‘You’ve got a point,’ Woodend agreed.
‘So he doesn’t just want her freed – he wants her name cleared. And that’s why he sent for you.’
‘The famous Chief Inspector Woodend,’ Woodend said sourly.
‘You are famous, sir, at least in Central Lancashire. I know it’s not something you like to hear, but it’s the truth.’
‘Interestin’. You seem to think you know me better than my own mother ever did,’ Woodend said. ‘So I don’t like bein’ a celebrity?’
‘No, sir.’
‘An’ what do you base this theory of yours on?’
Beresford shrugged. ‘It’s hard to say, exactly. I suppose it’s the little things – the way you walk, the way you dress, the way you talk to other people.’
Woodend lit up a cigarette. ‘Well, Constable Beresford, since you seem to be an expert on all things Woodendian, tell me how I feel about this case?’
‘You feel it’s difficult, sir. Probably one of the most difficult you’ve ever handled. And even if Judith Maitland is innocent, you’re not sure that you can prove it.’
‘An’ this particular branch of your theory about me is based on what?’ Woodend asked.
‘On the fact that I saw you puke up your ring all over the High Street,’ Beresford said.
Fourteen
If he’d been asked to make a list of those most likely to visit him in his office, late in the evening of the first day of the siege, Woodend would have put Stanley Keene very low down it. Yet there he was. And not dressed, as the Chief Inspector might have expected him to be off-duty – in something camp and flamboyant – but instead wearing a very conservative blue suit, that fitted perfectly with the serious expression he had on his face.
Woodend rose from behind his desk to shake hands – Keene’s handshake was remarkably firm, but then he might have been making an effort with that, too – then sat down again.
‘Why don’t you take a seat yourself, sir?’ he suggested.
The caterer shook his head. ‘I’m too nervous for that,’ he said. ‘So if you don’t mind, I’d rather stand.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Woodend said. ‘Would you like to tell me what’s on your mind, Mr Keene?’
Keene took a deep breath. ‘When you and your sergeant were talking to me about Judith earlier, you never once mentioned the fact that the man in the bank was her husband,’ he said accusingly.
‘You’re right, I didn’t,’ Woodend agreed.
‘Why not?’
‘To put it quite simply, I wasn’t at liberty to divulge that information to anyone at the time.’
‘And even if you had been, you wouldn’t have divulged it to an old queen who would immediately have rushed off and blabbered about it to all her slack-wristed little friends,’ Keene said bitterly.
‘You’re way off the mark if you think that – and you’re way out of line, an’ all!’ Woodend said harshly.
Keene flinched under the attack, but gamely stood his ground. ‘Am I off the mark?’ he asked defiantly. ‘Am I really?’
‘Yes, you bloody well are! I was very impressed by how much you seemed to care about Judith Maitland, Mr Keene, and if I’d have been able to tell anyone what was goin’ on, I’d have told you.’
Keene looked down at the floor, as if he felt a sudden urge to give his immaculately polished shoes a thorough inspection.
Neither man spoke again for perhaps a full half minute, then the caterer lifted his head again and said, ‘Well, I am surprised.’
Woodend grinned. ‘I surprise a lot of people,’ he said. ‘I seem to have a real talent for it. Now if that’s settled, I’d be grateful if you’d leave, because –’ he lifted up his notes for Keene to see – ‘I really do have quite a lot of work to attend to.’
‘I—’ Keene began.
‘A lot of work,’ Woodend repeated.
‘I … I can understand that,’ Keene said, ‘but couldn’t you spare a minute or two more of your time? Please!’
‘All right.’
‘I think we got off on the wrong footing, just now. That was my fault, and it’s a real tragedy – because the reason I came here was to help.’
‘To help? Do you have some new information for me, Mr Keene?’
‘No,’ Keene admitted. ‘I don’t. And that’s not what I meant.’ He paused for a moment, before continuing. ‘When do you think you’ll be seeing Thomas again, Mr Woodend?’
