Dying Fall (28 page)

‘So that Bazza could do just what he did do!' Woodend said.

‘Just so,' Dr Shastri replied. ‘You did not believe that Thornley had set fire to himself because you are stupid – you believed it because that is exactly what the killer
wanted
you to believe.'

There may, at some time in the dim and distant past, have been gloomier lunchtimes spent around the table in the Drum and Monkey, Woodend thought – but he was finding himself hard pressed to remember one.

The Dr Shastri Effect – the magical spell she wove, which seemed to imbue even the most dismal situation with a little light – had worn off, and black depression had followed.

They had been given their opportunity to find the killer, he told himself – and they had failed.

It could be argued, of course, that it was not their fault – that the killer had seen his opportunity and had grasped it with both hands. Yes, it could be argued that way, but it didn't alter the fact that two men had died, and that one of them – at least – had been completely blameless.

To make matters worse, he was in charge of a team of the walking wounded, and, with his bandaged hands, was one of them himself.

The doctors were predicting that Beresford would make a full recovery, but it would be quite a while before he was fit for duty again.

In Monika's case, it was her mind, rather than her body, that he was worrying about. She had endured so much – the horrors of war-torn Europe, the sexual abuse from her stepfather, the feeling of alienation as the only Polish kid in an English school – and having to associate with Ron Scranton, a man who embodied most of the things she hated, was putting a terrible strain on her.

And then there was Bob Rutter.

What the bloody hell was he even
doing
there at the table? It was true that his resignation from the police was still pending, but his de facto resignation from the team was now entering its second week.

‘I want to help if I can, especially after what happened to Colin Beresford,' Rutter said, reading his thoughts. ‘I want to see if, this last time, we can work the old magic together.'

Woodend sighed. Well, why not? he wondered. What possible harm could it do?

‘The reason that the killer murdered Barry Thornley in the way he did was because he hoped it would fool us into believin' that Bazza alone was responsible for the deaths of the tramps,' he said. ‘But the reason he had to murder him
at all
was that he knew we were closin' in, and he saw Bazza as the weak link in the chain. Are we agreed on that?'

Rutter nodded. ‘If Bazza knew that Colin Beresford was a policeman, then we can be almost certain that the killer – the man who was pulling Bazza's strings – knew as well.'

Woodend turned to his sergeant. ‘Is that how you see it, an' all, Monika?' he asked.

‘Why do you keep calling him “the killer”?' Paniatowski demanded angrily. ‘It'd be much easier – and quicker – to call him
Scranton
!'

‘We can't be sure that Scranton is our man,' Woodend said gently. ‘An' until we are, I'd be happier if we all just called him
the killer
.'

But the problem was that Monika
was
sure, he thought.

No, that wasn't strictly true, he corrected himself. It wasn't so much that she was sure, as that, since she'd read the British Patriotic Party's pamphlet, she
wanted
it to be Scranton –
needed
it to be Scranton.

‘So the next question is, will the killin' stop now?' Woodend continued. ‘An' if it
does
stop, will that be because he's no longer got anybody to do his dirty work for him? Or because he's achieved what he set out to achieve?'

‘Given what happened to Bazza, I think it's clear enough that he's prepared to do his own dirty work, if he has to,' Rutter said.

‘Unless he's already recruited someone else to take Bazza's place – and it was that new recruit who killed Thornley,' Paniatowski said.

‘Now that
is
a depressin' possibility,' Woodend said.

‘It's more than a
possibility
, if you ask me,' Paniatowski retorted. ‘Scranton's got any number of thugs who'll do his bidding.'

‘By fixatin' on Scranton like that, you're closin' too many other doors,' Woodend warned her.

‘Why do we need to even
consider
any other doors, when we're already standing in front of the
right
one?' Paniatowski shot back, aggressively.

‘Monika, please, if you'll just try to be objective for a minute—' Woodend began.

