Dying Fall (17 page)

Beresford sat down, and turned his attention to Paniatowski. ‘All right, Sarge?' he asked.

‘
All right?
' Paniatowski shot back at him. ‘My head's splitting, and by tomorrow morning there'll be a bruise on my thigh as big as a football.'

Beresford looked down at the table top. ‘I had to make it convincing,' he mumbled.

‘I know you did,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But surely you could have been convincing without being quite so bloody enthusiastic.'

Woodend chuckled. ‘She's not really angry, you know,' he said. ‘In fact, she was telling me just now how well you did.'

‘I was
telling you
how hard his bloody boot felt,' Paniatowski contradicted him, but now she was smiling too.

‘Did it work?' Woodend asked. ‘Did it convince the gang that you're one of them?'

‘Yes, it did,' Beresford replied, ‘but I don't know how much good it will do, because my prime suspect's off to Spain tomorrow.'

‘Or says he is,' Woodend said cryptically.

‘Sorry, sir?'

‘People like Barry Thornley have absolutely no idea where Spain is,' Woodend said. ‘They probably think it's somewhere up in the sky, which is why they need a plane to reach it. They certainly don't go there for their holidays.'

‘He said he was.'

‘An' maybe he was lyin'. Maybe it's not so much that he's goin' somewhere in search of the heat, but more a case of just gettin' out of Whitebridge, because after I ended up with his boot in my hand
this
place is too hot for him.'

‘If it
was
his boot,' Paniatowski pointed out.

‘If it
was
his boot,' Woodend agreed. ‘Anyway, there's only one way to find out where he's really goin', isn't there? An' that's to follow him.'

‘Me?' Beresford asked.

‘You,' Woodend confirmed.

‘But he knows me.'

‘Then wear a disguise, for God's sake!'

‘A disguise?' Beresford repeated, sounding very confused.

‘Bloody hell, you're a squeaky-clean detective constable, but you've passed yourself off as a hard mod,' Woodend reminded him. ‘An' if you can manage that, then lookin' a slightly different kind of “normal” should be a piece of piss.'

‘I'll help you, Colin,' Paniatowski promised. ‘Women are very good at disguises.'

‘Too bloody right,' Woodend agreed. ‘They're the absolute …'

Then he stopped speaking, and gazed – goggle-eyed – at the television in the corner of the room.

Beresford and Paniatowski, following his lead, did the same – and saw just what it was that had knocked their boss off-balance.

Henry Marlowe! Standing behind his beloved podium, and staring hauntedly at the camera. There was a clock behind his shoulder which showed this was not a recording, but was going out live.

‘What the hell's he doing?' Woodend asked. ‘The press conference was earlier, wasn't it?'

Paniatowski nodded. ‘It was scheduled for seven o'clock,' she said.

‘An' how did it go?'

‘Probably like most of Mr Marlowe's press conferences – a lot of piss and wind, and very little else.'

‘Turn the sound on for a minute, will you?' Woodend called urgently to the barman.

The barman nodded, walked over to the set, turned the knob, and Marlowe's voice filled the room.

‘I have been battling with ill health for some time,' the chief constable said in a shaky voice, ‘but have stayed in my post because I wished to continue to serve the community as I always have. But today I learned that will no longer be possible. On the advice of my doctor, I have tendered my resignation, effective from seven o'clock this evening. The Police Authority have appointed Deputy Chief Constable Miles Hobson as my interim replacement. He is a good policeman, and I am sure he will continue to follow the high standards I have laid down. Goodbye, and may God bless you all.'

‘The high standards he's laid down,' Paniatowski said contemptuously. ‘
What
high standards? If he had any,
I've
never noticed them.'

‘One of the first things I was told when I joined the Force was never to trust Henry Marlowe,' Beresford said. ‘The general opinion in the canteen was that he'd sell you down the river as soon as think about it.'

But Woodend himself had said nothing so far, because his mind was still reeling from the news.

His old enemy was gone. The man he had fought a hundred battles with had finally been vanquished.

He found his voice at last.

