‘Sit down, Inspector!’ Evans said.
‘I have my daughter to consider.’
‘Your daughter is in good hands. The Social Services Department is looking after her.’
‘I don’t want the Social Services looking after her.’
‘I’m sure that’s true. It’s probably one of the very few things you’ve said during the course of this interview that is true.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Are you calling me a liar?’
‘If you do not sit down, Inspector, I will call for assistance to make you sit down,’ Evans said.
Rutter sank defeatedly back into his chair. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’ he asked.
‘You know what you’re supposed to have done. You’re supposed to have killed your wife.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting that I rigged up the explosion that killed her?’
‘No, I am suggesting that you struck her on the back of the head with a blunt instrument.’
Rutter’s mouth fell open, but though he struggled for words, none would come out.
‘A most impressive show,’ Evans said. ‘But not quite convincing enough in the face of the facts we already have – and the ones we will no doubt collect during the course of the investigation. You thought you were totally unobserved when you sneaked back to your house, but that is what people like you always think. Experience should tell you that someone will have spotted you – or at least spotted your car – and that is really all we’ll need.’
‘I didn’t kill my wife,’ Rutter said, finally finding his voice.
‘You probably thought the fire would destroy all the evidence of your vicious attack, but, unluckily for you, it didn’t.’
‘Are you charging me?’ Rutter asked.
‘Not yet,’ Evans told him. ‘But I’d be surprised if we hadn’t by the end of the day.’
Eleven
Chief Constable Henry Marlowe was very happy with his position in life. He liked drawing the large salary which went with his job, and being driven around in an official car by a uniformed driver. He relished the power he had to make and break careers, and the attitude that power engendered towards him in others. He took pleasure from the fact that as Chief Constable he was always right – even when he, and everyone else, knew that he was wrong. Yet even in the most perfect of existences, there were still a few flies in the ointment – a couple of wasps buzzing around to spoil the picnic. And the biggest of these, he had long ago decided, was Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend.
Woodend refused to be impressed by his title. Woodend simply would not see that the main aim of any investigation carried out in Central Lancashire was to enhance the reputation of its Chief Constable. And worst of all, there had been occasions when Woodend had made him look a complete fool.
He’d tried to get rid of the bloody man a number of times – putting him in impossible situations, handing him cases which ought never to have been solved. But, like some malevolent rubber ball, Woodend had always bounced back – making the impossible possible, solving the unsolvable.
But not this time! Marlowe promised himself. This time he would not get away with it. This time, he would overstep the bounds in an effort to help a man who – it would soon be plain to everyone else – was beyond help.
And the true beauty of it was that Marlowe would have to do nothing himself to achieve this most favourable result. He had merely to sit back and let the Chief Inspector destroy himself.
It was these thoughts which caused him to smile when he heard the ruckus in his outer office, and allowed the smile to grow even broader as – above the vocal protests of his secretary – an unseen hand turned his inner office door knob.
By the time the door had been flung open, to reveal the big man in the hairy sports coat, the Chief Constable’s smile had been replaced by a grave expression.
‘I see that while your short spell in hospital may have mended whatever damage was done to your body, it’s singularly failed to mend your manners, Chief Inspector Woodend,’ he said.
He liked the line. It sounded even better now than it had when he had privately rehearsed it earlier.
‘I’ve been told Bob Rutter’s been arrested,’ Woodend said.
‘Then you appear to have been misinformed. Inspector Rutter is merely being questioned.’
‘You can’t really believe he killed Maria.’
‘I don’t know whether he’s guilty or not,’ Marlowe said. ‘Because, unlike you, Chief Inspector, I would never presume to prejudge the results of a colleague’s investigation.’
‘What colleague’s this?’ Woodend demanded.
‘DCI Evans.’
‘That’s bastard’s no colleague of mine.’
‘Ah, but he is. You’re brother officers, whether you like it or not. But why are we even discussing Mr Evans? I would have thought you’d have your mind on other concerns.’
‘Other concerns?’ Woodend said, momentarily mystified.
Marlowe shook his head sadly, as if this merely confirmed a long-held suspicion.
‘There is the small matter of the murder of Pamela Rainsford which you should be investigating,’ he said. ‘Or had you forgotten that?’
‘Take me off that case,’ Woodend said. ‘Put me on the Maria Rutter killing instead.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Firstly, because it would be damaging to the Rainsford case to change senior officers at this stage in the proceedings. And secondly – and possibly more importantly – because you lack the objectivity to take over the Rutter investigation.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘It is far from bollocks, as you choose to put it. I’ve commented before on the fact that you seem to develop an unhealthily close relationship with the officers you have working under you, and—’
‘We operate as a tight team. That’s how we get cases solved,’ Woodend interrupted.
‘… and, as a result of that, I would be most unwilling to have you investigate one of your own direct subordinates.’
‘I don’t see what you’re gettin’ at.’
