Dying Fall (7 page)

And then, without waiting for a reply, he marched furiously to the door.

Woodend was back at his own desk. In the ashtray in front of him lay the remains of three Capstan Full Strength cigar­ettes, which he had not so much smoked as crushed between his agitated fingers.

‘The man's a real bastard, Monika,' he told Paniatowski, across the desk. ‘A complete bloody arsehole.'

‘Yes, sir, I rather gathered that was what you thought of him the
first
three times you said it,' Paniatowski replied. ‘But however much of a bastard he is, it wasn't your wisest move to tell him so to his face.'

‘He knew about Annie, and he knew about Joan,' Woodend ranted. ‘He was using my
family
to put the screws on me.'

‘It's a despicable trick, if that's what he was doing,' Paniatowski agreed, ‘but even so—'

‘Two can play at that game,' Woodend interrupted her. ‘I want all the dirt you can dig up on him, so that the next time he comes after me, I'll have something to hit back with.'

‘That's a dangerous game to play,' Paniatowski cautioned.

‘Maybe – but I'm not the one who started it,' Woodend countered.

‘And there's always the very real possibility that there's no dirt on him
to
dig up.'

‘There's dirt,' Woodend said firmly. ‘I can smell it on the bastard. I can almost see it oozing out from under his fingernails.'

‘I'm not sure I feel entirely comfortable with the assignment, sir,' Paniatowski said. ‘I am
supposed
to be working on a murder inquiry.'

‘In this case, you can't separate the two things,' Woodend told her. ‘If Lowry has his way, we won't have the resources to investigate the murder.' He paused, and took a deep breath. ‘Look, I know it's a shitty job, and normally I wouldn't ask you to do it,' he said. ‘But what choice do I have?'

‘You could put Bob on it,' Paniatowski replied.

‘Could I?' Woodend wondered. ‘Could I really? So tell me, if you were in my shoes, would you put Bob Rutter in charge of it?'

‘I'm
not
in your shoes,' Paniatowski replied defensively.

‘Which is as good a way of not answerin' the question as any, I suppose,' Woodend said. ‘But let's be honest, Monika – at least with each other. Given the way Bob's behavin' at the moment, neither of us would put him in charge of a chip shop.'

M
odern wardrobes were constructed of crisp, light, white wood, but the one in Beresford's bedroom was heavy, clumsy and coffin-brown coloured. It had been bought in the early years of his parents' marriage, and, for that reason, he sometimes viewed it as a time machine which transported him back to a happier time, when his father was still alive and his mother still had her mind. But no such thoughts were entering his head at the moment. In fact, most of his thoughts were concentrated
on
his head – or, to be more accurate, on that portion of his head which had once had hair.

Staring at himself in the wardrobe's full-length mirror, he could not quite get used to the change that the close-cropped haircut had brought about in his appearance. He no longer looked like the rising young detective constable he had come – with Woodend's encouragement – to think of himself as. Instead, he was looking at the face of the sort of young thug who shouts insults at ordinary people as they walk through the shopping centre.

He stepped back, to take a look at the rest of his disguise, which consisted of a buttoned-up flannel shirt, straight-legged jeans, and heavy boots with steel toecaps. He was also wearing braces, which made his shoulders itch and – since the jeans were perfectly capable of staying up without any help – served no useful purpose. Still, he couldn't remove them even though he wanted to, he told himself. The braces
had to
stay – because they were part of the uniform.

As he continued to stand there, wondering if he could really pull the deception off, he became aware that he was not alone, and turning around, found his mother was standing in the doorway.

Mrs Beresford was watching him with a strange, puzzled expression on her face – but that was no more than par for the course, Beresford reminded himself.

‘I … don't remember seeing those clothes before,' his mother said. ‘Did I buy them for you …' She paused, as if trying to grasp one of those pieces of information that were constantly slipping from her mind. ‘Did I buy them for you,
Colin
,' she continued triumphantly.

