‘Don’t worry, I’ve heard worse,’ Paniatowski assured him. She took another sip of her beer – a smaller one, this time. ‘I’ve got a real problem on my hands, Bill,’ she continued.
‘And what problem might that be?’
‘I don’t think Captain Howerd’s going to show me any of the records that I want to see.’
‘Doesn’t he have to show them to you? I thought you had friends who had friends in high places.’
‘So I do. And Captain Howerd has to go through the motions of obeying their instructions. But he knows that he only has to stall long enough, and the information will reach me too late to do me any bloody good.’
‘What records are you interested in?’
‘I’d like to know what happened the night that those soldiers who Ted McCoy told us about stole that Land Rover. Which means I’d like to see the MPs’ arrest report. But Howerd’s not about to give that up without a very long and very bloody struggle.’
‘Maybe you could approach the problem from another angle,’ Bill Blaine suggested tentatively.
‘What other angle?’
‘Well, you can’t find out what happened to the men, but maybe the vehicle’s got its own story to tell.’
‘Its own story?’
‘There’ll be a service log, won’t there? And if anything happened to the vehicle in question that night, it will have been duly noted down.’ Blaine suddenly began to look rather unsure of himself. ‘I mean, I know that might seem like a bit of a long shot,’ he continued, ‘and after all, you’re the one who’s the detective, not me, but …’
‘That’s brilliant!’ Paniatowski said.
‘Is it?’ Blaine asked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely brilliant,’ Paniatowski confirmed. ‘Provided, of course, you’ve worked out a way to get your hands on the service log for of the particular Land Rover I’m interested in. Have you?’
‘It might be a bit tricky,’ Blaine admitted, ‘but if we play it carefully, I think we should be able to manage it.’
Woodend, Rutter and Beresford were sitting at their usual table in the Drum and Monkey, though it did not quite look like the usual table, without a vodka glass in evidence.
They had been silent for some time, each one wrapped up in his own thoughts – though it was only in Woodend’s case that the thoughts had been focused exclusively on the investigation.
‘The thing is,’ the Chief Inspector said, breaking the silence, ‘both Hough an’ Murray seem perfectly willin’ to set themselves up as targets for our murderer – though, of course, for very different reasons. Well, I’m simply not goin’ to let that happen. I will not allow Martin Murray to be killed, whatever his own personal inclination, an’ I will not allow Mark Hough to kill the Greek, however much he might like to.’
‘I thought you said that Martin Murray didn’t think Hough wanted the Greek to come to him,’ Rutter commented. ‘I thought you said he thought it was very funny that that was what you did think.’
‘Aye, well, when you’ve two conflictin’ statements, you have to choose which one to believe, don’t you?’ Woodend said. ‘An’ which one would you believe? Are you prepared to take the word of a man who’s built up his own thrivin’ business from a wheelchair, and who – according to the inquiries I’ve made – is indeed a crack shot with a pistol? Or would you prefer to accept the ideas put forward by a pasty-faced bugger who spends his whole life playin’ with model trains?’
‘When you put it like that, there doesn’t seem to be much of a contest,’ Beresford said.
‘No, there isn’t,’ Woodend agreed.
And yet, even though he sounded assured, he had to admit to himself that Murray’s words had unnerved him – that even if the man was a complete nutter, his amusement had been genuine, and his belief that Woodend had got it all wrong seemed to be firmly held.
‘Anyway, this is how it’s goin’ to be,’ he told Rutter and Beresford. ‘I’ve arranged for six officers – six highly reliable officers – to be posted outside Murray’s shop, an’ another six outside Hough’s factory, which is also his home. Even if the Greek’s got an accomplice – an’ I don’t believe he has – the two potential victims should be as safe as houses.’
‘We don’t yet know what’s happened to Tom Bygraves,’ Rutter reminded him.
‘No, we don’t,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But there are two possibilities, aren’t there? The first is that he’s escaped, an’ is lyin’ low somewhere. The second is that the Greek’s got hold of him, an’ is keepin’ him prisoner.’
