Paniatowski sighed again, and lit up another cigarette. ‘Shall we see the next one, then?’ she suggested.
‘Aye,’ Woodend said heavily. ‘We might as well.’
Rutter stood on the terrace of the cafe in the corporation park. The potential witnesses who’d been rounded up earlier had all had their statements taken and been sent home more than an hour earlier. Now the only people in evidence were the uniformed constables who were searching the ground in front of them, inch by careful inch, under the harsh glare of portable floodlights.
‘I should be at home,’ Rutter told himself. ‘I should be with my little baby, reassuring her that she’ll soon stop missing her abuela and that she’s really going to like it here.’
But Monika Paniatowski was right – Woodend would be watching him carefully, and he could not be seen to fall at the very first fence.
He supposed he didn’t have to put up with any of this if he didn’t choose to. He could always resign from the force and take a job which allowed him to work more regular hours. But what kind of job? He was a trained detective, and he was good at it. And he couldn’t think of anywhere else that his particular skills would be of value. Besides, he was his work – and his work was him. He had no idea what kind of man he would become if he left the police – or whether that kind of man could be a good father to Louisa.
You’re rationalizing, you selfish bastard! he thought angrily. You’re trying to cover up the fact that you want to have it all ways – the perfect life in the perfect world. But as Charlie Woodend pointed out, it doesn’t work like that.
Though he hadn’t seen the uniformed sergeant approaching, he suddenly noticed that the man was standing beside him, and clearly had something he wanted to say.
‘Yes?’ the inspector asked automatically.
‘The lads aren’t happy about continuin’ the search under these conditions, sir,’ the sergeant told him.
‘What?’ replied Rutter, who was still half trapped in the world of his own dark thoughts.
‘They’re not happy about carryin’ on the search, sir. The floodlights mean that it’s bright as day in some places, but there are a lot of shadowed areas as well, an’ they’re afraid they might overlook somethin’ important.’
The sergeant had a point, Rutter thought. It would be futile – and possibly even dangerous to the investigation – to continue the search any longer.
‘Call the men off,’ he said. ‘But make it clear to them that, at first light, I want exactly the same officers back at the exactly the same spots where they ended the search tonight.’
‘Understood, sir,’ the sergeant said.
‘And that’s not all,’ Rutter told him. ‘I want all the park gates securely locked. And we’ll need at least six men on permanent park-perimeter patrol all through the night.’ He paused. ‘There shouldn’t be any problem in arranging that, should there, Sergeant?’
The other man shook his head. ‘None at all, sir. The lads will appreciate the chance to earn a bit of overtime. Besides …’
‘Yes?’
‘We all really want to catch this perverted bastard, sir – and we’ll do what’s necessary.’
‘I know you will,’ Rutter said. ‘We’ll all do what’s necessary – at whatever the personal cost.’
It would have been wonderful to find a clue in the park right away, Rutter thought, a clear pointer to the guilty man. But investigations were rarely as easy as that. Most of the time it was a case of picking up a splinter of information here and a splinter of information there, and praying that they all eventually fused together to form a solid plank of a case.
He lit up a cigarette – and wondered how Woodend and Monika were getting on.
Peter Mainwearing was around the same age as Cedric Thornton, but there any resemblance between the two men ended. Mainwearing’s hair was blond, clean, and neatly cut. His teeth were regular and cared for. His blue overalls, though marked with old oil stains, had obviously been well washed and neatly pressed before he’d put them on that morning.
But it was his attitude, more than anything else, which distinguished him from Cedric Thornton and the rest of the stream of deviants who had trickled their slimy way through the interview room that afternoon. Mainwearing had none of the stink of fear that the others carried with them. Nor did he seemed weighed down by resentment and a sense of grievance, as several of them had been.
Instead, he looked Woodend squarely in the eyes, and said, ‘You’re only doing your job by pulling me in, Chief Inspector. I want you to know that I understand that.’
‘Do you?’ Woodend asked sceptically. ‘Do you really?’
‘I don’t blame you for being suspicious of everything I do and everything I say,’ Mainwearing told him. ‘Sexual offenders are a very cunning and very manipulative breed. And nobody knows that better than me – because I’ve been one myself.’
‘Have been,’ Woodend mused. ‘Are you tryin’ to tell me you’re not one now?’
Mainwearing smiled weakly. ‘If I was telling you that, then I was wrong to,’ he admitted. ‘An alcoholic never stops being an alcoholic, he just stops being a drunk. And a sex offender never stops being a sex offender – he just accepts that having been a victim himself is no excuse for making victims of others.’
‘I was wonderin’ just how long it would be before you started claiming to be a victim yourself,’ Woodend said.
‘But I am a victim,’ Mainwearing said calmly. ‘And you don’t just have to take my word for it. It’s all documented in my criminal record, which I’m sure you’ve already pulled from the files.’
‘You might be right about that,’ Woodend conceded. ‘But why don’t you tell me why you think you’re a victim?’
