Murder at Swann's Lake (5 page)

Woodend frowned. If the killer had been a professional hit-man, as he suspected, then surely he would have brought his own murder weapon with him. Or perhaps not. A gun could be traced. Even a knife might leave a trail. But by using Robbie Peterson's own hammer and nail, the murderer had left them absolutely no line of investigation to follow.

“I'd like you to get hold of hammer for me,” Woodend said to Inspector Chatterton.

“A hammer, sir? What kind of a hammer?”

Woodend sighed. The problem of workin' with new people all the time was that you were forever havin' to get them into your way of seein' things. Young Rutter wouldn't have needed to ask what kind of hammer – he would already have known. “I want a hammer as near as possible to the one which was used to kill Robbie Peterson,” he said patiently.

“Oh, all right, sir. Understood,” Chatterton said.

But he didn't understand, Woodend thought. He had no idea of how sometimes just holding the murder weapon could actually give you some kind of feeling about the person who had wielded it.

“We'll need somewhere to operate from,” he said.

“Yes, sir. We've cleared some office space for you in Maltham.”

“Have you now?” Woodend said. “And how far away might that be from Swann's Lake?”

“Only about six miles.”

“Then that makes it six miles away from the scene of the crime,” Woodend said. “I'm sorry, lad, that won't do at all.”

“I suppose we could get you a room in the nearest police house,” Chatterton suggested.

“An' how close is that?”

“A couple of miles.”

Woodend shook his head. “You're not getting' the point, are you? When I investigate a crime, I like to be on top of it eighteen hours a day.”

“Well, I really can't think anywhere closer than—” Chatterton began.

“Have forensics finished with this office?” Woodend interrupted.

“Yes, sir.”

“Right, then. Get somebody to clear out all this posh stuff and have it replaced with the battered rubbish I'm used to, and we'll have what my sergeant here likes to call a nerve centre for our operation.”

“You want to use this place?” Chatterton asked incredulously.

“Aye. Any objections?”

The Inspector shrugged. “Not really. It just seems a bit macabre, that's all.”

“Murder tends to be a macabre business,” Woodend said. “It's funny that way. Now, about accommodation. Where are we supposed to be stayin'?”

“In Maltham, sir. There's a new hotel opened since the last time you were here, and I've been told it's very nice indeed.”

“I need to feel the pulse of a place, even when I'm sleepin',” Woodend said. “Get me somethin' closer.”

“Well, there's always the Red Lion pub,” Chatterton said dubiously.

“Where's that?”

“About half a mile up the road. I believe they do have a couple of rooms for bed and breakfast, but I'm not sure it's exactly—”

“It'll do fine,” Woodend said. “An' if the rooms are already occupied, fit up whoever's in them on some trumped-up charge and throw the buggers in the clink for a couple of days.”

Chatterton paled. “I don't think I could do that, sir. There are certain rules and reg—” He saw the look of exasperation in Woodend's eyes. “You're joking again, aren't you?” he said with some relief.

“I'd better be, or I'll soon end up behind bars myself,” Woodend said. He checked his watch. “You've been a great help so far, Inspector. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like you to get this furniture removal underway.”

“I'll get one of my sergeant's to organise it right away,” Chatterton said.

“I'd rather you supervised it yourself,” Woodend told him.

“But I've . . . er—”

“You've had orders to stick to me like glue, so you can report back to your bosses on exactly what I'm up to?” Woodend asked.

“I wouldn't put it quite like that, sir,” Chatterton replied, though his expression suggested that what the Chief Inspector had said wasn't far from the truth.

“Tell your Chief Super I can't work that way,” Woodend said. “I need freedom to move about without constantly feelin' the local flatfeet breathin' down my neck. Understood?”

“I'll pass your message on, sir,” Chatterton said dubiously.

“Good. Now get crackin' on shiftin' this furniture. But don't take that filin' cabinet – my sergeant, with all the enthusiasm of youth, is just itchin' to take a look at all of Master Robbie's correspondence. Isn't that true, Sergeant?”

