A Long Time Dead (14 page)

Gasping for air, Huey sank down to his knees. Woodend pushed the fallen man aside, and swung round to ready himself for his next attacker. But having seen their champion felled with comparative ease, none of the other men seemed overly eager to take his place.

‘Five seconds,' Kineally said calmly, as if totally unaware of what had just happened only a couple of feet from him.

Harry Wallace swallowed hard. ‘I'm sorry, sir,' he said in a croak.

‘It's not me you need to apologize to, it's the coloured soldiers,' Kineally told him.

Wallace gulped again. ‘I'm sorry, boys,' he said, looking vaguely in the direction of the black men. ‘I guess I just got carried away.'

‘You don't think I handled that very well, do you, Chuck?' Kineally asked Woodend, as they sat together in the bar of the Dun Cow, half an hour later.

‘I'm sure those two coloured men appreciated your efforts on their behalf,' Woodend said evasively.

Kineally smiled. ‘Give me a straight answer to my question, Chuck,' he said. ‘I can take it.'

‘I think you could have defused the incident without humiliating Wallace quite so much,' Woodend said.

‘Don't you think he
deserved
to be humiliated?'

‘I think he deserved to be thrashed to within an inch of his life. But that's not the point.'

‘Then what is?'

‘In the long term, you've just made matters worse. Wallace won't hate the coloureds any less as a result of what you made him do. If anything, his hatred will only increase, because every time he sees a black man, it will remind him of what happened here. The only difference you've made is that the next time he does something hateful, he'll be much cleverer about it. You haven't taught him to be better – you've taught him not to get caught.'

Kineally sighed. ‘I guess you're right,' he admitted. ‘I got angry, and I shouldn't have done. Maybe when this war is over, I'll go into politics. Maybe then I'll be able to help change attitudes.'

‘But he never lived to see the end of the war,' Woodend said to Paniatowski. ‘He didn't even live long enough to see any real fightin'. An' it was his brother who eventually ended up in politics.'

He paused, expecting his sergeant to make some comment on the story he had just told her – the story she had been itching to hear – but she said nothing.

‘Of course, there's another way of lookin' at it,' Woodend continued. ‘Bearin' in mind that Robert was really a robot, put on this earth by bug-eyed aliens intent on world domination, it's probably for the best that it was his brother who ended up with a seat in Senate.'

Paniatowski maintained her silence.

‘I'm not borin' you, am I, Monika?' Woodend asked loudly.

The sergeant jumped slightly. ‘What was that, sir?'

‘I asked if I was borin' you.'

‘No, I—'

‘Or maybe you've simply perfected the art of fallin' asleep with your eyes open.'

‘I wasn't asleep,' Paniatowski said defensively. ‘I was thinking.'

‘Now there's a novelty. An' might I enquire what it was you were thinkin'
about
?'

‘I was thinking about your friend, Robert Kineally. I'm starting to see an entirely new side of him.'

‘Are you? An' what side might that be?'

‘Up until now, the picture that you've been painting has been of a very
nice
man.'

‘An' that's just what he was. A grand lad! A lovely feller!'

‘But you gave me no idea at all of just how easy he found it to make himself enemies.'

‘Come again?'

‘He made himself an enemy of Private Harry Wallace that night in the skittle alley, didn't he?'

‘I'm not sure I'd put it quite like—'

‘You told Kineally that every time Wallace saw a coloured man, it would remind him of how much the captain had humiliated him. But how much more intense that feeling must have been when he actually saw Kineally himself.'

Woodend frowned. ‘So you think that Harry Wallace might be the murderer?' he asked.

‘It could be him, certainly,' Paniatowski replied. ‘But it could be any one of the thousands of other bigots who must have been at Haverton Camp at the same time.'

‘Wallace was the one who Kineally forced to apologize to the coloured lads,' Woodend said.

‘On
that
occasion,' Paniatowski countered. ‘But do you really believe that Wallace was the
only
enlisted man to ever come up against Kineally's almost evangelical zeal and walk away hating him?'