‘That’s not up to me, Mr Keene. Maitland’s the one who’s in control at the moment, so I’ll see him when he asks to see me. But I really don’t see what that’s got to do with—’
‘Take me with you!’ Keene pleaded.
‘What?!’
‘Take me with you. I know Thomas. I’m not sure that he likes me as much as I like him, but he does trust me and he will listen to me.’
‘An’ what is it you’d like to say to him?’
‘I’d like to tell him that this isn’t what Judith would want at all. That she won’t be happy that he’s terrifying other people, even if he is doing it for her. That if he hurts even one of the hostages, she’ll never be able to live with herself again. I’d tell him I know why he’s done it – and that I’d probably have thought about doing it myself if I’d been brave enough – but it still isn’t right.’
‘An’ you really want to do this?’ Woodend asked.
Keene gulped. ‘I really want to do this.’
‘The bank’s a dangerous place for anyone to enter right at this minute, you know.’
Keene clamped his hands on the back of the chair on which he had refused to sit earlier, and shuddered. ‘You don’t need to tell me that. My bowels are turning to water just thinking about it. But I owe Judith so much, and this … this is the only way I can repay her.’
‘I’m not goin’ to give you any promises,’ Woodend said, ‘but if you make yourself available the next time I’m called to the bank, I’ll ask Major Maitland if he’s willin’ to talk to you. And if he is – and if I judge it to be right at the time – I’ll allow you a couple of minutes with him.’
Keene looked down at his long, slim hands. ‘Thank you!’ he said. ‘Do you know, on the way over here, I was hoping – praying almost – that you’d say no. But I’m glad you didn’t.’
The Chief Constable had locked himself in his office, and was talking on his private phone – the one which didn’t go through the station switchboard – to a number in London.
‘Yes, Home Secretary, I agree that Mr Slater-Burnes is a very capable chap, indeed,’ he was saying. ‘And I can’t thank you enough for sending him to us, because there’s no doubt that he did help us to avoid making some very serious errors in the initial stages of the operation.’
‘Good, good,’ the Home Secretary said, almost complacently. ‘That’s what he was there for.’
‘But the situation has worsened in the last few hours,’ Marlowe continued. ‘Now that the press have got hold of the full story—’
‘Yes, how did that happen?’ the Home Secretary wondered.
‘I couldn’t say. But I can assure you, there were no leaks from my office,’ Marlowe lied. ‘Anyway, that’s beside the point. The press have got hold of it, and whilst it was a big story before they learned about Major Maitland, it’s a huge one now. Which means – inevitably – that we’re all suddenly under considerably more scrutiny.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ the Home Secretary said. ‘I’m expecting questions in the House about it.’
‘And given the changed circumstances, I can’t help wondering if perhaps Mr Slater-Burnes isn’t now just a little out of his depth,’ Marlowe continued.
‘Out of his depth?’ the Home Secretary repeated. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Merely that, while I’m quite willing to believe that he’s an expert in all the theoretical aspects of police-work, he does show a tendency – which I’m sure the press will pick up on and blow out of all proportion – to be a little lost when he fin
ds himself in more practical situations.’
‘Be more specific, if you don’t mind, Chief Constable,’ the Home Secretary said, with a sudden hardness in his voice.
‘Of course,’ Marlowe said smoothly. ‘Major Maitland’s main aim, as you know, is to have his wife’s case re-opened. It’s always been my view that we should stand firm against any demands backed up with firearms—’
‘Hear, hear!’ the Home Secretary said.
‘… but it’s not a view that Mr Slater-Burnes seems to share. He’s all for giving in to the Major’s demands. I’ve gone along with him so far – albeit reluctantly – because he is a senior Home Office official, and because he does have the backing of Chief Inspector Woodend, who—’
‘Woodend?’ the Home Secretary interrupted. ‘Isn’t he the man who left Scotland Yard under a bit of a cloud, a few years ago?’
It was all going so beautifully that Marlowe had to restrain himself from chuckling.