“Itching,” Rutter said, deadpan.

“And once you've got the office up and runnin', I'd like you to arrange for me to see a few of the people connected with the case – starting with Peterson's ever-lovin' family,” Woodend told the Inspector.

“And what will you be doing, sir?” Chatterton asked. “I mean, just in case I need to contact you,” he added hastily.

“What will I be doin'?” Woodend repeated. “Well, since it's such a nice day, I thought I might take my sergeant here for a little walk round the lake.”

The hum of the diesel engines merged with the tinny sound of the steam organ and the blare of the latest Elvis Presley record pumping out of the speakers around the dodgem track. There were children everywhere. Children eating candy floss and toffee apples. Children proudly and carefully carrying goldfish in plastic bags full of water. Children begging for one more ride, and children crying because their requests had been turned down. The funfair was as cheerfully brash and as gaudy as only funfairs can be.

Woodend, his jacket draped over his arm, strolled through the crowd with the easy nonchalance of a man who has nothing more on his mind than wondering what he's going to be served up for his tea. There was a time when the pose would have fooled Bob Rutter, but that time was long since past. He knew that though the Chief Inspector might appear relaxed, his eyes were constantly alert, fixing firmly the various strands of life which co-existed around the lake. At some point in the case, something he had seen that afternoon would prove useful – perhaps even a key point in the investigation – and God help his sergeant if he hadn't noticed it too!

Woodend came to halt in front of the ghost train, and looked up at the lurid paintings of phantoms, corpses and executioners which festooned its walls. “Didn't Inspector Chatterton say that Robbie Peterson owned this, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, he did,” Rutter confirmed.

“Very interestin',” the Chief Inspector muttered, turning his attention to the two men who were running the train.

Both were in their middle twenties and had black hair which hung unfashionably over their collars. Their shirtsleeves were rolled up above the elbows, displaying purple and red tattoos at least as garish as the signs advertising the attraction. They looked like hard men and had such similar features that they had to be brothers.

The Chief Inspector took out his packet of Capstan Full Strength cigarettes, and offered one to his sergeant, who, as usual, shook his head and reached for his own packet of cork tipped.

“What do you make of them two lads?” Woodend asked, as he held a match in his cupped hands for Rutter to light his cigarette.

Rutter considered the matter. “It wouldn't surprise me if they'd been in trouble with the law at some time,” he said.

“And what makes you think that?”

“The way they're both looking at us.”

A smile began to form on Woodend's lips. “Oh aye?” he said. “And how might that be?”

“As if they'd like to catch us alone in a dark alley.”

“Perhaps because we've got no family with us, they think we're a couple of queers,” Woodend suggested. “An' maybe they just don't like bum boys.”

Rutter shook his head. “They've spotted us as bobbies. You can tell that,” he said. “And it's not something everyone could do.”

Woodend chuckled. “Looks like I might make a detective out of you yet. But if you're right and they do have criminal records, it raises a couple of interestin' questions, doesn't it?”

“Like what?” Rutter asked.

“Like why did Robbie Peterson hire a couple of ex-gaolbirds to work in a cash business where it would be as easy as anythin' for them to cream off half the profits?”

“Maybe he believed in giving people a second chance,” Rutter said.

“That's one possibility,” Woodend admitted. “But it's hardly likely, is it?”

“Or maybe Peterson thought that with the reputation he'd got, they'd be too scared to try and cheat him.”

“An' what's the third possibility?”

Rutter examined the glowing end of his cigarette. “This job is just a front,” he said. “An excuse for having them around. It was entirely another kind of work that Peterson needed them for.”

“Just what I was thinkin'.” Woodend put his hand in his trouser pocket, and when he withdrew it again, it was holding two sixpenny pieces. “Come on,” he said. “Let's take a ride.”

“On the ghost train?” Rutter asked, incredulously.

“Aye. Why not? We're on expenses – let's live it up for once.”

“But it's kids' stuff, sir.”

