THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery

by BRIAN BATTISON

  ‘That’s good.’ Ashworth seemed preoccupied. He said, ‘Just listen to me, Mike, and see if you think this is a plausible case.’

  As Whitworth listened he occasionally shook his head, not in disbelief, but in admiration of the details Ashworth had accumulated to incriminate his suspect.

  ‘There, Mike, what do you think of that?’ he concluded.

  ‘As far as it goes, yes.’ He sounded doubtful.

  ‘But?’ Ashworth queried.

  ‘There’s a certain thing missing — like, proof.’

  ‘That’ll come when some of the ransom money turns up,’ Ashworth said enthusiastically.

  ‘But how can you be so sure some will turn up? You could be way off beam,’ Whitworth counselled.

  Ashworth was insistent. ‘I’m not, Mike. Call it intuition, whatever you like, but I know some of that money is going to turn up today.’

  ‘Even if it does, it could prove difficult to trace the source. The man could pass it in any number of places.’

  ‘Then we trace where it didn’t come from . . . use a process of elimination,’ Ashworth replied doggedly.

  ‘There are too many ifs and buts in it, guv, and working through all the people who haven’t done it could take some time.’

  ‘Yes, it could,’ Ashworth agreed, ‘that’s why I want a course of action in place, because if the bulk of that money doesn’t turn up, I can’t prove a thing.’

  ‘Guv . . .’ There was a pleading note in Whitworth’s voice. ‘Like you say, the man’s highly intelligent, the money may not be at his house, he could have buried it in the countryside for all we know.’

  ‘No, his intelligence is his strength and his weakness because it makes him think he’s superior to everyone else.’

  ‘What do you want me to do if some of the money does turn up?’

  ‘When it does . . .’ Ashworth had no doubt that it would. ‘. . . I want you, and possibly Holly, to interview the Frenches at their home. I don’t think you’ll need to search the place, but I’m sure you’ll find that car they’re driving about in belonged to Simon Edwards.’

  ‘I don’t follow, guv.’

  ‘No, of course you don’t, I keep forgetting you’ve been out of action for some time. I’ll condense it: basically the Edwardses were giving the Frenches a lot of money, as I told you. Part of that package was a car — the same model and year as Edwards was driving himself. For the tax advantage, it went through the books as a company car. My guess is that Edwards and French used to inter-use the cars.’

  ‘Got you, so the one found on Parker’s Farm could easily have been driven by Alan French the day before.’

  ‘That’s it, and now he’s probably frightened that we’ll ask why a car he frequently drove but didn’t own was found abandoned at the time Edwards went missing.’ His chuckle had an unpleasant ring to it. ‘Although my guess is, he’s just worried that Paine will take it back.’

  ‘So if you’re right, that’ll eliminate the Frenches.’

  ‘It should.’ Ashworth seemed lost in his own thoughts. ‘Right, after that I want you to get on to Len Warren. Let’s find out what our working-class Marxist genius is hiding.’

  As Whitworth studied the immobile, thoughtful face in front of him, he took a decision to leave Bridgetown. This subtle cat-and-mouse detection was not for him; he needed an environment where the war came to him of its own accord.

  Josh sheepishly entered the room.

  ‘Ah, returned from the sick-bed,’ Ashworth commented drily.

  ‘Hi, Funny Guy,’ Whitworth winked.

  Josh smiled his acknowledgement of Whitworth’s greeting but ignored Ashworth as he took his seat in front of the VDU.

  ‘Phone Holly, Mike, and tell her she need not come in until she’s wanted,’ Ashworth ordered. ‘After what she’s been through she’ll need a rest.’

  The day passed slowly. Ashworth sat facing his young detectives like an ageing, stern schoolmaster.

  Dusk was creeping in and the whole of Bridgetown had become dots of yellow light on a dark canvas, when Sergeant Dutton poked his head round the door. ‘You’ve got a tickle, Jim. Some of the ransom money has turned up in the takings at Booth’s off-licence.’

  Ashworth was already on his feet. ‘How much and when?’

  ‘Just one ten-pound note, and when’s a bit cloudy. It was either after four thirty yesterday afternoon, or sometime today.’

