Dying Fall (23 page)

‘Flight Lieutenant Lowry was being presented with a gong for conspicuous bravery under fire, and his mother came down here for the ceremony. She must have been in her forties then – as old as my own mother was at the time – but, by Christ, she was a stunning bloody woman. She positively oozed sex appeal.'

‘There are some women who can't help doing that,' Rutter said.

‘Maybe there are, and maybe they can't,' Trubshawe agreed. ‘But that certainly wasn't the case with Mrs Lowry. She knew what she was doing, all right. She was like a lioness on the prowl, stalking her prey.'

‘Did she stalk you?' Rutter asked.

Trubshawe laughed. ‘There'd have been no
need
to stalk me. I'd have jumped at the chance if it had been offered. But she didn't seem very interested in the other ranks.'

‘So it was the officers who attracted her, was it?'

‘Let me put it this way,' Trubshawe said. ‘After she'd gone back home, there were a couple of wing commanders who couldn't wipe the smiles off their faces for a week!'

I
t was the rain, that Wednesday morning, which was the start of Barry Thornley's black mood. It was pelting down as his plane landed at Ringway Airport, and it continued to fall in bucketfuls as the bus took the passengers to the terminal. And even inside the building – which was dry and cheerfully lit – there was a smell of dampness and a general feeling of depression.

The taxi ride back to Whitebridge didn't help, either.

‘The ring road's a bugger for traffic when it rains like this,' the driver said, ‘so, if you don't mind, we'll take a route that's a bit less direct.'

‘I don't mind,' Bazza said morosely.

‘It'll put a bit more on the clock, but it'll be quicker,' the cabbie told him, as if he still felt the need to make his case.

‘I said I don't mind!' Bazza snapped.

The cabbie's quicker route took them through parts of Manchester that Bazza had never seen before – rundown areas of drab grey streets, populated by drab grey people.

‘I expect it's a lot nicer where you've just been,' the cabbie said, noticing that his passenger was looking out of the window.

‘A lot nicer,' Bazza agreed.

‘Yes, there's no arguing that this is a bit of a rough part of the world,' the cabbie continued. ‘You'd not catch me picking up passengers here after dark.'

The taxi driver was right, Bazza thought, it was a bit of a rough part of the world. But, he was also slowly coming to realize, this was
his
world they were passing through – a world he had been born into, a world he understood.

A world he would die in.

Spain had seemed like a dream, and now he understood that was actually what it
had been
. And it was a dream which was not for him.

Spain – like heaven – was reserved for someone else.

Woodend was standing in the corridor outside his office and looking through the window at the man who was sitting at his desk.

Bob Rutter was staring blankly at the wall. He did not seem to be aware that he was being observed – he did not seem to be aware of
anything
that was going on around him.

There was a twitch in the inspector's left eye that Woodend could detect even from a distance, and his hands, which were resting on the desk, were performing an erratic drumbeat.

God, he looked rough, Woodend thought. But then, feelings of guilt – and betrayal – could do that to a man.

The chief inspector opened the office door, and stepped into the office. ‘So you're back, then,' he said.

‘Yes,' Rutter agreed, in a flat, deadened voice. ‘I'm back.'

‘What can I do for you, lad?'

‘I thought you might like to hear my report,' Rutter said.

‘Might as well,' Woodend agreed, aiming for indifference but falling just short of anger.

‘Ron Scranton was discharged from the RAF just after a fire in an Indian restaurant in Abingdon,' Rutter said. ‘He was never charged with anything, but I think we can draw our own conclusions.'

‘
Is that it?
' Woodend asked.

‘Yes, it is. And I would have thought it was a pretty
significant
piece of information,' Rutter countered.

‘Aye, it is,' Woodend conceded. ‘But it's not much to show for a whole week's work.' He paused. ‘Still, it hasn't
been
a whole week's work, has it? Because you've been ill.'

‘That's right,' Rutter agreed. ‘I've been ill.'

