Hell Hath No Fury (15 page)

In his rear mirror he watched as a trim, dark-haired woman of about thirty stepped out on to the drive. She was wearing a dark-grey suit with a white blouse, dark tights, and sensible low-heel court shoes.

His immediate gut reaction was that he was about to waste the next half hour. If he was any judge, this woman was about as likely to purchase the Willows as he was to buy Buckingham Palace. By the look of her car, and the way she was dressed, she wouldn't even be able to afford the council tax, let alone the house.

Not unless she's come up on the Pools, or won on the Lottery, he told himself as he locked his car and strode across the gravel to meet her, an ingratiating smile of welcome on his face.

T
he atmosphere in the incident room at Benbury police station was unbearably tense as Detective Superintendent James Wilson cross-questioned DI Morgan, and DS Hardcastle about the three murders. His manner was both disgruntled and overbearing; it was almost as if they were undergoing a third-degree.

Reluctantly, Ruth admitted that so far they had had very little success in tracking down the killer or killers.

Even Paddy, the seasoned detective, was puzzled and disheartened by the lack of evidence. ‘I'm beginning to wonder if it's the work of a contract killer. Each murder has the same hallmark, especially this sadomasochistic tendency of leaving the victim's clothes in a state of disarray.'

‘Someone so highly experienced that they know exactly how to cover their tracks,' mused Superintendent Wilson.

‘Precisely, sir. So far we've virtually drawn a blank even though we've interviewed each of the families and their neighbours. In the case of Sandy Franklin, we've even interviewed his staff, and most of his regular customers.'

‘And what about information from Forensic?' barked Superintendent Wilson.

‘They've only been able to say that in each case death resulted from repeated stabbings with a knife.'

‘No other clues at all?' His voice indicated that he was far from satisfied with the answer.

‘Not really, sir,' Ruth affirmed. ‘Nothing substantial. Except . . .' She hesitated. ‘Except one very indistinct footprint at the scene of the third murder.'

‘Traceable?'

‘Possibly, sir. We're still investigating. So far we know it is a trainer type of shoe, and that where the instep has made contact with the ground there appears to be the imprint of a logo of some kind.'

‘Nothing else?'

‘I haven't, but . . .' Ruth paused and looked across at Paddy, signalling him, with a lift of her eyebrows, to continue.

He probably thought the red car was too trifling a matter to mention, but since they were so short of any real evidence at least it would prove that they were leaving no stone unturned in their effort to track down the killer.

‘When we were doing house-to-house enquiries two people mentioned seeing a red Ford parked a few yards from John Moorhouse's house on the night he was murdered,' Paddy stated.

‘Humph.' Wilson shot them both a glance from under his hooded lids. ‘That's not much to go on, is it!'

‘Fieldway is a cul-de-sac, and most of the neighbours not only know each other's cars, but also recognize those belonging to regular visitors.'

So did you get its number?'

‘Afraid not, sir. No one thought to note it down.'

Irritated, Detective Superintendent Wilson drummed with his fingers on the table in front of him.

‘It might be worth another try,' Ruth murmured in an attempt to appease him.

‘Yes. Do that! People can sometimes recall numbers or letters, even though at the time they think they hadn't noticed them,' he agreed shrewdly. He stood up, his massive bulk towering over her. ‘And make sure you have this shoe imprint checked out, Inspector. You'd better make it top priority since it seems to be the only piece of evidence we have.'

Questioning the residents in the Fieldway proved to be completely abortive. One of the women who had reported seeing the red Ford Escort now wasn't even sure if it had been that make of car, only that it had been a red one. She'd only been aware of it at all because it had been parked so close to the entrance to her driveway that it had made turning in rather difficult.

When they knocked on the Moorhouse's door there was no answer. A neighbour informed them that Mrs Moorhouse and the two boys had gone to stay with her mother.

‘She couldn't stand being in the house after what happened,' the woman commented. ‘She said every time she went into the sitting room she imagined she could see poor John lying on the floor there.'

‘We wanted to ask her about a red Ford Escort that was parked near here the night her husband was murdered,' Ruth explained. ‘Did you see it, by any chance?'