“We're all kids deep inside ourselves,” Woodend said. “Come on, Bob. You might actually enjoy yourself if you could learn to let your hair down.”

Woodend stepped forward and handed his money over to one of the unsmiling brothers, then climbed into one of the small open carriages just behind a couple of young girls who were already giggling hysterically. Rutter hesitated for a second, then squeezed himself in next to his boss.

The carriage was soon full and the second unsmiling brother pulled the lever. The carriage clanked clumsily forward, picking up speed as it hit the double doors which heralded the start of the ride. For a second, the passengers were plunged into complete darkness, then a glowing, headless corpse appeared out of the gloom and a piercing mechanical shriek filled the air. Collision with the spectre seemed inevitable, but at the last moment the track made a sharp turn and the carriage rattled away in another direction.

The girls just in front of the two detectives were screaming in earnest now, and as more ghouls appeared before them, most of the rest of the carriage joined in.

“Aren't you glad you came?” Woodend bellowed into his sergeant's ear.

“Wouldn't have missed it for the world!” Rutter shouted back, wondering why it seemed impossible to be both loud and sarcastic at the same time.

The carriage took three or four more unexpected twists, then once again it battered against a pair of wooden doors and re-emerged into the bright sunlight of a Swann's Lake Sunday afternoon.

Woodend climbed out of his seat, nodded pleasantly to the two scowling men in charge and stepped clear of the ghost train. “It's a bit like the human mind, is that ride,” he said to his sergeant.

Rutter smiled. “In what way, sir?”

“Well, for a start, it doesn't seem very big from the outside, but once you get in it, you find there's a hell of a lot goin' on,” Woodend said seriously. “Then there's all them twists and turns, so you never know quite where it's going to lead you. An' lastly, I suppose, if you're not careful, you'll soon start mistaking what's fake for what's real.”

Rutter shook his head in wonder. “Getting a bit philosophical today, aren't we, sir?”

Woodend grinned ruefully. “Aye, you're right,” he said. “Let's get back to the club and do some of that detective work we're gettin' paid for.”

I
n the time Woodend and Rutter had been down at the funfair, Robbie Peterson's office had undergone a transformation. The filing cabinet was still there, as per Woodend's instructions, but the rest of the furniture had been removed and in its place were two gun-metal desks, four folding chairs and a large blackboard.

“Champion,” Woodend pronounced after examining it. “Still a bit tidy, but we'll soon rectify that, an' then I'll feel right at home.”

“The tool rack's still here,” Rutter pointed out.

“Aye, I noticed that, bein' a detective,” Woodend replied.

“Sorry we haven't got round to taking it down yet, sir,” Inspector Chatterton said. “My lads are shifting Robbie's furniture at Maltham police station at the moment, but the second they get back here, I'll put one of them on the job.”

“Call through an' tell them to stay where they are,” Woodend said. “They'd just be wastin' petrol comin' back.”

“Won't you be needing them, sir?”

Woodend shook his head. “Until I've got my bearin's, even my sergeant's little more than a liability.”

“But the tool rack, sir?”

“Leave it where it is. Some of them chisels might come in handy when I'm interrogatin' witnesses.”

Chatterton gave a half-hearted laugh which was only a second or two late. “Interrogating witnesses,” he repeated. “Very good, sir. Would you like talk to the family now?”

“Aye, I think it's about time I did.”

“Who would you like to see first?”

“I might as well start with the grieving widow,” Woodend decided.

Doris Peterson, Woodend discovered, was a brassy blonde who might once have seemed very soft and feminine, but had definitely hardened with age. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat down on the folding chair opposite him and crossed her legs in a way which revealed more of her calves than might have been considered seemly. But it was an act of defiance rather than one of exhibitionism, Woodend thought – more designed to show her contempt for the police than to titillate them. Not that Doris had bad legs for a woman her age.

The Chief Inspector leaned forward across the desk. “I'm sorry to be questionin' you at a time like this, Mrs Peterson,” he said.