They adjourned to the nearest pub, which was called the Golden Partridge. It had plush seating and thick carpets, and most of the customers were carrying leather briefcases. It was not Woodend’s sort of place at all, but Derek Higson seemed perfectly at home in it.
‘What can you tell me about Pamela Rainsford?’ Woodend asked, when they’d bought their drinks and taken them over to a corner table.
Higson looked vaguely troubled. ‘Not as much as I’d like to,’ he confessed. ‘The truth is, Charlie, I could tell you more about her work than I could about her as a person.’
‘Well, that’d be a start,’ Woodend said encouragingly.
‘Pamela was efficient in her way,’ Higson said, ‘but she was a little too timid for my tastes.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘My old secretary, Gloria, was a real battleaxe. She used to bully me into doing the things I should be doing, rather than the things I wanted to do. Pamela was the complete opposite. She had neither the confidence or the initiative to step into Gloria’s shoes.’
‘So why didn’t you replace her with someone who had?’
Higson smiled awkwardly. ‘My wife appointed her,’ he said.
‘So what?’
‘Ever since we got married, I’ve been encouraging Lucy to take a more active part in the business, partly because I thought she’d enjoy it, and partly, I suppose, as a kind of self-defence mechanism.’
‘Self-defence mechanism?’
‘If she’s heavily committed to the firm, she can’t really complain that I am, too. Lucy never complains when I have to work late, because she’s right there working beside me.’
‘I see.’
‘But one of the drawbacks to this policy of mine is that I have to be very careful not to undermine her – very careful not to seem as if I’m questioning her judgement. And if I’d moved Pamela to another part of the business, and taken on a new secretary who was much more like Gloria, that’s exactly what I would have been doing.’ Higson laughed. ‘Besides, it’s done me no harm to discipline myself, rather than relying on my secretary to do it.’
‘You have no idea what Pamela was doing on the canal bank the night she was killed?’ Woodend asked.
‘None at all. I don’t even know whether she lived near the canal, or right on the other side of town. I suppose you think that’s rather remiss of me.’
‘It’s not for me to—’ Woodend began.
‘Derek, you old reprobate!’ said a new voice. ‘So you’re finally back from your travels, are you?’
Woodend and Higson looked up. The man who had spoken was in his late forties and, like Higson, was wearing a very expensive suit.
‘Good to see you, Clive,’ Derek Higson said.
‘I’ve got a little business I might be able to put your way,’ the other man continued, his tone both matey and confidential. ‘A bit of business that will do neither of us any harm.’
‘That’s great,’ Derek Higson said, without much conviction. ‘The thing is, Clive, I’m rather busy just at the moment. So why don’t you ring up my sec— … my office … and we’ll arrange a meeting?’
‘Fair enough,’ the other man said, and made his way over to the bar.
‘To tell you the truth, I think it’s pretty remiss myself that I know so little about most of my staff,’ Higson said to Woodend. ‘It wasn’t like that in the old days, when I was starting out. But then the company got bigger, you see, and as the public face of it – the one the customers want to see – I spend so much time travelling these days that I doubt I could even name half our work-force.’
‘What’s botherin’ you that you’re not tellin’ me about, Derek?’ Woodend asked.
Higson looked startled. ‘However did you know there was something bothering me?’
Woodend grinned. ‘We were in the same class from the time we started school at five until we left it at fourteen.’
‘True, but—’
‘I’ve always been a nosy bugger. I think that’s why I became a bobby. I watch people – an’ I remember what I’ve seen.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Not like me. There was a girl in our class who you used to fancy. I can’t recall her name at the minute, but—’
Higson laughed. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘You’re talking about Martha Crockton, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Martha Crockton. You were in love with her.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Higson said, slightly awkwardly. Then he grinned. ‘It may not have been love, but just thinking about her was enough to make me mess my pants.’
‘Then it’s close enough,’ Woodend said. ‘When you were five, you used to talk to her about snails an’ snakes. When you were fourteen, you’d talk to her about the latest film that was playin’ at the Alhambra. But what you always wanted to say – right from the beginnin’ – was that you’d be over the moon if she’d agree to come for a walk in the woods with you. You never did say that – but it was always on your mind. I could see it was – just like I can see that there’s somethin’ in your mind right now. So why don’t you tell me what it is?’
‘I’d like to,’ Higson admitted. ‘But there are a couple of obstacles standing in my way, and I’m not sure how to deal with them.’
‘What about dealin’ with them one at a time?’ Woodend suggested.
‘All right,’ Derek Higson agreed. ‘The first one is that I can’t really say what I want to say without putting us both in an embarrassing position.’
‘This is about the murder, is it?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Then I would have thought that our embarrassment would be the least of your concerns. Unless, of course, it involves a third party.’
‘It does.’
‘In what way?’
‘I know things that I probably shouldn’t know as a member of the general public. That’s where the third party comes in.’
‘Oh, I get it now,’ Woodend said. ‘You’ve got friends among the top brass in the Whitebridge Police.’
‘We do tend to move in the same social circles,’ Higson said, almost apologetically.