The woman shook her head and made it quite plain that she didn't wish to be questioned any further. She stepped back into her hallway, closing the door quickly, almost in their faces.

‘So what's next?' demanded Ruth as they walked back to their car.

‘We could go along to Accrington Court and have another word with Tracey Walker,' Paddy suggested.

Once again they drew a blank. The caretaker informed them that she'd vacated the flat the previous day, and that she had not left any forwarding address.

‘That makes her one notch higher on our list of suspects,' commented Paddy.

‘She did tell us that the lease was up, and that she would have to leave the flat quite soon,' Ruth reminded him.

‘She should have told us where we could contact her, though.'

‘Maybe she will in a day or so, when she has settled in at her new address. In the meantime perhaps we should talk to Mrs Patterson.'

Sara Patterson was in her early thirties and slim, with clean-cut features, vivid blue eyes, and dark hair sculpted to her head. She was dressed in dark-blue jeans and a stylish blue and white striped shirt. Quite composed, despite her recent ordeal, she invited them into her sunny lounge and insisted on making them all coffee before she sat down to answer their questions.

She'd been married to Brian for twelve years, she told them, and they had two daughters. Alice was ten, and Jane was almost eight. They both attended Benbury Junior School. She could throw no light on why Brian had been killed.

‘He was very late leaving the Masonic hall on the night in question,' murmured Ruth.

‘Almost the last, according to the caretaker,' confirmed Paddy. ‘Weren't you worried when he was so late coming home?'

‘I wasn't here.'

Ruth and Paddy both looked surprised.

Sara Patterson's colour rose but she offered no explanation for her absence from home.

‘So Mr Patterson was in no hurry to get home because he knew you were out?' Paddy said thoughtfully.

‘He intended to stay on after the meeting to talk to your superintendent. I thought you would have known that,' she answered pertly.

‘We do have that information, but we don't know why he wanted to talk to Superintendent Wilson. Do you?'

‘Brian was to have become master at the next meeting,' she said diffidently. ‘James Wilson is the present master, and there were several things Brian wanted to know, so after the main meeting was over seemed to be a good time to talk to him. Brian is . . .' She paused and bit down on her lower lip. ‘Brian
was
a stickler for details, and very anxious to do everything properly when he was installed, you see.'

‘But you were away from home, Mrs Patterson,' persisted Ruth.

‘Yes!' As if conscious that her tone had been abrupt to the point of rudeness she repeated her affirmation in a more moderated voice. ‘Yes, I was away.'

‘And your children?'

‘They were staying overnight with my mother.'

‘So your husband knew there would be no one at home when he returned.'

‘Yes. Of course he did. He didn't expect his meeting to end until quite late . . .'

‘Does this mean you weren't returning home until sometime the following morning?'

‘Morning . . . early afternoon . . . I hadn't made any firm plans except to be home in time to pick the two girls up from school,' she said with some asperity.

‘Where did you say you were staying, Mrs Patterson?'

‘I didn't.'

‘I'm afraid we will have to know.'

Sara Patterson looked annoyed. For a moment Ruth thought she was going to refuse to answer.

‘If you must know, I was visiting my sister,' she snapped.

‘In Benbury?'

‘No, of course not! She lives in London.'

‘And was this a social visit?'

‘A shopping trip actually. I needed something special to wear at Brian's Ladies' Night.'

‘That won't be for quite some time, will it?' Paddy frowned. Although not a Freemason himself he knew enough about the ritual to know she wouldn't be attending her husband's inauguration.

‘I thought it would be one less thing for him to worry about if he knew I had the right dress.'

‘So it was a shopping spree to London?'

‘Yes.' Her reply was terse, and she seemed nervous.

‘Would you let us have your sister's address and telephone number, Mrs Patterson . . . so that we can check out the information you have given us,' murmured Ruth.

Sara's blue eyes widened in astonishment. ‘You mean you don't believe me?'

‘It's not a question of believing or disbelieving. In a case of this kind we have to double check every detail.'

