‘How is Mrs Edwards?’
Paine’s face clouded. ‘Not well. She’s staying with me, of course. I’ve given her a couple of large drinks and packed her off to bed. Ironic really, isn’t it? Pouring poisoned water down her throat in the hope of getting her off the pills.’ He drained his glass. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘Better not, I’m driving.’
Paine rose from his chair. ‘A small one, surely.’
‘All right, a very small scotch and soda then.’
Ashworth watched as Paine went behind the bar, which was festooned with gaudy fans and bullfight posters.
‘In any case, I thought if you chaps got stopped, you simply flashed your warrant cards,’ Paine said with a wink.
Ashworth, who disliked frivolous attitudes towards drinking and driving, ignored him.
‘I blame that blithering idiot, Anthony, for this,’ Paine continued, accompanied by the sound of clinking glass. ‘I’ve been after him for days now to get Babs into a home for her own safety, then to get her on a course of treatment. But do you think he will? Just keeps dodging the issue — and do you know why? Because it reflects badly on the medical profession. They prescribe the drugs — people get addicted.’
He handed Ashworth the drink and sat down. ‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘That, apart from enquiring after the health of you and your sister, is the reason I’m here. I’ve interviewed the Frenches and Warren. The results are very interesting.’
‘Yes?’
Ashworth told him what he had gleaned so far from the Frenches.
Paine whistled softly. ‘So, Simon was indeed going to bed with Julie. Well, I’ll be damned.’
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Nothing surprises me anymore, Ashworth, but why does that make you suspect them?’
‘They’re living way beyond their means, for one thing. And they won’t tell me the name of the woman who made up the foursome.’
‘There could be a good reason for that,’ Paine said reasonably. ‘She could be married, for instance.’
‘She could well be, but until we find out who she is, we won’t know. Now, Len Warren — he’s concealing something, and he’s also a very frightened man.’
‘Ashworth, Warren’s a small man in every sense of the word. Just because he’s frightened, doesn’t mean he’s committed murder.’
‘Are you trying to get rid of all my suspects?’ Ashworth laughed.
‘Oh no,’ Paine quickly declared, ‘you people are trained. You know what you’re doing. It’s just that I can’t think of French or Warren being capable of murder.’
‘Believe me, in these cases it’s nearly always the person people least expect.’ He sipped the drink, grateful that Paine’s taste in scotch was far superior to that of his furniture and fittings.
‘Well, you’ve accused me of trying to get rid of your suspects, and I’m wondering if you’re trying to put me out of business.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Neither the Frenches nor Warren have been to work since you spoke to them.’
‘Doesn’t that say something?’
‘Yes, I suppose it does — except for the fact that they couldn’t all have done it.’ Paine emptied his glass in two huge swallows. ‘Unless they were all in it together, of course,’ he said, studying Ashworth’s expression, trying to read his thoughts.
‘You’re beginning to think like a policeman.’ There was a note of praise in Ashworth’s voice. ‘But the main thing I want to impress upon you and your sister is that it may well seem as though nothing is happening, but that’s only because I’m deliberately keeping this low key. I don’t want anyone to think they’re directly under suspicion.’
Paine indicated Ashworth’s empty glass.
‘No, better not,’ Ashworth said.
Paine refilled his own at the bar. ‘So you won’t be doing anything over the next few days.’
‘On the contrary, I shall be doing quite a lot — interviewing the Frenches again, trying to establish the identity of the mystery woman. And I’m having Warren watched. I’ve a notion that if I make that man sweat, he’ll make a mistake. So, far from doing nothing, you could say I’m making it happen.’
Paine’s look was confused as he said, ‘But what is it you need to happen?’
‘I want some of the ransom money to turn up.’
‘What good would that do? It’s unmarked, isn’t it?’
‘So everyone believes, but we took the serial numbers,’ Ashworth replied smugly.
