Hell Hath No Fury

by Rosie Harris

  In fact, she decided, he really was extremely handsome, and she wondered why he had never married. True, as he had explained, being in the police did give rise to unsociable hours. Even so, a lot of women would have overlooked that in exchange for the comfort of having someone so solid and dependable.

  Perhaps that was his problem. He was too solid, too set in his ways. Not yet forty, yet his manner was as cautious as if he was in his late-fifties. In his usual garb of tweed jacket, and buff-coloured cords, he looked more like a farmer, or a country squire, than a policeman.

  His social life seemed to consist of going to the local for a pint and listening to gossip. She was surprised that he paid any attention to tittle-tattle, but she supposed it was inevitable if he went to the pub every night. And he probably did that because he was lonely, she thought compassionately.

  She felt guilty because she had consistently rebuffed his attempts at friendship. As a woman doing what was generally regarded as a man’s job she had thought it was the most sensible way to handle the situation. Perhaps she had been a little too restrained. When they got back to the station she’d suggest going for a coffee together. She hated going into the police canteen – it was so basic with its Formica topped tables, and metal chairs – but if it helped to soften up the tension between them then it would be a small sacrifice to make.

  Her good intentions were undermined the moment they entered the building.

  ‘Detective Superintendent Wilson requested that you should both report to his office the moment you came in,’ the desk sergeant informed them.

  ‘Trouble?’ Paddy’s dark brows lifted almost imperceptibly as he held the door from reception to the rear offices open for her.

  ‘It certainly sounds ominous.’

  Superintendent Wilson’s voice as he greeted them left them in no doubt that there had been a further development.

  ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for well over an hour,’ he barked. ‘Don’t you keep your intercom switched on, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’ve only been in the car for the past ten minutes, sir. Before that we were at Nineteen The Crescent.’

  ‘Interviewing Mrs Sara Patterson,’ Ruth told him.

  From under hooded brows, Superintendent Wilson looked from her to Sergeant Hardcastle and then back again. ‘And the result of your interview?’

  It was obvious he was expecting them to relate some outstanding news. When neither of them spoke, he placed his elbows on the desk, and supporting his chin on his finger tips, stared directly at them.

  ‘Surely you have something to report, Inspector?’

  Ruth shook her head. ‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid, sir. Mrs Patterson wasn’t at home the night her husband was murdered. She was in London on a shopping spree.’

  ‘She can confirm this?’

  ‘She claims to have been staying with her sister, Yvonne Duran. We have a telephone number and—’

  ‘And have you checked it out? Has the sister confirmed her story?’

  ‘We haven’t made contact yet, sir. We would have done it the moment we got back, only the desk sergeant informed us that—’

  Superintendent Wilson waved her explanation away. ‘Any other information?’ he barked.

  Ruth looked expectantly at Paddy. ‘The sergeant has a car parking ticket . . .’

  ‘Taken from Mrs Patterson’s car, sir. It’s one from the machine in the public car park near the Masonic hall.’

  Superintendent Wilson looked puzzled. ‘Do you mean for the night her husband was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, sir. The date and time are both smudged—’

  ‘But we will be able to verify when it was issued from the serial number,’ Ruth interrupted.

  ‘And Mrs Patterson does have a red car, sir.’

  Superintendent Wilson frowned. ‘Red car?’

  ‘A red car was seen parked in Fieldway the night John Moorhouse was murdered,’ Ruth reminded him.

  The superintendent’s face froze. ‘Are you telling me that you think that Mrs Patterson murdered Moorhouse, and then her husband? Perhaps we should include Sandy Franklin as well for good measure,’ he added sarcastically when they both remained silent.

  Ruth sensed that Paddy had a cynical smile on his face as he looked conspiratorially at the superintendent. In her eagerness to appease Superintendent Wilson, and to show that they were doing everything possible to catalogue the movements of everyone connected with the murders, she’d made a glaring mistake. By stating what was little more than a supposition she’d undermined her own authority.

  She wondered if Paddy had set her up deliberately, hinting that perhaps Sara Patterson had been in some way involved, and then leaving her to blurt it out. Was there a sharp, devious mind behind that bluff exterior?

  In that moment she hated both him and Inspector Wilson. It was as if they were both conspiring against her. If Sergeant Hardcastle had been the one to make such a statement, Superintendent Wilson would have regarded it as valuable evidence, she thought resentfully.

  Well, they might think it was a man’s world, and that as a woman she wasn’t up to the job, but she was determined to prove them wrong. ‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, she said stiffly, ‘I’ll go and telephone Yvonne Duran, and see if she can confirm Mrs Patterson’s movements the night her husband was murdered.’

  ‘By all means!’ He frowned heavily. ‘I appreciate that this is a very difficult case, Inspector, but it would set a great many minds at rest if you could come up with even one single fragment of watertight evidence.’

  FIFTEEN

  June Lowe studied the red fingernails on her left hand, then shrugged her slim, shapely shoulders as she replaced the receiver she had been holding to her right ear for several minutes.