  ‘Right, Mike, you come with me. Josh, ring Holly and tell her I need her.’

  Ashworth grabbed his coat and was out of the office.

  * * *

  Booth’s off-licence was situated in the high street. It stood between the bank and the offices of the United Reform Church. From outside it appeared quaint, but that illusion was dispelled even before the bell above the ‘In’ door had stopped ringing.

  Inside, potential customers were faced with piles of wire baskets and a long narrow aisle flanked by racked wine on one side and a mountain of mixers and fruit drinks on the other. At the top of the aisle a right turn led to the spirits section and the check-out, which today was manned by a young girl whose bored expression was highlighted by the fierce glow of an overhead strip.

  The shop was quite crowded and Ashworth had to shoulder his way around the obstacle course to the till.

  ‘The manager?’ he asked.

  Turning her attention away from the customer at the counter, she looked up. ‘You’ll have to wait, love, I’m busy,’ she told him in a sing-song voice.

  Ashworth produced his warrant card. ‘I haven’t got time to wait.’

  The girl glanced at it, completely unimpressed. ‘Mr Newitt,’ she yelled, at a pitch which threatened to shatter every glass receptacle in the store. ‘Police.’

  A flustered Mr Newitt appeared at the rear of the shop. ‘Come this way, gentlemen, please,’ he called.

  Ashworth, followed by Whitworth, made his way to the room indicated by the small man: it was a curtained-off stockroom with a desk to one side.

  ‘Mr Newitt,’ Ashworth began, ‘I believe you reported that some of the money we’re trying to trace has passed through your till.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Newitt said. He was smartly dressed, and his grey curling hair lent him the air of an ageing folk singer.

  It soon became apparent to Ashworth that Newitt — in common with many other retailers — was a talker.

  He went on, ‘As I told your officer on the phone, I can’t actually say when we took the money, but it must have been after four thirty yesterday afternoon, because I cashed up then and took the takings to the bank.’

  ‘So what time did you close yesterday?’ Ashworth asked.

  ‘Eight p.m. as usual. I always take the rest of the takings home with me to use as a float the next morning. Well, when I emptied the till this afternoon, I was sitting here checking the numbers off against the list and there it was — a ten-pound note.’ He smiled, obviously contemplating the notoriety which would surround his discovery, and the sales potential accompanying it.

  ‘Who visited the shop today?’

  ‘Half of Bridgetown,’ Newitt smiled broadly. ‘An excellent day for me.’

  ‘But not for us.’ Ashworth’s voice was beginning to show irritation. ‘Can you remember who came in after four thirty yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, I was on the till after I came back from the bank. Julie French came in . . .’ He pursed his lips in a man-to-man fashion. ‘Of course, I mustn’t gossip in my business, but the things I’ve heard about her. I always spend a little time with her . . . just in case I get lucky.’

  ‘How did she pay?’

  ‘By cheque.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘The vicar.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘If people knew the interpretation he puts on the ‘holy spirit’, they’d—’

  ‘I think we can eliminate the vicar from our enquiries,’ Ashworth said shortly. ‘Anyone else?’

  Newitt paused for a moment. ‘Some people from the new estates
— I don’t know their names, but—’

  ‘Did Len Warren come in?’ Ashworth cut in.

  ‘Yes, he did as a matter of fact . . . that’s right, it was about five. Two bottles of Russian vodka, wouldn’t you know.’

  ‘How did he pay?’

  ‘Cash.’

  Ashworth shot a glance in Whitworth’s direction.

  ‘Notes? Coinage?’ He was finding it difficult to conceal his excitement.

  ‘The bill came to fourteen pounds something, and he paid with a ten-pound note and coins.’

  ‘Len Warren passed a ten-pound note in your shop yesterday — that’s what you’re telling us?’

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector. Is it important?’

  ‘Very,’ Ashworth said. ‘Mr Newitt, you’ve been a great help. Thank you.’

  ‘Always glad to help the police,’ he called after them.

  As they made their way down the now less crowded aisle, Ashworth grabbed Whitworth’s arm. ‘It’s coming together, Mike, it’s coming together,’ he said passionately.

