Hell Hath No Fury by Rosie Harris Page B

heavily pencilled eyebrows rose invitingly. ‘What do you think, big boy?’
    â€˜Eight o’clock? Your place?’ queried Sandy Franklin.
    The woman flashed a wide smile, revved her car engine, and let out the clutch, leaving him standing in the middle of the road.
    As Maureen walked back to the car park near the library where she’d left her Ford Escort, anger, contempt and hatred battled inside her. Sandy Franklin had not only been one of the instigators when she’d been raped, he had enjoyed every minute inside the horrible dark shed. He’d goaded the others into action, forcing John Moorhouse to take part when he’d hung back, and he’d gone along with all the vile suggestions Dennis Jackson had made. He’d been slobbering with excitement when it came to his turn.
    Her mind alive with memories, she drove round and round Benbury for almost two hours, visiting the haunts of her childhood, reliving the past. It was as though she was watching a video over and over again.
    She knew she should be heading back to Dutton. It was over an hour’s drive, and there was really nothing to keep her in Benbury any longer.
    Or was there? Could she return home without first eradicating the ghost of Sandy Franklin from her thoughts?
    She decided to drive down the High Street one last time before she went home. Most of the shops were now closed. A few of them had left lights on so that passers-by could view their window displays, but the rest were in darkness, with only a safety light over the till.
    The lights were still on in the newsagent’s. Maureen slowed to a crawl as she toyed with the idea of going in and confronting Sandy Franklin. It would be so satisfying to see his face when she reminded him who she was.
    Do that and you have as good as owned up to John Moorhouse’s murder, she told herself. Sandy Franklin will phone the police right away, and when he tells them what he knows about you then without doubt you’ll be the chief suspect.
    Unless I stop him from using the phone. Not only now . . . forever!
    The idea appealed to her.
    And why not! She’d come prepared! Not intentionally, of course. It had just happened that way.
    She’d stopped at Castleton for lunch, and afterwards had decided to walk around the new shopping precinct there. She was surprised at how large it was, and had decided she might as well take the opportunity to replace the items she had destroyed after her confrontation with John Moorhouse.
    It had been a surprisingly successful buying spree. All the new items were now stowed away in the boot of her car in readiness for when she might need them.
    Outside Sandy Franklin’s newsagent’s she switched off the engine and undid her seat belt. She was about to get out of her car when she saw that although all the lights were still blazing there was a ‘CLOSED’ notice on the door.
    She hesitated. He was in there. She could see him. He was standing by the till cashing up. She wondered if he would come to the door if she knocked. Or would he think it was a burglar and phone the police?
    Why should he do that when he could see who was at the door, she reasoned. He would be able to see it was a woman, and probably assume she wanted cigarettes, or a magazine, or sweets or something, point to the ‘Closed’ sign, and wave her away.
    Or would he? A woman on her own. Would he be able to resist letting her into the shop and making a pass at her?
    While she dithered, the lights inside the shop suddenly went out, leaving only a small red alarm light shining over the till.
    Biting her lip in disappointment, Maureen remained in her car. She sat there, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, wondering what to do. She looked up as a light went on in one of the windows above the shop. She supposed he must live there.
    She looked at her watch. It was quarter to eight. Sandy Franklin had an appointment to meet his blonde lady friend at eight