THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  ‘I knew we’d have trouble with that conscience of yours.’

  ‘It’s not my conscience.’

  ‘Well, every other part of you seemed more than willing.’

  ‘I can’t lead a double life, Gwen,’ he said earnestly, ‘it’s just not me. Having to lie about where I’ve been, why I’m late. It just doesn’t settle with me — and there’s always the chance I’ll slip up and we’ll be discovered.’

  ‘We’ll be careful,’ she implored, touching his arm. ‘Come on, Jim, we’re not talking forever here. Six months and we’ll probably be tired of each other.’

  ‘You’re such a romantic,’ Ashworth joked, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘No, I’m not a romantic, but I am practical. This isn’t love, it’s simply lust, and it will wear off. Me? I just like to enjoy it while it’s there.’

  Ashworth, finding Gwen’s offer extremely difficult to refuse, was disturbed by her next statement.

  She said, ‘Anyway, I don’t think it’s up to you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the grass is greener, and forbidden fruits do taste sweeter, that’s why. When we get to London for the conference, will we go back to the hotel, say goodnight, and go to our separate rooms?’ She looked at him knowingly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Of course, Ashworth knew she was right, and each time he succumbed, his resistance would be further eroded, until the course was run and the act they had performed in the back of his car no longer provoked a sense of longing or urgency; it would go the way of all such liaisons, built on nothing more solid than a primitive urge.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

  ‘We shall,’ Gwen replied firmly, feeling herself superior in this game of power brinkmanship. ‘I’ll arrange for the body to be taken away for post-mortem . . . and I’ll be in touch.’

  As he drove back to the station, Ashworth was aware that this position, of not being in total control of himself, his destiny, was completely alien to him.

  ‘You don’t look much like a spider, Gwen,’ he said to himself as open fields slid past the car windows, ‘and I don’t resemble a fly, but that’s how this situation is beginning to shape up.’

  * * *

  The Frenches arrived punctually for their appointment. Bobby Adams showed them to the interview room where Ashworth was waiting.

  Both were smartly dressed: Alan in a grey suit reflecting the latest fashion, as did the brightly coloured tie adorning the neck of his crisp white shirt; Julie in a short light grey topcoat worn over a pink blouse and black miniskirt which reached half-way up her thighs and showed off her shapely legs to good advantage.

  They would have made a handsome couple but for the worry which showed on their faces.

  ‘Mr and Mrs French, thank you for coming, and please sit down.’

  As they settled themselves stiffly into the plastic chairs to face Ashworth, he said, ‘You understand that you are here to help us with our enquiries?’

  They nodded, but seemed unwilling to look at him directly.

  ‘Good. I suppose I should first inform you that Barbara Edwards was found dead today. Everything surrounding her death suggests that it was suicide.’

  Ashworth watched them both very carefully. Shock registered immediately on their faces, but more so on Julie’s, so he directed his next question to her. ‘Would you like to tell me the name of the fourth person involved in your games?’

  ‘Tell him, Alan, for God’s sake,’ Julie pleaded, ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

  Alan French closed his eyes, as if trying to blot out what was happening. Then he spoke softly, ‘It was Barbara.’

  ‘The fourth person was Barbara Edwards — is that what you’re telling me, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Julie quickly answered for her husband. ‘You can see why we couldn’t tell you before. If all this had come out, it would have killed Barbara . . . Oh, what am I saying,’ she sobbed.

  French, slipping a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulder, said, ‘You do see that, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Ashworth said firmly. ‘What I see is this — you both had some sort of sexual arrangement with Simon Edwards and another party, whom you refused to name. Now Barbara Edwards is dead and no longer able to defend herself, you say she was the fourth person.’ He was fishing for information, hoping to wheedle the whole story out of them. ‘That seems very unlikely to me — a respectable middle-aged woman taking part in that sort of thing.’ He shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Respectable?’ French snorted. ‘She was oversexed—’

  ‘Don’t go into details, Alan,’ his wife implored. ‘I feel so ashamed.’