‘Why don't we move on to something else?' Rutter interrupted. ‘Something that there's a remote possibility we
can
all agree on?'

‘Good idea,' Woodend said gratefully.

‘Monika?' Rutter asked.

‘If there
is
such a thing as an aspect we can agree on,' Paniatowski replied.

Rutter cleared his throat. ‘Are we all willing to accept that last night's murder was not a random act?' he asked.

‘Yes, I think we are,' Woodend said, glancing at Paniatowski for confirmation. ‘By yesterday afternoon – at the latest – Big Bazza already knew who the victim was going to be. That's why he sent out his gang to beat up Pogo, who'd been acting as the victim's unofficial bodyguard.'

‘So what we have to ask ourselves is whether the other two victims were
also
so carefully targeted,' Rutter continued. ‘And
if
they were,
why
were they? Was it because they had something in common with the third victim?'

I've missed your contributions to these meetings, Bob, Woodend thought. And not just your contributions – I've missed
you
.

‘We already have some background on the first two victims, but not enough to tie them together in any way,' he said. ‘If we could identify the third, we'd have widened the field an' it might just be possible to start makin' connections.'

‘Do we have any information at all on the third victim?' Rutter asked.

‘Nothin' solid,' Woodend admitted. ‘Remind us what your mate Pogo had to say about him, Monika.'

At the mention of Pogo's name, Paniatowski felt a slight stabbing pain in her chest. She wondered where he was now, and prayed that somewhere – somehow – he would find another purpose.

‘Still with us, Monika?' Woodend asked gently.

‘Yes, I was just collecting my thoughts,' Paniatowski replied.

She told Woodend and Rutter about Brian's fuzzy-minded mission, and how, half the time, he couldn't even remember the name of the town he was convinced held the answers. She mentioned his interest in the Engineers' Arms, and his enthusiasm for the shiny black Bentley, which had turned out to be ‘not quite the right shape'.

‘Not quite the right shape,' Rutter repeated thoughtfully.

And Woodend saw a gleam and intelligence in his eyes which had been missing for quite a while.

‘He told Pogo he'd known a killer, but that had been a long time ago,' Paniatowski continued. ‘Oh, and he also said that Brian wasn't his real name – that he'd actually been christened Brunel.'

‘
Brunel!
' Rutter exclaimed.

‘Does that mean anythin' to you?' Woodend asked, with a hint of hope in his voice.

‘He must have been named after Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the great nineteenth-century engineer,' Rutter said.

‘So what?' Woodend asked, disappointedly. ‘Folk are always namin' their children after famous people. One of Joan's cousins even called her kid Elvis – the poor little bugger!'

‘Are you saying that his real name might be why Brian was so interested in the Engineers' Arms, Bob?' Paniatowski asked.

Rutter shook his head. ‘No, I think there could be more to it than that.'

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

Rutter shook his head for a second time. ‘I've got a vague idea in my head, but it's not ready to come out yet. Can you give me a couple of hours to chew it over, to see if I can make any sense of it?'

‘Aye, there's no rush,' Woodend said.

And there really
wasn't
, he thought. Rutter's idea – like most of the ideas they'd managed to come up with on this bloody, bloody case – would probably do no more than lead them up a blind alley.

There was one more point which needed to be raised, he reminded himself – and he wasn't looking forward to it at all.

‘When are you seein' Ron Scranton again?' he asked Paniatowski.

‘Tonight, for dinner and dancing,' Monika told him, with the disgust more than evident in her voice.

‘You don't have to do it, you know,' Woodend said, remembering he'd used almost exactly the same words to Colin Beresford.

‘I
want
to do it,' Paniatowski replied.

And that was what Beresford had said, too.

Woodend automatically lifted his arm to check his watch, and found himself staring at thick surgical bandages.

‘When I saw the police doctor this mornin', he told me that I needed to take an afternoon rest,' he informed Rutter and Paniatowski. ‘So
I
told
him
that there was no time for afternoon rests durin' a murder inquiry. He wasn't impressed.'