‘An’ they sometimes feed you the juicer details of the cases we’re involved it?’
‘It’s not something I’ve ever asked them to do,’ Higson said. ‘But the plain fact is that I couldn’t shut them up if I wanted to. They’re a bit like bookies and stockbrokers, who insist on giving you tips. They think they’re doing you a favour. They think you’ll like them for it.’
‘An’ do you?’ Woodend wondered.
‘I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t relish knowing things that are being kept from other people,’ Higson confessed. ‘But that doesn’t mean I think it’s right. And that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel ashamed of myself after I made my telephone call to police headquarters this morning.’
‘You wanted to know the details of Pamela Rainsford’s murder,’ Woodend said.
‘That’s right. But I think – I honestly do believe – that I didn’t do it for any prurient reason. That the only reason I wanted those details was because it might put me in a better position to see if I could help.’
‘An’ who supplied the details?’
‘That, I’d rather not say.’
‘I’d be willin’ to put my money on Mr Marlowe.’
‘And you’d be perfectly entitled to do so. But I’m neither going to deny or confirm it.’
‘So the first thing holdin’ you back was that you didn’t see how you could let me know how much you’d learned about the murder without compromisin’ your mates in the Whitebridge aristocracy,’ Woodend said. ‘What was the second thing?’
‘The second thing is that I’m not a policeman. I don’t know how your minds work, and I don’t know how murderers’ minds work. So when I have a thought – as I did this morning – I’m not sure if I should keep it to myself or not. You see, it might help you to have the perspective of someone who i
s not a professional like you are. On the other hand, my idea might both be totally wrong and sound just plausible enough to skew your view of the case. And I’m not sure I’m prepared to take such a responsibility on myself.’
‘I have to listen to laymen’s opinions all the time,’ Woodend said. ‘I think you can trust me to distinguish between what might be of use an’ what’s a complete waste of time.’
‘Very well,’ Derek Higson said. He took a deep breath. ‘From what Henry Marl— … from what my source in the Force said, I take it that poor Pamela was sexually assaulted before she was killed.’
‘That’s right.’
‘But she wasn’t … how can I put this? … she wasn’t assaulted in the way we would normally assume a woman would be assaulted.’
‘She was penetrated by some kind of instrument, rather than by a penis, if that’s what you mean.’
Derek Higson was growing quite flushed. ‘Yes, that’s what I mean,’ he said, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. ‘But have you asked yourself why such an instrument was used?’
‘There are a range of possibilities. I just haven’t decided which one fits this particular case yet.’
‘But a range of possibilities do exist?’
‘Yes. I’ve just said as much, haven’t I?’
‘Would you mind listing some of them?’
‘Well, for a start, her killer could have been impotent,’ Woodend said. ‘Or he could have decided that his sexual organ wasn’t up to the job of violating her as she deserved to be violated.’
‘Deserved to be violated?’ Derek Higson repeated, looking almost sick.
‘Deserved from his point of view,’ Woodend explained. ‘What he did to her didn’t give him sexual pleasure – or if it did, it was a sexual pleasure far beyond my comprehension. What it really was, as far as I can see, was a punishment.’
‘So her killer knew her?’
‘Not necessarily. At least, he didn’t have to know her as she really was. She might have symbolized his mother to him. Or the wife who humiliated him by running off with another man.’
‘I see,’ Derek Higson said thoughtfully.
‘You still haven’t told me your ideas on the matter,’ Woodend pointed out.
‘After hearing what you’ve just said, I’m not sure I want to,’ Higson confessed. ‘You speak with so much assurance about a world I’m completely ignorant of. I’m sure my ideas will be laughable to you.’
‘Try them out anyway,’ Woodend encouraged.
‘Well, you say that he might have been impotent, or he might have been punishing her – or women in general – but there seems to be one big question that you haven’t even stopped to ask yourself at all,’ Higson said.
‘And what might that be?’
‘How do you know it’s a man at all? Why couldn’t the killer just as easily have been a woman?’
Thirteen
The call came through on the police radio just as Woodend was returning to the New Horizons’ factory with Derek Higson.
‘DCI Evans would like to speak to you, sir,’ the officer on the switchboard said.
‘When?’ Woodend asked.
‘As soon as you can get back to headquarters, sir.’
‘Well, God alone knows when that will be,’ Woodend said. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can, but tell him not to hold his breath, because I’m workin’ on a murder case of my own.’
The switchboard officer coughed embarrassedly. ‘I don’t think that’s quite what the message meant, sir,’ he said.
‘Then what did it mean?’
‘That you are to drop whatever line of inquiry you’re following, and return to headquarters immediately.’
‘You’re sure it means that?’ Woodend asked.
‘Almost certain, sir,’ the switchboard operator told him. ‘We’ve all just had a memo circulated from the Chief Constable’s office. He says, an’ I’m quotin’ here, sir, “DCI Evans’s inquiries are to take precedence over all other investigations. All officers – of whatever rank – are to regard Mr Evans’s priorities as their own, and are to make the necessary adjustments in their own schedules in accordance with his needs.” In other words, sir—’
‘In other words, when DCI Evans says “Jump”, the only question we should be askin’ is “How high?” Have I got that right?’
