by Rosie Harris
As if reading his mind, Brian switched from talking about his own forthcoming induction to commenting on what had been happening in Benbury over the past few weeks.
Wilson braced himself. At the lodge meeting they’d both attended he’d been in the unenviable position of telling his fellow Masons that one of their members had met with an untimely death, so it was inevitable that the matter was uppermost in Patterson’s mind.
It had been doubly unpleasant making the announcement because everyone knew that, as detective superintendent in Benbury, he was in charge of the case. He’d found it extremely embarrassing having to admit that up to the time of speaking, no one had been apprehended. Even so, he was surprised at how upset Brian Patterson was over Sandy Franklin’s death.
‘He was one of my clients as well as a fellow Mason,’ Brian confided. ‘I’ve known him all my life . . . We were at school together!’
James Wilson’s steely grey eyes registered surprise. It was hard to think of the thin, balding little man standing alongside him as a schoolboy or a contemporary of Franklin’s . . . or as one of his friends. Sandy Franklin had been brash and boisterous, with a forceful outgoing personality. Patterson looked years older than Franklin and had the character of a grisly old ferret.
James Wilson was used to having big burly men around him most of the time, and he felt a revulsion he found hard to disguise for the prim little man in his chalk-striped navy suit and ghastly polka-dot bow tie.
Furthermore, he detested Patterson’s habit of constantly rubbing his hands together so ingratiatingly. And the way Patterson peered from behind his pebble-lenses, gave him the creeps.
It had been his opinion that Sandy Franklin, not Patterson, should have been the one stepping into his shoes as master, but he’d been overruled because of Sandy’s reputation.
The problem had been that Sandy Franklin fancied himself as a ladies’ man, and several of the members bore a deep-seated grudge because, in the past, he’d been more than friendly with their wives.
‘Oh yes, we were at school together,’ repeated Brian Patterson. ‘In fact in the same class as John Moorhouse. And Dennis Jackson, the estate agent. You probably know him. I act for him, too, and I was only saying to him today . . .’
Wilson let his thoughts stray to more important matters as the garrulous reminiscences flowed. At the first opportunity he cut across Patterson’s diatribe. Glancing down at his Rolex he exclaimed in a falsely surprised voice, ‘Heavens! Is that the time? I must be going.’
‘I’ll walk across to your car with you. There are still one or two points I want to check out,’ Patterson murmured anxiously.
Controlling his irritation, Wilson nodded, and they left the hall together. It had been raining earlier in the evening, and the tarmac glistened damply underfoot as they made their way to the car park. The sky, still banked with clouds, had an eerie green tinge as the moon struggled to make an appearance from behind them.
‘I’m parked over by the gate,’ stated Wilson, and began to stride purposefully in that direction. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘Oh, I’m round at the back of the hall. I was one of the first to arrive, and I always feel my car is least likely to get a knock if I park there. Most of the chaps have company cars, but I have to buy mine myself, and so I take doubly good care of it.’
Wilson barely paused. ‘Right. I’ll say goodnight then.’
‘I’ll walk you to your car,’ insisted Patterson. ‘As I said, there’s still a couple of things I want to ask you. We rather got carried away talking about Sandy Franklin! Still, you know how it is when it’s one of your boyhood friends.’
His voice was so obsequiously oily that Wilson shuddered in distaste as he unlocked his Rover and tossed the leather case containing his Masonic regalia on to the passenger seat. Sliding in behind the wheel, he lowered the window and once more bid Patterson goodnight.
‘Now, you’re quite sure you’ve told me everything I need to know . . .’
‘Absolutely! You’ll carry everything off perfectly,’ Wilson assured him.
‘There are one or two small points . . .’
‘Stop worrying!’ Wilson switched on the engine and began slowly backing the car out. ‘Believe me, everything will be fine!’
Brian Patterson nodded reluctantly. ‘Well, I can see you’re in a hurry. I’ll phone you if there is anything else I need to know.’
He was still standing in the middle of the empty parking area when Superintendent James Wilson drove out of the gateway.
Watching him in his rear mirror, Wilson once again felt that it was hard to believe that Patterson and Franklin were the same age. Patterson looked at least ten years older.
Perhaps it had something to with their personalities. Patterson always had such a shifty look about him. It was as though he had the worries of the world on his shoulders, or as if he was trying to hide some deep dark secret.
A man less likely to be a solicitor would be hard to find, James Wilson thought as he nosed his way into the late night traffic and headed for home.
Brian Patterson’s head was filled with a dense tangle of intertwining thoughts as he watched James Wilson drive away. He couldn’t understand why Wilson hadn’t been more impressed by the fact that he had been at school with both John Moorhouse and Sandy Franklin.
He’d half hoped that Wilson would question him, delve into the past a bit. That would have given him a chance to voice the disquiet that had been nagging at him all week.
He had a more analytical mind than most people, he reflected. And an incredibly reliable memory for dates and events. He put that down to his training, and the fact that he’d been practising as a solicitor for almost twelve years.
