He’d meant to distract himself, and he failed. No matter – he’d held out long enough. He slid back the cover to the spyhole, and pressed his eye tightly against the lens.
The girl was huddled in the corner, as the previous one had been. But this one would be better than Angela Jackson. Much more satisfying.
He did not know how he knew this. Only that he did.
If they ever caught him, they would call him a madman, he thought. And perhaps they would be right. Perhaps he was mad. But perhaps the reverse was true. Perhaps he was one of the few sane people left on earth – one of that chosen band who knew what they wanted and went out and got it.
The girl looked frantically around the room. She didn’t know about the spyhole – how could she have done? – yet she could still sense that she was being watched.
That was good. That was very good.
‘It won’t work,’ Paniatowski said flatly, taking a sip of the vodka that Woodend had brought with him.
‘What won’t work?’
‘Any of it.’
‘So we do nothin’, do we? We just sit on our hands while the man kills this girl – an’ the next, an’ the next.’
‘Look, I want this bastard caught as much as you do,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Ever since I first heard about this new kidnapping, I haven’t been able to look at Louisa without imagining a time when she’s grown up and at the mercy of a man like that.’ She glanced quickly across at the bedroom door, beyond which the child was sleeping peacefully. ‘But we can’t carry out a proper investigation from a distance. It simply can’t be done, sir.’
He’d been expecting just this kind of resistance to the idea, Woodend told himself.
But he was encouraged by the fact that she’d stopped calling him Charlie – that now he was ‘sir’ again. That was a clear indication, he argued, that though she was saying they couldn’t work together on this case, she was acting as though they already were.
‘We’re a couple of very smart bobbies,’ he said. ‘We won’t get our hands on as much information as Mortlake an’ Stevenson will have access to, but we can make more from the crumbs that fall off their table than they can make from the whole bloody feast.’
‘Assuming that any crumbs do fall,’ Paniatowski pointed out.
‘An’ then there’s what we learned during our investigation into Angela Jackson’s disappearance,’ Woodend argued. ‘They can’t take that away from us, however much they might want to.’
‘True,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘What we know is ours for ever – but then we don’t know much, do we?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Woodend told her. ‘We stopped thinkin’ about what we’d learned because we’d been taken off the case – an’ because we’d lost our main battle, which was to find Angela alive. But the fact that we were no longer lookin’ for leads doesn’t mean there weren’t any to be found. I’m honestly convinced we’ve already got the key to crackin’ this case – it’s just that we haven’t recognized it for what it is yet.’
Paniatowski looked sceptical. ‘You’re saying that we missed something, are you?’
‘We’re bound to have done.’
‘Like what?’
Yes, that was the problem, Woodend agreed. Like what?
‘We always knew – because of the timin’ – that the killer’s hideaway couldn’t be that far from Whitebridge,’ he said, ‘but from what we learned just before we were taken off the case, we now know it has to be actually in the town.’
‘And you base this theory on …?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘On where Angela Jackson’s body was found. The killer wasn’t goin’ to dump her far from where he murdered her, was he?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the longer she was in the car, the more he was at risk. And he’d have known that! If he only transported her dead body half a mile or so, the chances of anythin’ goin’ wrong were minimal. But if he had to drive her halfway across the country, there was always the danger that he could be involved in an accident, or stopped by a motor patrol doin’ a random check, or—’
‘You’re clutching at straws,’ Paniatowski interrupted.
‘An’ there’s the wounds,’ Woodend ploughed on.
‘What about them?’
‘The point of torture is to inflict pain, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘But a lot of those wounds were made when the poor kid was already dead. How do you explain the killer behavin’ in that way?’
‘Didn’t you tell me that Dr Shastri thought it was part of some kind of ritual?’
