‘And it’s not just the Pakis that are bringing the town down,’ Scranton said. ‘There are the dirty thieving tramps and gypsies who you see all over the place. I hear one of the tramps was burned to death last night. Well, that’s one less to worry about, isn’t it?’
‘Bastard!’ Woodend said.
‘The rest of the town council is frightened of me,’ Scranton told his audience. ‘And why? Because I speak the truth! They’re so frightened of me that they’re abolishing my ward before the next election. But if they think that will keep me out of the council chamber, they’ve got another think coming. I shall stand in another ward. And whose ward do you think I’ll stand in?’
‘Councillor Lowry’s!’ someone shouted out.
‘That’s right,’ Scranton agreed. ‘Councillor Lowry’s. He thinks because he owns this factory, he can do what he likes. But he’s wrong. People find it hard enough to be bossed about by men like him at work. They don’t want to be told what they can and can’t do – what they can and can’t think – once they’ve left the factory gates behind them. So here is my message to Councillor Lowry – when the votes are counted after the next election, I’ll still have a seat on the council. But you won’t.’
‘He’s quite impressive,’ Woodend said reluctantly.
‘Yes, he is,’ Roberts agreed. ‘You were a sergeant in the army, weren’t you, sir?’
‘I was,’ Woodend agreed.
‘So was I. Seems to me the sergeants are what make the army tick. They’re the balancing point between the men and the officers, and if there’s harmony, it’s largely down to them.’
‘Agreed,’ Woodend said.
‘I’ve never known a bad sergeant, but I’ve known bad corporals,’ Roberts continued. ‘There’s some – by no means the majority, but some – who resent not being sergeants themselves, and they try to establish their own positions by stirring up trouble and then posing as the champions of the other ranks. Do you know what I mean?’
Woodend nodded. ‘I’ve seen it myself.’
‘Councillor Scranton was a corporal in the RAF, which puts him on a par with his hero,’ Roberts said.
‘His hero?’ Woodend repeated.
‘That’s right,’ Roberts agreed. ‘Adolf Hitler was a corporal, an’ all!’
Five
The real nerve centre of the investigation was not – as the chief constable fondly imagined – the incident room in the headquarters’ basement, but a corner table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey. It was there – over pints of bitter for the men and neat vodkas for Monika Paniatowski – that intuitive leaps were made. It was there that the single shafts of light – which often led them to the murky heart of a case – were produced. And it was there that Woodend found Paniatowski and Beresford when he walked through the door at a quarter to one on the first day of the investigation.
‘Where’s Bob?’ the chief inspector asked as he sat down. ‘Slipped out to the bog, has he?’
Monika Paniatowski shook her head. ‘He said he’d got something else to deal with first, but he’d be here shortly.’
‘An’ is this “somethin’ else” connected with the case?’ Woodend asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Paniatowski said flatly.
Which meant, Woodend assumed, that though she thought she had a very good idea what Rutter was doing, she wasn’t about to tell him what it was.
That was one of the troubles with Monika. She was still loyal to her ex-lover, and she still tried to protect him – even when he didn’t deserve it.
Woodend signalled the barman to bring another round of drinks. ‘Well, even if Inspector Rutter isn’t here, I suppose we’d better get started,’ he said. ‘So what have you got to report, DC Beresford?’
‘There’s not much to report,’ Beresford said. ‘The tramps all claim they don’t know each other, and I think they’re mostly telling the truth.’
‘I agree,’ Paniatowski added. ‘They didn’t give up one kind of society simply to become involved in another. Besides, they spend their days teetering on the edge of survival, and there’s no room for passengers on a journey like that.’
‘I wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that myself,’ Woodend said, ‘but I do know exactly what you mean.’
‘One of the tramps, a man called Tommy Moores, said he saw a man in a suit in the old cotton mill,’ Beresford told the chief inspector. ‘Said the man looked at him, then moved on.’
‘An’ are you inclined to take him seriously?’ Woodend asked.
