Ashworth pushed his way through to the stairs, glad to leave the cacophony behind him. Josh Abraham, the sole occupant in CID this morning, looked up as the Chief Inspector entered the office. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said brightly.
‘Morning,’ Ashworth barked back.
Subdued by this fierce entrance, Josh stammered, ‘Alistair escorted Mr Paine to the bank. The money’s over there, sir.’ He indicated an expensive briefcase which stood on Ashworth’s desk. ‘Mr Paine left a set of instructions for you, sir . . .’ Josh continued, until he became aware of Ashworth’s sharp stare.
‘Did he now? And what, pray, are they?’ he asked, tartly.
Josh glanced at a piece of paper on his desk. ‘He reiterates that the money is not to be marked in any way. He wants an officer at his sister’s house tonight, and you’re to phone him during the day.’
Ashworth eased into his chair, swivelling it round to look out over the rooftops of the town. He was glad he had missed Paine; his present mood would have made a confrontation inevitable. ‘And where is DS Stimpson now?’
‘He and DC Whitworth are interviewing the juveniles about the rape, sir.’ He picked up a second piece of paper from his desk. ‘They searched the boys’ homes last night and came up with balaclavas, a knife, which could quite easily be the one used in the attack, and a sweatshirt which matches the victim’s description. Also, the footprint matches trainers worn by one of the boys. So they feel they’ve got enough to send to the Crown Prosecution Service.’
‘Mmm, so do I,’ mused Ashworth.
Josh went back to his computer.
Ashworth studied the back of the man’s head, and attempted to pin-point what it was about Josh which irritated him so much. His strict attention to detail, the endless lists he insisted on making, should have smacked of efficiency, but somehow those self-same attributes lent him a rather prissy air. Also, that damned computer he tapped away at all day — what did it actually produce? At the end of any given period, what could be seen for all that feverish typing? Ashworth, always keen to get the best value from resources, made a mental note to look into this.
Perhaps what bothered him more than anything were the whispered rumours, concerning Josh, circulating discreetly around the station; they, undoubtedly, were the crux of this matter.
Ashworth — probably because his own daughter lived so far away — was developing an almost parental concern for Holly’s well-being, and he felt sure that any attachment she formed with young Abraham would only bring further unhappiness into an already troubled life.
However, being mature enough to realise that, at present, his view of things was somewhat distorted, Ashworth decided to postpone, for the time being, the taking of any definite decisions on any matters, professional or personal.
He stood up. ‘See the money’s put into the Chief Constable’s safe,’ he ordered as he strode to the door.
* * *
Meanwhile, Holly was suffering no such reservations about Joshua Abraham. Since their bitter row, Emily had maintained a polite near-silence — a situation which Holly found highly pleasing, for it gave her time to think, and daydream about Josh.
She had spent hours trying to put her feelings into perspective. He was always kind, courteous, and — whenever they were alone — extremely good company.
Holly knew from experience that many men could behave indelicately; could, within the space of a few days — by the use of sexual innuendo, wandering hands, and other such ploys — assess their chances of success, and adjust their attitudes accordingly.
Josh was a refreshing change. He seemed to be totally honest and appeared to genuinely enjoy her company.
But he never tried anything! Was she glad? She remembered seeing a film once, in which the hero — or villain, whichever way you looked at it — had perfected a technique whereby he feigned sexual indifference to each beautiful woman he found desirable. This novel approach unleashed something inside the women, bringing about a complete reversal of roles — in short, the women became the peacocks, and actively set out to catch this man.
The fact that Holly was travelling to Bridgenorton to have her hair cut and restyled said much for the validity of this hypothesis.
Deep within herself, Holly’s emotional scars were beginning to fade; subconsciously, she was preparing to close the door to the past, take a chance on life, and live for the present.
Chapter 16
The dank scent of rotting vegetation hung heavily over the brooding wood, and the sounds of nocturnal creatures working their way stealthily through the undergrowth made an eerie overture.
