Dying in the Dark

by Sally Spencer

  ‘True,’ Melton agreed. ‘But I was around then like I’m around now – we work hard in the motor trade – and I didn’t see any harm in letting him have his vehicle back.’

  ‘And you’re sure about the time?’

  ‘Absolutely. I left straight after that, and was in the Roebuck, ordering my gin-fizz, by a quarter to nine. Besides, look at the record. It’s all down here in black and white.’

  So Bob was picking up his car just ten minutes before the explosion at his house, Woodend thought. Which meant that there was no way that the car Bascombe had seen parked just up the road from his house could have been Bob’s.

  No way at all!

  Bob Rutter had often wondered how habitual criminals could almost seem to welcome a fresh term of imprisonment, but his own incarceration had given him a small insight into their minds.

  It was the routine they liked, he decided – the fact that they knew when they would eat and when they would be allowed to exercise, what privileges they would be granted automatically over time and which they would have to do something extra to earn. Prison, he now saw, took away the need to make decisions for themselves, and for those of them who found life outside difficult to handle – and sometimes even incomprehensible – such order must come as something of a relief.

  Even the amount of light they were granted was both regular and dependable. At that moment, the overhead lamp was providing him with sufficient illumination to write by. But that wouldn’t continue for long. Soon, at the preordained time, it would be dimmed. Not extinguished, just dimmed. There would be enough light for him to find his way from his bed to the toilet – and enough light left for anyone looking in the through the spy-hole to see him doing it – but not so much that sleep would be impossible.

  So if he were going to finish his letter – the letter they would find later, when it was all over – then he had better do it while the bright light lasted.

  He looked down at what he had written so far. The letter was addressed to Charlie Woodend. It started with an apology for the inconvenience he was causing, and went on the thank Woodend for all the help and encouragement he had given over the years.

  ‘We were a good team,’ he wrote, then instantly crossed it out.

  It didn’t matter that they’d been a good team, he told himself. It didn’t matter that they’d shared jokes, and drinks, and problems. What had happened to Maria was now the only important milestone in his life, and everything which had gone before it was as nothing.

  Besides, none of that was the main point of the letter – none of that had anything to do with leaving his affairs in order.

  He didn’t have much of an estate to pass on to his daughter, he wrote – a house with twenty-three years of mortgage payments still outstanding, a new car which it would probably be easy enough to sell, a few savings in the bank – but he would like Woodend to be the trustee of what little there was until the child was old enough to handle it herself.

  He wondered if he should close by proclaiming his innocence, as the half-literate previous occupant of the cell had done on the wall.

  But there wouldn’t be much point in that, would there? Because Woodend either already believed that, or he didn’t – and mere words would not sway him one way or the other.

  He thought of writing a letter to his daughter – but what would he say?

  I didn’t kill your mother!

  By the time she was old enough to read the letter herself, her mother would be someone else entirely – someone she hadn’t even met yet. If she knew about her natural mother – the beautiful Spanish woman who had struggled and strained to give birth to her – it would only be because she had been told about her by someone else. And as for her natural father – the man accused of taking her mother’s life – it would be better if she never learned of him at all.

  The light over his head dimmed right on schedule, and he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside.

  Constable Fletcher – Fatty Fletcher, as he was known to everyone at the station – making his rounds. If he followed his regular routine that night, he would walk to the end of the corridor, then turn around and walk back, stopping to check each spy-hole on the way.

  Rutter climbed into his bed and pulled the sheet and blanket over him. He shut his eyes and remained perfectly still when he heard the shutter on the spy-hole being slid open. Once the shutter had slid closed again, he counted slowly up to twenty. Finally, sure it was now safe to do so, he threw off his bedding and swung his legs on to the floor.

  Fletcher would have reached his office by now, he calculated. The next step would be to brew himself a cup of tea, and once he firmly ensconced his fat arse on his padded chair, he would be very reluctant to get off it again for at least a couple of hours.