‘It's the end of an era,' he said.

And then he realized that it had been feeling like the end of an era to
him
from the moment the investigation had started.

I
t felt very strange to be in an attractive single woman's flat at six o'clock in the morning, Beresford thought, especially if you had not previously spent the night there. And it seemed even stranger to be sitting in a straight-backed chair, looking into a mirror, while this same attractive woman fussed over you.

‘If I'd had more time, I could have borrowed some more professional make-up from the local repertory theatre,' Paniatowski said. ‘As it is, we'll have to make do with the stuff I use myself.'

‘I didn't know you used any make-up, Sarge,' Beresford said.

Paniatowski smiled into the mirror. ‘Bless you, you sweet naive child,' she said.

She worked on him for half an hour, first applying a foundation, then using an eyebrow pencil.

‘It won't fool anybody standing close to you …' Paniatowski began.

‘You're not kidding,' Beresford said morosely.

‘… but from a distance, which is as close as you
should
get to Barry Thornley, you won't be the least recognizable.'

Beresford could do no more than agree. He certainly didn't look much like himself – but then he didn't look much like anyone else, either.

The morning paper –
Elizabeth Driver
's paper – was waiting for Woodend on his desk with a note from Paniatowski which ended in several exclamation marks, and it was by reading through Driver's article that he finally learned the true story behind Henry Marlowe's unexpected resignation.

He wasn't sure quite how he felt about it all. The simple truth was, he was finding it hard to believe that Marlowe was actually gone. It was a little like hearing that someone had died, he thought. You knew
objectively
that they were dead, yet you still expected them to come walking into the room at any moment.

He lit up a Capstan Full Strength – his fifth of the morning – and started to think about what the change would mean.

His first worry, he quickly decided, was Miles Hobson, who was now sitting in the chair formerly occupied by Marlowe's fat arse. Hobson was not a bad sort of feller – he had none of Marlowe's underlying viciousness – but neither was he a particularly strong one, and Councillor Lowry would find it even easier to make him jump through hoops than he had his predecessor. And that could be bad – very bad – for the investigation.

Marlowe's sudden demise wouldn't make working with Bob Rutter any easier, either, he thought. Or rather, he corrected himself, it wouldn't make it any easier working with the man Rutter had
become
.

Bob already thought that the sun shone out of Elizabeth Driver's backside, and that the whole team should all fall down and worship her because – for reasons of her own, as yet undisclosed – she had written the article which had saved Woodend's job. God alone knew how he would expect them to regard her now she had actually
removed
the arch-enemy.

A young uniformed constable appeared in the open doorway, and stood there uncertainly, as if he was not sure whether to knock on the door jamb or walk straight in.

‘Don't just hover there, lad, you're makin' the place look untidy,' Woodend said. ‘Is there somethin' I can do for you?'

The constable stepped cautiously into the office and held out an expensive-looking envelope. ‘I was told to bring this to you, sir,' he said.

‘Where'd it come from?'

‘It was delivered to the front desk by messenger, five minutes ago.'

Woodend slit open the envelope, and scanned the note inside.

I think we need to talk, either at police headquarters or at the factory
, he read.
I'm perfectly willing to come to you, but I can't make it until the afternoon at the earliest, so if you can free up the time, I'd much prefer it if you came to me.

It was signed
Tel Lowry
.

Now that was a surprise, Woodend thought.

A double surprise.

Not only did Lowry want to talk to him, but he was setting up the meeting by invitation, rather than summons.

Of course, it was always possible that both the letter and its tone were no more than part of Lowry's devious strategy to get himself re-elected, but nevertheless, it looked like it promised to be a very
interesting
meeting.

The disguised Beresford sat behind the wheel of an unmarked police car, a few doors down from Big Bazza's house. At a quarter past eight the front door opened, and Bazza stepped out into the street. He was dressed in his normal ‘uniform', and, instead of a suitcase, he was carrying a bulging duffel bag which was probably stuffed with his clothes. Beresford half-expected someone else to appear in the doorway, to wave Bazza goodbye, but no one did.

