Dangerous Games (5 page)

‘Then I still don't understand why he did it,' Paniatowski persisted. ‘Bradley Pine's mutilation could have been regarded as humiliating. Leaving the victim's body naked in the main square – like in that case in Yorkshire – is humiliating. But hanging's no more of a humiliation than having your head bashed in. In fact, there's something almost clinical – almost
judicial
– about hanging.'

She was right, of course, Woodend thought.

‘We're chasin' our own tails here,' he said. ‘Let's set aside the question of the unnecessary hanging for a while, and concentrate on how we go about catchin' the bastard who did it. Any suggestions?'

‘Post a team on the bridge,' Rutter said crisply. ‘Have them display a large placard which asks anyone who crossed the bridge between the hours of midnight and five a.m. to pull over and give their details to the officers.'

‘You'd use the uniformed branch for that particular job, I take it,' Woodend said.

Rutter nodded. ‘I doubt they'll come up with anything useful, since, as I've already pointed out, it's unlikely anybody
did
cross the bridge within those hours – but I'd rather be safe than sorry.'

‘Right, so that's covered,' Woodend said. ‘But what should us smart-as-paint detectives be doin' while the uniforms are handlin' our donkey work for us?' He looked straight at Colin Beresford. ‘What do
you
think we should be doing, Constable?'

Beresford felt his temperature shoot up – as it always did when he suddenly became the centre of attention at one of these meetings – but at least now he had his blushing under control. Or
hoped
he had.

‘We need to establish when the victim was last seen alive, sir,' the constable said.

‘Quite right,' Woodend agreed. ‘We
do
need to know exactly where an' when he was last seen alive. So me an' Sergeant Paniatowski will go an' talk to the widow, because it's more than likely she'll have some idea of where he was supposed to be last night. Meanwhile, you an' Inspector Rutter can pay a visit to the place where Pugh worked. You know where that is, do you, Bob?'

‘Yes,' Rutter agreed. ‘I know where that is.'

‘Young Beresford can talk to the workers, since, based on the evidence of the results he got at Bradley Pine's mattress factory, he's rapidly developin' the common touch,' Woodend said.

‘Thank you, sir,' said Beresford, not entirely sure whether it had been intended as a compliment or not.

‘An' Inspector Rutter will talk to the management, because he looks as if he's one of them himself.'

Beresford and Paniatowski grinned, since it was undoubtedly true that the Inspector had always looked more like a rising young executive than a street-level policeman.

Rutter himself continued to look serious – almost preoccupied.

‘Is that all right, Bob?' Woodend asked.

‘Fine,' Rutter told him. ‘But I'm going to have to slip away for a couple of hours in the afternoon.'

‘Why's that?' Paniatowski asked, before she could stop herself. ‘Have you got a date?'

Rutter looked at her with uncharacteristic coldness.

‘As a matter of fact, I have, in a manner of speaking,' he said. ‘I'm interviewing nannies for Louisa.' He turned towards Woodend. ‘You remember, I cleared it with you yesterday, sir.'

‘Aye, now I think about it, so you did,' Woodend agreed.

Paniatowski looked mortified. ‘I was speaking well out of turn,' she said. ‘I'm so sorry, Bob.'

‘Forget it,' Rutter said, but the tone in which he spoke the words wasn't even halfway to being forgiving.

‘What else should we be lookin' for, Constable Beresford?' Woodend asked, cutting through the suddenly chill atmosphere with a reminder that they were all still police officers.

‘I … er …' Beresford began. ‘I suppose we should be looking for a motive for the murder, sir.'

‘Aye, we most certainly should,' Woodend agreed. ‘An' let's hope an' pray that Terry Pugh was a popular feller – because the last thing we need is a victim whose death makes most of the people who knew him want to throw a party.' He drained the rest of his pint. ‘Right, does anyone have questions before we get stuck into the investigation?'

Beresford raised his hand, then realized what he was doing, and dropped it again, embarrassedly.

Woodend pretended not to have seen the gesture. ‘Any questions at all?' he said.