‘No, I didn’t. I said she suggested it as a possibility – no more than that. But I wasn’t convinced at the time, an’ I’m even less convinced now.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think he had a plan – a timetable, if you like. On the first day he was goin’ to do this to her, on the second he was goin’ to do that, an’ so on. But somethin’ happened to disrupt that plan. Somethin’ happened to make him kill her earlier than he intended to. An’ so what he did to her after she was dead was what he’d wanted to do while she was still alive. Now if we could work out what that somethin’ that forced him to act prematurely is, we’d be halfway to catchin’ him.’
‘What other ideas have you got?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘We could use the shrink again.’
‘And do you really think he’d be willing to help us – especially when his own wife is on the team investigating the second kidnapping?’
‘Yes,’ Woodend said firmly. ‘I do. The impression I get of Martin Stevenson is that he’s a thoroughly decent feller. Of course, he’s not blind to the fact that it wouldn’t do his reputation any harm if he helped to catch the killer, but I think there’s more to him than that – I think he genuinely wants to be of use.’
‘But why would he want to be of use to you? Why wouldn’t he want to help his wife instead?’
‘Because he’s got faith in me.’
‘Oh, come on, sir, you’re not saying that because it’s true, you’re saying it because it’s what you need to believe!’
‘You didn’t see his face, that day in the Drum an’ Monkey, when I told him I was bein’ taken off the Angela Jackson investigation. Trust me, Monika, the man looked devastated.’
Paniatowski took another sip of vodka, sucked greedily on her cigarette, and then shook her head wonderingly.
‘So, to sum up,’ she said, ‘what you have on offer is a vague theory that the killer’s hideaway is in the centre of Whitebridge, an unsubstantiated belief that he killed the girl before he’d been planning to, and a desperate hope that Martin Stevenson will be idealistic enough to help us, even though it may damage his wife’s career?’
‘That’s about it,’ Woodend admitted.
Paniatowski suddenly smiled. ‘Well, we’ve solved cases before with less than that to go on,’ she said.
Nineteen
The Drum and Monkey opened its doors for business at eleven o’clock in the morning. Even at that hour, there would be a couple of potential customers pacing impatiently up and down outside, and by a quarter past eleven there would be a fair number of drinkers in the pub – the unemployed and the under-employed; shift-men who had finished their day’s work and shift-men yet to start it; bank clerks out on their break, who were looking guilty about drinking so early in the day and always carried a packet of strong peppermints in their pockets; and the criminal fringe which didn’t look guilty of anything, even though it usually was.
And today there was the addition of the big bugger, the blonde, and the smoothie, the landlord thought, glancing across at the table in the corner. He hadn’t seen the three of them together for quite a while.
‘Are you sure you want to get involved in this, Bob?’ Woodend was asking Rutter.
‘Why wouldn’t I want to be involved?’ Rutter countered.
Woodend shrugged. ‘Well, you know, we will be stickin’ our necks out a
bit – an’ there’s always the chance we’ll lose our heads as a result.’
‘There’s nothing new about that, is there? We’ve done it often enough in the past.’
‘True, but circumstances have changed, haven’t they? You’ve got Louisa livin’ with you now. An’ you’ve got a cushy job in crime prevention, which means you work regular hours, an’ usually get home in time for tea.’
‘What is this?’ Rutter demanded angrily. ‘Are you trying to exclude me from the investigation as a punishment for seeing someone who neither of you happens to approve of?’
‘No, it’s not that all,’ Woodend told him soothingly. ‘It’s just that we thought you might prefer to play it safe.’
‘There’s a poor bloody kid out there who desperately needs the help of the best team available,’ Rutter said hotly. ‘And that’s us, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Woodend agreed.
‘Well, then?’
Woodend nodded. ‘All right. If that’s your decision, you’re in,’ he said. ‘Has anybody got any new ideas?’
‘I have,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Or rather, it’s not so much a new idea as an old one we never got to follow through.’
‘Go on,’ Woodend said.
‘The killer used a drug on Angela Jackson that isn’t readily available to members of the general public. If we can find out where he got it from, it might give us a lead on him.’