  ‘We’ve got to. He won’t believe us otherwise.’ He turned his attention back to Ashworth. ‘It all started out as a joke. I was friendly with Simon and we all four went out together occasionally. We went to their house one night. Barbara took something and then had a lot to drink. She was sitting next to me on the settee and she started coming on to me, touching me, that sort of thing. Both Julie and I were embarrassed, for Christ’s sake.

  ‘I kept looking at Simon but he just laughed. He seemed to be enjoying it. Well, I had to try to be diplomatic — it was the boss and his wife, after all.’ He looked at Ashworth’s fixed expression before going on. ‘I said something like, we’d better be going, and Barbara said, not until you’ve taken me to bed. I tried to joke my way out of it by saying, what would Simon think of that? And she said, well, he and Julie can come too. I remember Simon laughing and saying what a perfect end to the evening.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ Ashworth said severely. ‘You make it sound too easy, too convenient.’

  ‘That’s how it happened,’ French insisted.

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Ashworth was equally insistent. ‘It doesn’t explain why two very attractive young people should go to bed with a middle-aged couple regularly, over a period of two years. Once as a drunken mistake, yes, but there it would probably end.’

  ‘I can’t do more than tell you the truth,’ French said hotly.

  ‘That you can’t.’ Ashworth leant across the table. ‘And when you’ve done that, I’ll be satisfied.’ He held French’s gaze until the man averted his eyes. ‘Shall I help you a little way along the road?’ he asked, standing up, using his considerable size and bulk to intimidate them. ‘How does this fit? You were friendly with Edwards and you hatched a plot for sex in return for money.’

  ‘No, no,’ was French’s venomous denial.

  ‘Yes,’ Ashworth insisted.

  ‘Tell him, Alan,’ Julie French said quite calmly. ‘He knows.’

  ‘All right, but you make it sound so sordid and mercenary.’

  And it wasn’t? Ashworth thought, although his expression remained bland as he listened.

  French said, ‘The first time was exactly as I told you. After that Simon and Barbara began helping us with things, so we just let it carry on.’

  ‘Now I have to be clear on this — when you say they helped you, did they give you money?’

  ‘Yes, for the house and other things,’ French admitted, ‘but it didn’t seem as if they were paying us for anything. They just wanted to help.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Ashworth said drily.

  ‘And you do believe us?’ Julie urged.

  ‘Yes, I believe you,’ Ashworth assured her. But he did not add that he was certain Simon Edwards’s membership of that little quartet had led directly to his death.

  Ashworth surprised them then by asking, ‘Do either of you know Len Warren?’

  ‘Of course we do. He works at the factory.’ French’s shifty gaze told Ashworth that the man was not revealing the whole truth.

  ‘Neither of you know him socially?’

  ‘Before we moved we used to live quite close to him,’ Julie said.

  Ashworth looked at her; there was no doubt in his mind that she was the more intelligent of the two, and knew exactly where this line of quest
ioning was leading.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Did he ever visit your house?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Julie answered with a defiant toss of her head.

  ‘What was your relationship with him, Mrs French?’

  ‘What the hell are you getting at?’ her husband shouted.

  ‘It’s all right, Alan,’ Julie said quietly before addressing herself to Ashworth. ‘I didn’t have any sort of relationship with him. Len’s just a friend. We both feel sorry for him.’

  Ashworth sat down again. ‘But surely, you being a very pretty woman and Mr Warren being a bachelor, he could very likely be attracted to you.’

  ‘I’ve no idea if he is or not. I’ve never discussed anything of that nature with him.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ French stormed. ‘Len’s just an oddball with a chip on his shoulder and as Julie said, we just feel sorry for him.’

  ‘My assessment of him is that he’s a very clever man,’ Ashworth said coolly.

  Alan French said, ‘I don’t know whether he’s clever or not, but I do know he’d walk a hundred miles if he thought he could get back at Simon or Paine.’

  ‘Shut up, Alan,’ Julie snapped.

  ‘It’s true,’ French insisted, ‘everyone knows it.’

