He had in his pocket the key to the house that he and Maria had lived in – the house in which she had been murdered. The murderer had set a fire to cover his grisly crime, but the insurance company had informed Rutter, by letter, that all the damage had been repaired, and the house was once again perfectly habitable. So he could always go there, if he wished.
‘Where to?’ the cabbie repeated, with a slight edge of impatience entering his voice.
‘Whitebridge Police Headquarters,’ Rutter said.
Five
Constable Beresford and DS Paniatowski were already in the office when Woodend arrived, and from the evidence of the poisonous cloud of cigarette smoke which hovered above them, it was clear they’d been there for some time.
‘So how have you two been keepin’ yourself amused while I’ve been addressin’ the troops?’ Woodend asked, taking his customary seat and lighting up a cigarette of his own to add to the general fug.
‘We’ve been researching into Bradley Pine’s background,’ Paniatowski told him.
Woodend chuckled. ‘Our Mr Marlowe won’t like that, Monika. He won’t like it one bit.’
‘He won’t?’
‘Definitely not. He’s given me specific instructions that we’re not to delve too deeply into Pine’s past.’
‘Why would he have done that?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘I’m assumin’ it’s because he doesn’t want us diggin’ up anythin’ with even the whiff of scandal attached to it.’
‘But why should that matter, now that Bradley Pine’s dead?’ Beresford wondered.
‘Because while he’s dead, there are other people – possibly includin’ our esteemed chief constable – who might also be involved in the scandals, an’ are still very much alive,’ Woodend explained.
‘What scandals are you talking about, sir?’ Beresford asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Woodend admitted.
‘Then how can you be sure there are any scandals?’
‘Because it’s in the nature of the beast.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Beresford confessed.
‘Then listen carefully, lad, an’ you just might. You can vote for who you like at the local elections, but all the important decisions about the town are made over drinks in the bar of the Golf an’ Country Club. The fact is that Whitebridge is controlled by a group of fellers who’ve never even thought of standin’ for election – because they’ve never seen the need.’
‘I still don’t see it,’ Beresford admitted.
Woodend shook his head, half-pityingly. ‘Ah, to be young an’ innocent again,’ he said. ‘The Whitebridge Establishment runs this town like a well-oiled machine, an’ what keeps the oil flowin’ is favours an’ mutual back-scratchin’. So Mr A will do somethin’ for Mr B, and Mr B will do somethin’ for Mr C, et cetera, et cetera. Of course, none of this comes free, an’ eventually the favours will have to be paid for. But the payment won’t necessarily be made to the person who granted you the favour in the first place. You see what I mean?’
‘I’d be happier if you’d spell it out a bit more,’ Beresford said.
‘Let’s say Mr W wants a favour from Mr A. Now Mr A doesn’t owe him a thing, but Mr N does – an’ Mr A owes Mr N. So Mr W gets Mr N to put the pressure on Mr A.’
‘But that’s nothing short of municipal corruption!’ Beresford said, outraged. ‘That’s illegal!’
‘Maybe it would be, if it was all carried out as crudely as I’ve just described it,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But it isn’t. I doubt money ever changes hands. I doubt anythin’s ever put down in writin’. A wink an’ nod is all they need. An’ sometimes not even that – because they share the same values, an’ they understand each other perfectly. So even if you could pin down the details of some of their deals – an’ that would take a lot of effort, an’ a lot of luck – the best you’re goin’ to end up with is somethin’ that’s a bit morally questionable.’
‘That’s better than nothing,’ Beresford said.
‘Is it?’ Woodend asked. ‘Who to? Them buggers up at the Golf Club don’t care what people like you think of them. All they need is the approval of their mates – an’ they get that readily enough, because all their mates are wallowin’ around in the same trough of shit that they are.’
