by Alex Walters
Winterman took this to mean that at least some of the produce had been acquired under the counter. Well, so what? Everyone was doing it. It was what kept a lot of them going. Even the police. Especially the police, because they had some power.
Marsh rose and peered through the kitchen window. 'Still snowing. Who fancies a trip down to interview the landlord of the local?'
'Who's staying with me tonight?' Brain said. 'We'll have to brave the walk back to the village in any case.'
'Reckon the governor should have the privilege of staying here,' Hoxton said. 'Me and Marshy can share your room.'
'Fine by me,' Marsh said.
Winterman was unsure whether a glance passed between Marsh and Mary.
'Which means, boss, that if you want to go to the pub – sorry, interview the landlord…' Hoxton nodded mischievously towards Marsh. 'Then you'll have to brave the walk both ways.'
'I'm happy to give it a go.' Winterman recognised a challenge when he heard one.
'Gents only, is it?' Mary asked.
'Up to you, lass,' Hoxton said. 'You feel up to the walk, you're most welcome. And you, Mrs G,' he added gallantly.
'Someone's got to stay and look after the kiddies,' Mrs Griffith said. 'And you wouldn't get me out on a night like this.'
'You all right if I go, Mam?' Mary asked.
'If you feel up to it,' Mrs Griffiths said. 'It's a nasty old night out there.'
'I'm sure the inspector will take care of me. Won't you, Ivan?'
Winterman caught the twinkle in Hoxton's eye at the mention of his Christian name. He looked at Marsh, but the young man was merely smiling back amiably. 'I'll do my best,' Winterman said.
The five of them set off a few minutes later, wrapped in heavy overcoats, scarves and hats. There was an almost juvenile spirit in the air as if the incessant snow demanded the casting off of adult responsibilities. Even the ever-present cold seemed almost bearable, accompanied by these smooth icy landscapes. It was an illusion but welcome nonetheless.
Hoxton, true to form, was already making snowballs, throwing the hard-packed snow at the dark shapes of trees. The snow was coming down as heavily as ever. The Wolseley was already buried into a thick drift, its black contours almost invisible. Progress along the road was difficult, their booted feet ploughing slowly through the packed banks of snow.
Winterman peered across at Mary. 'Are you all right? We can turn back if it's too much for you.'
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that.' She reached down and picked up her own snowball, throwing it half-heartedly in Winterman's direction. 'It's wonderful. Cold, but wonderful.'
'Lovely for the children.'
'They love it,' she agreed. 'But then so do I.'
It took them thirty minutes to cover the half-mile to the pub. The centre of the village was deserted, and Winterman had wondered whether the pub would even be open. But the glow of its lights indicated the landlord had not allowed the extreme weather to disrupt his usual routine. They pushed open the door of the lounge bar and stumbled into the warmth and light, scattering snow and water across the floor.
The lounge was deserted, though they could hear the sound of voices from the public bar next door.
After a few minutes, the landlord appeared. He was a large, cheerful-looking figure – almost a caricature of the traditional pub landlord, his overweight face reddened from the heat and, most likely, a generous imbibing of his own products.
'Blimey. Didn't expect much of anyone in here tonight, let alone a party.' He peered short-sightedly at the group, eventually recognising everyone except Winterman. 'Evening, Constable. Evening, Mrs Ford, Paul. And, strike me down, George Hoxton? Not seen you in a while.' Not a local man, Winterman thought. Probably a Londoner.
'It's since you started watering down the beer, Norman,' Hoxton said morosely. 'Gives me no reason to come back here. And it's Detective Constable Hoxton to you.'
'If you say so, George. And what brings you a-detecting down here?'
'We're here to try your watery beer, Norman. I've already warned my friends not to expect much.'
'You're too kind, George. That was always your trouble. Four pints for you gents then. Mrs Ford?'
'Tonic water for me, Norman.' She was shrugging off her heavy coat, draping her scarf over the back of a chair. The landlord slowly pulled the pints.
'Actually, Norman,' Hoxton said, 'this isn't just a social call.'
