“I don’t live ’ere,” Partridge told him. “I’m a single man, and all the ’ouses in the park are for married couples.”
“Where do you live, then?”
“I’ve got a flat in Maltham.”
“So why do you do your boozin’ here?”
“It’s where my pals are.”
“An’ how do you get here?”
“On my push bike.”
“Must be four miles to Maltham,” Woodend said thoughtfully. “That’s an eight-mile round trip when you add it up. It seems like a lot of effort just for a couple of pints.”
“The exercise does me good.”
“Even with your bad leg? Tell me, Mr Partridge, where were you when Gerhard Schultz was murdered?”
“Probably somewhere between ’ere an’ Maltham.”
“Did you see anybody?”
Partridge shook his head. “At that time of night, there ain’t many people about.”
“Still, it would have been handy for you if a bobby had pulled you over for havin’ no lights on your bike.”
“It would have been ’andy, right enough,” Partridge agreed. “but unfortunately, it didn’t ’appen.”
Woodend offered the other man one of his Capstan Full Strength, but Partridge shook his head and pulled a packet of thinner, cheaper Park Drive out of his jacket pocket.
“You’re not from round these parts, are you, Mr Partridge?” the chief inspector asked. “From your accent, I’d say you come originally from the other side of London.”
“That’s right,” Partridge admitted. “I’m from Southampton.”
“So what are you doin’ in Cheshire? Have you got family livin’ up here or somethin’?”
“No,” Partridge said cagily, and Woodend realised that this was the moment he had been attempting to steer the conversation towards – the moment he hit on something that the other man did not want to discuss.
“So why did you move?” he said. “Wasn’t there any work in Southampton?”
“I expect there was if you were lookin’ for it.”
“But you didn’t look?”
“It was like this,” Partridge said. “After they’d patched up my leg an’ I was discharged from the ’ospital, I felt like a change of air. So I came up ’ere. Does that satisfy you?”
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t,” Woodend told him.
But he was thinking, I’ve heard some absolute bollocks in my time but that has to take the biscuit.
Partridge drained the rest of his pint and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I ’ave to be goin’ now.”
Woodend nodded absently, but his mind was already off in another direction. Partridge came from Southampton. Hailsham’s squadron, if it had fought in the Battle of Britain, must have been based somewhere in that area. All of which led to an interesting question – where, exactly, had Gerhard Schultz spent his time as a prisoner of war?
Woodend was already on his second pint when Inspector Chatterton entered the bar. The local man looked both harassed and frustrated.
“Caught Fred Foley yet, have you?” Woodend asked, although he already knew what the answer would be.
Chatterton shook his head. “It’s like he’s just vanished into thin air,” he admitted.
“Him an’ his mangy old dog,” Woodend pointed out. “Anyroad, I’m glad you’ve turned up now, Tim, because I’ve got a couple of little jobs I’d like you to do for me.”
The look of surprise on Chatterton’s face spoke volumes. This was not like Woodend at all. He didn’t ask for help – if anything, he devoted his energy to fending it off.
“It’s not much I want doin’,” the chief inspector continued. “Just a few inquiries. Normally, I’d leave it up to my keen young sergeant, but he’s gone off to Hereford.”
Chatterton did not seem to welcome the news. “BCI’s got a plant in Hereford,” he said, frowning.
“Aye, I know,” Woodend replied.
Chatterton’s frown deepened. “The company’s very influential in these parts, sir.”
“Yes, I’ve already gathered that.”
“So you won’t do anything which might offend the people in charge of it, will you, sir?”
Woodend sighed. “Look, I know it would be convenient for everybody round here if Schultz had been killed by poor old Fred Foley,” he said, “but I don’t happen to think that he was.”
“Still, BCI is very conscious of its public image, you know, sir,” Chatterton said.
