Death Watch (19 page)

‘A statement?' Woodend repeated. ‘What kind of statement?'

‘What kind of statement do you
think
?' Marlowe asked.

The maintenance staff at police headquarters had over-compensated for the drop in temperature by turning the heating up to maximum. Now the whole building felt uncomfortably sticky, and this feeling was at its worst in the press room, where the television crews had set up their lighting well in advance of the briefing.

Woodend stepped onto the podium. He wanted to loosen his tie, but with all those eyes in the room clearly fixed on him – and countless more watching him through the miracle of the goggle box – he knew it would be a mistake.

He cleared his throat, and stared into the bright lights.

‘I would like to make a statement which is only indirectly connected with the cowardly attack on – and subsequent murder of – Angela Jackson,' he said, noting as he spoke how wooden and hoarse his voice sounded. ‘Some of you will no doubt be aware of the fact that for the greater part of yesterday we had a man in custody, and were questioning him about Angela's disappearance. That man has since been released.'

‘Who is he?' called out one of the faceless reporters from behind the lights.

‘Normally we would not give out that detail, and we are making an exception to the rule in this case only because the individual concerned has requested that we do so,' Woodend ploughed on. ‘His name is Edgar Brunton, and many of you will know that he has practised as a solicitor in Whitebridge for a number of years.'

He paused, and looked around the room. Standing at the back, and thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of his humiliation, were the chief constable and Superintendent Crawley.

‘The reason Mr Brunton wanted his name released was to scotch the rumours that have been circulatin' around Whitebridge since his arrest,' Woodend continued. ‘I think it is a wise decision on his part, an' I would like to make one thing clear as of this minute – I no longer believe that Mr Brunton had anythin' to do with the dead girl's abduction. He has assured me he is innocent, an' I accept that assurance unreservedly.'

And that's the truth, the whole truth, an' nothin' but the bloody truth, he told himself.

‘I would just like to add that I offer my sincere apologies for any distress I have caused to Mr Brunton an' his family,' he concluded.

‘So who's the real killer?' another reporter shouted out.

‘I can't comment on any other details of the investigation at the moment,' Woodend said.

‘Is there still an investigation to comment
on
?' a third reporter demanded. ‘Or did you drop all other lines of inquiry the moment you thought you'd caught your man?'

‘Of course we didn't drop all other lines of inquiry,' Woodend said contemptuously, moving off the prepared script. ‘Durin' the entire time we were questionin' Mr Brunton, we were also pursuin' other leads. An', in case you've forgotten, we were still doing all we could to try an' return Angela to the safety of her family.'

‘In which you failed,' the reporter countered.

‘Like I said, we did all we could – all that was humanly possible.'

‘Really?' the reporter asked. ‘Isn't it true that a number of officers – quite a
large
number of officers – were involved in building up the case you were intending to bring against Mr Brunton?'

‘Yes, that's quite true.'

‘And wouldn't they have been better employed in following up leads which could have helped to catch the real killer?'

‘You're talkin' with the advantage of hindsight,' Woodend said. ‘The way it looked at the time …'

‘Isn't it true?' the reporter insisted.

‘Yes,' Woodend said heavily. ‘It's quite true.'

Chief Constable Marlowe and Superintendent Crawley were sitting behind Marlowe's desk, and Woodend – like an errant schoolboy – was standing in front of it.

‘Well, that press conference was certainly a most satisfactory exercise,' Marlowe said. ‘It served to both clear the air and lay the blame where it should rightly have been laid.'

‘I told you you were making a mistake to arrest Edgar Brunton,' Crawley said smugly.

‘The evidence all pointed to Brunton,' Woodend said.

‘And the evidence – what little of it there was – was completely wrong,' the chief constable pointed out. ‘So what do we do now?'

‘We go back to square one,' Woodend said. ‘Except that now we've got a fresh crime scene, we just might be able to—'

‘I wasn't talking to you!' Marlowe said harshly. He turned to Superintendent Crawley. ‘What
do
we do now, Stan?'

