After lunch, with most of the snow gone, Ashworth set about edging the flowerbeds, and generally pottering about.
In the evening they watched a television play, or rather, Sarah watched; Ashworth’s mind kept drifting over various subjects and, as it wandered yet again, he came to the conclusion that the plot — if indeed there was one — had been very carefully camouflaged.
Nine thirty, and ritual dictated a sherry for Sarah, a scotch and soda for himself. He was pouring these when the telephone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, passing the sherry to Sarah on his way to the hall.
He took a sip of his drink, then picked up the receiver. ‘Ashworth.’
‘Hello, Jim.’ It was the weary voice of Don Facer, head of the Forensic department. ‘I’ve got you to thank for being dragged out of the pub.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘The second ransom note’s turned up. Posted this morning at Bridgetown main post office.’
Ashworth’s glass jarred as it was set down. ‘Go on,’ he urged tensely.
‘Same paper as the first — cheap. Written in biro. No finger-prints—’
‘What does it say?’ Ashworth cut in, impatiently.
Facer snorted. ‘Well, although it was addressed to Mrs Edwards, it’s definitely meant for you. Goes on at great length about your shortcomings. Chummy claims he was in the wood last night, and actually touched the briefcase containing the money. He’s quite pleased with himself. Anyway, then it gets on to the real nitty-gritty . . .’
Ashworth sighed loudly. ‘Go on.’
‘It says: ‘These are my instructions. On Monday, 11 January, at 6 p.m. Dennis Paine is to take the money to the public telephone box by the stone cross. He is to wait for me to call him. I will then give him further instructions. If these instructions are not complied with, I shall kill Simon Edwards.’ That’s it, Jim.’
‘All right, Don, thanks. I’ll let you get back to the pub.’ He put down the receiver and stood for a while, sipping his drink, contemplating the message. It struck him that the wording of it suggested an educated man, or at least a man used to letter-writing who liked to show off his skill. Ashworth fervently hoped that tomorrow night would not prove to be yet another wild-goose chase.
He returned to the lounge where Sarah was still engrossed in the play. ‘That was the station,’ he remarked. ‘There’s another ransom drop tomorrow evening.’
She glanced up. ‘That’s good, dear — I’ll be out tomorrow, as well,’ she said, turning her attention back to the television.
Ashworth longed to talk about the case, and Sarah’s apparent indifference rankled him. ‘I’m going to make a phone call. I’ll do it in the study . . . I’d hate to disturb you,’ he said pointedly.
‘Yes, dear.’
Now, far more supple and energetic than he had been for some years, Ashworth positively bounded up the stairs. In the study, he sat behind his desk and took a long drink, relishing its taste and fiery effect.
Picking up the receiver, he frowned as he searched his memory for the number; silently mouthing the digits, he tapped it out.
The telephone rang perhaps half a dozen times before being picked up. ‘Hello, Holly, it’s Jim Ashworth.’
‘Hello, sir,’ Holly said with surprise.
‘Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, but the kidnapper’s made contact.’
‘That’s quick.’
‘Yes, that was my first thought.’ After making her familiar with the letter’s contents, he said, ‘Why I’m ringing — I want you to follow Paine tomorrow evening.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes. I do have good reasons: firstly, your car is fairly nondescript—’
‘It’s a banger, you mean,’ she joked.
‘It is,’ Ashworth laughingly agreed, ‘which means it won’t stand out as a police vehicle. Secondly, I don’t think our man’s going to be expecting a woman.’
‘And I’ll be out of contact for the whole time?’
‘You’ll have a mobile phone, but that’s all. We can’t afford to take risks, Holly. This drop could be the real one.’
‘Okay, sir.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I just wish you’d waited till the morning before telling me.’
‘I didn’t, for one very good reason — I want you to take your car into the police garage in the morning for a thorough service. I don’t want you having to call out the AA . . . they might not know a man who can help with a kidnapping.’
‘Right, sir,’ she laughed.
‘How did Barbara Edwards take the news last night?’
‘Paine’s been pestering the doctor to put her on stronger tranquillisers. I wouldn’t say she’s out of it, but she’s damned close to it most of the time.’