‘Probably not,' Woodend said, somewhat gloomily.

‘And if one of those enlisted men did decide to kill the captain, wouldn't he have been likely to try and make sure that if the body
was
eventually found, someone else would take the blame for the murder?'

‘Yes, but—'

‘And who better as the fall guy than a Limey officer?'

‘You're forgettin' the bloody fingerprint on the dog tag …' Woodend protested.

‘Maybe Coutes is right,' Paniatowski argued. ‘Maybe that
was
faked somehow! Or maybe – though Special Agent Grant would throw an absolute fit if he heard me say this – the wonderful, super-efficient FBI crime lab made a mistake for once, and it isn't Coutes's fingerprint at all!'

‘
When you prove me innocent of this murder – and you will prove it – it will be like thrusting a dagger in your own gut
,' Coutes had told Woodend. ‘
And when you see me walk away – more powerful than I've ever been – it will be twisting that dagger round in the wound
.'

‘I'd so like it if Douglas Coutes turned out to be the murderer,' Woodend said.

‘I know you would,' Paniatowski told him. ‘But are you prepared to consider the possibility that he might actually be innocent?'

‘Yes,' Woodend replied. ‘Unfortunately, I bloody-well am.'

I
t was after eleven o'clock when Woodend and Paniatowski returned to Haverton Camp, and though there were still two MPs on sentry duty at the gate, there was no other sign of life.

‘Well, everybody seems to be tucked up safely in his or her own little bed, ‘Woodend said, as he parked the Wolseley next to the trailers. ‘Do you know what George Bernard Shaw once said about Britain an' America, Monika?'

‘Can't say that I do.'

‘He said they were two countries divided by a common language.'

‘Having talked to Special Agent Grant for a few hours, I think Shaw was probably right,' Paniatowski said.

‘So do I. But I also think that he missed one other vital difference, which is that we're divided by our drinkin' habits.'

Paniatowski smiled. ‘Go on, I'll buy it,' she said.

‘You see, the Americans don't have a closin' time as we know it,' Woodend explained. ‘That means that some of their bars close
earlier
than our pubs, an' some of them close
later
.'

‘So what?'

‘Well, takin' that fact into account, there's no wonder they're confused, is there? Every society needs a clearly defined structure if it's to function properly, an' they haven't got one.'

‘What about the American Constitution?' Paniatowski asked, innocently.

‘Can't say I've ever looked at that particular document,' Woodend admitted. ‘I'm sure it's a wonderful read, but I'd rather wait for the film to come out. Anyway, even allowin' for the fact that it's as fine a piece of work as everybody seems to think it is, there's nothin' gives structure like the “last orders” bell in a boozer. It's the one fixed point in an ever-changin' world, you see. Politicians may argue among themselves, scientists may dispute other scientists' findings, historians may be continually reinterpretin' the past in the light of new findin's, but it's an indisputable fact that at ten minutes to eleven that bell will ring, so you'd better get your last drinks in. An' that one single event provides us with a universal certainty we can build our lives around.'

‘Unless you indulge in after-hours drinking, as we so often do,' Paniatowski pointed out.

‘Aye, well, you can pick holes in most theories if you're really determined to,' Woodend said, climbing out of the car. ‘Do you want me to walk you back to your caravan, Monika?'

‘You wouldn't normally make me an offer like that,' Paniatowski said, half-suspicious, half-amused. ‘Is there any particular reason for this sudden attack of gallantry?'

‘Not really,' Woodend said.

But maybe there was, he thought.

Maybe just talking about Robert Kineally had somehow summoned up the dead American's spirit, and in making the offer, he was only doing what Kineally – a born gentleman if there ever was one – would have done in his place.

‘It's a man's natural inclination to want to protect a woman,' he heard himself say.

Paniatowski laughed. ‘I've got a black belt in judo,' she reminded him. ‘Have you?'

Woodend grinned. ‘No, I'm too patriotic to go in for all that foreign stuff. I have to rely on the traditional British martial arts – passed down through the generations – of the fist an' the boot.'

