‘Are you still married yourself – or are you divorced, Mrs Rogers?’ Woodend wondered.
‘Why are you asking me that?’
‘Just curious.’
‘I’m divorced. And if what you’re really asking is why I kicked the bastard out, I did it because he was a gambler as well. But that doesn’t mean I’ve got an obsession about men and gambling.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Woodend asked mildly.
‘No, it bloody doesn’t. All it does mean is that when the signs are there, I know how to recognize them.’
Six
Woodend had been something of a regular in the Tanners’ Arms in the days when his old dad had worked as a tackler in one of the nearby mills.
Back then, it had been a strictly ‘spit and sawdust’ pub – a place to which women did not choose to go, and where they would not have been welcome if they had. It had done most of its business in the hour or so after the end of a shift, and on high days and holidays had been virtually deserted.
There had been no food on offer in those days before the Second World War, and no music to listen to. The men had stood there talking loudly – since after a few years of working in the roar of the mills’ machinery, they were all at least partially deaf – and knocking back as much ale as they could afford, in a fruitless attempt to rid their throats of the taste of the cotton dust.
Now, everything had changed. Cotton was no longer king in Lancashire, and though much of the new light industry had established itself in the industrial estate on the edge of town, a number of firms had chosen instead to colonize the skeletons of the old cotton mills close to the Tanner’s Arms.
The pub had moved with the times, too, as was immediately evidenced by the fact that in place of the old front door – which had been latched – there were a pair of swing doors, which could be pushed open.
‘Swing doors!’ Woodend said, bad-temperedly. ‘What do them buggers at the brewery think this is? A saloon in the Old West?’
‘You tell me, Gary Cooper,’ Paniatowski said, almost – but not quite – under her breath.
Once inside, the changes were even more apparent. The brass spittoons had gone. The heavy wallpaper – stained dark brown by generations of nicotine-laden smoke – had been stripped away, and the walls painted in a soothing pastel shade. The old wooden benches had been replaced by padded red chairs and the long wooden tables by small round ones with beaten copper tops. The pub offered ‘executive lunches’, and most of the customers were in suits.
The young man standing behind the bar was wearing a fancy red and white striped waistcoat which had a gold badge on it announcing that he was the assistant manager.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he told Woodend and Paniatowski off-handedly, before rushing to the other end of the bar, where two men smoking large cigars had just indicated – by the very vaguest of gestures – that they’d like some service immediately.
‘Assistant manager!’ Woodend said with disgust, when the young man had gone.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Paniatowski wondered.
‘Managers are for dull, soulless factories,’ Woodend explained. ‘A pub’s a livin’, breathin’ thing. It doesn’t need a manager.’
‘Then what does it need?’
‘If it’s to be cherished as it deserves to be, it needs a landlord, who’s invested both his money an’ his heart in the place.’
Paniatowski laughed. ‘Will you ever acknowledge that the modern world exists, sir?’ she asked.
‘I doubt it,’ Woodend replied.
The barman working under the alias of assistant manager returned to their end of the bar. He gave Woodend a slightly supercilious look, as if to say that in this haven of made-to-measure suits, his hairy sports coat was acceptable – but only just.
‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he asked.
‘A pint of best bitter, an’ a neat vodka,’ Woodend told him.
‘Neat?’ the barman repeated.
‘Neat,’ Woodend confirmed.
‘Most of our customers consider that the proper way to drink vodka is with a mixer,’ the young man said snottily.
‘Aye, well, most of your customers are probably big girl’s blouses, then,’ Woodend told him. ‘My friend here likes to taste what it is she’s drinkin’.’
The barman shrugged, like a missionary who was not the least surprised to see that his words of wisdom had fallen on stony ground. Then, he reached for a glass and started to pull Woodend’s pint.
‘Were you on duty last night?’ Woodend asked.
The barman looked up. ‘Might I ask why you require that particular piece of information, sir?’
Jesus! Woodend thought. Whatever had happened to the old-style barman – the kind of man who would either have given him a straight answer to a straight question, or else accused him of being a nosy parker and then told him to mind his own business?
The chief inspector slapped his warrant card on the counter. ‘I require it, Sunshine, because askin’ questions is what I do for a livin’,’ he said.
‘Oh, I see,’ the assistant manager said.
‘I rather thought you would,’ Woodend told him. ‘So, were you workin’ last night or not?’
‘Yes, I was.’
Woodend produced a photograph of Terry Pugh, which had been taken in the morgue after Dr Shastri had done all within her power to disguise the fact that the body – like a Chinese puzzle – came in two parts.
‘Do you know this man?’ he asked.
‘He’s lying down,’ the barman pointed out.
‘Boy, but nothin’ gets past you, does it?’ Woodend said.
‘Is he ill or something?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Oh?’
Woodend sighed. ‘He’s been decapitated, so chances are that he’ll never ride a bike again. But I asked you a question, Sunny Jim. Was this feller in here last night?’