‘Then to be blunt, Chief Inspector, I think your main aim, if you were in charge of the Maria Rutter investigation, would be to prove that her husband could not be the guilty party.’
‘Are you sayin’ that if I was given the opportunity, I’d doctor the evidence?’ Woodend demanded.
‘I’m saying you might not be objective enough to see all the facts in their proper light.’
‘An’ DCI Evans is?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I want the case,’ Woodend said.
‘And I’m telling you that you can’t have it.’ Marlowe gave a practised frown. ‘In fact, I’m no longer sure that you’re currently stable enough to handle even the Rainsford case. Perhaps you should consider taking some leave. I certainly wouldn’t block that.’
It was a tempting idea, Woodend thought. Being on leave would give him the free time he needed to investigate Maria’s murder privately. But it would also deny him access to the resources of police headquarters – and cut him off completely from whatever snippets of information he could pick up on the case from talk in the canteen and in the corridors.
‘I’m quite prepared to continue working on the Rainsford investigation, sir,’ he said.
‘Whereas, I’m no longer sure that it’s—’
‘As you pointed out yourself, it might damage the investigation to change the senior officer in charge now.’
Marlowe pretended to think about it. ‘You do realize that I will expect you to keep yourself completely detached from the Rutter investigation, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Woodend agreed, but he was thinking: You can expect what you like. It doesn’t mean you’ll get it.
‘And that failure to remain detached would have to be considered a very serious infraction of discipline?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Woodend replied, adding silen
tly: But you’ll have to catch me at it, first.
‘And that such a serious infraction would almost certainly be considered a resigning matter?’
‘Understood.’
‘I shall require a definite undertaking from you that you feel capable of handling the Rainsford case while keeping yourself completely away from the Rutter case.’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘In writing, Chief Inspector. I shall need it in writing.’
‘It’ll be on your desk within half an hour.’
‘Very well, Chief Inspector,’ Marlowe said gravely. ‘Given that proviso, you may keep the Rainsford case.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Woodend said, forcing the words out – and hoping they didn’t bring his stomach lining with them.
Once the Chief Inspector had left, Marlowe allowed the smile to creep back on to his face.
Woodend had not only offered himself up as the sacrificial goat, he thought – the bloody fool had even offered to pull his own entrails out.
As Woodend was walking slowly down the steps to the basement, he could feel the air of despondency from the officers working on the Pamela Rainsford case rising up to meet him.
But then that was only to be expected, he thought, because Bob Rutter was a popular inspector, and nobody would like what was happening to him.
Monika Paniatowski had moved her desk to the far corner of the room, well away from any of the other officers. At that moment she had the phone in her left hand and was making notes with her right.
Woodend was surprised to see her there – and if she felt anything like as bad as she looked, it was a miracle that she’d managed to find the strength to turn up at all.
She forced a tired smile to her face as Woodend sat down beside her. ‘Good to have you back, sir,’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I fell out of an upstairs window, an’ I’ve got bruises on parts of my body I didn’t even know I had,’ Woodend said. ‘Other than that, I’m feelin’ grand. What have you been doin’ while I was away?’
‘I’ve been trying to reconstruct Inspector Rutter’s movements from the notes he made,’ Paniatowski said.
Good old Monika! Woodend thought. I knew I could rely on you.
‘You might not have found anythin’ quite yet that’ll blow the case apart,’ he said, in a low but encouraging voice, ‘but just keep pluggin’ away at it, an’ I’m sure you very soon will.’
A puzzled look came to Monika’s face. ‘I’m not sure that I quite understand you, sir,’ she said.
‘What is there not to understand?’ Woodend asked. ‘You’ve been reconstructing Bob’s movements. Isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘An’ you’ve been doin’ it so that you can prove he was nowhere near his house at the time Maria was killed, haven’t you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve been trying to work out what he did yesterday on the Rainsford case, so that we can pick up the threads where he left off.’
‘An’ what about Maria’s murder?’
‘I thought you’d have been told, sir. That’s already being investigated by another officer.’
‘Another officer!’ Woodend exploded. ‘It’s bein’ investigated by that bloody hatchet man DCI Evans!’
‘Yes. I know.’
‘The man who tried his damnedest to fit me up in the Dugdale’s Farm murder case!’
‘He didn’t try to fit you up,’ Paniatowski contradicted him.
‘Didn’t he? Well it certainly felt like it at the time.’
‘What he did do was fail to understand the nature of the conspiracy which had been set up to bring you down. But he played no part in that conspiracy himself.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But we had to do all his work for him. An’ that’s all I’m suggestin’ this time – that we do his work for him.’
‘We have another case to investigate, sir,’ Monika Paniatowski said.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Woodend told her. The words came out louder than he’d intended them to, and several of the other officers looked up. ‘I really don’t believe this,’ he continued, more quietly. ‘Are you so obsessed with your own precious career that you’ll just ignore the mess that Bob’s in?’
‘That’s not fair!’ Paniatowski hissed angrily.
