Thirteen
The pale blue Ford Anglia, which Woodend had borrowed from one of his neighbours, blended in well with the other cars parked on the early-morning streets of Birkdale, a housing estate located on the south side of Whitebridge.
The estate was a fairly new development. It was considered by many people in Whitebridge to be a highly desirable place in which to live, and its residents – drawn from the ranks of primary school teachers, clerks, driving instructors and factory foremen – were quietly complacent about having had the foresight to move into it. Yet despite their complacency, even they would be prepared to admit that Birkdale could not compare with the Castlewood Estate, a recent project of T. A. Taylor and Associates, on the north side of town. All the houses in Castlewood were detached, and were occupied by solicitors, factory managers and doctors. Such places were well beyond the reach of people like them – and of low-ranking police officers like DC Clive Battersby.
Woodend glanced through the windscreen of the Anglia at Battersby’s house and those on either side of it. The one to the left had an elaborate nameplate on the front wall, announcing that it was called ‘Camelot’. The one to the right had a brass carriage lamp over its door. Battersby’s house had neither a nameplate nor a carriage lamp. Even from a distance, the Chief Inspector could see that the front windows could have done with a good cleaning and that the paint on the front door was starting to flake.
‘Are you sure that Clive’s the one we should be looking at?’ Paniatowski asked, from the passenger seat of the Anglia.
‘He’s not the only one,’ Woodend replied. ‘He isn’t even one of the main players. But he’s certainly involved in some way in the whole bloody mess – because the prints from Dugdale’s Farm could never have gone missing without his co-operation.’
DC Battersby’s front door swung open, and the detective constable himself stepped out. He was wearing a shabby camelhair coat which was open wide enough to reveal a chain-store blue suit, a badly ironed white shirt and a dark, carelessly knotted tie.
‘How long is it now since his wife ran off with the coal man?’ Woodend asked.
‘A year? Eighteen months?’
‘He’s not standin’ up particularly well to the difficulties of copin’ on his own, is he?’
‘Not well at all.’
‘On the other hand, he doesn’t really look rough enough to have called in sick – especially in the middle of an important murder inquiry.’
Battersby walked down his path, and came to a halt in front of a battered old Morris Minor.
‘Is that his own car?’ Woodend asked.
‘It’s certainly what he’s been driving lately – but he used to have a Ford Cortina.’
‘It’s not a swop I’d have made,’ Woodend said.
Battersby took his keys out of his overcoat pocket, selected one by feel, and tried to slide it into the lock in the driver’s door. When the key refused to go in, he looked first down at his hand, then glared up at the sky – as if he suspected God of playing a malicious trick on him. As he was selecting another key, the ring slipped out of his hand and clattered on to the pavement.
‘He’s nervous,’ Woodend said.
‘Very,’ Paniatowski agreed.
Battersby retrieved the keys, opened the door successfully this time, and climbed into the car. He had some difficulty getting the vehicle started – probably because he was being too impatient – but eventually the engine coughed into some kind of life, and the Morris pulled away from the curb.
Woodend waited for a few seconds, then followed in the Anglia.
‘Aren’t you afraid he’ll spot us?’ Paniatowski asked, noticing the absence of other traffic.
‘The state he’s in at the moment, he wouldn’t spot us if we were Bertram Mills’ Circus on his tail,’ Woodend replied.
At the edge of the Birkdale estate the Morris Minor turned right, on to the main road.
‘He’s going into the centre of Whitebridge,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Isn’t that a bit of a risk, when he’s supposed to be at home sick?’
‘Maybe he’s goin’ to see his doctor,’ Woodend said.
But neither of them really believed that that was where Constable Battersby was heading.
They passed the sign which welcomed careful drivers to Whitebridge, and reached a road junction. The new shopping centre lay to the left, the police headquarters to the right. Battersby made a left turn.
Woodend pulled up at the curb. ‘This is as far as you go,’ he told Paniatowski.
