And Woodend himself had been forced to agree with her.
What had happened to his wife had shaken the chief inspector to the core, but had made absolutely no difference at all to the way he led his own life, and at about the time that Henry Marlowe was being questioned on the radio by a suitably deferential interviewer, he himself was tucking into a subsidized fry-up in the Whitebridge police canteen.
The other two people at the table had chosen not to join him in playing Russian Roulette with their arteries. Beresford – who had cooked his mother’s breakfast before he left home, and then sat there watching her, to make sure she ate it – had settled for a poached egg on toast. Paniatowski had said she only wanted an orange juice – and didn’t seem to even have the stomach for that.
Woodend mopped his egg yolk with a piece of fried bread, and popped it into his mouth.
‘Here’s the plan for this mornin’,’ he told Beresford. ‘Monika an’ me will be piecin’ together everythin’ we can about Thelma Hawtrey’s friends an’ relations, an’ what I want you to do, lad, is to approach the same question – but from a different angle.’
‘What angle would that be, sir?’ the constable asked.
‘Take yourself off to Hawtrey an’ Pine Holdings again. I want to know how Thelma behaved when she paid her occasional visits to the factory. Was she on more or less friendly terms with Pine, as she claims – or did she look at him like she wanted him dead?’
‘I still think you’re wrong about her, sir,’ Beresford said.
‘I know you do,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But I’m beginnin’ to suspect that’s probably because you fancy her.’
‘Fancy her!’ Beresford repeated, shocked.
‘There’s no shame in it,’ Woodend told him. ‘None of us are immune to the call of the flesh.’
‘But she’s an old woman!’ Beresford said, clearly horrified.
‘My guess is that she’s somewhere in her mid-thirties,’ Woodend pointed out.
‘Yes,’ Beresford agreed. ‘That’s what I said.’
Woodend cut up his remaining bacon rind into bite-sized pieces, speared one, and aimed it at his mouth.
‘If she’s old, what does that make me?’ he asked.
‘It’s different for you, sir,’ Beresford said.
‘Is it? How?’
‘You’re a man.’
‘Aye, an’ apparently a very ancient one.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest—’ Beresford began.
‘Go an’ do your job, lad,’ Woodend interrupted him. ‘An’ if they’ve carted me off to the mortuary by the time you get back, you can always hand your report in to Sergeant Paniatowski, can’t you?’
Father Taylor entered the parishioner’s side of the confessional, sat down heavily, and turned his head towards the grille.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ he said. ‘It is three days since my last confession.’
‘Which is not an excessive amount of time,’ said Father Kenyon mildly, from the other side of the grille.
‘I have been guilty of impure thoughts and impure feelings.’
‘Go on.’
‘A woman came to the church—’
‘That would be Sergeant Paniatowski, would it?’
‘Yes, it was her. I saw at once that she was a lost soul. I wanted to lead her back to the light.’
‘That is why God has put us here on this earth. That is why we serve Him as His priests.’
‘But somehow that no longer seems important to me. I want to know her – in all senses of the word – and what she chooses to believe – or chooses not to believe – doesn’t matter to me.’
‘You must make it matter to you,’ Father Kenyon said sternly. ‘It is your duty.’
‘I know that, and I have been trying, Father. I can’t tell you how much I’ve tried. But I have failed.’
‘Then you must try even harder. You say you have sinned, and I agree with you. But do you repent those sins?’
‘I … I want to.’
‘We both know that is not good enough,’ Father Kenyon said heavily.
‘Yes,’ Father Taylor agreed. ‘We both know that.’
Seventeen
It wasn’t so much that there was one law for the rich and another for the poor, Bob Rutter thought, as that the poor let things happen to them, whereas the rich made the things happen.
The origin of this socio-political flight of fancy of his was a small patch of land in one of the more affluent suburbs of Whitebridge, beside which he was now standing. Once, the land had housed a tumbledown cottage, surrounded by countryside. But as Whitebridge had expanded in response to the newly emerging middle class’s hunger for quality double-fronted houses, the countryside had been gobbled up, until finally it was no more.
The developers had tried to buy the cottage, but when the cranky old man who lived in it had refused to sell, they’d had no choice but to build around it. True, they’d done the best they could, contriving to construct in such a way that it was only through their back windows that the nearest new residents would catch sight of the bucolic slum, but the cottage had still been generally regarded as something of a blot on the newly urbanized landscape.
Then the old man had died and left the cottage to a nephew, who immediately put it on the market. Several construction companies made a bid for it, and, in a less affluent part of town, one of them would undoubtedly have succeeded in buying it. But the residents here had no wish to see a new building replace the old one, and – since they were the sort of people who made things happen – they had clubbed together and put in a bid of their own.
And this was the result – a green area with trees, bushes and a few flower beds, which was too small to be called a park, but just about large enough to bear the name of ‘gardens’ without seeming too ridiculous.
The residents had been so proud of their initiative that they had put up a plaque to commemorate it.
Lower Bankside Gardens
Purchased by the Residents’ Association
for the benefit of all
Whilst he approved of their decision to buy the land, Rutter found the plaque rather smug and self-congratulatory, and there was one small – and admittedly unworthy – part of him which was half-hoping that this was the spot on which Bradley Pine met his end.
