Although Gwen and the two uniformed constables looked up as he appeared in the doorway, he did not acknowledge them. Instead he took in the room and could literally feel his flesh crawling.
Blood was splattered on the walls, the floor; three trails of it had oozed down the television screen and dripped on to the old carpet. It was splashed across the ’70s-style three-piece suite, and the two faded framed photographs which stood on a pine dresser.
Ashworth looked at them closely. A young man and woman, smiling as they stood on a beach, the sea calm and tranquil in the background; the woman cradling a baby in her arms and proudly posing for the camera. In the second, the man — older now — holding a silver cup with equal pride. All that was left of two lives.
Above the woman’s body, which lay on the floor in the centre of the room, was a small black and white mongrel dog, its pathetic body dangling from the light fitting by a piece of rope tied around its disjointed neck.
Ashworth looked down at the woman. Fifty or more years on, she bore no resemblance to the photograph. Her grey hair was thin and lifeless, a tiny bald spot stood out on the crown. The faded dead eyes stared unseeing towards her pet; the wrinkled mouth hung open as if in horror at what had been done to it.
Her torso was covered in stab wounds from which the blood had flowed so freely, it was impossible to tell the colour of her jumper. The body was naked from the waist down, and as he stared at the brown age spots on the thin white legs, Ashworth felt a surge of destructive anger well up inside him.
He could feel Holly and Josh behind him, could hear their breathing, sense their revulsion. ‘My God,’ he murmured. Try as he might, he could not disguise the edge of raw emotion in his tone.
Gwen’s normally firm voice quavered as she told him, ‘She’s been raped, Jim, and then stabbed to death. But she was a game old girl — she really put up a fight. She must have scratched him, and . . .’ she bit her lip, ‘. . . I think the dog attacked him, trying to protect his mistress. He’s left so much behind, he might as well have left his name and address.’
‘Good.’ Suddenly Ashworth needed to be out of the room. ‘A word outside, Gwen.’
She looked at him. ‘Of course.’
‘You two stay here,’ he told his detectives. ‘There’s no need to wait in the room though,’ he added, striding down the passage.
Outside he turned to Gwen. ‘So you expect the assailant to be marked?’
‘Heavily so — and of course he would be covered in blood.’ She stared at his set, brooding expression. ‘You get him, Jim.’
‘It’s “them”, not “him” . . . and when we do, my people had better take great care not to leave me alone with the bastards.’
As she watched him getting into his car, Gwen knew the remark had not been made out of anger, or frustration — he had meant every syllable of it.
Chapter 27
Anyone not attuned to Spanish-style embellishments might well have considered the guitar and brightly coloured fans scattered around the walls of Dennis Paine’s villa rather lacking in taste. The snow-white carpet was tasteful, however, and expensive, as were the ultra-modern pieces of furniture.
As he entered the lounge Paine paused to look at his sister, sprawled on a blue-and-white-check sofa. ‘Babs, are you going to be all right, here on your own? I must put in an appearance at the factory.’
‘Of course I’ll be all right. I’m not an invalid, you know.’
‘I know you’re not, but those pills are getting out of hand,’ Paine said tactfully.
‘Don’t start that, Dennis,’ Barbara flared. ‘That’s what caused all the trouble between Simon and me.’
‘I can’t think how much they must cost you.’
‘They’re prescribed — you know that,’ she replied evasively.
‘No, they’re not,’ Paine said firmly. ‘Not the amount you take. I’m only thinking of you, Babs—’
‘Oh, why do you always pretend you’re thinking of my best interests, when it’s obvious you’re just trying to prevent me from enjoying myself?’
‘Oh, Babs,’ Paine said sadly, ‘if only you could get back to how you were. You were one of the best businesswomen I’ve known.’
‘Don’t keep nagging me,’ she cried, burying her face in her hands. ‘I wouldn’t have come to stay with you if I’d known you were going to be like this.’
‘All right, all right,’ Paine said in a conciliatory manner, ‘I don’t want to make an issue out of it.’ He disappeared into the hall and returned clutching a pile of papers. ‘I need your signature on some of these.’