‘Why?’
‘Because the way things are at the moment, it wouldn’t be very clever of us to be seen in the same car.’
‘To hell with that,’ Paniatowski said fiercely.
‘I appreciate your loyalty,’ Woodend told her. ‘But stayin’ with me now would be crossin’ the line between support an’ stupidity.’
‘Sir⎯’
‘Out!’
Paniatowski opened the passenger door, stepped out on to the icy pavement, and slammed the door again with rather more force than was strictly necessary. Woodend waited until she was clear of the car, then pulled out into the stream of traffic again.
Battersby parked at one end of the car park on top of the shopping centre, Woodend – playing it carefully – parked at the other. By the time the Chief Inspector was getting out of the Anglia, the fingerprint expert had already reached the stairs.
Woodend sprinted across the asphalt, then took the stairs two at a time. As he reached the shopping level he caught sight of Battersby heading towards the central piazza.
The detective constable walked hurriedly passed a Curry’s electrical store, William Hill’s bookmakers, a dry cleaner’s and a butcher’s. When he drew level with T. A. Taylor’s Turf Accountants, he dived through the door as if he had spotted an oasis in the middle of a desert.
If he was in such a hurry to place a bet, why hadn’t he gone into William Hill’s? Woodend wondered.
But he already knew the answer – a gambler will only willingly pass the nearest betting shop when his line of credit there has completely dried up.
Woodend waited for a minute, then pushed the door of the betting shop open and stepped inside. There were already a few gamblers gathered, some studying the racing form and others filling out their slips. Battersby was standing at the counter, arguing with the young clerk who was unfortunate enough to have been on duty when he arrived.
‘I’ve told you twice already, I simply can’t authorize a bet of that size, except on a strictly cash basis,’ the clerk was saying.
‘An’ I’m tellin’ you that Mr Taylor himself has extended my credit by another hundred quid,’ Battersby protested.
The clerk ran his eyes up and down Battersby’s shabby overcoat.
‘Mr Taylor himself has extended your line of credit, has he?’ he asked contemptuously. ‘Do I look like I was born yesterday?’
A door at the back of the shop opened, and a second clerk – a man in his mid-forties – emerged.
‘Are you havin’ some kind of trouble with the customer, Jack?’ he asked his colleague.
‘The gentleman wants to place a big bet, Mr Bairstow,’ the younger clerk said disdainfully. ‘The problem is, he’s got no cash on him, so he wants to put it on the slate.’
‘I see,’ Bairstow said thoughtfully. ‘An’ might I enquire what your name is, sir?’
‘Battersby. Clive Battersby.’
‘Detective Constable Battersby?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Battersby said, sighing like an addict who thinks that it’s just possible that he might get his fix after all.
‘How much was it you were plannin’ to bet?’
‘Only twenty quid.’
Bairstow smiled. ‘Well, if we can’t trust the police to honour their debts, who can we trust? Accept the bet, Jack.’
The junior clerk shrugged, as if to say it was none of his business if his boss wanted to go playing silly buggers. The senior clerk, havi
ng cleared up the problem, retreated to the back room again. With hands that were visibly shaking, Battersby reached for a betting slip. And Woodend – having heard enough – made his way quietly out of the shop.
A few minutes later, the betting shop door swung open again, and Constable Battersby – the collar of his overcoat turned up despite the fact that the shopping centre was well heated – stepped out. Once more he looked neither left nor right, but instead headed straight towards the Weaver’s Arms, a modern precinct pub which fondly imagined that it could hide its newness by the strategic placement of a few artefacts from a hand-loom weaver’s cottage.
Battersby pushed the swing doors open and walked up to the bar. ‘Whisky,’ he said.
‘What brand?’ the barman asked. ‘Bell’s? Johnny Walker’s? Black an’ White?’
‘Anythin’ will do. Just make it quick. An’ you’d better make it a double, an’ all.’