'Never is with you lot.' The landlord glanced at Winterman. 'You a copper as well?'
'DI Winterman.'
'An Inspector. I'm honoured.'
'People usually are,' Winterman said. 'We just wanted to ask you a few questions about Reverend Fisher.'
'Thought you might. Terrible business.' The landlord finished pouring the first two pints and handed them past Winterman to Hoxton and Brain.
'You know about it then,' Winterman said.
'Word travels like lightning in a place like this. We don't get too many murders.'
'I imagine not. What did you think of Fisher?'
'Cantankerous old bugger. Pardon my language. Good customer though.'
'Drank in here a lot, did he?'
'He drank in here a lot, and he drank a lot when he was in here. Just how I like it.'
'In here every night?'
'Pretty much. Put it this way, people commented when he wasn't.'
'Popular man, was he?'
'Not so's you'd notice. People generally steered clear of him. He used to sit over there.' The landlord paused momentarily from pulling the remaining pints and gestured towards a table in the corner.
'In the lounge?'
'Always sat in the lounge. Bit too raucous in the public. Just sat there quietly and sank his pints. And his Scotches.'
'Any trouble?'
The landlord shrugged. 'Not really. Sometimes he had too much even by his standards, and I'd politely point that out. And he'd respond less politely. Had to throw him out once or twice when he got a bit obstreperous. Usually when his language became a bit ripe for the ladies.' The landlord glanced around self-consciously, nodding in Mary's direction. 'Not that we get many ladies in here, present company excepted. But it's the principle. No, old Joe wasn't really any trouble. He usually went quietly in the end.'
'We don't know how he went,' Winterman pointed out. 'In the end. What about before his death? Was he in here the night he was killed? Or the night before?'
'Hadn't seen him for a while. In fact, I'd remarked on it. It was beginning to hit my takings.' The landlord laughed, with no obvious sign of mirth. 'There was the weather, of course. Not easy for someone of Fisher's age to get in here. Not that it had usually stopped him before. Don't know if it was just that though. Don't think we'd seen him in here since the business with that poor kiddie.'
'The body, you mean.'
'Aye. Since Fisher found the body. Must have been a shock. You lot any nearer to sorting that one out?'
Winterman shook his head. 'So Fisher hadn't been in since then.'
'Don't think so.' The landlord paused, his expression suggesting he was reflecting on the matter. 'Maybe it was that business with young Callaghan. That must have been the same night, as well.'
Winterman exchanged a glance with Marsh. 'Young Callaghan? William Callaghan?'
'Young William,' the landlord confirmed. 'I remembered it because not many people spoke to Fisher.'
'What was the business with Callaghan?'
'Usual story with young William. He'd had a pint or two too many and took it into his head to engage Fisher in conversation. Don't really know what he was on about – don't think Callaghan did either – but Fisher clearly didn't like it.'
'What was he on about? I mean, what did you hear?'
'Something about a ghost story. Callaghan wanted Fisher to tell them a ghost story.'
'A ghost story?'
'You did ask. But yes, something like that.' With a practised movement, he picked up a tumbler, pressed it to the whisky optic and p
oured himself a measure. 'Brain juice.' He took a mouthful and, as if benefiting from its effects, said, 'His ghost story. That's what he said.'
'Whose ghost story?' Winterman wondered how much the landlord had already knocked back that evening.
'Fisher's. That was what it was all about. Callaghan wanted Fisher to tell them his ghost story.'
'What ghost story?'
The landlord swallowed the remainder of the whisky. 'Haven't a clue. It seemed to mean something to Fisher. He looked shaken.'
'What did he say?'
'Not much. Just told Callaghan to leave him alone.'
'But you think Fisher knew what Callaghan was talking about?'
'He was pretty far gone by that time in the evening, so it's difficult to be sure. But I'd say so, yes.'
'And this was the evening Fisher found the body? The same evening?'
The landlord frowned and then glanced over his shoulder, perhaps considering the potential benefits of another shot of "brain juice". 'I'm pretty sure so. Don't think we saw Fisher in here after that.'