A great many of the things he remembered from his own past didn’t reveal him in a very good light, and he would have preferred to forget them. Nothing criminal, merely incidents which gnawed at his conscience, from time to time, and tormented him. He deplored his own foolhardiness. Probably, he worried too much.
Perhaps he should have been more like Sandy Franklin: taken it all in his stride and freed himself from the grip of the past. He even found himself dwelling on a misdemeanour from his schooldays. By now he should have put that out of his mind. After all, it had only been a high-spirited boyhood prank, and what was done couldn’t be undone, no matter however much you might regret it.
He had plenty of clients who could vouch for that. One slip could change the entire pattern of your life, if you let it! As he walked across to his car he speculated on whether a man ever fully controlled his own destiny.
He sighed. So often it was other people’s actions that involved you in a situation from which there was no escape.
Bill Smart stubbed out his cigarette, and then he made one last round of the Masonic Hall, checking that all the doors were closed in case a fire should break out in the night.
His last call was to the cloakroom to make sure that no one had left anything behind. It always amazed him that they could go off without their scarf, or gloves, or briefcases. Easy come easy go, he supposed. If they lost them then they’d simply go out and buy new ones.
Not like him and Elsie. They had to watch every penny, especially since the factory where he’d worked for over thirty years had closed down.
When he’d been made redundant he’d thought that was the end. It had been a stroke of luck landing this caretaking job. It didn’t pay much, only about half what he’d been earning before, but Elsie had found a part-time job at the newsagent’s in the High Street, and that helped.
Another three years and they’d both be drawing their state pension. That wasn’t a fortune either, but at least it came in regular each week. With any luck they’d keep him on as caretaker. Just as long as he did a good job.
Satisfied that everyone had gone home, he locked and bolted the huge oak entrance doors and went out of the small side door that led into the back car park, making sure he double-locked that behind him.
It
was then that he saw there was still a car parked over by the far wall.
‘I wonder why he’s still here?’ he muttered aloud.
‘What’s the trouble? Won’t she start?’ he called out as he walked over to see if he could help.
The figure leaning over the bonnet neither answered nor stirred.
Bill Smart felt puzzled. Something was wrong. The man was lying face down. Bill wondered if he’d been doing something to his windscreen and then collapsed with a heart attack. By now Bill Smart was right alongside the car, near enough to touch the man. He spoke again, but there was no movement.
Perhaps I ought to check if he’s still breathing, he thought, and moved closer to do so.
His own heart started to pound, and the back of his neck prickled. He didn’t know what to do for the best. Situations like this unnerved him completely. Perhaps he should nip back into the Hall and phone for an ambulance.
He looked around. The car park was deserted. Away in the distance he could hear the traffic in the main road. His instinct was to get out fast and forget what he’d seen, but that wouldn’t hold up if he was questioned. It was part of his duties to check the car park each night. He couldn’t say someone must have got in after he’d left because the last thing he was supposed to do before leaving was make sure everyone had left, and then lock the gates.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets to make quite sure he didn’t accidentally touch anything and leave incriminating fingerprints, Bill Smart bent down and peered more closely.
The man was lying face downwards, and there was a scraper in his hand. It looked as though he’d been cleaning his windscreen and then been attacked from behind.
Bill’s bowels went weak as he saw that the knife the killer had used was still there!
The handle was sticking out midway between the victim’s shoulders. There was a dark stain on the back of his overcoat, and there was something wet all over the bonnet of the car. It must be blood, Bill decided as it shone glassily in a beam of light from the street lamp in the next road.
Taking great care not to touch it or let it come in contact with his own clothes, Bill bent his head to one side and studied the man’s profile.
He was shocked to find that it was Mr Patterson, the solicitor. He knew Patterson all right – thin faced, pebble-glasses, going bald. Bit of a busybody. Always telling him what he should and should not do. He would be even more officious next year when he was master.
Bill Smart drew in a sharp breath. Mr Patterson wouldn’t be master though . . . not now.
He straightened up, wondering what to do next. Patterson looked dead, but he supposed he ought to make sure. Tentatively, he took one of his hands out of his pocket and placed it on the man’s forehead then pulled back sharply. The moist coldness sent a shudder through him.
No point in sending for an ambulance . . . or trying to revive him, he decided. Yet he had to do something. He couldn’t leave him lying there. For one thing he needed the car park clear so that he could lock up for the night.
Still not too sure about what was the right action to take, he went back into the Masonic Hall to phone the police.
He’d better phone Elsie as well, he decided. She’d be worrying as it was because he was late. By the time the police arrived, and he’d answered all their questions, it might be another hour before he could get home.
When Elsie answered the phone the implication of what had happened, and of what he had seen, hit him afresh. His voice shook as he explained why he was going to be late.
‘Here, Bill, are you all right? You sound quite shaky. Would you like me to come and be there with you?’
‘No, no. You stay where you are!’ The thought of her seeing Patterson’s body with a knife sticking out of his back horrified him.
‘Well, if you’re quite sure you’re all right . . .’
‘Yes, yes. Nothing at all for you to worry about. I only phoned to let you know I’ll be a bit late in case you were worried when I wasn’t home at my usual time. I’ve phoned the police. They told me to wait here. They’ll be along soon.’
