Terror on Tuesday

across to where her car was the only one left in the park. “I’ll drop you off home,” Hazel said, brushing aside the offer to take a bus. “It’s not too far out of my way. You shouldn’t be out on the streets alone round there, anyway!” She was only half-joking, knowing that the back streets around the theatre boasted the highest incidence of mugging in the town.

The friend safely inside her front door, Hazel turned down the theatre street and headed for home. It was not well-lit, but as she approached a car parked at the side of the road, she looked again. Surely that was Gary Needham’s old banger? Then she jammed her foot on the brake. Not only was it Gary’s car, but that was Joanne Murphy’s bruiser, leaning against a lamp post. So what was Gary doing there? She parked fifty yards up the road and stopped the engine. The bruiser hadn’t moved, so it was unlikely that he had recognized her car. Think, Hazel. If Joanne Murphy had had a mutually agreed meeting with Gary, why was the bruiser standing on guard? She had a feeling in her bones that Gary was in trouble, and she had to do something about it.

She looked in her driving mirror. Nothing had moved, but she could now see two heads in the car, silhouetted against the street light. So Joanne was in the car with Gary.

He must need help, Hazel decided. And if he doesn’t, they’ll soon tell me to shove off. She made a quick call on her mobile, then started her engine, and drove slowly forward. Turning round at the end of the street, she switched off her lights and returned, still at a crawl. At the last minute, she put her headlights on full beam, accelerated and then screeched to a stop exactly parallel with Gary’s car. She saw his face as he turned to look, and knew she had been right. Pale and frightened, he recognized her, and at the speed of a terrified rabbit, he flung open his door and was sitting beside her in a heap, screaming at her to get moving. She didn’t need telling, and missed the leaping minder by millimetres. She saw in her driving mirror that he crashed to the ground, and had no compunction about leaving him there. J. Murphy could look after him, though she didn’t give much for his chances.

“How did you get yourself into that one?” she said acidly to Gary. They were out of the theatre area now, heading down town through night-time empty streets. He was breathing rapidly and didn’t answer.

“Where’re we going?” he said finally. He had straightened up, and although his hands were clenched into two tight fists, he seemed to have himself in control.

“You’ll see,” said Hazel. “And save your breath now. There’s a lot of talking to be done, but not just yet.”

“Well, this is not the way to my house,” he said, but without much interest. He was grateful to Hazel for rescuing him, but had little hope that his situation was much improved.

Hazel slowed down, and came to a halt by the kerb. “Right,” she said. “Come on, let’s go in.”

“For Christ’s sake, Hazel! It’s the bloody nick!”

“Yep,” she said equably. “Shouldn’t be too busy. And they’re expecting us.”

As they climbed the steps into the brightly lit police station, Hazel caught a glimpse of two people, visibly restrained, being manhandled out of a police car behind them. It was Joanna Murphy and her minder. Cowgill had acted quickly, thank God. A busy night ahead for us all, thought Hazel, and took Gary’s arm.

? Terror on Tuesday ?

Forty-Six

In the schoolhouse in Waltonby, Mrs Betts looked at the clock on the kitchen mantelshelf. It was late. Where was her husband? He was usually home from the theatre much earlier than this. Prue had gone off for a few days to join the friends who were planning the round-the-world trip, and the house was unnaturally silent.

The sound of a key in the front door brought her to her feet. “There he is,” she said, and went to meet him.

Half an hour later, they were standing in the hall, suitcases hurriedly packed and carrying their coats.

“I still don’t see why…”

“You don’t need to see why,” Mr Betts said. “I have decided we are going up to Scotland tonight, and will stay there for a few days to spy out the land and possibly find a house. You like looking at houses, don’t you? Well, now is our chance to find something really nice. I have decided not to occupy another schoolhouse. Too close to the job…living over the shop…known to be a mistake.”

Mrs Betts thought he sounded odd. The whole thing was odd. He had marched into the house and started issuing orders straight away. There had been no explanation, only a stern determination to get her to do what he said without questions. Just as if I was one of his schoolchildren, she thought. But she knew it was pointless to argue. He would only lose his temper and shout, and then shut himself in his study and not get any sleep, and neither would she. So she went along with it until they were ready, standing in the hall as if it wasn’t the middle of the night, but a normal off-on-holiday day. She tried to summon up some enthusiasm, and suggested preparing food for the journey. After all, they would be driving through the night, and it would be vital for the driver to keep awake. Then her enthusiasm evaporated. It was very odd.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “I’ll tell you all about it in the car. Now, are we ready? I’ve arranged for a substitute in the school, and we can ring Prue in the morning. Right!” he added, and smiled a wild smile at her. “Off on an adventure!” He locked the door behind them, and struggled to the car carrying both cases. “Why did we need so much stuff?” she said. “We’ll be back by the end of the week, won’t we?”

“Never know what Scottish weather has in store,” he said in a waggish voice.

They had been going for half an hour, and Mrs Betts felt her eyelids drooping. “Would it be all right if I had a little nap?” she said. “Then I could take over the driving for a bit later on, and let you sleep.”

“Good idea,” he said, and turned to smile at her. “We’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly, and she wondered at his words. Why shouldn’t they be fine? Her eyes closed, and in spite of herself, she drifted off.

When she awoke, they were on a motorway. “Where are we?” she said. He didn’t answer, and she glanced out of the window at the approaching road signs. “Gatwick!” she said. “What on earth are we going to Gatwick for?” He still did not answer, and she felt a flicker of alarm. “I said – ” she began.

“I heard what you said,” he interrupted. “And you will soon know why we’re going to Gatwick. A little secret!” But he didn’t sound at all happy about it, not like someone about to spring a pleasant surprise on his wife.

“Pull in here,” Mrs Betts said urgently, seeing an exit coming up. “I need the toilet.”

“Can’t you wait until we get there? It’s not much further…”

“No, I can’t. Please, dear, I won’t be long.” She felt increasingly apprehensive, and found herself humouring him, jollying him along.

They parked in the services area, and he switched off the lights. “Now,” she said gently, “perhaps you’d better tell me what this is all about.” She put her hand over his, and squeezed. “We don’t have secrets from each other, you know,” she added, and waited.

Mr Betts rubbed his eyes. He said nothing for a full minute, and then he began to speak, not looking at her, but staring straight ahead at the shadowy car park.

“We never meant to kill him, you know,” he said. His voice was strained. “It was supposed to be a kind of punishment.”

Mrs Betts’ heart was beating so fast that she felt faint. She took several deep breaths, desperately anxious not to interrupt him. The shock was tremendous, but she still had enough reason left to know that she must appear calm.

“A kind of punishment,” he repeated, “for what he had done. And a warning that it must all stop. No more photographs, no more contacts with small girls, no more…” He hesitated, then continued, “And no more assignations with our lovely daughter.”

“Prue?” Mrs Betts could not help herself.

“Oh yes,” he said. “It was him, you know. He made her pregnant. Filthy devil. So we decided to teach him a lesson.”

“Are you talking about the major?” said Mrs Betts quietly. Her husband had become silent again, and she risked the gentle prompt.

“Of course!” he said. “The so-called major! Name was Smith really. Well, anyway,” he continued, “I decided to teach him a lesson. Dick Reading hated him as much as I did, and though I didn’t care for Reading much –