by Rosie Harris
‘White wine. Dry if they have it.’ She opened her bag, and took out a note, but he’d already walked away towards the bar.
She bit her lip and slipped the tenner back inside her bag. Probably better not to make an issue about paying, she thought sagely. If things went according to plan, and she was successful in establishing the right sort of rapport between them, then there would be plenty of other occasions.
She moved to a corner table and settled on the dark-red banqueting facing the fire, leaving an armchair for Paddy. There was enough background noise from the Lounge Bar to ensure their conversation wasn’t overheard.
‘I’ve ordered a couple of rounds of sandwiches,’ Paddy told her as he set down her glass of white wine and a pint of beer for himself. ‘They don’t serve meals in here, and I didn’t think you’d want to face the noise in the other bar.’
‘You shouldn’t have bothered. It might spoil your dinner,’ she remarked, checking her watch with the clock over the bar.
‘Dinner! What dinner?’ He laughed and took a deep draught of his beer. ‘Aah, that’s better!’
‘Surely your wife will have dinner waiting for you?’
‘I’m not married!’
‘Your mother, then.’
‘I live on my own. Self-contained, purpose-built flat with all mod cons. No garden, no pets, just me.’
‘That sounds rather lonely.’
He shrugged. ‘It suits the hours I keep. More police marriages break up because of the strain of unsociable hours than for any other reason.’
‘Is that why you’ve never married?’ she murmured as she took a sip of her wine.
He grimaced. ‘Partly. I lived with my mother until she died three years ago. She was a widow, and a semi-invalid. Unsociable hours, and a live-in mother-in-law would be too much to ask any woman to take on, don’t you think?’
The arrival of their sandwiches brought a welcome break and saved her from having to comment.
‘Help yourself,’ he invited. ‘There’s chicken, beef and cheese.’ He grinned. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were a vegetarian or not.’
The sight of food reminded her how long it was since she’d last eaten. She tucked in, pleasantly surprised at how good the sandwiches were.
‘You’ve eaten here before?’
‘Yes. It’s my regular. I usually avoid it on Thursday nights because they have a live band playing in the Lounge Bar. That’s why it’s so packed in there. Other nights it’s quite civilized. You’ll have to come again sometime. The food is excellent.’
‘Only if you let me pay.’
‘You’re on!’ He took another swig of his beer. ‘Really into this feminism business, are you?’
‘No! I do believe in paying my way, though.’
‘Especially when you are in the company of one of your subordinates,’ he said with a humourless smile.
‘I prefer to think of you as a team-mate not a subordinate,’ she told him in a level voice.
His green gaze held hers, and she felt herself colouring.
‘Team-mate!’ He repeated the phrase as if he was rolling a boiled sweet around in his mouth and testing it for flavour.
She took a deep breath. ‘I hope we can work as a team; as partners. You must have a wealth of experience, so I’m sure there’s a great deal you can teach me,’ she added quietly.
He bit into a sandwich. ‘You’re the inspector. You’re the one who gives the orders, ma’am.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Despite her intention to remain calm, to cajole him into friendship, Ruth found herself exploding with irritation. ‘Do you have to call me that? You said yourself we were off duty. If I call you Paddy then surely you can call me Ruth.’
‘If those are your orders, ma’am!’ His expression was deadpan, but his green eyes gleamed mockingly.
Ruth drained her wine and stood up. ‘Can I get you another pint?’
He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse. ‘Better make it a half,’ he said as he passed his glass to her. ‘I’m driving, and a pint might put me over the limit.’
When she returned with their drinks the atmosphere between them seemed to have undergone a positive change.
‘Thanks . . . Ruth.’ He grinned as she set his beer down in front of him. ‘I’ve told you about my background, and how I live, now how about you telling me something about yourself?’
‘Not very different to you. I’m renting a flat, and I live on my own. There didn’t seem to be much point in buying a place because I don’t know how long I will be in Benbury. If I make a mess of this case I’ll probably be moved on very speedily!’
‘Which is why you want us to work as a team, so that you can put the blame on me,’ he teased.
She shook her head. ‘You have so much more practical experience than me that I know I need your fullest cooperation. I’ve heard the rumours that you had hoped to be promoted to inspector yourself,’ she went on, ‘so I can understand how you must resent me being brought in over your head, and put in charge. I know I would have felt resentful if I’d been in your shoes,’ she told him.
He passed a hand through his thick fair hair, averting his eyes. ‘And what would you have done about it?’
She shrugged. ‘The same as you, I expect. Made the best of things.’
His green eyes narrowed. ‘So that’s what you hope I’m going to do, is it?’
She nodded. ‘I hope so. It would be best for both of us if you did.’
He helped himself to the one remaining sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he admitted. ‘I knew I didn’t stand a chance of being made up to inspector. Not the right sort of background or handshake, for one thing.’
She grinned. ‘I suppose university did help, but I don’t know about the handshake.’
He took a drink of his beer. ‘I’ve my own way of doing things, and I don’t go along with a lot of theorizing, and all this psychological stuff. I’m a practical man who prides himself on being able to sum up people pretty accurately.’
