Dying in the Dark (13 page)

‘Did you seriously think that using such a crude term as “fart” would throw me off my stride?' Evans asked.

Not really, Woodend admitted to himself. But then we can always live in hope.

‘You're holding back on me,' Evans said accusingly.

Too bloody right, I am, Woodend thought. I'm not about to throw one of my children to the wolves, just because the chief wolf has a warrant card.

‘I would have expected more co-operation from a man in your position,' Evans said.

‘Aye, an' maybe if this wasn't so much of a witch hunt, you'd get it,' Woodend replied.

‘Need I remind you that all this is being recorded?'

‘No. But it's a two-edged weapon, is a tape recorder. You might think you're puttin' on a good show, but until you hear it played back, you'll never really know
which
one of us sounds like an officious prat.'

‘Was there any specific reason why you visited Maria Rutter when you did?' Evans asked.

Woodend hesitated. There was only so much he could do to protect Bob, he told himself. Because when push came to shove, the bastard sitting opposite him was right – and he had to put his duty as a policeman first.

‘Maria rang me,' he said. ‘She
asked
me to go round.'

‘Did she give you a reason?'

‘No.'

‘And you didn't ask for one? Just dropped everything and rushed to her house?'

‘There wasn't much to drop. I was only havin' a pint at the time. Besides,' he continued reluctantly, ‘she sounded upset.'

‘And what did you think had upset her?'

‘It could have one of any number of things.'

‘But what was the first of those things that came into
your
head?'

Woodend sighed. ‘Some time ago, Bob Rutter had an affair,' he said. ‘It's been over for more than a year, but my first thought was that Maria might have found out about it.'

‘And you think
that's
why she rang you?'

‘It's certainly a possibility.'

‘Did she ring you as a friend? Or was it because you're Inspector Rutter's superior?'

‘It may have been a bit of both.'

‘Or is there yet
another
possibility? That she rang you because not only did Rutter work for you, but the woman he had an affair with did, as well?'

He was playing cat and mouse, Woodend thought. That was only natural. All policemen did it. But did the bastard have to enjoy it so much?

‘Bob Rutter's affair was with one of my sergeants,' he said.

Evans was having so much fun that he even permitted a ghost of a smile to appear for a moment on his thin lips. ‘One of your sergeants,' he repeated. ‘Was it a homosexual affair?'

‘No.'

‘So it was a female sergeant who he was betraying his sacred marriage vows with?'

‘Obviously!'

‘And how many female sergeants do you have working under you, Mr Woodend?'

‘One. My bagman.'

‘That would be Sergeant Paniatowski?'

‘You know bloody well it would be Sergeant Paniatowski.'

‘So to sum up: Inspector Rutter had an affair with Sergeant Paniatowski. His wife found out about it. She rang you because she wished to discuss it with you. And when you got there, someone with an urgent motive to get her out of the way had already killed her.'

‘I didn't say she knew about the affair – only that she
might
have done,' Woodend protested. ‘Look, Bob Rutter's an experienced bobby. He's investigated hundreds of crimes in his time – a fair number of them murders. If he had been plannin' to kill his wife, he'd have done it in such a way that the finger of suspicion would never have pointed at him.'

‘You would think so, certainly,' Evans agreed. ‘But I suppose that desperate times call for desperate measures. And desperate measures sometimes lead to carelessness.'

‘What
desperate times,
for God's sake?'

‘You were wise to tell me the truth, however reluctantly you may have done so,' Evans said, glancing at the tape recorder again. ‘Because much of what you have told us, we already knew. And as for the rest, it would not have taken long to uncover it.'

‘
What
desperate times?' Woodend repeated.

‘Did you know that Mrs Rutter had only recently paid a visit to her solicitor?'

‘Concernin' what?'

‘We don't know yet, though we have a fairly good idea. And did you also know that Mrs Rutter rang her parents in London?'

