THE PRICE OF MURDER a totally gripping British crime mystery by BRIAN BATTISON

Author:BRIAN BATTISON [BATTISON, BRIAN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books Crime thriller and mystery
Published: 2021-02-20T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Ashworth spent Sunday morning holed up in his study. The gravity, the enormity of the case, enthralled him. Something about it was not right, but he could not put his finger on it. Various concatenations filtered through his mind, to be dissected, examined; every minute detail searched to find the part which did not ring true.

Sarah, well used to her husband’s total absorption in his work, was blissfully unaware of any worries he might be having away from the job. She had failed to observe his sour expression at breakfast when she had listened to his narrative of the ransom drop, but had not extended the conversation, wishing instead to tell him about the wonderful television film he had missed.

To Sarah’s mind, diets had no place at Sunday lunch, so — eager to placate her petulant spouse — she served up lashings of his favourite roast beef and potatoes, fresh vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding.

She smiled indulgently as he tucked in with obvious relish; he deserved a good meal. His recent self-imposed adherence to the strict diet pleased her immensely, and it would seem that he had, once again, taken up his long-abandoned fitness programme: press-ups, knee-bends, and even those dreadful sit-ups.

There was still one area of her husband’s intake which Sarah would have loved to tackle — his consumption of scotch whisky. She did make the occasional sortie, reducing his nightly drinks from three to two, but could not claim any consistent results and the subject remained taboo.

After lunch, with most of the snow gone, Ashworth set about edging the flowerbeds, and generally pottering about.

In the evening they watched a television play, or rather, Sarah watched; Ashworth’s mind kept drifting over various subjects and, as it wandered yet again, he came to the conclusion that the plot — if indeed there was one — had been very carefully camouflaged.

Nine thirty, and ritual dictated a sherry for Sarah, a scotch and soda for himself. He was pouring these when the telephone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said, passing the sherry to Sarah on his way to the hall.

He took a sip of his drink, then picked up the receiver. ‘Ashworth.’

‘Hello, Jim.’ It was the weary voice of Don Facer, head of the Forensic department. ‘I’ve got you to thank for being dragged out of the pub.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘The second ransom note’s turned up. Posted this morning at Bridgetown main post office.’

Ashworth’s glass jarred as it was set down. ‘Go on,’ he urged tensely.

‘Same paper as the first — cheap. Written in biro. No finger-prints—’

‘What does it say?’ Ashworth cut in, impatiently.

Facer snorted. ‘Well, although it was addressed to Mrs Edwards, it’s definitely meant for you. Goes on at great length about your shortcomings. Chummy claims he was in the wood last night, and actually touched the briefcase containing the money. He’s quite pleased with himself. Anyway, then it gets on to the real nitty-gritty . . .’

Ashworth sighed loudly. ‘Go on.’

‘It says: ‘These are my instructions. On Monday, 11 January, at 6 p.

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