‘By pressurizing them into admitting things they might have done, or you would have liked them to have done, like you did with Marilyn Moorhouse?’ she asked.
He chuckled, and drained his glass. ‘No, that was a bit out of order, but I was keen to find out your reaction.’
‘I wasn’t the one being subjected to your third degree.’
‘Why did you join the police?’
‘Personal reasons.’
He looked at her in silence for a moment. ‘Are you telling me to mind my own business?’
‘No, not really. I really did join for personal reasons. My young brother was on a murder charge. The whole family knew he was innocent, but we had no proof. He was on remand for months. I was in my teens, and as I watched the struggle to clear his name I became fascinated by police procedure . . .’
‘So why didn’t you become a lawyer when you left university?’
‘I wanted to be one of the first on the scene so that I could be sure that justice was being done, not sitting in an office having evidence presented to me second-hand.’
Paddy nodded approvingly. ‘Well said!’ He stood up to leave. ‘Maybe we can be partners after all,’ he added, holding out his hand.
EIGHT
Maureen Flynn knew quite well that it was utter madness returning to Benbury so soon after John Moorhouse’s murder, but she was drawn back there as a wasp is to a glass of beer.
Sitting in the cafe opposite the newsagent’s she studied the poster clipped on to the display stand outside the shop.
BENBURY SCHOOLTEACHER DIES IN
MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
NO CLUES TO KILLER OF POPULAR
BENBURY TEACHER.
As she studied it, reading it over and over again as if mesmerized, she saw the rangy figure of Sandy Franklin come out of the shop, and she held her breath as he slipped a new sheet into the frame.
POLICE STILL SEEKING CLUES
TO THE IDENTITY OF
BENBURY TEACHER’S ATTACKER.
Maureen found herself gritting her teeth as she watched him smile and speak to every woman who passed by. If they stopped, not content with jocular exchanges, he would pat them on the shoulder, grasp them by the arm, or slip his hand around their waist, and her hatred for him surged afresh as she observed his antics.
He should have been her first victim, she mused. What Sandy Franklin had done to her all those years ago had been far worse than John Moorhouse’s involvement.
Seething with mindless rage, Maureen pushed aside her coffee, picked up her handbag, and went out into the street. Her throat felt so tight that she could hardly breathe, and once outside on the pavement she gulped greedily at the fresh air.
Her heart hammered as she saw Sandy Franklin look in her direction, and she was rooted to the spot as he started to cross the road. For a split second she thought he had recognized her and that he was coming to speak to her.
Then she noticed that a silver-coloured Mercedes coupé had pulled up almost alongside her. The female driver, a heavily made-up blonde wearing a low cut black sweater, and a skimpy red skirt that had ridden high up her thighs, had wound down the window, and was smiling up at him.
Oblivious to the fact that people were watching them, Sandy Franklin stopped in the middle of the road, and bent down towards the woman, who reached up and pulled his head closer so that they could kiss.
‘Am I seeing you tonight?’ she asked as he straightened up.
‘Do you want to, Tracey?’
The woman’s heavily pencilled eyebrows rose invitingly. ‘What do you think, big boy?’
‘Eight o’clock? Your place?’ queried Sandy Franklin.
The woman flashed a wide smile, revved her car engine, and let out the clutch, leaving him standing in the middle of the road.
As Maureen walked back to the car park near the library where she’d left her Ford Escort, anger, contempt and hatred battled inside her. Sandy Franklin had not only been one of the instigators when she’d been raped, he had enjoyed every minute inside the horrible dark shed. He’d goaded the others into action, forcing John Moorhouse to take part when he’d hung back, and he’d gone along with all the vile suggestions Dennis Jackson had made. He’d been slobbering with excitement when it came to his turn.
Her mind alive with memories, she drove round and round Benbury for almost two hours, visiting the haunts of her childhood, reliving the past. It was as though she was watching a video over and over again.
She knew she should be heading back to Dutton. It was over an hour’s drive, and there was really nothing to keep her in Benbury any longer.
Or was there? Could she return home without first eradicating the ghost of Sandy Franklin from her thoughts?
She decided to drive down the High Street one last time before she went home. Most of the shops were now closed. A few of them had left lights on so that passers-by could view their window displays, but the rest were in darkness, with only a safety light over the till.
The lights were still on in the newsagent’s. Maureen slowed to a crawl as she toyed with the idea of going in and confronting Sandy Franklin. It would be so satisfying to see his face when she reminded him who she was.
Do that and you have as good as owned up to John Moorhouse’s murder, she told herself. Sandy Franklin will phone the police right away, and when he tells them what he knows about you then without doubt you’ll be the chief suspect.
Unless I stop him from using the phone. Not only now . . . forever!
The idea appealed to her.
And why not! She’d come prepared! Not intentionally, of course. It had just happened that way.
She’d stopped at Castleton for lunch, and afterwards had decided to walk around the new shopping precinct there. She was surprised at how large it was, and had decided she might as well take the opportunity to replace the items she had destroyed after her confrontation with John Moorhouse.
It had been a surprisingly successful buying spree. All the new items were now stowed away in the boot of her car in readiness for when she might need them.