‘I should imagine she did that quite regularly. She was very fond of her mum an' dad. Were
you
very fond of your mum an' dad, Chief Inspector Evans? Or do you have no idea what I'm talkin' about?'

‘It is Mrs Rutter's parents we are discussing,' Evans said. ‘And according to her father – who I spoke to just half an hour ago – she made a very specific request during her last call to him.'

‘You should have left the poor man alone!' Woodend said angrily. ‘Hasn't he suffered enough already?'

‘I am investigating a murder,' Evans reminded him. ‘In my place, you would have done exactly the same thing.'

Woodend bowed his head. ‘You're right,' he admitted. ‘I forgot myself for a minute.'

‘Am I to take that as an apology?'

‘Yes,' Woodend said. ‘It's an apology. You were only doin' your job, an' I should never have criticized you for it.'

‘Apology accepted,' Evans said, with a slight smirk. ‘Perhaps we can now get back to the matter in hand.'

‘What matter in hand?'

‘Don't you want me to tell you what Mrs Rutter's father said?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘Mrs Rutter asked if she and her daughter could come and stay with him,' Evans said. ‘He naturally enough wanted to know how
long
she intended to stay. She said she couldn't be sure, but it might be for quite a while. “Until I've worked out what I'm going to do next,” were her precise words. Do you see where all this is leading, Mr Woodend?'

‘No.'

‘Then I'll have to spell it out for you. Mrs Rutter was planning to leave her husband, and take his only child with her to London. He didn't want to lose the child, but—'

‘He wouldn't have wanted to lose Maria, either.'

‘Why would that have bothered him? He must have tired of her already – or he would never have embarked on his affair.'

‘It's not that simple,' Woodend groaned.

But he was starting to see that, to a cold fish like Evans, it probably
was
that simple.

‘As I was saying, he didn't want to lose the child, but he must have recognized the fact that once she was in London, there would be little chance of ever getting her back. On the other hand, were his wife to meet with a fatal accident, he could have both his child
and
his paramour. The best of all worlds. But he had to make sure that a convenient accident actually happened, didn't he? And there wasn't a lot of time. So he botched the job of covering his tracks, and now we have him.'

It made sense, Woodend thought. Certainly enough sense to convince a jury, and probably enough sense to convince most of the people who knew Bob personally. And as much as he was trying to fight off the feeling, he was not at all sure that it wasn't starting to make sense to him!

M
onika Paniatowski stood in the entrance foyer of the town hall.

She wished that she was dead – as dead as Maria Rutter.

She wished that she was dead
instead of
Maria Rutter.

But slowly the old instinct for survival began to reassert itself. It had sustained her when she and her mother had been on the run in war-torn Europe, she reminded herself. It had allowed her to endure what she'd been forced to endure in the home of her stepfather. And it would not let her down now. She was alive, and she had a job to do. And she would do it far better than anyone else could – because that was the only reason for doing it at all.

It was the end of the working day for those employed in the council offices, and slowly the foyer began to fill with people trying to look as if they were not actually
rushing
home.

The lead which had brought her to the town hall had been provided by a shopkeeper whose business was located quite close to where Pamela Rainsford had lived.

‘Yes, I did see her knockin' about with a young feller, but that was quite a while ago now,' the man had said.

‘Can you describe him?' Paniatowski had asked.

‘I can do better than that. I can tell you his name.'

‘So he's local, is he?'

‘Not as far as I'm aware.'

‘Then how do you know his name?'

‘Ah, I see what you ‘re gettin' at. I had a bit of trouble with the Council. They're always sayin' they want to encourage small businesses, but once you start one up you soon discover how bloody-minded they can be about enforcin' their petty rules an' regulations. An' let me tell you, Sergeant, there's more red tape involved in local government than—'

‘He's connected with the Council, is he?' Paniatowski interrupted.

