Hell Hath No Fury (12 page)

Not like him and Elsie. They had to watch every penny, especially since the factory where he'd worked for over thirty years had closed down.

When he'd been made redundant he'd thought that was the end. It had been a stroke of luck landing this caretaking job. It didn't pay much, only about half what he'd been earning before, but Elsie had found a part-time job at the newsagent's in the High Street, and that helped.

Another three years and they'd both be drawing their state pension. That wasn't a fortune either, but at least it came in regular each week. With any luck they'd keep him on as caretaker. Just as long as he did a good job.

Satisfied that everyone had gone home, he locked and bolted the huge oak entrance doors and went out of the small side door that led into the back car park, making sure he double-locked that behind him.

It was then that he saw there was still a car parked over by the far wall.

‘I wonder why he's still here?' he muttered aloud.

‘What's the trouble? Won't she start?' he called out as he walked over to see if he could help.

The figure leaning over the bonnet neither answered nor stirred.

Bill Smart felt puzzled. Something was wrong. The man was lying face down. Bill wondered if he'd been doing something to his windscreen and then collapsed with a heart attack. By now Bill Smart was right alongside the car, near enough to touch the man. He spoke again, but there was no movement.

Perhaps I ought to check if he's still breathing, he thought, and moved closer to do so.

His own heart started to pound, and the back of his neck prickled. He didn't know what to do for the best. Situations like this unnerved him completely. Perhaps he should nip back into the Hall and phone for an ambulance.

He looked around. The car park was deserted. Away in the distance he could hear the traffic in the main road. His instinct was to get out fast and forget what he'd seen, but that wouldn't hold up if he was questioned. It was part of his duties to check the car park each night. He couldn't say someone must have got in after he'd left because the last thing he was supposed to do before leaving was make sure everyone
had
left, and then lock the gates.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets to make quite sure he didn't accidentally touch anything and leave incriminating fingerprints, Bill Smart bent down and peered more closely.

The man was lying face downwards, and there was a scraper in his hand. It looked as though he'd been cleaning his windscreen and then been attacked from behind.

Bill's bowels went weak as he saw that the knife the killer had used was still there!

The handle was sticking out midway between the victim's shoulders. There was a dark stain on the back of his overcoat, and there was something wet all over the bonnet of the car. It must be blood, Bill decided as it shone glassily in a beam of light from the street lamp in the next road.

Taking great care not to touch it or let it come in contact with his own clothes, Bill bent his head to one side and studied the man's profile.

He was shocked to find that it was Mr Patterson, the solicitor. He knew Patterson all right – thin faced, pebble-glasses, going bald. Bit of a busybody. Always telling him what he should and should not do. He would be even more officious next year when he was master.

Bill Smart drew in a sharp breath. Mr Patterson wouldn't be master though . . . not now.

He straightened up, wondering what to do next. Patterson looked dead, but he supposed he ought to make sure. Tentatively, he took one of his hands out of his pocket and placed it on the man's forehead then pulled back sharply. The moist coldness sent a shudder through him.

No point in sending for an ambulance . . . or trying to revive him, he decided. Yet he had to do something. He couldn't leave him lying there. For one thing he needed the car park clear so that he could lock up for the night.

Still not too sure about what was the right action to take, he went back into the Masonic Hall to phone the police.

He'd better phone Elsie as well, he decided. She'd be worrying as it was because he was late. By the time the police arrived, and he'd answered all their questions, it might be another hour before he could get home.

When Elsie answered the phone the implication of what had happened, and of what he had seen, hit him afresh. His voice shook as he explained why he was going to be late.

‘Here, Bill, are you all right? You sound quite shaky. Would you like me to come and be there with you?'

‘No, no. You stay where you are!' The thought of her seeing Patterson's body with a knife sticking out of his back horrified him.

‘Well, if you're quite sure you're all right . . .'

