The Butcher Beyond
Page 19
‘That’s more like it,’ Roberts agreed.
‘An’ in order to increase your chances of survivin’ the night, you decided to sleep two to a room?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t take it in turns to stand guard? You just fell asleep. You put yourselves in a position where anybody could have walked into your room and slit your throats!’
Roberts bit his lower lip. ‘The door was locked,’ he said.
‘Locks can be picked,’ Woodend pointed out. ‘You knew that. If you’d thought a locked door was all the protection you needed, you’d never have doubled up.’
‘All right,’ Roberts agreed reluctantly. ‘The plan was for us to take it in turns to stand guard. Sutcliffe took the first watch, but fell asleep himself, and the first thing either of us knew, it was morning.’
‘You mean the first thing you knew, it was mornin’?’
‘Like I said, Sutcliffe fell asleep as well.’
‘Are you a heavy sleeper, Mr Roberts?’
‘Not normally, no.’
‘But you were that night?’
Roberts grinned awkwardly. ‘Must have been the sea air.’
‘Or else you were drugged.’
The very idea seemed to offend Roberts. ‘Drugged!’ he repeated. ‘What do you take me for? An amateur?’
‘Anyone can be drugged.’
‘I’m a professional gambler,’ Roberts said angrily. ‘Gambling’s not just dealing the cards and placing a bet, you know. It’s a whole approach to life. There are always some toe-rags on the gaming circuit who’ll try to slip you a Mickey Finn to take the edge off your play. You learn how to avoid it. If I’d been drugged, I’d have known about it. You can believe me on that.’
Captain López burst into the room without knocking. ‘You must come up to the Alcalde’s villa immediately,’ he told Woodend.
‘An’ why should I want to do that?’
‘I have found vital evidence, and I do not want to touch it until you, too, have seen it where it lies.’
‘What “vital evidence” are we talkin’ about here?’ Woodend wondered.
‘The murder weapon,’ López told him. ‘My men and I have found the murder weapon.’
Thirty-One
‘Look there,’ López said, pointing into the centre of the Alcalde’s rose garden. ‘What do you see?’
Woodend peered through the bushes. ‘I see some kind of dagger,’ Woodend said. ‘Is it lyin’ exactly where it was found? Or have you moved it?’
‘Neither I, nor my men, have laid a finger on it,’ López said. ‘We leave that task to the “expert” from England, who did not find it himself, but will no doubt claim all the glory.’
Ignoring the comment, Woodend took a step forward and examined the ground around the knife.
‘I don’t see any footprints,’ he said. ‘An’ none of the bushes look as if they’ve been trampled. Now why do you think that is, Captain?’
‘Perhaps the killer threw the knife into the bushes,’ López suggested.
‘Perhaps he did,’ Woodend replied, though he sounded far from convinced by the theory.
The Chief Inspector took a large white handkerchief out of his pocket. He knelt down at the edge of the rose garden, stretched his trunk out slowly over it, then carefully picked up the corner of the knife handle with the handkerchief, which he held between his thumb and forefinger. Having established a firm grip, he stood up again, and held the dagger out for López’s inspection.
It was an evil-looking weapon. The point was as fine as a pin; the two edges looked as if they could slice through a brick with ease.
‘What do you make of it?’ Woodend asked.
‘As you have reminded me on more than one occasion, I am not a detective,’ López replied.
‘I’d still like to hear what you think.’
‘Fresh cord has been wound around the handle.’
‘Why do you think that is?’
‘Perhaps the old cord had been worn away. Or perhaps the handle had no cord on it originally, but had become so smooth with use that it was necessary to add this cord to improve the grip. Whichever is true, the evidence would suggest that it is quite an old knife – perhaps as much as thirty years old.’
‘Interestin’ you should say “thirty”, rather than “twenty” or “forty”,’ Woodend commented. ‘Anythin’ else you’d like to add?’
‘I do not think so.’
‘Interestin’ again. What about the hairs an’ the bloodstains?’
‘There are no hairs or bloodstains.’
‘Exactly,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ if this was the dagger which was used in the murders, there should have been, shouldn’t there?’
‘Maybe the killer wiped the knife clean before he threw it away,’ López suggested.
‘So let me see if I’ve got this straight in my mind. The murderer comes running out of the villa with his weapon in his hand?’
‘Yes.’
‘He wants to get rid of the knife, but he’s in such a hurry that instead of botherin’ to hide it properly, he just throws it into the bushes?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he does find time to wipe it clean? Clean it so well that there’s not a trace of his grisly work left on it?’
‘He would not have cared about the blood and the hairs. But he would have been worried about leaving his fingerprints, so he would have wiped them away. And in doing so would have removed all traces of blood and hair as well.’
‘But what did he wipe it on?’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it does. You’ve searched the house, an’ there’s no sign he cleaned the knife on anythin’ in there. So what did he use? Did he wipe it on his clothes?’
‘Of course not. That would be absurd.’
‘Then what?’
‘He had a handkerchief, as you have. Or a rag. He would have used that.’
