THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  ‘Just natural progression, I suppose,’ French replied. ‘We both found the experience enlightening, once we’d got over thinking of it as just a drunken mistake. We began seeing it as a way to improve our marriage, rather than destroy it.’

  ‘The problem isn’t when your partner is having sex with someone else,’ Julie chipped in, ‘but when they’re doing it behind your back . . . deceiving you.’

  Ashworth thought how like a mouse championing a cause she looked. ‘No doubt you’re right in your assumptions,’ he said breezily, ‘but they’re of little interest to us. If you could let us have the names and addresses of the other ladies in your forward-looking group, we can interview them and eliminate you from our enquiries.’

  ‘No,’ French said, a little too quickly, ‘and in any case, it’s one woman, not women.’

  ‘But your wife led me to believe there were a number of women involved.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ French snapped. ‘She panicked when this started to come out into the open. But there’s only one woman, and she’s married. We won’t name her because it would cause too much trouble. That’s final.’

  ‘Ah, so her spouse is not forward-looking. How very inconvenient.’

  Neither French, nor his wife, seemed stung by Ashworth’s sarcasm, and the outburst he had been hoping for did not materialise, so he decided to try cajolery. ‘We are very discreet,’ he coaxed. ‘No one, apart from the lady herself, will know we’re looking into it.’

  ‘No,’ French said resolutely. ‘We haven’t done anything illegal. You’ve no right to hound us.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Ashworth stood up with an air of finality. ‘But we shall put our own interpretations on your silence.’ He purposely directed the remark at the frightened Julie French.

  Her husband led them to the front door.

  ‘Goodnight, sir,’ Ashworth said abruptly, before opening the door and stepping outside.

  Alan French listened to their footsteps retreating down the path. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, hitting the door lightly with the flat of his hand.

  In the lounge, Julie was peeping around the curtains at the front window.

  ‘Get away from there, they’ll see you,’ French hissed.

  She let go of the curtain and shrank back. ‘What are we going to do, Alan?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied forcefully. ‘Nothing. Why the hell did you have to tell them about Simon?’

  ‘I just panicked. I thought they knew.’

  French grabbed her arms roughly and shook her. ‘They don’t know anything. Just get that into your head. They don’t know.’

  ‘They’ll find out about the money, and the car, Alan, I know they will,’ she said hopelessly.

  ‘Not if we keep our nerve, they won’t.’

  Outside, Holly shivered in the cold night air. Inwardly she was seething. Not once during the interview had Ashworth, either by word or gesture, invited her to take part. This, coupled with the fact that his mind did not seem to be on the job, was creating within her an almost irrational anger.

  ‘Interesting,’ Ashworth commented as he looked back at the house.

  ‘Yes,’ Holly said flatly.

  He glanced at her sullen face. ‘I’m sorry about being late, Holly, really I am. But my business with Dr Anthony was important . . .’ He smiled to himself. ‘. . . Not to mention pressing.’

  ‘It’s not that, sir. I don’t mind how late I work.’

  ‘What is it then? I can tell by your attitude you’re angry with me.’

  For a few moments the bubbling well of frustration inside her threatened to overflow. She wanted to tell him that, yes, she was angry — bloody angry — because she felt excluded from the investigation; felt as if she did not exist. She wanted to tell him that, in her opinion, bunking up the good doctor was taking his mind off the job.

  Instead she said in a defeated tone, ‘It’s Josh. I think you treated him unfairly.’

  Ashworth was puzzled. ‘Josh?’ Then realisation dawned on his face. ‘Look, Holly, I’ve got one officer sick and another suspended. I need every available person out here.’

  ‘I think you’re picking on him.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t kid-glove people. Josh Abraham gets the same treatment as everyone else. No better. No worse.’ Holly’s sour look prompted him to say, ‘Oh, this is hopeless. I’d better be going, I need to see Mike Whitworth to tell him to stop following those kids about.’

  Realising that she was not addressing the real problem, Holly relented. ‘Would you like me to do that?’

  Ashworth glanced at his wristwatch. ‘But it’s half-past nine.’

