The Witch Maker (7 page)

Bob Rutter had been a stickler for tidiness even before his wife's blindness had made it imperative that everything should always be in the right place – and his desk was a fair reflection of his overall attitude. His in-tray and out-tray were both placed precisely in parallel with the edges of the desk, and the correspondence resting in them was neatly squared-off. His pencils were all well-sharpened, his blotting paper changed every couple of days. Order reigned supreme.

There was only one personal item in evidence. It was a photograph, in a silver frame, placed in such a position that Rutter would see it every time he reached for his phone. The woman in the photograph was smiling optimistically in the direction of a camera she was unable to see. She had dark hair and olive skin. She was unquestionably beautiful, but he would have loved her just as much even if she hadn't been.

There was a photograph at the other end of the desk to balance the one of Maria, Rutter thought, looking at the empty space. But this second one was invisible to everyone but him. The woman in it was blonde. Sometimes he saw her as smiling, sometimes as angry. She was not blind except – on occasion – to the consequences of her actions. Nor was she exactly beautiful. But he loved
her
too.

The phone rang, cutting through his introspection, and he reached for it gratefully.

‘You busy?' asked the voice on the other end of the line.

‘I've not got anything on that I can't shelve for a while, sir,' Rutter said. ‘Why? What do you want? Something to do with this new murder you're investigating?'

‘Aye, that's right. I'd like you to spend a bit of time in that dusty basement that our beloved Chief Constable has the nerve to call the “Criminal Records Resources Centre”.'

‘And what should I be looking for in the CRRC?'

‘I'm not entirely sure,' Woodend admitted. ‘Anythin' relatin' to criminal activity in the village of Hallerton, I suppose.'

‘That's a bit vague.'

‘I know it is, but I don't really
have
anythin' more specific to give you. I'm tryin' to build up a picture of the place, you see, an' the locals are bein' rather less than helpful.'

‘Monika's with you in Hallerton, is she?' Rutter asked, before he could stop himself.

‘Yes, she is. Why wouldn't she be?'

‘No reason,' Rutter said, then added hastily, ‘How far back would you like me to go with my search?'

‘Ideally, to 1604.'

‘What?!'

‘That's just a bit of gallows humour,' Woodend explained, ‘but I suppose you have to be here in this village to really appreciate it.'

‘Probably,' Rutter agreed, having no real idea of what his boss was talking about. ‘So how far would you
really
like me to go back?'

‘Fifty or sixty years. An' I want you to give me
everythin
' you turn up – however trivial or inconsequential it might seem to you.'

‘Understood,' Rutter said.

He replaced the receiver and glanced at the picture of his wife. It was only by an effort of will that he didn't turn in the other direction and look at the picture which wasn't really there.

Woodend returned to the table. Paniatowski hadn't ordered another drink. In fact, she seemed to feel no great urge to finish the one she still had in front of her.

‘We'll be needin' somewhere to stay for the night, an' this seems as good a place as any,' the Chief Inspector said, thinking, even as he spoke, that the words sounded strained – that it was as if, in order to reach Monika, they'd have to climb over a huge barrier first.

‘Shall I have a word with the landlord when he gets back?' Paniatowski asked, her voice neutral, almost machine-like.

‘Gets back?'

‘Well, he's not here now.'

Woodend glanced across at the bar, and saw that his sergeant was right. There was absolutely no sign of Zeb, the under-friendly mine host of the Black Bull. He had probably slipped into his own quarters for a few minutes.

And why shouldn't he have? Though the pub had been quite full when the two detectives arrived, they were now the only customers.

‘Not exactly popular, are we?' he asked his sergeant.

‘Not exactly,' Paniatowski agreed, in the same dull tone she had employed earlier.

Something was going to have to be done, Woodend thought.

‘I'm sorry about what I said earlier, lass,' he told Paniatowski.

‘It's all right,' the sergeant replied, but without much conviction.

‘It's not all right – an' we both know that. If I've learned one thing in my years on the Force, it's that it's very easy to pass judgement on other people, but unless you've walked around in their shoes for a while, you probably don't know what you're talkin' about.' He took a slug of what remained of his pint. It tasted like urine. ‘The only excuse I've got for speakin' like I did – an' it's not a very good one – is that this bloody place has unsettled me.'

‘This
place
– or this
case
?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Seems to me they're one an' the same thing,' Woodend told her.

T
he church and the primary school in Hallerton were located at the edge of the village, just as they were in so many other moorland communities. They looked across at each other, but were separated by the almost-straight road which ran all the way to a different world called Lancaster.

Woodend glanced down the road. Then, closing his eyes, he tried to picture it as it must have looked three hundred and fifty years earlier, in the days after Meg Ramsden had been burned at the stake. It was unlikely to have been paved back then – and even after only a few days without rain, any horses travelling along it would have thrown up a cloud of dust which could be seen for miles.

How dry had the road been when the High Sheriff's men came? Had the villagers stood on this very spot and watched the dust cloud grow ever larger? Had they listening to the sound of the hoofs – no more than a distant rumble at first, but gradually getting louder, until it filled their ears?

Yes, they probably had. And though they must have known what the Sheriff's men's mission was, they'd made no attempt to run away.

Perhaps they'd gone to pray for guidance, Woodend speculated, turning towards the church. But given what he'd already learned about the people of this village, that didn't seem likely. And even if they had gone into the church, it wouldn't have been
this
church, because it was a hundred years old at most.

He took a closer look at the building. It didn't seem quite
right
. True it had all the features typical of its time. There was a steeple, covered with the blue slates which would have to have been imported all the way from North Wales. There was a lych-gate, with a bench on which the bearers could rest the coffin during its final journey to the grave. So what was missing?