‘I was sexually abused as a child,’ Mainwearing told him. ‘From the age of six! By my own father! Dear old Dad!’ He sniffed, and a single tear began to run down his cheek. He brushed it angrily away with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have more control than that.’
Woodend risked a surreptitious glance at Paniatowski. By now she should have waded into the interrogation, playing the role of the bad bobby to Woodend’s more reasonable one. It was a part she had already played successfully several times that afternoon. But instead of showing her claws, she was just sitting there – pale as a stone statue, as wooden as a church pew carving.
The chief inspector cursed himself for his own stupidity. Paniatowski, as he was only too well aware, had herself been abused as child – though by her step-father, rather than her natural one. The damage the experience had done to her was not noticeable most of the time, but there were occasions – and this was obviously one of them – when, despite her best efforts, that damage rose to the surface.
‘An’ I should have seen it comin’,’ Woodend told himself. ‘I should have bloody well seen it comin’.’
‘Are you all right, Sergeant?’ Mainwearing asked – and he sounded genuinely concerned.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ Woodend said roughly. ‘You’ve got enough problems on your own plate at the moment, not the least of which is convincin’ me that you’re on the wagon as far as little boys are concerned.’
‘I had counselling in prison, and I’ve had counselling since I came out,’ Mainwearing said. ‘It’s been a struggle, but I’ve got it under control. If I ever thought I couldn’t control it, I’d submit myself for voluntary castration.’
Woodend winced at even the mention of castration, then said, ‘Do you have an alibi for this afternoon?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Let’s hear it, then.’
‘I was an accountant before I went into prison, but while I was serving my sentence I trained as a motor mechanic, and after I was released I decided I’d rather tinker with engines than with figures.’
‘I didn’t ask for your life story, I asked for your alibi,’ Woodend said, glancing at Paniatowski again and seeing that she was starting to come out of the trance into
which her own painful memories had drawn her.
‘I have my own garage,’ Mainwearing continued, unruffled. ‘It’s a very modest business, but I’m quite proud of it. That’s where I was when your officers picked me up.’
‘An’ that’s where you were all afternoon, is it? Workin’ on a motor, no doubt. All by yourself!’
A slight, amused smile came to Mainwearing’s lips. ‘If I had been working alone in my garage, that wouldn’t be much of an alibi, now would it?’ he asked. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d only just got back to the garage when your men came for me. For the previous four hours, I’d been working at the municipal bus station on one of the double-deckers that was having some rather complicated engine trouble. You can check on that, if you like …’
‘Don’t worry, I will.’
‘… but it will be a waste of police time. I was working side by side with two of the bus company’s own mechanics, and because it was such a rush job, we didn’t even stop for lunch. All we had to eat was sandwiches, and we munched away at them while we were working on the engine.’
Mainwearing was either the best liar he’d ever met, or he was telling the truth, Woodend decided. He was almost convinced it was the latter – though he’d still make sure he had the alibi checked out.
‘Do you want us to catch whoever abducted this young girl, Mr Mainwearing?’ he asked.
‘But of course,’ Mainwearing replied, looking shocked that the question even needed to be posed.
‘Then help us out,’ Woodend suggested. ‘Give us some sort of lead to latch on to.’
‘Like what?’
‘Tell us the name of somebody we should be takin’ a closer look at.’
‘I wish I could, but I’ve no idea who the guilty party could be,’ Mainwearing told him. ‘Alcoholics often band together. I suppose that’s because as long as all the people around them are drinking as heavily as they are, they can convince themselves they’re normal. Sex offenders aren’t like that. Theirs is very much a solitary obsession.’
Yes, by and large it was a solitary obsession, Woodend thought. He’d said as much to Paniatowski earlier. And the very fact that it was solitary was the whole bloody problem!
‘Alcoholics have a knack of recognizin’ kindred spirits even when other people don’t,’ he said, giving this line of questioning one last chance. ‘Are you tryin’ to tell me you couldn’t spot another sex offender?’
‘I probably could spot some of them,’ Mainwearing admitted. ‘But not all of them, by any means. As I’ve already said, they’re a very cunning breed. And just as a recovering alcoholic steers well clear of pubs and parties where he knows there’ll be booze, I steer well clear of playgrounds – and anywhere else there might be children. So as much as I might wish to, I’m afraid I can’t give you the name of a single sex offender living in the Whitebridge area, Chief Inspector.’
Woodend nodded defeatedly. ‘You can go now, Mr Mainwearing,’ he said. ‘But if you’re contemplatin’ leavin’ Whitebridge for any length of time, you must let us know where you’re goin’.’
Mainwearing stood up. ‘Why should I want to go anywhere else?’ he wondered aloud. ‘What would be the point, when wherever I went I could never escape myself?’
Woodend waited until Mainwearing had left the room, then turned to Paniatowski again. The colour had returned to the sergeant’s cheeks, he noted, and she was not sitting as quite as stiffly as she had been earlier. But she still looked very troubled.
‘Are you all right, Monika?’ he asked.
