Hell Hath No Fury (7 page)

By rejecting her because of what had happened all those years ago, Philip Harmer had aroused in her all the rage and resentment she had never expressed as a timid, frightened teenager.

The result had been an intense determination to wreak revenge for the self-hate and sense of inferiority and guilt she'd carried with her all these years.

He'd set in motion a maelstrom that on the one hand terrified her by its implications but on the other filled her with deep-seated satisfaction that the time had come for retribution.

She was determined to exercise all the skills she possessed to create the ultimate in revenge. And then she would put Benbury, and everything pertaining to it, right out of her mind. She would never return. Her whole life would be changed.

It would take time, and concentration, and attention to detail. But she could do it. Tonight had been the first phase, and everything had gone exactly to plan! It had been an unsurpassed success, she congratulated herself.

She finished double-checking everything in the black grip, and then she bundled up the black cagoule, the ultra-sensitive rubber gloves, and the black woolly hat and dropped them into a black bin bag. She slipped off the black canvas trainers she was wearing, which she'd bought only a few days earlier, and dropped them in as well. They'd better go. Better to be safe than sorry.

It was a pity that everything she'd worn wasn't made of paper, then she could have put them through the shredder, she thought as she knotted the top of the black sack. As it was, she'd have to drive to the council tip and dispose of them first thing in the morning.

And then shop for new ones!

It seemed crazy, an unnecessary expense, but all the careful research she had done in advance had made her decide it was imperative. From the many cases she'd studied she was confident that if the people involved had taken this simple precaution of disposing of all the clothes they'd been wearing, right down to their shoes, they would never have been detected.

And the timing, of course. Studying the victim's movements and catching them off guard! That was another prime essential.

It was heady stuff. Like toying with destiny. She had never expected to find it so exciting or so deeply satisfying.

That was probably because everything had gone as smoothly as a well-choreographed dance routine, she told herself.

She let out a deep sigh. She couldn't wait to start working on the next event! Her head was already buzzing with ideas and plans. Common sense warned her that it could be dangerous to be too hasty. There was still a great deal of in-depth research to be done if the second was to be as successful as the first.

She might make a start tonight, after she'd had her bath and cooked herself something special to eat.

She'd been far too keyed up to eat any lunch so now she was ravenous. There was a steak in the fridge. She'd cook that. And since everything had worked out so fantastically successfully, and she felt supremely confident now that nothing could impede her progress, she'd open a bottle of wine as well and really make it a celebration evening.

D
etective Inspector Ruth Morgan and Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle were not the first on the scene.

As soon as Marilyn Moorhouse's 999 call had been put through to the Benbury police, two uniformed men had been sent along to Twenty-Seven Fieldway.

The sight that met them on arrival had been sufficiently horrendous for Sergeant Miller to phone in and ask the duty officer to send the forensic medical officer as well as some additional backup.

‘Sounds serious! What are the circumstances?

‘John Moorhouse, who is in his mid-thirties, has been stabbed. His clothing is in a most unusual state of disarray. He was discovered by his wife when she brought their two small boys home from Cubs at around eight o'clock. The two boys are now in bed, unaware of what has happened. Mrs Moorhouse is in shock, but reasonably lucid and cooperative.'

‘Right. I'll see who is available,' the duty officer promised. ‘Hold on there and make a note of anything she may say which might prove useful.'

Sergeant Miller had closed the door of the sitting room, where John Moorhouse's body lay sprawled in an ungainly manner, and left the constable to stand guard just in case a relative or neighbour should turn up and want to go in there.

He persuaded Marilyn Moorhouse, who was looking very white and shaken, to accompany him into the kitchen and suggested that she should make them all a cup of tea.

She nodded, but made no attempt to do anything about it, so he filled the kettle himself, and then switched it on.

‘Perhaps you could tell me where you keep the sugar?' he said, after he'd taken down three mugs from one of the shelves, and located a bottle of milk in the fridge.