‘Probably the best thing.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, sounding far from sure, ‘but the man really is a pig.’
‘How did he get on with Whitworth?’
Holly giggled. ‘It was so funny — you know how scruffy Mike is, well, Paine kept looking him up and down, turning his nose up, and raving on about police incompetence. Mike just stood there, taking it all, saying ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ until Paine had finished, then he asked him if he’d like to come out for a Chinese. It doesn’t sound funny now, but it was at the time.’
‘Paine declined the offer, I take it?’ Ashworth laughed.
‘Yes. Mike took Josh and me out for a meal though. Behind that big macho bit, he’s quite nice.’
‘He grows on you, I suppose.’ Ashworth paused. ‘About you and Josh . . .’
‘Yes, sir?’
Ashworth caught the defensive note in Holly’s voice; realising that he was about to seriously overstep the mark, he checked himself, and said brightly. ‘You’ll both be in tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, I’ll see you then,’ he concluded heartily. ‘’Bye.’
The receiver had hardly settled in the cradle when, impulsively, he picked it up again to tap out another number.
As he listened to the ringing tone, he wondered what he would do if a male voice answered. For a few seconds he considered putting the receiver down, but then it was too late, the connection was made and Gwen Anthony’s ‘Yes?’ came down the line.
‘Gwen, it’s Jim Ashworth,’ he said, unaware of the fact that he had lowered his voice.
‘Jim, how lovely. You’ve caught me when I’m a bit tiddly, I’m afraid.’
‘I wasn’t aware doctors indulged,’ he reproached her teasingly.
‘This one most certainly does.’ She fully emphasised the double entendre.
With reluctance, Ashworth brought his mind back to the matter in hand. He said, gravely, ‘We’ve had a second ransom demand. It’s for tomorrow.’
‘And when was the first?’
‘Of course, you don’t know, do you? It was yesterday.’
‘This doesn’t sound right, Jim. The whole thing is too rushed.’
‘I know, that’s what I thought. In some ways the man conforms to type, but his eagerness to get the money just doesn’t ring true.’
There was an ominous pause. ‘There’s one possibility you’ll have to consider . . . it could be that Simon Edwards is already dead, and the kidnapper wants to get his hands on the money before the corpse is discovered.’
Ashworth’s voice was strained as he said, ‘That’s the conclusion I’d reached. I just wanted it confirmed. Sorry to have disturbed you, Gwen.’
‘You haven’t, but you are being a bit naughty . . .’
Her brightness cast aside the previous tension, and Ashworth smiled as he said, ‘Why?’
‘Do you know how much I charge for consultations? I really do feel you should offer to buy me a drink.’
Ashworth heard a floorboard creak beyond the study door. Quickly, he said, ‘As soon as this is all over, I shall.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘A firm one.’
Gwen’s laugh was delightful as
she said, ‘Good, I’ll let you go then. ’Bye.’
He replaced the receiver hastily as Sarah came into the room. ‘Who were you talking to, Jim?’
‘Holly Bedford, my DC,’ he lied easily. ‘Just arranging things for tomorrow.’
‘You’ll miss the end of the play, dear.’
That would be a blessing, he thought, draining his drink. He sat for a moment, staring into the empty glass, striving to ignore the stab of guilt in his chest, then he followed Sarah downstairs.
Chapter 18
Next morning, Ashworth found front reception strangely quiet as he strode through the station doors at nine a.m. sharp.
Martin Dutton — seated behind the enquiries desk, and wearing his ‘have I got bad news for you?’ expression — signalled for Ashworth to join him.
‘What’s the matter, Martin?’ Ashworth asked, while struggling out of his jacket.
‘Have you got your handcuffs with you, Jim?’
‘I’m not following.’
‘You’ll need them . . . to chain young Whitworth to the radiator.’ As Ashworth’s eyebrows lifted questioningly, Dutton went on, ‘The Crown Prosecution Service, in its wisdom, has deemed it unsafe to proceed with the rape case against the two lads—’
‘But the case is watertight,’ Ashworth declared angrily.
