by Rosie Harris
‘No . . . no, not really, sir.’
‘Are you suggesting it is some kind of vendetta against Masons?’
She looked startled. ‘No. I was only trying to establish a link between the three men. They all appear to be respectable citizens . . . Surely there must be some connection . . .’
‘Yes, that they’re all dead!’ His voice was grim. Accusing, almost.
She wondered if he thought Patterson’s death could have been avoided had she been a better detective.
In an uncomfortable silence they walked across the car park to where temporary emergency lighting had been set up and a canvas shelter erected around the scene of the crime.
Ruth was taken aback by the number of officials already there. The scene of crime officer and the forensic medical officer had already carried out their routines and were packing up ready to leave.
‘One moment.’ Detective Superintendent Wilson laid a restraining hand on the FMO’s arm. ‘Will you repeat to my inspector what you said earlier about the time of death.’
‘As far as I can tell, around eleven o’ clock. Might have been a little later. I’ll confirm that as soon as I’ve done the post-mortem.’
Superintendent Wilson looked thoughtful as he turned back to Detective Inspector Morgan and Sergeant Hardcastle. ‘He was found by Smart, the caretaker, when he did his final round before locking up for the night.’
‘And you say you were with Patterson shortly before eleven p.m., sir?’
‘We left the hall together. We’d stayed behind after the others because he had some questions he wanted to ask me.’
‘In that case, he must have been killed almost immediately after you parted,’ Ruth mused. ‘In fact, the killer could have already been in the car park when you drove out.’
‘It’s possible that Mr Patterson disturbed someone trying to break into his car,’ volunteered Sergeant Hardcastle.
Inspector Wilson brushed the suggestion aside. ‘Nothing has been taken from the car, and there’s no sign of damage.’
‘So it must have been someone with a personal grudge against Mr Patterson,’ speculated Ruth.
‘And do you think this unknown person also had a personal grudge against Franklin and Moorhouse?’ snapped Detective Superintendent Wilson.
Once again Ruth was conscious of the implied criticism that this had happened because they had been unable to establish a motive for the two earlier killings, and she bit back the angry reply that hovered on her lips.
It would do no one, least of all herself, any good to antagonize the superintendent. She just wished he would go home and leave her and DS Hardcastle free to pursue their enquiries.
Her silent prayers went unanswered.
An orange glow was already showing on the eastern horizon, heralding a bitterly cold March morning, before Detective Superintendent Wilson finally decided to leave the scene.
‘Four o’clock, my office,’ he snapped as he headed for his car.
It took a shower, change of clothes, two aspirins, and three cups of strong black coffee before Ruth felt she could face the new day.
She would have preferred to sit down at her desk and study the available evidence to see if there was anything she could deduce from it, but top priority was to accompany DS Hardcastle and interview Mrs Patterson.
She was also anxious to talk to both Tracey Walker and Agnes Walker before facing Detective Superintendent Wilson in his office at four o’ clock as he’d ordered.
Skimming through the detailed reports before her, Ruth selected a blank sheet of paper noted down the relevant facts so far obtained.
John Moorhouse, thirty-five. School teacher. Married. Two sons.
Killed in his own home somewhere between five and seven o’ clock.
Body found by his wife, Marilyn Moorhouse, when she returned home with their two sons after an evening at Cubs.
They had not been expecting a visitor; there was no sign of forced entry.
Cause of death: multiple stab wounds. Clothing in a state of disarray.
She left a space so that she could note down additional information, should any come to hand, then moved on to record details of the second victim.
Sandy Franklin. Thirty-five. Local newsagent. Bachelor.
Body found in the car park of Accrington Court, a block of luxury flats.
It is believed he was visiting Mrs Tracey Walker, a close friend, at Sixteen Accrington Court.
Cause of death: multiple stab wounds to the back. Clothing in disarray.
A Freemason and member of the same lodge as Detective Superintendent Wilson.
Ruth underlined the last paragraph. It probably wouldn’t help them find the killer, but it would remind her of the importance of solving these crimes as speedily as possible, she thought as she moved on to the next victim.
Brian Patterson. Thirty-four. Solicitor. Married. Two daughters.
Body discovered slumped over the bonnet of his car in Masonic car park.
Cause of death: multiple stab wounds. Clothing in disarray
Also a member of the same Masonic lodge as Detective Superintendent Wilson.
Once again, Ruth underscored the last sentence. More and more it seemed like a possible connection. Yet was it? The first victim, Moorhouse, hadn’t been a Mason, or if he was he didn’t belong to the superintendent’s lodge.
The only other things the three men had in common was that they had all lived in Benbury all their lives and were upright citizens with good reputations.
And they were all about the same age.
She checked the list again. Moorehouse, thirty-four; Franklin, thirty-five; Patterson thirty-five. She wondered if they had been at school together.
The moment Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle came back on duty she queried this with him.
‘I can soon check,’ he told her.
‘I thought perhaps you would know. If they went to the local school they would have been at school with you?’
‘I’m thirty-nine. Five years is a big age gap when you’re in your teens.’
‘The year they started would be the year you left?’
