Hell Hath No Fury (16 page)

If she'd given them a false address, though, that would have looked even worse if they'd checked it out and then found she'd been lying.

As she sat outside the school waiting for the children to come out she went over in her mind all the things she had told DI Morgan and DS Hardcastle.

And the things she hadn't.

Trust Brian not to be around when she needed him. He would have known what to say. That was if she could have brought herself to tell him.

It was like some dreadful nightmare, she thought apprehensively. She really ought to make a note of what she'd said to the police. It wouldn't look good if they questioned her again, and she changed her story. And somehow she thought they might.

The detective sergeant had looked at her as if he thought that she might have been the one who killed Brian. And if he ever found out that she hadn't stayed the night at Yvonne's, he might start digging deeper.

Anxiously, she rummaged in the glove pocket of the car for a biro and some paper to write on.

She couldn't find a pen, but there was a stub of yellow pencil belonging to one of the girls and a discarded supermarket bill. That would have to do, she decided. She'd write on the back of it. With so much on her mind at the moment she couldn't afford to trust to her memory.

T
he car belonging to DI Morgan and DS Hardcastle was parked in the roadway outside the Patterson's house, and they were still sitting there discussing the outcome of their interview with Sara Patterson when she drove out of her driveway.

‘She has a red car,' observed Paddy as the red Astra sped past them. He handed the inspector a small crumpled piece of paper. ‘This parking ticket is from the Meadway car park, which is the public car park right alongside the Masonic hall. The date is smudged, but it should still be possible to verify if her car was parked there the night her husband was murdered.'

Ruth frowned as she smoothed out the fragment of evidence. ‘You removed this from her windscreen. Does this mean you think Sara Patterson may have murdered her husband,' she said, in a surprised voice.

It was a statement rather than a question, and Paddy grinned. ‘I was trained to believe that everyone is a suspect until proved otherwise, ma'am,' he replied blandly.

‘Even if she did kill her husband, she could hardly be held responsible for the other two murders!'

‘No, perhaps not,' he conceded. ‘We won't know that for certain until we've checked upon her movements. I don't think she was telling the truth about her visit to London.'

‘She was rather evasive, I quite agree.'

‘And if she isn't in any way connected with the other two murders then this could have been a copycat murder. What better way than to use the procedure established by some other killer so that they would also be suspected of the murder you have committed.'

Ruth looked at him mockingly. ‘Your theory sounds far too convoluted to be the work of Sara Patterson. She's petty, and snobbish, but I hardly think she has that sort of cunning. Anyway, we have no evidence.'

‘A red car was seen outside John Moorhouse's place the night he was killed.'

‘That was a Ford Escort.'

‘Was it? The woman who reported it couldn't be sure what make of car it was, only that it was red.'

‘Sara Patterson said her husband rarely saw anything of John Moorhouse . . .'

‘She didn't mention whether
she
ever saw him or not.'

‘Are you suggesting that not only did Sara Patterson murder her own husband, but she was also having an affair with John Moorhouse, and possibly murdered him as well?'

Paddy shook his head. ‘I don't know. It's a possibility worth considering. She had every opportunity. And she doesn't seem to be overly distressed by her husband's demise.'

‘She might be trying to bear up because of the children,' Ruth told him tartly. ‘Or it might be delayed shock.'

‘I don't think she told us the entire truth about her trip to London,' he repeated stubbornly.

‘She gave us her sister's name and phone number . . . We can always check.'

Paddy shook his head. ‘Her sister will vouch she was there. I'm quite sure about that. She's probably provided an alibi countless times before.'

‘You mean Sara Patterson regularly goes to London for something other than to see her sister or go shopping?'

‘Yes! That is if she even goes to London. It's more than likely that she simply uses her sister as an alibi.'

‘In case her husband should try to contact her for some reason?'

‘Right!' He gave a dry laugh.

‘So who looks after the children overnight?'

‘On this occasion, her husband was out at a Masonic meeting, so it was her mother,' he reasoned.