  Chapter 32

  Len Warren had not been arrested, he had merely been brought in to assist the police with their enquiries. He had not come willingly; indeed he had protested all the way to the interview room where he now sat slumped at the table.

  Ashworth studied him, trying to work out how to get to the man. Holly coughed as if prompting Ashworth to start the interview. However, he was in no mood to be hurried. Having despatched Abraham and Whitworth to interview the Frenches, he felt the longer he kept Warren stewing, the better.

  Eventually he said, ‘Do you know why we want to talk to you, Len?’ His tone was friendly as he sat down to face the man. Holly remained standing at the door.

  ‘I’ve got no idea, but I want a solicitor,’ Warren complained, all the time fingering the birthmark on his cheek.

  Ashworth took no notice of the request. He said, ‘You were in Booth’s off-licence last night, Len, and you bought two bottles of vodka. You paid with a ten-pound note and some change.’

  ‘So?’ He appeared unconcerned, relieved even.

  ‘Where did you get the ten-pound note from?’

  ‘From my wage packet. I’m off sick so I went to the factory in the morning to collect my wages.’

  ‘Have you still got your wage packet?’ Ashworth asked.

  ‘No,’ Warren said, puzzled. ‘Well, yes, but it’s empty. I put the money in the bank this morning.’

  ‘Have you got your wage slip?’

  Warren fished around the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a bank book and a brown envelope from which he took the slip, passing it to Ashworth who studied it for a while. ‘So, Len, your net wage is one hundred and thirty-two pounds.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you spent ten, you must have paid somewhere around one hundred and twenty pounds into your bank this morning.’

  ‘Yes.’ Panic showed in Warren’s eyes. ‘No. Look, what’s all this about?’

  ‘How much did you pay in, Len?’

  ‘I put a hundred and thirty in. I had some money over from last week.’

  ‘And you still say you paid your off-licence bill from your wage packet.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m telling you. I remember opening the packet and taking the first note.’

  Ashworth sat back and stared at him. The room was so quiet, he could hear his watch ticking. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Len? Anything that will make my job easier?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to tell you,’ Warren insisted, his temper rising. ‘What’s the big deal about the tenner?’

  ‘My officers are going to search your flat.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ he protested.

  ‘I can, Len,’ Ashworth said calmly. ‘With a warrant, I can.’

  Warren cradled his forehead in his hand as he looked down at the tabletop.

  ‘You have a right to be there,’ Ashworth said gruffly. ‘My officers will accompany you.’

  Warren looked around the room and the haunted, frightened look in his eyes reminded Holly of a cornered, helpless animal knowing it had little chance of staving off its pursuers.

  They left him in the interview room. Whitworth was waiting with Josh in the corridor. Holly was intrigued; she had understood the Warren interview, but was having difficulty in fitting it into the larger picture.

  Whitworth approached the Chief Inspector. ‘You were right about the car, guv. The Frenches were relieved we knew about it, and miffed that they were losing it.’

  ‘More the latter than the former, I’ll wager,’ Ashworth chuckled, for he now seemed to be in quite jovial mood. ‘Mike, I want you and Holly to organise a search of Warren’s flat. Take half a dozen uniformed officers with you.’

  ‘I take it you’ve got a warrant, guv.’

  Ashworth gave him a pained look. ‘Of course. It should be with Martin Dutton by now.’

  Whitworth signalled to Holly and they began to walk away. ‘Keep in touch with me by radio,’ Ashworth called after them.

  ‘Where will you be, guv?’

  ‘Offering comfort to a grieving man,’ Ashworth said, almost to himself, ‘who’s trying to rebuild his world.’

  As they passed through the swing doors to the stairs, Holly said, ‘What’s happening, Mike?’

  ‘I’ll tell you on the way. What’s the matter with Josh? He’s hardly said a word.’

  ‘He’s probably as pissed off as I am about being kept in the dark.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I tried to tell him but he laughed and said he didn’t want to know.’

  Holly stopped in the middle of the stairs, pleading, ‘Tell me, Mike . . . please.’

