‘There’s a nice juicy murder in Hampshire I’m thinking of sending you to cover,’ the editor said with some relish. ‘They’ve been finding body parts all over the place, but so far they haven’t located the head.’
‘I’d rather stay here,’ Driver said.
‘No doubt you would,’ the editor agreed. ‘But you see, that’s not the way it works. I’m the one who pays the piper, so I’m the one who gets to say what tune is played.’
‘You might miss a top-notch story if you do pull me out,’ Driver cautioned. ‘After all, the great Chief Inspector Woodend could make an arrest in a day or two – and even if the victim isn’t interesting, the murderer could be.’
The editor sniffed. ‘More than likely, it’ll turn out to be the work of some local yobbo,’ he said.
More than likely it would, Driver thought. But she wasn’t ready to leave Whitebridge yet. In fact, there were several reasons to stay.
She counted them off on the fingers of her right hand. Her book was nearly completed, and this was the ideal place in which to put the finishing touches to it. She needed to finally work out what her future relationship with Bob Rutter was going to be – and that was easier to work out in Whitebridge, too. And most important of all, she needed to get the town – and especially the town’s police – firmly into the public mind through some scandal or other, so that when the book did eventually come out, it would have even more impact. She was not quite sure how she would achieve this third objective yet, but she was confident that something would occur to her in the next few days.
‘Are you still there?’ her editor asked, impatiently.
‘If you let me stay, I’ll get you a tremendous headline within the next seventy-two hours,’ Driver said.
The editor sniffed again. ‘And that’s a promise, is it?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ Driver confirmed.
‘Well, it’s a promise you’d better keep,’ the editor said, ‘because one thing you should always bear in mind, Liz, is that you’re only as big as your last big story.’
Nine
‘Am I speaking to Detective Inspector Charles Woodend?’ asked a woman’s voice at the other end of the telephone line.
‘You are,’ Woodend confirmed.
‘I’m an anonymous informant,’ the woman said.
Woodend grinned. ‘Are you, indeed? Well, has anybody ever told you, Anonymous Informant, that you sound just like Councillor Polly Johnson, JP?’
The woman laughed. ‘Damn it! Rumbled!’ she exclaimed. Then, in a more serious voice, she continued, ‘You’ve got trouble, Charlie, and it’s in the form of Councillor Lowry.’
‘I know all about that,’ Woodend said. ‘He wants to cut back on overtime, an’ I don’t. But how did you find out? Has he been tryin’ to nobble you?’
‘Well, of course he’s been trying to nobble me,’ Polly Johnson said, speaking slowly now, as if she’d just realized she was addressing a simpleton. ‘And I told him where he can stick it. But there are other councillors on the authority – especially the ones with small majorities – who might be more than willing to listen to him.’
‘Thanks for the warnin’,’ Woodend said.
‘Watch your back, Charlie,’ Polly Johnson advised.
‘I will,’ Woodend told her. ‘In fact, I’ve already sent my sergeant out to collect a bit of body armour.’
When Pogo had left police headquarters, he had determined to put the offer that the blonde sergeant had made to him firmly out of his mind. It was too late to start getting involved in life again, he argued to himself. Far too late. He was drifting slowly into oblivion – and that was just fine with him.
And yet, despite his own wishes, Monika Paniatowski’s words kept drifting back to him.
‘It’s the chance to be useful again – the chance to earn your own respect and the respect of others.’
She should never have said it, he thought – should never have reminded him of a time when his opinion was sought and his judgement was valued.
And yet … and yet what was wrong with the idea of travelling a little way along the road she’d suggested? It wasn’t a commitment, it was an experiment, and if he didn’t like it, he could always turn back.
‘Give it a shot, Percy,’ he said aloud.
And then he realized that, for the first time in a long while, he’d called himself by his real name.
The pub opposite Lowry Engineering was called, logically enough, the Engineer’s Arms, and by the time the workers knocked off for the day, Monika Paniatowski had already positioned herself at a table in the bar.
She was hoping for information. Useful information. The sort of information that Elizabeth Driver would have gleefully splashed across the front page of her disgusting newspaper.
‘Factory owner’s three-in-a-bed romp!’ would do nicely, she thought.
As would ‘Factory owner raids workers’ pension fund!’
It would, strictly speaking, be blackmail to use such information against Lowry, of course, but blackmail only in the interests of justice – blackmail to protect the community.
The workers began to pour into the bar. They looked as if they were dying for a drink, and after eight hours’ hard work, they probably were.
Paniatowski studied the men, wondering which one she should approach. Then it occurred to her that it might be more interesting – and more productive – to wait and see which of them would approach her.
It didn’t take long for an approach to happen. As soon as they paid for their pints, three of the men started to make their way towards her table.
Paniatowski studied them, and quickly assigned them into rough – but useful – categories. The one leading the group had carefully quiffed hair, and though he was wearing a boiler suit, he moved like a man decked out in his best dancing clothes. He was the Romeo of the group, and the others were only there as padding – a necessary backcloth for his performance. The second man had pale well-meaning eyes – and she instantly labelled him the Nice Guy. The third was red-faced, with a mouth which seemed to be permanently set in a look of disapproval – the Complainer.