  ‘I know, sir. I’m not in any hurry to get home.’

  ‘Well, it would help. Just tell him to lay off.’ He walked to his car. ‘I’ll be late in tomorrow. I’m going to see Len Warren.’

  ‘Will you want me to go with you, sir?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ he said, shaking his head as he got into the Sierra. ‘I don’t want to ring too many alarm bells.’

  Holly watched the car’s tail lights as he drove away. ‘No, no, no,’ she mimicked, ‘if you’re there you’ll press alarm bells.’

  Climbing angrily into the Mini, she muttered to herself, ‘I know I’m ugly and skinny but, bloody hell, I didn’t realise everybody thinks I’m thick.’

  She slammed the door so violently that the handle used for winding down the window promptly fell off and landed with a dull thud on the Mini’s threadbare carpet.

  Chapter 25

  Ashworth turned into his drive. For once, classical music had been sidelined, and the melodious message of the Four Tops blared from the car’s speakers.

  He locked the car and walked to the house, feeling happy, lightheaded, detached from reality almost — feelings usually only experienced by young lovers.

  As soon as he opened the front door Peanuts came bounding out of the lounge to greet him, barking wildly as she circled his legs.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said, for once devoid of the irritation usually provoked by this ritual. ‘Good girl.’ He crouched down to stroke the dog. ‘Just let me walk about, eh?’

  ‘I’m in here, Jim,’ Sarah called from the lounge.

  With the dog trotting at his heels, her tail wagging with pleasure, he went to join her.

  She was sitting in an armchair, a pile of papers in her hand. On the floor, beside her, was a brand new black executive case.

  ‘She’s been out, dear,’ Sarah said, indicating the dog. ‘I’ve only been in half an hour myself. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘I think I’ll have a drink. Do you want one?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, I’ve got one.’

  He was taking the cap off the whisky bottle when Sarah said, ‘Gwen Anthony phoned, and the message was — she thinks she’s satisfied, but can you check tomorrow, just to make sure?’

  Ashworth felt his colour rise as he poured the drink. ‘That’s to do with the post-mortem,’ he hastily explained, cursing Gwen’s impish sense of humour.

  ‘I realised that, dear,’ Sarah replied absently. ‘How’s it going, by the way?’

  ‘Slow, slow,’ he said, sipping his drink. ‘I’m just waiting for quick, quick.’

  Sarah gave a shallow laugh. ‘There’s another thing, Jim. I’ve been offered a course with the Samaritans, but it’s in London and I’d be away until next Tuesday. If you object, I won’t go.’

  Ashworth studied his drink as he contemplated five days of freedom. ‘No, by all means go, Sarah,’ he said generously. ‘Just enjoy yourself.’

  Sarah put the papers down in a huff. ‘I know the work is voluntary, but it’s not going to be a holiday, you know,’ she said sternly.

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply that it was,’ he said quickly, eager to avoid a confrontation.

  * * *

  Mike Whitworth’s address was a boarding-house in the Thorprise area of Bridgetown. The streets were littered with drink cans, chocolate bar wrappers, and g
eneral refuse.

  Holly turned into the grand-sounding Mount Rise and found it depressingly seedy. Victorian houses stood in the broad tree-lined road. Undoubtedly, these five-storey buildings had once represented the full splendour of a gracious age, but they had now fallen into almost irreversible decay. Unpainted masonry was crumbling around windows; slates were missing from most roofs; and the once great oaks — their roots pushing up paving slabs — were now no more than convenient urinals for the area’s considerable dog population.

  The Mini pulled up outside number 25. Holly got out and set the alarm. Wide stone steps, flanked by two lions at their base, led up to a green front door. Inside was a long dark corridor with doors leading off.

  A thick-set man, in his forties and completely bald, was staffing reception, which was little more than a serving hatch in the wall.

  He looked up from his newspaper when Holly tapped on the counter. ‘Yeah?’ he said, impolitely.

  ‘Mike Whitworth — what’s his room number?’

  ‘It’s at the top. When you run out of stairs, you’re there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Holly said.