‘I rather think you have, sir,’ the switchboard operator said.
Woodend kept himself under control while he was signing off, but once he had hung the microphone up he hit his dashboard with such force that the whole car seemed to rattle.
‘They’re bastards!’ he said to the world in general, and no one in particular. ‘They’re a pair of bloody bastards.’
The table in the interview room had always stood squarely in the centre of the floor space, with the interviewee’s seat facing the door, Now, Woodend noted, it had been moved so that it was much closer to the wall. Part of the reason might have been to accommodate the huge reel-to-reel tape recorder which DCI Evans must have brought with him from Preston, but there was also an element of the DCI wanting to make his own mark on his newly colonized territory.
Evans himself was already sitting when Woodend entered the room. Almost any other officer on the Force would have stood up and held out his hand. Evans merely gave the new arrival a dead stare and said, ‘You are Chief Inspector Woodend?’
‘You know bloody well I am,’ Woodend replied.
‘And you know – quite well – that I’m obliged to ask anyway, for the purposes of the record,’ said Evans, pointing to the tape recorder, which was already humming away menacingly.
‘I’m DCI Woodend,’ Woodend confirmed.
‘Then please take a seat.’
Woodend lowered himself into the chair opposite the other man. It wasn’t standard Whitebridge police issue, and it creaked as he put his weight on it. He was prepared to bet that Evans had brought it with him from his own station, that – like the massive tape recorder – he saw it as just one more prop in his travelling inquisitorial show.
Woodend looked into the other man’s eyes – an experience not unlike staring into the eyes of a dead fish. The last time they’d met – the last time they’d clashed – Evans had not only spectacularly failed to make the charges stick, but had seen his case proved to be a fabrication from start to finish. That would have been enough to make any other man feel slightly uncomfortable about this new confrontation, but Evans showed not the slightest sign of either embarrassment or remorse.
‘You arrived at the Rutters’ house shortly after the explosion,’ Evans said. ‘Is that correct?’
‘No, it isn’t. I arrived just before the explosion. If I’d been any earlier, I wouldn’t have been here to talk to you now.’
Evans’s lips twitched slightly, as if he were relishing the thought of Woodend being blown into several pieces.
‘You went into the house,’ he said.
‘Of course I went into the house.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought runnin’ the risk of gettin’ burned to death might make a bit of a change.’
‘Your sarcasm is not appreciated,’ Evans said.
‘Then stop askin’ such bloody daft questions.’
‘I’ll ask you again. Why did you go into the house?’
‘I thought there might be a chance of savin’ Maria an’ the baby.’
‘Though, as it happened, your schoolboy heroics were unnecessary.’
‘That’s right,’ Woodend agreed heavily. ‘The baby wasn’t there – an’ Maria was already dead.’
‘The fire spread quite quickly, didn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘A damn sight too quickly.’
‘Did you ask yourself why that was?’
‘Not at the time. I had other things on my mind.’
‘And now you’ve had time to think about it?’
‘I suppose it was helped to spread.’
‘That’s correct. The murderer had laid a tr
ail of paraffin from the kitchen to other parts of the house. His intention was probably to destroy all the evidence, but his actions had quite the opposite effect. If he’d confined the fire to the kitchen, it would have been much more intense, and all we would have had to give to the medical examiner would have been a few cinders. As it was, the cadaver was really in quite an acceptable condition.’
Woodend shuddered. The ‘cadaver’ was Maria, he reminded himself. And he didn’t even want to think about what ‘acceptable condition’ meant.
‘What I still don’t see is why you had any reason to visit the Rutter house at all,’ Evans said.
‘You make it sound as if I’d never been there before. Bob Rutter is a colleague—’
‘And he was in the house, was he? Or, at least, he had been there recently, and you just missed him?’
‘No. Bob was out workin’ on the current investigation.’
‘So you didn’t expect to find him there?’
‘No.’
‘Then I return to my original question, Chief Inspector. What were you doing there?’
‘I went to see Maria.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed! Maria is – or was – a close personal friend.’
‘Despite the difference in your ages?’
Woodend shook his head, almost despairingly. ‘You really have no notion of what friendship is, do you, Mr Evans?’
‘Perhaps not, at least in your terms. So why don’t you explain this friendship to me.’
‘We were friends because I liked her – right from the start – and she liked me. It wasn’t that we had any particular interest in common, like model railways or whippets. It was an instinctive thing.’
‘How close was this friendship of yours?’
‘Oh, I see the direction that nasty little mind of yours is goin’ in,’ Woodend said. ‘Maria an’ I were lovers, were we? Then Bob found out about it, an’ killed her in a fit of jealousy?’
‘It’s a possibility. Were you lovers?’
‘No, we weren’t. But if we had been, it wouldn’t have been Maria that Bob went after – it would have been me!’
Dying in the Dark Page 9