But it was not to be. The grass was undisturbed, the spring flowers bloomed unbowed – and there was no dark staining of the earth to suggest that it was here that Pine’s blood had drained away.
He had all but completed his search when he heard an angry voice say, ‘This is private property, you know!’
Rutter turned. He was being addressed by an old man with a red face and a huge, white, walrus moustache.
‘Can’t you read?’ the man demanded.
Rutter looked down at the plaque again. ‘It says “for the benefit of all”,’ he pointed out.
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean you!’ the man said. ‘It means the residents. This is an exclusive estate, you know.’
‘So I believe,’ Rutter replied. ‘But, you see, sir, I’m a police officer, and we can go where we like – within reason, of course.’
‘Got a warrant card?’ the old man asked, still not quite willing to allow his outrage to go into retreat.
Rutter produced his card, and held it out.
‘Inspector, eh?’ the old man said. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Binsley Morrisson.’
Rutter took the hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
‘Sorry to have got the wrong idea,’ Morrisson said. ‘Should have been able to tell from the way that you’re dressed that you weren’t part of the usual riff-raff that drifts in here and acts like it owns the place.’
Morrisson looked around him, and seemed somewhat disappointed to discover that there were no shady characters around at that moment who could prove his point.
‘I wanted to put a wall right around the entire estate, you know,’ he continued.
‘Did you inde
ed?’
‘I most certainly did. But the Residents’ Association wanted nothing at all to do with the idea. Came up with some damn silly excuse about it contravening the planning regulations.’
‘As a matter of fact, it probably—’ Rutter began.
‘So I’ve been forced to take on the responsibility for the security of the area myself,’ Morrisson said. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a leather notebook. ‘It’s all in here, you know.’
‘What’s all in there?’ Rutter wondered.
‘My notes. Every time I see a suspicious character wandering around, I jot down his description. Used to take those descriptions straight to the local police station, but I could see the desk sergeant wasn’t really interested. I’m sorry to have to say this about one of your lesser colleagues, Inspector, but the man seems to have no initiative at all.’
Rutter was finding it hard to keep his face straight.
‘Maybe all these people you’re worried about had a perfectly legitimate reason for being in the area,’ he suggested.
‘Like what?’
‘Well, for example, they could have been tradesmen – plumbers or electricians.’
‘Some of them did have bags that could have contained tools,’ Morrisson admitted.
‘Well, there you are then.’
‘Burglars need tools, don’t they? And crooks don’t dress up in striped jerseys, and carry sacks on their backs labelled “Swag”. They pretend to be perfectly ordinary chaps. I’d have thought, as a policeman, you’d have known that.’
‘Burglary’s not really one of my specialities,’ said Rutter, who was now finding it almost impossible to keep his grin in check.
‘And that’s precisely the problem,’ Morrisson said triumphantly, as if Rutter had proved his case for him. ‘The police simply don’t know what’s going on. But I do, and when things do go seriously wrong – as they’re bound to do – that sergeant down at the local station will suddenly be very grateful for all the details I’ve got jotted down in my notebook.’
‘Do you confine yourself to descriptions of people, or do you notice cars as well?’ Rutter asked idly.
‘Well, of course I notice cars,’ the old man said. ‘Criminals are allowed to drive cars – more’s the pity.’
Was it possible, Rutter wondered, was it just vaguely possible that …?
‘How often do you go out on patrol?’ he asked.
‘Never thought of what I do as going out on patrol,’ Morrisson said. ‘But you’re damn right – that’s exactly what I do.’
‘How often?’ Rutter asked patiently.
‘I’m out for the greater part of the day. To tell you the truth, Inspector, my lady wife gets nervous if I’m in the house for too long at a time.’
‘And do you patrol at night?’
‘Usually. I like to do a final tour before I have my cup of Horlicks and retire for the night.’
‘Were you out the night before last – in the fog?’
‘I most certainly was. You probably wouldn’t know this – not being a specialist in burglary – but criminals like the fog. They think it means they can move about without being spotted.’ Morrisson puffed out his chest. ‘But, of course, they haven’t reckoned on me.’
‘There can’t have been many people, or cars for that matter, about on a night like that.’
‘There weren’t. Very few, in fact. But it only takes one bad apple, as the old saying goes.’
‘I wonder if you happened to notice a green car, some time between nine and ten o’clock,’ Rutter said.
‘I saw a green Ford Cortina, if that’s what you’re asking about,’ the old man said.
‘At what time?’
‘Couldn’t say precisely. I’d guess it was some time between nine and ten o’clock.’
He’s throwing my own estimate back at me, Rutter thought.
‘Could it have been a little earlier – or a little later – than that, do you think?’ he asked.
‘Suppose so,’ Morrisson admitted reluctantly.
‘What are the chances that this green Cortina was being driven by one of your neighbours?’
‘No chance at all.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Make it my business to know what everybody who lives in this area drives. Nobody owns a Cortina.’
The right kind of car, spotted at roughly the right time!
