Hell Hath No Fury

by Rosie Harris

  ‘There was also a girl in that school group,’ Ruth said stubbornly.

  ‘Yes! What was her name?’

  ‘Maureen Flynn.’

  ‘Have you anything else on her?’

  ‘She was the only girl at Benbury Secondary School who passed her A-levels that year. She and her family left Benbury soon afterwards.’

  ‘Find her. She may be in grave danger if this fellow Gould is our man!’

  ‘Or she might be the killer,’ Ruth observed, then bit her lip as she saw the look of anger mingled with surprise on the superintendent’s face.

  His eyes were hooded as he stared hard at her. ‘You mean you’re looking for a woman?’

  ‘The trainer imprint was quite a small size. More likely to belong to a woman than a man.’

  ‘And the black jeans?’

  She hesitated. ‘Unisex. They could have been worn by a man or a woman.’

  ‘And why would a woman want to kill four men who had been at school with her?’

  Ruth shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And what do you think, Sergeant? Do you think it might have been a woman?’

  Paddy felt uncomfortable. There was a sneer in the superintendent’s voice, and he suspected that Wilson intended him to ridicule Ruth’s theory. Desperately, he tried to think of some way of supporting his colleague. ‘The men were all stabbed,’ he hazarded. ‘Statistics show that a man is more likely to shoot his victim.’

  ‘So you both think this woman suddenly decides to kill all the men she was at school with almost twenty years ago?’

  ‘It’s possible . . .’

  ‘Why?’ The thunder of the superintendent’s voice silenced Paddy. ‘Come on. If that is what you think, why do you think it?’

  Paddy looked flummoxed. He shot a glance at Ruth, a silent plea for help, but before she could intervene, Superintendent Wilson stood up, indicating that the interview was at an end.

  ‘I want Simon Gould and Maureen Flynn found without delay,’ he barked. ‘Fetch both of them in for questioning. Do you understand? Oh, and one more thing,’ he stated as they were about to leave his office. ‘Don’t forget to find out where those trainers were bought!’

  Tracing the shops which stocked the trainers proved surprisingly easy. They were a special consignment that had been imported from Korea, and the logo was an exclusive trademark.

  The importers supplied a small chain of shops called Quicksale and were able to provide a list of all their shops which had taken a delivery of the trainers. None of them were in Benbury.

  ‘The nearest seems to be in Dutton, about fifty miles away,’ mused Paddy. ‘Shall I go and check it out?’

  ‘No, I will. You try and locate this fellow Gould,’ Ruth told him.

  They still had some of the trainers in stock at Dutton, and the manager confirmed that usually they were purchased by women customers.

  ‘They’re not broad enough for most boys or young men,’ he explained.

  They’d sold about a dozen pairs in varying sizes. Two of the pairs sold could possibly have provided the imprint found at the scene of Brian Patterson’s murder.

  ‘You do keep a record of each sale?’ Ruth asked, hopefully.

  ‘Not the name of the customer, I’m afraid.’ He shrugged. ‘All they want is a receipt to check against their credit card statement . . .’

  ‘But you do have a record of their credit card number?’

  He frowned, as if unable to see where her question was leading.

  ‘If you have the customer’s credit card number then the credit card company will have a record of the customer’s name,’ she pointed out. ‘Can you turn them up for me?’

  Ten minutes later she had the good news . . . and the bad. One pair of trainers had been bought by credit card, but that transaction had only taken place the previous day. The other pair had been bought a few days before Patterson’s murder, but the customer had paid in cash.

  ‘Can we ask the assistant who made the sale if she remembers anything about the customer?’ Ruth pressed.

  ‘We can ask her.’