‘On balance, I don’t think I am,’ Beresford admitted. ‘He was a bit vague about when he’d seen the man, and I’m not entirely convinced that if he did actually see him, he saw him where he said he did. And it doesn’t seem likely, does it, that a man intent on that kind of murder would be wearing a suit.’
Woodend laughed. ‘So what would he be wearin’?’ he asked. ‘A jumper with “Arsonist-Murderer” written across the front?’
‘No, of course not,’ Beresford said seriously. ‘But a suit would still make him stand out, so if there really was a man, he was a man who didn’t mind being noticed – which would argue for him being some kind of council inspector.’
‘Fair point,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Now let me tell you what I’ve learned this mornin’.’
He outlined Dr Shastri’s theory on the hard mods, and what he had seen and heard outside the foundry gate.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked when he’d finished.
‘I think we should lock up Councillor bloody Scranton and throw away the key!’ Paniatowski said vehemently.
Of course she did, Woodend thought. She’d grown up as one of the few Polish kids in Whitebridge. She knew what it was like to be part of a minority that a lot of people looked down on.
‘I agree with you on that,’ he told his sergeant. ‘But that’s not the issue at the moment. What I want to know is how you feel about the theory that one of the hard mods could be our killer?’
‘I think it’s a possibility,’ Paniatowski said. ‘From what I’ve seen, they’re violent enough, and they’ve got chips on their shoulders the size of boulders. But investigating them isn’t going to be easy, because, in many ways, they’re a bit like the tramps.’
‘They’re outsiders?’ Woodend suggested.
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘They live in their own world, and they’re very resistant to the idea of anyone who doesn’t belong entering it.’
‘So maybe we need somebody who does belong – or seems to belong,’ Woodend said thoughtfully. ‘An’ I may have just the feller.’
‘Who?’
‘I’ll tell you later, when I’ve had time to think it through,’ Woodend promised.
Elizabeth Driver felt her heart skip a sudden – and unexpected – beat as she saw Bob Rutter enter the residents’ bar of the Royal Victoria, Whitebridge’s swankiest hotel.
Damn! she thought. This shouldn’t be happening. This isn’t like me at all – and it’s time I got it under control.
Rutter walked over to her table, kissed her lightly – but not that lightly – on the cheek, and sat down.
‘It’s good to see you, Liz,’ he said.
‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Driver agreed.
And it was! Despite the warning she’d given herself only moments earlier, it sodding well was!
‘You’re here to cover the murder, are you?’ Rutter asked.
‘That’s right,’ Driver agreed. ‘So we must be very careful that whatever we say to each other has nothing to do with the case.’
If only Charlie Woodend could hear this conversation, Rutter thought, he might finally come to accept that Liz had changed, that she wasn’t the heartless, unscrupulous woman they’d known in their earlier investigations.
‘You don’t have to stay here in this expensive hotel, you know,’ he said.
‘The newspaper’s paying for it,’ Driver pointed out.
‘I appreciate that,’ Rutter said. ‘But it mi
ght be somehow … cosier … if you stayed with me. We wouldn’t have to share a bed – not if we’d decided not to – but it would be nice to have you around.’
‘Louisa doesn’t like me,’ Driver said, pleased that she finally seemed to be able to remember the brat’s name.
‘She’ll get used to you in time,’ Rutter said hopefully.
Elizabeth Driver shook her head. ‘She won’t. She’ll never get used to me. And I don’t want to put her under the pressure of even having to try.’
Besides, she added mentally, the less time I spend around the bloody kid, the happier I am.
‘You’re very thoughtful,’ Rutter said.
‘I try to be,’ Driver replied. ‘And there are other factors to be taken into consideration as well as Louisa. We both know we won’t discuss the case, even if we are living under the same roof, but we have to think about how it would look to other people.’
‘You’re right, as you so often are,’ Rutter said.
A waiter appeared at the table. ‘Can I bring you anything, sir?’ he asked.