‘Isn’t there a third possibility?’ Beresford asked.
‘An’ what might that be?’
‘That the Greek’s already killed him.’
‘No, that isn’t a possibility at all, lad,’ Woodend said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because if the Greek had killed him, we’d have heard all about it by now. This isn’t a killer who likes to hide his victims away – he wants to put them right out there on display, where as many people as possible can see them.’
In peacetime, the military motor pool kept almost as regular hours as any civilian business, and for the previous fifty minutes it had been winding down, so the only person still there when Blaine and Paniatowski arrived was the corporal responsible for locking up.
When he saw them approaching, a grin spread across the corporal’s face. ‘Well, look who’s here,’ he called out. ‘Strike me dead if it isn’t the best centre forward what it’s ever been my privilege to play alongside. How many goals was it you scored in that last match against the Cyps, Blainey?’
Bill Blaine looked suitably modest. ‘You already know how many goals it was,’ he said.
‘I still like to hear it said out loud – from the bloke who actually slammed them in.’
‘It was four.’
‘Four! A hat trick plus one.’ The corporal nodded his head in admiration. ‘So how have you been, me old mate?’
‘Not half bad,’ Bill Blaine replied. ‘Don’t mind me dropping in on you like this, just as you’re closin’, do you?’
‘Not at all,’ the corporal said, ‘especially when you’ve got a gorgeous lady in tow. Who is she anyway, this vision of loveliness?’
‘Detective Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, of the Central Lancs Police,’ Blaine said.
‘Ooh, the law!’ the corporal said, with mock concern.
Paniatowski gave him one of her widest – and sexiest – smiles. ‘Just call me Monika,’ she invited.
‘I’ll do that,’ the corporal replied. ‘And I’m Phil Campion, but everybody around here calls me Campo.’
‘The thing is, Monika would like to get a quick shufty at some of your service logs,’ Bill Blaine said.
Campo’s face clouded over, ever so slightly. ‘Have you got authorization?’ he asked.
Blaine laughed.
‘Authorization?’ he repeated, as if the idea that it would be required had never even occurred to him. ‘Why would we need authorization to have a gander at details of tyre pressure checks and oil changes?’
The cloud was still floating lightly across Campo’s face. ‘Well, regulations is regulations,’ he said dubiously.
‘Where our difficulty stems from, you see, is that Monika’s had a bit of a run-in with “Frankie” Howerd,’ Blaine explained, ‘and now he’s doing everything within his power to prevent her from doing her job properly.’
Campo nodded. ‘She’s not the first that’s happened to,’ he said. ‘Howerd’s a real swine.’
‘And though she could go over his head – because she’s got friends in the War Office – she’s only here on the island for a short while, so there’s not really enough time for that. That’s why I was wondering if you’d let us have a quick peek now.’
‘Just the service logs?’ Campo asked, still sounding doubtful. ‘No more than that?’
‘No more than that,’ Monika agreed. ‘And I don’t even want to look at recent ones, Campo. The one
s that I’m interested in are from seven years ago.’ She paused for a moment. ‘You will still have them, won’t you?’
‘Oh, we’ll have them, right enough,’ Campo assured her. ‘The army never throws anything away.’
‘We shouldn’t need more than ten minutes all told,’ Bill Blaine said, sensing a weakening on his footballing friend’s part.
‘The service logs are all on that shelf over there,’ the corporal said, pointed with his thumb. ‘But, having said that, I’m afraid I can’t possibly allow you to examine them.’
‘Not even if …’ Blaine began.
But Campo held up his hand to silence his friend. ‘Look, I’m a reasonable man, and I want to explain to you, right down to the tiniest detail, why I can’t let you see them,’ Campo said. ‘But before I can give you that explanation, I’ve simply got to pay a visit to the latrines.’ He winked. ‘My stomach’s been upset all day, you see, so I imagine I’ll be gone for ten or fifteen minutes.’