‘No, Mum, you didn't,' Beresford said gently.

‘And didn't you …' his mother asked, grappling for more lost information, ‘… didn't you used to be a policeman?'

‘I still am a policeman, Mum.'

‘I don't remember policemen dressing like that when I was younger,' Mrs Beresford said.

Her son sighed. He could explain to her that he was going under cover, he supposed, but he doubted if she would be able to grasp the concept.

‘Times change, Mum,' he said.

‘Yes, they do,' Mrs Beresford agreed, sighing in turn. ‘And never for the better.'

Some of the tramps had been questioned and released, but, Woodend noted, there was still a group of around a dozen of them sitting in the basement of police headquarters and waiting for their turn to come.

‘A
group
?' he repeated to himself.

Yes, that was what he'd just labelled them – but he'd been wrong to.

Take most bodies of people waiting for something – a bus queue, for example – and the members of it would strike up small, superficial conversations with those around them. Usually, they would complain about the weather – or the infrequent bus service, or the council's seeming inability to collect dustbins on time, or what rubbish they were showing on television these days – then round it all off with a vague hope that things would improve in the future.

It was a habit born from custom to act in this way. It sometimes felt
almost
like a legal obligation.

But custom and obligation were not binding on these tramps. They had no interest in the people around them. Each one sat alone, a small island protected from the rest of the world by its indifference to him, and his indifference to it.

But there was one thing they did all have in common, the chief inspector thought – they didn't seem particularly concerned by how long it was taking them to get back on the streets.

And why should they? The basement was warm and dry, there were free cigarettes and cups of tea being handed out. What more could they want?

Drink! That's what they could want.

Most of them had probably already been drunk when they had been collected in the sweep, but were now in the process of sobering up. And being sober would make them – paradoxically – more difficult to interview. Because while it was true that their minds would be clearer, this new clarity would be focused on only one thing – getting their next fix of mind-dulling meths!

All of which meant that the whole process needed to be speeded up, and if Bob Rutter needed reminding of that – which he
shouldn't
– now was the time to do it.

‘Which interview room is Inspector Rutter in at the moment?' Woodend asked the WPC who'd been put in charge of watching the men and serving them endless mugs of tea.

‘He's not in any of them at the moment, sir,' the constable replied. ‘He was here up until a few minutes ago, but now he's gone.'

‘Gone?' Woodend repeated, incredulously. ‘Where to?'

‘He didn't specify exactly. He just said he had some personal business to deal with.'

Personal business to deal with!

You just didn't
have
personal business in a murder inquiry, where the first twenty-four hours could be crucial!

You didn't have any life outside the case!

Yet despite the bollocking Woodend had given his inspector earlier, it was clear that Rutter had forgotten – or decided to ignore – what was the cornerstone of any investigation.

They said there was no point in having a dog and barking yourself, Woodend thought, but what else could you do when the dog in question had buggered off?

‘Are all the interview rooms bein' used?' he asked.

‘Two of them are,' the WPC said. ‘But the third one, the one that Inspector Rutter was using before he …'

‘
Went off to deal with his personal business!
' Woodend supplied.

‘Yes, sir. That one's free now.'

Woodend walked over to the area where the tramps were sitting, and picked one of them at random. ‘If you'd like to follow me, sir, we can have our little talk an' then you can be on your way,' he told the man.

The discreet coughing sound, coming from somewhere behind her, made Dr Shastri look up from the dissecting table on which the victim of a recent road accident lay, and when she did so, she saw Bob Rutter standing in the doorway.

‘My dear Inspector, what a true delight to see you,' she said, with her customary breeziness. ‘But what is the reason for this unexpected call? Have I been negligent in my duties? Is there some piece of information which the wise and good Chief Inspector Woodend urgently needs for his investigation, but which I have somehow failed to supply him with?'