‘All right? Why wouldn’t I be all right? Of course I’m all right,’ Paniatowski replied in an aggressive tone which showed she clearly wasn’t.
Six
It was a long-standing tradition that, at the end of a day spent investigating a major case, Woodend’s team would congregate around their special table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey. It was at this table – over pints of best bitter for the men, and glasses of vodka for Monika Paniatowski – that theories were exchanged, and imaginative leaps in detection made. It was at this table that finding the solution to complex crimes often began.
That night the team arrived at the pub just before closing time, and as they sat down it was plain to all of them that the magic – the usual electricity which leapt from one to the next – was notable only by its absence.
‘The problem is that there’s nothing for us to get our teeth into in this case,’ Bob Rutter said dispiritedly, as he sipped without enthusiasm at the pint Woodend had just bought him.
Yes, that was exactly the problem, the chief inspector agreed silently.
Most violent crimes were relatively simple to solve, because the victim had some direct connection with his or her attacker.
A wealthy man is murdered – take a very close look at the people who stand to benefit from his estate.
A victim’s body displays signs of a frenzied attack – find out who had a deep grudge against him.
Greed and anger – these were the two main driving forces behind most killings.
But this case was different. It was more than likely that Angela Jackson had no connection at all with the man who had abducted her. He had snatched her simply because she was a young girl – and the chances were that any other young girl who’d happened to be around would have served his purpose just as well.
So how did you get a lead in a case like this one?
How could you possibly uncover the sick bastard’s motive – when it was tightly locked away in his head?
‘So what have you got?’ Woodend asked the rest of the team, and when none of them seemed eager to be the first to speak, he added, ‘Let’s start with you, Colin.’
Beresford shrugged hopelessly. ‘We think there were at least thirty vehicles in the car park in the half-hour before Angela Jackson went missing. But that is only a rough approximation. We can account for sixteen of them, because they belonged to people we questioned in the cafe. That leaves fourteen – more or less. We know the make and model of some of them. For instance, there was a green Ford Cortina parked there – but how many green Cortinas are there in the Whitebridge area?’
‘Must be hundreds of them,’ Rutter said.
‘Hundreds,’ Beresford agreed. ‘Tracking down the one that was actually there could take us days.’
And days is just what we don’t have, Woodend thought. Besides, even if we do find it, the chances are its owner merely parked it there while he went about his perfectly legitimate business.
‘Put out a general appeal for people who left their vehicles in the car park to come forward,’ he said aloud.
‘That’s already been done, sir,’ Beresford said. ‘There’s been an announcement on the local news, and the uniformed branch are sticking up posters all over the city centre. But until we start to get results, we’re at a bit of a dead end.’
‘Bob?’ Woodend asked his inspector.
‘Nothing from the park yet, sir,’ Rutter said. ‘Have you had any luck?’
‘Me an’ Monika have been talkin’ to slime all day,’ Woodend told him. ‘The only thing is, we both think it’s the wrong kind of slime.’
The pub lights flashed, and the landlord called out, ‘Will you please empty your glasses, ladies and gentlemen.’
There was absolutely no need to leave at that moment, Woodend reminded himself. The other customers would soon be shown the door – in strict accordance with the licensing laws – but the team could stay on if they chose, as they’d done so many times in the past and no doubt would many times in the future. Yet what would be the point of staying on, when – without any new development – they had nothing more to say to one another?
He saw the landlord looking at him questioningly, and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ he told the team. ‘And maybe tomorrow we’ll get just the lucky break we need.’
It was twenty minutes past eleven when Rutter reached his home and found Janet, the new nanny, waiting for him in the hallway.
<
br /> ‘You’re rather later than I expected you to be, Mr Rutter,’ she said reprovingly. ‘The other parents I’ve worked for have always told me in advance what time they’ll be home. And if they were going to be later than they’d said, they’ve rung up to let me know.’
‘You could have gone to bed once you’d settled Louisa down for the night,’ Rutter pointed out.
‘I suppose I could,’ Janet agreed, looking very far from mollified by the thought.
‘And in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a big crisis on at the station,’ Rutter snapped.
‘I have been watching the news, and I do feel sorry for the girl who’s gone missing,’ Janet told him. ‘But even so …’
She said no more, simply stood there, waiting for Rutter to make the next move.
He was handling things very badly, Rutter told himself. He was tired and irritated and frustrated, but that was still no excuse.
‘Look, you knew when I hired you that I worked irregular hours,’ he said. ‘That was why I agreed to pay you more than the going rate.’
Janet’s chin was set firm. ‘Money’s not the point,’ she said.
‘Then what is?’
‘Consideration. I may be your employee, but that doesn’t mean I’m your slave. I’m entitled to a certain amount of respect.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ Rutter agreed wearily. ‘I appreciate having you here, and you are entitled to respect. I’ll try to keep you better informed of my movements in future.’
Janet melted a little – though it was clear she was prepared to freeze up again, given the slightest reason. ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, Mr Rutter?’ she asked.
Death Watch Page 5