  The assistant was a smart, pleasant-faced girl in her early twenties. ‘Yes, I remember the sale,’ she told them brightly. ‘They were bought by a slim dark woman in her mid-thirties. I thought it rather odd that someone as smartly dressed as she was should be buying trainers. Then I thought that perhaps she went jogging to keep fit.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘That is most helpful. Do you always remember your customers in such detail?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘No! I remember this customer because I was working as a holiday relief at our Endover shop a couple of days later, and she came in there and bought another pair of identical trainers!’

  ‘You served her?’

  ‘No. The girl who did passed the same comment though – that she didn’t look the sort of person to buy trainers . . . Not cheap ones, anyway.’

  ‘So, how well can you describe her?’

  ‘Well, like I said, she was slim and wearing a suit. Nothing flashy; bit drab, in fact.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not much make-up. She was pleasant but quite ordinary looking, really.’

  ‘And her voice?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘She didn’t speak. Except to say “thank you” when I handed over her change.’

  ‘She must have told you what size trainer she wanted.’

  ‘No.’ The girl shook her head. ‘All our stock there is laid out so that customers can make their own selection. They are left to browse and try the shoes on. When they find what they want they bring them over to the counter and pay for them.’

  ‘You don’t talk to them . . .? Try to sell them something else?’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s usually a waste of time. Most of them resent it if you suggest they even look at anything else. They know what they want before they come in. If we’ve got it they buy it, and if we haven’t they go to another shop.’

  Sergeant Hardcastle had almost come to the conclusion that they had been misinformed about Simon Gould being in the motor trade. None of the larger petrol companies had anyone of that name on their books.

  ‘We have no tenant or manager of that name. He probably has his own garage and trades under a company name,’ he was told over and over again.

  ‘Have you tried Swansea? If he does MOTs then he might be on their records,’ suggested Ruth. ‘I still think it’s a waste of time chasing after him,’ she added.

  She had already told Paddy how successful she’d been in tracing the trainers. He’d agreed with her that buying two pairs within as many days was highly suspicious. It had been a long shot, but since the first pair of trainers had been bought in Dutton, Ruth had gone through the local electoral list to see if there was a Maureen Flynn living in the town. And it had paid off. A Maureen Flynn lived at Twenty-Five Windermere Mews.

  ‘We’ll go and have a word with her,’ stated Ruth. ‘If she’s the person we’re looking for there mightn’t be any need to trace Simon Gould.’

  They were on the outskirts of Dutton before Paddy asked the question that had been troubling him for the past hour.

  ‘Why are you so certain that the killer is a woman? Apart from the theory I put forward to the inspector’s office that men don’t usually stab their victims, that is.’

  She was silent for such a long time that he shot a sideways glance to see if she had heard his question.

  ‘Intuition.’

  He took another swift glance to see if she was laughing at him, but her face was patterned by the changing light and the shadows from the trees that lined the road they were driving along.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It was that photograph that set me thinking. The only girl in that year who had proved that she was as good as the boys. And then she completely disappears! No one in Benbury seems to know what happened to her afterwards . . . not even her teachers or the boys she had been at school with and who were in the photograp
h with her.’

  ‘Mr Perks said that she and her family left Benbury.’

  ‘Yes, I know but why did they leave Benbury and where did they move to? She obviously didn’t go on to university or there would be something in her school records.’

  ‘Obviously she moved to Dutton . . .’

  ‘Did she! Is this the Maureen Flynn we are looking for, or is it someone with the same name? She would be in her mid-thirties by now, remember, and it’s more than likely she would be married and have changed her name.’

  He nodded. ‘True. So why are we chasing after this Maureen Flynn, then?’

  Ruth was silent for a moment. ‘I don’t think she did marry. I think that perhaps she was in love with one of those boys in the photograph, perhaps with more than one of them, and something went wrong.’

  ‘So you think that this is some sort of revenge killing?’

  ‘Something like that. They all married and had families.’

  ‘Sandy Franklin wasn’t married.’

  ‘Maybe she thought he was since he lived over his shop.’