‘That’s right.’ He reached out to pick up the phone. ‘It won’t take a minute to check it out with the headmaster.’
‘No!’ She waved the idea away. ‘Do that later.’ She handed him a sheet. ‘These three interviews are more important at the moment.’
There was still a police cordon around the Moorhouse’s home at Twenty-Seven Fieldway, and a uniformed constable on duty.
Looking very pale, and fragile, Marilyn Moorhouse answered their questions in almost a monotone.
Her mother had moved in to help look after the two boys. A plump, older version of Marilyn, with a querulous voice and officious manner, she hovered in the background, substantiating her daughter’s answers and making it very plain to both Detective Inspector Morgan and Sergeant Hardcastle that she felt it was an intrusion of her daughter’s privacy the way the police were asking so many questions.
‘One more thing, Mrs Moorhouse. Was your husband a Freemason?’
‘He certainly wasn’t!’ snapped her mother before Marilyn Moorhouse had a chance to do so. ‘Nothing but a load of hocus-pocus all that sort of thing if you ask me.’
‘Was he at school with either Mr Franklin or Mr Patterson?’
‘He was at Benbury Secondary School with Sandy Franklin,’ murmured Marilyn. ‘Who else did you say?’
‘Patterson. Mr Brian Patterson.’
‘The solicitor?’ Marilyn’s blue eyes widened; she looked shocked.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘What has he got to do with this?’
‘He was killed last night, shortly before midnight . . .’
‘Oh no!’ The colour drained from her face. ‘That’s three murders . . .’
‘It’s absolutely disgraceful! Nothing like this has ever happened in Benbury before,’ raged her mother.
‘Was Brian Patterson also at school with your hus
band, Mrs Moorhouse?’ persisted Ruth.
‘Yes!’ Tears cascading down her cheeks, Marilyn Moorhouse nodded. Her blue eyes were dark with fear as she looked up at Ruth. ‘Was he . . . was his clothing in the same state as John’s?’ she breathed hoarsely.
Ruth nodded. ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’
Marilyn Moorhouse shuddered, then buried her face in her hands. ‘What does it all mean?’ she gulped.
Agnes Walker was a thin, bird-like woman in her late fifties. She could offer them very little help. Although she still lived in the family home, an imposing double-fronted mock-Tudor on the outskirts of Benbury, she hadn’t seen Sandy Franklin since her husband had died over five years earlier. Nor did she want to.
‘I’ve heard plenty of gossip about him and that Tracey, mind you,’ she told them, ‘but as long as my husband took care of the mortgage on this place, and all my household expenses, then he was free to do as he liked as far as I was concerned.
‘You weren’t divorced?
Agnes Walker bristled like a bantam whose feathers have been ruffled. ‘Oh, he asked me for a divorce time and time again, but I’m a Catholic so I had no intention of giving him one.’ She laughed, a high, dry sound. ‘Now, it doesn’t matter. He’s dead, the house is mine, and with all the insurance he had I have all the money I need to live comfortable for the rest of my life.’
She sounded so triumphant that it sent a shiver through Ruth.
The idea that Tracey had been two-timing Tom Walker with Sandy Franklin seemed to amuse Agnes. ‘Serve him right,’ she cackled. ‘He led me a dance, going off with that Tracey woman. Calling herself Mrs Walker, I ask you! I’m delighted to know he had a taste of his own medicine. Probably finding out that someone was double-crossing him was what brought on his heart attack.’
She was so vitriolic that Ruth almost wished she could pin Franklin’s murder on her. Agnes Walker’s alibi ruled that out, however. On the day in question she had been away on a painting holiday in Dorset and had a dozen other participants to prove her whereabouts.
‘Well, I think that answers our question as to whether Mrs Walker had any hand in Sandy Franklin’s death, don’t you?’ observed Paddy as they came away from Agnes Walker’s home.
‘Let’s hope we have more success with Tracey Walker.’
‘If we are lucky enough to find her at home,’ he agreed gloomily.
Tracey was at home, overcome with grief and not prepared to be terribly cooperative. She claimed she had no idea who could have done such a shocking thing. She was quite open about her relationship with the late Tom Walker, and everything she said about it tallied with the information they had on record, or with what Agnes Walker had already told them.
She admitted that Sandy Franklin had been her lover for quite a while before Tom Walker died. She hinted, too, that she had been thinking about moving in with Sandy Franklin.
‘I’ve already given up my lease on this flat,’ she said, sniffing. ‘In another week or so I’ll be homeless.’
Her account of Sandy Franklin’s movements on the night he died conformed with information they already had on file. It didn’t necessarily eliminate her from suspicion. No one had seen him leave her flat alone. There was always the possibility that she had followed him to where his car was parked, attacked him, and then gone back into her flat.
She’d already heard about Brian Patterson’s death, and she confirmed that he and Sandy Franklin had belonged to the same Masonic lodge. ‘He was Sandy’s solicitor, as well,’ she volunteered. ‘They’d known each other since their schooldays.’
‘Do you mean they went to the same school?’
‘That’s right. Benbury Secondary School.’
‘So did John Moorhouse.’
