Hell Hath No Fury by Rosie Harris Page A

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.
    And, in all probability, Paddy reflected, I’ll still be a sergeant!
    It wasn’t altogether a criticism of Ruth, he told himself; it was the system. As a person, he quite liked her. A bit prim and proper, but then she was not only nearly twenty years younger than him but new on the job and probably afraid of putting a foot wrong.
    All that talk about team work, and being partners, that she’d spouted the night he’d persuaded her to have a drink on their way back from the Moorhouse murder must have been the wine talking. Twice since then she’d refused to go for a coffee with him.
    It wasn’t as though they were in uniform! If they went into a café, who would know that she was his boss? Most people would think they were friends meeting for a chat. Still, if that was the way she wanted to play things then he’d have to go along with it. She was his boss.
    Give her a few more months and she might ease up. Two murders one after the other was a big one for her to cut her teeth on. He just hoped she realized how lucky she was to have someone with his experience to guide her through it.
    All this talk about Sandy Franklin’s murder being a copycat one, or that they had a serial killer on their hands, was all theoretical textbook stuff, in his opinion. More likely it was merely a coincidence that both murders had occurred in a space of a week, and that in both instances the same type of weapon had been used. There hadn’t had a murder in Benbury for at least five years, which was probably why it was scaring the pants off old Wilson.
    What the super hadn’t mentioned – and which in all probability Ruth didn’t know either, since she hadn’t referred to it – was that Sandy Franklin was a Mason, and so was the superintendent. Paddy didn’t know for sure, but he’d bet any money you liked that they were in the same lodge. Which was why the super was so anxious to apprehend the murderer. As soon as he had the chance, he’d check out if John Moorhouse had also been a Mason. If so, then, and only then, would he mention this fact to Ruth. In the meantime, there were plenty of routine enquiries to be carried out, starting with Sandy Franklin’s numerous lady friends.
    â€˜Perhaps we should resume our enquiries at Accrington Court,’ Ruth commented, breaking into his reverie. ‘Franklin must have been visiting someone there since his car was parked on their private forecourt.’
    â€˜Whoever it was obviously wasn’t interested in helping the police with their enquiries or they’d have come forward as soon as the body was found.’
    â€˜There are only twenty-four flats in the block, so door-to-door enquiries shouldn’t take long. Come on, we’ll make it top priority.’
    No one actually shut the door in their faces, they were much too well-bred for that, but most of the residents made it quite obvious that they were reluctant to get involved.
    Two hours later, however, they had established that Sandy Franklin was a frequent visitor to Accrington Court. Several people confirmed that he came there three or even four times a week to visit Mrs Tracey Walker at Flat Sixteen.
    There was no reply from Flat Sixteen, and no one in the adjacent flats had seen her since the night Franklin had been murdered, or could offer any suggestions as to where she might