‘Well, sir, our first step should be to examine the area where the body was found, in the hope that will provide us with some fresh clues.'

‘I just said that,' Woodend pointed out.

‘And who do you think should be in charge of the case, Stan?' Henry Marlowe asked, ignoring him.

‘I think I should supervise the overall running of the case, although, of course Chief Inspector Mortlake would be handling things on the ground.'

‘Wait a minute! This is my case!' Woodend said.

‘It
was
your case,' the chief constable said. ‘Now it belongs to Superintendent Crawley and DCI Mortlake.'

It was the worst possible choice Marlowe could have made, Woodend thought. Crawley was not so much a policeman as a wheeling-dealing politician
pretending
to be a policeman. And as for Mortlake? The man was a joke – an over-fussy, over-complicated parody of a detective, who seemed to model his methods more on the elaborate goings-on described in 1920s country-house mysteries than on the gritty reality of modern-day police procedure.

‘So where does that leave me?' he asked Marlowe.

‘As of this minute, you are being transferred to other duties,' the chief constable told him.

‘What other duties?'

‘That is yet to be decided, but you will be notified in the fullness of time. And if I were you, Chief Inspector, I would keep my head down until that reassignment comes through. The reporters are baying for your blood – and I can't say that I blame them.'

‘This isn't just another stage in the runnin' battle between you an' me, you know,' Woodend said. ‘This is a murder case. There's a killer out there – an' he might strike again, soon.'

‘You're probably right,' the chief constable conceded. ‘That is why it is important that we catch him as soon as possible.'

‘An' I'm the best man to do that.'

‘Really?' Marlowe asked. ‘Judging by your track record on this investigation so far, I would have said you're the very
worst
man to put in charge, which is why I'm placing the case in the hands of someone much more competent.'

‘But, sir …'

‘You're dismissed, Chief Inspector Woodend,' Marlowe said coldly.

I
t was lunchtime. Woodend and Paniatowski were sitting at their usual table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey. Woodend had all the appearance of a man who has had a coal wagon dropped on him from a great height, and Paniatowski of a woman who wanted to do something to ease her boss's distress, but had absolutely no idea what that something might be.

‘Any idea of what job you're likely to be posted to next, sir?' Paniatowski asked.

Woodend shrugged. ‘Crawley threatened to have me transferred to Traffic yesterday, but it won't be that.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘Because it's such an obvious demotion.'

‘And don't they
want
it to be obvious?'

‘Yes, but they can only push things so far. Put me into Burglary an' they're sayin' it was
somethin'
of an error of judgement on their part to ever give me the kidnappin' case in the first place, because it was just beyond the threshold of my competence. Put me into Traffic, on the other hand, an' they'll be sayin' I was out of my depth
long before
I was put in charge of the investigation – in which case,
they're
the bloody fools an' I'm just the bumblin' idiot.'

‘So you think it will be Burglary?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I don't know – an' frankly, at the moment, I don't give a damn,' Woodend replied morosely. ‘What's got me worried is that the bastard who killed Angela Jackson is still out there. I want to see him collared, an' I don't think either Crawley or Mortlake are up to the job. But there's nothin' I can do about that, is there? Because I'm out, an' they're in.'

A man in a tweed jacket and brown trousers, who had been watching them for some time, chose that moment to walk over to their table and say, ‘Could you spare me a few minutes for a word in private, Chief Inspector?'

Woodend looked up at him. ‘I really don't want to talk to you, Dr Stevenson,' he said.

‘Please!' Stevenson said.

‘I could always go and powder my nose, if you wanted me to, sir,' Paniatowski said tactfully.

Woodend sighed. ‘Aye, you might as well,' he agreed, and when she'd stood up, he said to Stevenson, ‘Take a seat, Doc.'

Stevenson sat. ‘You must hate me,' he said.

