Then he sat down, lit up a cigarette, and promised himself he would smoke it really slowly.
When he did finally reach the chief constable’s office, ten minutes later, he discovered that his boss was not alone – nor even, apparently, in charge. For while Marlowe usually sought to reinforce his position in the pecking order by sitting behind his over-large desk, his chair was at that moment occupied by another man, and the chief constable himself was standing by the window.
The man behind the desk was in his middle forties. He was square-faced, brown-eyed and had a cleft in his chin. His body had the chunkiness of a rugby player, and if that had been his sport, he’d obviously made an effort to keep in shape after he’d hung up his boots for the last time.
‘You know Councillor Lowry, don’t you, Mr Woodend?’ Marlowe asked.
Woodend nodded in the general direction of the man behind the desk. ‘We’ve met,’ he said.
‘As you may already be aware, Councillor Lowry is not only the managing director of the highly successful Lowry Engineering Company, but also the chairman of the Police Authority for Central Lancashire,’ Marlowe said.
There didn’t seem to be much to say in response, so Woodend said nothing. But what he was thinking was that Lowry’s appearance spelled trouble. Ever since he’d assumed the chairmanship of the police authority the previous year, Lowry had been harrying the Force to produce more results at a lower cost to the ratepayers. And that, in Woodend’s opinion, led to bad police practice.
Lowry had been studying Woodend intently for some seconds, but now he turned his attention to Marlowe, and said, ‘Thank you, Henry.’
It was as neat – and abrupt – a dismissal as Woodend had ever seen, and in the face of it the chief constable could do no more than nod and reply, ‘Well, if you need me for anything, Tel—’
‘I’ll know where to find you,’ Lowry interrupted him. Then he waited until Marlowe had stepped out into the corridor, before continuing, ‘Do take a seat, Chief Inspector Woodend.’
Woodend sat.
‘Every once in a while, I make it my business to meet one of the officers who work for this police authority,’ Lowry said. ‘It helps to give me some idea of what the grass roots are thinking.’
‘No need to talk to us foot soldiers to find that out,’ Woodend said. ‘Just ask the chief constable. After all, as one of the most experienced sergeants on the force was tellin’ me only this mornin’, Mr Marlowe’s really got his finger on the pulse of the Whitebridge Police.’
‘I don’t appreciate sarcasm, Mr Woodend,’ Lowry said.
‘Sarcasm?’ Woodend repeated innocently.
‘I know what you think of Mr Marlowe, and whilst you could not expect me to openly agree with you, I assume you’ve also noted that I’m not exactly defending him, either.’
Well, well, well, there was a turn-up for the books, Woodend thought. Marlowe’s one real talent was impressing his superiors, and in Lowry’s case, he seemed to have failed completely. So maybe there was more to the councillor than met the eye.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll cut out the sarcasm from now on.’
‘Good,’ Lowry said crisply. ‘Now let’s get down to business, shall we? I’ve been looking at these overtime requests that you’ve submitted, and they really are outrageous, you know.’
‘I disagree,’ Woodend said. ‘There’s some kind of nutter on the loose out there, so the streets have to be patrolled.’
‘You don’t actually know whether or not he’s going to strike again, do you?’ Lowry asked.
‘I know,’ Woodend said firmly.
‘How?’
‘I can feel it.’
Lowry laughed. ‘That would be the famous Woodend “gut feeling”, would it? I’ve heard about that.’
‘Then you’ll also have heard that it rarely lets me down.’
‘Interesting that you should use the word “rarely”,’ Lowry mused. ‘I take that to mean that this gut instinct of yours is not quite as infallible as you sometimes like to give the impression it is.’
‘It’s failed me a few times,’ Woodend admitted.
‘And even if your feeling is correct, there’s no saying that the killer will strike again tonight, is there? He might wait a week. Or a month. Or even a year.’
‘It won’t be as long as a month,’ Woodend said.