Ashworth’s knee creaked painfully as he shifted position amongst the thickets, attempting to alleviate his discomfort; he had been crouched on the wooded slope for almost an hour now, and numbing cramp was working up his legs.
Directly below him was the small stone bridge on which, some ten minutes earlier, Paine had deposited the briefcase containing the ransom money. He had not lingered — for this was an unfriendly place after dark — but had returned immediately to his car, stalling it at first in his eagerness to be gone.
Long after the car had disappeared along the track, Ashworth’s eyes remained firmly fixed on the briefcase; he feared that if he averted them for a second, the money would be spirited away.
There came an ominous crashing sound close by, as a night predator — perhaps a fox — closed in on its prey.
The hackles rose on Ashworth’s neck, and his forehead was covered with sweat, even though he felt numb with cold. He shot a feverish glance down the steep slope and was reassured by the sight of Whitworth’s upturned face, white in the grey blackness of night.
Although he had never considered himself to be of a nervous disposition, Ashworth was glad to be keeping this vigil in the company of Whitworth, together with Josh, and six uniformed officers, all of whom were scattered around at various vantage points.
Unable to tolerate his discomfort any longer, he began to work his way carefully down the declivity, conscious of how the stillness distorted and amplified his movements. By the time he reached Whitworth he was slightly breathless, and his limbs ached as the blood began to circulate once more.
‘I could use a cigarette,’ Whitworth grunted, as Ashworth settled in beside him.
‘You won’t get one for some time yet,’ Ashworth replied shortly.
They sat there in silence for a while, then in a hoarse whisper, Whitworth said, ‘I’ve been thinking — if someone cared to work their way up that stream with a bike or moped, they could have the money off the bridge and be in open countryside in minutes. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘I know, I’ve been having much the same thoughts myself,’ Ashworth admitted miserably, eyes straining to catch any slight movement that the dark might throw up.
Fifteen long, unproductive minutes passed, and then there was action.
‘There’s a car coming up, guv,’ Whitworth said, pointing to his left.
Ashworth looked to where the car was slowly easing along a dirt tract leading to the bridge; its headlights were switched off, the driver picking out his route with just the benefit of sidelights. It was perhaps a quarter of a mile away.
‘Could be just passing through,’ Whitworth ventured.
‘Doubt it,’ Ashworth threw back. ‘That track doesn’t lead anywhere; it ends at a cattle grid a mile up the road.’
‘It’s stopping,’ Whitworth whispered, his voice alive with excitement. ‘I think it’s one of the large Vauxhalls — recent, by the shape.’
They watched, hardly daring to breathe, as the car pulled onto the picnic area beside the bridge, its sidelights now extinguished. Then they lost sight of it as huge laurel bushes blocked the view.
Sounds of a car door opening and the slamming of the boot, reached their straining ears.
‘That’s it, guv, we’ve got to go in,’ Whitworth urged. ‘That could be a bike coming out of the boot.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’
Ashworth hissed. ‘He wouldn’t leave the car there.’
‘It could be stolen, guv. Come on, we’ve got to go in.’
Ashworth did not want to be too hasty. He prayed that this was the kidnapper and fervently hoped that this operation would be a success. Simon Edwards was out there somewhere, and Ashworth wanted him back in one piece.
As Whitworth fidgeted restlessly beside him, he came to a decision; fighting to keep his breath steady he reached into his pocket for the radio. ‘All officers apprehend occupant of car parked in picnic area. Go carefully.’
Whitworth was already snaking his way down the steep embankment, with an agility which Ashworth envied; close to the bottom he stumbled, falling heavily, but rolled over and came to his feet running, crossing the road with the speed of an unleashed greyhound.
Ashworth made a slower, more cautious descent — his shaky legs still seeming to have a life of their own — and by the time he reached the road, all officers were in the picnic area.
Whitworth was walking towards him, arms waving to imply negation. ‘No, guv. Courting couple — they were at it by the time I got to the car.’
‘Damn,’ Ashworth muttered angrily. ‘Damn.’