‘I've got a question, sir,' Beresford told him, and this time he managed to keep his hand below table level.

‘Let's hear it, then,' Woodend suggested.

‘How are we going to investigate a murder without the people who we're questioning in the course of that investigation knowing that's what we're doing?' Beresford wondered.

‘That's a fair point, Colin,' Woodend conceded. ‘You'll just have to tell them that what you're doin' is tryin' to find a motive for Terry Pugh decidin' to kill himself.'

‘Aren't they going to find it rather strange that the CID would concern themselves with a matter like that, sir?' Beresford wondered.

‘They'll most probably find it completely barmy.'

‘Well, then …'

‘But they'll answer your questions anyway, because most people still think it's in their best interest to co-operate with bobbies – even if the bobbies do seem a bit doolally.'

‘How long do you think we'll have to keep this deception going?' Bob Rutter asked.

‘There you've got me,' Woodend admitted. ‘It's entirely in Henry Marlowe's hands. Until he either decides that the decent thing to do is to come clean, or is
forced by circumstances
to come clean – which is far the more likely of the two – we'll just have to play the game he wants us to play.' The chief inspector checked his watch. ‘Let's get crackin' then. I'll see you all back here at six o'clock.'

T
he house where the dead man had lived was a modest semi-detached, the kind of place that a skilled working man could take out a mortgage on and confidently expect to eventually own outright – as long, that was, as he was prepared to accept as much overtime as his employer offered him, and could resist the temptation of falling into one of those vices that were the curse of the working class.

It looked more-than-decently cared for, Woodend decided, examining it from the street. The front door and the rest of the woodwork had all been recently painted, the pebble-dashed walls were well-maintained, and there was no sign of vegetation sprouting out of the guttering. There was a small garden in front of the house, bisected by a weed-free crazy paving path and inhabited by several ugly-but-cute garden gnomes.

‘If you want to light up a coffin nail, you'd better do it now – because we'll not be smoking once we're inside,' Woodend said to his sergeant.

Paniatowski nodded. ‘I was aware of that, sir.'

And so she was. She knew from experience that Woodend would never smoke in a house that was in mourning, nor allow any of his subordinates to smoke either. She didn't understand why this should be so – especially since everybody else – friends and relatives alike – would probably be puffing away like chimneys themselves. Even so, she never objected. Woodend was a boss who imposed very few restrictions on her actions, and when he did put one in place, it would have seemed unreasonable to question it.

Woodend himself was not entirely sure why he should see not smoking as a mark of respect. Possibly it was something his old dad had once told him, and though he had now forgotten the occasion – if occasion there had been – the lesson had sunk in. Now, it was like an instinct to him – and his whole career had been built on having a healthy respect for his instincts.

They lit up their cigarettes. ‘Nice house,' Woodend said. ‘Cared for. Do you think that's due to him or her?'

‘Him,' Paniatowski said definitely.

‘Is that just a gut feelin'?' Woodend asked.

Paniatowski shook her head. ‘All the way down to the morgue, Mrs Pugh was coming up with all the reasons why her husband wouldn't have killed himself – and at least three or four of them related to the house. Apparently, he was looking forward to turning the little back bedroom into a nursery for the baby. Couldn't wait to get started on the job, according to Mrs Pugh. “So why would he kill himself, when he had so many plans?” she kept asking me.'

‘And now we know he didn't – but we're not allowed to tell her that,' Woodend said grimly.

The woman who answered their knock at the front door wore her hair in a tight perm, and was dressed in a plain, hard-wearing twin set. She looked perhaps a few years older than Mrs Pugh, but bore a strong resemblance to her.

‘I'm Mrs Rogers, Mrs Pugh's sister,' she explained, after Woodend had shown her his warrant card, and she'd spent nearly a minute examining it. ‘What do you want?'

‘We'd like to speak to Mrs Pugh.' Woodend told her ‘Is she here?'

‘Our Mary's in the lounge,' Mrs Rogers.

‘Then if you don't mind …' Woodend said, taking a step forward.

