Pamela Rainsford had lived on the top floor of number 33, Hebden Brow. Many of the occupants of upper-storey flats on the Brow were obliged to enter their houses through a communal front door, but Pamela had been lucky in this respect, since there was a cast-iron staircase running up the outside of the building which gave her a private entrance.
‘Nice for her,’ Paniatowski thought as she climbed the stairs. ‘Nice for her – and unlucky for us.’
She had not known quite what to expect from the flat. Would it reveal Pamela’s penchant for risky sex in public places? Would her flirtatious nature – so sourly noted by Mr Bascombe – be obvious from the decor? Or would the picture presented be one of the neat, thoroughly respectable, young woman who Derek Higson imagined had worked as his secretary?
She opened the door, and felt a wave of disappointment wash over her as she saw that, at first glance at least, it was the thoroughly respectable side of Pamela which was on show.
The furniture was light, modern and nondescript – more Whitebridge High Street than New Horizons Enterprises. There were scatter cushions in royal blue on the sofa and armchair, and a poster showing James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause on the wall. The curtains matched the cloth which covered the sofa, the carpet had been chosen to blend in with the curtains.
The kitchen revealed a tidy mind. The plates were neatly stacked in the appropriate place, the pans thoroughly scoured, the knives and forks laid in the drawer with almost military precision.
It was only when she reached the bedroom wardrobe that Paniatowski felt a quickening of interest. The wardrobe was clearly divided into two halves. On the left side were the clothes that Pamela must have worn to work – respectable dresses and almost severe suits. To the right were clothes of an entirely different nature – dresses which failed to cover the knees, blouses which plunged to reveal a dangerous amount of cleavage.
Yet what had the search really told her? Paniatowski wondered, as she paused to light yet another cigarette.
That Pamela liked to attract men? She already knew that.
That she kept her life as a secretary and her life as a vamp apart? That had been evident for some time.
What would Charlie Woodend – the old Charlie Woodend – had made of all this? Paniatowski wondered. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that he was in the room with her.
‘Pamela Rainsford liked to show off, an’ she liked to run the risk of bein’ caught,’ Woodend’s deep voice said in her head.
‘I know that, sir,’ Monika said softly, to the empty flat.
‘You might know it, but you’ve not really thought about it – you haven’t really put yourself in her situation,’ the voice rumbled on.
‘Haven’t I?’
‘No, you bloody haven’t. Think about your own situation. What’s the best thing, as far as you’re concerned, about investigatin’ a case?’
‘Bringing the criminal to justice?’
‘Save that sort of guff for your promotions board. What’s in it for you? How often do you enjoy the case while it’s in progress?’
‘Not very often. It’s usually a bit like coming down with a bad case of the ’flu.’
‘So what do you enjoy?’
‘Reliving it.’
‘Reliving it how?’
‘If I’m honest, I suppose I’d have to say I like wallowing in the triumph of it all.’
‘Aye, a bit like a pig rollin’ in shit,’ the imaginary Woodend said dryly. ‘An’ do you do this wallowin’ alone?’
‘You know I don’t. I do it in the Drum, with you and …’ her voice choked slightly, ‘… and Bob.’
‘This is no time for emotionalism,’ the imaginary Woodend said sternly. ‘Could Pamela relive her triumphs with anybody else?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the only people she could have relived them with would have been the boyfriends. If the others are anything like the one I talked to, they wouldn’t have been around any longer.’
‘So?’
‘So she’ll have kept a diary!’
‘Aye, that’s more than likely, isn’t it?’
The diary was hidden under a loose floorboard beneath the bedroom carpet. It wasn’t the best hiding place in the world, Paniatowski thought, but perhaps that was precisely why Pamela had chosen it. Knowing how vulnerable it was – how easily a determined person could find it – would only add to the danger and enhance the thrill.