  ‘Okay. Once upon a time there was a big bad Chief Inspector . . .’ Whitworth began as they carried on down towards reception, ‘. . . who sent this handsome young detective and his nymphomaniac side-kick — that’s our parts in it, by the way — to . . .’

  ‘Mike,’ Holly warned.

  ‘. . . search Warren’s flat because he knew that what they’d find there would tell him who killed Simon Edwards . . .’

  * * *

  The nine people inside the small flat almost filled it to capacity. Warren, looking very dejected, was sitting at the kitchen table.

  Every book had been rifled through, every cupboard searched; even the space between the ceiling and the flat above had been inspected.

  ‘We’d better look under the floorboards,’ Whitworth said, ‘but I’m beginning to think Ashworth could be wrong.’

  ‘Mike,’ Holly whispered, ‘watch Warren every time one of the lads goes near the back door.’

  ‘The shed . . . of course.’ He joined Warren in the kitchen. ‘Right, Lenny boy, let’s have a look in the shed, shall we?’

  ‘I’ll sue,’ Warren grumbled. ‘I’ll sue if this isn’t all put back straight.’

  The still night air was heavy with fumes from the nearby expressway. The uniformed officers worked quickly and methodically, taking every item from the shed and placing them on the lawn.

  Holly stood beside Whitworth and viewed the lawn mower, assorted spades and forks, cardboard boxes filled with nothing more incriminating than packets of weed killer, lawn feed and empty flowerpots.

  Holly could see that Warren was agitated; she watched his face, followed his darting glance which kept coming to rest at the rear of the shed.

  Without speaking she took the torch from Whitworth’s hand and walked in that direction. She felt her heartbeat quicken when she heard Warren’s muttered, ‘Oh God.’

  In the powerful beam of the torch, the disturbed grass, not yet knitted together, was clearly visible. ‘Mike,’ she called excitedly, ‘I think there’s something buried back here.’

  Whitworth laughed with relief. ‘So you’ve buried it, have you, Lenny boy?’

  Everything seemed to drain out of Warren; even the bitter hatred which characterised him. ‘Yes,’ he said softly.

  ‘How far down?’


  ‘About three foot,’ Warren said, staring at the ground.

  ‘Right.’ Whitworth passed the spade to a constable with an ample waistline. ‘You dig. You look as if you could use the exercise.’

  Chapter 33

  To Ashworth, there was something almost obscene about Dennis Paine’s presence in the tasteful elegance of the Edwardses’ house; not unlike a wart on the end of a beautiful model’s nose.

  The man in question was sitting on the sofa, the large check of his sports jacket clashing with the patterned covers. He crossed his well-tailored legs and took a sip of whisky from the glass which was fast becoming an extension of his arm.

  ‘Len Warren?’ He stared in amazement at Ashworth, who was sitting in an armchair. ‘I still can’t believe it. Who’d have thought he would be capable of planning and executing a caper like that? It was a master stroke of yours, Jim, taking the serial numbers and then telling the press you hadn’t.’

  ‘I like to think so,’ Ashworth said, none too humbly.

  If he could have felt Josh’s eyes piercing into his back, he might well have rephrased that last remark, but Josh’s resentment, as he stood by the door, was not strong enough to penetrate the armour of his superior.

  ‘So, my nightmare is nearly over, is it?’ Paine said gratefully.

  ‘Almost. It will be arrest and charge tonight, and in court on Monday.’

  ‘But then there’s the trial,’ Paine said suddenly. ‘With our courts it’s quite—’

  ‘An acquittal is out of the question,’ Ashworth assured him. ‘This case carries a guaranteed life sentence.’

  ‘Good.’ Paine drained the last of his scotch.

  There was a series of bleeps from the radio in Ashworth’s pocket. He took it out and depressed the button. ‘Ashworth,’ he said.

  Whitworth’s voice crackled from the set. ‘We’ve found it, guv.’

  Ashworth turned the radio off. ‘Sorry, Dennis, can I take this in the hall? I shouldn’t really let you hear . . . procedure and all that.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Paine said grandly. When Ashworth was out of the room he stood up and looked across at Josh. ‘A drink, young man?’

  ‘No thank you, sir, I don’t drink,’ Josh replied politely.