Murder at Swann's Lake (12 page)

“Maybe,” Woodend agreed. “But it'll still put the wind up him to know we're thinkin' that way – an' a man with the wind up him can say things he never intended to.”

There was the sound of a car horn hooting outside.

“That'll be your transport,” Woodend said. He grinned. “There are still some advantages to rank – if they'd been pickin'
me
up, they'd have come inside and asked if I was ready yet.”

Rutter rose to his feet and was almost at the door when he stopped and turned round again. “You don't think it would be a good idea if you went to Doncaster instead of me?” he asked.

Woodend studied his sergeant for a couple of seconds, then shook his head. “The other side of the Pennines is enemy territory to a Lancastrian like me,” he said. “Anyway, it's about time you got a few scratches.”

“Scratches, sir?” Rutter said, puzzled.

“When you buy a new car, you're forever frettin' that you're goin' to scrape against somethin' an' damage it's lovely shiny surface,” the Chief Inspector told him. “It's takes all the pleasure out of drivin'. Then you
do
have a scrape, an' you realise you don't have to keep worryin' any more.”

The car horn hooted again – more impatiently this time.

Rutter smiled. “You're saying I'm like a new car, are you, sir?”

“Well, a good second-hand one, anyway,” Woodend said, grinning back. “Put it this way, Sergeant. I'm still waiting for you to make your first big cock-up – and the suspense is bloody near killing me.”

“Thanks, sir,” Rutter said.

“What for?” Woodend asked innocently, as he cut his last remaining sausage in two.

The mist had cleared and it was promising to turn into an almost perfect day. Woodend refused Chatterton's telephoned offer of a lift to The Hideaway, and instead walked the half-mile from The Red Lion to the club. It was pleasant to stroll down the quiet country lanes, to hear tiny, unidentified animals rustling in the hedgerows and watch the last of the swifts flying overhead.

“Creatures of habit,” he said to himself, as he watched the birds glide and swirl. “But then, aren't we all?”

He tried to imagine himself buying a club like The Hideaway at some time in the future. Would he able to shed the persona of ‘Charlie Woodend the bobby' like an old skin, and be nothing more than ‘Charlie Woodend the genial mine host'? Or would he catch himself watching his customers – trying to work out which of them was up to no good? And when there was a murder in the area, would he be able to resist the temptation to go to the same pubs as the bobbies on the case, in the hope that they might possibly recognise him as an old Yard man and ask his advice? No, of course he wouldn't. He'd been a policeman for far too long to start changing now.

In that way, he and Robbie Peterson were alike, he suspected. Robbie had come to Swann's Lake to make a new start, but it wasn't just his family he'd brought with him – it was a whole way of looking at things. So even though he hadn't needed the money, when he'd seen the chance for the cigarette-smuggling racket, he just hadn't been able resist it.

It was just after eight o'clock when he reached The Hideaway. The curtains in the Peterson house were still drawn and the caravan site was as silent as if had been secretly evacuated overnight.

But though nothing was stirring now, someone had been busy only a few hours before, Woodend thought, staring down at the lock on the office door. Very busy! Paint had been chipped away and the shiny brass lock itself had at least a dozen scratch marks on it

The Chief Inspector took his own key out of his pocket, inserted it in the keyhole and was pleasantly surprised to find that the lock still worked. As he stepped into the office, he found himself wondering who the bungling burglar had been. Gerry Fairbright's name immediately came to mind. He'd been watching the office the day before and he'd seemed very worried about something when he entered The Hideaway a few hours later. But Gerry Fairbright had a craftsman's hands. A flimsy lock like the one on the office door would have presented few difficulties for him.

Woodend sat down at the desk. Perhaps the important question was not to ask
who
had tried to break in, but
why
the attempted burglary had taken place at all. What was the burglar looking for? Surely not 50,000 cartons of cigarettes?

There was a knock on the door and when Woodend looked up he saw Inspector Chatterton standing there, with a paper bag in his hands. “I got you the hammer, sir,” the Inspector said.