‘But then—’
‘But then, occasionally, your opinion does matter, like when they’re runnin’ for Parliament. So what I think Marlowe is worried about is that I might find a skeleton in Pine’s cupboard which is busily engaged in scratchin’ the back of a skeleton in his.’ Woodend turned to Paniatowski. ‘Wouldn’t you agree about that, Monika?’
‘Yes, I would,’ Paniatowski said cautiously. ‘But surely Mr Marlowe must know that whatever instructions he gives you, you’ll go your own way – just like you always do.’
‘He does know that,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But he’s gamblin’ on the fact that what he’s said will cause me to rein myself in just a little bit.’
‘Why run even that risk?’ Paniatowski wondered. ‘Why not put one of his normal lapdogs in charge of the investigation?’
‘Ah, that’s because he’s badly in need of a result on this one,’ Woodend said.
Paniatowski nodded sagely. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ she said.
‘Can you see it, Beresford?’ Woodend asked.
‘I think so,’ the constable said.
‘Then explain it to me.’
‘Mr Marlowe will be running his campaign on the basis that if he was a good chief constable, he’ll make a good MP.’
‘But?’
‘But he won’t look as if he’s been much of a chief constable at all if he can’t come up with Bradley Pine’s killer.’
‘Exactly. You’re only as good as your last arrest, an’ the last arrest Marlowe has to have before polling day is the arrest of Bradley Pine’s killer. So that’s why I’m on the case, because – as much as he hates to admit it – he thinks I’m the man most likely to get him his result.’
‘But if you don’t – and he loses the election because of it – he’s going to hold you personally responsible!’ Beresford said.
‘Which would be totally unreasonable, but perfectly in character,’ Woodend agreed.
‘And if he loses the election because of something you’ve uncovered about him, it’ll be even worse,’ Beresford said, with growing horror.
Paniatowski smiled. ‘Now do you understand why I said you should think twice before trying to join this team?’ she asked the constable.
There were no fields in the Greenfields area of Whitebridge. No fields, no trees, no municipal gardens – no signs whatever of the natural world.
In the old days, when the mills had all been working at full steam, the inhabitants of Greenfields had been spinners and tacklers. They had been poor, but they had also been honest and hardworking. They kept their two-up-two-down terraced houses freshly painted and scrupulously clean, and even though each house was separated from its neighbour in the next street by no more than two small back yards and a narrow alley, the residents had some justification for regarding their homes as little palaces.
All that had changed since the mills began to close down. The mill workers had sought fresh occupations and left the area, and the houses had been taken over by folk whose main concern was to avoid work of any kind.
The bobbies who had to walk the Greenfields beat all hated it. The crime they came across there was petty but often very unpleasant, and was perpetrated by people who were both vicious and unimaginative. It was a slum. It was a dump. The current residents would rather spend their money on boozing and betting than on feeding and clothing their children.
It was certainly not an area in which anyone would expect to find a two-year-old Ford Cortina, but that was exactly what the motor patrol found at ten forty-seven that morning.
The fug in Woodend’s office was getting thicker by the minute, and Beresford, who hadn’t been smoking for anything like as long as the others, was start
ing to find it hard to take.
‘So tell me what we know about Bradley Pine, Monika,’ Woodend said, before adding to the pollution by lighting up yet another Capstan Full Strength cigarette.
‘We know that he was what you call a self-made man,’ Monika Paniatowski replied.
‘Interestin’ label,’ Woodend said. ‘A self-made man. What exactly does that mean?’
‘What it says. He was brought up in Holy Trinity Orphanage over in Brinsleydale.’
‘It’s a Catholic orphanage, isn’t it?’
‘I should think so, with a name like that. Anyway, when he left the orphanage, at the age of fifteen, he went to work as an apprentice in Hawtrey’s Mattresses—’
‘Which is now Hawtrey an’ Pine Holdings?’
‘Correct.’
‘So how did a penniless orphan eventually get to be a partner in the business?’
‘Through being clever and inventive.’
‘How so?’