‘You must think I've gone bloody soft in the head,' Woodend exploded. Then he reached for a copy of the
Gazette
that lay at the corner of his desk, and slammed it down in front of Rutter. ‘Read that to me.'

Rutter picked the paper up. ‘“Crazed grandma goes on murderous spree”,' he read in a flat voice.

‘An' the next bit,' Woodend ordered.

‘By Elizabeth Driver, Oxford.'

‘Oxford!' Woodend repeated. ‘That's where you were, isn't it?'

‘You know it was.'

‘I wondered at the time why you were so keen on havin' that particular assignment, but I never thought your reasons could be as bad – as bloody outrageous – as they turned out to be.'

‘I'm sorry,' Rutter said.

‘Sorry isn't good enough!' Woodend barked. ‘Do you remember what I said last week? That I thought you should transfer to some less stressful area of police work? Well, I don't think that now. Now, I think you don't belong in the police at all.'

‘You're quite right, of course, sir,' Rutter said. ‘I'd already accepted that myself, which is why I've decided to resign,'

Although it was what Woodend wanted to hear – although he knew it was what
had to
happen – he still felt a wave of sadness wash over him.

‘What will you do once you've left the Force, lad?' he asked.

‘That's really none of your business, sir,' Rutter replied.

As if he were speaking to a comparative stranger. As if they hadn't shared so
much
over the years.

‘I assume Elizabeth Driver's offered you some kind of job,' Woodend said.

‘She has.'

‘But if you take it, what will happen to Louisa? Constantly travellin' around the country from one sensational crime to the next is no life for a little girl. An' the alternative – leavin' her behind – is just as bad. She doesn't need a dad who she only sees once every few weeks. She needs one who's there to tuck her in at night.'

‘That's a bit rich, isn't it, coming from a man who continually belly-ached if I wasn't there at the precise second he wanted me?' Rutter asked. He stood up. ‘As I told you just before I set off for Oxford, I'm not your lad any more, Charlie.'

‘Bob—' Woodend said.

‘I'm my own man now,' Rutter interrupted. ‘And what happens to me – and to Louisa – is really no concern of yours.'

Bazza told the taxi driver to drop him off at the corner of his street, and walked the last hundred yards home. He found his mother in the kitchen – a grease-encrusted hole where cooking pans went to die.

‘So you're back, then,' she said.

She was standing over the stove, lethargically stirring a lumpy stew. There was a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and when some of the ash fell into the pot, she either didn't notice or didn't care.

‘How'd it go, Barry?' Big Bazza asked.

‘You what?' his mother asked.

‘Did my little darlin' have a nice time on his holidays?' Bazza said.

Mrs Thornley stopped stirring, and looked up at her son for the first time. ‘I think you must be goin' off your head,' she said.

‘Yeah,' Bazza agreed, ‘I think I must.'

He turned and walked into the front room, with its dilapidated furniture – with its oilcloth-covered floor sticky from so many beers which had been spilled and never properly mopped up. He went over to the window and looked through the dirt-streaked glass at the street outside. And suddenly he felt an overwhelming urge to hurt somebody.

Rutter was still searching for his keys when Janet, Louisa's nanny, opened the front door and said, ‘Welcome back, Mr Rutter. Did you have a good trip?'

‘Not bad,' Rutter replied, looking over her shoulder and down the hallway. ‘Where's Louisa?'

‘She's out in the garden, playing with Sergeant Paniatowski,' Janet told him.

‘Does Sergeant Paniatowski come round here often?' Rutter wondered.

‘When you're not here, she comes around really every day.'

And when I
am
here, she hardly comes at all, Rutter thought.

He walked into the living room, and looked out through the big picture window on to the garden. Monika and Louisa were crouched down, studying something that was obviously of immense importance to his daughter, and though it must have been cold out there, neither of them seemed to notice.

His relationship with Monika had followed a twisted, unpredictable path, he thought. Once they had been rivals, vying with each other for Charlie Woodend's approval. Then a sharp bend had been turned, and suddenly they were lovers, wrapped up in their mutual passion. His guilt over that relationship was still with him – had survived Maria's murder. It was one of the things he and Monika still shared.