‘To tell you the truth, I haven't quite made up my mind about that, one way or the other,' Woodend admitted. ‘You could have told me that you didn't think Brunton was guilty, you know. You could have pushed your code of medical bloody ethics to one side for a second, an' at least given me a hint. If you'd done that, I could have let him go, an' we just might have found the girl in time.'

‘I doubt it,' Stevenson said. ‘I think the girl was doomed from the moment she was kidnapped.'

‘You could
still
have told me,' Woodend persisted. ‘You could have given me a fightin' chance.'

‘It was more complicated than you seem to think, Chief Inspector,' Stevenson said awkwardly.

‘Was it? How?'

‘Edgar Brunton has this problem, and, on a purely personal level, it's a serious one.'

‘He hates his wife. An' – by extension – he hates women in general,' Woodend said.

Stevenson looked as if he'd just been struck by a brick. ‘He told you that himself, did he?' he asked.

‘No, I worked it out. Or rather, my sergeant did. This trick-cycling game's not as difficult as you fellers with a personal stake in it would have us believe. I'm right about his problem, aren't I?'

Stevenson glanced around, as if he expected to see the committee of the General Medical Council lurking in the corner, taking notes.

‘I'd go so far as to say that Brunton strongly
resents
women,' he admitted, ‘but I'm not sure I'd be able to claim – with any degree of certainty – that he actually
hates
them.'

‘Still, you knew enough about him to know he couldn't be the murderer – but you still said nothin' to me.'

‘That's the point! I
didn't
know!' Stevenson protested. ‘I suppose it's true that I thought the prospect was highly unlikely, given what he'd said to me during the sessions we've had together.'

‘Well, then …?'

‘But I couldn't be absolutely
sure
. Some patients manage to completely fool their doctors. Not many, but enough. How was I to know whether or not
he'd
been fooling
me
? I asked myself if I could take the chance of you releasing a dangerous psychopath back onto the streets, purely on my say-so. And I decided I couldn't. I kept hoping and praying that you'd uncover a piece of evidence which would clear matters up, one way or the other.' Stevenson raised his hands to his face. ‘Oh God, I was such a coward, wasn't I?'

‘I'm not here to judge you,' Woodend said, feeling a sudden – and unexpected – pity for the man.

Stevenson lowered his hands again. ‘It's very kind of you to say that,' he told the chief inspector. ‘But it doesn't really help much.'

‘Doesn't it?'

‘No! Because ever since the moment you had me locked up, I've been judging
myself
, and finding myself wanting.'

The words made Woodend uncomfortable – as did the reminder of Stevenson's incarceration.

‘I apologize for arrestin' you,' he said.

‘You only did what you thought was right,' Stevenson told him.

‘Yes, I did think it was right – at the time,' Woodend admitted. ‘But lookin' back on it, it seems to me that at least a part of the reason I did it was because I was furious with you – an' wanted to make you suffer.' He paused to light up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘What time did they eventually let you go?'

‘Just before midnight.'

‘What!'

‘Everybody had forgotten about me. But that's perfectly understandable – after the discovery of Angela's body, you all had a lot on your minds.' Stevenson gave Woodend a thin smile. ‘Don't worry, I'm not going to sue the police for false arrest.'

‘Superintendent Crawley
will
be relieved,' Woodend said, then, realizing how ungracious he must have sounded, he added, ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.'

‘Think nothing of it,' Stevenson replied.

There was a short, awkward silence, then Woodend said, ‘I still think you have somethin' to contribute to this case. But I'm not sure that you'll be allowed to.'

‘But surely if that's what you really do think, then you'll give me another chance to—'

‘It isn't my case any more.'

‘What?'

‘I've been taken off it. It's been assigned to somebody else.'

‘But that's terrible!' Stevenson told him. ‘If anyone can track this man down, it's you.'

‘We could sit here all day, exchangin' compliments an' makin' each other feel better,' Woodend said awkwardly. ‘Or you could just listen, while I tell you what I think you should do next.'