The barman looked at the picture again. ‘You’d never guess he’d lost his head,’ he said.
‘You’ll lose yours, if you don’t start answerin’ my question soon,’ Woodend threatened.
‘Yes, he was in here,’ the barman said hastily.
‘Now you’re not just tellin’ me that to keep me happy, are you?’ Woodend demanded.
‘No. I promise you that he was here. Came in about half past seven, bought a pint, and took it over to the table in the corner. And fifteen minutes later, he was gone.’
‘You’re very precise,’ Woodend said suspiciously.
‘Well, he stood out, didn’t he?’
‘In what way?’
The barman shrugged awkwardly. ‘You know.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Most of our clientele are management. They come in here either to discuss business with each other or to entertain their lady friends. They give the place a certain tone.’
‘I imagine they must.’
‘This chap – the one in the picture – was wearing overalls when he came in. Of course, there’s no law against that …’
‘Though you probably think there should be!’
‘… but it did make him rather conspicuous.’
‘You probably wondered what he was doing in here at all,’ Woodend suggested.
‘I did at the time, but now I know that he was supposed to be meeting Mr Hough.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because after he’d left, Mr Hough himself came in, and asked me if I’d seen the man.’
‘So if he’d got a meetin’ with this Hough feller, why did he leave?’ Woodend wondered.
‘Probably because the other chap asked him to,’ the barman said.
‘What other chap?’
‘He came into the bar about five minutes after his friend. At least, I’m assuming the man in the boiler suit was a friend of his.’
‘Get to the point,’ Woodend growled.
‘He didn’t order a drink. He went straight over to the table where his
friend was sitting. I sent a waiter across – that’s part of my responsibility as assistant manager – but the new arrival just waved the waiter away.’
‘That could almost have been construed as a challenge to your considerable authority,’ Woodend said. ‘You can’t have liked that.’
‘I didn’t,’ the barman told him, oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘I was just about to go across to the table myself, and tell him quite firmly that, in case he hadn’t noticed, this wasn’t a bus shelter …’
‘By God, you’re right!’ Woodend said, looking around him. ‘It isn’t a bus shelter at all!’
‘… and that if he wanted to remain in this rather pleasant environment, he’d have to order something to drink.’
‘But you didn’t, in fact, do that?’
‘No, because the two of them stood up and left before I had the chance. The man in the boiler suit hadn’t even finished his drink. There was more than half a pint left.’
‘What did this friend look like?’ Woodend asked.
‘He was a big man, around forty-five years old. He had black oily hair, and he was wearing a rather crumpled suit in a garish pattern.’
‘Anythin’ else?’
‘He was very dark – “foreign” dark, if you know what I mean.’
‘Are you saying he was coloured?’
‘Are you asking me if he was a nigger?’
‘No,’ Woodend said, with a sudden sharp edge to his voice. ‘I’m asking you if he was coloured.’
‘No, he wasn’t. But his skin was a lot darker than yours or mine. I used to know a chap in Manchester who ran a Greek restaurant. He was from Athens, and this man rather reminded me of him.’
‘So let me see if I’ve got this straight,’ Woodend said. ‘This Greek-looking feller comes into the bar an’ talks to Terry Pugh, and five minutes later, they leave together.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Pugh look as if he wanted to go with the other man? Or did he seem to be leavin’ unwillingly?’
‘I can’t say. I was in the middle of serving a customer, and by the time I’d filled his order, the two of them were already leaving. So all I actually saw was their backs.’
Behind them, there was the sound of the double doors, which led in from the street, swinging open.
The assistant manager looked over Woodend’s shoulder, and suddenly an obsequious smile filled his face.
‘Who’s arrived?’ Woodend asked grumpily. ‘Calamity Jane an’ Billy the Kid?’
The assistant manager ignored him completely, and the smile on his face grew even wider as he shifted to the left, so that the new customer could get a proper look at him.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hough!’ he called out brightly. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you again so soon.’
‘Hough?’ Woodend repeated. ‘Would that be Mark Hough?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Woodend turned around to make eye contact with the man who Terry Pugh had supposedly been intending to meet the previous evening – and found he had a clear view right to the door.
‘I’m down here,’ said a voice, and, from its tone, the speaker was clearly finding Woodend’s obvious surprise quite amusing.
The Chief Inspector lowered his eyes a couple of feet, and saw that he had been right, and the man was greatly amused by his confusion.
‘Mr Hough, I presume,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m certainly not Dr Livingstone,’ the man in the wheelchair told him. ‘He had working legs.’
When Bob Rutter had wanted to sell the house in which his wife had been murdered, all the local estate agents he’d approached had been less than enthusiastic about the prospect of having it on their books.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he’d asked one agent. ‘It’s less than two years old. Any other house on that street has been snapped up almost as soon as the For Sale sign’s been erected.’