‘I think you’re being rather generous in the way you phrase that, Home Secretary,’ he said. ‘The truth is that Woodend was practically booted out of the Yard.’
‘Then he certainly doesn’t seem to be the right man to be handling this situation.’
‘Oh, I agree with you entirely on that, Home Secretary. But the problem is, you see, that as long as we continue to pursue the approach Mr Slater-Burnes seems so eager to follow, we really have no choice but to use Woodend.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s the only officer Major Maitland seems willing to speak to.’
‘I see.’
‘My main concern is the safety of the hostages,’ Marlowe said, ‘as I’m sure yours is, too.’
‘Quite.’
‘But men in our positions are forced to look beyond that – to take a wider view.’
‘A wider view?’
‘If this whole unfortunate incident ends in a bloodbath – and given the way things are being conducted at the moment, it very well might – there will be public outrage. Heads will roll. And not just heads at the lower levels. Not just heads at the county level.’
‘Go on,’ the Home Secretary said cautiously.
‘I’m not really concerned about my own position – I just want to do the right thing,’ Marlowe said, ‘but since Mr Slater-Burnes seems to have no interest in protecting you from all this, I feel the responsibility falls on me.’
‘I find myself in something of a dilemma,’ the Home Secretary said worriedly. ‘On the one hand, I quite take your point about the difficult position I seem to be being thrust into. On the other, I don’t want to seen to be undermining one of my own officials.’
‘Quite,’ Marlowe agreed. ‘I would never, for a moment, suggest you do such a thing. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘But I do think there’s a case for arguing that, given his attitude to this particular crisis, it might be wiser to keep Mr Slater-Burnes out of the loop for a while.’
‘Do you have an alternative strategy to the one Mr Slater-Burnes is advocating?’ the Home Secretary asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ Marlowe replied.
‘Then you’d better let me hear it.’
Marlowe quickly outlined the plan which had been evolving in his head for most of the day.
‘Tricky,’ the Home Secretary said when he’d finished.
‘I prefer to think of it as imaginative,’ Marlowe said.
‘Oh, it’s that, all right,’ the Home Secretary agreed. ‘It’s very imaginative. What I’m not sure about is whether or not it’s entirely legal.’
‘It could certainly be argued that it’s not illegal,’ Marlowe countered. ‘And even if it were, by the time any ruling’s made, the crisis will be over – and you will have emerged from a very sticky situation totally unscathed.’
‘I’ll consult my advisors on the whole matter,’ the Home Secretary said cautiously.
‘You do that, sir,’ Marlowe replied. ‘But I wouldn’t take too long about it – because there’s no telling when things might blow up here.’
When he put down the phone, the Chief Constable was feeling well pleased with himself. Slater-Burnes had tried to shift the responsibility for any failure on to him, he thought, and what he’d just done was to shift it squarely back again. That, in itself, was a cause for self-congratulation.
But there was more. If his scheme worked out as he thought it would, then the Home Secretary – one of the most influential men in the whole government – would be in his debt. And if he chose to run for parliament himself – which was very much on the cards – the man would have no choice but to give him his backing.
Marlowe ambled over to his drinks cabinet, and helped himself to a generous – celebratory – shot of his twelve-year-old malt. He had hated offering such a fine whisky to an uncouth lout like Charlie Woodend – a real case of putting pearls before swine – but it had been necessary at the time, and so he had clenched his teeth and done it.
Now – and as a direct result of the sacrifice of that excellent whisky – Woodend probably fondly imagined that he had his Chief Constable’s full backing. The truth, of course, was quite the opposite. The truth was that the unmanageable Chief Inspector in the scruffy tweed jacket was being used as no more than a decoy in the game which was being played out. And if that decoy happened to get shot – as many decoys did – well, that was just one of the risks he ran.
Marlowe took a sip of his whisky, and chuckled to himself. The Chief Inspector would be furious when he realized just how badly he’d been duped, he thought.
