news to Ashworth.

  Sarah bustled into the kitchen. ‘Sorry, Jim,’ she said, smiling, ‘I got held up. There’s so much to learn about counselling.’ She noticed his fixed, angry expression, but carried on brightly. ‘I’ll do us something out of the freezer, shall I? Is there anything you fancy?’

  ‘No,’ he replied shortly. ‘It’s too late to eat now. I won’t sleep properly.’ His stomach chose that moment to let out a prolonged rumble.

  Sarah exhaled sharply. ‘What’s wrong, dear?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s because I’m late home, isn’t it?’ She walked to where he was sitting at the breakfast bar. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Jim, but this Samaritan thing is something I really want to do,’ she stated firmly. ‘I’ll try not to let it interfere with us, but it’s important to me.’

  Still his face remained stony.

  ‘I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,’ she offered as conciliation. ‘Just tell me the meal you fancy, and I’ll prepare it.’

  ‘I’m out tomorrow night. It’s to do with the kidnapping.’

  ‘I think you’re being a little bit unfair, Jim,’ Sarah said, trying to sound reasonable. ‘I’m expected to sit here all evening by myself whenever you’re out working.’

  Ashworth, fearing he was losing the argument, stubbornly refused to look at her, and to make matters worse, his stomach gave another hollow rumble. He brooded for a moment, then suggested morosely, ‘I suppose a few slices of cheese on toast would be all right.’

  Later on, wholly cheered by three good measures of best Highland malt, he was in the bathroom, preparing for bed. With much vigour he brushed his teeth, all the while admiring his reflection in the mirror. He could easily pass for a man ten years younger, and his body — particularly since his weight loss — would not shame a man twenty years his junior. But, more importantly, he did not feel his age; in neither appearance nor outlook could he perceive the approach of his autumn years.

  Jauntily replacing his toothbrush in its glass, he rinsed his mouth. The landing floorboards creaked beneath his light step as he made his way to the bedroom.

  Sarah was already in bed, absorbed in a book. She smiled absently as he climbed in beside her, then, carefully marking her place, she lodged the book on the bedside table. ‘Goodnight, dear,’ she said, planting a lukewarm kiss on his lips.

  But Ashworth startled her by slipping his arms around her shoulders, making it difficult for her to withdraw from him.

  After many seconds he released her. ‘What are you doing, Jim?’ she laughed.

  He slipped his hand down on to her breast, asking softly, ‘Do you feel sleepy?’

  Sarah frowned, saying, ‘Jim, I’m bushed . . . really.’

  Stung by the rejection, Ashworth released her and leant back against the headboard. Their sex life, over the years, had settled into a cosy routine, lacking excitement but worthwhile, nevertheless; this was the first time that Sarah had refused him.

  He felt her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t you think we’re getting a little bit past that sort of thing, dear?’

  Leaning over to switch off his bedside lamp, he said sadly, ‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

  As he drifted fitfully between veils of light sleep and drowsy consciousness, images of Gwen Anthony’s inviting nakedness repeatedly enticed him, but each time he reached out to touch her warm flesh, she vanished, leaving him to come awake with a start.

  He found himself with a solid erection, which was comforting, for it assured him that — whatever Sarah might think — he was far from past that sort of thing.

  * * *

  Ashworth’s Saturday got off to a bad start, and continued to spiral downwards throughout the day.

  Waking early, he exercised the dog in the fanciful half-light of dawn. This was usually his favourite time of the day, one which augured new beginnings; a time when yesterday’s seemingly insurmountable problems could be seen in a more positive light.

  But this morning a gloomy air of disenchantment clung to him; invisible to the eye, but as real as the light swirling mist which partially concealed the cheerless landscape. Today, he felt dissatisfied, cheated somehow, as if an important part of him had been laid to rest prematurely.

  ‘Walk,’ he snapped, turning into his drive, even though the dog was trotting obediently by his side.

  He glanced at his Sierra, sitting waiting on the gravel. There was heavy condensation inside and he cursed himself for not having put it into the garage the previous evening.

  Inside the house, he was relieved to find that Sarah was still sleeping as from the stairs, he could hear her soft rhythmic snores. The dog was yapping for breakfast, and as Ashworth tossed a handful of mixer biscuits into her dish, the thought came to him that it had been years since he had noticed his wife’s habit of snoring.

  Opening the bread bin, he took out a sliced wholemeal loaf but, being without much appetite, he returned it, unopened, and made himself a cup of tea.r />
  The dog retreated to her bed and, as if aware of her master’s unhappiness, fixed him with a doleful stare.

  Ashworth was tempted to finish the tea and leave for work, but at some time between pouring and drinking it, he relented and filled a mug for Sarah.

  She was still asleep when he entered the bedroom, and she started when he lightly shook her shoulder. ‘What?’ Her eyes opened; she blinked rapidly. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half-past eight,’ Ashworth mumbled. ‘I’ll put your tea on the bedside table.’

  Sarah sat up in bed. ‘Thank you, dear. Are you off?’

  ‘Yes,’ he grunted, already heading for the door.

  ‘Jim?’ Her voice stopped him. Deep inside, he was hoping for some sensitively worded suggestion that they talk over any problems they might have. But all she said was, ‘Be careful, dear.’

  ‘I will.’

  As he walked downstairs, he could hear the dog crying from the confines of the kitchen; the clamorous sound did nothing to soothe his rankled nerves so, with much haste, he grabbed his coat and left the house.

  The car would not start. Ashworth swore repeatedly under his breath, turning the key again and again until giving up and getting out to dry off the spark plugs. That cured it; at the next turn the engine roared into life. He headed for the station, and by the time he arrived — fifteen minutes late — he was in his ‘you upset me and God help you’ mood.

  It was a widely held notion that police stations were quiet places at weekends, but this was a fallacy. Friday and Saturday nights were probably the busiest of the week as far as the police force was concerned, with revellers, vandals, car thieves, and opportunistic burglars filling the cells to overflowing. Special courts were asked to convene, so clearing the cells for the next influx.

  This particular Saturday proved to be no exception. The front reception area was a mass of moving bodies. Uniformed officers led bleary-eyed prisoners out to the courts for reasons unknown to them, now that the alcohol had been slept off. An infuriated member of the public stood at the desk, loudly demanding to know if his car had turned up — and if not, why not? An entire cross-section of society, from punks to pensioners, waited to be seen.