Romeo reached the table first, and said, ‘Do you mind if we sit down with you, love?’
Paniatowski glanced around the bar, making it plain to him that she was well aware there were still plenty of empty tables to be had, then she smiled and said, ‘Be my guest.’
The men sat quickly, before she changed her mind, and Romeo said, ‘What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ in a place like this?’
‘I’m doing research,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Are you? That is interestin’. Into what?’
‘Into pick-up lines.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I wanted to find out if there was one man left in the whole country who still used that corny “pretty-girl-place-like-this” line. And apparently, there is.’
Nice Man chuckled, a sour grin filled the Complainer’s face and Romeo said, ‘No offence meant, love.’
‘And none taken,’ Paniatowski assured him. ‘I’m Monika.’
‘I’m Jack,’ Romeo said. ‘An’ this is Teddy,’ indicating the Nice Man, ‘an’ Archie,’ pointing to the Complainer.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Do you all work at the factory across the road?’
‘We do,’ Jack confirmed.
‘What’s it like?’
‘It’s a man’s life,’ Jack said, in a tone that was half-mocking and half-not.
‘It’s hot, sweaty, tedious work,’ said Teddy. ‘But we can’t really complain – it puts food on the table.’
‘And who owns the factory?’ Monika asked.
‘Well, it’s called Lowry Engineering, so chances are it’s owned by a feller called Lowry,’ Archie said.
Teddy clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘There’s no need for that kind of sarcasm,’ he said. ‘The lass asked a civil question, an’ she deserves a civil answer.’ He turned his attention to Paniatowski
. ‘The boss is called Tel Lowry, Monika.’
‘Councillor Lowry?’ Paniatowski asked, sounding surprised.
‘That’s right.’
‘I saw him on the local news once. What’s he like?’
‘He’s like all bosses,’ Archie said. ‘Spends most of his time talkin’ about his concern for his workers, when the only thing he’s really concerned about is Tel Lowry.’
‘That’s not quite fair,’ Jack said. ‘He’s a better boss than most.’
‘An’ unlike most bosses, he’s not frightened of gettin’ his hands dirty,’ Teddy added. ‘Do you know that when he took over the company he knew nothin’ about engineerin’. Now he’s got a degree in it – an’ he earned that degree by studyin’ in his free time, when he’d already put in a day’s work at the factory.’
‘You make him sound like a saint,’ Archie grumbled, ‘but the truth is, we hardly see him at all these days.’
‘Maybe so, but that’s not because he’s sailin’ round the Med on a private yacht, livin’ the life of Reilly, now is it?’ Jack countered. ‘The reason we don’t see him is because he’s devotin’ all his energy to local politics.’
‘I suppose it’s all right for them as can afford it,’ Archie said.
‘If I’m remembering correctly, Councillor Lowry’s not married, is he?’ Paniatowski said.
Jack nodded. ‘No, he isn’t.’
‘Lives with his mother,’ Archie said. ‘A proper mummy’s boy.’
‘Now I find that very hard to believe,’ Paniatowski said. ‘He looks to me like the kind of man who’d be having affairs left, right and centre – and a lot of them with married women.’
‘Well, there’s been rumours enough,’ Archie said. ‘He had this secretary once, who was married to one of the shop-floor foremen, and—’
‘You seem very interested in the boss,’ Jack said, and for the first time there was a hint of suspicion in his voice.
Even in the light of that comment, it might be possible to squeeze a little more information on Lowry from these men, Monika thought. But it wouldn’t be a good idea. In truth, she’d pushed it as far as she dared – perhaps further than she should have. Any minute now, they’d start asking who she was, which was a short step from one of them – probably Archie – telling Lowry about the encounter. And then the fat would really be in the fire.
Besides, this job was leaving a bad taste in her mouth, and though she agreed with Woodend that it might be useful to get the dirt on Lowry, what she really wanted to do was put some flesh on the bones of the real investigation.
‘I said, you seem very interested in the boss,’ Jack repeated.
Paniatowski laughed lightly. ‘Do I really? Perhaps I fancy him, and didn’t even realize it.’
‘There’s no accountin’ for taste,’ Archie said.
‘But I’ll tell you who I definitely didn’t fancy – the man I saw standing on a soapbox outside the factory gates, when I drove past earlier.’
‘That would be Councillor Scranton,’ Teddy said.
‘Does he work in the factory as well?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Ron Scranton doesn’t work in the factory or anywhere else,’ Archie said with disdain. ‘He’s never done a hard day’s work in his life.’
‘Really?’ Paniatowski said sceptically.
‘Really,’ Archie repeated.
‘He surely must do something to earn a living.’
‘He calls himself the regional organizer of the British Patriotic Party,’ Archie said, ‘so I expect they’re the ones payin’ his wages. But if they’re givin’ him more than a couple of bob a week, they must be soft in the head.’
‘Now you’re not bein’ fair, Archie,’ Jack said. ‘However you feel about him personally, you have to admit he’s got some good ideas, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Archie said.
‘What do you think about Scranton, Teddy?’ Paniatowski asked.