The barman measured out the drink from the optic. He placed the glass in front of his customer, and Battersby slid a five-pound note across the counter. Then, without waiting to be given his change, the constable knocked the whisky straight back.
‘Give me another one of them,’ he told the barman, placing the empty glass on the bar.
Woodend walked up behind him, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The effect was even more dramatic than he might have expected. First Battersby jumped as if he’d been electrocuted, then he swung round to face Woodend as though he feared he was under attack.
‘Hello, Clive,’ Woodend said. ‘I think it’s time we had a little talk. Don’t you agree?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Battersby gasped.
Woodend took the other man by the arm, and half led, half dragged him over to a table in the corner.
‘Sit down,’ the Chief Inspector said.
‘I don’t . . . you can’t make me . . .’
‘Sit down before I knock you down,’ Woodend growled.
Slowly and sullenly, the detective constable sank down on to one of the rustic stools.
Woodend took a seat opposite him. ‘How long have you had this gamblin’ problem, Clive?’ he demanded.
‘It’s not a problem,’ Constable Battersby protested. ‘I’ve got it well under control.’
‘You’re talkin’ like one of those winos you see dossin’ down on the Boulevard.’
‘I am? How d’you mean?’
‘They’ve got things under control, too. Accordin’ to them, the only reason they get pissed out of their heads an’ then fall asleep in their own vomit is because they like it.’ Woodend shook his head mournfully. ‘Come on, Clive. You know me better than to think I’m goin’ to walk away from this just because you tell me everythin’s all right.’
‘It . . . it all started when Vera left me for that big flashy bastard who used to deliver the coal,’ Battersby said. ‘I felt so alone after she’d run off, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’
‘Goin’ down to the bettin’ shop now an’ again seemed to make things a bit more bearable for me. I’d ask the other punters what horse they thought I should put my money on, then we’d all stand there together an’ watch the race. It was almost like bein’ part of a family.’
‘Then the bug really started to bite, did it?’
‘I’d only put ten bob on at first, but before I knew what was happenin’ I was bettin’ a quid. An’ then two.’
‘I just heard you bet nearly two weeks’ wages on a single horse,’ Woodend pointed out.
Battersby’s left eye started to twitch. ‘That was different. I got a hot tip on that one. The nag can’t lose.’
‘I also heard you say that Terry Taylor himself had personally guaranteed you an extended line of credit of up to a hundred pounds.’
‘I . . . he . . .’ Battersby stuttered.
‘Has he, or hasn’t he?’ Woodend barked.
‘Well . . . yes . . . he has.’
‘Now why should he have done that?’
‘Because he knows I’m good for it.’
‘Well, that leads us on to another interestin’ question,’ Woodend said. ‘You tell me he knows you’re good for it, but what I’d like to find out is how he knows you at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘With all the other pies Terry Taylor’s got his fat fingers in, I don’t suppose he finds he’s got much time to spend in his bettin’ shop. So it’s unlikely you met him there. An’ I’m really not sure where else you could have met him. I don’t imagine you move in the same social circles, do you?’
‘I met him at the races,’ Battersby said unconvincingly.
‘What races?’
‘Er . . . Doncaster. Yes, that’s right – it was Doncaster. He heard me talkin’ to somebody else, an’ he must have recognized my accent because he asked me if I was a Whitebridge man. Well, I said that I was, an’ then we got chattin’ – as you do at the races.’
‘An’ on the strength of that he’s prepared to subsidize your gamblin’ addiction?’
‘Like I said earlier, he knows I’m good for it.’
‘How much do you owe him already?’
Battersby shrugged awkwardly. ‘A hundred an’ fifty quid.’
‘You’re lyin’ to me!’
‘Or maybe a bit more.’
‘I’m guessin’ it’s a hell of a lot more.’
‘An’ what if it is?’ Battersby demanded, suddenly showing some spirit. ‘What’s it got to do with you? You’re not even my boss any more. You’ve been suspended.’