  But what if a new prisoner was admitted to the holding cells? Rutter thought with a sudden wave of panic. Wouldn’t Fatty Fletcher, once he had locked the man safely way, decide that – since he was on his feet – he might as well check the other cells again?

  Rutter trembled at the thought of being discovered – hanging, but not yet dead. Of all the humiliations he might expect to suffer, that would be the worst.

  He forced himself to calm down – to consider the matter rationally. Prisoners weren’t brought in and then locked up straight away, he reminded himself. There was a whole admissions procedure to be gone through. They had to be photographed. They had to be fingerprinted. Forms had to be filled in. Even in the hands of the speediest officer – and Fletcher was far from that – it would be half an hour before the prisoner could be locked up. And half an hour was more than enough time for a man to take his own life.

  Rutter separated his sheet from his blanket, and then began to twist the sheet into something resembling a rope. It was a rough sheet, he thought as he worked, but it was strong enough. It would certainly hold his weight.

  Twenty-Three

  It had been a mistake to drive out on to the moors, Paniatowski told herself.

  She’d thought, when she’d made the decision, that the isolation would provide the right atmosphere in which to study Pamela Rainsford’s diary. But it hadn’t worked out like that. Not at all. The sight of the stark, savagely beautiful, landscape had not cleared her head – it had filled it with memories of Bob Rutter.

  They had walked there – she and Bob – hand in hand. And as they walked they had both tried to forget that in little more than an hour – or two at the very most – they would have to part again, she to drive back to her lonely flat, he to return to his wife and child.

  They had made love in isolated spots, not – as Pamela Rainsford had – because they were thrilled by the prospect of discovery, but because they had nowhere else to go.

  It had been a desperate affair from the start. They had both known that. Had known, too, that it would have to end eventually.

  Yet they had never imagined it would end in the way that it had – would never have dreamed that their passionate couplings would lead to the death of Bob’s wife and the destruction of his own life.

  And my life too! Paniatowski thought. Mine is destroyed because I’ll carry with me to the grave the knowledge that if I’d left Bob alone, Maria would still be here.

  She sat in the driving seat of the MGA, wracked by her sobs, hugging herself tightly. The watery autumn sun made its descent over the horizon, and darkness began to fall. She did not notice it. Wrapped up as she was in her misery, she did not even register how cold it was getting. Why should she register it, when her whole world was cold – and would remain cold for now and evermore?

  Finally, at around eight o’clock, she saw a solution to her problems. There was a piece of rubber tubing in the boot of her car, she remembered. She had used it once or twice to siphon petrol. Now she would put it to quite some other use.

  She ran through the steps in her mind. Switch on the engine. Take the rubber tubing from the boot. Place one end of the tubing over the exhaust, and feed the other end throu
gh the window. Close all the windows, then sit back and relax.

  She switched on the engine. The air which blew though the heater was cold at first, but as the engine warmed up, so did the car, and she felt some life begin to return to her numb arms and legs.

  She lit a cigarette. The thought came to her mind that it would be foolish to kill herself quickly, when she could do it more pleasurably – though infinitely more expensively – through excessive drinking and smoking.

  She laughed. She had not intended to, but she took it as a good sign. It appeared that, contrary to all the evidence, there was still some fight – some spirit – left in her.

  She reached for the torch she kept in the glove compartment, switched it on, and picked up Pamela Rainsford’s diary.

  It was not so much a diary as a thick, leather-bound notebook which Pamela had used as a diary. Nor was there an entry every day. Sometimes a fortnight would pass without her feeling the need to put pen to paper, then there would be a number of passages on consecutive days.

  It soon became clear that Pamela had never felt any desire to comment on the weather, where she had been or what she bought. The book served simply as a record of her sexual exploits. No more and no less.

