THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  Then, as if that embarrassment had conveyed itself to Savage, he stubbed out his cigarette, saying, ‘Shall we continue this on the way to reception, Jim?’

  ‘Surely.’

  As they walked along the corridor, Savage said, ‘He shouldn’t have been sent out on such a sensitive job.’

  ‘Let me have a word with him,’ Ashworth said patiently.

  ‘You’d better. He’ll have to be suspended, you realise.’

  They began to descend the stone steps.

  ‘Ken, you’re over-reacting — Stimpson and Whitworth were together, and I can’t see Stimpson being involved in something like this.’

  ‘Oh, but you can see Whitworth—’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Ashworth declared smartly.

  ‘Whitworth has got a violent temper, Jim.’

  ‘Mike does have a volatile nature, I’ll grant you that, but the fact that he’s been in the force for ten years suggests that he knows how to control it.’

  Ashworth was almost skipping down the steps. Savage, wheezing badly behind him, said, ‘I need this sorted quickly.’

  ‘Ken, we can’t do anything until they get back.’

  ‘You don’t seem to understand how serious this is,’ Savage puffed. ‘You’ve had no experience of it. If there’s just a hint of suspicion, the man will have to go; anything less and we’ll be accused of a cover-up.’

  When they reached the bottom of the steps, Ashworth turned on Savage. ‘Stop panicking, Ken, it’s probably no more than the kid making mischief.’

  ‘Mischief? Sixteen stitches?’ Savage wearily rested his back against the wall. ‘I’m the one who gets the flak, you know. I’ve got social workers screaming at me; Dennis Paine ranting down the phone about his bloody brother-in-law . . . and County Hall shouting about our wages bill.’

  ‘And I’m off enjoying myself, solving all these crimes,’ Ashworth caustically remarked.

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic. All I’m saying is, you’ve got to look at CID overtime.’

  Ashworth, close to using up his quota of patience for the day, scathingly replied, ‘If I knew the kidnapper’s address, I’d take the damned ransom money to him in my lunch hour.’

  ‘Don’t go too far, Jim,’ Savage warned. They had reached the reception lobby. ‘Right, I want to see Stimpson in my office the minute he comes in.’

  Ashworth shook his head despondently as he watched Savage career down the corridor towards his office. As he gloomily surveyed the car park, Whitworth’s car pulled in.

  If the DC had been given advance information of the storm awaiting him, it was not betrayed in his bearing. Ashworth watched as he arrogantly climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him and throwing his keys into the air, to catch them behind his back. The immaculately dressed Stimpson appeared equally unperturbed.

  Once they were inside, Ashworth’s expression alerted them immediately to the fact that all was far from well.

  ‘Guv?’ Whitworth said, in an unusually tentative tone.

  ‘Stimpson — the Chief Constable’s office, right away,’ Ashworth ordered. ‘Mike, come with me.’

  He led Whitworth to a locker room, and his voice still had a cutting edge to it as he snapped, ‘In here.’

  He held the door open for Whitworth, who flicked the light switch as he entered, bathing the windowless room in a harsh, unflattering glow. There was a slight trace of foot odour in the air.

  Ashworth closed the door, and stood with his back against it. ‘Right, what happened at Clifton House?’ he asked, secretly reassured by Whitworth’s puzzled expression. So far, everything about the DC’s behaviour suggested he was innocent.

  ‘Nothing happened, guv. We told the two kids and their minder there’d be no charges made, signed the release papers, and came back here. What is this?’

  ‘Delvin Bennett claims you followed him into the toilets and hit him twice. He’s got sixteen stitches in his face to prove it,’ Ashworth told him bluntly, watching his face closely for a reaction.

  Whitworth closed his eyes. ‘Oh, God,’ he said, ‘I’ve been fitted up.’ He turned sharply and hit out at one of the metal lockers. The sound reverberated loudly around the confined space.

  ‘Did you follow Bennett into the toilets?’

  ‘Yes, guv — I warned him I was still on his case, and told him, if he even breathed too loud, I’d nick him . . . but I didn’t thump him.’