‘I don't take sugar, thank you.'

‘No, ma'am. Nor do I. But my constable does.'

Silently, like an automaton, she stood up and crossed the room, opened a cupboard and reached out a container marked ‘Sugar', and handed it to him.

While he waited for the kettle to boil, Sergeant Miller tried to make conversation, hoping that she might say something that would indicate what had led to such a terrible tragedy, but although Marilyn Moorhouse appeared to listen to what he was saying she didn't speak a word.

She sat bolt upright on one of the kitchen chairs, staring straight ahead, her blue eyes glassy. She was casually dressed in blue jeans, white trainers and baggy white sweatshirt. It was the sort of outfit a mother of two small boys would be wearing if she'd been with them to Cubs. A small, slight figure with shoulder-length blonde hair, she looked as though the shock of her terrible discovery had left her numbed.

Sergeant Miller felt deeply moved by her traumatized appearance. He, too, felt shocked. Not so much by the fact that John Moorhouse was dead, but by the state he was in. What the hell had been going on for him to be in that sort of predicament when he was stabbed, he wondered.

Marilyn Moorhouse might be your average mum, but what kind of person was her husband? What sort of weird tricks did he get up to when he was on his own?

Since she wasn't saying a word, no matter how hard he tried to get her to open up, did it mean that she had no idea of what had been going on? Alternatively, it could be that she did know, and that she had no intention of discussing it.

Sergeant Miller had just poured out the tea when the plain clothes team arrived. He gave a sigh of relief as he opened the front door to let them in and directed them towards the sitting room.

Although it didn't completely free him from all responsibility, since he had been the first officer on the scene, and therefore technically responsible for taking control, it did mean that he wouldn't have to be the one to try and persuade Marilyn Moorhouse to talk.

Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan, looking slim and efficient in a light-brown suit worn with a crisp white blouse, sheer tan tights, and tan and brown suede flatties, paused in the doorway of the room. Her dark eyes narrowed as she surveyed the body, and her mouth tightened into a thin line.

This was only her second murder case. The first had been fairly straightforward: a shopkeeper who'd been shot when he'd disturbed a thief raiding the safe. The episode had been captured on the security camera, so it had been an open and shut case from the moment of arrest.

This murder was obviously going to be more involved, and she was very conscious that Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle, who'd been assigned to accompany her, was not only ten years older than her, but a seasoned detective.

It was the first time they had worked together, and she was determined to show him that she could handle herself, and the case, like a true professional.

‘Has anything in the room been touched?'

‘No! Of course not.' Sergeant Miller bristled and shook his head emphatically. Such a question was an insult to his integrity, he thought angrily. DI Morgan surely didn't think he would allow anyone to touch anything before the forensic medical examiner had pronounced John Moorhouse dead and certified the time of death!

He didn't envy Paddy Hardcastle having to work alongside DI Morgan if this was the way she treated subordinates.

She only seemed to be in her late twenties, good-looking and stylish, but he wouldn't mind betting she was a right smarty-pants. These university types were all the same he thought sourly. They might have a briefcase full of qualifications, but they had no hands-on experience whatsoever.

DI Morgan would find she was taking on he wrong man if she thought she could make Paddy Hardcastle jump through any hoops. Paddy had joined the Force the same time as he had, fifteen years ago. They'd trained together, watched each other's backs, and they had both made the rank of sergeant within three months of each other. He'd considered Paddy to be mad when he'd opted for the plain clothes division, but looking back he thought that perhaps Paddy had done the right thing. There appeared to be more to get your teeth into, and it was better than driving round in a panda car all day, acting as nursemaid to new boys, or agony aunt in times of crisis.

Like tonight! Making tea! Sergeant Miller shuddered. He didn't even do that at home. Mind, the poor woman hadn't been in any state to make him a cup of tea, that was for sure.