  If Mrs Jackson was out, and hadn’t left the answerphone switched on, then there wasn’t a lot she could do to about passing on the message Dennis Jackson had asked her to deliver before he’d gone to Englefield Drive to show a client over the Willows.

  She looked at her silver and blue enamel watch. It was a few minutes to six. She didn’t know what to do for the best. She’d had no luck contacting him either, and he’d asked her to remind him that he must leave early as he and his wife were going to a rather special dinner party.

  Well, she’d done her best, she told herself as she picked up her handbag and her car keys.

  Her hand on the door, June hesitated. Perhaps she ought to try once more. He must surely have finished showing Mrs Margaret Maitland around the Willows by now. If he was on his way home she might be able to get him on his mobile and then she could explain she’d not been able to contact his wife.

  When she still had no success, June felt concerned. His wife would kill him if he was late. By the sound of it their dinner date was quite an important affair so he’d have to change into evening clothes.

  Earlier on she’d thought he’d simply switched off his phone so as not to be distracted while he was dealing with the client. The appointment at the Willows had been for four o’ clock. He couldn’t still be there.

  The only other thing she could think was that perhaps he’d taken the client for a coffee. She’d sounded quite young so maybe he was putting on his charm act in the hope of clinching the deal. Or, perhaps she was just attractive, June mused. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’d fallen for a pretty face and found something better to do than return to the office. She hated it when that happened because she always felt such a fool when she had to cover up for him.

  June was pretty certain that Deborah Jackson wasn’t taken in by her explanations even though she never openly queried them. This time, she reflected, she’d done her best, and he’d have to make his own excuses if he was late getting home.

  She switched off the lights and keyed in the code that activated the burglar alarm. It wasn’t her problem, she told herself as she pulled the door shut behind her, but it worried her all the same. She was his personal assistant, though, not his keeper, she r
eminded herself as she unlocked the door of her red Mini. She had her own life to lead, and it didn’t include worrying about her boss – leastways, not when her working day was over.

  June sighed. That was one of her failings; she was too conscientious, especially where Dennis Jackson was concerned. She sighed again. It was the sort of effect he seemed to have on most women from eighteen to eighty. A dynamic personal charm that was irresistible.

  To set her mind at rest, June decided to drive home by way of Englefield Drive and see if Dennis Jackson’s car was still there. But what if it was? What did she do then? she asked herself. Ring on the doorbell? And if he didn’t answer should she shout, ‘Your wife is expecting you home!’ through the letter box?

  The thought amused her. It would serve him right if she did do that, she thought rebelliously, especially if he was still in the house with the client, Margaret Maitland.

  She sighed. If Dennis Jackson wasn’t so good looking, and so charismatic, would she be doing all this? The truth was, she felt so flattered when he treated her as a confidante that she found herself anxious to protect him. Besides, he was always so grateful whenever she covered up for him. Absolutely charming. And the next day he always brought her flowers, or chocolates, or perfume, in appreciation of what she had done. He never forgot her birthday, either. Flowers, as well as a card and a present. And he always gave her something really gorgeous at Christmas, as well as a bonus in her wage packet.

  He’d never made a pass at her, but she sometimes wondered if deep down he fancied her. She noticed the way his dark eyes lit up whenever she was wearing something that was particularly sexy. And when she wore a mini he couldn’t keep his eyes off her legs!

  Probably the only reason he didn’t make a pass at her was because he valued her too much. She could run the office single-handed, and often did when he was on one of his sprees. Perhaps if she hadn’t been quite so efficient there’d be a different kind of rapport between them.

  June gave rein to her fantasies as she drove towards Englefield Drive. She didn’t fancy being his mistress – that was too risky, and you only got yourself talked about. Married and enjoying the glamorous lifestyle that went with being Mrs Jackson was more her style. A big house, someone to clean it, parties every week, a swimming pool, and luxury holidays abroad, that was her ambition.

  Supposing his car was still outside The Willows, and he was there on his own? If she went in and there was just the two of them there then absolutely anything could happen! Even thinking about it she experienced a bizarre excitement.

  Taking one hand from the steering wheel, she fluffed out her blonde hair, and then undid the top two buttons of her blouse so that the neck was open in a seductive manner.

  ‘It could be fun,’ she told herself aloud. In fact, a damn sight more fun than anything that ever happened between her and Duncan White, who was her current boyfriend.

  June let her fantasy build up. She pictured herself telling Dennis Jackson how she felt about him, how the way he flirted, and carried on with all the women clients, excited her. She would even tell him that covering up for him when his wife phoned, asking if she knew where he was, turned her on.

  If she had to choose between Dennis Jackson and Duncan White then Dennis would win hands down. He had the looks, the charm, and – something which, in her eyes, was even more important – he had experience. The tales she’d heard about him since she’d been working at the estate agency were legion. She was pretty sure they were true because of the number of women who came into the office to see him. And not all of them wanted to buy houses, either.

  Yes, she decided, if his was the only car outside the Willows then she’d take it as an omen and chance her arm.

  As she turned into the gravel drive she was almost afraid to look. And when she did, her heart thundered crazily. It was an omen all right!

