The lad certainly wasn’t lacking in confidence, Woodend thought, and – in a way – it was a pleasure to watch him cutting this stuffed-shirt down to size. But however ineffective it might turn out to be, they did still need the chief constable’s cooperation.
‘I don’t expect we’ll require a great deal of help from your officers, sir,’ he interjected quickly, before the chief constable had time to express the outrage which was probably building up inside him. ‘Havin’ said that, of course, I am assumin’ that they’ll already have done the basic spadework for us.’
The chief constable nodded, and switched back into press conference mode. ‘They have indeed done the basic spadework – if not a great deal more than that,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think I can say without fear of contradiction that, under my guidance, they’ve done everything that can be expected from a modern police force.’
He should have let his pit bull of a sergeant rag at the chief constable’s pomposity a little longer, Woodend decided.
‘Yes, I’m sure you have done everything that can be expected from a modern police force,’ he said, then paused for a second, before continuing, ‘except, of course, make an arrest.’
‘Yes, apart from that,’ the chief constable admitted.
‘What can you tell us about the progress of your investigation so far?’ Woodend asked.
The chief constable laughed, awkwardly. ‘I naturally don’t have all the details at my fingertips.’
Well, he bloody well should have, Woodend thought.
‘A broad outline will do,’ he said, aloud.
‘As I understand it, Lilly Dawson left the market at the usual time, and never arrived home,’ the chief constable told him.
‘When was she last sighted?’
The chief constable waved his hands in the air. ‘I couldn’t say, offhand, but I expect it will be in the reports.’
He expected it would be in the reports! If the rest of the Mid Lancs Constabulary was as useless as the man who was supposed to be running the whole show, then they were in deep shit, Woodend thought.
He stood up, and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for sparing us so much of your valuable time, sir. You’ve been a great help,’ he said, hoping that he’d managed to squeeze at least a semblance of sincerity into the words.
FOUR
If there’d been just his mam and dad at home, when Woodend snatched half an hour to go pay a visit, the three of them would have sat around the kitchen table and drunk tea out of thick blue-and-white striped mugs. But, as chance would have it, his parents already had visitors – in the shape of an ageing couple who clearly still expected him to address them as ‘Auntie’ May and ‘Uncle’ George, even though they were not relations – and so the whole event had to be transferred to the front parlour, which was normally only used for christenings, weddings, funerals and birthday parties.
It soon became obvious to Woodend that it wasn’t chance at all that these non-relatives were there, but rather as a result of their hearing, through the grapevine, that Mr and Mrs Woodend’s only child was back in town, and in charge of the most sensational murder case to hit Whitebridge in living memory. ‘Auntie’ May, especially, was eager to hear all the gory details, and seemed most put out when Woodend explained that, at the moment, he knew little more than they would have read in the papers.
Mam let the pretend aunt and uncle continue their fruitless interrogation for the best part of fifteen minutes, then stood up and said, ‘Well, we mustn’t detain you any longer, May an’ George. I expect there’s lots of things you’ll need to have got done before the day’s over.’
‘Well . . .’ ‘Auntie’ May began to protest disappointedly.
‘I’ll show you to the door,’ Mam said firmly. ‘Drop around any time. You’re always welcome.’
As Woodend watched his mother relentlessly shepherding her visitors to the front door, he found it hard to restrain a chuckle. This was vintage Mam, he thought – as polite as could be, but as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar.
While Mam shooed the visitors out into the street, Woodend took the opportunity to glance around the parlour.
Had it always seemed so pokey? he wondered.
Had there always been this danger that, even by making the slightest move, you ran the risk of knocking over one of the occasional tables on which Mam displayed her precious knick-knacks?
Mam closed the front door firmly behind the visitors.
‘That May!’ she said, in a voice which was half-disapproval and half-amusement. ‘She’s got a bigger appetite for tragedy than I have for pickled gherkins. Still,’ she continued, ‘I don’t suppose I can blame her – especially when she used to hold the man in charge of the case on her lap.’ She smiled. ‘Imagine it, Charlie, you a chief inspector.’