When the two constables heard the sound of footsteps at the other end of the police garage, they already had the boot of the dark-green Ford Cortina GT open and were examining the contents. As the footsteps drew closer, the constables straightened up and saw a large man in a hairy tweed jacket walking towards them.
‘I never know what I’ll find you doin’ next, Beresford,’ Woodend said jovially. ‘Beat policeman, driver, forensics examiner – you’re a jack-of-all-trades, an’ no question about it.’
‘I went on a Home Office course for this kind of work, sir,’ Beresford said, in a flat voice. ‘It’s as well to have a number of strings to your bow.’
‘Aye, it is,’ Woodend agreed.
The constables did not resume their examination, but neither did they make any effort to continue the conversation.
‘Nice set of wheels,’ Woodend said, after what seemed like an unbearable amount of time had elapsed. ‘Wouldn’t mind ownin’ one of these buggers myself. I expect you wouldn’t mind one, either.’
‘No, sir, I wouldn’t,’ Beresford replied, his voice still toneless.
Another silence followed.
‘I hope you’re not goin’ to damage it,’ Woodend said, trying his best not to sound too desperate. ‘It’d be almost a crime in itself to pull a nice shiny new car like this to pieces.’
‘We’re not going to pull it to pieces, sir,’ Beresford said.
‘So what are you goin’ to do with it? Polish the bodywork an’ check the tyre pressures?’
Woodend laughed, to show he had been making a joke, but the constables didn’t join in.
‘No, we’re not going to do that, either, sir,’ Beresford said, unsmilingly.
‘So what are you goin’ to do?’
‘We’re going to examine it, sir.’
‘Examine it,’ Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘That’s an awfully general term, isn’t it? What will you be lookin’ for specifically?’
‘Couldn’t say specifically, sir.’
Woodend frowned. ‘Couldn’t say? Or won’t say?’
‘With respect, sir, we’re doing some specific work for Chief Inspector Evans.’
‘There’s very little difference between the two roads, you know,’ Woodend said.
‘I’m afraid I’m not following you, sir.’
‘Elm Croft an’ Ash Croft. They’re on the same estate. Not a hundred yards apart, in fact. So any mud you find in the tyre treads could have come from either of them.’
‘Sir, I don’t think—’
‘All I’m sayin’ is, you shouldn’t jump to any conclusions,’ Woodend said hastily. ‘Don’t assume that the first thought that comes into your heads is necessarily the right one. Consider all the other possibilities. That’s the essence of good detective work.’
‘I don’t think we’re supposed to be discussing our work with you, sir,’ Beresford said.
‘Who’s even askin’ you to discuss anythin’?’ Woodend said, aiming for hearty but merely sounding weak. ‘All I’m doin’ – as a senior an’ more experienced police officer – is takin’ the time to point out to you that there are certain pitfalls you should try to avoid.’
Beresford took a deep breath. ‘With the greatest possible respect, sir, that’s not what you’re doing at all.’
‘Then what am I doin’?’
‘You’re asking us to treat this examination differently to any other we might carry out.’
‘Now why would I do that?’
‘Because we both k
now this particular car belongs to a member of your team.’
Woodend bowed his head, ashamed. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he admitted. ‘I was askin’ you to treat it differently, an’ I apologize unreservedly for ever puttin’ you two lads in such an awkward situation. You’ll accept my apology, won’t you, Beresford?’
‘Of course we will, sir,’ Beresford said. ‘A boss should look after his team, and in your position, I’d probably have acted in exactly the same way.’ He hesitated. ‘But … er …’
‘But you’re still goin’ to have to report this conversation to DCI Evans – an’ possibly to Mr Marlowe as well?’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry but—’
‘Now there’s nothin’ for you to be sorry about,’ Woodend told him. ‘I’m the one who’s overstepped the bounds. You’d be in dereliction of your duty if you didn’t report it.’
‘Under the circumstances, that’s very understanding of you, sir,’ Beresford said gratefully.