‘He came up with an idea which is now widely used in the production of interior sprung mattresses, and for which he holds the patent. It didn’t exactly make him a multimillionaire, but it did give him sufficient cash to buy his way into the company.’
‘An’ this would have been when, exactly?’
‘About fifteen years ago.’
The chief inspector did a quick mental calculation. ‘So Pine would have been in his early-to-middle twenties at the time?’
‘That’s right.’
Woodend whistled softly. ‘I see what you mean about him bein’ self-made. I seem to remember readin’ somewhere that the other half of the company – Hawtrey – is dead now. Is that right?’
‘Yes, it is. But you’re wrong to assume that Pine owned half the company. Alec Hawtrey held on to just enough of the stock to make sure he remained the majority shareholder.’
‘Remind me what happened to Hawtrey,’ Woodend said.
‘He died in a mountaineering accident up in the Lakes, a couple of years ago.’
‘How old was he when this happened?’
‘In his mid-fifties.’
Woodend sniffed. ‘Seems a bit long in the tooth to be buggerin’ about climbin’ mountains,’ he said. ‘So what happened to Alec Hawtrey’s shares after he died?’
‘They went to his widow, Thelma.’
‘So she’s the one who’s actually in charge?’
Paniatowski shook her head. ‘She makes slightly more money out of the company than Pine did, but she doesn’t take any active part in running it.’
‘An’ the business is healthy, is it?’
‘More than healthy. It’s fighting fit. It posted record profits last year, and had to take on a lot of extra staff in order to meet demand.’
‘You’ve done very well to come up with so much on the feller in such a short time, Monika,’ Woodend said approvingly.
‘Thank you, but I can’t really claim much personal credit for it,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘I got most of the material out of his political manifesto.’
‘So now let’s get on to the really big questions,’ Woodend suggested, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘What was the motive behind Bradley Pine’s murder, and – perhaps even more importantly, in terms of openin’ up the investigation – why did the killer mutilate him once he was dead?’
The other two looked him blankly for a moment.
Then Paniatowski said, ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve never come across a case of murder and mutilation before. Have you, sir?’
‘Only once,’ Woodend told her. ‘It was while I was at the Yard. The victim had been beaten to death, then his killers had cut off his genitals an’ stuffed them in his mouth.’
Beresford shuddered, and put his hand protectively – and instinctively – over his lap.
‘Did you ever find out the reason for the castration?’ Monika Paniatowski asked.
‘I did. It turned out that the dead man had raped the sister of the two fellers who murdered him. I can’t say I was entirely surprised by the result. I suspected it might be somethin’ like that right from the start, because what they’d done made a twisted kind of sense, you see. But this is a different matter altogether. Whoever killed Pine smashed in his mouth an’ slit open his stomach. What kind of message was that meant to send?’
‘Smashing in his mouth could have signified that he talked too much,’ Paniatowski said.
‘An’ slittin’ open his stomach signified that he ate too much?’ Woodend asked.
‘Probably not,’ Paniatowski agreed.
‘I suppose that sex could have been involved,’ Beresford suggested, tentatively.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, I’m not entirely sure,’ admitted Beresford, who was still a virgin, but would have died rather than admit it to the other two. ‘Maybe he treated a woman very badly, and this was her revenge.’
‘Fair point,’ Woodend agreed. ‘What have we found out about his love life so far, Monika?’
‘Not a lot,’ Paniatowski admitted. ‘There hasn’t been time. But we do know that he wasn’t married, nor ever had been – which is quite unusual for a man in his late thirties.’
‘Aye, it is,’ Woodend said. ‘Is there any indication that he might have been inclined the other way?’
‘There’s no record of him ever having been arrested for loitering outside public lavatories, if that’s what you mean,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Not that that rules out the possibility of his bein’ homosexual,’ Woodend said. ‘Still, there’s no point in just sittin’ here an’ speculatin’, is there? It’s time we got diggin’.’
