Hell Hath No Fury

by Rosie Harris

  ‘You did? Where?’

  ‘Right here! She pulled in for petrol. I was sure it was her.’

  ‘Did she recognize you?’

  Simon Gould laughed. ‘Looking like I do now! Would you have recognized me if you hadn’t seen me since I was a fresh-faced young schoolboy?’

  ‘Yet you recognized her?’

  He nodded. ‘I was pretty sure it was her, though it’s over fifteen years since I last saw her and that picture was taken . . .’ He paused and pulled thoughtfully at his beard. ‘I was pretty sure it was her. I said so to Maggie when I came indoors. She never knew her, of course.’

  ‘And you say you haven’t seen or heard of Maureen Flynn since that picture was taken?’

  ‘No. Why should I have? I never had very much to do with her when we were at school. Or with any of those boys either. It was only because we were the ones who’d passed our A-levels that we were in that picture together.’

  ‘A ritual form of celebration,’ observed Ruth.

  ‘So the head thought! We had other ideas about how to celebrate.’ He laughed again, as if reliving the memory.

  ‘So, how did you celebrate?’

  ‘Down to the pub, of course! Drinks all round. It seemed big at the time, but I had no stomach for beer. Two beers and I was outside spewing my guts up. The others left me there . . .’ He paused, as if reluctant to say any more.

  ‘Go on. What happened afterwards?’ pressed Paddy.

  ‘I’m not too sure. The other four, and the girl, went off towards the Mire. It had once been allotments, but no one bothered with it any more. It was just derelict ground with an old shed standing in the middle of it.’

  ‘And you didn’t go with them?’

  ‘No. Like I said, I was still spewing up.’

  ‘So how do you know that’s where they went?’

  ‘They bragged about it next day. Kept hinting about how I’d missed out.’

  ‘What had you missed out on?’ pursued Ruth.

  He looked at her in astonishment. ‘There were four of them and only the one girl! Think about it. We were eighteen, and we’d just heard we’d passed our exams after two years of nose-to-the-grindstone studying. They were ecstatic! Looking for ways of letting off steam . . .’

  ‘You mean a sex orgy?’

  ‘Sex orgy. Gang-bang. Call it what you will . . .’

  ‘Which you had no part in?’

  He shook his head. ‘I told you, I was feeling too groggy to go with them. I could hardly stand up!’

  ‘So how do you know that this is what happened?’

  ‘John Moorhouse called round the next day to see if I was alright. He said he felt bad about clearing off and leaving me, because of the state I was in.’

  ‘And he told you what happened?’

  Simon Gould nodded. ‘Yes. I think he was feeling pretty bad about it.’

  ‘In what way?’ Do you mean they forced her to take part? Or, in other words, they raped her?’

  Simon Gould shrugged. ‘John Moorhouse was a nice bloke. Quiet type. He had a steady girlfriend called Marilyn. Once he’d sobered up again, he was quite shocked about what they’d done.’

  ‘You haven’t told us very much about what happened,’ Ruth reminded him.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t there, now was I? Anything I tell you will only be repeating what they told me. Be better if you asked them yourselves.’

  ‘John Moorhouse was the first man to be murdered,’ Ruth told him quietly.

  ‘Murdered!’ Simon Gould looked startled. ‘Are you saying that the four chaps alongside me in this picture are the four Benbury men who were murdered?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘And you came looking for me because you thought I might have been the one that committed those murders!’

  ‘Well, naturally, it did cross our mind,’ Paddy said blandly.

  Simon Gould looked at them in astonishment.

  ‘I heard that! I’ve been listening to all you’ve been saying!’

  All three of them turned to stare at Maggie Gould as she came into the room.

  ‘And if my Simon’s not the murderer – which he isn’t, I can vouch for that because he’s always here alongside me, day in, day out – then who is? Or,’ she continued, her voice shaking, ‘more to the point, is he going to be the next victim?’

  ‘Hey, Maggie! What a thing to say!’ Clumsily, Simon pulled her towards him, hugging her close to him in an attempt to reassure her.