  As she walked away, the man shouted, ‘If you leave in the early hours, keep the noise down, will you? And tell that crazy, it says no loud music in our terms.’

  There was no carpet on the stairs, just nailed-down pieces of linoleum. The walls were covered with the original varnished wallpaper, which was now pockmarked and grimy. Tobacco smoke, sweat and cooking smells mingled with the dampness of the building.

  Holly climbed four flights and found herself on a small landing. There was a payphone on the wall, and nine steps which led to a startlingly blue door. Sometime in the past it must have been beaten down for there was a crack running from top to bottom of it; the glue which had been used to stick it back together bubbled beneath the paint.

  Loud rock-and-roll music thumped its way through the wood, at a volume which threatened to disintegrate it once more.

  Holly’s first knock went unanswered, so she banged harder.

  ‘Leave, before I get mad,’ Whitworth’s voice commanded above the din.

  ‘It’s Holly Bedford, Mike,’ she hollered back.

  The music died and Whitworth opened the door. He looked surprised. ‘Hi, Holly,’ he said, ‘I thought it was that jerk on reception complaining about the music again.’

  He was naked apart from a pair of dark blue training trousers, and the dumb-bell he was holding suggested that she had disturbed his work-out. His well-developed chest, arm and stomach muscles glistened beneath a film of perspiration.

  Holly felt desire kindling inside, her repressed needs heightening the arousal out of all proportion to the situation.

  ‘Come on in.’ His teeth flashed white in his dark face.

  She noted, thankfully, that the room was clean — undoubtedly Whitworth was responsible for this — but the furnishings were spartan. The centre of the floor was covered by a large red and brown patterned rug; around its edges the floorboards were stained a dark brown. A single bed stood beneath the window. There was a cooker, a sink and draining board with a length of white worktop, on which stood a large plastic container filled with fermenting beer. A wooden table housed a portable television and cassette player, and the room’s only chair was also wooden with a hard back, and looked as old as the house itself.

  ‘What brings you here?’ he asked, ducking into a room Holly assumed was the bathroom, and emerging seconds later, rubbing himself down with a large towel.

  ‘Message from Ashworth,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the word from Boss Man then?’

  ‘He says you’re to stop following Cain and Bennett.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus — Josh wasn’t supposed to pass the message on word for word.’ He threw the towel on to the bed, his dark looks smouldering with anger. ‘Well, you tell Boss Man I’ll back off, but he sure as hell needs to watch those kids.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Holly found her gaze transfixed on the bulge in Whitworth’s trousers; the tightness of them did little to conceal his outline. ‘You’re still as cocky, I see,’ she said, quite unintentionally, adding quickly, ‘I mean, being suspended hasn’t changed that.’

  ‘No, it hasn’t.’ He stared at her. ‘Come on, Hol, sit down.’

  He pulled the chair into the centre of the room, and as she sat, he asked, ‘Do you want a beer?’

  ‘Yes, I’d love one.’

  Behind the portable television there was a beer barrel. Whitworth pulled two half-pints from it.

  ‘What’s happening at the Sheriff’s office?’ he asked, passing Holly the drink, which was cloudy and smelt strongly of hops.

  ‘The news is, Alistair’s got one of the WPCs pregnant and he’s done a runner.’

  Whitworth chuckled wickedly. ‘Good,’ he remarked with relish.

  Holly took a tentative sip of the beer; it bit the back of her throat and made her eyes water. ‘God, Mike, what is this stuff?’ she rasped.

  ‘Devil’s water. I brew it myself. Drink it — it’ll put hairs on your chest.’

  ‘Yes, I bet.’

  Suddenly she felt an urgent need to talk to someone and she just hoped that Whitworth would be receptive. ‘Do you want a really good laugh?’ she asked.

  ‘Try me.’

  After taking a long drink — the beer seemed to be more palatable now — she said, ‘You know I was friendly with Josh.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, he asked me to go to a concert with him . . .’

  Whitworth sat across the bed, his back to the wall.

  ‘. . . and I thought — this is it, Holly.’

  ‘Then you found out he was gay.’