  ‘So how did his face get cut?’

  ‘Oldest trick in the book — they injure themselves, or get somebody else to do it, then blame it on the police.’

  ‘If it is such an old trick, you’ve shown an appalling lack of judgement, putting yourself into such a compromising situation.’

  ‘I never thought it would happen in a place like this, guv. Manchester, the Smoke, yes . . . but not Bridgetown.’

  ‘Did you have an argument with the social worker?’

  ‘I had a ruck with her, yes. She was there when Bennett admitted he and Cain raped the woman.’

  Ashworth seized on this. ‘Did Stimpson hear that?’

  Whitworth pulled a rueful face. ‘Yes, but I’m not expecting any help from that direction.’

  ‘No,’ Ashworth agreed, ‘but I’ll give you all I can. We’ll interview the social worker, the boys . . .’ He paused. ‘You know what this means, Mike?’

  ‘Yes. Yobs, two — Bridgetown nick, nil . . . and Mike Whitworth gets sent off the pitch.’

  He dug his hand into his pocket, brought out his warrant card, and passed it to Ashworth.

  ‘We’ll get to the truth, Mike.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what scares me.’

  ‘Why should it scare you?’ Ashworth asked suspiciously.

  ‘Well, you know what’s got to happen if I’m to have the remotest chance of clearing my name — those kids have got to get juiced up on whatever it is they take, then go out and hurt another woman.’

  For a fleeting second, Ashworth glimpsed the humanitarian behind Whitworth’s tough, uncaring façade; then it was gone. ‘Like the man said, guv — life’s a bitch, and then you die.’

  ‘You really ought to see the Chief Constable before you go.’

  ‘I’ll give that a miss, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘All right, I won’t make it an order.’

  ‘No, don’t, guv — not today.’

  Ashworth stood aside to allow Whitworth to leave the room, then he watched as he made his way to the car park, most of the arrogance gone from his walk.

  Ashworth was in a quandary: on the evidence available, it looked increasingly likely that Whitworth had struck the youth. And if that was indeed the case, he could not condone the action, but he could at least understand it. There had been a number of occasions during his career when he had come close to doing something similar himself.

  Throughout his years in the police force, no one had ever referred to him as ‘guv’ — he was beginning to like the ring it had.

  Ashworth continued to watch as Whitworth’s car pulled out on to the road. Even the roar of the Cortina’s powerful engine seemed subdued, he thought, before turning and heading back to his office.

  Chapter 20

  By three p.m., Ashworth’s mental energies were beginning to dissipate, and he was having to close his mind to the thought that a lot more blackness lay ahead on this dark day.

  Holly and Josh had taken the news about Whitworth badly; this had surprised him somewhat, but it would seem that, although Mike Whitworth could initially appear unpalatable, he was a taste which could be acquired.

  Stimpson had not helped his colleague’s case one bit, when he stated that Whitworth, in his opinion, had been spoiling for a fight at Clifton House, and that Delvin Bennett’s outburst had not constituted an admission of guilt.

  Ashworth had packed him off to take Bennett’s statement, and was glad to see the back of him.

  Ken Savage had continued to rant and rave about anything and everything — from Whitworth leaving the station
without seeing him, to the amount of overtime being booked by CID — until finally his congested throat, further aggravated by his chain-smoking habit, would allow no more than a hoarse, croaking whisper to pass his lips.

  Ashworth was at his desk, trying to take stock of the day, when Holly marched into the office, balancing two plates, and tea in plastic cups.

  ‘Ham rolls, sir. You missed lunch,’ she declared, in a matronly sort of way, setting down a cup and a plate in front of him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, glancing at her own plate, which was laden with two ham rolls, a Mars bar, and some chocolate biscuits. ‘You’re eating a lot today,’ he remarked, sipping his drink.

  ‘Nerves about tonight,’ she admitted sheepishly.

  Ashworth almost dropped his tea. ‘Oh, my God — tonight,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve forgotten to tell Paine about the drop.’

  ‘I took care of it, sir,’ Holly said efficiently. ‘I went to see him at the factory. He’s got the money, and he knows about the drop.’