Whitworth lit a cigarette; the other officers chatted amongst themselves. The tension which had built up over the last hour or so was quickly evaporating.
Ashworth, clutching at straws, asked, ‘There’s no chance it’s a cover?’
‘I don’t think so. When I wrenched the car door open, neither of them knew whether they were coming or going.’
This remark, uttered by a poker-faced Whitworth, brought considerable sniggering from the uniformed officers.
‘All right, calm down,’ Ashworth commanded impatiently. The noises stopped abruptly.
Ashworth’s gaze took in the parapet of the bridge, and panic gripped him — the briefcase was gone.
‘I’ve put the money in the boot of my car, sir,’ Josh’s calm voice assured him.
Ashworth swallowed hard, and said, ‘Good man.’ Then, turning to Whitworth, ‘Are the couple all right?’
‘The lad’s shaken up, and the girl went into near hysterics when she realised half of Bridgetown nick had had a good look at her pussy.’
Another outburst of boyish merriment threatened, but Ashworth’s stern gaze soon quelled it. ‘I’d better have a word with them,’ he said.
The young man, no more than twenty years old, was standing by the driver’s door, his face pale and shaken. By his side, sobbing into an already sodden paper tissue, was his blonde girlfriend. Ashworth’s formidable appearance only served to bring fresh squeals of distress to her lips.
‘We weren’t doing anything, Mr Ashworth,’ the young man protested.
‘That’s not how it looked from where I was standing,’ Whitworth quietly quipped, causing the girl to wail with renewed vigour.
‘Mike,’ Ashworth chastised. He took Whitworth’s arm and led him round to the other side of the car. ‘Have some sensitivity, will you? This might be a joke to you, but for these youngsters, it’s pretty traumatic.’
‘Right, guv,’ Whitworth said, with barely concealed mirth.
Ashworth returned to the couple, cutting short the young man’s explanations. ‘It’s all right, Jamie, you haven’t done anything the police are interested in—’
‘We are getting engaged,’ the girl blurted out.
‘Oh, good,’ Ashworth replied lamely. ‘Anyway, you just stumbled into a police operation, that’s all.’
‘So my dad won’t have to know?’ Jamie asked hopefully.
‘Ah.’ Ashworth’s pregnant pause did little to help the girl’s emotional state. ‘We shall have to eliminate you from our enquiries, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, God,’ Jamie moaned, in a tone which implied that his whole world had just come to an end.
‘There’s no need to worry, though,’ Ashworth reassured him. ‘I’ll leave it as long as possible, and I won’t go into details. Can’t you tell your dad you stopped for a kiss and a cuddle? Even he couldn’t object to that.’
‘I suppose not,’ Jamie said doubtfully.
‘It’ll be all right, don’t worry. Now, your young lady’s distressed — why don’t you take her home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Jamie, tell me, what did you take out of the boot?’
The question brought on a fresh outburst of crying from the girl.
‘It’s my dad’s car, you see, and . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well . . . I needed the car rug . . . the stains on the upholstery . . .’
Whitworth’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.
‘Yes, all right, Jamie, off you go then,’ Ashworth said hastily, mentally kicking himself.
The still-sniffing girl walked around the car, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Whitworth gallantly stepped forward to open the door for her. Once settled in the seat, she was aware that Whitworth had not straightened up, nor had he closed the car door. Hesitantly, she glanced at him and followed his gaze to the tiny frilly white garment nestling behind the gear stick.
‘Don’t catch cold, love,’ he whispered.
The girl took one look at his wicked grin, and burst into tears again. ‘Take me home, Jamie,’ she sobbed.
Whitworth’s face was a picture of innocence as he closed the door. They all watched the car pull away.
‘You know the lad, guv?’ Whitworth asked, above the sound of crashing gears.
‘Very observant,’ Ashworth commented drily. ‘Yes, his father’s the local bank manager . . . and a lay preacher.’ He chuckled. ‘A few years ago he was on some council committee, always beefing on about used condoms being all over the town. As long as I don’t drop the lad in it too much, this little incident could be very useful if I ever need information about someone’s bank account.’