Aware that Sara Patterson could hardly contain her anger, Ruth switched the line of enquiry. ‘Going back to your husband, Mrs Patterson,' she said smoothly, ‘do you know if he had any enemies?'

Still looking hostile, Sara Patterson shrugged. ‘Not as far as I am aware. As a solicitor he dealt with the affairs of a wide range of people, so I suppose there could have been someone who might have had a grudge against him.'

‘Do you mean one of his clients?'

She frowned. ‘It could have been someone he'd defended in court, and they'd lost their case . . .' Her voice trailed away uncertainly. She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘I really don't know. I'm just hazarding a guess.'

‘Was your husband a friend of either of the other two men who have been killed in Benbury?'

Some of the colour drained from Sara Patterson's face. ‘Not really. He knew them both. Sandy Franklin was in the same Masonic lodge. Surely, you must know that since Superintendent Wilson is the master of their lodge,' she added caustically.

‘And John Moorhouse?'

She shrugged. ‘He was at school with Brian. We hardly ever saw him or Marilyn though. John wasn't in the Masons, or in the same social circle as us.'

‘Why was that?' Ruth looked at Sara Patterson enquiringly, encouraging her to explain more fully.

‘The Moorhouses were into amateur dramatics, and parent/teacher fund-raising events, that sort of thing. Marilyn was tied up with the Cubs, and all sorts of charities. Do-gooders, I suppose you'd say they were!'

‘Not your scene?'

‘I support various charities, and Brian gave a great deal of his time, and money, to Masonic charitable concerns,' she retorted sharply.

‘On a slightly different level, though.'

She shrugged again. ‘Yes, you could say that. Brian also belonged to the Benbury Golf Club, and we had quite a busy social life.'

‘And John Moorhouse didn't play golf?'

She shook her head. ‘If he did, he didn't belong to the Benbury Club. Mind you, it's not all that easy to become a member. Sandy Franklin has been trying for years . . . I don't suppose it matters now,' she ended abruptly.

‘Did you and your husband see very much of Sandy Franklin?'

Sara Patterson's face tightened. ‘Only at Masonic events. Brian avoided him socially.'

‘Really! Why was that?'

Sara Patterson looked uncomfortable. ‘I'm not sure.'

‘I've heard he was something of a ladies' man,' commented Paddy. ‘Would you say there was any truth in that, Mrs Patterson?'

Sara Patterson bit down on her lower lip but didn't answer.

‘Did your husband prefer that you shouldn't be in Sandy Franklin's company because he was afraid Mr Franklin might be tempted to make a pass at you and—'

‘What utter rubbish! How dare you make such an accusation.' Sara Patterson's face was livid, and her vivid blue eyes flashed angrily.

‘Please, Mrs Patterson,' Ruth intervened quickly, ‘Sergeant Hardcastle was only trying to establish if there was any foundation for the rumours about the sort of man Mr Franklin was.'

Although Sara Patterson remained silent she appeared to be uneasy, despite the inspector's intervention, and avoided their eyes.

‘Is there anything further you can tell us that might help us with our enquiries?'

‘No. Nothing at all.'

‘Any other link between Moorhouse, Franklin, and your husband, other than he was the same age as them, and that he also went to Benbury Secondary School?' persisted Ruth.

Sara Patterson looked at her watch. ‘I've told you all I know, and now, if you'll excuse me, I have to collect my girls from school.'

Purposefully, she walked through into the hall, selected a jacket from the hall stand, and picked up her keys, leaving Ruth and Paddy no alternative but to follow her.

Her car was on the driveway. As she unlocked it, Paddy solicitously held the door, waiting until she slid behind the wheel before closing it.

Sara Patterson felt uneasy as she drove her red Astra towards Benbury Junior School to collect Alice and Jane. She wished she hadn't told the two detectives that she had been at her sister's. She should have said London and left it at that.

When they'd insisted on knowing where she'd stayed overnight she could have named a hotel, not given them Yvonne's address and phone number. That had been a stupid thing to do, and if they did phone to check on whether she had stayed the night there Yvonne certainly wouldn't be very pleased at being involved.