“It must be,” Woodend agreed, “or it’d never go around poisonin’ half the countryside.” He was getting bored with the way the conversation was going. “Let’s get back to my little jobs,” he suggested. “The first thing I want you to do for me is find out what you can locally about Mike Partridge.”
“Shouldn’t be any problem,” Chatterton said, relaxing a little. “What was the second thing, sir?”
“What do you make of Simon Hailsham?”
“Solid enough sort of chap,” Chatterton said. “Meet him sometimes at the Lodge.”
“Oh, so the pair of you are members of the funny-handshakes brigade, are you?”
“Aren’t you?” Chatterton asked, sounding surprised.
“Nay, lad. The last time I checked up on it, it still wasn’t compulsory for a servin’ bobby to belong to the Freemasons. Anyroad, I’d look bloody silly in an apron – an’ I’m not exposin’ my right bollock for anybody,” Woodend said. “But about this ‘solid enough sort of chap’ of yours. If it doesn’t offend your fraternal feelin’s too much, I’d like you to do a thorough background check on him an’ all. Not his war record, I’ll put young Bob on to that – but anythin’ you can come up with that he’s done since 1945.”
The frown on Tim Chatterton’s face had returned, and was now beginning to display ulcer-inducing worry. “Is there any particular reason for this check, sir?” he asked.
“Is there any particular reason I should tell you if there was?” Woodend retorted, with a harsh edge creeping into his voice. “You didn’t ask me why I wanted a check on Partridge, now did you? An’ far as I understand it, it’s the role of local police forces to assist the Scotland Yard men workin’ on their patch in any possible way they can.”
Chatterton gulped. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Look, Tim, I don’t want you to check on him for any specific reason,” Woodend said, relenting his previous tone a little. “Half the time I do things, it’s on a gut instinct. An’ there’s somethin’ about Hailsham that just doesn’t feel right to me. For a start, I don’t like the way he’s tryin’ to drop this whole case in the lap of the Poles. An’ I’ve got a suspicion that he might have known Schultz durin’ the war – though I may be wrong on that. So just to get things clear in my own mind, I really would be grateful if you’d do what I asked.”
“All right, I’ll do my best,” Chatterton said dubiously.
“Good lad! I knew I could depend on you.”
“I really would tread softly with BCI, sir,” Chatterton warned. “The company has powerful friends in high places.”
“Don’t worry, Tim, I always tread softly,” Woodend said, “but I usually carry a big stick, an’ all.”
Seven
The senior staff canteen in British Chemical Industries’ Hereford plant seemed to be constructed entirely of tinted glass and polished steel. As Bob Rutter ran his eyes along the metal counter and up the round metallic pillars, he felt as if he were in a spaceship – and then he realised, with considerable chagrin, that that was a very Woodendish sort of thing to think.
“We deliberately made the place very modern, you see,” said the enthusiastic man who was sitting at the opposite side of the black glass table. “A thoroughly modern image for a thoroughly modern company – that was the thinking behind it. Certainly impresses our visitors from overseas, I can tell you that.”
Robin Quist, the head of the personnel department in Hereford, had wispy brown hair and cheeks which just avoided
being plump. He was younger than the sergeant had expected him to be, and considerably less self-important than his opposite number at BCI’s Maltham plant. In fact, he seemed remarkably open and honest for someone in his job – though Rutter hadn’t yet dismissed the idea that it could all be a front.
“The nosh isn’t at all bad in here,” Quist said, “and it’s certainly cheap enough. BCI knows how to look after its workforce. Treat ’em well and you’ll get the best out of them, that’s our motto.” He waved at a young blonde waitress who had just finished taking an order at one of the other tables. “Over here as soon as you like, Mavis my sweet.”
The girl came immediately, and from the smile on her face it was evident to Rutter that Quist was one of her favourite customers.
“What do you fancy?” the personnel manager asked the sergeant.
“Whatever you recommend,” Rutter replied.