‘Into his past or his present?’ Paniatowski asked.
Woodend grinned. ‘He doesn’t have a “present”,’ he said. ‘He’s bloody-well dead.’
‘Into his recent past, or into his more distant past?’ Monika Paniatowski amended.
‘Into both.’
‘In spite of what Mr Marlowe said to you?’
‘Aye, we can’t let a dickhead like him get in the way of us doin’ our job properly, now can we? So how shall we divide it up?’ Woodend thought for a moment. ‘Beresford, you can go up to the mattress factory an’ see what you can find out about Pine’s rise to fame an’ fortune.’
‘You want me to go on my own, sir?’ the constable asked, sounding somewhat alarmed.
‘Why not on your own? Do you want me there beside you, holdin’ your hand?’
‘No, but—’
‘It’s about time you learned that there’s a lot more to bein’ a detective than just wearin’ your best suit to work. Don’t worry, lad, you can do it. I’ve got confidence in you.’
Beresford either blushed with embarrassment or glowed with pleasure – and very possibly both.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said.
Woodend turned to Paniatowski. ‘You’re still a Catholic, aren’t you, Monika?’
‘Not exactly,’ the sergeant said, with some show of reluctance.
‘But you do know more about the mysteries of the faith than either me or Beresford?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then you get to go to St Mary’s, which is where, accordin’ to our beloved chief constable, Pine was headin’ when he left the village hall meetin’. See if he arrived at the church as he expected to, an’ if he did arrive, how long he stayed an’ who he talked to.’
‘And what will you be doing, sir?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Me? I shall be descendin’ into the Heart of Darkness.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Beresford said.
‘He’ll be going where no man with honest working class credentials would ever normally dream of showing his face,’ supplied Paniatowski, who was well tuned in to Woodend’s mind.
‘I still don’t get it,’ Beresford admitted.
‘First, I shall be poppin’ into the morgue – which isn’t the Heart of Darkness – to have a quick word with Dr Shastri,’ Woodend explained. ‘Then I’ll take myself over to the Whitebridge Go
lf an’ Country Club – which is.’
‘Where they’ll kill the fatted calf, and welcome you with open arms, like a long-lost brother,’ Paniatowski said.
‘I somehow doubt that,’ Woodend replied. ‘But since I am a police officer engaged in a murder inquiry, they won’t be able to actually bar the door to me, either – however much they’d like to.’
Six
St Mary’s Roman Catholic Church had stood at the crest of Woodstock Hill for over five hundred years.
In its early days, when Whitebridge was no more than a small village in which a collection of downtrodden peasants scratched out a meagre existence, the gothic spire and sturdy square tower must have been a truly formidable sight. Even in the modern Whitebridge – a city that had recently begun to experiment with high-rise buildings – it was still the most impressive structure around, eclipsing the Anglican cathedral which the Protestant ecclesiastical planners had foolishly decided to construct on the flat ground in the town centre.
The edifice’s history was chequered, as most history is. Though it was originally built as a Catholic church, there had been a period – a little over three centuries, in fact – when it had fallen into the hands of King Henry VIII’s breakaway movement, the adherents of which had smashed the statues and stripped away all other signs of Papistry. But the world turns – as it inevitably will – and in the mid-nineteenth century, Catholic cotton money had been used to purchase the church and re-consecrate it into the old faith.
Monika Paniatowski could have left her bright red MGA right in front of the church – there were parking restrictions in force there, but what did that matter when you were the law? – yet instead she chose to park at the bottom of the hill, even though that meant subjecting herself to a long, steep climb.
The reasoning behind her decision was simple. Her sporty car was one of the most distinctive vehicles in Whitebridge, so people seeing it parked outside the church might be forgiven for assuming she had gone inside to pray.
And that was an assumption she really did not want anyone to make.
Ever!
That was an assumption it was worth climbing the highest and most gruelling mountain to avoid.
Sins of the Fathers Page 4