  ‘All right, thank you for coming in,’ Ashworth said abruptly. ‘I may need to see you again.’

  ‘Is that it?’ French said, the relief plain in his tone.

  ‘For the moment, yes.’

  Through the window of the interview room Ashworth watched them cross the car park. He was not a particularly religious man and when, on occasions, he felt obliged to address the creator of this universe he did so in a manner somewhat lacking in reverence. He thought now: I don’t know, old son, when you invented sex you certainly stored up a lot of trouble for this world . . . maybe you should have given more consideration to the ‘under the gooseberry bush’ alternative.

  Ken Savage was waiting outside. ‘Jim,’ he said, his smile indicating that he was in a rare sunny mood, ‘I’ve faxed everything to Northampton. They’ve interviewed Bennett and charged him, so Whitworth’s in the clear.’

  ‘Good, that’s good, Ken. Oh, I shall be needing some search warrants in the near future,’ Ashworth said absently, ‘but I want to check something first with Vehicle Licensing. I’ll catch you when I’ve done that.’ Then he strode off.

  Savage, realising that he had been dismissed, muttered, ‘I’ve bloody had enough of this. I’m the Chief Constable,’ and his sunny mood evaporated as he headed back to his office.

  Chapter 31

  Josh Abraham was not ill, he had been attending an interview for the job in Leeds. That feeling of satisfaction he had felt on boarding the train home was still with him when he got to Bridgetown station. While passengers alighted, the train on the opposite line started to leave. As Josh watched, it created the illusion that his train was moving, and when the large carriage had rattled past he felt as if he had been jolted to a halt.

  On the platform he watched idly as mail was loaded on to the train, then he made his way to the ticket barrier.

  The day had been a great success. His interview with the giant electronics company ‘Sonic — tomorrow’s technology today’ had gone well. He was on the short-list but had been more or less told that this was just a formality.

  After a conducted tour of what, to Josh, was an Aladdin’s cave of new technology, some of which was not yet readily available in Britain, he had been given a free hand to wander around by himself.

  He had used that opportunity to good effect and by the time he left the factory he knew exactly who had killed Simon Edwards.

  There was a call he had to make at the bank which — if he had the audacity to pull it off — would prove beyond doubt that Ashworth was wrong not to have paid more attention to Barbara Edwards.

  Smiling to himself, he anticipated the spectacle of the so-called ‘great man’ making a fool of himself.

  * * *

  Ashworth wished that either the rain would set in or the skies would clear and herald a frosty night; this incessant drizzle was beginning to irritate him. A fine spray had settled on his hair and coat by the time Dennis Paine opened the front door of what had been the Edwardses’ home.

  ‘Jim,’ he said, his voice slightly slurred.

  ‘I’ve just dropped by to say how sorry I am about your sister.’

  ‘Thanks. Come on in out of the rain.’

  Ashworth closed the door and followed Paine into the lounge. He noticed that the man was unsteady on his feet and speculated as to how much alcohol he must have consumed to reach that state. The evening before he had watched Paine down three large scotches without any noticeable effect.

  ‘Sit down.’ Paine waved towards an armchair as he settled on the sofa, picking up his glass of scotch from the floor. ‘I can’t face my own house after what happened. I think I’ll sell up and leave the district. There’s nothing for me here now.’

  Ashworth sat down. ‘It must have been quite a shock finding your sister like that.’

  ‘Shock? I think I’m incapable of feeling shock any more,’ Paine said slowly.

  There was no doubt that this affair was beginning to take its toll on the man; his face was drawn, tired; his grey hair had lost its sheen.

  ‘Dennis,’ Ashworth began diplomatically, ‘there is something I need to ask you.’

  ‘Ask away,’ Paine said blankly.

  First of all Ashworth passed on the information extracted from the Frenches. As Paine listened his eyes slowly closed.

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’ Ashworth asked.