‘Ashworth, you cunning old fox,’ Paine said incredulously. ‘So all you need is for some of the cash to turn up and you’ve got the murderer.’ The prospect seemed to excite him.
‘That’s about it,’ Ashworth confirmed.
Paine stayed behind the bar, sipping his drink. ‘I don’t believe it. So simple. I’ll be totally frank with you — I didn’t think you’d find Simon’s killer.’
‘God, and the police, move in mysterious ways, Mr Paine, their wonders to perform.’
‘You can say that again.’ Paine shook his head. ‘So simple, yet so clever.’
‘I won’t take up any more of your time,’ Ashworth said, getting to his feet. ‘I trust I can rely on your discretion. I’d rather you didn’t disclose any of this.’
‘Of course.’
‘Be reassured, Mr Paine — everything is now in place for us to make an arrest within the next few days.’
‘You seem very certain that some of the money is going to turn up.’
‘I am. One develops a gut feeling for these things over the years. Well, I’ll leave you in peace.’
Paine came from behind the bar. ‘Look, I think it’s about time we got on first-name terms. It’s James, I believe.’
‘It is, but most people shorten it to Jim, and I feel more comfortable with that.’
‘Good, Jim, and please call me Dennis.’
‘Right then, Dennis, I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the drink.’
Paine followed him to the front door. ‘Jim, you’ve taken a load off my mind. Thanks for coming.’
As Ashworth opened the door to step outside, he said, ‘Tell me, Dennis, there’s one thing that baffles me . . .’ He studied the empty swimming pool.
‘What’s that, old chap?’
‘Why have you got a swimming pool in your front garden?’
‘Jim, it’s only the British who hide their pools in their back gardens.’
They bade each other goodnight. Ashworth got into his car and drove home.
* * *
He pulled into the drive to the sounds of a ringing telephone and a barking dog. Thinking the call could be from Sarah, Ashworth left the car unlocked in his haste to get indoors, but as is so often the case, the journey from car to telephone took twice as long as it would have done if he had kept calm. He finally picked up the receiver and over the sounds of the dog, still barking merrily away in the kitchen, shouted, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, guv.’
‘Oh . . . Mike.’ Disappointment showed in his voice. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m at Holly’s guv. Her mother-in-law’s died.’
As he digested the news, Ashworth selfishly calculated the effect Holly’s absence would have on CID numbers. Then he asked, ‘Is Holly all right?’
‘Shook up, but I’ve got a couple of brandies down her and put her to bed.’
Ashworth, trying to imagine Mike Whitworth in the role of ministering angel, said desperately, ‘I need you back at the station, Mike.’
‘I’m suspended, guv,’ Whitworth replied, ever practical.
‘I know, but you’ve heard about Cain?’
‘Yes, more or less.’
‘Well, the Northamptonshire police have picked up Bennett. When we get him back and charged, you can be reinstated. Do you know what’s happened to Stimpson?’
‘He’s done a runner. The last time he was spotted, his wife was chasing him with a carving
knife — and she didn’t intend stabbing him with it, if you get my drift.’
Ashworth sighed heavily. ‘What’s the situation there, Mike? How long is Holly likely to be away?’
‘Have a heart, guv, her mother-in-law’s just died,’ Whitworth said, surprised by Ashworth’s display of insensitivity. ‘I’m staying here tonight, and I’ll make all the arrangements tomorrow.’
‘Yes, all right, I’m sorry, it’s just that the balloon’s about to go up in the Edwards case and I need people.’ He paused. ‘Give my sympathies to Holly, and tell her to take as much time as she needs. I’ll manage.’
This was the first time Whitworth had witnessed the single-minded determination that could drive everything — even good manners — from Ashworth’s mind. And there was a discernible coolness in his voice as he said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ Ashworth, however, appeared not to have noticed.
After replacing the receiver, he paced about the hall, opening the kitchen door to let the dog out. She bounded around his feet, jumped at his legs, and whined when he ignored her.
The telephone rang again.
‘Hello, Jim.’