“In that case we’ll both have the soup du jour, and lamb chops with all the trimmings, Mavis my little love,” Quist said. He turned back to Rutter. “Now we’ve got that little matter out of the way, how can I help you, Sergeant?”
“I suppose my first question should be: Did you know Gerhard Schultz for long?”
“I knew him for fifteen years, if you call that a long time. I was already here when he joined BCI.”
“What was he like to work with?”
A frown came to Quist’s face. It didn’t look very much at home there. “Gerhard was very efficient,” he said finally, “but . . .”
“But?”
“But perhaps a little abrasive,” the personnel manager said reluctantly. “Still,” he continued, brightening, “you have to remember it was just after the war when Gerhard joined the company, and men like him had been used to being in life-and-death situations where they expected their orders to be obeyed without question. My old boss, Arthur Fanshaw, was pretty much in the same mould. I just missed the war myself – that bit too young.”
“Fanshaw was in the RAF, wasn’t he?” Rutter asked.
“How the devil did you know that?”
“The personnel officer in Maltham said something about
Schultz probably getting the job because he’d been a flyer. ‘They shared the comradeship of the skies’ were, I think, his exact words.”
The soup arrived. “Mixed vegetable,” Quist said with glee. “You may be right about Gerhard having got the job because he was another flyer – albeit one from the other side. On the other hand, it may simply have been that old Arthur was half-cut when he hired him.”
Rutter took a spoonful of soup. It wasn’t bad, he decided. “So Mr Fanshaw had a drinking problem, did he?” he asked.
Quist shook his head. “Not as such. I mean, he liked his booze, but he knew enough to keep off it while he was in the office. It was only at night that he went out on the razzle.”
The sergeant frowned. “But you just said he could have been half-cut when he hired Gerhard Schultz. Now you’re telling me he never drank on the job. The two things don’t add up.”
Quist laughed. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Gerhard was never actually interviewed in the office.”
“He wasn’t?”
“No. Arthur went down to London for some sort of conference. As soon as it was over, he headed for the nearest pub – which was just like him. That’s where he met Gerhard, who was working behind the bar at the time – as a purely temporary measure, of course. Anyway, they got talking, Arthur liked the cut of Gerhard’s jib, and the next morning he came into work and announced that he’d filled the vacancy for a time-and-motion man. That was the kind of chap he was – a real buccaneer. He’d never have got away with that kind of behaviour today, of course, but like I said, those were very different times.”
“When did you take over from him?” Rutter asked.
“I was acting head of department when Gerhard arrived,” Quist said, dipping a bread roll into his soup. “Far too young for the position, of course, but they needed someone to take over in a hurry, and I was on the spot. I’ve been lucky really. By the time the company got around to looking for a permanent replacement for Arthur, I’d already been doing the job – with a fair degree of success, I might say – for eighteen months, so the powers that be decided they need search no further.”
“Wait a minute. What exactly happened to Arthur Fanshaw? Was he sacked? Did he resign suddenly or something?”
“Oh, didn’t I mention that? A few days after he’d hired Gerhard, he was out on the razzle again, and he must have had too much, even by his standards. He staggered out of the pub, and straight under the wheels of a passing car. The driver of the car didn’t stop. Well, you couldn’t blame him really. I mean, it was Arthur’s own fault.”
“How do you know that?” Rutter asked. “Is that what the witnesses told the police?”
“There weren’t any witnesses to the actual accident. It was getting late and the streets were practically deserted. But there were plenty of people who’d seen him leave the pub and were willing to swear he could hardly walk, so what other explanation is there?”
I can think of about a hundred straight off the cuff, Rutter thought, but then a bobby’s always suspicious if everything isn’t as clear as crystal.
“How long was there between Arthur Fanshaw getting killed and Gerhard Schultz joining the firm?” he asked.
