‘No,’ agreed Paniatowski, who knew something about loneliness. ‘It probably isn’t.’
They were standing in a shaded area at the edge of the tarmac, watching a Blackburn Beverly, surrounded by a heat haze, being unloaded. Once the cargo had been removed, the plane would be made ready for take-off, and then the no-longer-welcome guest herself would be escorted on board.
Paniatowski was feeling vaguely dissatisfied, but that dissatisfaction had very little to do with the obvious pleasure she knew it would give Captain Howerd to see her leave the island.
The simple truth was that while she had done the job that had been asked of her, she still did not feel that she had actually contributed much to the investigation which was being conducted back in Whitebridge.
True, she had found out what had really gone on that night in June 1958, but that was another crime in another time, for which the surviving miscreants might still be punished – though she doubted they would.
True, too, she had, thanks to Sergeant McCoy, identified the men on the killer’s list, but no doubt Woodend would have got those names from another source easily enough.
She wished she could talk to Woodend at that moment, partly so that he could reassure her that her own efforts had been of value to the team, partly because she was bursting to know what developments there’d been back home. But that was not to be, because Brian and Chris – despite their obvious friendliness towards her, would never disobey Captain Howerd’s orders and allow her to use the phone. And she knew that for a fact – because she’d already asked them.
So, all in all, she thought, her little jaunt to Cyprus had turned out to be an almost complete waste of time.
One of the lorries pulled away from the plane. It passed within a few feet of where they were standing, and Paniatowski noticed that several of the packing cases bore the name of a company she recognized.
‘Do you buy a lot of stuff from Hough Engineering?’ she asked Chris and Brian.
‘We wouldn’t know about that,’ Chris said. ‘We don’t get involved in the technical side of things.’
‘Still, I suppose the desk wallahs must buy a fair amount from the company, or it wouldn’t have been worthwhile Mr Hough coming out here himself, would it?’ Brian added.
‘Hough? Coming out here himself?’ Paniatowski repeated, almost stunned by this new information.
‘That’s right,’ Brian agreed.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Definitely. The reason we remember it particularly is because he paid us to drive him into Nicosia on our day off. Bought us a bloody marvellous slap-up meal, too, though we never asked him to.’
‘It was bloody marvellous,’ Chris agreed. ‘And he didn’t even get a taste of it himself, because while we were stuffing our faces, he was off on his own, doing a bit of business.’
‘What kind of business?’ Paniatowski wondered.
‘Don’t know. He didn’t say – and we didn’t ask.’
Hough in Cyprus! Hough doing ‘business’ in Nicosia!
The idea that was forming in Paniatowski’s mind seemed so incredible that it simply couldn’t be right.
‘And you’re sure it was Hough himself,’ she asked desperately. ‘It couldn’t have been one of his sales’ representatives, could it?’
‘Told us his name was Hough,’ Chris said. ‘And I know this isn’t going to sound very logical, but when a man in a wheelchair tells you something, your natural inclination is to believe him.’
‘We’ve had it all wrong from the start!’ Paniatowski thought.
But that wasn’t strictly true, she thought. They’d had it all right – and all wrong.
‘I have to make a phone call,’ she said.
‘Now we’ve already told you that isn’t possible,’ Chris said, slightly reprovingly.
‘Yes, I know – but the last time I asked, I didn’t realize it was a matter of life or death,’ Paniatowski told him.
‘It can’t be that serious,’ Brian said.
‘It is that serious,’ Paniatowski said urgently. ‘I promise you it is.’
The two MPs exchanged questioning glances, then Chris shook his head and said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Then could you make a call?’ Paniatowski asked desperately.
‘I suppose there’s no harm in that,’ Chris conceded.
‘Ring Whitebridge Police headquarters. Ask for Chief Inspector Woodend, and tell him that Matthews Marauders killed a girl – and that Mark Hough’s made a recent visit to Cyprus.’
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘But will it mean anything to him?’
‘Oh yes,’ Paniatowski said heavily. ‘It will mean a great deal to him.’
There were three of them in the car which screeched to a halt in front of the model shop. Woodend – the driver – was the first to get out of it, but Rutter and Dr Shastri were not far behind him.
Woodend tried the main door to the shop, and when he found it was locked – as he had fully expected it to be – he kicked it open without a second’s hesitation.
He saw Martin Murray immediately. It would have been hard to miss him. The model shop owner was hanging from a rafter in the corner of the room which was not visible from the window, his head lolling to one side, his tongue protruding from his mouth.
‘See what you can do for him, Doc,’ the chief inspector said, without even an ounce of expectation in his voice.
Dr Shastri looked first at Murray’s face, and then at the pool of liquid which had collected on the floor.
‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘He has been for some time. There is an envelope pinned to his chest, and no doubt there is a letter inside it.’
‘Unpin it, please,’ Woodend said, almost lethargically.
‘You are sure?’ Dr Shastri asked. ‘Might I not be contaminating important evidence in the process?’
‘No.’
Dr Shastri shrugged. ‘Very well, it is your business,’ she said, and unpinned the envelope. ‘Good heavens, it is addressed to you, my dear Chief Inspector,’ she continued.