‘Yes, yes. Nothing at all for you to worry about. I only phoned to let you know I'll be a bit late in case you were worried when I wasn't home at my usual time. I've phoned the police. They told me to wait here. They'll be along soon.'

‘Very well, then, Bill. If you think you can manage. I must say I don't like it though.'

In some strange way, Elsie's concern helped to restore Bill's confidence.

‘I'll be OK. Now, don't you worry. Just keep my meal hot till I get home.'

‘Yes, I'll do that,' she promised. ‘It's most upsetting, though. This means now that there's been three murders in Benbury in as many weeks.'

‘Three?'

‘That schoolteacher . . . Moorhouse. I think his name was. Then Mr Franklin. and now this fellow Patterson. He was a solicitor, wasn't he?'

‘That's right.'

‘Thin, going bald on top?'

‘Yes.'

‘He was quite pally with Sandy Franklin. He used to come in the shop quite regular. They'd go into a huddle. 'Twas as if he was advising Mr Franklin about something or the other,' she said.

‘He was, probably, because he was his solicitor.'

‘Yes. I suppose it could have been that.'

‘They were both Freemasons, though, and they both attended this lodge,' he added.

‘Oh, were they? I didn't know that. And now they're both dead. And that other fellow, Moorhouse. Was he a Mason?'

‘I don't know. He might have been. I've never seen him at any meetings though.'

‘But he knew Mr Franklin. I remember Mr Franklin saying only last week, when Mr Moorhouse's picture was on the front page of the local paper, that they'd been at school together and—'

‘I've got to go!' Bill Smart cut his wife short. ‘The police are here. Now don't you worry. I'll be home just as soon as ever I can.'

I
f there was one thing which Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan disliked more than anything else it was having to turn out in the middle of the night, especially when it entailed being roused from a deep sleep.

‘It's another murder. Stabbed through the back. The man's clothing is in a state of disarray, exactly the same as before,' Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle told her gloomily. ‘Would you like me to collect you? Superintendent Wilson's already at the scene.'

‘He is?' Ruth swallowed a yawn, suddenly wide awake and fully alert.

‘It happened at his Masonic lodge. In the car park.'

She groaned. ‘Give me five minutes, and I'll be ready.'

Ruth dressed quickly. It was going to be a long cold night so she might as well be warm, she thought as she pulled on a heavy anorak over her grey slacks and black high-neck sweater. She had a feeling that Superintendent Wilson didn't approve of her anyway, so why worry about what she looked like. He had made it quite clear the last time he had spoken to her that he wasn't very satisfied with the progress she was making in finding whoever had killed John Moorhouse and Sandy Franklin.

The fact that a third murder had taken place, and apparently by the same killer, judging by the state of the victim's clothes, would really put her method of conducting enquiries under question.

She was waiting on the pavement outside her flat when Paddy drew up in a dark-blue unmarked Ford.

‘What other information do you have?' she asked as she settled into the passenger seat and fastened her seat belt.

Paddy scowled. ‘Not a great deal.'

‘You must know something!' Ruth shot him a sideways glance, wondering if he was holding back on her or whether, like her, he was too tired to show enthusiasm.

He shrugged. ‘The man's name is Patterson, he's a local solicitor, and he was found just before midnight, by the caretaker, an old boy called Bill Smart.'

‘Dead?'

‘He was lying across the bonnet of his car with a knife in his back,' he told her laconically.

‘And it wasn't the caretaker who killed him?'

‘Not very likely since he was the one that called the police.'

‘What time did you get there?'

‘About twenty minutes before I called you. I expected to find you there, but I was told they hadn't been able to locate you. I only tried your private number on the off chance.'

‘I had only been home about fifteen minutes. Just long enough to be in bed and asleep, though.'

‘Sorry about waking you, ma'am! A good night out, was it?'

She ignored both the question and the trace of sarcasm. ‘You did the right thing,' she said in a tone that she hoped conveyed that the subject was closed.