‘Sarah, I’m glad you’ve phoned. Look, I’m sorry, I know I’ve been selfish. Of course you need to do things on your own. I can’t simply expect you to be here, waiting on me hand and foot—’
‘Jim, Jim,’ Sarah laughed, ‘you’re gabbling. Listen to me. I’ve realised what a terrible mistake I’ve made. It’s all that stuff I’ve been reading about being a modern woman. Well, I’ve realised I’m not a modern woman. I’m fifty-three years old and married to a Chief Inspector . . . and I want to come home, Jim.’
‘Oh, thank God, Sarah, thank God,’ he said, much relieved.
‘I’ll get a train first thing in the morning.’
‘In the morning?’ Ashworth said doubtfully.
‘Yes, you do want me home, don’t you? You haven’t got another woman there, I hope,’ she laughed.
Ashworth felt an acute pang of guilt. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. It’s just that I’m coming to the end of the Edwards case and—’
‘You’re going to be preoccupied. Goodness, Jim, I do know you, remember. I accept that for the next few days I’ll just be part of the furniture. All right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, Jim, I know it sounds silly, but I love you.’
‘I love you too, Sarah. I’ve come to realise over the last few days just how much I do,’ he said, with so much tenderness in his voice.
* * *
It was nine a.m. the following morning before Ashworth spoke again to another human being, and this time there was not a trace of tenderness. ‘Abraham can’t be ill.’
‘Don’t be illogical, Jim,’ Ken Savage said, ‘there’s no ‘can’t’ about it — the man’s ill.’
They were standing in the reception area; desk staff and officers who were passing through eyed the obvious confrontation with languid curiosity.
‘Ken, I can’t function without personnel. Three of my officers are on sick leave, and Whitworth’s suspended—’
‘It’s not my fault, Jim,’ Savage interrupted sharply.
Ashworth ignored this. ‘I’ve got the Frenches to interview, Bennett to question. I can’t do it. You’ll have to get the Northampton police to interview him.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You’ll have to,’ Ashworth insisted. ‘That type of interview requires two detectives, and there aren’t two here.’
Without waiting for a reply, Ashworth turned and stomped towards the stairs. Savage watched his retreating figure, then made off for his office, wondering how he could butter up the Chief Constable of Northamptonshire.
Ashworth sat at his desk for a while, collecting his thoughts, allowing his anger time to subside, then he picked up the telephone and dialled.
‘Hello?’ Julie French’s voice was in his ear.
‘Mrs French, this is Chief Inspector Ashworth, Bridgetown CID.’
‘Yes?’
He could hear the taut nerves betrayed in her voice. ‘I wonder if you and your husband could come into the station. There are a few questions I’d like to ask you both.’
‘What about?’
‘I think that would be better discussed here, don’t you? Shall we say two fifteen this afternoon?’
‘We could come in now,’ she replied, a little too quickly.
‘No, it will have to be this afternoon.’
‘Yes, all right.’
Ashworth replaced the receiver with a smile. The pair of you can stew for a few hours, he thought, because sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell me.
He drummed his fingers on the desktop.
Chapter 30
Ashworth had fondly believed that he had the immediate future neatly choreographed, with himself directing every movement, every step, but as he stood with Gwen Anthony, staring down at the bed, Fate reminded him that she could still disrupt even the most carefully laid plans.
‘How long has she been dead?’ he asked.
‘About eight p.m. last night, I’d say.’
‘God, I was here then, talking to Paine.’
‘Overdose, and a massive one at that,’ Gwen said. ‘The officers attending found a typed suicide note. Forensic have taken it away.’
Barbara Edwards’s peaceful face suggested that she had slipped into whatever lay beyond this life without pain or torment.
‘What did it say?’ Ashworth asked.
‘Couldn’t carry on without her husband — that sort of thing. I didn’t inform you until I was about to clear things up, but it’s suicide, Jim, there’s no doubt about it.’