‘Then where is it?’
‘Perhaps he took it with him.’
‘So he ditches the knife because he thinks it might incriminate him, but he keeps the bloodstained rag?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘An’ where does he keep it? Does he carry it in his hand, where anybody he runs into will see it? Or does he stick it in his pocket, thus stainin’ his clothes with the blood?’
‘I think you are making difficulties where none exist,’ López said. ‘Why do you not turn the knife over?’
‘Why should I?’
‘To see what is on the other side.’
Woodend turned the knife over, and saw the words which were engraved on the hilt – Marat et Cie, Paris.
‘A French knife,’ López said.
‘You don’t seem at all surprised,’ Woodend said accusingly.
‘Do I not?’
‘Bloody right, you don’t. Do you know what I think? I think this is all too bloody convenient. I think you decided that Dupont was guilty – or, at least, that he was the one who was goin’ to take the blame – then you arranged for the evidence to point in his direction.’
‘Are you saying that I planted the knife?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have reached this conclusion because I was not surprised when the knife turned out to be French?’
‘Partly. You see, it could have come from anywhere. It could have been German. It could have been American. But you knew it was French!’
‘I did not know. I merely suspected that was a strong possibility.’
‘Because you’ve seen it before!’
‘Because while you been having friendly little talks with all the suspects, I have been doing some real police work.’
‘You! Real police work!’
‘That is what I said.’
‘I’d pay a lot of money to see some evidence of that!’
‘Then come with me into the Alcalde’s study, and I will show you all the evidence you need,’ López said with quiet confidence.
‘How long have you had these?’ Woodend demanded.
‘Since yesterday.’
‘An’ why didn’t you show them to me before?’
‘Until I had examined them carefully, I could not be sure that they were important.’
‘But you’re sure now?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then prove it to me.’
‘These are photographs taken in the brigadistas’ camp while they were waiting for the boat to pick them up,’ López said. ‘From their poor quality, I would guess that either the photographer did not know his job or else he didn’t want the others to be aware of the fact that he was taking their pictures. I am inclined to the second explanation.’
‘So am I,’ said Woodend, with new-found respect slowly edging into his voice.
‘Despite the poor quality of the photographs, they still reveal much,’ López said. He pointed to one of the pictures. ‘Look at the two men in the foreground here. One is Medwin, the other Sutcliffe.’
Woodend peered at the picture. ‘Agreed,’ he said.
‘But the most interesting thing is revealed in this series of pictures over here,’ López continued. He reached into his jacket pocket, produced a magnifying glass, and handed it to Woodend. ‘Look at the man in the corner of the picture.’
Woodend did as he’d been instructed. ‘It’s Dupont,’ he said.
‘His hand is by his side, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what is he holding in it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It is clearer in the second picture, when he has raised his arm.’
‘It’s a knife!’ Woodend said. ‘But we can’t see it clearly enough to say that it’s the knife we found in the rose garden.’
‘That I planted in the rose garden, at least, according to you,’ López said.
Woodend looked shamefaced. ‘Aye, well, I might have been a bit hasty there,’ he admitted. ‘An’ if I was, I apologize.’
‘Look at the third picture,’ López said. ‘What is Dupont doing now?’
‘He’s throwin’ the knife at a tree!’
‘And why would he want to do that?’
‘For practice!’
‘Which would suggest that he is an expert in that field?’
‘Yes.’
‘And whoever killed the Alcalde’s bodyguard was also an expert with a throwing knife?’
‘True. But that still doesn’t mean that Dupont did it.’
‘You are right,’ López agreed. ‘That is why I had Dupont’s photograph flown up to Paris and delivered to the Ministry of the Interior.’
‘An’ I suppose they had a file on him.’
‘Most certainly. Not that he has done anything criminal, you understand. It is simply that the security forces in France like to keep a check on men of a known left-wing background. And he has certainly had an interesting career.’
‘You’re enjoyin’ this, aren’t you?’ Woodend said.
‘And why would I not?’ López asked. ‘Why shouldn’t the Spanish political thug enjoy himself, when it turns that it is he, not the English Chief Inspector, who is the real detective?’
‘I’ve apologized once,’ Woodend said, ‘but if it’ll make you any happier, I’ll do it again. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions. Now bloody get on with what you’ve got to tell me!’
‘Dupont’s real name is Claude Sant. He has worked as a technical advisor to the film industry, and has helped to train the French Foreign Legion. His speciality is the use of the knife. And he has a nickname. It is one he earned during his time in Spain. Can you guess what that nickname is?’
Woodend thought back to his conversation with Sutcliffe, earlier in the day. He had been a scout, Sutcliffe had said. He had worked as a team with Dupont. Except that he hadn’t called him Dupont at first.
‘In the old days, I worked with Whistling …—’ he had begun, before he had realized he was saying too much and stopped himself.
‘Well?’ López asked.
‘If I had to guess, I’d say his nickname had been “Whistling Death”,’ Woodend said.