'That so? Maybe we'll need to have another chat with Mr Callaghan.' He gestured towards the drinks. 'What's the damage?'
The landlord smiled. 'On the house, just this once. Goes against the grain, but it's not often we get a Detective Inspector in here.'
Chapter 33
'It's stopped,' Mary said, peering through the doors into the darkness.
'Perhaps.' Winterman craned his neck to look past her. 'For the moment.'
'Always the optimist.'
'I thought you liked the snow.'
'I do, but you don't.'
'I've no problem with it if I can just build snowmen. It's when I have to work that it gets in the way.'
'Not the only one getting in the way,' Hoxton grumbled from behind them. 'Are you two going out there or not?'
Winterman stepped forward, his feet crunching into the thick snow. It had been falling heavily while they were in the pub, and the white drifts were unblemished around them. The night was silent, even the sound of their voices muffled. The cottages across the street were in darkness and the village looked deserted. A large portion of the sky had cleared of cloud, and the sky was thick with stars. A biting wind swept in from the fens.
Mary emerged from the pub doorway, closely followed by Hoxton, Marsh and Brain. They had stayed for only one more round – Winterman had felt obliged to reciprocate the landlord's generosity – but Brain was already looking the worse for wear, his feet unsteady on the frozen snow.
'You two ready to get back?' Hoxton said to Winterman and Mary. 'We can walk with you, if you like.'
'It's hardly any distance,' Mary said. 'And it's stopped snowing. We'll be fine.'
'Anyway,' Winterman added, 'I have my trusty police-issue torch.' He brandished the heavy rubber-covered flashlight as though about to use it as a weapon.
'Watch out for the mad axe-man,' Brain said, his words marginally slurred.
'Thanks, Bryan,' Mary said. 'That's done wonders for my confidence.'
'Sorry. Just a joke.'
'And very funny too.' Hoxton slapped Brain heartily on the back. 'Come on, lad. Show us the way to go home. We're tired and we want to go to bed.'
Winterman stood with Mary, watching the three men set off in the direction of the police station. Caught in the pale lights of the pub, they resembled a staged tableau – perhaps some kind of religious image. Three unwise men.
'It's a good question though,' Mary said from behind him.
They trudged through the frozen snow. 'What is?' He used the torch sparingly, flashing its beam on to highlight the path whenever the darkness grew too dense.
'Whether it's safe for me to walk back like this.'
'I imagine so. What sort of mad axe-man would come out on a night like this?'
'The sort who killed Fisher perhaps. But that wasn't what I meant.'
'I know it wasn't. You meant is it safe to walk home with a well-known womaniser.'
'Something like that.' With an unselfconscious movement, she linked her arm in his.
Winterman glanced down. 'You're living dangerously.'
'I can look after myself. As you'll discover if you try anything.'
'I don't doubt it. But that's not my style.'
'I don't doubt it,' she echoed, mocking. 'So what is your style?'
'I'm much misunderstood.'
'I don't doubt it,' she said again.
'You're making fun of me.' Winterman didn't feel too troubled by the prospect.
'I am.' She had her head down, plodding steadily through the snow. 'But I don't imagine you mind. Anyway, you said you'd tell me the truth. I'm still waiting.'
'You said you'd let me buy you a drink.'
'I did let you.'
'I suppose so. But I'd assumed you meant just you, rather than Curly, Larry and Moe as well.'
'Then you need to be more precise in your requests. Or you'll continue to be disappointed.'
'Fair enough. And you want to know the truth?'
She stopped, drawing him to a halt beside her, and gazed up at him from beneath her scarf and woollen hat. He could barely make out her face, but her eyes were bright and searching. 'I think so. I want to know how you can be sort of married.'
He gazed back at her. 'My wife's ill. Very ill.'
Her hand moved to her mouth, an involuntary gesture. 'Oh – I'm sorry. I didn't know.'
'Very ill. Incurable. But sadly not terminal.' His voice was toneless, giving no clue to his feelings.