‘Who?’ It was obvious that the name meant nothing to Tracey Walker.
‘The teacher who was murdered. Did you know him?’
‘No, I’d never met him.’
‘Do you recall Mr Franklin ever mentioning him?’
Tracey shook her head. Her face was ashen, and her arms wrapped round her body, hugging herself as if in defence against their questioning.
‘And no one else was here the evening Mr Franklin came to visit you.’
Again she shook her head.
‘And you didn’t go to see him off? Watch out of the window so that you could wave goodbye to him when he got in his car or anything like that?’
‘Of course not. Why the hell should I get out of a warm bed to wave him goodbye? He could have stayed until morning. I wanted him to,’ she added sulkily.
Memories of their parting came flooding back into her mind. She still felt furious with him. Even after she had told him that in less than a week she would be homeless he still hadn’t changed his mind about letting her move in with him. He’d seemed to think she was bluffing, even though she’d shown him the lease.
She wondered what the police would think if they knew about the steaming row they’d had before he had stormed out of her flat vowing never to come back again.
That was when he’d told her it was all over between them. They’d ended up shouting obscenities at each other, and when he’d slapped her across the face she’d gone for him, fists flying, determined to wipe the supercilious expression off his face.
TWELVE
The pile of newspapers in Maureen Flynn’s living room increased daily. They included the weekly edition of the Benbury Gazette as well as every daily newspaper that contained any reference to the Benbury murders.
Hour after hour she sat reading them, comparing the accounts in the popular dailies with the ones in the more serious broadsheets.
The reports varied greatly. The popular papers focused on the more sensational aspects of the murders and speculated wildly on the reasons for them. The broadsheets, for the most part, were coldly factual.
The only items they all agreed on were that the killer had left no fingerprints of any kind or any clues to their identity. They concluded that as the motivation was clearly sexual, it was the work of a dangerous sadist.
Avidly, Maureen studied the potted histories of the victims. She found it fascinating to read the details that each man’s family and friends had related to reporters, and to discover the directions their lives had taken since she had left Benbury.
She felt resentful that all of the victims appeared to have had such successful lives. It seemed they had managed to exorcize the event that she had found so traumatic. It had obviously not affected their lives in the way it had blighted hers.
It had now, of course, she thought smugly. Three of them had received their just deserts!
And she’d not finished yet. She was determined to complete her mission . . . and soon. She must do it before the realization of what she had done clouded her mind with guilt.
She felt supercharged. A clarity of mind, and a surge of energy such as she had never known before.
Applying her usual painstaking attention to detail, the same as when she was undertaking any kind of research, she studied every line of the newspaper reports and catalogued the details.
The more she read, the greater was her sense of pride in her achievements. So far there had been no slip-ups whatsoever. Not a single clue, not even a fingerprint left behind! Even the police were baffled.
It was no happy coincidence, she reminded herself. On each occasion she had planned everything with meticulous precision and care. Each time, she had destroyed every vestige of her clothing immediately afterwards. Everything had been put into an unmarked plastic bin bag and taken to a household waste-disposal tip.
She had made sure it was a different tip each time, and that it was over fifty miles away from Benbury and Dutton.
Each complete set of replacements consisting of black tracksuit bottoms, trainers, thin rubber gloves, black sweatshirt, and black cagoule had been purchased from shops right away from the area.
Even if she did make a slip-up, and was unfortunate enough to leave some item or the other behind at the
scene of the crime, it would be almost impossible to trace who had bought it.
Her work as a researcher had trained her to note the minutest detail, and it was serving her in good stead now. It was a combination of painstaking tabulation plus skill, and an element of good luck, she reflected sagely. She only hoped her luck held out a little while longer. Once it was all over she planned to start a new life.
The first thing she intended to do was move. She’d never liked the poky little place in Dutton. It had been all she could afford when she’d first set up home on her own, but she’d outgrown it a long time ago.
She needed somewhere with plenty of space. A separate room to house her computer and her desk and filing cabinets and the mountain of reference books she needed for her research work. It would be wonderful to have them completely separate so that she would be able to shut the door on that side of her life at the end of the working day.
She dreamed of a spacious sitting room with patio doors leading out on to a terrace and garden. A place where she could relax and entertain friends. Not that she had any friends at the moment, but in the immediate future, when she started out on her new life, she intended to change all that. Everything would be different.
She’d have a cat, too. A long-haired white Persian. Maybe a dog as well. She quite liked the idea of a spaniel. Something big and friendly that she could take for walks.
She’d quite enjoy looking for the right house. Not in Dutton. She’d outgrown that, the same as the place she was living in. It would have to be a town because she needed easy access to a main library and post office. Perhaps she could start by looking in Benbury.
The idea amused her. She rummaged through the pile of newspapers, looking for the Benbury Gazette. In the property section, as well as a page of private advertisements, three estate agents each had a full spread.
The name JACKSON caught her eye. As did the passport-sized photograph of the owner heading a short blurb about the excellence of the service he could supply to both vendors and buyers. She ignored the words but concentrated on the face. Lean, handsome with smooth straight black hair parted on the side, exactly the same way as he had worn it at school.