‘Whistling Death,’ López repeated. ‘You are standing alone on guard duty, on a dark, dark night. You hear a whistling sound in the air, and before you have time to wonder what it is, you feel a pain in your chest as the dagger buries itself there. A whistling sound must have been the last thing the Alcalde’s bodyguard heard, don’t you think?’
Thirty-Two
The sun was setting over the sea as Woodend lifted his glass and took a sip of the local beer which he was really coming to quite enjoy.
It was the end of the case, he thought. And here they were, he and Paco Ruiz – sitting at their usual table, in front of their usual bar, ready to dot the final i’s and cross the final t’s, just as if he was back home in Whitebridge, closing things up with Rutter and Paniatowski.
It was amazing how quickly he had got to know Paco, and how well they had learned to work together. It was almost a pity that the investigation was over, and he would have to go back to trying hard to be a tourist again.
‘The first time I met López, I thought he was a political thug who was more concerned with gettin’ a result than with gettin’ the right result,’ he said. ‘An’ maybe that was the case then. Maybe it even will be again. But you can’t deny that he’s pulled off a nifty piece of detective footwork on this case.’
‘So you believe he has the right man, do you?’ Paco asked, knocking Woodend completely off balance.
‘Well, I must admit that before the knife turned up, I’d have put my money on Sutcliffe,’ the Chief Inspector said, a little shakily. ‘The way I had it figured, he had two motives for killin’ Durán. The first was the one he came here with – the desire for revenge. An’ the second one – which perhaps became even more important – was that he wanted to get Durán before Durán could get Mitchell. So all in all, he was lookin’ a very promisin’ prime suspect. But you can’t argue with the hard evidence, now can you?’
‘Can’t you?’ Paco asked. ‘Your first thought, when you saw the knife in the rose garden, was that it had been planted there. Why should the killer have abandoned it so close to the crime? you wondered. And where was the rag that he used to wipe it clean? They were good questions, Charlie. Why are you not still asking yourself them now?’
‘Because there are often loose ends in an investigation. Because, in the heat of the moment, murderers sometimes do stupid, irrational things. You have to learn to balance that against the main body of the evidence.’
‘Balance it?’ Paco asked. ‘Or merely use the evidence you do like to discredit the evidence you don’t?’
‘Look, what are the three standard tools a bobby should apply to every investigation?’ Woodend asked exasperatedly.
‘You know what they are as well as I do,’ Paco said, a little morosely.
‘Maybe I do,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But just to make sure we’re talking the same language, why don’t you tell me what you think they are?’
‘Motive, means and opportunity.’
‘Exactly. An’ we’ve certainly got a motive. Durán slaughtered over thirty of Dupont’s comrades – or perhaps I should say Sant’s comrades – on that beach. We’ve got the means, too. Sant was an expert with the throwin’ knife – such an expert that he even instructed the French Foreign Legion – an’ so was the man who killed Durán and his bodyguards.’
‘Opportunity?’ Paco asked sceptically. ‘Schneider said Sant spent the night with him.’
‘An’ he probably thinks that he did.’
‘But he is wrong?’
‘Yes, he’s wrong. We’re almost certain that Roberts was drugged on the night of the murders, even though the cocky bugger refuses to admit it himself. When Sutcliffe was my main suspect, I thought he was the one who’d done it.’
‘But you no longer think that?’
‘I thought you were the same sort of policeman that I once was,’ Paco said, sadly. ‘I thought you were one who had faith in his own instincts – in the feeling in his gut.’
‘An’ what does your gut tell you?’
‘That López has to have been involved in framing Sant in some way.’
Woodend shook his head. ‘You’ve got it wrong this time, Paco.’
‘López had two disagreements with Durán shortly before the Alcalde was murdered,’ Paco argued.
‘An’ didn’t you say, from what the maid told you, he appeared to have come out on top in the second one?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘So if one of them had a motive to murder the other, it was Durán who had a motive to murder López.’
‘Perhaps they had a third argument,’ Paco said. ‘One that we know nothing about. One that put Durán back in control again.’
‘An’ perhaps there’s a spring up in the mountains that gushes nothin’ but Lion Best Bitter,’ Woodend countered. ‘It’d certainly be wonderful if there was. But things don’t happen just because we’d like them to, Paco. If López had killed Durán, I can’t see he’d have used a knife. An’ I can’t see him workin’ alone, which it’s plain is just what our killer did. Besides, look at the way the killer treated Durán after he’d killed him. He gouged his bloody eyes out! He slit his nose! That suggests a hatred that’s been festerin’ for a long, long time.’
‘Perhaps that is simply what López wanted you to think.’
‘López may be a complete bastard,’ Woodend said. ‘I suspect that he is. But that doesn’t make him a murderer.’
‘I’m very disappointed in you,’ Paco said.
‘An’ I’m very disappointed that you feel the need to be disappointed,’ Woodend countered, angry at the way things were developing, yet seeing no way to defuse the situation. ‘Life’s full of disappointments. I’d have thought that after all you’ve been through, you’d have known that. I’d have thought that your experiences would have helped you to grow up a little!’