‘That’s something else you just know, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let’s say that he waits three weeks. Do you expect to keep all that extra manpower on the streets for a whole three weeks?’
‘Yes.’
Lowry shook his head. ‘It simply can’t be done,’ he said. ‘The ratepayers would never stand for it. They elected me to reduce the rates, not drive them up to new record highs.’
‘And, of course, there are municipal elections coming up soon,’ Woodend mused.
‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ Lowry asked angrily.
‘I’m suggestin’ there’s municipal elections comin’ up soon,’ Woodend replied.
‘I want to keep police costs down,’ Lowry said. ‘I can do that without your help, but it would be easier if you cooperated.’
‘What you really mean is that your committee might think twice about takin’ the course of action you were recommendin’ if I was known to be strongly opposed to it.’
‘Well, exactly,’ Lowry said, as if he were pleased that the rather slow chief inspector had finally grasped the point. ‘It would certainly be to your advantage to work with me, instead of against me.’
‘Would it?’ Woodend asked, and those who knew him well would have detected the dangerous edge creeping into his voice. ‘In what way?’
‘For starters, it would ensure that you kept your job.’
‘You mean that if I don’t become your monkey, you’ll get me fired?’
Lowry laughed. ‘No, no, Chief Inspector, you’ve got things completely the wrong way round. It’s that fool Marlowe who wants to get you fired, but he wouldn’t dare push for it if I were on your side. Now wouldn’t you like to have that kind of protection?’
Woodend shrugged. ‘I’ve put in a good few years’ service. I could live off my pension if I retired now.’
‘You probably could,’ Lowry agreed. ‘But there wouldn’t be much cash left over for extras, would there?’
Woodend shrugged again. ‘I’ve never been one for drinkin’ pink champagne out of chorus girls’ slippers.’
‘Of course you’re not. But there’s your daughter Annie to consider, isn’t there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s just graduated from nursing college, hasn’t she? She’ll be looking to buy a place of her own, and it would be nice if you could give her a hand with the deposit – but you won’t be able to do that on a policeman’s pension.’
‘Now listen to me—’ Woodend began.
‘And then there’s Joan, your wife,’ Lowry interrupted him. ‘She had a mild heart attack in Spain, a couple of years back. Of course, we all pray she won’t have another one, but if she does, wouldn’t it be nice to know that as far as treatment went, she was being rushed to the front of the queue?’
‘Don’t threaten me, you bastard!’ Woodend growled.
‘I’d be threatening you if I’d said I’d do my best to ensure that she was kept at the back of the queue,’ Lowry said mildly. ‘What I’m offering you is something much more positive. And if I could give you a piece of advice, Chief Inspector,’ he continued, his voice hardening, ‘you should never forget that while I’m a reasonable man who always tries to reach a consensus, I’m also the chairman of the Police Authority, and, while I am wearing that particular hat, I will simply not tolerate the kind of offensive remark you have just directed at me.’
Woodend stood up. ‘If you don’t want to be called a bastard, then don’t behave like one,’ he said. ‘An’ here’s a bit of advice for you – don’t try to block the overtime, because if you do, I’ll be on the
blower to all the local papers before you can say “landslide electoral defeat”.’
And then, without waiting for a reply, he marched furiously to the door.
Woodend was back at his own desk. In the ashtray in front of him lay the remains of three Capstan Full Strength cigarettes, which he had not so much smoked as crushed between his agitated fingers.
‘The man’s a real bastard, Monika,’ he told Paniatowski, across the desk. ‘A complete bloody arsehole.’
‘Yes, sir, I rather gathered that was what you thought of him the first three times you said it,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘But however much of a bastard he is, it wasn’t your wisest move to tell him so to his face.’
‘He knew about Annie, and he knew about Joan,’ Woodend ranted. ‘He was using my family to put the screws on me.’