‘I’ve got the perfect excuse for looking into that,’ Rutter said. ‘I’m a crime-prevention officer.’
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Woodend found himself grinning. ‘The way you say it, you make it sound more like an insult than a job description,’ he told the inspector.
‘Yes,’ Rutter agreed. ‘I do, don’t I?’
‘The other idea that the boss and I have agreed on is that the murderer’s likely to have dumped his victim no more than a mile or so from the bolt-hole where he killed her,’ Paniatowski said to Rutter. She pulled a map out of her handbag, and spread it on the table. ‘So this is the area we need to look at,’ she continued.
She’d drawn three circles on the map, and she was indicating the points at which the circles intersected.
‘Why three circles?’ Rutter asked.
‘One has as its centre the spot where Angela Jackson’s body was found,’ Paniatowski said. ‘The centre of the second one is where she was kidnapped, and the centre of the third is where Mary Thomas was snatched – because if he didn’t want to drive far with a dead victim, we can be almost sure he didn’t want to drive far with live ones.’
‘It’s good thinking, and by employing it you’ve certainly cut the search area down a lot,’ Rutter admitted, ‘but there are still an awful lot of buildings to look at, and people to question.’
‘There are,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But it’s not quite as formidable as it might at first appear. The hideout would have to be somewhere comparatively quiet – somewhere the neighbours would be unlikely to see him carryin’ the girl.’
‘And somewhere they were unlikely to hear her screams,’ Paniatowski said sombrely.
‘So there’s already whole streets in this area we should be able to rule out,’ Woodend continued.
‘Shouldn’t we suggest to Superintendent Crawley and DCI Mortlake that they carry out the search?’ Rutter wondered. ‘They’re the ones who’ve got the manpower for it.’
‘That’s why I’m hopin’ they come up with the same idea independently of us,’ Woodend said. ‘But if we suggest it, they’re likely to ignore it – precisely because we suggested it.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ Rutter said. ‘It sickens me to admit it, but that’s exactly what they’re likely to do.’
‘We’ll split the area we need to search into three parts,’ Woodend said. ‘But not equal parts. I’ll take the biggest one, because cloggin’-it is my speciality, an’ because you’ll both have other things to do.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I know Bob’s going to try and trace the source of the drug, but what other things have I got to do?’
‘You’ll be consortin’ with the enemy,’ Woodend said.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Sorry, I meant “consultin’ with our colleagues”. We need to know how the official investigation’s goin’, an’ since they’re unlikely to tell us if we ask them a direct question, you’re just goin’ to have to be sneaky.’
‘Is there any particular way you’d like me to be sneaky?’ Paniatowski wondered.
‘Aye. I’d like you to cosy up to the newly promoted Detective Sergeant Rosemary Stevenson.’
‘You must be joking!’ Paniatowski said.
‘Not at all. You’ve got a lot in common. You’re both women sergeants in a police force where most of the officers are still men, half of whom believe that a woman’s place is the kitchen, an’—’
‘And Rosemary Stevenson absolutely hates my guts,’ Monika Paniatowski interrupted.
‘Did hate your guts,’ Woodend corrected her. ‘Hated them when you were a detective an’ she was still in uniform. But the situation’s changed, hasn’t it? Rosemary’s the top dog now …’
‘Top bitch,’ Paniatowski said.
‘If you like,’ Woodend agreed easily. ‘She’s part of an important investigation team – an’ you’re not. I’m sure she’d more than welcome the opportunity to be really condescendin’ to you. An’ if you eat a little humble pie, you’ll be givin’ her all the chances she’ll need.’
‘I’d rather rip my own tongue out,’ Paniatowski said.
‘I’m sure you would,’ Woodend replied. ‘But that wouldn’t help our investigation, whereas brown-nosin’ will.’