‘Yes, but it isn’t any other house on the street,’ the estate agent had said, awkwardly.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Rutter had agreed, irritated. ‘This one has had an entire re-fit since the fire. It’s only the shell that’s two years old – the inside’s brand spanking new.’
‘That may be true,’ the agent had agreed reluctantly.
‘It is true!’
‘But the thing is, Mr Rutter, most people have seen too many ghost films to be comfortable about moving into a house where there’s been a violent death, and I think I’d have real trouble shifting it.’
‘It’s not haunted,’ Rutter had said firmly.
‘Then why don’t you live in it yourself?’
A good question, Rutter thought.
Because, he supposed, for him – and him alone – it was haunted.
He couldn’t walk into the kitchen without seeing Maria preparing food, her hands feeling what her eyes could not see.
He couldn’t be in the living room without remembering how they had sat on the sofa in front of the television, with him providing a running commentary for actions on the screen which his wife could not have worked out from the dialogue alone.
He couldn’t stand in the garden without recalling that everything he had planted there had been chosen for its smell alone, because though the colour and delicacy of certain plants had once given Maria great pleasure, it was a pleasure which her blindness had robbed her of.
In the end, he had sold the house – though for considerably less than would have been paid for the houses on either side of it – and bought a large Victorian semi-detached at the other end of town.
At the time of the sale, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Now, as he parked his car outside the house in which he hoped to make a new home for himself and his daughter, he was no longer sure that he had done the right thing.
Now, it seemed to him that selling the old house had been a cowardly act – that a real man would have stayed in it, and battled the demons of rebuke and regret on their own territory.
He saw the blue E Type Jaguar parked just up the street, and thought – somewhat guiltily – of the heated exchange between himself and Monika Paniatowski, which had followed him telling Woodend that he needed to take a couple of hours off that afternoon.
‘Why’s that?’ Paniatowski had asked. ‘Have you got a date?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have, in a way,’ he’d replied coldly. ‘I’m interviewing nannies for Louisa.’
Which had been perfectly true – as far as it went. But what he’d neglected to mention was that he’d asked Elizabeth Driver – the owner of the blue E Type Jag – to sit in on those interviews.
Seven
Mark Hough had all-but perfected the art of being in a wheel-chair, Woodend thought, as he watched the man skilfully manoeuvre his machine around the maze of pub tables, before bringing it to a sharp and very precise halt when he reached the table in the corner.
He was about the same age as Terry Pugh, but because of his bushy beard, which was flecked with grey, he might possibly have been taken for a few years older. He had a powerful torso, but the very breadth of it seemed only to draw attention to the withered legs beneath it.
Woodend had known several cripples who had self-consciously hidden their legs – covering them with a thin blanket even in the heat of summer – but Hough’s legs were there for all to see, and even the expensive well-cut trousers could not hide just how wasted they were.
Woodend and Paniatowski followed Hough to the table, and sat down opposite him.
Mark Hough looked with something akin to real envy at Woodend’s frothing pint.
‘I used to enjoy best bitter myself,’ he said, ‘but it goes through the system far too quickly, and since going for a pee is no longer the joy it used to be, I stick to malt whisky now.’
He picked up the whisky Woodend had bought for him, took a small sip of it, and placed it on the copper-topped table.
‘I rang your headquarters as soon as I heard the news about Terry,
’ he continued. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do, in the circumstances. But, by the same token, I don’t honestly see how I can be of much use to you.’
‘You’d arranged to meet Terry Pugh last night?’ Woodend said.
‘I had.’
‘Why in this particular pub?’
‘Because it’s close enough to my factory for me to be able to wheel myself down, and thus not have to bother anybody else.’
‘Your factory?’ Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘Wait a minute, you’re not the Hough of Hough Engineering, are you?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ Hough admitted.
‘I read in the paper that you’ve just gone public,’ Woodend said.
‘Well remembered,’ Hough said.
‘What made you do it? Were you feelin’ the pinch?’
‘Far from it. There’s a worldwide demand for precision engineering valves, and mine are some of the best on the market. The order book’s full to overflowing, and it didn’t take me long to realize that I either had to turn away business or expand my capacity. But expansion always takes capital, Chief Inspector, and rather than go cap in hand to the bank, I thought I’d issue shares.’
‘But you refused to sell to large investors, didn’t you?’ Woodend asked, remembering why it was that the article in the newspaper had managed to stick in his mind. ‘You told all the merchant banks an’ insurance companies that were sniffin’ around the company to go an’ take a runnin’ jump.’
‘That’s exactly what I told them,’ Hough confirmed. ‘I have great confidence in my company’s future, and I saw no reason why a bunch of bloated capitalists based in London should profit from it, when I could just as easily ensure that the ordinary man in the street up here made a few bob instead.’
‘You say “your company”, but now you’ve sold the shares, it isn’t actually your company any more, is it?’ Woodend asked.
Dangerous Games Page 5