‘You know the CPS, Jim,’ Dutton replied, with more than a trace of bitterness. ‘My lads call it the Can’t Prosecute Service. They all say if they had a pound—’
Ashworth cut him short. ‘Whitworth has taken it badly?’
‘He’s not one to hide his feelings, is he? Young Bobby didn’t know the meaning of most of the words he used.’
Ashworth approached the office with trepidation. He felt concerned for Whitworth. How badly would he react to this injustice? And how could Ashworth best calm the situation?
The first of these questions was answered quite forcibly when Ashworth opened the door to his office, and was greeted by a long string of lewd expletives, delivered in Whitworth’s Manchester/London twang.
‘Give me a break, Alistair, it’s fuck—’
‘Quiet now, Mike,’ Ashworth ordered gently.
Whitworth, his usually swarthy complexion now drained of colour, turned to face him. ‘The CPS threw out the rape case, guv.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ Ashworth sat at his desk. ‘Did they give reasons?’
Stimpson, who was greatly disturbed by the Chief Inspector’s use of Whitworth’s first name, tried to take control. ‘They say the shoe print in the snow doesn’t mean anything. It was made by a very popular brand of trainers. The only thing it proves is that the rapist takes the same size as Delvin Bennett. Same goes for the sweatshirt logo — half the kids in Bridgetown wear it.’
‘What about the eyewitness?’
Whitworth snorted. ‘The fucking—’
‘Now stop it, Mike,’ Ashworth thundered from behind a pointing finger. ‘I won’t tolerate that sort of language in this nick. Do you understand?’
Subdued, but still smouldering, Whitworth went and sat on Holly’s desk.
Stimpson said, ‘They say the witness was too far away from the lads to give a positive identification. As for the balaclavas and the knife — well, the lads weren’t carrying them when we picked them up, and they swore they only used them for fishing. I’ve been trying to impress on Mike that we’ll get them. They’ve got a taste for it now — it’s only a matter of time before they do it again.’
‘Not with the CPS, we won’t,’ Whitworth interjected, angrily. ‘I bet if we caught them on top of a woman, they’d say there’s no evidence to suggest that she hadn’t invited them to do it.’
‘Can you give us a minute, Stimpson,’ Ashworth asked, nodding towards the door.
Stimpson was most put out by this obvious dismissal and he strode haughtily out of the office without comment.
Ashworth sympathised with the despairing look on Whitworth’s face. ‘Mike, it’s done,’ he said. ‘Water under the bridge.’
‘Yobs, one — Bridgetown nick, nil.’
‘That’s how it looks now, certainly, but Stimpson’s right — we will get them.’
Whitworth’s dark eyes blazed hostility. ‘You don’t see it, do you, guv? This bloody stupid system prevents us from doing the job. The more these kids get away with, the more convinced they’ll become that we can’t do anything to them.’
Ashworth did see, only too clearly. ‘Where are the boys being held?’
‘Clifton House.’
‘Right. Would you like me to go and tell them they’re not being charged?’
‘No, guv, win or lose, I clear up my own cases.’
* * *
The relaxation room at Clifton House was more in keeping with a quality hotel than a secure holding place for young offenders. Its plush blue carpet was expensive. Luxurious chairs and sofas were dotted about, providing seating for up to fifty inmates.
Numerous pursuits were catered for here, ranging from television — Stimpson had noticed a huge satellite dish on the way in — and video games, to table tennis and snooker. There were books and magazines aplenty; the magazines well-thumbed, the obviously unused books in pristine condition.
Today, a tense atmosphere hung over the room. Jenny Rolands sat with Bennett and Cain on a huge four-seater settee; the boys dwarfed by the large plump cushions. Stimpson and Whitworth stood before them.
Whitworth stared out of the window overlooking the gardens and playing fields, trying to distance himself from this extremely unpalatable situation.
Stimpson said, ‘Delvin, Damon, I’m here to tell you that the police will not be bringing any charges against you.’
Jenny Rolands smiled and squeezed the boys’ hands reassuringly. Cain, running fingers across his spotty face, looked bewildered. Bennett smiled triumphantly as he stared at Whitworth’s profile.