“The hammer? What hammer?”

“A hammer like the one which was used to kill Robbie Peterson. You said you wanted one.”

“Oh, right,” Woodend agreed. “Put it on the desk, will you.”

Chatterton laid it neatly across the corner of the desk, frowned, then re-arranged it so it was more symmetrical.

“Have you had your lads go through Robbie Peterson's office furniture?” Woodend asked.

“Of course, sir. We had to inventory it.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing much. Pens, pencils, blotting paper. I think Peterson had it more for show than for anything else.”

Or Doris did, Woodend thought. “No secret drawers?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You know, secret drawers. Places where Peterson might have been hidin' things.”

“I can't say we were really looking for anything like that,” Chatterton admitted.

“Well, look now,” Woodend told him. “Better yet, get somebody from the high-class furniture trade to examine it. And I want the three-piece suite taken to pieces as well.”

“What are we looking for, sir?”

“Blessed if I know,” Woodend said. “Anythin' worth breakin' the law over.”

“I see,” Chatterton said. He took a deep breath. “I was talking to the Chief Constable a few minutes ago.”

“That must have been nice for you,” Woodend said dourly. “Social call was it?”

“No, it was about this murder,” Chatterton said, missing the point. “He was wondering how many men you'll be needing today. He's quite willing to cancel all leave and have officers reassigned from other duties.”

Yes, they usually were, Woodend thought. The trouble with most Chief Constables was they liked to be seen to be doing something by the press and the public. And to them, that meant having a load of bobbies trampling all over the crime scene with their size-nine boots, being more hindrance than help.

“Like I told you yesterday, until I've got a feel for the place, I wouldn't know what to do with them,” he told the Inspector. And then he remembered the burglary. “Actually, I could use one man.”

Chatterton looked relieved. “Oh, good,” he said. “I'll send a constable over right away. Or would you prefer a sergeant?”

“I don't want him now,” Woodend replied. He stood up and looked across at the club. “I want him tonight. Round about midnight.”

The white-haired man sitting opposite Rutter in the police canteen wore a sergeant's stripes and a look which managed to be both alert and world weary. His name, he'd announced when they shook hands, was Les Dash, and it was going to be his job to baby-sit the Yard man for as long as he was in Doncaster.

“I thought I knew every villain in this town personally, but you've got me stumped with this Alexander Conway,” he confessed. “Nobody else I talked to had heard of him either. And there's nothin' in our records.”

“He might be new to Doncaster,” Rutter pointed out. “We've no idea yet how long this tobacco smuggling racket's been going on.”

Dash popped an unsmuggled cigarette into his mouth and frowned. “New or not, I should know about him. This is my town, Sergeant Rutter, an' if a villain only stops on his way through to take a leak, I usually get to hear about it.”

“Are you saying he's not a criminal?” Rutter asked.

“I'm sayin' that if he is, he's a very clever one.” Dash lit his cigarette and stood up. “Don't you think it's about time we went to see this Mr Conway of yours and found exactly what he's up to?”

“That seems like a good idea to me,” Rutter agreed.

It was the pain which woke Maria up – a stabbing at the back of her eyes, as if someone were pricking her with red-hot needles; a pounding in her head like the one she had felt when she finally came to in Belgrave Square.

Yet even through the pain, thoughts were beginning to register themselves. She was lying in her bedroom – she remembered going to bed – and it was dark so it must still be night. Yet should it be
so
dark, even at three or four o'clock in the morning? Why weren't the street lamps throwing their customary pale glow on the bedroom curtains.

She reached out her hand and groped for the switch on her bedside light. She felt it click, but still the darkness remained. A power cut? That would explain the absence of street lighting.

It was so hard to think with the constant drumming in her head. Perhaps she should follow Javier's advice and get a check-up at the nearest hospital. She wondered how long she would have to wait before the casualty department opened. She glanced down at her watch – and saw nothing!