And without saying another word, he left the room.
It did not take Blaine and Paniatowski long to find the service logs for the right date, nor to establish which vehicle Tom Bygraves and his comrades had used.
‘This is the only one that went out that night,’ Bill Blaine said, ‘and, strangely enough,’ he grinned, ‘nobody seems to have signed for it.’
No, they wouldn’t have, Paniatowski thought. You don’t sign for a vehicle you’re stealing.
‘It did forty miles on that particular expedition,’ Blaine said, then he whistled softly.
‘What’s the matter?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘It’d already had a full service the previous day, but they did a real number on in when it came back. There was a full mechanical check, two of the tyres were changed, it was given a complete wash-down, and the back end of the chassis was given a whole new paint job.’
‘And that’s unusual, is it?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘The paint job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not too unusual. The Army likes to keep its vehicles looking smart, you have to understand, even when it’s involved in combat situations. It thinks that gives it a psychological advantage over the bedraggled enemy.’
‘Well, then …’
‘But they’re not normally that keen on appearances that they’ll go to the trouble of re-spraying a vehicle overnight.’
Twenty-Four
The barriers had been delivered to the ruined abbey by lorry, earlier in the day. They were made of tubular steel, were each ten feet long and were painted bright yellow. Once they’d been unloaded, they were immediately set up around the perimeter of the abbey.
Though they were known as crowd-control barriers, the title was not strictly accurate, since they came only to waist height and could be toppled over by someone who was even slightly determined. Their true function was as ‘indicators’ of the line between the area set aside for the audience and that reserved exclusively for the performers, and though they would have been of little use at a violent political demonstration or an over-emotional football match, the organizers of this particular event were confident they would serve their purpose well enough.
The large man with unruly grey hair was standing on the performance side of the barriers, but was watching the crowd on the other side, which had been building up since darkness began to fall. He was not alone. Beside him stood a blonde woman who was both much younger and much smaller than he was. She was an ‘off-comer’, a term which in Dunethorpe could well have meant she’d been born a dozen miles away, though, in her case, it was closer to a couple of hundred.
The woman, who had been christened Josephine but was always called Jo, pinched the man lightly – and affectionately – on the arm, and said, ‘Well, I’ll say this much for you, you seem to have got us the best seats in the house.’
The man, Chief Inspector Baxter, chuckled. ‘Best seats?’ he repeated. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, we’re standing.’
‘The best view in the house, then,’ Jo corrected herself.
‘Well, there have to be some perks to being a bobby,’ Baxter replied. ‘And I am sort of on duty.’
‘But we are still “sort of” on a date?’
‘Oh yes. There’s absolutely no doubt about that.’
She was a lovely woman, Baxter thought, and he enjoyed her company. And if, as sometimes happened, he found himself comparing her to Monika Paniatowski, he immediately pushed those thoughts back into the darkest recesses of his mind.
‘There’s quite a crowd,’ said Jo, looking across at the barriers.
‘Yes, there is,’ Baxter agreed. ‘There are those who say that the only time Dunethorpe looks as if it has any kind of future is when it’s celebrating its glorious past.’
Jo crinkled her nose. ‘That sounds a bit cynical.’
‘You’re right,’ Baxter conceded. ‘But there’s a grain of truth in it, for all that. Historically, you see, while Dunethorpe never came close to matching York in power or influence, wool did make it rich, and for a couple of hundred years or so it was something. And what is it now, Jo?’
‘I don’t know,’ the woman said. ‘I’m just an off-comer, after all. What do you – a man born and brought up here – think it is?’
‘I think it’s a sleepy little market town that only comes alive once every five years, when it stages the Mystery Cycle as part of the Dunethorpe Festival.’
‘You were going to tell me all about how the Cycle started,’ Jo reminded him.
‘Oh yes, so I was,’ Baxter agreed. ‘It began way back in the Middle Ages. What it was intended to be was a cunning combination of religious expression and education.’