Teddy seemed torn between his natural good nature and telling the truth as he saw it. ‘I don’t like him, either,’ he said finally. ‘But somebody’s got to keep the Pakis and tramps down, haven’t they?’
Pogo had been studying the other tramp for some time. The man was standing, with casual nonchalance, against a lamppost which was situated a few yards from the back entrance of the market cafe.
Pogo understood his game, having played it often enough himself. The tramp was trying to pretend that he had no interest at all in the bins, because if the owner of the cafe realized what he was after, he’d drive him away – and then any chance he had of picking up some tempting scraps would be gone.
He approached the other tramp cautiously, because he might – like many tramps – be of a nervous disposition. And he might – like many tramps – carry a knife or a razor.
The tramp spotted him. ‘I was here first,’ he said. ‘And that makes it my pitch.’
‘I know the rules,’ Pogo said quietly.
‘And don’t go thinking you’ll get my leftovers, because there won’t be any,’ the tramp warned him.
‘Don’t want leftovers tonight,’ Pogo said. ‘I’ve got money.’
The other tramp’s eyes narrowed. ‘How much?’ he demanded.
‘Half a crown.’
‘You could buy two bottles of meths with that.’
‘I could,’ Pogo agreed. ‘Or I could go into a proper pub and have a real drink – if I could find one that would serve me. But instead of doing either of those things, I thought I’d blow the money on a couple of bacon sandwiches.’
‘What do you want two bacon sandwiches for?’ the other tramp wondered.
‘One for me, and one for you,’ Pogo told him.
‘I don’t know you, do I?’ the other tramp asked suspiciously.
‘No,’ Pogo agreed.
And it wouldn’t make any difference even if you did, he thought. Tramps don’t share things with their friends. Tramps don’t have any friends.
‘So if I don’t know you, what’s your game?’ the other tramp asked.
‘I want information, and I’m prepared to pay for it,’ Pogo told him.
‘What kind of information?’
‘I’m trying to find out who set that bloke on fire last night.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I might be marked down as the next victim, and I want to know what to look out for.’
Any other explanation would have left the tramp unconvinced, but self-preservation was something he understood.
‘And that’s worth a bacon sandwich, is it?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Pogo agreed.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’ the other tramp wondered. ‘I might tell you everything I know, and all you have to say, to avoid paying me, is that it’s not worth anything.’
How did we ever get to this state? Pogo wondered. At what point did we start to mistrust everything our fellow man said or promised?
But he knew well enough what the answer to that was in his own particular case.
‘I’ll buy you a sandwich whatever you tell me,’ he promised.
The tramp thought about it. ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘There was this lad.’
‘What lad?’
‘Young. He had very short hair. Almost like he’d shaved his head. And tattoos on his arms.’
‘And what did he do?’
‘Told me I was making the town untidy. Told me I should think about moving on.’
‘Nothing unusual about that,’ Pogo said. ‘You should be used to abuse by now.’
‘But it went further than that,’ the other tramp persisted. ‘He said if I didn’t move on, he’d see to me.’
‘How?’
‘He said the best way to get rid of louses was to burn them out.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last week sometime. Didn’t think any more about it until I heard what happened last night.’
‘Did you tell the police about this?’ Pogo asked.
‘Course
I didn’t. Don’t tell the police nothing.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ Pogo said, ‘is why, after all that, you’re still here.’
‘It’s hard work, moving on,’ the tramp said. ‘Before you can do that, you need some food in your belly. But once I’ve got some, I’m leaving.’
And abandoning the rest of us to our fate, Pogo thought.
Still, he supposed, he shouldn’t have expected anything else.
‘I’ve earned my bacon sandwich, haven’t I?’ the other tramp asked worriedly.
‘Yes,’ Pogo agreed. ‘You’ve earned your bacon sandwich.’
Beresford knew very little about what went on in America, but what he imagined was that when gangs met up over there, they did so in clubhouses – which, in his mind’s eye, were dark, dangerous places, the urban equivalent of the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang’s hideout. The Whitebridge hard mods, on the other hand, had no such institutions, nor the finances to acquire them. Most of the time – if they had the money and had not been banned by the landlord – they met in pubs. Otherwise, their fall-back plan was to rendezvous outside one of Whitebridge’s numerous chip shops.
There were half a dozen mods standing outside Joe’s Friary as Beresford approached it. A couple of them were eating fish and chips out of funnels made from rolled-up newspaper, but the rest were just looking vaguely into the distance, as if they were waiting – and hoping – for something to happen.
And they seemed quite comfortable with their braces, Beresford thought, though his were continuing to make his shoulder blades itch damnably.
The group noticed him, and awaited his arrival with something approaching interest. Beresford, for his part, found his eyes involuntarily drawn to their steel-toecapped boots – which had the potential to inflict some very heavy damage – and wished that Woodend had given this particular job to somebody else.
As he drew closer, the mods fanned out, blocking his passage and making it impossible for him to keep an eye on all of them at the same time. The only course of action open to him, it seemed, was to come to a halt. So he did.
‘What’s your name?’ demanded a voice which came from just beyond the edge of his vision.
Dying Fall Page 7