‘So, you’re free to go,’ Stimpson finished on a strained note.
‘You’ve had these boys imprisoned in this place for no good reason,’ Rolands’s austere tone proclaimed. ‘I’ll be complaining about this.’
Bennett, his eyes still fixed on Whitworth, sneered. ‘We did it, King Shit, and you can’t do nothing about it.’
Whitworth’s head came round sharply. He pointed at the social worker. ‘Now, you heard that little toe-rag just admit that they raped the woman.’
‘I heard no such thing,’ Rolands flared. ‘You antagonise the youths of this town. There was never any trouble before you came here.’
Whitworth turned to Stimpson for support. ‘He’s just admitted it, Alistair.’
‘I know, Mike,’ Stimpson whispered harshly, ‘but there’s nothing we can do. Let’s go.’
But Whitworth was reluctant to leave it there. ‘If another woman gets raped,’ he hissed, shaking his fist at Rolands, ‘it’ll be on your conscience, lady.’
‘If you do your job properly and catch the rapist, there won’t be another one,’ Rolands responded jubilantly. ‘You’re too busy trying to pin all crimes on innocent youngsters.’
‘Let’s go, Mike,’ Stimpson urged.
‘Do me a favour, lady — have a crap life.’ It was a hollow victory, but he was determined to have the last word.
Rolands’ fleshy face flushed at the insult.
‘Leave it now, Mike,’ Stimpson insisted, taking Whitworth’s arm and jerking him away.
Bennett’s high-pitched laughter mocked them on the long walk to the door.
‘Stop it, Delvin,’ Rolands lightly chided. ‘You mustn’t laugh at the police.’
In the corridor, Stimpson said, ‘We’d better go and sign the release order.’
‘You do it,’ Whitworth said, staring morosely towards the floor. ‘I can’t stand this place. I’ll wait outside.’
He wandered off along the wide, white-walled corridor towards the front door. But he did not go outside; instead, he paused by a table on which lay piles of mail for the inmates.
He studied the colo
urful ‘No Smoking’ sign as he lit a cigarette, clamping the cork tip between his teeth and narrowing his eyes against the smoke.
He stood there smoking for a while, and then backed into an open doorway as he caught sight of Delvin Bennett strutting along the corridor. The boy disappeared into a room some twenty yards away.
Smiling grimly, Whitworth moved swiftly. He pushed open the door and was met by an overpowering smell of disinfectant.
Bennett was standing a few yards away, with his back towards him. Whitworth deftly flicked his lighted cigarette between the boy’s open legs; it hit the white enamelled urinal, and dropped into the flooded trough.
Bennett turned and gave an imperceptible cry of fear when he saw the churlish expression on Whitworth’s face.
‘Just you and me now, toe-rag,’ Whitworth muttered coldly.
Chapter 19
The news that Delvin Bennett had sustained a head injury, needing sixteen stitches, reached Bridgetown Police Station before the detectives returned. By and large, it was greeted with numb disbelief.
This, however, was not a feeling shared by Chief Constable Savage, as he paced Ashworth’s office. ‘This is serious, Jim. The press will crucify us with it,’ he growled. ‘I’ve had that terrible Rolands woman on the phone, claiming Whitworth was behaving like a psychopath prior to the assault.’
‘Alleged assault,’ Ashworth calmly corrected from behind his desk. ‘Let’s give our own lads the same rights as everybody else, shall we?’
‘It’s obvious he did it.’ Savage stood still long enough to light a cigarette. ‘The man’s all wrong for the job — anybody could have spotted that from day one.’
‘Why didn’t you then, when you were describing him as the backbone of the team?’
‘That’s not fair, Jim. Christ, I don’t need this, you know — I’ve got Police Committee meetings coming up, not to mention meetings with community leaders and the civil liberties wallahs.’
‘And I don’t need it either,’ Ashworth said sharply. ‘I’m in the middle of a kidnap case, or had you forgotten?’
Josh, as always, was lost in his computer program, but Holly was acutely embarrassed at being privy to such a frank exchange of words between two high-ranking officers.
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 15