  She closed her eyes and nodded. ‘God, Mike, I feel so stupid. Everything I do in that department balls up.’

  ‘That’s a cow, Hol,’ Whitworth sympathised.

  Holly looked up, worried that he might be laughing at her, but she saw that his expression was deadly serious. ‘I’ll get over it, I suppose.’

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. ‘If you’re that desperate, I could always give you a work-out.’ Back to his old self now, he patted the bed.

  ‘I’ll never be that desperate,’ she joked, lowering her eyes.

  ‘That’s what they all say.’

  She drained her glass. ‘Mike, I’m sorry, with all your troubles, you don’t want to listen to mine.’

  She was about to stand up when Whitworth said, ‘No, Hol, don’t go. You’re the first person I’ve seen since I was suspended. Have another beer — yes?’

  ‘Okay.’ Holly was finding his company easy and relaxing.

  As he pulled the drinks, he asked, ‘How’s the kidnap thing going?’

  ‘That’s something else that’s bothering me,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Mike, Ashworth doesn’t seem to share anything with us. I don’t think he’s up to the job at the moment — I’ve a strong suspicion he’s having it off with the pathologist.’

  ‘I hope that’s a female.’

  ‘Yes,’ Holly laughed.

  ‘Thank God for that — having Josh there is bad enough.’

  Whitworth saw her face fall. ‘Sorry, lousy joke.’ He handed her the drink. ‘Sit on the bed, Hol. You’ll be safe.’

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ she sighed, good-naturedly, as she sat down on the bed.

  Whitworth sat beside her. ‘Ashworth’s a one-man-band, kid — a loner. Everybody who’s worked under him has reached where you are now. That’s why none of them have lasted.’

  ‘What would you do if you were me?’

  ‘Give him some space. The lads say that sometimes people think he hasn’t got enough about him to find his way out of the station, but his brain’s in overdrive, that’s all. Which is probably why he’s so detached.’

  ‘But it’s boring, Mike.’

  ‘Hang in there, kid. The way I’ve heard it, Boss Man’s going to be moved soon — something to do with the Home Office. The plan
was that Alistair would be moved up to inspector, but he’s cocked that up with his . . .’ He waited for Holly to finish the sentence. ‘Come on, Hol,’ he urged. Then waving his hands as if conducting an orchestra, he repeated, ‘He’s cocked that up with his . . .’

  ‘Cock,’ they chorused.

  As they laughed, he said, ‘So it’s an open field. Could be a good job in there, Hol.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘After they’ve thrown me out of the force?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Security, I suppose.’

  It came to Holly’s notice then that every object she focused upon seemed to be fuzzy around the edges. Nevertheless, she gulped down what was left of her drink.

  ‘More?’ Whitworth asked.

  She handed him the glass and watched his panther-like grace as he went to refill it. As soon as he handed her the fresh beer, she took the head off it.

  Whitworth settled on the bed beside her, and for the first time, she became aware of his strong animal scent.

  The alcohol had finally severed the link between her brain and her mouth, and she asked, ‘Do you think I’m pretty, Mike?’

  ‘You ain’t a classic beauty, girl,’ he admitted frankly, ‘but you’re attractive.’

  She gripped his forearm. ‘Do you find me attractive?’

  ‘Steady, girl,’ he cautioned, taking the half-empty glass from her hand and placing it on the floor.

  Holly held his arm again, running her fingers up to his bulging biceps. ‘Did you mean it, about giving me a work-out?’

  Whitworth glanced at her hand, then looked into her eyes.

  ‘I really need it, Mike . . . really.’

  ‘Come on, Hol,’ he coaxed, ‘you’re three parts pissed. Tomorrow you’d hate yourself — and me.’

  She put her arms around his neck. ‘You don’t know how screwed up my head is, Mike. I need to be three parts pissed.’ Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. ‘If I don’t do it now, I’m never going to.’

  Whitworth kissed her then, and his lips caused sensations within her that she had forgotten existed.

  ‘I’m not a permanent guy,’ he said as their lips parted.

  ‘I don’t want anything permanent. I just want a cock.’