  ‘A couple of nights back you said you thought you saw that girl . . . that she’d stopped by for petrol . . .’

  ‘Only said I thought it was her.’

  ‘She could have been looking for you, Simon!’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘She could have found out that you’re living out this way and come looking for you,’ she repeated stubbornly. ‘You said yourself she said she was going one way, and then drove off in the other direction.’

  ‘So what does that prove—?’

  ‘Hold on a moment.’ Ruth raised a hand to silence them both. ‘Would you tell us what you know, Mrs Gould?’

  Simon and Maggie exchanged looks, then Maggie took up the story.

  ‘A couple of nights back, when my Simon came in for his supper, he said a woman had just stopped for petrol, and he thought he knew her by sight but couldn’t remember her name. I thought it was one of the folks that have cottages round about and only come here in summer. He said he thought it was somebody else . . . someone he’d known at school. A girl called Maureen—’

  ‘Did she say where she was going, Mr Gould?’ interrupted Ruth.

  Simon Gould nodded. ‘She said she was on her way to see her folks who lived near Aberystwyth.’ He rubbed a hand over his beard. ‘The funny thing was she didn’t even seem to know she was in Wales. She said she was from London way so she must have come all the way round through Gloucester. She said she didn’t like motorways and she hadn’t come on the M4 or M40. I told her which roads to take. Back through Brecon, then the A40 through Sennybridge to Llandovery—’

  ‘Hold it!’ Ruth cut him short. ‘Did she take the route you suggested?’

  ‘I doubt it. When she set off from here she was heading in the other direction towards Builth Wells!’

  ‘Towards North Wales?’

  He frowned. ‘Yes, she could have been heading in that direction.’

  Ruth nodded before turning to Paddy. ‘Didn’t one of Maureen Flynn’s neighbours say that her parents lived in North Wales, and that she might have gone to visit them?’

  ‘That’s right. And they mentioned Llangollen.’

  ‘And that plastic sack was found near Oswestry!’

  Paddy nodded.

  ‘Come on. We might be lucky. If she has gone to visit her parents in Llangollen then she still might be there.’

  Simon Gould looked bewildered. ‘Isn’t there anything else you want to know?’

  ‘Not at the moment. We will we back, probably.’ Ruth handed him her card. ‘If you should see Maureen Flynn again then ring this number.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t see her again! His life might be in danger if he does,’ Maggie stated aggressively. She was still clutching tightly to Simon’s arm and shaking with shock.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Ruth assured her. ‘You see, although your husband is in the picture he wasn’t involved in the rape. The other four were, and that’s probably why she killed them.’

  ‘You mean for revenge? After all this time?’

  ‘There’s some things we never forget, Mrs Gould, no matter how hard we try. Something may have triggered off memories of what happened in that shed, reviving all the hate and revulsion she has kept hidden all these years.’

  Maggie’s dark eyes softened. ‘Poor thing! It’s just like what happens in some of them soaps I watch on the telly.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan and Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle barely spoke to each other as t
hey drove through the night towards Llangollen.

  Ruth was fully occupied analysing the wealth of information they’d been given by Simon Gould. She felt even more convinced that her hunch about Maureen Flynn being their killer was the right one.

  The outrage she must have felt for her anger to have remained active all these years – and then to have erupted, like some simmering volcano, bringing death and disruption to the lives of the four who had violated her all that time ago – was awesome.

  Ruth could understand Maureen Flynn’s desire for retribution, but why now, after all these years? What had happened? What was the catalyst that had set the sequence of events in motion?

  She would have liked to talk about it, but she realized that Paddy needed all his concentration for driving. The rain, which had been an irritating fine mist when they’d left Simon Gould’s garage at Pontydaren, had grown steadily heavier as they’d travelled north.

  Dawn light was creeping over the Berwyn Mountains as they passed through the Tanan Valley, and she was able to catch a glimpse of the landscape skimming by on either side of them.