‘Yes. She did tell us that,' agreed Ruth thoughtfully.

‘Leaving that point in abeyance for the moment,' Paddy went on, ‘did you notice any change in her manner when we spoke about Sandy Franklin?'

Ruth frowned. ‘She appeared to colour up, and she looked embarrassed. Rather reluctant to talk about him, in fact.'

‘Exactly!' Paddy sounded triumphant. ‘It's my conjecture that at some time or other Sara Patterson has been involved with Sandy Franklin. Had an affair with him!'

‘But surely—'

‘Believe me, I've been working this patch for a long time. I started as a constable in Benbury, and that was almost twenty years ago. The affairs Sandy Franklin has had in that length of time have been legion. He put a girl in the family way even before he left school.'

‘You really think that Sara Patterson would become involved with a man like that?'

He shrugged. ‘You never can tell. She's very attractive; you could hardly say the same for Patterson.'

Ruth frowned. ‘Even so, as a solicitor he has a reputation to uphold, and he'd hardly tolerate his wife becoming involved with one of his clients.'

‘I wasn't suggesting she still was involved, and she certainly couldn't have been seeing him the night her husband was murdered, not unless she was visiting him in the morgue.'

‘Precisely! Sandy Franklin was already dead, so is there any point in discussing it? We'll need something far more concrete than conjectures of that sort if we are going to keep Superintendent Wilson happy,' Ruth pointed out a trifle sharply.

‘You have to admit, though, that she was certainly very uneasy when Sandy Franklin's name was mentioned,' insisted Paddy.

‘Maybe it was the blunt manner in which you broached the subject,' Ruth told him caustically. ‘I would have used a more subtle approach.'

Paddy looked annoyed. His mouth tightened, and his square chin jutted angrily. ‘What line of enquiry do you wish to proceed with next, ma'am?' he asked in a clipped tone.

‘I think we should get back to the station and phone Yvonne Duran, and see if she can tell us anything useful about her sister's shopping trip to London, don't you?'

The journey was made in strained silence.

Although she welcomed the opportunity to follow her own line of reasoning without interruption, Ruth was sorry she had upset Paddy.

He probably does know far more about the local people than I do, she reflected. Nevertheless, their enquiries must be done according to the book, not as the result of mere intuition, or the personal quirks of local personalities.

It would be all too simple to let Paddy influence her judgement with hearsay and speculation. And she had no doubt that Superintendent Wilson would take a vindictive delight in pointing out the error of her suppositions if she concocted a case on such superficial evidence.

This was not an easy investigation, but she was determined to find the murderer, or murderers, and prove to both Paddy Hardcastle and James Wilson that appointing a woman as the CID Inspector had not been a retrograde step for the Benbury police. She suspected that, although he tried not to show it, Paddy resented both her appointment and her methods of investigation. He probably found it hard to accept that techniques had changed, and that his pedantic methods not only lacked finesse, but that they'd been superseded by a sharper, more scientific mode.

It was understandable. He'd been in the Benbury police for almost twenty years, and had risen from the ranks, and not had the benefit of transferring to Police Training College straight from university. Doubtless, however, he must have anticipated that after all his years of valuable service, and his satisfactory work as a detective, he'd be the next CID Inspector.

She shot a surreptitious sideways glance at him. His anger showed in every fibre of his bearing. From the way he gripped the steering wheel, so that his knuckles shone like white ivory, to the set of his jaw.

She studied him covertly. His anger, far from detracting from his good looks, seemed to enhance them, she reflected with grim amusement. As well as exceptionally broad shoulders, he had the muscular physique of a man who spent a great deal of time keeping fit. His thick fair hair, brushed back from his deep forehead, framed clean-shaven cheeks that gleamed with health; the only blemish was a faint scar to one side of his square jaw. When he smiled, his amiable grin showed a row of strong white teeth.