A surprised Whitworth glanced at Josh. ‘That’s not very ethical,’ he said, cynically.
‘All right, lads,’ Ashworth called out. ‘It’s all over here. Those of you still on duty report back to the station, the rest of you go home. Josh, leave the money with me and go to the Edwardses’ house.’
Their cars were parked some thirty yards away, behind a bank of dense undergrowth. As they walked towards them, Ashworth remarked, ‘Talking of ethics, I’ve been hearing complaints about your behaviour.’
‘The social worker,’ Whitworth scoffed. ‘I know what she needs, but I just can’t find anybody hard up enough to give it to her.’
Ashworth, still on the adrenalin high, laughed loudly; he was beginning to appreciate Whitworth’s rather base sense of humour.
The roar of car engines disturbed the quiet of the night. Above the noise, Ashworth said, ‘She has complained, yes — but so has someone a little closer to home.’
‘Alistair Stimpson.’
‘You don’t sound worried.’
‘I’m not, guv. When Alistair wants to come at me from the front, I’ll explain my actions.’
Ashworth was surprised by the lack of animosity displayed by the man; he found it refreshing.
They rounded the bushes. Josh was waiting to hand over the briefcase.
‘Thanks, Josh. Wait in your car, I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Ashworth locked the money in the boot of his car as Whitworth asked, ‘Have you got any complaints, guv?’
‘If I had you’d have heard them by now,’ Ashworth assured him. ‘I’ll offer you some advice though.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Next time you decide to shave off corners, don’t do it with Stimpson around.’
The moon came from behind a bank of low cloud and lit up the grateful smile on Whitworth’s face. He said, ‘Do you want me to clear things up at the Edwardses’ house? I’ve heard Paine gets up your nose.’
‘And he wouldn’t get up yours, I suppose?’
‘Water off a duck’s back,’ Whitworth shrugged amiably. ‘I’ll just keep calling him “sir”, and agreeing w
ith him — make him mad as hell.’
Ashworth found the thought most appealing. ‘Yes, all right, I’d like you to. I’m in no mood for Paine, anyway. I’ll take the money back to the station.’
‘Right.’ Whitworth began to stride off.
‘Oh, and Mike . . .’
‘Yes, guv?’
‘Thanks.’
Whitworth, grinning, touched his forehead in a salute and sauntered over to Josh, who was belting up in his car. Banging on the roof, he shouted, ‘Okay, Funny Guy, you and me are going to see the man, Paine.’
Josh pulled his car in behind Whitworth’s souped-up Cortina, and as they drove out of the field, Ashworth could hear Whitworth’s strangled voice declaring, above the beat of heavy metal music, that he would never see his baby again.
Chapter 17
Ashworth spent Sunday morning holed up in his study. The gravity, the enormity of the case, enthralled him. Something about it was not right, but he could not put his finger on it. Various concatenations filtered through his mind, to be dissected, examined; every minute detail searched to find the part which did not ring true.
Sarah, well used to her husband’s total absorption in his work, was blissfully unaware of any worries he might be having away from the job. She had failed to observe his sour expression at breakfast when she had listened to his narrative of the ransom drop, but had not extended the conversation, wishing instead to tell him about the wonderful television film he had missed.
To Sarah’s mind, diets had no place at Sunday lunch, so — eager to placate her petulant spouse — she served up lashings of his favourite roast beef and potatoes, fresh vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding.
She smiled indulgently as he tucked in with obvious relish; he deserved a good meal. His recent self-imposed adherence to the strict diet pleased her immensely, and it would seem that he had, once again, taken up his long-abandoned fitness programme: press-ups, knee-bends, and even those dreadful sit-ups.
There was still one area of her husband’s intake which Sarah would have loved to tackle — his consumption of scotch whisky. She did make the occasional sortie, reducing his nightly drinks from three to two, but could not claim any consistent results and the subject remained taboo.
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