Dying in the Dark (11 page)

‘I fell out of an upstairs window, an' I've got bruises on parts of my body I didn't even know I had,' Woodend said. ‘Other than that, I'm feelin' grand. What have
you
been doin' while I was away?'

‘I've been trying to reconstruct Inspector Rutter's movements from the notes he made,' Paniatowski said.

Good old Monika! Woodend thought. I knew I could rely on you.

‘You might not have found anythin' quite yet that'll blow the case apart,' he said, in a low but encouraging voice, ‘but just keep pluggin' away at it, an' I'm sure you very soon will.'

A puzzled look came to Monika's face. ‘I'm not sure that I quite understand you, sir,' she said.

‘What is there not to understand?' Woodend asked. ‘You've been reconstructing Bob's movements. Isn't that right?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘An' you've been doin' it so that you can prove he was nowhere near his house at the time Maria was killed, haven't you?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Then
I
don't understand.'

‘I've been trying to work out what he did yesterday on the Rainsford case, so that we can pick up the threads where he left off.'

‘An' what about Maria's murder?'

‘I thought you'd have been told, sir. That's already being investigated by another officer.'

‘Another officer!' Woodend exploded. ‘It's bein' investigated by that bloody hatchet man DCI Evans!'

‘Yes. I know.'

‘The man who tried his damnedest to fit me up in the Dugdale's Farm murder case!'

‘He
didn't
try to fit you up,' Paniatowski contradicted him.

‘Didn't he? Well it certainly felt like it at the time.'

‘What he
did
do was fail to understand the nature of the conspiracy which had been set up to bring you down. But he played no part in that conspiracy himself.'

‘No, he didn't,' Woodend admitted. ‘But we had to do all his work for him. An' that's all I'm suggestin' this time – that we do his work for him.'

‘We have another case to investigate, sir,' Monika Paniatowski said.

‘I don't believe this,' Woodend told her. The words came out louder than he'd intended them to, and several of the other officers looked up. ‘I really don't believe this,' he continued, more quietly. ‘Are you so obsessed with your own precious career that you'll just ignore the mess that Bob's in?'

‘That's not fair!' Paniatowski hissed angrily.

‘Isn't it?' Woodend asked. ‘My, but appearances can be deceptive, can't they? I thought you used to have some feelings for him, but apparently I was quite wrong.'

‘I still have feelings for him,' Paniatowski said, even angrier now. ‘I
love
him! I tried to put it all behind me after we broke up, but I couldn't. All right? Are you satisfied now you've got me to admit it?'

‘Then I don't see why you won't help me.'

Paniatowski slammed her palm down hard on the desk. ‘God, but you can be so thick sometimes,' she said.

‘You've lost me again.'

‘The great Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend!' Paniatowski sneered. ‘Cloggin-it Charlie – the man who they say has an instinct for knowing just how other people think! How they feel! And you still don't see it, do you?'

‘See what?'

‘It's
because
I still love Bob so much that I don't want any part in the investigation. It's
because
I love him that I don't want to be the one who finds the piece of evidence which finally seals his fate.'

‘You think he did it!' Woodend said, astounded.

‘Well, of course I think he did it!' Paniatowski said, as the tears filled her eyes. ‘Who else would have killed a blind woman, and then tried to make it look like an accident?'

I
f Monika really believed that Bob was guilty of Maria's murder, Woodend told himself, then there was nothing he could do or say to change her mind. And if that belief led her on to a further one – that there was no point in her looking for evidence which might clear Bob, because no such evidence existed – then he should respect her decision not to become involved.

So, in the light of that reasoning, there was no justification for the feelings of revulsion and betrayal he experienced when he looked at her. None at all!

But they were there, whether he willed them or not.

The feelings would pass. He was sure of that. Whether he could save Bob or whether he could not, a time would come when he would regain his affection and respect for Monika – when he would not only understand her position (as he already did), but
accept
it (as he most certainly did not).

Yes, that time would come, but for the moment he felt so much animosity towards her that he judged it better that they worked separately. Thus, whilst he drove to the New Horizons' factory – a part of his mind on the Pamela Rainsford case, but most of it working on what he could do to help Bob Rutter – Monika set off in the other direction, to conduct the house-to-house inquiries in the area where Pamela had lived.

Woodend noticed the Rolls-Royce Phantom V the moment he pulled on to the New Horizons' car park.

Noticed it? his brain mocked him.
Noticed
it! He could hardly have bloody
missed
it!

The Roller stood out from all the cars around it as a diamond would have stood out if it had been resting on a bed of cultured pearls. It positively
gleamed
in the weak autumn sunlight, as if even the sun itself had picked out
this
car as something special.

So Derek Higson was back in Whitebridge, Woodend thought.

Higson's dad had ridden to work on a squeaky old push-bike he'd rescued from the scrap heap – a bike that even other
poor
people laughed at. The son, on the other hand, had become such a flashy bugger that he rode around in a car which must have cost as much as the whole street on which he grew up.

‘What am I thinking?' Woodend asked himself, shocked at the ideas which he found crossing his mind – and, even more, the sour juices with which they were larded.

He didn't give a bugger whether Derek Higson had a Rolls-Royce or not. But even that wasn't
strictly
true. He was
glad
that Derek had a Roller – if that's what made him happy. The man had come from nothing – less than nothing – and had worked his backside off to get where he was today. Now he employed hundreds of people and, according to what Woodend had heard from several sources, treated them extremely well. So wasn't he
entitled
to a flashy car?

Woodend climbed out of his Wolseley, and stopped to light up a cigarette. The thoughts he'd just
almost
had about Derek Higson were a warning to him, he decided – a clear indication that what had happened to Bob and Maria was making him see the
whole world
from a jaundiced perspective.