Bingo! Rutter thought.
‘Cortinas are normally purchased by travelling salesmen and people of that ilk,’ the old man continued, dismissively. ‘No one from Bankside would be seen dead in one.’
But maybe Bradley Pine had been.
‘Tell me more about it,’ Rutter said.
‘Not much more to tell. It was going slowly, but I expect that was because of the fog.’
‘How many people were there in it?’
‘Only the driver.’
‘Could you describe him to me?’
‘Afraid not. I only saw him from a distance, and it was foggy. He wasn’t a midget, but he wasn’t a giant, either, if that’s any help.’
‘Could the driver have been a woman?’
The old man sighed. ‘I suppose so. In my time, ladies didn’t drive, but anything’s possible, these days.’
‘You didn’t happen to take down the registration, did you?’ Rutter asked hopefully.
‘Not all of it – fog, again – but I did manage the last part.’ Morrisson opened his notebook and flicked through a few pages. ‘Here it is. 732 B. Is that any help to you?’
It was a perfect match with Pine’s car, Rutter thought, and whilst it was just possible that there was another green Cortina around with the same end-designation, it didn’t seem at all likely.
‘Could you tell me where the Cortina was coming from, and where it was going to?’ he asked.
‘It was coming from the centre of town,’ the old man said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the railway station. ‘And it was heading that way,’ he continued, indicating the gently sloping hill which was all that separated Lower Bankside from Upper Bankside.
Eighteen
Beresford stood at the main gate of Hawtrey and Pine Holdings, trying to decide not only who he should ask if it was true that Mrs Hawtrey would have liked to see Bradley Pine dead, but also how he should phrase the question.
‘Back again, lad?’ asked a voice.
Beresford turned, and saw old Harry Ramsbotham standing there.
‘That’s right, I’m back,’ he agreed.
The old man had a string bag in his hand which contained a packet of sugar and a bottle of milk, and now he held it up for Beresford’s inspection, as if it were some sort of prize.
‘I’ve just been doin’ my shoppin’,’ he announced.
‘Is that right?’ Beresford asked.
‘Most people aren’t allowed to nip out without permission durin’ the course of the workin’ day,’ Harry continued, ‘but I’ve been doin’ it for close on to fifty years now.’
‘That is a long time,’ Beresford said, and he was thinking, How could anybody do anything for nearly fifty years?
‘It was old Mr Hawtrey who first said that it would be all right, an’ nobody’s told me anythin’ different since. It’s a bit of a tradition, you see, and even Mr Pine didn’t want to go against tradition.’
‘I can imagine he wouldn’t,’ said Beresford, who was starting to get some insight into what made the old man tick.
‘Well, now I’ve been out an’ got the makin’s of it, I might as well offer you a brew,’ Harry said.
‘I’m not sure I can—’ Beresford began.
‘Come on!’ the old man urged. ‘You can’t start work without a cup of tea inside you.’
Perhaps he was right, Beresford thought. And perhaps, over the brew, he might learn something which would put his investigation into gear.
Beresford followed Harry down the steep concrete steps which led to the basement boiler room.
�
��I started workin’ down here in 1915,’ the old man said. ‘Course, they didn’t put me in charge of the whole thing right away – I was only a lad at the time – but my immediate boss died in 1924, an’, right away, old Mr Hawtrey called me up to the office to see him.’
Some sort of response was obviously expected.
‘Did he, indeed?’ Beresford asked.
‘Called me up to his office,’ Harry repeated. ‘An’ there’s not many workin’ men from this factory who can say they’ve been in there.’
‘I imagine not.’
‘Well, Mr Hawtrey didn’t ask me to sit down – I was in my workin’ clothes, so that was perfectly understandable – but he did offer me a cigarette. Then, when we’d both lit up, he asked me if I thought I could handle the job of lookin’ after the boilers on my own. I told him I thought I could, an’ he said that were grand, an’ that in future he’d be payin’ me ten shillings a week more. Well, to be honest with you, I’d have taken the job for the same money I’d been earnin’ before, but, of course, I didn’t tell old Mr Hawtrey that.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Beresford agreed.
They had reached the foot of the stairs, and were facing a large steel door, which was closed.
‘It’s locked, but I’ve got my own key to it,’ Harry said complacently, reaching into his pocket.
The boilers were not half as large or impressive as Beresford – who was no great technical brain – had been expecting.
‘They’re all oil-fired these days,’ Harry said, noticing the surprised expression on his face. ‘It wasn’t like that when I first started workin’ here. Then, all the boilers ran off coke.’
‘It must have been hard work, stoking them.’
‘It was. You could lose pounds in sweat in this job. But still, I was sorry to see them old boilers go. I’d got to know them, an’ all their little quirks, you see, whereas these new boilers have got no personality at all.’
He could almost have been talking about his last two bosses – Hawtrey and Pine – Beresford thought to himself.
Harry sighed, regretfully. ‘Yes, I was sorry to see them boilers finally go, but I suppose we all have to move with the times, don’t we? An’ one thing you do have to say about these new boilers is that they do leave me a bit of space for myself.’
Sins of the Fathers Page 12