‘All right,’ Paniatowski said, with a look of distaste on her face. ‘I’ll do my best to cosy up to Rosemary Stevenson – but I don’t have to like it.’
‘No, you don’t,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Truth to tell, you’ll probably bloody hate it.’
They all left the Drum and Monkey at half-past eleven, and by twelve o’clock Woodend was parking his old Wolseley in the visitors’ car park at the University of Central Lancashire.
It was the first time he’d ever visited the university, and as he walked across the campus, he was trying to work out exactly why it should be making him feel so uneasy.
His own schooling had never gone any further than Sudbury Street Elementary – which he had left at age fourteen to go to work in the mill with his dad – but that was not to say that he had anything against advanced education. In fact, he wished anyone who was lucky enough to receive it nothing but the best. So it was not the idea of a university he found unsettling, he decided, but the actual place itself. He felt – though he couldn’t quite say why – that there should be more ivy and gargoyles around. Somehow, all this steel, glass, and concrete did not sit well in his mind with learning and research. No doubt Monika Paniatowski would have said he was old fashioned if he’d expressed this idea to her, he thought – but then Paniatowski said he was old fashioned about most things.
The psychology building was in the centre of the complex. It was three storeys high, and had a wavy roof which reminded Woodend of a piece of cardboard left out in the rain. The porter on the desk directed the chief inspector to the second floor, where Dr Stevenson had his office.
Woodend climbed the stairs and knocked on the doctor’s door. After a moment, a voice from the other side of it called out, ‘Come in.’
Martin Stevenson was sitting behind his desk. The last time they’d met had been in the Drum and Monkey, and Stevenson had been wearing a tweed jacket and brown cavalry-twill trousers. This time, the doctor was dressed in a sharp blue suit that Bob Rutter would probably have immediately lusted after. But there was nothing sharp about his face. He looked tired – and perhaps a little stressed.
‘I’m sorry to turn up like this, without callin’ first,’ Woodend said apologetically.
‘It’s not a problem,’ Stevenson assured him. ‘Knowing that
I’d be suffering from jet-lag, I’ve deliberately made no appointments for today.’
‘So you’ve been travellin’, have you?’ Woodend asked.
‘Indeed. I was in San Francisco. I only got back last night.’
‘But you’ll have heard about …’
‘The awful thing that happened while I was away? Yes, of course I’ve heard about it. I’ve got an inside source, remember.’
‘Your wife,’ Woodend said.
‘My wife,’ Stevenson agreed.
‘It’s because of your wife that I had my doubts about comin’ here today,’ Woodend admitted.
‘Oh?’
Oh! Was that it? Woodend wondered. He was in a difficult situation here – as he thought he’d just indicated to Stevenson – so why couldn’t the man help him out a little?
Because, he supposed, given the obvious purpose of his visit, Stevenson was in a bit of a difficult situation himself.
And because the man was a bloody shrink – and bloody shrinks always seemed to believe that you should do most of the talking, however difficult that might be for you.
‘I was never very happy about not bein’ able to complete my investigation into the Angela Jackson murder,’ he said, approaching the subject obliquely.
‘I know you weren’t,’ Stevenson said.
‘And it only makes it worse that, because I didn’t catch the killer, he’s been able to snatch another poor bloody girl.’
‘You’re weighed down by feelings of guilt,’ Stevenson said, quite matter-of-factly.
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘Wouldn’t you? Then don’t you think you might perhaps be deluding yourself?’
‘I didn’t drop the case – the case dropped me!’ Woodend said angrily.
‘Now you’re starting to try to justify yourself,’ Stevenson told him. ‘And that simply won’t work.’
‘Will it not?’
‘No – because you’re the kind of man who rarely makes excuses for himself. So even though others don’t hold you responsible for what happened or didn’t happen – and even if you can understand, on an intellectual level, that there’s nothing more you could have done – the guilt stays with you. And it will continue to stay with you until you have – in your own terms – made amends.’
Death Watch Page 17