‘What are they?’
‘Papers that need the signatures of two company directors, and with Simon gone . . .’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, that was a tactless thing to say.’
‘It’s all right, Dennis, just give them to me.’
‘This is a letter to the bank confirming our overdraft will be settled by the end of the month.’ He passed her the letter and a pen. ‘If some of our customers pay up, that is.’
‘You do worry, Dennis. Our credit’s good at the bank.’
‘It’s the interest we’re paying that bothers me. Now, this is a letter to one of our suppliers assuring them that in spite of what’s happened we’ll be continuing in business. There are two or three duplicates under that, for our other suppliers. If they get panicky and withdraw their credit, we’ll go broke.’
He looked down at his sister as she scrawled her signature upon the letters. ‘Do read them, Babs. For Christ’s sake, don’t just sign.’
‘Don’t keep on at me.’
Paine sighed. ‘And this is one to Ashworth, thanking him for his help. I’m trying to rebuild a few bridges there. I can pop it into the station on my way to the factory.’ As she signed, Paine’s hand shot out to grab the letter. ‘No, not there — it’s a two-page letter.’
‘Well, you should have said. I’ve signed it now.’
‘I can Tippex it out. Just turn the page and sign it again.’
‘There.’ She handed back the blue notepaper and pen. ‘Now just leave me alone.’
‘I’m doing what I think is best, you know. I really do want things to work out.’
‘I know you do, Dennis, and I know you have my best interests at heart . . . but please don’t mention clinics.’
* * *
Holly and Josh were silent for some time as they drove away from the harrowing scene of rape and murder.
Josh was the first to break the silence. As they crossed the bridge which spanned the River Thane, he said, ‘Have I offended you in any way, Holly?’
‘No, of course you haven’t,’ she said breezily.
‘Is it because I’m gay?’ he persisted. ‘I know some people have a thing about it.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’
Josh steered the car into the high street. ‘I know I’ve offended you in some way. I mean, until yesterday you were really friendly towards me.’
‘Josh, it’s not that you’re gay, and you’ve done nothing to offend me in any way.’ Then she relented. ‘Oh, I just feel such a fool.’
‘Tell me, Holly,’ he urged, dividing his attention between her and the road ahead. ‘I really do need a friend in this god-forsaken place.’
‘I thought you were interested in me,’ she said quietly.
He glanced at her. ‘I am.’
‘I didn’t know you were gay,’ she explained.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’
‘It’s not up to you to apologise. It was my fault — and I would like to be your friend.’
‘Thanks, Holly,’ he said gratefully. ‘Actually, I probably won’t be here for much longer. I’m thinking of going home.’
‘Why? I thought you were settling in.’
‘No, I’m not. And it’s Ashworth — I could almost picture him queer-bashing.’
‘I think you’re wrong, Josh. I don’t think he’s got anything against you
.’
‘No?’ he asked bitterly. ‘Have you noticed how he thinks he’s got the Edwards case stitched up? There’s no room in his world for an opposing opinion.’
‘He’s like that with everyone.’
‘Maybe he is, but I did come here to work with computers, and he’s ordered me out on to the streets.’
‘What will you do?’
‘There’s a job going in telecommunications in Leeds. I’ve applied for it. If I get an interview I’ll take a day’s leave . . .’ He paused, then continued in a passable impression of Ashworth’s deep growling voice, ‘or time off in lieu of overtime . . . and go for it.’
Checking the mirror, Josh turned right into the station car park, saying, ‘But I’d love to prove Ashworth wrong before I do. I bet that hasn’t been done before.’
No, Holly thought, I bet it hasn’t.
He waited for an oncoming car to pass, then parked the Sunny. The station was a hub of activity. A harassed Sergeant Dutton was at reception, talking to Mike Whitworth. He signalled to them as they came through the swing doors.
‘What’s happening?’ Josh asked as he surveyed the journalists crowded into the foyer.
‘Damon Cain’s given himself up — and this lot have got wind of it,’ Dutton said, eyeing the journalistic gathering with some distaste.
