Hell Hath No Fury (10 page)

Maureen felt a moment's panic. Could he see her? If so, he would be wondering what she was doing out there in the dark, staring up at his window. She walked towards the flats, hoping that if he had seen her he'd think she was a visitor.

As she crossed the forecourt, Maureen felt drawn towards Sandy Franklin's car. She went over to it, peering into the interior. There were no traces of ownership. Not even a briefcase, or a discarded jacket, on the back seats.

She walked briskly across to the porticoed entrance to the flats where there was a board containing the names of the occupiers. She studied it, wishing she knew the woman's surname. Hardly likely to have Tracey written on the board!

Then she spotted it. There it was! Tracey Walker, flat Sixteen. That must be the Tracey he was visiting. No Mr Walker listed. Did that mean she wasn't married?

Mulling over what she had discovered, she retraced her steps across the courtyard to the road outside and tried to work out which one was number sixteen.

Shivering with the cold, she went back to her own car for a jacket. The first thing she saw when she opened the boot were the clothes she'd bought in Castleton. Warm jogging bottoms, a black cagoule and comfortable trainers. It made sense to change into them.

She walked up and down the pavement, always keeping the apartment block in sight. Each time she walked past the forecourt she took the precaution of checking that Sandy Franklin's car was still parked there.

She knew it was crazy, but she felt compelled to wait. She was confident that he would be out soon. He wouldn't stay the night; as a newsagent he would have to be up so early.

No woman would want her lover leaving before dawn. Not Tracey, she'd bet on that. Tracey would send him packing before she settled for the night.

There was hardly anyone about. Now and again a couple would wander by, hand in hand, eyes only for each other.

The March evening darkened as clouds gathered bringing cold, slanting rain. Maureen refused to abandon her vigil.

All I have to do is be patient, she told herself.

Sandy Franklin wasn't looking forward to his evening with Tracey Walker. His mind was made up. Tracey had become far too demanding. They'd had some great times together, he'd enjoyed their fling, but enough was enough. The time had come to put an end to their relationship.

Tom Walker had been a business contact. A pompous, pot-bellied, magazine wholesaler. A bald-headed, cigar-smoking workaholic who'd worshipped the ground Tracey walked on, and paraded her like a kid with a Barbie-doll.

While Tom was alive, Sandy had been quite happy with their arrangement. Tracey had been as keen as he was to conceal their affair. The minute Tom keeled over from a heart-attack, though, she'd been so brazen-faced about seeing him that Sandy had felt embarrassed.

Enamoured though he was by Tracey, Tom had never taken the trouble to change his will. Nor had he made Tracey his wife. She had simply taken the name Walker after they'd moved into Accrington Court. And when Tom Walker died, his entire estate went to Agnes Walker, his legal wife.

Tracey's anger had far outweighed her grief. She'd been so incensed that she'd shouted the details from the rooftop.

Sandy suspected that she saw him as a substitute for Tom Walker. Someone who as well as being her lover would provide her with a comfortable home and all the money she needed to maintain the lifestyle she'd grown used to.

Sandy didn't see things that way at all. Each time she broached the subject of moving in with him he'd skilfully managed to dissuade her.

‘Living over a newsagent's would cramp your style after Accrington Court,' he'd said with a laugh.

Tracey had shrugged her shapely shoulders and tried to look soulful. ‘We'd be together, sweetie, and that's what matters. Anyway, I won't be able to stay here much longer. The lease expires in a month's time.'

‘The lease?'

‘Tom didn't own the place, silly!'

‘He only leased it!'

She pouted. ‘Don't make it sound so awful. He already had a mortgage on his family home.'

‘Where Agnes lives?'

‘That's right.'

‘And Agnes doesn't know about this place?'

Tracey shrugged. ‘Probably not. I don't know. Tom took out the lease in my name. He paid all the bills . . .'

‘So at the end of the month, when the lease expires, you'll have to get out?'