Detective Superintendent Wilson was very much in evidence when they arrived. He strode across to their car the moment they pulled up, and without any preliminary greeting, barked. ‘Are you aware of the details, Inspector?'

‘Sergeant Hardcastle has informed me that a Mr Brian Patterson, a local solicitor, was found stabbed—'

‘Right here in this car park! I'd been talking to the man only minutes before,' he interrupted. ‘We'd both been attending a Masonic meeting. He'd walked across to my car with me, said goodnight, and then went to collect his own car. It must have happened immediately after I'd driven out . . .' His words drifted on to the cold night air, vaporizing into a breathy mist of whiteness as he turned away.

Ruth felt touched by his concern for his friend. Beneath the crusty exterior there was obviously a softer, more human side that he usually kept carefully hidden. If only there was more evidence to go on! More and more it looked like a serial killer at work judging by the state in which the victims were found, and, unless whoever it was had been more careless this time, there was not a single clue to follow up.

Except . . .

She hesitated, then walked over to Detective Superintendent Wilson. ‘Excuse me, sir. Both the last two victims were known to each other, and they were both members of your Masonic lodge. Was John Moorhouse also a Mason?'

Inspector Wilson frowned. ‘Not to my knowledge. He certainly wasn't in our lodge.' He shot her a piercing look. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?'

‘No . . . no, not really, sir.'

‘Are you suggesting it is some kind of vendetta against Masons?'

She looked startled. ‘No. I was only trying to establish a link between the three men. They all appear to be respectable citizens . . . Surely there must be some connection . . .'

‘Yes, that they're all dead!' His voice was grim. Accusing, almost.

She wondered if he thought Patterson's death could have been avoided had she been a better detective.

In an uncomfortable silence they walked across the car park to where temporary emergency lighting had been set up and a canvas shelter erected around the scene of the crime.

Ruth was taken aback by the number of officials already there. The scene of crime officer and the forensic medical officer had already carried out their routines and were packing up ready to leave.

‘One moment.' Detective Superintendent Wilson laid a restraining hand on the FMO's arm. ‘Will you repeat to my inspector what you said earlier about the time of death.'

‘As far as I can tell, around eleven o' clock. Might have been a little later. I'll confirm that as soon as I've done the post-mortem.'

Superintendent Wilson looked thoughtful as he turned back to Detective Inspector Morgan and Sergeant Hardcastle. ‘He was found by Smart, the caretaker, when he did his final round before locking up for the night.'

‘And you say you were with Patterson shortly before eleven p.m., sir?'

‘We left the hall together. We'd stayed behind after the others because he had some questions he wanted to ask me.'

‘In that case, he must have been killed almost immediately after you parted,' Ruth mused. ‘In fact, the killer could have already been in the car park when you drove out.'

‘It's possible that Mr Patterson disturbed someone trying to break into his car,' volunteered Sergeant Hardcastle.

Inspector Wilson brushed the suggestion aside. ‘Nothing has been taken from the car, and there's no sign of damage.'

‘So it must have been someone with a personal grudge against Mr Patterson,' speculated Ruth.

‘And do you think this unknown person also had a personal grudge against Franklin and Moorhouse?' snapped Detective Superintendent Wilson.

Once again Ruth was conscious of the implied criticism that this had happened because they had been unable to establish a motive for the two earlier killings, and she bit back the angry reply that hovered on her lips.

It would do no one, least of all herself, any good to antagonize the superintendent. She just wished he would go home and leave her and DS Hardcastle free to pursue their enquiries.

Her silent prayers went unanswered.

An orange glow was already showing on the eastern horizon, heralding a bitterly cold March morning, before Detective Superintendent Wilson finally decided to leave the scene.

‘Four o'clock, my office,' he snapped as he headed for his car.

It took a shower, change of clothes, two aspirins, and three cups of strong black coffee before Ruth felt she could face the new day.