Mrs Rogers shifted position so she was blocking the doorway completely. ‘Our Mary's in the lounge,' she repeated, ‘but she's still very upset, and I don't think it's a good idea for her to see
anybody
at the moment.'

‘We only want to ask her a few simple
questions,' Paniatowski said, wheedlingly.

‘Why should you want to ask her any questions at all – simple or otherwise?' Mrs Rogers countered.

‘I rather think that's a matter we should be discussin' with her rather than you,' Woodend said firmly though not unpleasantly.

‘My sister's husband went out last night and topped himself, leaving her alone to cope with her unborn child,' Mrs Rogers replied. ‘You know it, and I know it. In fact, the whole bloody world knows it – because it's been on the bloody wireless for everybody
to
hear – so don't you think that should be an end of it?'

‘Who's there?' called a cracked voice from beyond the hallway.

‘It's nobody,' Mrs Rogers replied, over her shoulder.

‘It's the police, isn't it?'

‘Don't you go worryin' your head about who it is, our Mary. Get some rest. You need to
compose
yourself.'

‘
Is
it the police?'

Mrs Rogers sighed. ‘Yes, if you must know, it
is
the police,' she admitted reluctantly.

‘Then I want to see them.'

Mrs Rogers shot Woodend and Paniatowski a look of pure venom, then said, ‘Well, now you've gone and disturbed the poor woman, I suppose the damage is already done and you'd better follow me.'

Mrs Pugh was sitting on a deep blue velveteen sofa, around which the rest of the room seemed to have been designed. Woodend's eyes quickly swept the lounge. The pictures on the walls were mainly of seascapes and horses, and in one corner of the room there was a veneered wood display cabinet which contained ornaments mainly bought as holiday souvenirs. He liked the whole feel of the room himself – it was
cosy
– though he was sure that Paniatowski was already finding it too low-brow and much too conventional for her taste.

The widow looked up at them. Her eyes were red, and her face was puffy from crying, but she did her best to give them a welcoming smile.

‘This is Chief Inspector Woodend, Mrs Pugh,' Paniatowski said. ‘He's my boss.'

‘I'm afraid you'll have to excuse the state of the place, Mr Woodend,' Mrs Pugh said.

‘I would, gladly enough – if I needed to,' Woodend told her. ‘But there
is
no need, is there? You've got a lovely home.'

Mrs Pugh looked grateful for the comment. ‘What was it you were wanting to ask me?' she said.

‘I was wonderin' if you knew anythin' about your husband's movements last night,' Woodend said.

‘Why should that matter?' Mrs Rogers demanded angrily. ‘Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, he's still dead, isn't he?'

‘In case you've forgotten, this is my house, our Elaine,' Mrs Pugh said, in a surprisingly firm voice, ‘and when I'm having a conversation with a visitor, I'll thank you not to interfere in it.'

Mrs Rogers folded her arms across her chest. ‘Pardon me for breathing,' she said.

‘But since you seem to be so interested in knowing why it matters, I'll tell you,' Mrs Pugh continued, still talking to her sister. ‘It matters because whatever they're saying on the wireless about my Terry killing himself, it's not true. He was murdered.'

‘That's ridiculous,' Elaine Rogers said.

‘He was murdered,' Mary Pugh repeated firmly. ‘Isn't that right, Mr Woodend?'

Woodend hesitated. On the one hand, he had his clear and direct orders from a chief constable who already felt himself backed into the corner, and – like a rat which found itself in a similar position – could turn very nasty if he didn't get his own way. On the other hand, he was dealing here with a woman who desperately needed to know that the life she'd been living had been more than a lie – that she really had
known
the father of her unborn child.

‘The official view at the moment is still that your husband
did
commit suicide,' he said.

‘Isn't that just what I've been telling you all along!' Elaine Rogers said.

‘But I can see that you don't accept that view yourself, Mrs Pugh,' Woodend continued. ‘Well, I can't stop you thinkin' whatever you choose to think …' he paused, ‘… an', as a matter of fact, I'm not sure that I'd really want to.'

Mrs Pugh turned to his sister again, with an expression on her face which was half-despair, half-triumph.