  By the time they’d reached the outskirts of Llangollen the rain had stopped, and the ruin of Castell Dinas Bran, high on the conical hill overlooking the town, was clearly visible against the lightening skyline.

  Paddy yawned. ‘This is Llangollen,’ he said as they crossed the ancient stone bridge that spanned the Dee and drove on into the town. ‘All we have to do now is find the address Maureen Flynn’s neighbour gave us.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s not a very big place, and it’s not busy at this time of the year. In summer, when they hold the National Eisteddfod, you can’t move for people. Choirs from all over the world come here to participate.’

  ‘A strange place to choose for retirement!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s very picturesque, and a good centre if you enjoy walking,’ Ruth pointed out. ‘If her father is into fishing then this stretch of the Dee is renowned for its salmon.’

  They found the address they’d been given, Fifteen Druid’s Rise, a neat semi on the fringe of the town, without any trouble at all.

  ‘It looks as though she’s here,’ muttered Paddy as they pulled up outside and saw a red Ford Escort parked on the narrow gravel driveway.

  ‘No, we’re only assuming she is,’ corrected Ruth, ‘the same as we’re only assuming that that is her car and that she did the murders.’

  ‘It’s bound to be her!’ he said confidently. ‘With what we know about her, and the information Simon Gould gave us, everything else falls into place, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so!’

  Paddy gave her a quizzical look. ‘You don’t sound very confident,’ he admonished.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it. If what Simon Gould told us is true then I can understand that she felt the need to be revenged, but why now, after all this time?’

  Paddy stretched and yawned again. ‘That’s true! Something pretty traumatic must have happened to trigger off all those hidden memories after all these years.’

  ‘Come on, there’s only one way to find out.’ Ruth undid her seat belt, checked her hair and make-up, and picked up her briefcase, which was lying on the back seat.

  ‘Hold on! We know where the house is, so can’t we go and have a coffee and something to eat first?’

  ‘And come back to find she’s made a getaway?’

  Paddy peered at his watch. ‘She won’t be going anywhere at this hour of the morning! It’s not eight o’ clock. She’ll still be in bed!’

  ‘Then we’ll be able to take her by surprise.’

  ‘I think we ought to make contact with the local police and wait until they arrive,’ Paddy advised.

  Ruth shook her head. ‘There’s no need. When I phoned in from Pontydaren to let Superintendent Wilson know we intended coming straight here I asked the desk sergeant to phone the Llangollen police and request them to meet us at the Flynn’s house.’

  ‘And you gave them the address? Fifteen Druid’s Rise, Llangollen? They probably don’t come on duty until eight . . .’

  ‘Then when they arrive to meet us they’ll find we’ve already dealt with the matter and there’s nothing for them to do.’

  The door was opened by a thin upright man in his late sixties dressed in beige cord trousers, a brown and white striped shirt, and a brown cardigan. He was wearing felt slippers, and his grey hair was slicked to his skull as though he had just taken a bath or a shower.

  ‘Mr Flynn?’

  ‘Yes, but if you’re selling anything we don’t want it!’ His probing eyes in his sharp face glinted suspiciously as they rested on Ruth’s briefcase.

  ‘No, we’re not selling anything. We’re police . . . plain clothes police.’ Paddy flashed his identity card in front of Mr Flynn to confirm what he had said.

  Mr Flynn frowned. ‘So what do you want with me at this time of day?’

  ‘Its not you exactly that we’ve called to see . . . It’s your daughter, Maureen.’

  ‘Jack, who on earth are you talking to at the door at this time in the morning?’ A plump grey-haired woman in her mid-sixties, wearing a beige pleated skirt and a red knitted jumper, came into the hallway, peering over her husband’s shoulder to see who was at the door.

  ‘Mrs Flynn? We’re police officers. Do you think we might come in?’

  Reluctantly, Mr Flynn stood to one side and let Ruth and Paddy into the hallway.

  ‘Now what’s all this about?’ asked Mrs Flynn. She looked flustered and was rubbing her rheumaticky hands together uneasily.

  ‘We want to speak to your daughter, Maureen. She is here?’