He'd been to a good number of suicides and murders, but he'd never attended one quite like this. It was the state the poor chap had been left in. Quite disgusting, really. Especially for his wife to find him like that. She seemed such a nice respectable lady.

Still, he reflected, you could never tell what these outwardly proper, middle-class professional types got up to in the privacy of their own homes.

Although outwardly she looked calm, and completely in control, Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan felt her stomach churn as she looked down on the sprawled body of John Moorhouse, and noted the state of disarray of his clothing.

Her immediate reaction was to cover the body over to save his wife from further distress. One swift look in the direction of her sergeant, Paddy Hardcastle, and the procedural training she had so recently undergone at Police College came rushing back into her mind, and restrained her.

Observe, but don't touch when examining the scene of a crime; make careful notes in writing, don't rely on memory; call in specialist officers to take fingerprints and photographs before anything is moved.

She noted that Paddy looked completely unmoved by the shocking sight in front of them. Notebook in hand, he stood his ground squarely. His broad shoulders strained the brown tweed jacket he wore with dark-green trousers, a lemon-coloured shirt, and a tightly-knotted green and brown tie. His handsome, square-jawed face was inscrutable. Only his darting green eyes showed that he was taking an avid interest in every aspect of the room and the people in it as well as the body on the floor.

Paddy was something of a legend, and she had felt some misgivings when he had first been assigned as her sergeant. She'd heard of his reputation and knew he didn't suffer fools gladly. She'd been warned that he was no respecter of rank when it came to plain speaking. And he made no secret of the fact that he held those who had risen from the ranks in much higher regard than those who'd achieved their status by coming into the Force straight from university.

He was also reputed to have one of the keenest brains in the business when it came to detection work, and Ruth was quite prepared to learn from his methods.

Not that she would tell him so! Technically she was the one in charge; even though they both knew she was indisputably dependent on him and his expertise.

Her sympathy was with Marilyn Moorhouse as Paddy began to ply her with questions. His words, though spoken softly, were both probing and barbed. It was almost as if he suspected she might be the one who had murdered John Moorhouse.

‘You say you always went out on a Thursday night, Mrs Moorhouse?'

‘Yes!' She nodded emphatically. ‘It was the night the boys went to Cubs.'

‘And you stayed there with them?'

‘That's right. I . . . I'm the Cub Mistress.'

‘You run the show on your own?'

‘Oh, no . . . I simply help out.'

‘So who is the Cub Master?'

‘Henry Wood.'

Paddy nodded thoughtfully as he made a note of the fact. ‘Is this a regular arrangement . . . every Thursday night?

‘Yes.'

‘Your husband never took part?'

‘Oh no. He sees enough of children all day . . .' She hesitated, frowning as though she wondered if it was a trick question. ‘I only do it because my two boys Malcolm and Danny belong to the Cub Pack. I thought that since I had to sit and wait for them I might as well help out.'

‘So you've done it ever since they joined the Cubs?'

‘No. At first I dropped them off, then went to visit a friend for an hour, and then went back and picked them up. After she moved away I decided to stay, and help out.'

Marilyn Moorhouse pushed her long blonde hair back behind her ears in a defensive gesture. ‘It seemed madness to drive all the way home and then have to turn straight round to go back to collect them.'

‘Yes. Very sensible,' Ruth intervened, trying to take the sting out of Sergeant Hardcastle's questioning. She smiled gently, trying to put Marilyn Moorhouse at ease. ‘So there was nothing unusual about tonight?'

‘Well, not really except . . .'

‘Except? Go on!' Paddy pounced on her brief hesitation.

‘The house was in darkness when we got back. I thought John must have fallen asleep.'

‘Did he usually take a nap while you were out at Cubs?'

She shook her head. ‘I thought perhaps he had a migraine. That was why I stopped the boys going into the sitting room . . .' She dropped her face on to her hands, and a shudder shook her slim shoulders.

‘It was as well you did,' murmured Ruth, remembering the sight that had met their eyes on arrival.