  Paniatowski resisted the urge to start reading from the end of the journal, and began with one of the earlier entries. Pamela had written in her small, tight handwriting:

  7th June, 1961. First time with PT Did it on the back seat of his Morris. He was terrified someone would see us. That only made it better for me! The more frightened he grew, the more excited I was. We only just finished before the breakdown truck arrived. The AA mechanic was big and rough. I could see his muscles bulging under his shirt. Did he know what we’d been doing before he arrived? I think so. I could see it in his eyes. And he wished it had been him instead of PT!

  And so did you, Pamela, Monika thought. I’ve met Peter Tewson, with his concerns about his modest career and his honeymoon in Bournemouth already booked. He didn’t seem to me to be the kind of man who could keep a woman like you happy for long!

  13th August, 1961. We did it in the woods. This time we were both naked. I insisted on that. And some lads saw us! I don’t know how long they were watching, but I think they must have seen the whole thing. We ran away – because that’s what PT wanted to do! When we’d got our breath back I was still so excited that I wanted to do it again. But he wouldn’t. To be honest, I don’t think he could have, even if he’d wanted to. I’m getting rather bored with him.

  Other entries followed. More men, more love-making in places where the lovers were likely to be discovered.

  Some readers of the diary might have found it stimulating, Paniatowski thought, but to her it seemed both dreary and really rather sad. It was only when she got to a series of entries which began a year earlier that she started to feel a real prick of interest.

  Went out with Lulu tonight. God, what a bitch! And God, how right we are for each other! And all the time we’ve been together at New Horizons, I never suspected! Never even imagined! I thought I was daring, but I’m nothing compared to her She runs risks I’d never have thought of taking. And I love it!

  Paniatowski flicked through to the end of the journal – to the last few entries Pamela made before she died.

  7th October, 1964. Lulu’s the one! I’m sure of it. I want her with me always. I’ll never grow tired of her.

  9th October, 1964. I told Lulu how I felt. I expected her to be deliriously happy, but she wasn’t. When I talked about the two of us going away together, a blank look came into her eyes. She said there were other people involved, not just us and we had to think about them. I told her she’d better think about them. She asked me what I meant by that, and I said that I wondered how these other people would feel if they found out what she was really like. That set her thinking!

  19th October, 1964. Lulu’s given in! She says she’ll do whatever I want! She’s asked me to meet her by the canal, after work, tomorrow. I said, ‘Why the canal?’ and she said she had something special planned. I can hardly wait.

  Paniatowski closed the journal.

  You went too far in the end, Pamela Rainsford, she thought. You should never have tried to blackmail Lulu in the way that you did, because that’s what cost you your life.

  Constable Fletcher was sitting in his chair, pleasantly dozing, when he felt the finger prodding into his arm. At first he tried to ignore it, but when it persisted he opened his eyes and saw the big man in the hairy tweed sports coat standing over him.

  ‘Oh, hello there, Mr Woodend, sir,’ he said. ‘Is there somethin’ I can do for you?’

  ‘Yes, there is, Fletch,’ Woodend told him. ‘I need to have a talk with Bob Rutter.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  ‘We can’t all sleep on the job, you know,’ Woodend said. ‘Some of us have real work to do.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ I was asleep, sir?’

  ‘Weren’t you?’

  ‘No, I most certainly was not,’ Fletcher said, looking as dignified as his podgy frame allowed. ‘I was just thinkin’. An’ I find I always think better when I’ve got my eyes closed.’

  ‘Then no doubt it wasn’t really snorin’ that I heard comin’ from that mouth of yours,’ Woodend said. ‘Can I see Mr Rutter now?’

  ‘Inspector Rutter’s Mr Evans’s prisoner,’ Fletcher said. ‘Have you got his authorization to make the visit?’

  ‘Do I need it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Then let’s assume that I don’t.’

  ‘Strictly speakin’ I’m not certain I can do that, sir.’

  ‘An’ strictly speakin’, I suppose I should report you for thinkin’ on the job,’ Woodend countered.