Outside Sandy Franklin’s newsagent’s she switched off the engine and undid her seat belt. She was about to get out of her car when she saw that although all the lights were still blazing there was a ‘CLOSED’ notice on the door.
She hesitated. He was in there. She could see him. He was standing by the till cashing up. She wondered if he would come to the door if she knocked. Or would he think it was a burglar and phone the police?
Why should he do that when he could see who was at the door, she reasoned. He would be able to see it was a woman, and probably assume she wanted cigarettes, or a magazine, or sweets or something, point to the ‘Closed’ sign, and wave her away.
Or would he? A woman on her own. Would he be able to resist letting her into the shop and making a pass at her?
While she dithered, the lights inside the shop suddenly went out, leaving only a small red alarm light shining over the till.
Biting her lip in disappointment, Maureen remained in her car. She sat there, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, wondering what to do. She looked up as a light went on in one of the windows above the shop. She supposed he must live there.
She looked at her watch. It was quarter to eight. Sandy Franklin had an appointment to meet his blonde lady friend at eight o’clock!
She was still debating whether or not to wait until he came out when a long dark car emerged from the covered way at the side of the shop and turned left down the High Street.
Within seconds Maureen was following the sleek dark Jaguar, hoping she would be able to keep up with it since it was three times as powerful as her own car.
Left, right, then left again, and they were on the river road. It was a part of Benbury she remembered from her childhood; magical days when, carrying a brown paper bag of bread, she had been taken there to feed the ducks.
The car in front braked suddenly, and then turned into the forecourt of a block of luxury apartments, nosing its way into a slot between a Porsche and a Saab.
Maureen stopped in the road outside, wondering what to do next. She could hardly turn in and park alongside the Mercedes, Rovers, BMWs and Jaguars. Her Ford would look as out of place as a mongrel at a pedigree dog show.
She drove on down the road a little way, parked by the curb, and walked back along the lamplit road.
There was no one about. On one side of her the river, black and mysterious, whispered gently against its banks. Leaning against the iron railings that stretched like a protective barrier between the river and the pavement, Maureen studied the block of flats.
Accrington Court. Very nice! And this was where Sandy Franklin’s lady friend, Tracey, lived!
It was certainly impressive. Huge picture windows, patio doors on to a balcony large enough to take two chairs, and a small table. It would be an idyllic place to sit and relax with a drink in hand and watch what was happening on the river.
There were lights showing in most of the living room windows. Some of the occupants hadn’t drawn their curtains. She watched them moving around. A woman was laying a table, a man switching on the television. In another, drink in hand, a man was walking towards the window.
Maureen felt a moment’s panic. Could he see her? If so, he would be wondering what she was doing out there in the dark, staring up at his window. She walked towards the flats, hoping that if he had seen her he’d think she was a visitor.
As she crossed the forecourt, Maureen felt drawn towards Sandy Franklin’s car. She went over to it, peering into the interior. There were no traces of ownership. Not even a briefcase, or a discarded jacket, on the back seats.
She walked briskly across to the porticoed entrance to the flats where there was a board containing the names of the occupiers. She studied it, wishing she knew the woman’s surname. Hardly likely to have Tracey written on the board!
Then she spotted it. The
re it was! Tracey Walker, flat Sixteen. That must be the Tracey he was visiting. No Mr Walker listed. Did that mean she wasn’t married?
Mulling over what she had discovered, she retraced her steps across the courtyard to the road outside and tried to work out which one was number sixteen.
Shivering with the cold, she went back to her own car for a jacket. The first thing she saw when she opened the boot were the clothes she’d bought in Castleton. Warm jogging bottoms, a black cagoule and comfortable trainers. It made sense to change into them.
She walked up and down the pavement, always keeping the apartment block in sight. Each time she walked past the forecourt she took the precaution of checking that Sandy Franklin’s car was still parked there.
She knew it was crazy, but she felt compelled to wait. She was confident that he would be out soon. He wouldn’t stay the night; as a newsagent he would have to be up so early.
No woman would want her lover leaving before dawn. Not Tracey, she’d bet on that. Tracey would send him packing before she settled for the night.
There was hardly anyone about. Now and again a couple would wander by, hand in hand, eyes only for each other.
The March evening darkened as clouds gathered bringing cold, slanting rain. Maureen refused to abandon her vigil.
All I have to do is be patient, she told herself.
Sandy Franklin wasn’t looking forward to his evening with Tracey Walker. His mind was made up. Tracey had become far too demanding. They’d had some great times together, he’d enjoyed their fling, but enough was enough. The time had come to put an end to their relationship.
Tom Walker had been a business contact. A pompous, pot-bellied, magazine wholesaler. A bald-headed, cigar-smoking workaholic who’d worshipped the ground Tracey walked on, and paraded her like a kid with a Barbie-doll.
While Tom was alive, Sandy had been quite happy with their arrangement. Tracey had been as keen as he was to conceal their affair. The minute Tom keeled over from a heart-attack, though, she’d been so brazen-faced about seeing him that Sandy had felt embarrassed.