‘Besides,' Paniatowski said, suddenly growing more serious and reaching into her handbag, ‘I've got this as back-up.'

She held out the knife for him to inspect. The blade was not visible at that moment, but at the touch of a button it would spring out.

‘Flick knives like that one are illegal in this country, Monika,' Woodend pointed out.

‘I know,' Paniatowski said. ‘I've often thought of arresting myself for carrying it around. But since it was
given
to me by a policeman – for my protection, he said – I'd have to arrest him, too.'

This conversation wasn't about the knife at all, Woodend guessed – it was about Chief Inspector Baxter.

‘There are times when he's just like a mother hen to me,' Paniatowski continued, confirming his suspicions. ‘He clucks, and he fusses, and he treats me like I'm a delicate china doll. And that can sometimes become just a little tiring, you know.'

‘Perhaps he
is
a little over-cautious from time to time,' Woodend said, ‘but all men are prone to bein' like that as they grow older.'

‘You're not,' Paniatowski said. ‘You might be older than God yourself, but you can still act like a bull in a china shop when the mood takes you.'

‘Aye, an' just look where it's got me,' Woodend said. ‘I could have been Chief Constable by now, if I'd learned to practice a little more caution.'

‘I sometimes yearn for the dangerous – the unpredictable,' Paniatowski said. ‘Is that so wrong?'

Woodend shrugged. ‘There's not much point in askin' me, lass. As an agony aunt, I'd make a pretty good hatstand.'

Paniatowski laughed again. ‘You're right, of course. Some people are never happy with what they've got – even if what they've got is more than they'd ever dared hope for.' She turned towards her trailer. ‘Goodnight, sir.'

‘Goodnight, lass,' Woodend said. ‘See you in the mornin'.'

Paniatowski had only been inside her trailer for a minute when she heard the knock on the door.

‘Have you forgotten something, sir?' she called out.

‘It's not Mr Woodend,' the voice outside said. ‘It's me. Ed Grant.'

Ed Grant? Paniatowski thought. Not Special Agent Grant, or even Edward Grant, but
Ed
Grant!

She opened the door, and looked out into the night. Earlier, she reminded herself, Grant had been wearing a sober suit and a dark tie. Now he was tie-less and had put on a casual jacket.

‘This is something of a surprise,' she said. ‘What can I do for you, Special Agent?'

Grant flushed slightly. ‘I … uh … was taking a walk around the camp before turning in for the night, and I happened to see that your light was still on,' he said unconvincingly.

‘And so you rushed over here because you thought I might be being burgled?' Paniatowski asked.

‘No, not exactly. I … uh … thought you might like a nightcap before you went to bed.'

Paniatowski glanced over her shoulder, at the small fridge in the trailer's kitchen.

‘I'm not sure there
is
anything to drink,' she said. ‘I haven't actually checked.'

Grant reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a half-bottle of vodka. ‘We could always drink this,' he suggested.

‘A
Commie
drink?' Paniatowski asked, with mock-incredulity.

Grant shrugged, awkwardly. ‘I figured if it was good enough for a fine lady like you to drink, then it was certainly good enough for me.'

‘But wherever did you get it?' Paniatowski wondered. ‘I thought you told me they wouldn't have any in your commissary.'

‘Yeah, that's right,' Grant agreed. ‘Thing is, I thought I'd take the opportunity to see something of this wonderful little country of yours, so I went for a drive. I came across this cute little town – Exeter, I think it's called – and that's where I bought the vodka.'

So he had not only managed to drag himself away from his precious documents, but he'd driven all the way to Exeter, Paniatowski thought.

‘And when you went on your walk, just now, you took the vodka with you for company?' she asked.

Grant flushed again, deeper, this time. ‘I'm not very good at this, am I?' he asked.

‘Not very good at what?'

‘At being casual. “Casual” isn't something they teach you how to be in the FBI.'

Paniatowski found herself warming to his obvious discomfort. ‘Why don't you just say what's really on your mind?' she suggested.