‘What? Oh yes, that's the point, you see. When I went to the town hall to try an' get everythin' sorted out, he was the feller who interviewed me. I mentioned that I'd seen him with Pamela. I thought that might sort of melt the ice a bit – make him see me as more of a human bein' an' less of a problem – but it had the reverse effect. He went all cold on me, as a matter of fact. Still, he was helpful enough when we did get down to business, an'—'

‘His name!' Paniatowski said. ‘Can you give me his name?'

‘Well, of course I can, lass. You only had to ask.'

‘The chap you're lookin' for is just comin' out of the lift now,' the town hall doorman said, pointing for Paniatowski's benefit.

The man in question was around twenty-six or twenty-seven, she guessed. He had a neat haircut and a suit which, while not expensive, was smart and well-cared for. He looked exactly like what he was – a clerical officer who had hopes of one day becoming a head of department.

She took a step forward, to block the man's path. ‘Mr Tewson?' she asked. ‘Mr Peter Tewson?'

‘Yes,' Tewson said, suddenly looking worried.

Paniatowski produced her warrant card. ‘CID. I'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind.'

‘What about?'

‘Pamela Rainsford.'

‘How did you … I mean, who told you that …?'

‘That you used to go out with her?'

‘Yes.'

‘Does it really matter how we got on to you? Your name came up in our inquiries, that's all.'

‘It was a long time ago.'

‘It was less than three years ago.'

‘I haven't seen her for ages.'

‘And does that mean you have no wish to see Pamela's killer brought to justice?'

‘No, of course it doesn't mean that.'

‘Then I'd greatly appreciate it if you could spare me half an hour or so of your time.'

‘Will it take as long as that?'

‘It might do. Let's just see how it goes, shall we?'

Tewson glanced nervously around him, looking at the other clerks who were leaving the office.

One of them smiled at him and said, ‘You'd better hope Daphne doesn't find out about this.'

Tewson paled. ‘She's … this is a police officer. She's making inquiries about a neighbour of mine.'

The other man's smile broadened. ‘You can tell that to the marines,' he said. ‘Police officer! She doesn't look like any police officer I've ever met. But don't worry, your secret's safe with me.'

The moment he'd gone, Tewson turned back to Paniatowski and said, ‘Look, do we have to talk
here
?'

‘Not necessarily,' Paniatowski replied. ‘Anywhere will do. Where do you suggest?'

‘There's a café just around the corner from here. We sometimes go there at lunchtime, but there'll be nobody I know in it now. We could meet there in five minutes.'

‘You will be there, won't you?'

‘Oh, I'll be there,' Tewson assured her. ‘Believe me, I want to get this over just as much as you do. Probably more.'

The café was called Ye Olde Copper Kettle. It smelled of toasting teacakes and bubbling coffee. Most of the afternoon shoppers had already gone home, and Paniatowski pretty much had her choice of tables. She had only been sitting there for a couple of minutes when Peter Tewson entered, and, after quickly surveying the room, joined her.

‘You seem a little nervous,' Paniatowski said.

‘The secret of getting on at the town hall is being able to fit in,' Peter Tewson said. ‘And it's not a sign of fitting in to be seen talking to a plainclothes policewoman.'

‘Or to have gone out with a murder victim,' Paniatowski said.

‘Or that,' Tewson agreed gloomily.

‘Who's Daphne?' Paniatowski asked.

‘What?' Tewson said, jumping as if he'd just been administered an electric shock.

‘Your friend said he wouldn't tell Daphne. I was just wondering who Daphne was.'

‘Oh, I see,' Tewson said, relaxing a little. ‘Daphne's my fiancée. We're getting married next spring. We've already got the honeymoon in Bournemouth booked.'

‘I take it that if Pamela had lived, she wouldn't have been one of the guests at the wedding,' Paniatowski said.

Tewson shuddered. ‘No, she bloody wouldn't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Like I said, she belongs in the past. Very much so. I haven't seen her for over two years.'

‘Was it a bitter break-up?'

Tewson considered the question. ‘Not bitter, exactly,' he said finally. ‘But I certainly wouldn't have called it very pleasant.'