And what else did they share? Not the passion any more – at least from his side.

They shared, he supposed, a job in which they had both invested so much of themselves – and soon even that bond would be gone.

And Louisa, of course. They shared Louisa. But for her, they'd probably see nothing at all of each other, except when they were working on a case.

The door to the garden opened, and Louisa rushed into the room and flung her arms around his leg.

‘Daddy, Daddy!' she screamed with delight.

Rutter picked her up. ‘How are you?' he asked. ‘And what were you doing out in the garden?'

‘We found a dead robin,' Louisa said. ‘I was very sad at first, but then Auntie Monika told me I shouldn't be, because all life had a natural cy … cy …'

‘Cycle,' Paniatowski supplied.

‘Cycle,' Louisa agreed. ‘And she said that when it's your time to go, it's your time to go.'

Rutter looked questioningly at Paniatowski.

‘She asked,' Monika told him.

But what she really meant was, ‘I'm sorry if you'd have preferred me to tell her something else, but you weren't here to consult.'

Rutter gently lowered his daughter to the ground, and Louisa immediately whirled round to face Paniatowski.

‘Can we read a book, Auntie Monika?' she asked.

‘Not with the state your hands are in, we can't,' Paniatowski said sternly, then laughed to show she wasn't to be taken seriously.

Louisa held up her hands, and gave them an earnest inspection. ‘What's wrong with them?' she asked innocently.

‘You know what's wrong with them,' Paniatowski said. ‘They're filthy dirty, aren't they?'

‘Maybe they're
a little bit
dirty,' Louisa conceded.

‘So before we go anywhere near a book, you're going to have to wash them,' Paniatowski told her. ‘And do it properly – the way I showed you.'

Louisa nodded obediently, ‘Yes, Auntie Monika,' and headed for the stairs.

Paniatowski was so much better with his daughter than he was himself, Rutter thought. She seemed to connect with the girl in a way that he was completely unable to.

With Louisa's departure, an awkward silence had descended on the room. For perhaps a half a minute, Rutter stood perfectly still, then he walked over to the window and looked out on to the garden again. A robin had died out there, he reminded himself – but that was all right, because its time had come.

He turned again, to face Paniatowski.

‘What's wrong?' she asked.

What was wrong, Rutter told himself, was that there was something he needed to say to her, but he had no idea of how to say it.

He took a deep breath. ‘I renewed my house-contents insurance last week,' he told her. ‘Everything's very well covered.'

‘I'm not surprised,' Paniatowski said flatly. ‘You've always been a very careful man.'

Except for that one occasion – when we became lovers – a voice screamed in both their heads. Except for that!

‘In fact, the only thing that's not properly insured is Louisa,' Rutter ploughed on.

God, this is awful, he thought. And God, you're making a real bloody mess of it.

‘Is it normal to take out insurance on children?' asked Paniatowski, who, having none of her own – and without any prospect of
ever
having them – didn't know how these things worked.

‘I wasn't talking about life insurance,' Rutter said. ‘I was talking more about insurance
for
life.'

‘You're not making much sense.'

‘No, I suppose I'm not. The thing is, most children have two parents, so if anything happens to one of them, they've always got the other in reserve. But it's not like that for Louisa. She's only got me.'

‘And what do you think is going to happen to you?' Paniatowski asked, starting to sound alarmed.

‘Nothing,' Rutter said.

‘Well, then?'

‘But we can never be entirely
sure
, can we? I could get run over by a bus, like poor Philip Turner's wife did. I could go completely off my head – God knows, I've felt as if I've been going mad often enough, in the last year or so – and have to be locked away. And if one of those things – or anything else, for that matter – occurred, what would happen to Louisa?'

‘I don't know,' Paniatowski said. ‘I haven't given it much thought.'

‘Well, I have. So what I'd like to do is to name you as Louisa's guardian, should circumstances mean that I can't take care of her myself,' Rutter said, in a rush.