‘Aye, I thought it might be,’ Woodend said.
‘How strange that you would ever have had such thoughts,’ Dr Shastri said. ‘In all my experience of dealing with suicides, I don’t think I have ever come across one in which the suicide note was actually addressed to a policeman.’
‘I don’t think it is a suicide note,’ Woodend said.
‘What else could it be?’
‘I suspect that it’s much more in the nature of Martin Murray’s last will an’ testament.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Dr Shastri said.
‘Open it, please, an’ let’s see what it has to say.’
Dr Shastri split the envelope open with her fingernail, and extracted a single sheet of paper.
‘Dear Chief Inspector Woodend,’ she read, ‘I believe you understand what my model railway means to me, and I would ask you to do all that you can to find it a home where it will be truly appreciated.’ She paused. ‘That’s all he says.’
Woodend nodded. ‘Got any really pressin’ engagements this afternoon, Doc?’ he said.
‘I will have to perform the autopsy on our little friend here, but I can always put him on ice, if needs be,’ the doctor said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I think it’s more than likely that we’ll be needin’ your services again,’ Woodend told her.
Priscilla Charlton was at her desk, and – as usual – greeted Woodend with a cheery smile.
But that smile soon disappeared when she noticed the grim expression on his face.
‘Has … has something happened?’ she asked.
And by that, she meant, ‘something bad’.
‘Where’s your boss?’ Woodend asked.
‘On the top floor. In his apartment. It’s most unusual for him to go up there at this time of day, but that’s what he’s done – and he left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be distu
rbed.’
‘I bet he did,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Have you got a key to the place, Miss Charlton?’
‘Yes, I have. But I’m not sure that Mr Hough would want me to …’
‘Then give it to me, for Christ’s sake!’ Woodend snapped. ‘Don’t you understand, woman? I’m tryin’ to save his life!’
Mark Hough’s apartment had once been the warehouse for the cotton mill which had functioned below it, and Hough had retained many of the original features. Thus, with the exception of the walled-off bathroom, it was a single open space. Thus, it had rafters rather than a ceiling.
And thus, there was still a door in the middle of the wall, through which cotton bales had been hauled in the old days, with a gibbet on the outside which had done the hauling.
That door was open, and Hough was sitting in his wheelchair very close to the edge. There was a noose around his neck, formed from part of the rope which had been tied around the gibbet.
‘It’s not as easy as it looks for a man in a wheelchair to get a rope over that gibbet,’ he said conversationally, when he saw Woodend standing in the doorway that led from the lift. ‘But then, there are many things that are not all that easy to do when you’re in a wheelchair.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ Woodend said, taking a couple of cautious steps towards him.
‘Stop!’ Hough ordered him. ‘If you wish to talk, then we will talk. But if you come any closer than you are now, I will propel my chair forward immediately, and within moments, my neck will be broken.’
‘So it will,’ Woodend agreed. ‘As long as you’ve got your calculations right. But if you haven’t, of course, you’ll either strangle to death or else decapitate yourself.’
‘I have my calculations right,’ Hough assured him. ‘I’m no bungler like that fool Nikopolidis.’
‘You recruited Mr Nikopolidis on your trip to Cyprus, I take it,’ Woodend said.
‘That’s right.’
‘An’ how did you persuade him to help you? Was it through money? Or was it through the promise of revenge?’
‘Both. I paid him a considerable amount of money. And why not? I knew I would have no further use for it. Revenge certainly came into it, too. The girl who we killed …’ He paused. ‘You do know about her, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’
Woodend nodded. ‘I don’t have details yet – I won’t get them until I can talk to Monika – but I think I’ve got the general idea.’
‘The girl we killed – after we’d brutally raped her – was some sort of vague cousin of Nikopolidis’s. But then, on that island, all the Greeks are related to each other, if you look back far enough. So, overall, I don’t think it was either money or thoughts of revenge which finally brought him to Britain to do the job for me. I think it was the excitement.’
‘You think he found what he did excitin’?’
‘Oh, very much so. He was an EOKA terrorist – or freedom fighter, as I’m sure he would have called it – for over four years, and his life was in danger every day of that time. Then the peace came, and he almost died of boredom. I gave him the chance to live again – to take on an enemy much more powerful than he was, against whom he knew he was almost certain to lose. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he crashed that van deliberately.’
‘Why?’
‘So he could die on a high note.’
‘Was it your idea to make the hangings so exotic?’ Woodend asked.
‘No. I wanted those men hanged, but I didn’t care how few – or how many – people saw the result. Nikopolidis, on the other hand, wanted his work to be admired in all its gory detail.’
‘But it was you who suggested the idea of the Dunethorpe Festival to him, wasn’t it?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Are you denyin’ it?’
‘No, I’m just curious about your reasoning.’
‘He’d never have heard of it, comin’ from Cyprus as he did. But you knew all about what went on during the Mystery Cycle. After all, you were one of the sponsors.’
‘Very well worked out!’ Hough said approvingly. ‘And you’re quite right, of course – Dunethorpe was my idea.’