Rutter nodded. ‘A pint of bitter, please.’
A glazed look came to the waiter’s eyes. ‘I’m afraid we don’t serve beer in pint glasses, sir,’ he said.
‘Pints are far too uncouth for a place like the Royal Victoria,’ Elizabeth Driver said, grinning. She turned to the waiter. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly say, madam,’ the waiter replied.
‘Would it be all right if I had two halves instead?’ Rutter wondered.
‘Yes, sir, that would be perfectly acceptable,’ the waiter said, deadpan.
As he walked away, Elizabeth Driver giggled quietly. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she asked Rutter.
‘I don’t know,’ Rutter replied. ‘What are you going to do with me?’
‘I think we both know the answer to that,’ Driver replied, with just a hint of sexiness in her voice. ‘But before we get to all that heaving and groaning, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been doing since we last saw each other? And remember, I don’t want to hear any police business.’
It was so easy to talk to Liz, Rutter told himself, as he did as she’d asked. The subject of the conversation – even the words they used to express themselves – didn’t really matter. It was the very act of talking which was important – which had such a soothing effect on him.
And then, belatedly, he realized how much time must have passed, and glancing down at his watch confirmed his suspicion was true.
‘I have to go,’ he said.
Elizabeth Driver smiled again. ‘And where, exactly, are you off to?’ she asked. ‘Let me guess. You’re going to the Drum and Monkey – for another session of that brains’ trust that runs on best bitter served in pint glasses.’
Rutter smiled back. ‘That’s right,’ he agreed.
‘Will I see you tonight?’
Rutter shrugged. ‘You know what it’s like during an investigation. I can’t promise anything.’
‘You don’t have to be tied down by this job of yours, you know,’ Elizabeth Driver said. ‘I could hire you as an investigator, to do all my legwork for me. You’d be very good at it, you’d be earning at least twice what you’re earning now – and we’d get to spend much more time together.’
‘I won’t say it’s not a tempting idea,’ Rutter admitted, ‘but how would it look if you employed someone you were emotionally involved with?’
‘It would look exactly like what it was – as if I was taking on the best man for the job.’
‘You’re very sweet,’ Rutter said, standing up. ‘And listen, I really will try to see you tonight, if I possibly can.’
‘I know you will,’ Driver told him. ‘And if you can’t make it, well, I’ll understand – and I’ll try not to be too disappointed at spending another night alone.’
‘You really are sweet,’ Rutter said, leaning over and kissing her briefly on the lips, before turning away.
It was only as he was walking to the door that it occurred to Rutter that anyone overhearing the latter half of their conversation would have taken them for an old-established, rather happily married, couple.
‘So we’ve agreed we’ll get nothin’ much of any value out of questionin’ the tramps?’ Woodend said to Beresford and Paniatowski.
‘Except maybe from the one I talked to – the one who calls himself Pogo,’ Paniatowski replied.
‘Except for him,’ Woodend concurred. ‘But even in his case, I wouldn’t put too much reliance on him comin’ up with anythin’ useful.’ He paused, to take a drag on his cigarette, then said, ‘So what else have we got?’
‘It might help if we could find out who the dead man was,’ Paniatowski said. ‘But since we don’t even know what he looked like, that seems a very remote possibility.’
‘Aye, it’s a real bugger,’ Woodend agreed.
‘Perhaps we’ll get some help from the general public on that,’ Beresford suggested.
‘In what way?’
‘We’ll ask them to describe all the tramps they have seen, compare them to the descriptions of the tramps we’ve interviewed, and see if there’s one that doesn’t match up.’
‘An’ hope that the tramp they describe hasn’t simply moved on since the last time they saw him,’ Woodend said discouragingly. ‘Besides, how many people really look at a tramp at all? Most folk just want to get away from them as quickly as they possibly can. An’ anyway, given that they’ve all got long hair an’ ragged beards, they pretty much all look alike to anybody who’s not studied them in detail. Bloody hell, even I would find it difficult to tell the ones we’ve interviewed this morning apart.’