In fact, she decided, he really was extremely handsome, and she wondered why he had never married. True, as he had explained, being in the police did give rise to unsociable hours. Even so, a lot of women would have overlooked that in exchange for the comfort of having someone so solid and dependable.

Perhaps that was his problem. He was too solid, too set in his ways. Not yet forty, yet his manner was as cautious as if he was in his late-fifties. In his usual garb of tweed jacket, and buff-coloured cords, he looked more like a farmer, or a country squire, than a policeman.

His social life seemed to consist of going to the local for a pint and listening to gossip. She was surprised that he paid any attention to tittle-tattle, but she supposed it was inevitable if he went to the pub every night. And he probably did that because he was lonely, she thought compassionately.

She felt guilty because she had consistently rebuffed his attempts at friendship. As a woman doing what was generally regarded as a man's job she had thought it was the most sensible way to handle the situation. Perhaps she had been a little too restrained. When they got back to the station she'd suggest going for a coffee together. She hated going into the police canteen – it was so basic with its Formica topped tables, and metal chairs – but if it helped to soften up the tension between them then it would be a small sacrifice to make.

Her good intentions were undermined the moment they entered the building.

‘Detective Superintendent Wilson requested that you should both report to his office the moment you came in,' the desk sergeant informed them.

‘Trouble?' Paddy's dark brows lifted almost imperceptibly as he held the door from reception to the rear offices open for her.

‘It certainly sounds ominous.'

Superintendent Wilson's voice as he greeted them left them in no doubt that there had been a further development.

‘I've been trying to reach you for well over an hour,' he barked. ‘Don't you keep your intercom switched on, Sergeant?'

‘We've only been in the car for the past ten minutes, sir. Before that we were at Nineteen The Crescent.'

‘Interviewing Mrs Sara Patterson,' Ruth told him.

From under hooded brows, Superintendent Wilson looked from her to Sergeant Hardcastle and then back again. ‘And the result of your interview?'

It was obvious he was expecting them to relate some outstanding news. When neither of them spoke, he placed his elbows on the desk, and supporting his chin on his finger tips, stared directly at them.

‘Surely you have something to report, Inspector?'

Ruth shook her head. ‘Not a great deal, I'm afraid, sir. Mrs Patterson wasn't at home the night her husband was murdered. She was in London on a shopping spree.'

‘She can confirm this?'

‘She claims to have been staying with her sister, Yvonne Duran. We have a telephone number and—'

‘And have you checked it out? Has the sister confirmed her story?'

‘We haven't made contact yet, sir. We would have done it the moment we got back, only the desk sergeant informed us that—'

Superintendent Wilson waved her explanation away. ‘Any other information?' he barked.

Ruth looked expectantly at Paddy. ‘The sergeant has a car parking ticket . . .'

‘Taken from Mrs Patterson's car, sir. It's one from the machine in the public car park near the Masonic hall.'

Superintendent Wilson looked puzzled. ‘Do you mean for the night her husband was murdered?'

‘I don't know about that, sir. The date and time are both smudged—'

‘But we will be able to verify when it was issued from the serial number,' Ruth interrupted.

‘And Mrs Patterson does have a red car, sir.'

Superintendent Wilson frowned. ‘Red car?'

‘A red car was seen parked in Fieldway the night John Moorhouse was murdered,' Ruth reminded him.

The superintendent's face froze. ‘Are you telling me that you think that Mrs Patterson murdered Moorhouse, and then her husband? Perhaps we should include Sandy Franklin as well for good measure,' he added sarcastically when they both remained silent.

Ruth sensed that Paddy had a cynical smile on his face as he looked conspiratorially at the superintendent. In her eagerness to appease Superintendent Wilson, and to show that they were doing everything possible to catalogue the movements of everyone connected with the murders, she'd made a glaring mistake. By stating what was little more than a supposition she'd undermined her own authority.

She wondered if Paddy had set her up deliberately, hinting that perhaps Sara Patterson had been in some way involved, and then leaving her to blurt it out. Was there a sharp, devious mind behind that bluff exterior?