Tracey nodded dejectedly.

‘And you've nowhere to go?'

Tracey smiled up at him expectantly, waiting for him to come up with a solution.

Sandy looked away. If she thought she could move in with him then she was going to be disappointed. That was the last thing he wanted.

Spending two, or at the most three, nights a week with Tracey was more than enough.

He had other fish in his little pond, some of them a great deal younger than Tracey. He liked living on his own. That way he could entertain whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

And not only girls!

He couldn't see Tracey accepting that. And if she did, she might try to muscle in and spoil his fun.

Sandy suppressed a shiver. Ditching her wasn't going to be easy, he thought, remembering the day Tom Walker had died. He'd suggested then to Tracey that they should cool things between them for a little while, until her friends had time to accept that she had overcome her grief. Then they could renew their relationship without any chance of scandal. Her comment had shocked even him.

‘Bugger what they think! He's dead and I'm still alive. No point in sitting around mourning. That won't bring him back. Not that I'd want him back, anyway. Boring old fart!'

As Tracey's lips curved contemptuously, what had been merely a vague uneasy thought in Sandy Franklin's mind until then became a matter of urgency. His peccadilloes might be known to some of his closest friends, who shared the same kind of preferences, but to all outward appearances he was a respectable business man, and he wanted to keep it that way.

When she'd driven down the High Street earlier that day and hailed him so publicly, he'd wanted to clamp a hand over her mouth not kiss her. He'd agreed to meet her that night so that he could tell her it was all over between them.

He didn't believe in prolonging the agony over things like this. Say what had to be said and get it over with.

She'd be livid, of course. He was pretty sure she'd make a scene, which was why he didn't want to tell her in public, and why the privacy of her flat seemed to be the best place to sever their acquaintance.

Far from depressing him, the thought that once it was done she would never speak to him again, and that she would be out of his life for good, filled him with relief.

‘T
his' is the second murder on your patch in as many weeks. What are you doing about it?'

Detective Superintendent Wilson's voice was harsh. He placed both his arms on the massive teak desk and leaned forward in an almost menacing manner.

On the other side of the desk, Detective Inspector Ruth Morgan and Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle sat to attention, feeling as vulnerable as two children facing the headmaster.

‘We've only had time to do a preliminary enquiry on the second murder . . .'

‘The one at Accrington Court?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And?'

Ruth resisted the impulse to shrug her slim shoulders, suspecting that if she did so it would only make her superior even angrier than he was already.

‘Like the first murder, sir, there are no clues, no eyewitnesses, and very little information to go on.'

‘Have you no theories? Do you think it's the handiwork of the same person?'

‘Possibly! It's hard to tell.'

Superintendent Wilson scowled. ‘You do understand that if it is the same person then you have a serial killer on your hands.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Both victims are highly respectable citizens, so you'd better find out damn quick who the killer is.'

‘Yes, sir. We intend to do so.'

‘Intend! That's not good enough, Inspector. I want action and I want it immediately.' Superintendent Wilson's scowl deepened. ‘If it is the same killer then this second murder should never have happened.' He shot a keen glance at Detective Sergeant Paddy Hardcastle. ‘What is your opinion?'

‘Like DI Morgan says, it is quite possible that it is the same person, sir. Identical
modus operandi.
Very clever operator. Whoever it is pays meticulous attention to detail. No fingerprints, no clues . . .'

‘But the same weapon. A kitchen knife . . . yes?'

‘That's right, sir. But not the same knife. The knife used in this second murder had a slightly wider blade.'

‘Multiple stabbing, though? Exactly the same as the first time.'

‘That's correct, sir.'

‘Have you established whether the two men were friends or not?'

‘Not that we can discover. John Moorhouse, the man who was murdered first, was a teacher. He probably knew Sandy Franklin because Franklin had a newsagent's shop in the High Street and—'

‘Yes, yes, yes!' interrupted Superintendent Wilson testily. ‘I'm quite sure he knew Franklin. We all know Franklin. Everyone in Benbury goes into his shop at some time or the other. It's the only place in Benbury selling lottery tickets.'