The door to the administration block opened, and a man walked out. He was about Woodend's age, though slightly heavier around the middle, and with a little less hair. Even from a distance, it was possible to tell that the suit he was wearing had been purchased from somewhere much more exclusive and expensive than the tailors' shops on Whitebridge High Street.

The man had been heading towards the main factory door, but then he noticed Woodend and immediately changed direction.

‘Good to see you, Charlie, but I wish it could have been under different circumstances,' he said, holding out his hand.

‘Good to see you, too, Derek,' Woodend said, shaking the hand.

But he was thinking: Take away the flashy suit, an' you're just an ordinary middle-aged bloke like me. So how the hell did you manage to pull a woman like Lucy?

‘I've just got back,' Higson said.

‘Aye, I assumed that,' Woodend told him. ‘Where've you been?'

‘Holland. The fat burghers of Amsterdam have got a lot of money burning a hole in their pockets, and they recognize quality when they see it. That makes them a very good market for us.' Higson's expression clouded over. ‘Listen to me, talking like a salesman at a time like this,' he continued. ‘Have you come to interview some of my staff?'

‘That's my intention,' Woodend replied. ‘But I wouldn't mind a short chat with you, if you could spare the time.'

‘But of course I can spare the time,' Higson said. ‘If it will help you to catch Pamela's killer, you can have all the time you want.'

They adjourned to the nearest pub, which was called the Golden Partridge. It had plush seating and thick carpets, and most of the customers were carrying leather briefcases. It was not Woodend's sort of place at all, but Derek Higson seemed perfectly at home in it.

‘What can you tell me about Pamela Rainsford?' Woodend asked, when they'd bought their drinks and taken them over to a corner table.

Higson looked vaguely troubled. ‘Not as much as I'd like to,' he confessed. ‘The truth is, Charlie, I could tell you more about her work than I could about her as a person.'

‘Well, that'd be a start,' Woodend said encouragingly.

‘Pamela was efficient in her way,' Higson said, ‘but she was a little too timid for my tastes.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘My old secretary, Gloria, was a real battleaxe. She used to bully me into doing the things I
should
be doing, rather than the things I
wanted
to do. Pamela was the complete opposite. She had neither the confidence or the initiative to step into Gloria's shoes.'

‘So why didn't you replace her with someone who had?'

Higson smiled awkwardly. ‘My wife appointed her,' he said.

‘So what?'

‘Ever since we got married, I've been encouraging Lucy to take a more active part in the business, partly because I thought she'd enjoy it, and partly, I suppose, as a kind of self-defence mechanism.'

‘Self-defence mechanism?'

‘If she's heavily committed to the firm, she can't really complain that I am, too. Lucy never complains when I have to work late, because she's right there working beside me.'

‘I see.'

‘But one of the drawbacks to this policy of mine is that I have to be very careful not to undermine her – very careful not to seem as if I'm questioning her judgement. And if I'd moved Pamela to another part of the business, and taken on a new secretary who was much more like Gloria, that's exactly what I would have been doing.' Higson laughed. ‘Besides, it's done me no harm to discipline myself, rather than relying on my secretary to do it.'

‘You have no idea what Pamela was doing on the canal bank the night she was killed?' Woodend asked.

‘None at all. I don't even know whether she lived near the canal, or right on the other side of town. I suppose you think that's rather remiss of me.'

‘It's not for me to—' Woodend began.

‘Derek, you old reprobate!' said a new voice. ‘So you're finally back from your travels, are you?'

Woodend and Higson looked up. The man who had spoken was in his late forties and, like Higson, was wearing a very expensive suit.

‘Good to see you, Clive,' Derek Higson said.

‘I've got a little business I might be able to put your way,' the other man continued, his tone both matey and confidential. ‘A bit of business that will do
neither of us
any harm.'

‘That's great,' Derek Higson said, without much conviction. ‘The thing is, Clive, I'm rather busy just at the moment. So why don't you ring up my sec— … my office … and we'll arrange a meeting?'

‘Fair enough,' the other man said, and made his way over to the bar.

‘To tell you the truth, I think it's pretty remiss myself that I know so little about
most
of my staff,' Higson said to Woodend. ‘It wasn't like that in the old days, when I was starting out. But then the company got bigger, you see, and as the public face of it – the one the customers want to see – I spend so much time travelling these days that I doubt I could even
name
half our work-force.'

‘What's botherin' you that you're not tellin' me about, Derek?' Woodend asked.

Higson looked startled. ‘However did you know there
was
something bothering me?'

Woodend grinned. ‘We were in the same class from the time we started school at five until we left it at fourteen.'

‘True, but—'

‘I've always been a nosy bugger. I think that's why I became a bobby. I watch people – an' I remember what I've seen.'

‘Doesn't everyone?'

‘Not like me. There was a girl in our class who you used to fancy. I can't recall her name at the minute, but—'

Higson laughed. ‘Good God!' he said. ‘You're talking about Martha Crockton, aren't you?'

‘That's right,' Woodend agreed. ‘Martha Crockton. You were in love with her.'

‘I don't know about that,' Higson said, slightly awkwardly. Then he grinned. ‘It may not have been love, but just thinking about her was enough to make me mess my pants.'

‘Then it's close enough,' Woodend said. ‘When you were five, you used to talk to her about snails an' snakes. When you were fourteen, you'd talk to her about the latest film that was playin' at the Alhambra. But what you always
wanted
to say – right from the beginnin' – was that you'd be over the moon if she'd agree to come for a walk in the woods with you. You never did say that – but it was always on your mind. I could see it was – just like I can see that there's somethin' in your mind right now. So why don't you tell me what it is?'

‘I'd like to,' Higson admitted. ‘But there are a couple of obstacles standing in my way, and I'm not sure how to deal with them.'