Fifteen
Constable Beresford had often looked at this table in the Drum and Monkey with longing, but had never allowed himself to dream that he would actually ever sit at it. This was the table at which the giants of his world – Woodend, Rutter and Paniatowski – solved their cases. And now here he was, his elbows resting on the table as if they actually belonged there.
‘Sergeant Paniatowski thinks that if Judith Maitland didn’t kill Burroughs, then the murderer has to be someone with a motive that has nothing to do with Judith at all,’ Woodend said.
Beresford, unsure of whether or not he was expected to comment at this stage, nodded his head in what he hoped was a wise and knowing way.
‘In other words,’ Woodend continued, ‘not only does Judith have no connection with Burroughs’ death, but she doesn’t even know the killer.’ He paused and took a sip of his pint. ‘That’s what Sergeant Paniatowski thinks. An’ she may well be right. But I don’t want to take the chance that she isn’t.’
Was now the time to speak? Beresford wondered. And if it was, what was he expected to say?
He decided it would be wiser to settle for a second nod.
‘Do you spend much of your free time in art galleries, Beresford?’ Woodend asked.
Art galleries? What was this all about?
‘Not a lot, sir,’ Beresford said.
‘Not a lot?’ Woodend echoed.
‘None at all, if the truth be told,’ Beresford admitted.
‘Then you’re missin’ out,’ Woodend told him. ‘You can learn a lot about life from art.’
‘If you say so, sir,’ Beresford replied, dubiously.
‘Take one of them pictures of the Madonna an’ Child, which painters were so fond of in the Middle Ages,’ Woodend said. ‘Your eye is drawn straight away to the Baby Jesus, which is, of course, what the artist intended to happen. But if you leave it at that, you’re only gettin’ part of the experience.’
‘I wouldn’t really know about that, sir,’ Beresford said, feeling as if he were sinking in deep, dark water.
‘Well, listen, then you will,’ Woodend said. ‘If, when you’re lookin’ at one of them paintings, you focus all your attention on the baby, you miss out Mary an’ Joseph, the shepherds an’ the wise men. An’ they’re important to the story – because the way Jesus acted, an’ the way society reacted to him, were functions of the times in which he was livin’.’
<
br /> ‘I’m afraid I’m not really much of a church-goer myself, sir,’ Beresford admitted.
Woodend sighed heavily, and began to wonder if he’d picked the right man for the job.
‘I’m not much of a church-goer either, lad, but that’s not the point,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t have to be a paintin’ of the Nativity we’re talkin’ about. That’s just an example. It could be any paintin’ at all – from the Mona Lisa to that peculiar thing Élite Catering’s got hangin’ in its lobby. The point I’m tryin’ to make is that if you focus on one particular detail, you run a risk of missin’ the big picture.’
‘And that’s what it would be like if we focused only on Burroughs?’ Beresford asked, uncertainly.
‘Exactly!’ Woodend agreed. ‘So while Sergeant Paniatowski’s concentratin’ on the centre of the picture, we should take a careful trip around the edges of the frame.’
‘And that would be Judith Maitland?’
‘Now you’re startin’ to understand where I’m goin’ with all this, lad,’ Woodend said, greatly encouraged. ‘You see, lookin’ at it that way, we can believe that Judith Maitland didn’t kill Clive Burroughs – or even want him killed – an’ yet, at the same time, not completely rule out the idea that his death might in some way be connected to her.’
‘You mean, this ex-boyfriend of hers – the one that Major Maitland told you about – might have appeared on the scene again and killed Burroughs out of jealousy?’ Beresford asked.
‘Not necessarily him – but that’s the kind of thing I mean,’ Woodend said. ‘Of course, the chances are that Burroughs’ death doesn’t have anything to do with Judith – but until we’ve investigated all the possibilities, we’ll never know.’
‘I think I’m catchin’ on, sir,’ Beresford said.
‘Maybe,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But there’s one major aspect of workin’ in the CID that you do seem to have missed.’
‘What’s that, sir?’ Beresford asked, worriedly.
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