She seized his arm. 'That's a terrible thing to say–'
His face was as inscrutable as his voice. 'No, it isn't. You don't understand.'
'You said you'd tell me the truth. You're just playing games.'
'I'm telling you the truth. My wife, Gwyneth, was hit by a bomb, a doodlebug, in the last days of the war. She survived but was severely brain damaged. She has the mental age of a child.' He paused. 'And, as far as they can tell, the life expectancy of a healthy adult.'
Mary's mouth had dropped open. 'Dear Lord. I'm sorry.'
'It's how it is.' He was staring past her into the cold blackness. 'It's awful. But it's not the most awful thing.'
'What do you mean?'
'When the bomb hit Gwyneth, it also hit my son. My little boy.'
'Oh my goodness,' Mary whispered.
His expression suggested he had almost forgotten she was there. 'He was only six years old. Killed instantly. They told me that as if I was supposed to be grateful.'
'I'm so sorry. I'm really so sorry.'
Above them, the sky had grown heavier, and the first fresh flakes of snow swirled between them. 'I'm not even sure that's the worst thing.'
'What do you mean?'
His eyes had filled with tears, snowflakes settling on his face. 'I loved him. I loved Sam, my little boy. But I didn't love her. I didn't love Gwyneth.' His eyes were fixed on hers. 'I didn't love her then. And I don't love her now.'
Chapter 34
The church was dark above, a sprawling patch of nothing in the star-freighted sky. The snow was still swirling between them, not yet falling heavily, but threatening more to come.
'We need to get back,' she said. 'Before it really comes down.'
'I know. I'll be all right in a moment.' He was leaning across the snow-topped stone wall, his eyes fixed on the regiments of gravestones.
'You can tell me,' she said. 'If you want to.'
He said nothing more for a moment. 'Yes. I think I do want to.' He pushed open the iron gates of the churchyard, and took a step along the path. 'You were right.'
'Right?' Mary looked anxiously over her shoulder. It was not far back to her mother's house. They should still be all right if the snow were to come down more heavily.
'I did have a reputation as a womaniser. A deserved reputation probably. I had a few… relationships. Probably didn't behave well.' He paused, then laughed slightly. 'I had a relationship with the chief constable's daughter.'
'Yes, my wife. She… we–' He stopped. 'We discovered she was expecting. It was a shock. We thought we'd been careful.'
'Not careful enough.'
'No, well – we didn't have a lot of choice after that. We announced we were getting married. Kept it quiet, though I don't imagine we fooled anyone. Not anyone capable of using a calendar anyway. I'd been the chief's blue-eyed boy – his high-flyer. He never said anything, but he didn't need to.'
'When was this?'
''Thirty-nine. Start of the war. I'd been wondering what to do. Felt I was too young to hide in a reserved occupation.' He paused, thinking about what he'd said. 'I'm sorry.'
'Don't be. My husband felt the same. He'd already resigned from the force so he could join up.'
'I didn't,' Winterman said. 'They didn't allow it, not officially. And I thought I should stay with Gwyneth. Though even then we both knew it wasn't ideal. If it hadn't been for Sam, we wouldn't have married.'
'Your son?'
'He was a lovely baby.' Winterman's voice was steady. 'A lovely little boy. We both loved him. Even if we didn't love each other.'
'You're not the first,' she said. 'It's not a unique story.'
'Oh, I know. But that doesn't make it any easier. And I had another problem.'
'What problem?'
'Gwyneth's father. The chief. I'd been pursuing a case. A big deal, by local standards. Trafficking in stolen goods – flooding the black market. We knew who they all were, but hadn't been able to get near them. Then I got a lucky lead. I was nearly there, and I was told to back off.'
'By the chief constable?' There was a note of disbelief in her voice.
'One of the senior officers. There were good reasons. One of the people I'd been looking at was an informer. They wanted him protected. Another was being watched as part of a bigger case so we shouldn't tread on their toes. Usual story. Don't step out of line, son, or you'll make it difficult for all of us.'