  ‘Now or never,’ she told herself aloud as she parked her red Mini behind Jackson’s dark-green Mercedes, ‘Now or never,’ she repeated as she marched purposefully towards the house.

  She stopped in surprise, her hand poised to ring the bell. The door was already ajar.

  Deborah Jackson surveyed herself in the ornate pier glass on the wall between the oyster velvet curtains that framed the two tall windows in the elegant master bedroom at High Winds.

  She had spent an awful lot of money on the little black velvet number she was wearing, but it had been an investment: the result was terrific.

  Slowly, she twisted around, craning her neck so that she could study the effect from every angle. She hoped Dennis would be impressed, since he would be paying for it.

  She raised both arms and lifted her shoulder-length hair, then let it fall slowly, like a fiery curtain as it swept down on to her creamy shoulders.

  Yes, he’d be paying for it. And not just for the dress. Tonight would be the ultimate test of whether she decided to let things remain as they were, or whether she divorced him.

  She picked up a lipstick from her rosewood dressing table, and added another scarlet layer to her wide mouth.

  He must know that she was aware that he was carrying on with Martina Carpenter. If he didn’t then he’d be in no doubt about it before the evening was over.

  His face had been almost too impassive when she’d told him they were dining with the Carpenters, and she’d detected a note of unease in his voice that showed he’d been taken aback.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like the Carpenters!’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then why are we dining with them?’

  ‘You keep telling me what important clients they are, and you spend so much time trying to find exactly the right sort of property to meet Martina’s requirements, that I thought it was time I showed an interest in them.’

  ‘You mean we’re entertaining them?’

  ‘That’s right. At Alfonso’s.’

  His brows had shot up. It was the most expensive restaurant in the Benbury area.

  ‘So make sure you’re home early. In plenty of time to change. I’ve had your dinner jacket cleaned, and I’ve bought you a wonderful new shirt.’

  ‘Why all the fuss? They’ve already agreed to buy Wetherby House, didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘No!’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Well, we can make it a celebration, and since they’ve been such special clients it will be a wonderful way of saying thank you for their business, won’t it?’

  He’d been about to argue, but she could see he was unsure of himself. He didn’t know quite how much she knew about his latest affair.

  Tonight, Deborah decided, would bring matters to a head. Tonight he might have to choose between her and Martina Carpenter.

  In the past she had ignored his countless romantic liaisons. She’d known the sort of man he was when she’d married him. Anything in a skirt could turn his head. But his affairs were never serious. A fling lasted a few days, or at the most a couple of weeks, and then it was all over . . . until the next time.

  She’d learned to profit from his adventures. Rewards had included a gold brooch; a jewelled watch; an emerald ring; countless holidays; even a stunning red sports car.

  Only, this time it seemed to be so much more serious. The few weeks had become a few months. This time his flirtation showed no signs of ending. Which was why she had decided it was time for action. Unless he gave up Martina, the dumpy little Spanish bimbo, then she wanted a divorce and a settlement that would make his eyes water.

  She pirouetted once again, feeling confident, knowing that she looked good. The smooth black velvet enhanced her tall, curvaceous figure. Beside her, Martina would look not only dumpy, but frumpish in her fussy, frilly frock. And her long red-gold hair, skimming her creamy shoulders, framing her finely chiselled features, would contrast sharply with Martina’s sallow complexion and the straight black hair that she wore in a severe chignon.

  Deborah didn’t really mind which way things went. In some ways it would be a relief to be free of Dennis and his insatiable se
xual demands. At thirty-two she was still young enough to resume the acting career she’d given up when they’d married. It would be wonderful to get right away from Benbury, too. She felt trapped in the monotonous round of dinner parties that seemed to be all the town offered in the way of social entertainment.

  Wherever they went, whether it was to the golf club, Ladies’ Night at the Masonic hall, the Conservative Club, or simply to one of the local night clubs, it was always the same faces. She knew absolutely everything there was to know about the group they mixed with, and she despised them all. The women, because at one time or another they’d all succumbed to Dennis’s charms and either flirted with him or had an affair with him. She despised the men because they continued to treat him as a friend even though most of them suspected they’d been cuckolded by him.

  Over the years she’d watched Dennis flirt with all their wives. And when he’d tired of them she’d seen the expression in their eyes change from ‘come-hither’ to hate. She’d overheard cloakroom confidences between those who’d fallen for his charms, and been disillusioned, or heart-broken, by his eventual rejection.

  With or without Dennis she intended to change her lifestyle. London was her Mecca. Not just for the shops, but for the theatres and restaurants, and the variety of social opportunities to be found if you moved in the right circles. And that was what she intended to do – and without Dennis. In the past she’d stood passively by while he had his fling. Now it was her turn.

  She looked at her jewelled watch, the latest of his gifts to mollify her, and frowned. It was much later than she had thought. If they didn’t leave soon they’d be late. Surely he hadn’t forgotten about their dinner date after she’d reminded him to be home early? Perhaps she should check if he was still at the office, although she didn’t think that was very likely since she had made a point of phoning June Lowe earlier in the day and asking her to make sure he left on time. And June never, ever let her down.