Hell Hath No Fury (25 page)

‘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.

‘L
et'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 you?'

‘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 . . .'

‘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.