  Fletcher winced. ‘Old hands like us don’t always stick to the book, do we?’ he asked, struggling to his feet and reaching for his keys. ‘You won’t want long with Mr Rutter, will you?’

  No, Woodend thought. Just long enough to have Bob confirm that he didn’t pick up his new car until eight thirty, thus making it impossible for it to be the same car that Bascombe had seen. And once that had been established – once he was really sure of his ground – he would go after that bastard Evans.

  ‘I’ll only need about five minutes,’ he told Constable Fletcher. ‘Will that be all right?’

  ‘Five minutes isn’t long,’ the fat constable agreed. ‘It’s hardly worth botherin’ notin’ five minutes down in the record book.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, is it?’ Woodend agreed.

  Constable Fletcher headed for the holding cells, with Woodend close on his heel.

  The fact that Bob’s car hadn’t been the one on Bascombe’s street did not prove that Rutter couldn’t have killed his wife, Woodend cautioned himself. But it did raise serious questions about the way DCI Evans had been conducting his case. And it was certainly enough of a mistake on Evans’s part to give him grounds for demanding that all the other evidence the chief inspector from Preston had collected should be gone over again with a fine-toothed comb.

  ‘Here we are, sir,’ Fletcher said, stopping in front of one the metal doors. ‘Holdin’ Cell Number Three. The best room in the house.’

  ‘Do you think it’s funny that one of your colleagues may be facin’ a murder charge?’ Woodend growled.

  ‘Well, no, not exactly,’ Fletcher said, surprised by Woodend’s change of mood. ‘But you can’t always treat life as if it was deadly serious, can you?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Probably not,’ Woodend agreed. ‘And I hope you won’t mind if I don’t treat it seriously the next time you’re up shit creek.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to take offence, sir,’ Fletcher said huffily, as he slid back the eye hole. ‘I was only tryin’ to … Oh, my God!’

  Woodend pushed the fat constable roughly to one side, and peered through the spy-hole himself. What he should have seen was a bed and a small table. But he didn’t. He couldn’t – because his view was blocked by a pair o
f hanging legs.

  Twenty-Four

  From his vantage point inside the Chief Constable’s office, Woodend had a perfect view of the early morning sky. He watched as the heavy grey clouds massed as a prelude to launching their first angry attack of the day on the ground below. It was going to be one hell of a storm when it got started.

  A single drop of rain – an advance guard – hit the Chief Constable’s window with all the force and determination it could muster, but to no avail. The glass remained totally unmoved by the encounter. The raindrop itself spattered on impact, then slowly and brokenly trickled downwards.

  It never had a chance, Woodend thought, watching its progress with morbid fascination. It never had a bloody chance.

  The Chief Constable – who had spent the previous five minutes on the phone, firming up the arrangements to meet a friend of his at some conference or other – finally said goodbye and placed the receiver back on its rest.

  ‘Well, you were the one who requested this meeting, Mr Woodend,’ he said. ‘And as I’m only here to adjudicate, I suppose that you’re the one should get us started.’

  Only there to adjudicate! Woodend thought with disgust. The Chief Constable was only there to adjudicate – only to see that there was fair play between him and DCI Evans. So why were Marlowe and Evans both sitting on the same side of the Chief Constable’s bloody desk?

  Woodend cleared his throat. ‘I’m unhappy with the way that DCI Evans is conductin’ the Maria Rutter murder investigation,’ he said.

  ‘From what I can recall of your previous escapades, the only officer who you’re ever happy to see conducting a case is yourself,’ Marlowe said, showing right from the start just how even-handed he actually intended to be. ‘But we’ll leave that aside for the moment. What, specifically, is the nature of your complaint against Mr Evans?’

  ‘He’s not gone into the investigation with an open mind. He’s lettin’ his pre-existin’ prejudices determine the way the case develops.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Marlowe said. ‘And I trust you have some examples to back this up.’