‘Education?’
‘That’s right. Everybody was supposed to know their Bible, but very few people could read it for themselves, so the Mysteries were a way of teaching them biblical stories. Each guild was made responsible for staging one particular story, you see, and …’
‘What’s a guild?’
Monika Paniatowski would probably have been able to work that out for herself – or have made a stab at guessing what it was, Baxter thought. But then Monika would never have grown to love him – and he thought that Jo just might.
Baxter lit up his pipe, and took a few puffs. The air around him was filled with light blue smoke.
‘A guild was a professional body which controlled one particular trade,’ he explained. ‘The Cordwainers’ Guild, for example, supervised everybody working in the leather industry. It set the length of apprenticeships, the quality of work that was expected, and even the price. Functions that are nowadays supervised by any number of government bodies – or do I mean busybodies? – were all under the control of the guild.’
‘So if you wanted to stage something as elaborate as a mystery cycle, it was the guilds you went to?’ Josephine asked.
‘Exactly,’ Baxter agreed, pleased that she’d grasped the point. ‘So, as I was saying, each guild was given its own story to tell. Originally they performed their little pageants in wagons on the streets. The wagons moved around, so that instead of you coming to the play, the play came to you. But when the whole thing was revived, after the war, it was decided to stage it in the ruins of the abbey.’
‘And is it still the guilds who run it?’ Josephine asked.
‘Yes, although they’ve had to be revived, too, because some of them haven’t existed for at least a couple of hundred years.’
‘And each guild still does it’s own thing?’
‘Correct. The Builders’ Guild will give us the story of Creation, just as they always did, the Mariners’ Guild will present the tale of Noah’s Ark, and, of course, the Butchers’ Guild have been put in charge of the Crucifixion.’
‘You’re making that last bit up,’ Josephine said accusingly.
Baxter laughed. ‘I promise you, I’m not,’ he said.
And he wasn’t.
When the abbey had been closed, under orders from King Henry VIII, its
lands had been seized and its roof removed, but it had otherwise been left intact. Now, after five hundred years of relentless Yorkshire wind and rain, only two walls remained standing, but they were more than enough to give an idea of how impressive and imposing the edifice had once been.
Of the two walls, the one facing the crowd was in the better state of repair. Its base rose thirty feet into the air, and was capped by a row of stone arches – once holding huge stained-glass windows – which added another forty feet to its height. Behind the wall – and out of sight of the audience – was a complex and recently-erected system of scaffolding, and standing on this scaffolding was a man dressed entirely in white and wearing a long beard which was starting to itch. He was God for the night, but once the performance was over he would revert to be being plain Albert Doddsworth, bricklayer.
The lights which had been illuminating the whole of the abbey grounds were suddenly extinguished, and were replaced by a single spotlight in the arch just above Doddsworth’s head.
The bricklayer climbed the scaffolding, stopping when he was framed in the archway. Ahead of him, he could see only darkness, though he knew that there were thousands of people watching his every move.
He cleared his throat. ‘I am the Lord God!’ he said, and was startled by how loudly his words seemed to boom back at him when picked up by the hidden microphones. ‘I have created the heaven and the earth, and onto the earth I have created, I have put Man.’
A second spotlight illuminated the base of the wall, revealing a man in a skin-tight flesh-coloured leotard, who was looking up at his God.
‘I am Adam,’ he said, though he was really a plasterer called Billy Higgins. ‘Thou hast created me, and I do worship Thee.’
Albert Doddsworth nodded, in what he hoped was a God-like way, and wished his false beard didn’t itch quite so much.
Tom Bygraves was lying in the back of the black van. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly, and every time the van turned a corner sharply, he rolled from one side of it to the other. At that moment he was thinking only of the pain which made his muscles burn and his limbs ache. But he knew, subconsciously, that that would not last – knew that soon another wave of fear would engulf him, and he would begin screaming for mercy again.
Dangerous Games Page 19