‘If the public can’t help us to identify the victim, then maybe they’ll be able to help us identify the killer,’ Beresford said.
‘If they can, they’ll have been a damn sight more observant than they normally are,’ Woodend countered, rather sourly.
The meeting was not going well, and they all knew it, Paniatowski thought. There were a number of reasons for that, but one of them was certainly that the team worked best as a whole team, and the second most important member of it hadn’t even bothered to turn up yet.
‘The best chance we’ve got is that the killer will try to strike again, an’ will be caught by one of the extra patrols I’ve arranged to be on duty tonight,’ Woodend said. ‘Or, to put it in much the same terms as Sergeant Paniatowski did earlier, our best chance is that the killer will be caught nibblin’ at some of the live bait I’ve thoughtfully laid out for him.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I was completely out of order talking like that,’ Paniatowski told him.
‘Aye, you were,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But then we all make mistakes.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Where the bloody hell is Inspector Rutter?’
‘Maybe he’s caught up in traffic?’ Beresford suggested.
‘Caught up in traffic?’ Woodend repeated. ‘For so long? This is Whitebridge, not central bloody London.’ He sipped moodily at his pint, then turned to Beresford and said, ‘You remember what I said earlier – that I’d got an idea about how we could get closer to the hard mods?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Well, I’ve been thinkin’ it through, an’ I’ve decided it will work. But before it can work, you need to pay a visit to the barber’s shop.’
‘Why?’ Beresford wondered. ‘My hair’s not that long, sir.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But it’s too long for the job that I have in mind.’
‘Wait a minute!’ Beresford exclaimed. ‘You want me to … to infiltrate the hard mods?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Monika’s got a source which she thinks is reliable among the tramps, I need a man I can trust in among the other buggers.’
‘But I’m twenty-three!’ Beresford protested.
‘Aye, but somehow – despite havin’ worked for me for over a year – you still haven’t lost y
our boyish charm,’ Woodend said, with a smile. He placed an avuncular hand on Beresford’s shoulder. ‘Look, lad, I realize it’ll probably all be a waste of time, but when straws are all you’ve got to clutch at, you make a grab for ’em.’
‘Do you really think I can pull it off,’ Beresford said.
‘I don’t know, but you’ve certainly got more chance than I’d have,’ Woodend told him. ‘But I don’t want you runnin’ any risks. Carry your warrant card with you at all times, an’ if it looks like you’re about to be rumbled, get the hell away – as quick as you can.’
The bar door swung open, and Rutter walked in.
Woodend gave him the briefest of glances, then turned to Beresford and Paniatowski, and said, ‘Well, murders don’t usually solve themselves, so we’d better get back to it, hadn’t we?’
The DC and sergeant drained their glasses and stood up, and Rutter, who had been close enough to hear Woodend’s words, did a half-turn towards the door.
‘Not you, Inspector!’ Woodend said loudly. ‘You can take a seat – because it’s about time you an’ me had a little talk.’
Paniatowski and Beresford made the hurried exit which had obviously been demanded of them, but before they reached the door, Paniatowski distinctly heard Woodend say, ‘So tell me, Inspector Rutter, are you still a full-time member of this team or aren’t you?’
It was not like Charlie to speak so loudly, she thought as she stepped out on to the pavement – so the fact that she’d heard what he said meant that she’d been intended to hear it.
Or to put it another way, her hearing it had been part of Rutter’s punishment.
Six
The note that Woodend found waiting for him on his desk when he returned from the Drum and Monkey was brief – and very much to the point.
‘The chief constable wishes to see you the moment you return to headquarters,’ it read.
Woodend studied Marlowe’s spidery handwriting for a second, and then found himself wondering just what kind of man it was who needed to write about himself in the third person.
‘An’ the answer is,’ he said aloud to his empty office, ‘it’s the kind of man who’s a real dickhead.’
Dying Fall Page 4