‘So I have,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But it’s you we’re talkin’ about at the moment, isn’t it? I remember what it’s like tryin’ to get by on a detective constable’s wages. It’s tough enough just meetin’ your regular payments, so where are you goin’ to find the money from to pay off your big gamblin’ debts?’
‘I’ll work them off somehow.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you will,’ Woodend agreed. ‘In fact, I think you’ve already started.’
‘What are you insinuatin’?’
‘Why did Terry Taylor want you to switch the fingerprints you got from Dugdale’s Farm?’ Woodend demanded.
‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!’
‘Yes, you do. Wilfred Dugdale’s prints never went down to London, or Scotland Yard would have matched them up with those on his record straight away. So somebody else’s prints were sent instead – somebody without a record. You’re the only one who could have made that substitution. I already know why you did it – for the money. What I’m interested in now is why Terry Taylor should ever have wanted it done.’
‘I don’t have to talk to you,’ Battersby whined.
‘No, you don’t,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But you’d be a fool not to take the chance when it’s offered to you. I always look after my team – you know that – an’ I’ll do the best I can for you. Let me help you, because no bugger else will. No bugger else gives a damn about what happens to you.’
There was a flicker of hope in Battersby’s eyes. ‘Could you save my career, sir?’
Woodend shook his head. ‘I could lie to you about that – an’ the state you’re in, you’d probably believe me. But I’m goin’ to be honest with you, instead. All right?’
‘All right.’
‘This whole business has gone much too far for there to be a hope of savin’ your career. But if you co-operate fully with me, I might just be able to keep you out of prison.’
Battersby made a superhuman effort, and struggled to his feet. ‘I’ve got to think it over,’ he said. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve got to . . . to . . . go somewhere on my own . . . where I can think about it.’
He put his hand over his mouth, and rushed away. He only just made it through the door into the shopping centre before he doubled up and was violently sick.
Fourteen
With Woodend in the passenger seat, Monika Paniatowski pulled off the main road and drove on to the Birkdale estate. There was e
ven less traffic this time than there had been earlier. The men – and many of the women – were now all at work, and these were not the kinds of households which could afford to run second cars for non-working wives.
Their arrival had been noted, Woodend thought. Housewives vacuuming their front rooms, and mothers walking their well-wrapped-up babies, turned their heads in frank curiosity at the sight of an unfamiliar car on their familiar territory. They probably wouldn’t have paid half as much attention to the borrowed Anglia he’d been using earlier. But it didn’t matter a damn that they’d been spotted. The time for caution was over. There was no need to play your cards close to your chest when you had a winning hand – and a winning hand was exactly what Clive Battersby had dealt them in the Weaver’s Arms.
‘This had better work, sir,’ Paniatowski said, the hint of uncertainty in her voice showing that she did not quite share her boss’s optimism. ‘We only get one shot at it, so it had better work.’
‘There’s no way it can fail,’ Woodend assured her.
‘Battersby’s probably scared half to death and⎯’
‘Of course he is, but that can only work to our advantage. Look, he was on the verge of tellin’ me everythin’ I needed to know in the shoppin’ precinct. Since then, he’s had a couple of hours to realize he hasn’t got any option but to co-operate. An’ seein’ the two of us standin’ there on his doorstep will be the final straw. He’ll give us Terry Taylor – and Terry Taylor will give us both the motive for the murders an’ the name of the murderer.’
And in a few hours at the most, I’ll be back in my own office, as if the nightmare I’ve been livin’ through had never happened, he added silently.
‘What if he’s so frightened that he’s done a runner?’ Paniatowski asked worriedly.
‘That’ll delay matters – but not for long,’ Woodend argued. ‘He won’t get far, an’ once he’s taken into custody he’ll probably be more willin’ than ever to spill his guts. In fact, lookin’ at it from that angle, it might even speed things up if he decides to cut an’ run.’
Death of an Innocent Page 10