Woodend managed to produce a grin which was almost genuine. ‘Understanding?’ he repeated. ‘Bollocks, lad, it’s just common sense.’
Bob Rutter gazed at the chocolate-and-cream-coloured wall of the police station holding cell.
Several previous occupants – perhaps through boredom, perhaps through desperation – had left a record of their time in there by scratching words into the cement.
‘I am inosent,’ one of them had written.
‘The police is bastards!’ a second had gouged in large, angry letters.
‘Forgive me, Alice,’ a third had written.
And a fourth – someone with a sense of humour of sorts – had inscribed the word ‘Exit’, with an arrow below it pointing to the floor.
Rutter had read all the words many times, as if they were a favourite book he kept returning to. Blindfold him, and he could still have pointed to exactly where they were. But he was not reading them at that moment. Instead, he was thinking of the future.
The future? his mind mocked. What future?
In a little more than twenty-fours, DCI Evans would either have to charge him or release him. And from the conversations he had had with the bullet-headed Chief Inspector, he was in no doubt as to which of these two available options Evans would choose.
He thought about his interview with Evans. What had he been doing between the time he had left home and the time he had returned to the burnt-out shell? the DCI from Preston had asked him. He’d just been driving around, he’d replied. Driving around where? Evans had demanded. And he’d said that he couldn’t remember. That had been true at the time. Shocked as he had been by Maria’s death, he had no idea where he’d been the previous night. But slowly his memory had come back to him, and now he had filled in quite a number of the gaps. Perhaps he should ask to see Evans again, because surely what he had remembered would give him an alibi of sorts. But the DCI would never listen. Why should he, when he was already convinced he had his man?
Once the charges had been laid, Rutter thought, returning to visions of his gloomy future, he would exchange this cell in the police station – which was home ground – for another cell in a remand centre completely unknown to him. He would, in other words, be entering enemy territory without any means to defend himself.
The authorities in the remand centre might just keep quiet about the fact he was a policeman, since they knew full well what happened to bobbies who’d been locked up.
Of course, they could always choose to go the other way – could it make it perfectly plain who he was, because they’d decided that a policeman who had gone bad deserved all that was coming to him.
And a great deal would be coming to him, if that happened.
Scalding tea would be thrown on his crotch and into his face. He would be beaten up on a daily basis. He might even be gang-raped if the other prisoners sensed – quite rightly – that he would consider this to be the ultimate humiliation.
It was even possible that he would be killed before he ever went to trial. And that, in a way, would be a relief.
An escape!
He pictured himself standing in the dock and listening to the sentence being passed. He could almost hear the judge’s words.
‘In all my years on the bench I have never come across a more shocking case than this one. The defendant was a senior police officer, in whom we had placed our trust. And he betrayed that trust by committing the most heinous of all crimes. He murdered a woman! A defenceless woman. A blind woman.’
There would be no mercy shown to him. He would receive the stiffest sentence the law made it possible to impose.
How old would the baby be when he came out of prison – if he ever did come out? In her twenties, at least. A grown woman – a woman who would be a complete stranger to him, yet would hate him as much as one human being could ever hate another.
He looked around the cell. The custody officer had taken his belt and shoelaces from him, as was standard procedure, but if he wished to hang himself then the bed-sheets would prove a more-than-adequate substitute.
Perhaps that was what they all wanted, he suddenly realized.
Perhaps they were willing him to hang himself.
And perhaps he would oblige them.
Twenty-One
As Woodend drove towards New Horizons Enterprises, he had an uneasy feeling in his gut which was so alien to his normal self that for quite some time he had no idea what it was.
It’s guilt! he thought with a sudden flash of insight, as he pulled into the car park. It’s bloody guilt!
And it had every right to be there, he quickly decided. He owed it to Pamela – just as he owed it to every murder victim whose case he’d investigated – to see that the killer was caught. And nothing – not even Bob’s desperate state – could absolve him of that responsibility.