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ he answered morosely. ‘You know someone all those years, your only living relative, and suddenly you realise you didn’t know them at all. Jim, Babs was my little sister and I’ve always treated her as such. For so long I’ve tried to help the pair of them: get Babs off the drugs; get Simon to take some sort of interest in the business . . . and now they’re both gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dennis. I know this is upsetting but time is of the essence if we’re to catch whoever did this.’

  ‘I’m just so empty. I can’t even hate at the moment,’ he murmured, staring into space.

  ‘That will pass,’ Ashworth assured him. ‘I’ll be going, then.’ He stood up and stared across at Paine. ‘Dennis, if I may suggest, it might be wise not to have any more to drink.’

  Paine gave a hollow laugh. ‘Perhaps you’re right . . . I haven’t anything to celebrate, have I?’

  ‘No, you haven’t really.’

  * * *

  Sarah had not expected her homecoming to be quite so warmly welcomed. Her husband was being so kind and considerate; he even engaged in conversation over dinner.

  ‘The Edwards case is over then,’ she assumed.

  ‘Whatever makes you say that?’ Ashworth asked, a forkful of Brussels sprout hovering half-way between his mouth and plate.

  ‘Just that you seem so relaxed and happy. I thought you must be in your ‘bathing in the glory’ period, which comes just before your ‘I’m bored waiting for the next case to happen’ mood,’ she joked.

  ‘No, the case isn’t tied up.’ He chewed the sprout. ‘Is that really how it is, living with me?’ he asked seriously.

  ‘It was a joke, Jim.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘but in future I’m going to leave work behind when I come home.’ He sternly waved his fork at her. ‘We’ve drifted apart, Sarah, and I blame myself for that.’

  The domestic pet is so often a conductor for the emotions and atmospheres of its world, and the Ashworths’ Jack Russell was no exception. While peace and harmony prevailed between the two humans at the centre of her universe she was relaxed, contented. However, by ten p.m. she had become slightly agitated.

  Instinctively Sarah looked towards her husband slumped in the armchair, eyes fixed on the television screen; but she knew, by his furrowed brow, his blank eyes, that he was not watching t
he flickering picture, he was gathering loose ends, weaving them into one strong cord with which to tie someone to the Simon Edwards murder.

  Don’t change, Jim, she thought fondly, stay just as you are.

  * * *

  Next morning Ashworth surveyed the empty CID office. He looked out over the town from his glass-sided perch. As it was Saturday, the high street was busy, shoppers jostling one another on the crowded pavements.

  Suddenly he wanted people around him, a confidant to bolster his flagging confidence. What had seemed so unequivocally clear the night before was now painted with a sheen of self-doubt.

  He picked up the telephone and dialled Holly’s number.

  ‘Yes?’ Mike Whitworth answered. Ashworth could hear Holly laughing in the background.

  ‘It’s Jim Ashworth, Mike.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Guv?’

  ‘Can you come into the station? There’s something I want to discuss with you. They’ve informed you that you’ve been reinstated, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, they have, but—’

  ‘Mike,’ Ashworth said firmly, ‘everything’s starting to happen in the Edwards case and I’m here by myself.’

  ‘Yes, I’m on my way, guv.’ There was another short pause. ‘How did you know I’d still be here?’

  Ashworth gave a humourless laugh. ‘Elementary, my dear Whitworth, elementary,’ he intoned before replacing the receiver.

  The thirty minutes it took for Whitworth to get to the station seemed like an eternity to Ashworth. Just as he was checking his watch for the umpteenth time, Whitworth walked through the door.

  To say that his appearance told of a woman’s hand would have been an exaggeration, but he did look slightly less as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. His brown suit was not so crumpled, and his thick dark hair looked as if it had received some attention from a comb.

  ‘Sit, Mike,’ Ashworth said. ‘I need someone to bounce this off.’

  Even Whitworth, hard-bitten as he was, realised the honour that was being bestowed upon him. He draped himself ungraciously across the chair. ‘Holly’s coming in as soon as she can, and I rang Josh. I thought if the soft stuff’s about to hit the fan we’ll need as many people as possible here.’