  ‘No, of course she isn’t. She lives in Dutton; it’s not far from London. I can give you her address.’

  ‘We know where she lives, Mrs Flynn. We understood she had come up here to visit you?’

  Mr Flynn shot a warning look at his wife. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked, speaking directly to Paddy.

  ‘Her next door neighbour in Dutton thought so when we went to Windermere Mews looking for Maureen.’

  ‘What on earth do you want to speak to her about that’s so urgent that you had to come this early in the morning?’ grumbled Mrs Flynn. ‘We haven’t had our breakfast yet!’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, madam,’ Paddy said stiffly. ‘We have been driving all night.’

  ‘So you’re not the local police? So where have you come from then . . . if you’ve been driving all night?’

  ‘We’re from Benbury, madam.’

  The word Benbury brought an instant transformation to both their faces. Mr Flynn’s mouth became a tight line, and his eyes hardened. On Mrs Flynn’s face was a look of fear.

  ‘Now, if you would just answer one or two questions for us . . .’

  ‘What sort of questions?’ There was a sharp suspicious look in Mr Flynn’s eyes.

  ‘The red Ford Escort on the drive outside. Is that your daughter’s car?’

  ‘Of course it’s not! What makes you ask that?’

  ‘We understand she drives a red Escort.’

  ‘She may well do, but it’s not that one. That’s mine. Bought it new at Llangollen Motors. Do you want to see the receipt?’ he asked, his voice edged with annoyance.

  ‘No, sir. We’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Could you tell us when you last spoke to your daughter?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘What do you want to know that for?’ A crafty look came into Mr Flynn’s face.

  Ruth turned to his wife. ‘Mrs Flynn, we need to speak to Maureen urgently. It’s a confidential matter. We know she has left home, and we have been led to believe that she was coming to visit you.’

  ‘Well, she hasn’t. She phoned yesterday to say she was going to come and see us, but when we said we were going away for a few days she said in that case it might be a while before we saw her, because she might be going abroad, but that she’d be in touch—’ Mrs Flynn stopped and clamped a hand over he
r mouth. The fear was back in her eyes as she looked across at her husband.

  His face was thunderous, but he remained tight-lipped.

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me where she has gone, Mr Flynn?’

  ‘Abroad, like my wife said.’

  ‘She didn’t exactly tell you where she was going on holiday?’

  ‘No! She’s probably going there to work. She does this research for people,’ gabbled Mrs Flynn. ‘She’s been working for some professor or the other for some months now. Something to do with the Far East. So, that’s probably where she’s going.’

  Ruth nodded as though she accepted what the older woman was saying.

  ‘Is that all?’ snapped Mr Flynn. ‘We’ve told you all we know.’

  ‘Yes, that will be fine, thank you!’ Ruth smiled. ‘I’ll leave a phone number, and I’d be grateful if you would let us know when your daughter next gets in touch with you.’

  He scowled. ‘What is it you need to see her about that is so urgent?’

  ‘It’s to do with something in Benbury, sir,’ Paddy informed him.

  Again the two older people exchanged looks. This time there was a definite warning in Mr Flynn’s eyes as they met his wife’s quizzical glance.

  ‘It’s about the murders that have taken place in Benbury over the past few weeks,’ Ruth added. She reached into her briefcase, and brought out the photograph of Maureen and the five boys. ‘Do you remember this being taken when your daughter passed her A-levels?’ she asked as she handed it to Mrs Flynn.

  Mrs Flynn blanched. Her hand shook as she took the photograph. Silently, she held it out to her husband. He took it from her and stared at it belligerently.

  ‘What about it?’ he demanded.

  ‘You probably already know from the newspapers, and from the news bulletins on radio and television, that four of the men in that photograph have been murdered,’ Ruth told him. ‘John Moorhouse, Sandy Franklin, Brian Patterson and Dennis Jackson.’

  He gave it a perfunctory glance. ‘What about it?’ he repeated, harshly.

  ‘We have been trying to trace the remaining two people . . . Simon Gould, and your daughter, Maureen.’