‘No, no, nothing like that,' Rutter said, in a manner which seemed to Shastri to be slightly awkward. ‘The fact is, I'm here for a piece of advice.'

Dr Shastri laughed. ‘If it is a medical matter – especially one concerning cadavers – then you have undoubtedly come to the right place,' she said. ‘If, on the other hand, you require instruction in some other area of expertise, on how to build a dry-stone wall or re-plaster your kitchen, for example, I suspect you had better look elsewhere.'

‘It
is
a medical matter,' Rutter said. ‘I was wondering if you could recommend a good doctor to me.'

‘But surely you have a doctor already,' Shastri said, puzzled.

‘I do,' Rutter agreed. ‘But he happens to be the same doctor most of my colleagues use.'

‘I do not see that as a problem,' Dr Shastri said, her bewilderment growing. ‘Anything that passes between you will be in complete confidence.'

‘Yes, but however good the intentions are, things might still slip out,' Rutter said, showing increasing difficulty. ‘One of my colleagues might see me entering or leaving the surgery. Or perhaps Doc Taylor might say to one of them, “You should have a full medical check-up, like Bob Rutter had.” He wouldn't
mean
to be giving anything away, you see, but that's just what he would be doing.'

‘You want a full medical check-up?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you don't want any of your colleagues to know that you've had it?'

‘That's correct. At least, I don't want them to know about it just for the moment.'

‘Might I ask why?' Dr Shastri said.

‘Because they might start wondering
why
I've had the check-up.'

As, indeed, I am now, Dr Shastri thought.

‘Are you worried that something might be seriously wrong with you?' she asked solicitously. ‘Is that why you want to keep the whole thing a secret?'

‘Oh God, no, it's nothing at all like that,' Rutter said. ‘I have the odd ache and pain – that happens when you get past thirty, and work the hours I do – but, in general, I feel as fit as a fiddle.'

‘Well, then?'

‘I just think that, before taking any important step, it's the responsible thing to do.'

‘I see,' Shastri said – though she didn't.

‘I had a medical just before I married Maria, and—' Rutter began, before stopping abruptly again.

‘And …?' Dr Shastri prodded.

Rutter grinned sheepishly. ‘Is anything I say to
you
confidential?'

‘As a doctor, I am only required to keep my lips sealed on medical matters. But as a friend, and I do like to think of myself as a friend …'

‘You are. You
are
!'

‘… you can rely on my absolute discretion.'

Relief flooded Rutter's face, and it was plain to Shastri that he had been keeping something important bottled up inside himself, and that she had just given him permission to release it.

‘Well, the simple truth is that I'm thinking of getting married
again
,' Rutter said.

‘How wonderful!' Dr Shastri exclaimed.

‘You think so?'

‘Indeed I do,' said the doctor, who had heard all the rumours about his affair with Monika, and, liking them both, had been secretly hoping for some time that they would get back together again. ‘And I'm sure Sergeant Paniatowski will make an absolutely beautiful bride.'

Then she saw the look of surprise – almost of horror – which came to Rutter's face, and found herself wishing she were as dead as the body on the table.

It wasn't really necessary for Rutter to say, ‘It's not Monika I'm thinking of marrying.'

But he said it anyway.

M
onika Paniatowski absolutely loathed this new assignment that Woodend had given her. The job she'd originally signed on for involved catching criminals, not doing background checks into people with no police record in the hope of finding some
hint
of criminal activity.

But Charlie was right, as he usually was. Tel Lowry was attempting to impede the investigation. That made him the enemy – and to fight back, you needed to be properly armed.

And so she had spent an hour or so going through old copies of the local newspapers, putting some flesh on the bones of Lowry's personal history.

She'd learned that the factory had been founded by his father, and that while his brother, Barclay, had studied engin­eering at college and then obediently followed the old man into the family business, Tel had preferred to travel a different route, and, in 1950, had joined the air force as a helicopter pilot trainee.