The arrival of Holly and Josh had given rise to fresh speculation, and a young man — spotty-faced, with greasy blond hair, wearing jeans and padded anorak — approached the reception desk. ‘Bridgetown Post,’ he announced grandly. ‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’
An exasperated Dutton was about to answer when Whitworth interjected. ‘Bridge-town Post, eh? Well, I can tell you this . . .’ His voice was low, confidential. ‘. . . There’s been a mass break-out at Rampton, and one of the escapees has turned himself in at this nick.’
The young man was scribbling wildly in his notepad. ‘Do you know his name?’ he asked excitedly.
‘I do, but it’s more than my job’s worth to disclose it. I can tell you that he’s a mass murderer.’
This led to renewed scribbling. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘Detective Constable Elvis Presley,’ Whitworth said in a southern drawl.
The journalist, realising he was being sent up, reacted angrily, ‘Give me a break.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Whitworth held up both hands in a token of surrender. ‘Which limb?’
The young man looked at the smiling faces of the police group as Whitworth added, ‘Fade — like the man said, there’ll be a press release as soon as possible.’
As the rather abashed reporter rejoined his colleagues, Josh remarked, ‘Still the master of public relations, I see. It’s good to see you, Mike.’
‘Likewise,’ Whitworth smiled, ‘just don’t follow me into the toilets — okay?’
Josh laughed good-naturedly.
‘Hi, Hol.’
‘Hello, Mike,’ Holly said, blushing and staring intently at her shoes.
Whitworth’s suit was crumpled, she had noticed, and beneath the knot of his tie a button was missing from his shirt. His black hair tumbled untidily over his forehead and hid his ears. If anything he looked more dishevelled than usual — and so bloody sexy.
Visions of the previous night’s passion-filled hours flashed into her mind. ‘What are you doing here?’ she managed to ask casually.
Whitworth noted her discomfort and seemed to be enjoying it. ‘Just proving I can stand up,’ he replied nonchalantly. ‘No, I came to see Boss Man.’
‘Come with us then,’ Josh said.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be welcome.’
‘You will,’ Dutton said cheerfully. ‘He likes you, and the odds on him doing that with most people are as long as winning the jackpot on the pools.’
‘I know,’ Josh murmured quietly.
Ashworth’s greeting was warm. ‘Mike, what brings you here?’ he asked, ignoring the other two.
‘I heard about the rape and murder, guv . . .’ he shrugged, ‘. . . and I’ve got a career tied up in there somewhere.’
‘Yes, that hadn’t escaped my notice. Let’s go into the other office. I want to talk to you.’
Ashworth closed the door. ‘This is a bad one,’ he said before going into detail.
Whitworth stood, stony-faced, as he listened to the horrors that had been inflicted on the seventy-two-year-old woman before she met her death.
‘It’s what I expected, guv.’
‘You know Cain’s given himself up?’
Whitworth nodded.
‘I’m just about to interview him. Mike, will you do something for me?’
‘If I can.’
‘I want you to watch a man named Len Warren.’
‘Hold on, guv, you warn me off watching Cain and Bennett, and now you want me to keep an eye on this Len Warren.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Got you.’
As Ashworth told him the address, Whitworth smiled; not at the irony of what he was being asked to do, but at the fact that Ashworth could not see it.
‘And how do you want him watched?’
‘High profile. I want him to know you’re there because I don’t know what it is I’m looking for.’
‘Right, guv, I’ll give it all the time I can.’
He went and sat on the desk which was his before his suspension. ‘Your army’s becoming a bit restless about the Edwards case, you know,’ he said, indicating the outer office. ‘They feel you’re pushing them to one side.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m not quite as unobservant as people think. No doubt Holly told you that in her considered opinion I’m past it, and that she’s based that assumption on my behaviour at the French interview.’ His hostile brown eyes settled on Whitworth as if daring him to lie.
‘She didn’t mention ‘past it’, but she does seem to think your mind’s not on the job,’ Whitworth answered with customary frankness.
‘No doubt she could hazard a guess as to where it was.’ He waved his hand. ‘No, I won’t ask you to answer that.’