‘Aye, just imagine it,’ Woodend agreed, balancing the delicate china tea cup – which he knew had been brought out of the display cabinet especially for the occasion – on one of his sturdy knees.
‘Where’s this sergeant of yours?’ his father asked.
‘He’s settlin’ into the hotel at the moment,’ Woodend said, more gruffly than he’d intended.
‘An’ what hotel might that be?’ his mother wondered.
‘The Royal Victoria.’
‘The Royal Victoria! Will you be stayin’ there, an’ all?’
Well, of course he would be! What did they think? That his sergeant would have a room in the best hotel in town, while he made do with a modest bed and breakfast?
Yes, that probably was what they would think, he decided, because while they accepted the fact that he was a chief inspector, they still hadn’t quite got used to the idea.
And, to tell the truth, neither had he.
‘We’re so glad you’re here, Charlie,’ his mother said.
‘I’m pleased to see you, an’ all,’ Woodend replied.
‘That’s not what I meant,’ his mother told him.
And suddenly the rosy glow of approval in which he’d been basking – albeit uncomfortably – was gone, and in its place was the practical level-headedness of a mam who, despite the trauma of her hysterectomy, had held the family together through the lean times in the thirties.
‘So what did you mean?’ he asked.
‘In some ways, this is a big town, Charlie,’ his mother said. ‘There’s a dozen cinemas and three dance halls now, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Woodend admitted, realizing just how little he actually knew of Whitebridge any more.
‘But in other ways, it’s little more than a village,’ his mother continued.
He nodded, well aware that what she was saying was true.
‘Lilly Dawson’s death is tearin’ the place apart,’ his mother continued. ‘It’s not just that she died so young – though that’s bad enough – it’s how she died.’
‘I know, Mam,’ Woodend said.
‘An’ she looked such a sweet little thing, didn’t she? So completely trustin’ and innocent?’
‘I don’t think that I’ve actually seen any pictures of her yet,’ Woodend confessed.
His mother looked shocked. ‘Not seen any pictures of her? But you’re the one who’s in charge of the case.’
Woodend sighed. He wanted to explain to his mother that however sweet Lilly had been, it had nothing to do with the case – that his task was simply to track down her murderer. He wanted to make her see that it was a job like any other job, and that becoming personally involved with the victim – as he had become in the Pearl Jones case – was a mistake, and one he was unwilling to repeat. But he knew he would be wasting his time, because he would never be able to make her understand.
‘I thought she was just bein’ naive, you see,’ he would explain to Monika Paniatowski, many years later, ‘but what she was actually doin’ was pointin’ me in the direction I’ve been travellin’ in ever since.’
Mam disappeared into the kitchen for a second, and returned with a copy of the Whitebridge E
vening Telegraph in her hand.
‘Here’s a picture of the little lass,’ she said, holding out the paper in front of her son. ‘Look at it!’
The tone in her voice made him grin. It was almost, he thought, as if he were five years old again – back in a time when Mam’s words carried as much force as those of any benevolent dictator who had ever lived.
The grin disappeared from his face the moment he looked at the picture. Mam was right – as she invariably was. Lilly Dawson had looked like a ‘sweet little thing’. There was a trust and innocence in her eyes. But there was something else about the picture – something which made Woodend’s stomach lurch.
‘I saw it, too,’ his mother said sombrely.
‘Saw what?’ Woodend asked.
But he knew. He already knew.
‘She looks just like our Annie might look, in a few years’ time,’ his mother said.
Annie! His golden girl! His only child! And there would be no more – the doctors had been quite clear about that.
‘I don’t see it,’ he said, his eyes still on the photograph.
But what he really meant was that he didn’t want to see it!