‘It’s a despicable trick, if that’s what he was doing,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘but even so—’
‘Two can play at that game,’ Woodend interrupted her. ‘I want all the dirt you can dig up on him, so that the next time he comes after me, I’ll have something to hit back with.’
‘That’s a dangerous game to play,’ Paniatowski cautioned.
‘Maybe – but I’m not the one who started it,’ Woodend countered.
‘And there’s always the very real possibility that there’s no dirt on him to dig up.’
‘There’s dirt,’ Woodend said firmly. ‘I can smell it on the bastard. I can almost see it oozing out from under his fingernails.’
‘I’m not sure I feel entirely comfortable with the assignment, sir,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I am supposed to be working on a murder inquiry.’
‘In this case, you can’t separate the two things,’ Woodend told her. ‘If Lowry has his way, we won’t have the resources to investigate the murder.’ He paused, and took a deep breath. ‘Look, I know it’s a shitty job, and normally I wouldn’t ask you to do it,’ he said. ‘But what choice do I have?’
‘You could put Bob on it,’ Paniatowski replied.
‘Could I?’ Woodend wondered. ‘Could I really? So tell me, if you were in my shoes, would you put Bob Rutter in charge of it?’
‘I’m not in your shoes,’ Paniatowski replied defensively.
‘Which is as good a way of not answerin’ the question as any, I suppose,’ Woodend said. ‘But let’s be honest, Monika – at least with each other. Given the way Bob’s behavin’ at the moment, neither of us would put him in charge of a chip shop.’
Seven
Modern wardrobes were constructed of crisp, light, white wood, but the one in Beresford’s bedroom was heavy, clumsy and coffin-brown coloured. It had been bought in the early years of his parents’ marriage, and, for that reason, he sometimes viewed it as a time machine which transported him back to a happier time, when his father was still alive and his mother still had her mind. But no such thoughts were entering his head at the moment. In fact, most of his thoughts were concentrated on his head – or, to be more accurate, on that portion of his head which had once had hair.
Staring at himself in the wardrobe’s full-length mirror, he could not quite get used to the change that the close-cropped haircut had brought about in his appearance. He no longer looked like the rising young detective constable he had come – with Woodend’s encouragement – to think of himself as. Instead, he was looking at the face of the sort of young thug who shouts insults at ordinary people as they walk through the shopping centre.
He stepped back, to take a look at the rest of his disguise, which consisted of a buttoned-up flannel shirt, straight-legged jeans, and heavy boots with steel toecaps. He was also wearing braces, which made his shoulders itch and – since the jeans were perfectly capable of staying up without any help – served no useful purpose. Still, he couldn’t remove them even though he wanted to, he told himself. The braces had to stay – because they were part of the uniform.
As he continued to stand there, wondering if he could really pull the deception off, he became aware that he was not alone, and turning around, found his mother was standing in the doorway.
Mrs Beresford was watching him with a strange, puzzled expression on her face – but that was no more than par for the course, Beresford reminded himself.
‘I … don’t remember seeing those clothes before,’ his mother said. ‘Did I buy them for you …’ She paused, as if trying to grasp one of those pieces of information that were constantly slipping from her mind. ‘Did I buy them for you, Colin,’ she continued triumphantly.
‘No, Mum, you didn’t,’ Beresford said gently.
‘And didn’t you …’ his mother asked, grappling for more lost information, ‘… didn’t you used to be a policeman?’
‘I still am a policeman, Mum.’
‘I don’t remember policemen dressing like that when I was younger,’ Mrs Beresford said.
Her son sighed. He could explain to her that he was going under cover, he supposed, but he doubted if she would be able to grasp the concept.
‘Times change, Mum,’ he said.
‘Yes, they do,’ Mrs Beresford agreed, sighing in turn. ‘And never for the better.’
Some of the tramps had been questioned and released, but, Woodend noted, there was still a group of around a dozen of them sitting in the basement of police headquarters and waiting for their turn to come.
‘A group?’ he repeated to himself.