‘Very well, then, Bill. If you think you can manage. I must say I don’t like it though.’
In some strange way, Elsie’s concern helped to restore Bill’s confidence.
‘I’ll be OK. Now, don’t you worry. Just keep my meal hot till I get home.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ she promised. ‘It’s most upsetting, though. This means now that there’s been three murders in Benbury in as many weeks.’
‘Three?’
‘That schoolteacher . . . Moorhouse. I think his name was. Then Mr Franklin. and now this fellow Patterson. He was a solicitor, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Thin, going bald on top?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was quite pally with Sandy Franklin. He used to come in the shop quite regular. They’d go into a huddle. ’Twas as if he was advising Mr Franklin about something or the other,’ she said.
‘He was, probably, because he was his solicitor.’
‘Yes. I suppose it could have been that.’
‘They were both Freemasons, though, and they both attended this lodge,’ he added.
‘Oh, were they? I didn’t know that. And now they’re both dead. And that other fellow, Moorhouse. Was he a Mason?’
‘I don’t know. He might have been. I’ve never seen him at any meetings though.’
‘But he knew Mr Franklin. I remember Mr Franklin saying only last week, when Mr Moorhouse’s picture was on the front page of the local paper, that they’d been at school together and—’
‘I’ve got to go!’ Bill Smart cut his wife short. ‘The police are here. Now don’t you worry. I’ll be home just as soon as ever I can.’
ELEVEN
If there was one thing which Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan disliked more than anything else it was having to turn out in the middle of the night, especially when it entailed being roused from a deep sleep.
‘It’s another murder. Stabbed through the back. The man’s clothing is in a state of disarray, exactly the same as before,’ Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle told her gloomily. ‘Would you like me to collect you? Superintendent Wilson’s already at the scene.’
‘He is?’ Ruth swallowed a yawn, suddenly wide awake and fully alert.
‘It happened at his Masonic lodge. In the car park.’
She groaned. ‘Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready.’
Ruth dressed quickly. It was going to be a long cold night so she might as well be warm, she thought as she pulled on a heavy anorak over her grey slacks and black high-neck sweater. She had a feeling that Superintendent Wilson didn’t approve of her anyway, so why worry about what she looked like. He had made it quite clear the last time he had spoken to her that he wasn’t very satisfied with the progress she was making in finding whoever had killed John Moorhouse and Sandy Franklin.
The fact that a third murder had taken place, and apparently by the same killer, judging by the state of the victim’s clothes, would really put her method of conducting enquiries under question.
She was waiting on the pavement outside her flat when Paddy drew up in a dark-blue unmarked Ford.
‘What other information do you have?’ she asked as she settled into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt.
Paddy scowled. ‘Not a great deal.’
‘You must know something!’ Ruth shot him a sideways glance, wondering if he was holding back on her or whether, like her, he was too tired to show enthusiasm.
He shrugged. ‘The man’s name is Patterson, he’s a local solicitor, and he was found just before midnight, by the caretaker, an old boy called Bill Smart.’
‘Dead?’
‘He was lying across the bonnet of his car with a knife in his back,’ he told her laconically.
‘And it wasn’t the caretaker who killed him?’
‘Not very likely since he was the one that called the police.’<
br />
‘What time did you get there?’
‘About twenty minutes before I called you. I expected to find you there, but I was told they hadn’t been able to locate you. I only tried your private number on the off chance.’
‘I had only been home about fifteen minutes. Just long enough to be in bed and asleep, though.’
‘Sorry about waking you, ma’am! A good night out, was it?’
She ignored both the question and the trace of sarcasm. ‘You did the right thing,’ she said in a tone that she hoped conveyed that the subject was closed.
Detective Superintendent Wilson was very much in evidence when they arrived. He strode across to their car the moment they pulled up, and without any preliminary greeting, barked. ‘Are you aware of the details, Inspector?’
‘Sergeant Hardcastle has informed me that a Mr Brian Patterson, a local solicitor, was found stabbed—’
‘Right here in this car park! I’d been talking to the man only minutes before,’ he interrupted. ‘We’d both been attending a Masonic meeting. He’d walked across to my car with me, said goodnight, and then went to collect his own car. It must have happened immediately after I’d driven out . . .’ His words drifted on to the cold night air, vaporizing into a breathy mist of whiteness as he turned away.
Ruth felt touched by his concern for his friend. Beneath the crusty exterior there was obviously a softer, more human side that he usually kept carefully hidden. If only there was more evidence to go on! More and more it looked like a serial killer at work judging by the state in which the victims were found, and, unless whoever it was had been more careless this time, there was not a single clue to follow up.
Except . . .
She hesitated, then walked over to Detective Superintendent Wilson. ‘Excuse me, sir. Both the last two victims were known to each other, and they were both members of your Masonic lodge. Was John Moorhouse also a Mason?’
Inspector Wilson frowned. ‘Not to my knowledge. He certainly wasn’t in our lodge.’ He shot her a piercing look. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