Woodend took a step back, and suddenly saw what was wrong. This church was smaller – much smaller – than any of the others in the area. It was almost as if the builders had been inspired less by faith and hope and more by a foreknowledge of the size of congregation the structure would eventually have to cater for.

He switched his attention to the school. It, too, resembled many others he had come across on the moors. It was constructed of the same blocks of dressed stone as the church, and roofed with the same blue-grey slates. The windows were high, in order to let in light while denying the children the opportunity of being distracted by views of the outside world. The playground was as austere and forbidding as any prison exercise yard.

The school had probably been built a few years later than the church, Woodend guessed, perhaps in the late Victorian era. At that time education had been regarded with grim seriousness, and even though boys and girls of the same family were often compelled by economic circumstances to share the same bed, the sexes entered the school by separate doors.

The church clock struck a quarter to four, the doors of the school opened, and the children streamed out. Woodend watched them with interest. They were obviously pleased to be free of their educational confinement, yet there was something orderly about the way they left the school – almost as if they were an army in retreat.

Woodend lit a cigarette and watched them until they had disappeared into the village. Then – on impulse – he strolled over to the school. Faced with the choice of entering through the boys' door or the girls' door, he was amused to find that his legs automatically inclined him towards the one used by the boys.

He passed through the cloakroom and into the hallway. Several classroom doors faced him, but only one of them was open. He knocked lightly on it, and stepped into the room.

A woman – a member of staff, presumably – was sitting on the teacher's desk. She was around forty, he estimated. She had long greying hair which was a tangled mess, and a large ladder in one of her nylon stockings which looked far from recent. She had just lit up a cigarette, and was sucking on it with a greed which surprised even a champion chain-smoker like him.

The woman looked up. ‘Yes?'

‘I was just passin', an' I thought I'd drop in,' Woodend said. ‘I hope you don't mind.'

‘Mind?' the woman replied. ‘Why should I mind?'

‘I'm a policeman,' Woodend told her. ‘I'm investigatin' the murder in the village.'

‘Oh yes?' the woman said, without displaying any real interest.

It was then Woodend saw the bottle – a quarter pint of cheap brandy – which was lying on the desk next to a set of dog-eared exercise books. The woman noted that he had seen it, but made no effort to cover it up.

‘It struck me that you an' the other teachers might be able to give me an insight into the life of the village,' the Chief Inspector pressed on.

The woman seemed to find the remark hysterically funny.

‘The other teachers?' she said. ‘
What
other teachers?'

‘You're the only one?'

‘Looks like it, doesn't it?'

‘But I must have seen fifty kids come out of this place.'

‘Fifty-seven! What's your point?'

‘You surely don't handle them all on your own, do you?' Woodend asked, astonished.

‘There's very little choice – considering that no one else will come and work in Hallerton. Besides, it's not as arduous as it seems. It's not as if they actually want to learn anything, beyond the very basic reading and writing skills. And why should they? Most kids in this country don't know what they'll be doing
tomorrow
, but these little buggers know what they'll be doing
forty years
from now – and nothing I offer them is going to make very much difference to that.'

‘Even so, just keepin' them in order must be a bit of a problem. Fifty-seven kids crammed together in one room! It's not a job I'd like to take on.'

The woman sneered. ‘It's a piece of cake,' she said.

‘You're jokin'.'

‘I don't make jokes. This place has drained away any sense of humour I might once have had.' The woman took another drag on her cigarette and coughed violently several times. When the fit subsided, she said, ‘You've seen the little swine at their liveliest today. They're excited, you see.'

‘Yes, murders do, unfortunately, seem to thrill small children,' Woodend said.

‘Oh, it's not the murder that's got them going,' the teacher said scornfully. ‘It might have done a few weeks ago – especially since it was the almighty Witch Maker himself who was killed – but not now.'

‘Not now?'

‘Not so close to the big event itself. They've been waiting for the Witch Burning all their short dull lives.'

‘You don't seem to have much rapport with the children you teach,' Woodend said.

‘Rapport!' the teacher repeated. ‘How can you have rapport with a pudding. And that's what they are! Puddings! They just sit there. I tried – once upon a time – to awaken a curiosity in them for the world outside Hallerton. They weren't interested. I told them fairy tales to stimulate their imaginations. What a waste of time that was! The only story they care about is the story of Meg Ramsden – and they already know more about that than I'd ever care to learn.'

‘I take it from what you've said that you're not a local woman yourself.'

‘No, thank God! But if I
had
been a local woman – if I'd known what the people in the other villages round here know – I'd never have taken the job in the first place. It's soul-destroying, working here.'

‘So why do you?' Woodend wondered.

The woman glanced across at the brandy bottle. ‘I've no choice,' she said, without any hint of shame. ‘I need a job – and this is the only place which will have me.'

‘Drink problem?' Woodend guessed.

‘It's no problem at all – as long as I can get my hands on one.'

Woodend shook his head, but said nothing.

‘I've always had a slight inclination towards the drink,' the woman continued. ‘It runs in the family. But it's only since I've been working here I've realized what a real friend it can be. You couldn't do this job sober. Believe me, I've tried it a couple of times.'

‘Have you checked the toilets since the children left, Miss Simpkins,' said a stern but rich baritone voice from the doorway.

Woodend looked up. The speaker was a man in his early thirties. He was wearing a tweed jacket – somewhat less hairy and more stylish than his own – and a clerical collar.

‘What?' the woman asked, as if she still didn't quite comprehend what was happening.

‘The toilets,' the vicar repeated, contemptuously. ‘You are to check the toilets once the children have gone, in order to make sure they haven't left anything there. We agreed on that at our last meeting.'