  Paddy wasn’t convinced. ‘I think that puts paid to your theory that it was some form of revenge because they married and she didn’t,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Maybe it does,’ Ruth admitted reluctantly. ‘I still think the killings have something to do with what happened when they were all at school. There’s a link, if only we can find it.’

  ‘Most of the links we’ve established between them don’t appear to mean a thing,’ he pointed out. ‘We know they were the same age, at school together and passed their A-levels in the same year. None of them seem to have any financial problems, or criminal records of any kind, apart from one minor driving offence. They obviously stayed on good terms with each other since Patterson acted as solicitor for both Franklin and Jackson—’

  ‘And we know that both Franklin and Patterson belonged to the same Masonic lodge as Superintendent Wilson,’ interrupted Ruth.

  ‘Which means the only two we have no details about are Gould and the woman. You know –’ he shot her another glance – ‘we might have done better to concentrate on tracing Gould.’

  ‘We’re in Dutton now so we may as well talk to Maureen Flynn . . . if only to give you and the superintendent the satisfaction of being able to eliminate her from our list of suspects,’ said Ruth stubbornly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘Let’s hope the enquiries we put in motion before we set out for Dutton have brought in more satisfactory results than the ones we’ve managed to achieve,’ groaned Ruth Morgan as they drove back to Benbury from Dutton. ‘It’s been a complete waste of our time.’

  ‘Not a complete waste,’ said Paddy with a grin. ‘The neighbours were quite helpful.’

  ‘I suppose we should have got a search warrant before we left.’

  ‘We weren’t even sure that it was the right person . . .’

  ‘No and we still aren’t,’ Ruth muttered moodily.

  ‘We would have had to force an entry . . .’

  Ruth didn’t answer. Her thoughts were in turmoil. She’d followed a hunch and drawn a blank, and it irritated her. She was still sure in her own mind that Maureen Flynn was the one responsible for the multiple murders in Benbury, but from the information they had gleaned from Maureen Flynn’s neighbours it was impossible to decide whether she was right or not.

  What she needed was proof: proof that was so sound that she could present it to Superintendent Wilson without a qualm.

  ‘Shall we stop for a coffee before we go back to the station? There’s a Little Chef about a mile up the road,’ suggested Paddy, breaking into her reverie.

  ‘No, Sergeant. We’ve already wasted enough time this afternoon on an abortive investigation,’ she snapped.

  From out of the corner of her eye she saw his face freeze and his knuckles whiten as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

  She bit her lip. It wasn’t his fault that the trip had been fruitless. He obviously knew she was uptight, and probably his intention had been to help her unwind before facing Superintendent Wilson.

  She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Sorry, Paddy. No point taking my frustrations out on you. Yes, we’ll stop. As long as it’s my shout.’ She smiled to herself, knowing he was about to argue on that point, so as they drew up outside the Little Chef, she handed him a ten-pound note.

  He hesitated for a moment, then with a resigned shrug took the money from her.

  Ruth found that the hot coffee not only helped her to calm down, but helped to clear the jumble inside her head.

  ‘I think we’d better concentrate on Simon Gould,’ she admitted, after they’d gone over the few details they had been able to extract from Maureen Flynn’s neighbours.

  ‘It’s a pity none of them knew where her parents live.’

  ‘One of the women was pretty sure it was Wales . . . and that that was where she’d gone,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Mmm! But she didn’t know which part of Wales.’

  ‘Quite! And it’s a fair sized country.’

  ‘Or she could be working away from home,’ Paddy suggested.

  ‘True!’

  ‘One woman did say that she understood she worked as a freelance researcher, and that occasionally she did go away on business.’

  ‘If we can’t locate her then it’s impossible to warn her that she might possibly be in danger.’

  ‘Which certainly won’t please the superintendent.’

  ‘The only way to placate him is by finding Simon Gould before he finds Maureen Flynn.’

  ‘Or before she finds him . . .’

  They stared at each other, appalled by their own thoughts.