The hard mod walked down the street in a purposeful way, and Beresford let him get nearly to the corner before slipping his vehicle into gear and following.

If Bazza was intending to go any distance on foot, it wouldn't be long before he noticed the car slowly crawling behind him, Beresford thought worriedly. But the worry proved groundless. There was a taxi idling at the corner of the street, and Bazza climbed into it.

Why make it wait there? Beresford wondered. Why not have it pick him up at his own front door?

The taxi set off with Beresford in pursuit, and was soon leaving Whitebridge on the A675. It skirted around both Bolton and Manchester, and, an hour and a half after it had set out, pulled on to the car park at Ringway Airport.

Keeping his distance, Beresford followed Bazza into the terminal, and watched him as he walked up to the BEA check-in desk and handed over his ticket. Then, when Bazza had left for the departure gate, Beresford went over to the check-in desk himself, and showed his warrant card.

The woman behind the desk looked at his card, then at his face. And then she laughed.

That wouldn't happen to Woodend, Rutter or Paniatowski, Beresford thought. They
looked
like proper bobbies.

‘What's the matter? It's real,' he said, holding out the warrant card for the woman to inspect a second time.

‘So you say, chuck, but real or not, the heat in here's started to make it melt,' she told him.

The warrant card looked all right to Beresford. Then he touched his face, discovered how sticky it was – and realized what she was talking about.

The bloody make-up that Sergeant Paniatowski had applied was sodding running!

‘It's a disguise,' he said weakly.

‘Well, if that's what it is, it's not a very
good
one,' the woman replied, fighting the giggles. ‘Instead of making you blend in with the crowd, all it does is draw attention to you.'

‘I need information,' Beresford said, adopting his most official-sounding voice.

‘Of course,' the woman said, making a valiant attempt to be serious. ‘What can I do for you – ' she glanced down at the warrant card, which Beresford was still holding out – ‘Detective Constable Beresford?'

‘The man with the short hair, who just checked in …'

‘That would be Mr Barry Thornley,' the woman said, consulting her passenger list.

‘That's right,' Beresford agreed. ‘I want to know where he's gone, and how long he's gone for.'

‘He's gone to Malaga in Spain, and he'll be there for a week,' the woman said.

‘Thank you for your cooperation, madam,' Beresford said with dignity, before turning and walking away.

‘When you get home, I'd apply some Boots No.7 cleansing cream, if I was you,' the woman called after him. ‘That's what I always use. It takes make-up off a treat.'

The woman waiting for Paniatowski in the interview room was in her late sixties, and even the expensive tailored clothes she was wearing could not disguise the fact that she was carrying a lot of excess weight. But strip away the fat – and strip off the years – and you could see that she must have been a real stunner when she was younger, Paniatowski thought.

‘They said at the desk that you were most insistent that you wanted to see me – and
only
me – but that you refused to give your name,' the sergeant said, sitting down.

‘That's right.'

‘Would you mind telling me
why
you wouldn't give your name?'

‘I didn't give it because I didn't want to lose the element of surprise.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘As well you might. My name's Lucinda Lowry. I'm Councillor Lowry's mother.'

‘Oh!' Paniatowski said.

‘Now you see, if you'd known my name in advance, I'd never have got that reaction from you, and I'd never have known for sure that you were the woman I was after,' Mrs Lowry said.

‘The woman you were after?' Paniatowski asked, playing for time. ‘Why should you be “after” me?'

‘Nice try, but you must have realized it was never going to work,' Mrs Lowry said.

Yes, I did realize that, Paniatowski admitted silently.

‘If you could be more specific about why you're here …' she said.

‘Specifically, there was a blonde woman called Monika in the Engineer's Arms the other night, and she was asking some of our workers questions about my son. Now when I heard about it from one of those men, I asked myself who this blonde was, and I decided she had to be either a journalist or a policewoman. And the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was she was a policewoman, because on the one hand, there's nothing about Tel that could possibly be of any interest to the press, and on the other, Tel's the chairman of the Police Authority, so he's bound to have made some enemies in the Force.'