Yet had he been doing his job as well as he might have done? Had he buggery!
He got out of his car and slammed the door brutally behind him. He would get to the bottom of this case whatever it cost him, he promised himself. Even if he couldn’t save Bob, he would at least prove that justice could be done sometimes.
Woodend was struck by a feeling of déjà vu the moment he entered the upholstery workshop. Looking around him at the legion of small men – and they did all seem to be small – who were busily engaged in stretching fabric, hammering in studs and screwing pieces of wood together, he tried to work out why it should seem so familiar to him. And then he had it. The place reminded him of the picture books of his childhood. It was as if he’d walked into Father Christmas’s workshop, and found all his elves hard at work.
‘Can’t you get a job here if you’re tall?’ he asked the foreman, Tom Doyle, who was no giant himself.
Doyle grinned good-naturedly. ‘Big men aren’t suited to it,’ he said. ‘Big men have big hands, you see, and for this kind of work you need to have the delicate touch. You’d be a rubbish ottoman-maker yourself.’
‘I expect I would,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Seems to be a thriving business you’ve got here.’
‘It is,’ Doyle agreed. ‘We go from strength to strength. Mind you, it was a different story a few years back. There was a period when I was almost convinced we’d go under.’
‘So what turned things around?’
‘Hard to say exactly,’ Doyle admitted. ‘One thing, of course, is that people started gettin’ more money in their pockets, an’ once they could afford it, they decided to buy quality. But there’s more to it than that. When Mr Higson’s first wife died, he seemed to lose most of his interest in the business. Things weren’t bein’ run as they should have been.’
‘An’ when did he start to get his interest back? When he got married the second time?’
‘Yes,’ Doyle said, slightly warily.
‘You don’t seem sure,’ Woodend said.
‘Look, I don’t want to knock Mr Higson,’ Doyle said. ‘He’s always treated his workers well. Besides, he’s a brilliant salesman, to judge by the amount of ord
ers we keep gettin’ in. And that matters, does gettin’ orders, because even if you make the best furniture in the world – an’ ours come pretty close to that, in my opinion – it’s a wasted effort unless you can persuade somebody to buy it.’
‘But …?’ Woodend said.
‘But what?’
‘But what is it you’re holdin’ back?’
Doyle sighed. ‘He’s got a lot goin’ for him, as I said, but he’s far too impulsive to handle the day-to-day runnin’ of the company properly. An’ that’s where Mrs Higson comes in.’
‘You think she’s the one who actually keeps the factory tickin’ over?’
‘Think? I know it for a fact. But for God’s sake, don’t quote me.’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because she wouldn’t like it to be generally known.’
‘Any reason for that?’ Woodend wondered.
‘From what I’ve seen in this life, there’s three kinds of women in the world,’ Doyle said. ‘There’s the doormats, who let their husbands walk all over ’em. Then there’s the dragons, who like everybody else to know their husbands don’t fart without askin’ their permission first. But there’s a third kind – a rare breed indeed – an’ Mrs Higson is one of them.’
Woodend grinned. Since the moment Maria Rutter’s kitchen had exploded, he seemed to have inhabited a poisoned planet all of his own, and the chirpy foreman was a welcome breath of fresh air.
‘So what do you call the third kind of women?’ he asked.
‘Angels,’ Doyle said. ‘I call them angels, an’ Mrs Higson’s the one right at the very top of the Christmas tree. She’s one of them women who does everythin’ she can for her husband, yet leaves him with the impression that his balls are still his own.’
‘And what kind of woman was Pamela Rainsford?’ Woodend asked.
‘Depends on where she was, an’ who she was with,’ Doyle said, a little cautiously.
‘Would you care to explain that?’
‘I’m not sure I can.’
Woodend laughed. ‘Come on, Mr Doyle! The way you’ve got with words, you could explain anythin’ you put your mind to.’
Dying in the Dark Page 15