‘Is there a point to this, guv?’
‘Yes, Mike, a very valid one. What is it you call me when I’m not around? Now, let’s see,’ he mused, ‘it used to be Dixon of Dock Green, but of late it’s been Boss Man.’
‘Guv—’
‘Well, Mike, that’s what I am. I’m the head of CID and I can’t be forever running the gauntlet of what my junior officers think of me, or my methods. Do you know what I was doing at the Frenches’?’
‘No, guv,’ Whitworth said, realising that he was being offered a privileged glimpse at the workings of the great man’s mind.
‘I didn’t need to look at their faces to know they were lying. No, what I was doing was looking around the room, at the half-empty decanters — one of whisky, the other gin. Now, do you know what that suggested to me? Those people are regular drinkers — they don’t just play at it. And in their bookcase was a large collection of literature; nothing highbrow, but all recent and in hardback, and that’s expensive. So, I calculated their possible earnings, and fitted their expenditure into their income — it didn’t go. So from that I deduced that the money was from another source.’
‘Shouldn’t you be wearing a deerstalker, and saying things like ‘elementary’, guv?’
‘Probably, Mike,’ Ashworth replied in all seriousness, ‘but where does the money come from?’
‘Not from the kidnap, that’s for sure.’
‘No, but kidnapping is rarely a first major crime, if that’s the path you want to go along. Detectives aren’t made, Mike, they’re born. Do you know, sometimes I can look at people and know what they’re thinking,’ he said passionately, ‘actually what they’re thinking.’
‘Are you telling me you always know who did it?’
‘I always know who didn’t do it, Mike, and that eventually leads me to who did. And while that process is taking place, I’d much rather have an office full of people thinking I’m past
my sell-by date, or that my mind’s on other things, than have them clouding my judgement with their theories. It comes from here, Mike.’ He hit his now slimline stomach with his fist. ‘You can take a suspect in a murder enquiry and prove them guilty or innocent. Lawyers are doing it all the time.’
‘That makes sense.’ Whitworth’s usual flamboyance had vanished. ‘But where’s this leading?’
Ashworth walked over to the glass outer wall and surveyed the town. ‘That’s my world out there, Mike. I’ve lived in this place all my life — spent over thirty years policing it. It matters to me, damn it, it matters.’
A puzzled Whitworth studied his superior’s broad back.
‘Just after you were suspended,’ Ashworth continued, ‘I got to thinking about you. Young man, you’re arrogant; you show a total lack of respect for authority; you cut corners to get where you want to go. For ability to work as a member of a team, I would award you nil points. You’re pig-headed . . .’
‘These are just my plus points, I take it.’
Ashworth turned to face him. ‘. . . and you remind me of me,’ he concluded with a slight smile.
Little did Whitworth realise that he had just been awarded the highest accolade Ashworth could ever bestow on anyone.
Ashworth said, ‘You wouldn’t know why Ken Savage wanted me back in this job. It was because my resignation would have looked bad on his record, so he brought me back, and now he has plans to sideline me with some little job of dealing with the Home Office. He thinks it’s time I was put out to grass, and I’m beginning to agree with him.’
‘Guv, half the people in this nick say you’re the best copper they’ve ever met. If you’re having difficulties with the Edwards case, I’ll do all I can to help.’
‘Bless you, Mike, on both counts, but no . . .’ he shook his head vigorously, ‘. . . it’s not that. I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching over the last few days, and I’ve come to realise I’m reaching back for something that’s no longer there — it’s gone.’ He seemed distant all of a sudden, totally absorbed in himself. ‘Yes, I can still do a hundred press-ups, run up the stairs without getting out of breath, and still — to use modern terminology — get it up, but that doesn’t make me young again, because youth is up here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘It’s the ability to adapt quickly, easily. Do you know, I acknowledge that there are people out there with drug problems, and kids, barely in their teens, leading full and varied sex lives — I know these things to be, but I still can’t believe them. The world’s changed, but I haven’t. Does that sound silly?’
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 22