  Ashworth smiled at her gratefully. ‘Has anyone ever told you, you’re the most wonderful woman in the world?’

  ‘Not for a good many years, sir, no,’ she replied truthfully.

  * * *

  Dennis Paine’s Continental-style villa sat high on a hillside, overlooking Bridgetown.

  As Holly waited in her car, on the lane outside, she had plenty of time to regret her excessive eating habits earlier in the day, for now stress was slowing down the workings of her digestive tract, leaving an uncomfortable knotted feeling in her middle.

  The fact that the mobile telephone, which lay on the passenger seat, was her only link with the station, and that Paine would soon be driving about with one hundred and eighty thousand pounds in his car, only heightened her feelings of dread.

  A little before six p.m., the undipped headlights cruising along Paine’s sweeping driveway heralded his departure. Holly allowed him to turn into the lane, then followed at a discreet forty yards.

  The stone cross was a medieval monument which stood at the foot of a short hill leading into the high street. Paine parked outside the telephone booth, and Holly shortened the distance between them to twenty yards.

  She was more than a little worried that when Paine drove off, she could lose him at the traffic lights on the crest of the hill.

  Paine, pacing back and forth, casting surreptitious glances at his wristwatch, suddenly dashed towards the telephone and grabbed the receiver.

  Holly started the Mini’s engine and kept one eye on Paine as she checked that the road behind was clear.

  Paine flew out of the booth and into his Jaguar. Holly pulled out, but slowed when his car remained stationary.

  ‘Come on,’ she breathed, as motorists behind her honked their disapproval at the Mini’s crawling pace.

  Then Paine’s car moved off. Holly accelerated, watching the traffic lights ahead. She exhaled with relief when they turned from green to amber, then to red as she tucked the Mini in behind Paine’s Jaguar. When the lights turned to green again, Paine steered left into the high street.

  Two gruelling hours later, after an extensive tour of Bridgetown, Bridgenorton, and surrounding countryside — during which time Paine had stopped at no fewer than nine telephone boxes — they were, once more, back at the stone cross.

  Holly’s eyes were sore from driving in the dark, and her nerves were jangled. By now, though, there was far less traffic on the road, which calmed her a little.

  Paine came out of the booth, looked around, then climbed into his Jaguar. Not wishing to make the same mistake twice, Holly, holding the car on its clutch, hung back. She sensed something was wrong when Paine did not move off, and instinctively looked around for anyone approaching the car.

  There was a small slight man, wearing a long brown raincoat, standing opposite the telephone box, waiting to cross the road. So intently was Holly watching him that Paine’s car had been moving for a couple of seconds before she realised.

  ‘Shit,’ she exclaimed viciously, letting the clutch out, and swinging the car into the road, not seeing a Ford Fiesta coming up behind; a collision was avoided only by the driver being quick to bring it to a halt amidst the sounds of screeching tyres.

  Two cars were now between Holly and Paine’s Jaguar as she dashed off in pursuit. She seemed to have lost the ability to salivate, and her stomach cramped as she watched Paine approach the amber light.

  Stop . . . please! she silently pleaded, but the Jaguar turned left into the high street just as the lights turned to red.

  She slammed on the brakes, coming to a halt only inches from the car in front. Grabbing the mobile telephone, she frantically tapped out the number.

  ‘Yes?’ Ashworth’s terse voice jumped from the earpiece.

  ‘I’ve lost him, sir,’ Holly moaned breathlessly. ‘I’m at the traffic lights at the stone cross. Paine turned into the high street on a red light.’

  ‘Keep calm, Holly,’ a dejected Ashworth said. ‘Pursue as soon as possible. I’ll get all available cars into the area.’

  * * *

  At ten p.m., back in the CID office, an air of despondency clung to them all. The hint of prettiness which had been brought to Holly’s face by her new swept-back, fluffed-up hairstyle was now marred by her dull eyes, her tight-lipped, fixed expression.

  Josh’s blank look gave away no hint of what he might have been thinking or feeling. For once his chair was turned away from the VDU, and only his slight restlessness as he gazed around the room betrayed his unease.