“About a week,” Quist said. “Gerhard was down in London winding up his affairs, so he didn’t actually know that Arthur was dead until I told him the morning he arrived. Of course, he’d only met Arthur once, so it wasn’t as much of a shock to him as it was to the rest of us. On the other hand, Arthur had given him his big chance, and he did seem genuinely upset to hear the news.”
“Would you describe yourself as a friend of Schultz’s, Mr Quist?” the sergeant asked.
The personnel manager weighed up his response for a few seconds. “I wouldn’t really call us friends,” he confessed. “I suppose the best you could say of our relationship is that we were amiable colleagues.”
“In that case, if you could arrange it, I’d like to talk to some of the people who were his friends.”
“Do you know, I’ve never really thought about it before, but now I put my mind to it, I’m not sure he had any real friends at work,” Quist said, frowning again. “But if you like, I can ask around once we’ve polished off our meal. Apart from that, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Do you happen to have Schultz’s address from the time before he moved here?”
“Must be on the files somewhere. I’ll get my Girl Friday to look it up for you. Very efficient young lady. Won’t take her a minute.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Rutter told him.
Simon Hailsham marched into the bar of the Westbury Social Club with a look on his face which Woodend couldn’t label at first. Then the chief inspector did find a name for it – the expression was one of triumphant malice.
“Thought I’d find you in here,” the personnel officer said, making his words sound more like an accusation than a statement of fact.
“Can I do somethin’ for you, Mr Hailsham?” Woodend asked, swivelling round on his barstool so he could look the other man squarely in the eye.
“It’s more what I can do for you,” Hailsham said crisply. “You see, while you’ve been sitting on your backside, drinking subsidised beer, I’ve been out solving your murder for you.”
“Is that a fact?” Woodend asked.
“It most certainly is. I posted notices all over the plant, asking anyone who’d seen anything suspicious on the night poor Gerhard was killed to report it to me. And someone has. A man called Ted Robinson came to see me this morning. What he had to say was very interesting indeed.”
“Which was?”
“Far better you should hear it from the horse’s mouth. He should be here any minute now.”
As if he’d been waiting outside for his cue, the door opened and an overalled man who was close to sixty walked
into the room.
“I’m here, Mr Hailsham, sir,” he said, unnecessarily.
“I think we’d better move to one of the tables,” Hailsham said, shooting a hostile look at Tony.
“We?” Woodend repeated incredulously. “There is no ‘we’ in this matter, Mr Hailsham.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Let’s get this straight right from the start,” Woodend told the personnel manager. “I don’t let civilians sit in on my investigations.”
“But if it hadn’t been for me, you’d never have got to talk to him,” Hailsham protested.
“An’ if he turns out to be any use, I’ll see you get full credit for findin’ him,” Woodend told him. “But, at the moment, what me an’ Mr Robinson need is a bit of privacy.”
“I see,” Hailsham said. He turned and marched to the door, stopping only when he’d turned the handle, to add, “But be absolutely sure of one thing – you’ve not heard the last of this.”
From behind the bar, Tony chuckled. “That’s another pint I owe you,” he told Woodend.
The chief inspector took a closer look at the man Simon Hailsham had brought to him. Ted Robinson’s face was marked with the sort of lines which a man acquires only after a lifetime of feeling he’s been badly done to by the world in general, and his eyes showed the cunning of someone who always knows where he can buy goods which have fallen off the back of a lorry.
The shift man licked his lips, almost like a dog does when it smells food. “I’m right parched,” he said. “I could really use a drink.”
“You amaze me,” Woodend told him. “What’ll it be? A pint of bitter? Or would you prefer a double whisky?”
“A double whisky.”
Yes, Woodend thought, it’ll always be double whiskies for you – as long as some other bugger is payin’ for them.
They took the drinks over to a table in the corner of the room. By the time they reached it, the shift worker had already drunk half his whisky.
“Now what’s this valuable piece of information you have for me, Mr Robinson?” the chief inspector asked, when they’d sat down.
The Dark Lady Page 8
