Hell Hath No Fury (11 page)

And, in all probability, Paddy reflected, I'll still be a sergeant!

It wasn't altogether a criticism of Ruth, he told himself; it was the system. As a person, he quite liked her. A bit prim and proper, but then she was not only nearly twenty years younger than him but new on the job and probably afraid of putting a foot wrong.

All that talk about team work, and being partners, that she'd spouted the night he'd persuaded her to have a drink on their way back from the Moorhouse murder must have been the wine talking. Twice since then she'd refused to go for a coffee with him.

It wasn't as though they were in uniform! If they went into a café, who would know that she was his boss? Most people would think they were friends meeting for a chat. Still, if that was the way she wanted to play things then he'd have to go along with it. She was his boss.

Give her a few more months and she might ease up. Two murders one after the other was a big one for her to cut her teeth on. He just hoped she realized how lucky she was to have someone with his experience to guide her through it.

All this talk about Sandy Franklin's murder being a copycat one, or that they had a serial killer on their hands, was all theoretical textbook stuff, in his opinion. More likely it was merely a coincidence that both murders had occurred in a space of a week, and that in both instances the same type of weapon had been used. There hadn't had a murder in Benbury for at least five years, which was probably why it was scaring the pants off old Wilson.

What the super hadn't mentioned – and which in all probability Ruth didn't know either, since she hadn't referred to it – was that Sandy Franklin was a Mason, and so was the superintendent. Paddy didn't know for sure, but he'd bet any money you liked that they were in the same lodge. Which was why the super was so anxious to apprehend the murderer. As soon as he had the chance, he'd check out if John Moorhouse had also been a Mason. If so, then, and only then, would he mention this fact to Ruth. In the meantime, there were plenty of routine enquiries to be carried out, starting with Sandy Franklin's numerous lady friends.

‘Perhaps we should resume our enquiries at Accrington Court,' Ruth commented, breaking into his reverie. ‘Franklin must have been visiting someone there since his car was parked on their private forecourt.'

‘Whoever it was obviously wasn't interested in helping the police with their enquiries or they'd have come forward as soon as the body was found.'

‘There are only twenty-four flats in the block, so door-to-door enquiries shouldn't take long. Come on, we'll make it top priority.'

No one actually shut the door in their faces, they were much too well-bred for that, but most of the residents made it quite obvious that they were reluctant to get involved.

Two hours later, however, they had established that Sandy Franklin was a frequent visitor to Accrington Court. Several people confirmed that he came there three or even four times a week to visit Mrs Tracey Walker at Flat Sixteen.

There was no reply from Flat Sixteen, and no one in the adjacent flats had seen her since the night Franklin had been murdered, or could offer any suggestions as to where she might be.

They returned to the office feeling more than a little disgruntled. The name Walker rang a bell, Paddy admitted. Someone of that name had died only a couple of months ago and there had been some sort of dispute over the will.

‘And you think there may be some sort of connection?'

‘I remember!' His handsome face lit up. ‘Tom Walker. He was a magazine wholesaler. Of course he would know Sandy Franklin. He'd have been one of his suppliers, and they'd have met at trade functions.'

‘Anything else?'

Paddy chewed on his lower lip. ‘Yes! I remember now. I had occasion to speak to Tracey Walker once when I was in Traffic Division. She'd overstayed on a restricted parking area. A very sexy blonde piece! Nice smile. I remember I let her off with a caution. She'd be very much Sandy Franklin's type.'

‘Tom Walker is dead, you say?'

‘That's right. He died quite suddenly, a couple of months back . . .'

‘Which means he couldn't have done it.'

‘True.' He looked thoughtful. ‘And I don't think she'd be the type . . . Still, you never know. We probably ought to bring her in for questioning.'

‘We have to find her first. If you remember, she wasn't at home and no one seemed to know where she might be.'

‘We could start with Walker's wife and see what she can tell us.'

‘I thought this Tracey was his wife?'

Paddy chuckled. ‘That's what everyone in Benbury thought until Tom Walker's will was read. Then it came out that he was merely living with Tracey. She'd taken his name, but he already had a wife. Tracey raised an outcry because he'd left all his money to his legal wife.'

‘Almost a reason for murder in itself, except that Tom Walker is already dead,' murmured Ruth dryly. ‘So where does Sandy Franklin fit into this little triangle?'

Paddy hesitated. ‘Rumour has it . . .'

Ruth went on as if thinking aloud. ‘He could have gone there to offer her some advice . . .'

‘And she lost her temper and stabbed him? I suppose it's possible, but not very likely.'

‘Tom Walker's wife might have gone to Accrington Court to see Tracey, to have things out with her about the slanderous things Tracey was saying about her. and found Franklin there.'

‘And killed him in a fit of pique because she'd always thought of him as a friend of her husband's and was outraged to find him visiting Tracey?'

Ruth shook her head. ‘I think that's rather far-fetched.'

‘Think about it. Even a worm turns . . . in time. And she had recently lost her husband, remember. Grief can affect people's minds in the strangest ways.'

‘I think you are grasping at straws, or you've been listening to too much local gossip,' Ruth told him crisply.

Paddy shrugged. ‘Perhaps you're right.'

‘I hope so, otherwise it means we really are looking for two murderers, since there couldn't possibly be any connection between Franklin's death and that of John Moorhouse if it was the result of a love triangle.'

D
etective Superintendent James Wilson was not in the best of moods. It had been a long evening, and he had far more pressing matters on his mind than instructing Brian Patterson on what his duties would be when he became master at their next meeting.

For a solicitor, he ruminated, Patterson was exceedingly apprehensive about what he was taking on. He supposed it went with his profession – all this cross-questioning and repeating, and checking whatever he was told.

Silently, he admonished himself to be patient. At least it would relieve some of the pressure from his shoulders once Brian was installed. He'd so much on his plate at the moment. Not least these two murders.

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.