‘The man who killed her has to be caught, Charlie – an’ caught quickly,’ Mam said. ‘Not just to bring a little peace an’ consolation to Lilly’s mother – although, God knows, the poor woman must be sorely in need of it – but for the good of the whole town.’
‘I’ll do everything I can,’ Woodend said – aware of just how inadequate the response seemed, even to him.
‘You should go down to the market, like I have, Charlie,’ the mother continued. ‘There’s so much fear an’ suspicion in the air that you could cut through it with a bread knife. Everybody’s wonderin’ if it was one of their neighbours who did them terrible things to Lilly. An’ everybody’s wonderin’ if he’ll do it again. So when I said earlier that I was glad you were here, that’s what I meant.’
‘Of course, we’re also pleased to see you here for yourself,’ his father added, hastily.
But his mother was not to be deflected from her point.
‘You understand Whitebridge in a way an outsider never ever could, Charlie,’ she said. ‘Besides, you’re my lad, an’ I know you like only a mother can. Once you’ve set your mind to somethin’, you won’t rest until you’ve seen it through to the end. That’s the way you’ve always been – and the way you always will be.’
Woodend carefully laid the delicate cup on the fragile table, and – even more carefully – stood up.
‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘My sergeant will probably be expectin’ me back at the hotel.’
‘Well, we’d better not detain you any longer, had we?’ his father said, and smiled to show that he was well aware he was using the same words as his wife had used to get rid of Auntie May and Uncle George.
Woodend kissed his mother and shook hands with his father – had the old man always been so small? – then walked across to the door which led out directly on to the street.
‘Remember, Charlie, we’re all relyin’ on you,’ he heard his mother say behind him.
Woodend stepped out on to the pavement and closed the front door behind him. He looked first up the street of narrow terraced houses and then down it. It somehow didn’t feel real any more, he thought. It was as if it were a place he had only read about, and which now – examining it for the first time – seemed to be nothing like he had pictured it in his mind.
He lit up a cigarette, and set off towards the ‘better’ part of town, where the Royal Victoria was located.
His mam expected a great deal from him, he thought, as he walked down the cobbled street.
And it wasn’t just his mam who expected it – it was the whole bloody town of Whitebridge.
Because he was not so much the local hero returning home to his justly earned acclaim as he was one of their own who they had allowed to get on in life – and who they now expected to fix things for them.
And that was a lot of pressure to put on a newly-promoted chief inspector, he told himself.
Five
The Drum and Monkey public house was just fifteen minutes’ walk from the Royal Victoria Hotel, and had a historical importance in the life and development of Charlie Woodend.
It was here, as a youth inexpertly puffing on a Park Drive cigarette, that Charlie had first tried to pass himself off as old enough to drink. He had been nervous when he entered the public bar, but he need not have been. Even at sixteen, he was half a head taller than most of the other customers, and the landlord had pulled him a frothy pint of best bitter without a second thought.
Looking around him as he drank, he had savoured the moment. This was the adult world, he’d told himself – this was the world of men – and a lifelong love affair between Charlie Woodend and old-fashioned pubs had begun to blossom.
Now, approaching the pub for the first time in perhaps a dozen years, Woodend felt butterflies in his stomach, just as he had done that first time.
Well, not quite like the first time, he admitted. This time, there was no danger at all that the landlord would refuse to serve him because of his age.
But perhaps other things would be different, too.
Perhaps this shrine to his coming-of-age would have changed beyond all recognition – the oak counter replaced by something modern and plastic, the brass foot-rail removed, the wall between the public bar and the snug knocked down in order to create one vast soulless room . . . the possibilities were horrifically endless.
He opened the door, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was, he saw, exactly how he remembered it – exactly how it should be.
‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked Sergeant Bannerman, as they strode over to the bar.
He was half-expecting that the sergeant would ask for something exotic – something that not only did the pub not stock, but had never even heard of.
But what Bannerman actually said was, ‘Is the best bitter any good in here, sir?’