Ashworth turned away from the body to study the room which, with its cream-coloured built-in units, its pastel pink curtains, was far more tasteful than the rest of the house.
As if reading his thoughts, Gwen told him, ‘Paine had the room refurbished for her. She was going to sell her house and live here.’
Ashworth grunted. ‘Paine found the body, I take it?’
‘Yes, that’s right, and he’s pretty distraught.’
‘Is he now?’
‘There’s something worrying you about this, isn’t there?’
Ashworth shook his head. ‘Not about Barbara’s death, there isn’t. I half expected it.’
‘So did Dennis Paine. He was forever after my husband to send Barbara to a clinic for her own safety.’
‘But your husband didn’t share his concern?’
‘No, he didn’t, and for once I agreed with him. Barbara was not particularly close to her husband. All right, the kidnap and murder must have taken their toll, but I wouldn’t have thought they’d have provoked this reaction.’
‘So what did?’
‘I don’t know, Jim. The balance of the mind, once disturbed, is very difficult to understand.’
‘I think you know more about Barbara Edwards than you’re telling me, Gwen.’
She gave him an uneasy look. ‘You do push friendship to the limit, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Ashworth said dully.
‘Can we get out of this bedroom then? It feels almost obscene, talking about the woman while she’s lying there.’
As they walked out, Ashworth caught Gwen’s fresh smell, and memories of the sensations which her body could invoke were, once more, vivid in his mind. For a few seconds he thought of man’s eternal, impractical desire for the best of both worlds.
They crossed the landing and descended the wide uncarpeted stone stairs.
‘Now much of this is just suspicion, Jim.’
‘And the bits that aren’t are the things you shouldn’t be telling me,’ he smiled.
‘You have ways of getting things out of a girl — you know that,’ she said with a long-suffering look.
They reached the hall and sat down on the bottom stair. Before them were the marks of many wet dirty boots scarring the snowy whiteness of the hall carpet.
Gwen said, ‘This idea you have of Barbara
spending the whole of her life in some twilight world is not so.’
‘But most people who knew her described her as subdued, withdrawn.’
‘Yes, Jim, but . . . oh, how can I explain this? Drugs have an effect of curtailing certain desires and impulses, while greatly stimulating others. I firmly believe that Barbara was a sexually active woman.’
‘But she told one of my detectives that she and Simon no longer—’
‘Jim, I would think even — or especially — you would realise it’s possible to have sex with someone other than the person you vowed to forsake all others for.’
‘Are you saying you knew she was having an affair?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m saying she was on the pill, which suggests she wasn’t exactly celibate.’
‘A married woman on the pill — what’s so strange about that?’ he asked, eyebrows arched questioningly.
‘God, Jim, sometimes I swear you know when someone isn’t telling you the whole truth.’
He smiled and waited. Reluctantly, Gwen said, ‘Eighteen months ago she had an Aids test. Now before you get carried away, there could have been many reasons for that. She could have suspected that her husband was playing around, for one thing.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘No, something tells me Barbara lived life to the full.’ She turned to Ashworth. ‘You don’t seem very surprised by any of this.’
‘I’m not unduly, but why is it bothering you? You must admit it looks like suicide.’
‘Oh, it is suicide, and when it goes to the coroner it will be an open-and-shut case. I just don’t think she died because she lost her husband.’
‘I know she didn’t,’ Ashworth said with an air of finality as he looked around the hall. ‘Do you know, this place reminds me of a Continental brothel.’
‘I didn’t realise you’d frequented such establishments,’ Gwen said with a wicked grin.
Ashworth chuckled at fond memories. ‘I did two years’ National Service,’ he explained. Then, suddenly serious, he said, ‘Gwen . . .’
‘Oh dear, here we go — I enjoyed it, but I’m afraid it was just a one-off. That’s what you’re going to say, isn’t it?’
‘I’d have put it a little better, but that’s the gist of it.’
THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery Page 24