Paniatowski smiled. ‘I'm not surprised,' she said.

‘In fact, he was so
unimpressed
that he said that if the only way to make sure I rested was to certify me as unfit for active duty, then that was a course of action he was quite prepared to take. All of which means that – as you've both probably already guessed – I shall be reluctantly followin' his advice, an' getting' my head down for a couple of hours.'

‘I think it's for the best, sir,' Paniatowski said.

‘Maybe you're right,' Woodend agreed. He stood up. ‘Would you like a lift back to headquarters, in my chauffeur-driven vehicle, Monika?'

‘I'll take her,' Rutter said.

‘No need to put yourself out, lad,' Woodend told him. ‘Like I said, I've got this chauffeur-driven car, an' …'

‘I'll take her,' Rutter repeated firmly.

‘Is that all right with you, Monika?' Woodend asked, disconcerted by the urgency that he'd detected in Rutter's tone.

Paniatowski just nodded.

‘We've … er … got a little business together that we need to tidy up,' Rutter said, as if he felt compelled to explain. ‘Nothing important, but it has to be done.'

‘I'll see you both later, then,' Woodend said.

And he was thinking, They hardly ever see each other any more. What kind of business could they
possibly
have?

S
tanton Hall was a Gothic pile, situated halfway between Whitebridge and Preston. It had originally been the county seat of the de Stanton family, but crippling death duties – allied with the personal excesses of some of the lords de Stanton – had meant that, some fifty years earlier, the family had had to sell it.

It had been converted into what was then known as a private lunatic asylum, and half a century later it was still basically in the same line of business, although, since ‘lunatic' was now a dirty word, it had been reborn as the Stanton Hall Mental Healthcare Centre.

Elizabeth Driver arrived at the place at just after three o'clock, and by half-past three was sitting in the director's office, looking out on to lush lawns and tennis courts.

The director himself was sitting opposite her. His face was slightly flushed, and he looked, thought Driver, like a man who felt that his small and cosy empire had suddenly come under attack – and who was prepared to do whatever it took to defend it.

She wasn't unduly worried by either his attitude
or
his determination, because while he might be considered a heavyweight around the corridors of Stanton Hall, she regularly ate men like him for breakfast.

‘I don't think I really want to talk to any member of the press about our work here, Miss Driver,' the director said, trying to sound both firm and authoritative.

‘Is that right?' Driver asked, interestedly.

‘Yes, I'm afraid it is.'

‘Then why I am here – in your office – at all?'

‘Because I am well aware that reporters such as yourself often find it difficult to take “no” for an answer, and I thought it would save time if, instead of allowing you to badger my underlings, you should hear of my decision directly from the horse's mouth.'

Elizabeth Driver smiled sweetly. ‘How kind of you to spare me the time,' she said.

‘I considered it only polite.'

‘And what a load of old bollocks you can come out with, when you really put your mind to it.'

‘I beg your pardon!'

‘You agreed to this meeting for one reason, and one reason alone – you wanted to see if you could find out just how damaging the story I was planning to run could possibly be.'

‘That's … er … not quite how I would have put it, Miss Driver,' the director said.

This was easy, Driver thought. Almost
too
easy.

‘It's not how you would have put it, but it's the truth nonetheless,' she said airily. ‘Well, you can relax. I'm not running a story at all. The only reason I'm here is as a favour to a friend.'

‘What kind of favour?' the director asked suspiciously.

‘He needs information on a patient,' Driver said. ‘Or perhaps the man in question is an
ex-patient
by now. That's one of the things you can clear up for me.'

An appropriate look of outrage came to the director's face. ‘That is quite out of the question.'

‘Is it?' Driver asked. She held up her right hand for him to inspect. ‘Look at these sweet little fingers of mine,' she said. ‘You wouldn't think they had the power to destroy people, would you? But show them a typewriter, and that's
exactly
what they have.'