‘It’s champion,’ Woodend replied with enthusiasm. ‘But you’ll have to treat it with caution, because after that thin London ale you’re used to, it’ll probably knock your socks off.’
Bannerman gave him a smile – the first sign of genuine amusement Woodend had seen from his new sergeant – and said, ‘I’ll risk it.’
They took the pints to the nearest table.
‘Well, you certainly made your disdain for the chief constable evident enough,’ Woodend said.
‘The man’s an idiot,’ Bannerman replied simply. ‘He’s a third-rate polo player and a fourth-rate policeman.’
‘I agree with you – on the second part, at least,’ Woodend said. ‘But he is still the chief constable, an’ he could seriously damage your career if you’re not careful.’
Bannerman smiled sardonically. ‘As I see it, there are two main skills to getting on in life,’ he said. ‘The first is to achieve the results you’re expected to achieve, and the second is to know who you can step on and who you can’t.’
‘An’ you think you can step on Sanderson, do you?’ Woodend asked, interestedly.
‘Definitely,’ Bannerman said. ‘If we manage to get a result on this case, then the people who matter back at the Yard won’t give a damn about what Sanderson thinks of me. And if we don’t get a result, well,’ he waved his hands carelessly through the air, ‘I can at least point out, in my own defence, that when I told the chief constable we needed more resources, he ignored me.’
An’ you can also point out that I said we didn’t need them, Woodend thought.
‘I’ve got two questions for you,’ he said. ‘Firstly, do you see solvin’ the case as anythin’ more than a step up the promotions ladder for you?’
‘Of course I do,’ Bannerman replied. ‘Life is about justice and order, and I wish to see justice prevailing and order maintained. That’s why I joined the police.’
Woodend did no more than nod non-committally.
‘What’s the seco
nd question, sir?’ Bannerman asked, when some time had elapsed.
‘Oh aye,’ Woodend said, as if he’d completely forgotten there was a second question. ‘What sort of feller am I?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?
‘Am I the sort you can step on – or the sort you can’t?’
‘Definitely the latter,’ Bannerman said, just a little too quickly. ‘You’re my boss, and I intend to learn all I can from you.’
An’ then kick me up the arse when you’ve learned it, Woodend thought.
He opened the file that the Whitebridge Police had given to him, and spread it out on the table.
‘Accordin’ to this report,’ he said, ‘Lilly Dawson left the covered market at one o’clock. Now it’s a twenty-five minute walk from the market to the Dawson’s home . . .’
‘How do you know that?’ Bannerman interrupted.
‘Because I’ve clogged it,’ Woodend told him.
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘While you were settlin’ yourself in at the hotel, I went to see me mam an’ dad.’
‘I know that, sir.’
‘An’ after I’d seen them, I walked from the market to Lilly’s house. Now, I can’t say I did it at exactly the same speed the little lass would have done, but I tried my best, an’ I don’t think I can have been more than five minutes out, one way or the other.’
‘I’d never have thought of that,’ Bannerman said, with what just might have been a hint of admiration.
‘It’s what’s called “old-fashioned police work”,’ Woodend replied. ‘You can learn a fair bit from reports – especially if they’ve been written by a bobby who really knows his job – but there’s no substitute, to my mind, for cloggin’ it around the scene of the crime.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Bannerman said.
‘Anyway, things are quiet at that time of a Saturday,’ Woodend continued. ‘By one o’clock, most people are either busy still shuttin’ up shop or sittin’ down to their dinner, so it’s hardly surprisin’ that the last reported sightin’ of Lilly was at ten past one. Now it’s possible that she went wanderin’ off on her own somewhere, but what’s most likely is that she was snatched off the street by her killer some time between ten past one and twenty-five past, which was when she should have arrived home. So what we’re lookin’ for, Sergeant, is somebody who can’t account for his movements between those two times.’
Echoes of the Dead Page 4