‘Isn’t it?’ Woodend asked. ‘My, but appearances can be deceptive, can’t they? I thought you used to have some feelings for him, but apparently I was quite wrong.’
‘I still have feelings for him,’ Paniatowski said, even angrier now. ‘I love him! I tried to put it all behind me after we broke up, but I couldn’t. All right? Are you satisfied now you’ve got me to admit it?’
‘Then I don’t see why you won’t help me.’
Paniatowski slammed her palm down hard on the desk. ‘God, but you can be so thick sometimes,’ she said.
‘You’ve lost me again.’
‘The great Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend!’ Paniatowski sneered. ‘Cloggin-it Charlie – the man who they say has an instinct for knowing just how other people think! How they feel! And you still don’t see it, do you?’
‘See what?’
‘It’s because I still love Bob so much that I don’t want any part in the investigation. It’s because I love him that I don’t want to be the one who finds the piece of evidence which finally seals his fate.’
‘You think he did it!’ Woodend said, astounded.
‘Well, of course I think he did it!’ Paniatowski said, as the tears filled her eyes. ‘Who else would have killed a blind woman, and then tried to make it look like an accident?’
Twelve
If Monika really believed that Bob was guilty of Maria’s murder, Woodend told himself, then there was nothing he could do or say to change her mind. And if that belief led her on to a further one – that there was no point in her looking for evidence which might clear Bob, because no such evidence existed – then he should respect her decision not to become involved.
So, in the light of that reasoning, there was no justification for the feelings of revulsion and betrayal he experienced when he looked at her. None at all!
But they were there, whether he willed them or not.
The feelings would pass. He was sure of that. Whether he could save Bob or whether he could not, a time would come when he would regain his affection and respect for Monika – when he would not only understand her position (as he already did), but accept it (as he most certainly did not).
Yes, that time would come, but for the moment he felt so much animosity towards her that he judged it better that they worked separately. Thus, whilst he drove to the New Horizons’ factory – a part of his mind on the Pamela Rainsford case, but most of it working on what he could do to help Bob Rutter – Monika set off in the other direction, to conduct the house-to-house inquiries in the area where Pamela had lived.
Woodend noticed the Rolls-Royce Phantom V the moment he pulled on to the New Horizons’ car park.
Noticed it? his brain mocked him. Noticed it! He could hardly have bloody missed it!
The Roller stood out from all the cars around it as a diamond would have stood out if it had been resting on a bed of cultured pearls. It positively gleamed in the weak autumn sunlight, as if even the sun itself had picked out this car as something special.
So Derek Higson was back in Whitebridge, Woodend thought.
Higson’s dad had ridden to work on a squeaky old push-bike he’d rescued from the scrap heap – a bike that even other poor people laughed at. The son, on the other hand, had become such a flashy bugger that he rode around in a car which must have cost as much as the whole street on which he grew up.
‘What am I thinking?’ Woodend asked himself, shocked at the ideas which he found crossing his mind – and, even more, the sour juices with which they were larded.
He didn’t give a bugger whether Derek Higson had a Rolls-Royce
or not. But even that wasn’t strictly true. He was glad that Derek had a Roller – if that’s what made him happy. The man had come from nothing – less than nothing – and had worked his backside off to get where he was today. Now he employed hundreds of people and, according to what Woodend had heard from several sources, treated them extremely well. So wasn’t he entitled to a flashy car?
Woodend climbed out of his Wolseley, and stopped to light up a cigarette. The thoughts he’d just almost had about Derek Higson were a warning to him, he decided – a clear indication that what had happened to Bob and Maria was making him see the whole world from a jaundiced perspective.
The door to the administration block opened, and a man walked out. He was about Woodend’s age, though slightly heavier around the middle, and with a little less hair. Even from a distance, it was possible to tell that the suit he was wearing had been purchased from somewhere much more exclusive and expensive than the tailors’ shops on Whitebridge High Street.
The man had been heading towards the main factory door, but then he noticed Woodend and immediately changed direction.
‘Good to see you, Charlie, but I wish it could have been under different circumstances,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘Good to see you, too, Derek,’ Woodend said, shaking the hand.
But he was thinking: Take away the flashy suit, an’ you’re just an ordinary middle-aged bloke like me. So how the hell did you manage to pull a woman like Lucy?
‘I’ve just got back,’ Higson said.
‘Aye, I assumed that,’ Woodend told him. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Holland. The fat burghers of Amsterdam have got a lot of money burning a hole in their pockets, and they recognize quality when they see it. That makes them a very good market for us.’ Higson’s expression clouded over. ‘Listen to me, talking like a salesman at a time like this,’ he continued. ‘Have you come to interview some of my staff?’
‘That’s my intention,’ Woodend replied. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a short chat with you, if you could spare the time.’
‘But of course I can spare the time,’ Higson said. ‘If it will help you to catch Pamela’s killer, you can have all the time you want.’
Dying in the Dark Page 8