Yes, that was what he’d just labelled them – but he’d been wrong to.
Take most bodies of people waiting for something – a bus queue, for example – and the members of it would strike up small, superficial conversations with those around them. Usually, they would complain about the weather – or the infrequent bus service, or the council’s seeming inability to collect dustbins on time, or what rubbish they were showing on television these days – then round it all off with a vague hope that things would improve in the future.
It was a habit born from custom to act in this way. It sometimes felt almost like a legal obligation.
But custom and obligation were not binding on these tramps. They had no interest in the people around them. Each one sat alone, a small island protected from the rest of the world by its indifference to him, and his indifference to it.
But there was one thing they did all have in common, the chief inspector thought – they didn’t seem particularly concerned by how long it was taking them to get back on the streets.
And why should they? The basement was warm and dry, there were free cigarettes and cups of tea being handed out. What more could they want?
Drink! That’s what they could want.
Most of them had probably already been drunk when they had been collected in the sweep, but were now in the process of sobering up. And being sober would make them – paradoxically – more difficult to interview. Because while it was true that their minds would be clearer, this new clarity would be focused on only one thing – getting their next fix of mind-dulling meths!
All of which meant that the whole process needed to be speeded up, and if Bob Rutter needed reminding of that – which he shouldn’t – now was the time to do it.
‘Which interview room is Inspector Rutter in at the moment?’ Woodend asked the WPC who’d been put in charge of watching the men and serving them endless mugs of tea.
‘He’s not in any of them at the moment, sir,’ the constable replied. ‘He was here up until a few minutes ago, but now he’s gone.’
‘Gone?’ Woodend repeated, incredulously. ‘Where to?’
‘He didn’t specify exactly. He just said he had some personal business to deal with.’
Personal business to deal with!
You just didn’t have personal business in a murder inquiry, where the first twenty-four hours could be crucial!
You didn’t have any life outside the case!
Yet despite the bollocking Woodend had given his inspector earlier, it was clear that Rutter had forgotten – or decided to ignore – what was the cornerstone of any
investigation.
They said there was no point in having a dog and barking yourself, Woodend thought, but what else could you do when the dog in question had buggered off?
‘Are all the interview rooms bein’ used?’ he asked.
‘Two of them are,’ the WPC said. ‘But the third one, the one that Inspector Rutter was using before he …’
‘Went off to deal with his personal business!’ Woodend supplied.
‘Yes, sir. That one’s free now.’
Woodend walked over to the area where the tramps were sitting, and picked one of them at random. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir, we can have our little talk an’ then you can be on your way,’ he told the man.
The discreet coughing sound, coming from somewhere behind her, made Dr Shastri look up from the dissecting table on which the victim of a recent road accident lay, and when she did so, she saw Bob Rutter standing in the doorway.
‘My dear Inspector, what a true delight to see you,’ she said, with her customary breeziness. ‘But what is the reason for this unexpected call? Have I been negligent in my duties? Is there some piece of information which the wise and good Chief Inspector Woodend urgently needs for his investigation, but which I have somehow failed to supply him with?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Rutter said, in a manner which seemed to Shastri to be slightly awkward. ‘The fact is, I’m here for a piece of advice.’
Dr Shastri laughed. ‘If it is a medical matter – especially one concerning cadavers – then you have undoubtedly come to the right place,’ she said. ‘If, on the other hand, you require instruction in some other area of expertise, on how to build a dry-stone wall or re-plaster your kitchen, for example, I suspect you had better look elsewhere.’
‘It is a medical matter,’ Rutter said. ‘I was wondering if you could recommend a good doctor to me.’
‘But surely you have a doctor already,’ Shastri said, puzzled.
‘I do,’ Rutter agreed. ‘But he happens to be the same doctor most of my colleagues use.’
‘I do not see that as a problem,’ Dr Shastri said, her bewilderment growing. ‘Anything that passes between you will be in complete confidence.’
Dying Fall Page 5
