Hell Hath No Fury by Rosie Harris Page A

of being made up to inspector. Not the right sort of background or handshake, for one thing.’
    She grinned. ‘I suppose university did help, but I don’t know about the handshake.’
    He took a drink of his beer. ‘I’ve my own way of doing things, and I don’t go along with a lot of theorizing, and all this psychological stuff. I’m a practical man who prides himself on being able to sum up people pretty accurately.’
    â€˜By pressurizing them into admitting things they might have done, or you would have liked them to have done, like you did with Marilyn Moorhouse?’ she asked.
    He chuckled, and drained his glass. ‘No, that was a bit out of order, but I was keen to find out your reaction.’
    â€˜I wasn’t the one being subjected to your third degree.’
    â€˜Why did you join the police?’
    â€˜Personal reasons.’
    He looked at her in silence for a moment. ‘Are you telling me to mind my own business?’
    â€˜No, not really. I really did join for personal reasons. My young brother was on a murder charge. The whole family knew he was innocent, but we had no proof. He was on remand for months. I was in my teens, and as I watched the struggle to clear his name I became fascinated by police procedure . . .’
    â€˜So why didn’t you become a lawyer when you left university?’
    â€˜I wanted to be one of the first on the scene so that I could be sure that justice was being done, not sitting in an office having evidence presented to me second-hand.’
    Paddy nodded approvingly. ‘Well said!’ He stood up to leave. ‘Maybe we can be partners after all,’ he added, holding out his hand.

EIGHT
    M aureen Flynn knew quite well that it was utter madness returning to Benbury so soon after John Moorhouse’s murder, but she was drawn back there as a wasp is to a glass of beer.
    Sitting in the cafe opposite the newsagent’s she studied the poster clipped on to the display stand outside the shop.
    BENBURY SCHOOLTEACHER DIES IN
    MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.
    NO CLUES TO KILLER OF POPULAR
    BENBURY TEACHER.
    As she studied it, reading it over and over again as if mesmerized, she saw the rangy figure of Sandy Franklin come out of the shop, and she held her breath as he slipped a new sheet into the frame.
    POLICE STILL SEEKING CLUES
    TO THE IDENTITY OF
    BENBURY TEACHER’S ATTACKER.
    Maureen found herself gritting her teeth as she watched him smile and speak to every woman who passed by. If they stopped, not content with jocular exchanges, he would pat them on the shoulder, grasp them by the arm, or slip his hand around their waist, and her hatred for him surged afresh as she observed his antics.
    He should have been her first victim, she mused. What Sandy Franklin had done to her all those years ago had been far worse than John Moorhouse’s involvement.
    Seething with mindless rage, Maureen pushed aside her coffee, picked up her handbag, and went out into the street. Her throat felt so tight that she could hardly breathe, and once outside on the pavement she gulped greedily at the fresh air.
    Her heart hammered as she saw Sandy Franklin look in her direction, and she was rooted to the spot as he started to cross the road. For a split second she thought he had recognized her and that he was coming to speak to her.
    Then she noticed that a silver-coloured Mercedes coupé had pulled up almost alongside her. The female driver, a heavily made-up blonde wearing a low cut black sweater, and a skimpy red skirt that had ridden high up her thighs, had wound down the window, and was smiling up at him.
    Oblivious to the fact that people were watching them, Sandy Franklin stopped in the middle of the road, and bent down towards the woman, who reached up and pulled his head closer so that they could kiss.
    â€˜Am I seeing you tonight?’ she asked as he straightened up.
    â€˜Do you want to, Tracey?’
    The woman’s