  Stimpson, perched on the edge of Holly’s desk, was unusually quiet. Every now and then, he stole a glance at his reflection in the glass outer wall.

  The pungent smell of Whitworth’s stale cigarette smoke still lingered in the room. The throb of traffic from the expressway was a distant mournful wail.

  Ashworth appeared in the doorway, his rugged features gaunt and strained. ‘Nothing,’ he muttered, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Holly said softly.

  ‘Don’t feel too badly, Holly,’ Ashworth slumped into his chair. ‘This man’s clever — his last instructions to Paine at the stone cross were to time it so that he left you behind at the red light. He knew you were there — God knows how.’

  Holly frowned and sighed deeply. Josh asked, ‘Where did Paine drop the money?’

  ‘He had to throw it over the gate at Low Meadow Farm.’

  Josh thought through the geography. ‘So he doubled back on himself?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ashworth said. ‘First left after the lights, down the hill, and then left again. My guess is, the kidnapper was in the field. After collecting the money, he could just stroll across country to where his car was parked.’

  ‘But why didn’t Paine contact us after he dropped the money?’ Holly asked.

  ‘Because’, Ashworth began, wearily, ‘he was instructed to drive to Bridgenorton and park outside the Robin Hood pub where he was told his brother-in-law would be released soon after eight thirty. When Simon Edwards still hadn’t turned up at nine p.m., Paine got in touch with us.’ He thumped the desktop despairingly with his fist. ‘If only the damned fool had rung us just after the drop, we could have had the kidnapper in custody by now.’

  ‘It must have been a bit of an ordeal for him, though, sir,’ Holly ventured. ‘It was bad enough for me. How’s he taking it?’

  ‘Badly,’ Ashworth replied flatly. ‘The man looks worn out. Ken Savage and I have just spent half an hour with him and, true to character, he’s threatening to sue the police for negligence. Mind you, if Simon Edwards turns up as a corpse — what with the unmarked money and everything else — I’m not certain he wouldn’t have a good case.’

  ‘The money’s not unmarked, sir,’ Josh said quietly. No one spoke, but all eyes pivoted towards him. Shyly, he stammered, ‘I spent Saturday feeding the serial numbers into the computer.’

  Ashworth felt a huge surge of gratitude. ‘Well, at least that’s something
. Good work, Josh.’

  Blood rushed to Josh’s face as he said, ‘At least the press won’t be able to make us look quite so silly.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Ashworth said, almost to himself. ‘This may be a time when looking silly is the clever thing to do.’

  ‘How do you mean, sir?’ Holly asked, puzzled.

  ‘If we stick to our original story, that the money’s unmarked and we didn’t take the serial numbers, in the short term we’re going to look foolish, but the kidnapper is going to feel free to use the money, and when he does . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘Right, you three go home and get some sleep. I’m spending the night here in case Simon Edwards turns up.’

  Tired, dispirited, and hungry, no one challenged his decision.

  ‘Did you contact my wife?’ Ashworth asked Holly a little while later, as she was getting into her coat.

  ‘Yes, sir. She said she didn’t get in herself until quarter to ten. I told her you’d not be home tonight.’

  ‘Did she give any message?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right. Goodnight then.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  Holly left Ashworth staring into space.

  There were occasions, during that long, lonely, uneventful night, when Ashworth craved for the comfort only a cigarette could bring.

  Chapter 21

  Tuesday morning’s newspapers carried the story of Whitworth’s suspension for allegedly assaulting a juvenile.

  This did nothing for morale at the station, which sank still further when Simon Edwards failed to materialise during the day, and finally hit rock bottom when the evening newspapers carried the news of the kidnap, and the botched ransom drop.

  * * *

  By Wednesday morning, Bridgetown CID was in a deep state of melancholy.

  It lifted for a second when Ashworth received a call from Central Control. ‘We’ve found Simon Edwards for you,’ the officer told him.

  Ashworth, with heart pounding, rested the receiver between ear and shoulder, and grabbing pen and paper, said, ‘Thank God. Where?’