It should be glowing in the dark, she told herself, as feelings of hysteria started to well up inside her. It should be glowing and it wasn't!

“Oh my God!” she sobbed. “I'm blind!”

Woodend stood looking out of the office window at the yard in front of the club. Scores – perhaps even hundreds – of people had crossed it in the last three quarters of an hour before Robbie Peterson met his end. Which was probably exactly why the killer had chosen that time to make his move.

He walked back to the desk and picked up the hammer which Inspector Chatterton had brought him. He closed his eyes and pictured Robbie asleep in the chair, his head resting on the desk.

The murderer comes in and hears him snoring, he thought. He doesn't know the bulb's blown, but he has no wish to turn on the light anyway. Darkness can only work to his advantage. He makes his way over to the workbench, where he knows he'll find the things he needs to commit his crime. Once he's got the hammer and nails, he returns to the desk. He places the nail on Robbie's temple – lightly, so that there's not even a slight prick to disturb the sleeping man – and wham!

It would have to have been a fairly hard blow, Woodend decided, but most men would have been capable of delivering it. And so would a lot of women. Hell, even a reasonably strong child could have killed Robbie Peterson, if he'd been really determined.

Woodend tightened his grip on the hammer, took a deep breath and swung his arm. There was no human head to get in it's way this time and the hammer's head struck the desk with a loud clang. The Chief Inspector tried to will into his mind an image of the kind of man who might have used the hammer as an instrument of death. But it wouldn't come. There was not even the most fleeting impression – the vaguest sense of what might drive that man. Well, he supposed that while handling the murder weapon was sometimes a good trick, he couldn't expect it to work every time.

He opened his eyes and looked first at the dent in the desk and then at the tool he was still holding in his hand. “You've been nothin' but a waste of taxpayers' money,” he said accusingly to the hammer.

There was a dustbin by the club's rear door, and for a moment he was tempted to walk across the yard and drop the hammer into it. Then he noticed the gap in the tool rack where the murder weapon had once hung – and remembered his early days in the Army. . .

A group of raw recruits, still itching from their new haircuts, standing in an uneasy line. A small corporal, marching up and down that line, glaring belligerently at each and every one of them.

‘The Army runs on discipline and order,' the corporal had screamed. ‘Discipline! When I ask you to jump, you don't ask me why. You say, “How high, corporal?” Order! A place for everything and everything in it's place.' He turned his menacing gaze on a young recruit who looked scared to death. ‘What does it run on, you big Northern snot-rag?'

‘Discipline and order, Corporal,' Private Charlie Woodend had answered shakily.

The Chief Inspector grinned ruefully. “A place for everything, and everything in its place,” he murmured.

They had drummed it into him, and even twenty years later it was still there. He walked over to the tool rack, slipped the hammer into the vacant slot and stood back to admire the result. That little corporal would have been proud of him, he thought.

Hatton Gardens was a very pleasant, tree-lined street of detached houses on the outskirts of Doncaster.

“Used to be all single family residences before the War,” Sergeant Dash said, as he and Rutter walked from the car to the gate of Number Seven. “'Course, income tax was only five an' a tanner in the pound back then. Now it's eight an' sixpence, an' nobody can afford big houses any more. Most of the street's been converted into flats.”

“It's still a nice area to live in,” Rutter replied.

“Oh, it is,” Dash agreed. “Very respectable, the people in Hatton Gardens. I'm surprised we're lookin' for your villain here.”

They opened the gate and walked up a path which was bordered with neat rows of flowers. There were two bells beside the door, each with a card next to it. The one beside the top bell was hand-written and said, ‘Alex Conway'. The one below was a printed visiting card with the words ‘Miss Olivia Tufton' printed on it.

“See what I mean?” Dash asked, pointing at the lower card. “
Very
respectable.”

Rutter rang Conway's bell, waited, and then rang again. When he got no answer the second time, he pressed the lower button. There was the sound of slow careful footsteps in the hallway, then the front door was opened by an old lady with blue-rinsed hair.