  A batch of faxes were waiting for Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan when she and Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle arrived back at Benbury Police station.

  A man called Simon Gould had been located, but whether or not he was the right man had yet to be established, although it seemed more than likely that he was.

  ‘Runs a garage in Pontydaren, wherever that might be,’ murmured Paddy as she handed him the fax.

  ‘It’s in Wales. In South Wales, to be exact, just north of Brecon on the road to Builth Wells. It’s an area I know quite well . . .’

  ‘Wales? Maureen Flynn is believed to have gone to Wales . . .’

  Their gaze locked.

  ‘Let’s go,’ ordered Ruth. ‘I’ll read the rest of these on the way,’ she added as she gathered up the batch of papers from her desk.

  The Pontydaren Garage was still open when Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan and Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle drove on to the forecourt.

  They watched the man who emerged from the repair shop at the rear limp over to them. A rangy figure, he had a heavy black beard that almost covered his face, making it impossible to tell whether he was thirty, forty or fifty.

  ‘Petrol?’

  ‘Are you Simon Gould?’

  The man stiffened. ‘Could be. Who’s asking?’

  ‘I’m DS Hardcastle and this is DI Morgan.’ Paddy pulled out his warrant card to establish his identity. ‘We’d like a word with you.’

  ‘Oh yes! What about?’

  ‘Could we go inside? It might take some time.’

  The man hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Could you move your car away from the pumps first?’

  ‘Of course!’

  Paddy restarted the engine and parked where Simon Gould indicated. Ruth picked up her briefcase and accompanied both men towards a bungalow at the side of the garage forecourt.

  ‘Come in,’ he invited, and stood aside to allow them to enter. ‘Maggie! We’ve got visitors!’

  His shout brought a plump dark-haired woman hurrying from the kitchen area.

  ‘Police,’ he said laconically. ‘We’ll be in the sitting room. Listen out for the forecourt bell, will you? Oh, and I bet a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’ He looked enquiringly at Ruth and Paddy.

  ‘Now,’ he said, when they were seated. ‘What can I do for y
ou?’

  ‘We hope you can help us with our enquiries,’ Paddy told him.

  Before they even began to talk to him, Ruth was quite sure that if this man was the Simon Gould they were looking for then he wasn’t their murderer. Not unless he was a very good actor.

  Their arrival hadn’t caused him the slightest sign of distress, only a modicum of irritation at being taken away from whatever it was he was doing in his workshop. She felt confident that her own theory was the right one. It was Maureen Flynn they should be looking for, not this man.

  Still, it mightn’t be a completely wasted journey, she consoled herself. If he was the right Simon Gould then he might be able to help. And he was alive, which was more than the others were.

  ‘We’re investigating the Benbury murders—’

  Simon Gould frowned. ‘Did you say Benbury? I used to live there when I was younger,’ he interrupted. ‘I went to school there, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘We thought that might be so, Mr Gould. That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘What about it?’ He looked at them in surprise. ‘Did you say something about murders?’

  ‘You mean you haven’t read about the four Benbury men who have been killed recently?’ exclaimed Ruth.

  He shook his head. ‘I hardly ever have time to look at newspapers.’

  ‘There have been reports on the radio and TV most nights . . .’

  ‘I never watch the box. Maggie, the wife, does. She loves watching all the soaps. It can be pretty lonely stuck out here, you see, especially during the winter months. They’ve become her life. She’d watch them all day given the chance. But the news?’ He laughed. ‘We don’t bother with that. She says its nothing but bad news, and it gets her down hearing about all those wars and seeing women and kids being blown up.’

  Ruth felt more convinced than ever that he wasn’t the person responsible for the murders. ‘You probably recognize everyone on this,’ she commented as she produced the school photograph and held it out to him.

  He studied it for a moment, rubbing a hand over his beard. ‘Now there’s a coincidence!’ He jabbed at the picture of Maureen Flynn. ‘I thought I saw her just a couple of days ago . . .’