The interview, half probing, half dismissive of what they had so far achieved, went on for almost an hour.

‘I think we both need a coffee after that,' breathed Paddy when they finally emerged from the superintendent's office.

Ruth shook her head. ‘You go. I want to get back to my office and record the finer points of this meeting while they're still etched on my mind.'

‘Surely, that's not necessary!'

She managed a faint smile. ‘It is to me. Superintendent Wilson has such a regimented way of thinking. Come to my office when you've had your coffee; I should be through by then.'

Paddy grinned. ‘I'll do better than that. I'll pop down to the canteen and get us both a coffee, and bring them back to your office.' He was gone before she could protest.

She was studying a printout of details relating to the latest murder when Paddy arrived with their coffee.

‘Solved it?' he asked jokingly, putting her cup down on a pile of papers

She frowned. ‘Far from it!'

‘What's the problem?'

‘The fact that Sandy Franklin was known to such a wide range of people in Benbury.'

He took a gulp of his coffee. ‘Why is that such a complication?'

‘It means that absolutely anyone could have murdered him!'

Paddy shook his head. ‘No one is going to murder him because he's short-changed them or been late delivering their papers. Whoever did it must have a real grudge against him, probably a strong personal one. He was a bit of a lad with the ladies, you know!'

Ruth checked her notes. ‘A bachelor. Living on his own . . .'

‘Who liked a good time and female company.'

‘You mean it could have been a jealous husband?'

‘It's quite possible.'

‘And from his reputation that also means there could be more than one suspect?'

‘Yes, that's more than likely.'

Ruth picked up her mug of coffee. ‘So we need to find out the names of his lady friends.' She took a drink. ‘Have you any suggestions?'

‘Not at the moment, but I'm sure that Franklin's cleaner, Betsy Grey, would be able to tell us all we want to know.'

Ruth nodded thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you should pop along and have a chat with her. That is, if you think she would be helpful.'

‘Catch her at the right moment, and she'd open up. She's a widow in her mid-fifties and very fond of drinking a G & T in the Red Lion.'

Ruth's eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘Right! Well, I'll leave you to take care of that line of enquiry. I'm sure you won't mind dropping in there on your way home.' She scanned another sheet of paper. ‘None of the staff at his shop appear to have been very helpful.'

‘No. They're all part-timers. They do their hours and then they're off. They've no real interest in him, or the business, from what I could gather.'

‘And the delivery boys?'

Paddy shrugged. ‘The same. In the morning, their main concern is to get their deliveries over and be at school on time. At night, they want to be finished as quickly as possible and go home.'

‘I think we ought to find out what clubs, or other organizations, Sandy Franklin belonged to, and check if John Moorhouse was a member of any of the same ones.'

‘You think there is a connection?'

‘The two murders are almost identical. That could mean that it's a copycat murder. If not, then, as Superintendent Wilson said, it might well be that we have a serial killer on our hands.'

Paddy drained the dregs of his coffee. There were plenty of rumours flying around about who might have murdered Sandy Franklin, but he didn't think it was his place to mention them. He wasn't sure if she would approve of gossip.

If it had been Inspector Ben Palmer on the case that would have been a very different matter, because he would have known exactly where he stood with old Ben.

Paddy sighed. A damn sight easier dealing with a seasoned copper like himself who had worked his way up from the beat and had real practical experience.

He liked DI Morgan well enough, but he still thought it was all wrong the way she had been made inspector because she had a university degree. Here he was, nudging forty, and with twenty years' experience of police work to draw on. Ten years on the beat, before being promoted to sergeant; then four years on traffic, before a sideways move into the plain clothes division two years ago.

Give Ruth Morgan another five years, and she'd probably be up to superintendent, breathing fire at her junior ranks the same as Detective Superintendent Wilson was doing now.