‘So you wanted him to get caught?’
‘No, not at all. The only reason I proposed Dunethorpe was as a way of protecting him.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Completely. As risky as I knew the festival would be, it seemed a lot safer than the crazy ideas that Nikopolidis was coming up with himself. I wanted him to stay alive, you see. I wanted him to finish the job I had recruited him to do.’
‘He’d have killed you, too, in the end, you know.’
‘Of course he would. I fully expected him to. But he needed me as a way of getting at the others – he needed me to provide the logistics for him – and so I would have been the last man to die.’
‘Why?’ Woodend asked.
‘Why would I have been the last man to die? I thought I’d just explained that.’
‘You know what I meant. Why did any of this have to happen?’
‘We committed a crime for which we should rightly have been hung. What more do I need to say?’
‘Why wait seven years?’
‘Perhaps it took seven years for the deep remorse to truly eat its way into my soul.’
Woodend shook his head. ‘That may have been true in Martin Murray’s case. In fact, I’m sure it was. That’s why it was so easy for you to persuade him to hang himself.’
‘Yes, you’re right about that,’ Hough agreed. ‘When I went to his pathetic little shop, he showed me the rope he’d already prepared.’
‘But what’s true for Martin Murray isn’t true for you.’
‘Then what is true for me?’
‘The way I see it,’ Woodend said, ‘you thought for quite a while that you’d already been given your fair share of punishment for killing the girl. You were crippled, an’ that was enough. As for the others, you were perfectly content to let them live with their own consciences, an’ if they could just shrug off what they’d done, then that was their own affair.’
Hough smiled. ‘So what suddenly turned me into the Mad Hangman of Whitebridge?’ he asked.
‘Love,’ Woodend said.
‘Love?’
‘You fell in love with Priscilla Charlton. You dreamed of marryin’ her, an’ havin’ her bear your children. But, of course, that was never goin’ to happen. Still, you thought you could reconcile yourself to that. Then you met Terry Pugh – purely by accident – in Whitebridge town centre …’
‘You’re doing nothing but blowing hot air,’ Hough said.
‘What’s the matter?’ Woodend challenged. ‘Are you afraid you can’t handle the truth?’
Hough considered the question for a moment, then shook his head and said, ‘No, I can handle it. You carry on.’
‘You met Terry Pugh in town, an’ he told you that his wife was expectin’ a baby. Suddenly, the balance you’d established in your life just disintegrated. It didn’t seem fair, did it? The two of you had both had a hand in killin’ the girl, yet he was goin’ to have kids, an’ you weren’t. That’s when you decided that justice had to be done. At least, justice is what you decided to called it.’
‘It was justice,’ Hough said angrily.
‘Yes, I’m sure that’s what you told yourself. I’m sure you argued that it had to be justice, because you were goin’ to die, too.’
‘That’s exactly it.’
‘But you’d reached the point at which you considered that your own life wasn’t worth livin’ anyway, so what did it matter if you did die?’ Woodend shook his head slowly, from side to side. ‘It wasn’t the search for justice that was drivin’ you, Mr Hough. It was anger. It was envy.’
A tear began to trickle down Hough’s cheek. ‘Do you have to try and rob me of my last illusion, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I think I do,’ Woodend told him seriously.
‘In God’s name, why?’
‘So what’s the alternative to killing myself?’ Hough asked. ‘A lifetime in prison? Because they’re never going to let me out, you know.’
‘Probably not,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But you’re a very talented man, an’ you could do a lot of good for the world, even from prison. An’ when you do eventually die, you’ll have the opportunity to die like a man, instead of like a snivelling wretch – which is just what you’ll be if you kill yourself now.’
‘You make a strong case, Chief Inspector,’ Hough told him. ‘But unfortunately, not strong enough.’
His hands grasped the wheels of his chair, and he propelled himself forward. The chair flew through the air, then plummeted to the ground. Hough remained, swinging at the end of a rope, a few feet below the level of the floor.
He had been right about one thing, Woodend thought – he had calculated the necessary length of the rope perfectly.
Thirty
‘What have you got to say about the bloody mess you’ve got us into, Chief Inspector Woodend?’ Henry Marlowe demanded, in a voice that was almost a roar.
‘The mess I’ve got us into?’ Woodend replied.
‘That’s what I said. Not only have we had three murders in the last few days, but we’ve had two suicides in the last few hours. And let’s just take a closer look at those two suicides, shall we?’
‘If you like.’
‘The first one had such an element of coercion to it that it was virtually a murder. And as for the second, that was dramatic enough to ensure it will be on the front page news tomorrow morning – and probably for days after that.’ Marlowe paused for a second, but only to draw breath. ‘Have I missed anything out, Mr Woodend?’ he continued. ‘Is there some further disaster I’ve not even heard about yet?’
‘You’re wrong about Martin Murray’s suicide being coerced,’ Woodend said. ‘Mark Hough’s intervention might have speeded the process up a little, but he would almost certainly have killed himself eventually.’
Dangerous Games Page 23
