Dying in the Dark (17 page)

He paused, aware that, despite his sober intentions, Derek Higson was on the verge of laughing again.

‘What have I said that's so funny?' he asked.

‘Nothing really,' Higson said. ‘I was just wondering if you always discussed your cases with members of the general public.'

By God, he's right, Woodend thought. That's
exactly
what I was doing! Derek's more than just a feller I met in a pub, but he's not
a lot
more.

‘I think I must be losin' my marbles,' he said aloud.

‘I think all us kids from Sudbury Street Elementary are,' Derek Higson said. ‘It's called “growing old”.'

A young – and somewhat flushed – waiter approached the table. ‘Are you Mr Woodend?' he asked, almost breathlessly. ‘I mean, are you
Chief Inspector
Woodend!'

‘That's right,' Woodend agreed.

‘The famous detective,' Derek Higson said, for good – and, to Woodend's mind,
unnecessary
– measure.

‘I thought I recognized you from your picture in the papers, only I couldn't be sure,' the waiter said.

Woodend sighed. This kind of thing happened from time to time, and usually he could deal with it good-naturedly. But on a night like this, it was the last thing he needed.

‘Look, lad, I'm not a film star or summat like that,' he said. ‘I'm just an ordinary bobby who's tryin' to wind down a bit after a hard day's work. So if you wouldn't mind—'

‘I'm sorry. Didn't I say?'

‘Say what?'

‘There's a phone call for you, Mr Woodend,' the waiter told him. Then he added, almost with reverence, ‘It's police headquarters.'

‘This had better not be a joke, lad,' Woodend said in a voice which was almost a growl.

‘It isn't.'

‘But how the bloody hell did “police headquarters” happen to know that I was here?'

‘It didn't.' The waiter frowned. ‘Or do I mean
they
didn't? Anyway, they've been ringing round all the pubs, hoping to find you at one of them. They say it's very important you go to the station right away. It must be something to do with the murders.'

‘Maybe it's a new lead,' Derek Higson, catching the waiter's enthusiasm. ‘Maybe it's just the break you've been waiting for to close the case.'

Both of them were talking like extras in a bad television police drama, Woodend thought. And in Derek's case, he himself was to blame for it.

He should never have discussed the investigation with Higson, he told himself. And nor would he have done – nor would he have
needed
to have done – if he'd felt able to talk about it to Monika Paniatowski.

‘Is the feller who rang up still on the line?' Woodend asked the waiter.

‘Yes, sir. The landlord told him to hang on while I went to see if I could find you.'

‘Then before I go rushin' off to “police headquarters”, I supposed I'd better check it's not just some crank call,' Woodend said.

‘If it does turn out to be genuine, would you like me to drive you down to the station?' Higson asked, with growing excitement.

‘Funnily enough, Derek, I happen to have wheels of my own,' Woodend said gruffly.

Derek Higson looked dropped on. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I wasn't trying to … I only thought …'

‘I appreciate the offer,' Woodend said, in a gentler tone. ‘But I don't think it would do my image as a honest bobby any good to be seen arrivin' at the police station in a Rolls-Royce.'

‘Oh, we're not in the Roller,' Higson said. ‘That's just for business. When we're out for pleasure, we use Lucy's car which is a much more unassuming vehicle. So if you'd rather we drove you …'

‘Thanks anyway, but I can manage,' Woodend said, standing up.

‘Of course. But if you do need help at any time …'

‘I'll let you know,' Woodend promised.

But he was thinking to himself that if there was one thing worse than bloody amateurs like Marlowe, who wore the uniform, it was bloody amateurs like Higson, who didn't.

The landlord stood behind the counter in the public bar, holding out the telephone. Woodend took it off him, and said an irritable, ‘Yes?'

‘Duty Sergeant here, sir,' said the man on the other end of the line. ‘I think you'd better get down here as soon as possible.'

‘Is this somethin' to do with the Pamela Rainsford investigation?' Woodend asked.

‘Not exactly, sir,' the duty sergeant replied.

Then he told him what it
was
exactly about.

Woodend handed the phone back to the landlord. ‘You don't happen to have the number of the Drum an' Monkey, do you?' he asked.

‘Yes, I do,' the landlord replied. ‘Would you like me to ring it for you, Mr Woodend?'

From the enthusiasm in his voice, it was obvious that he was another amateur mystery fan.

There was no wonder he did most of his drinking in the Drum, Woodend thought. At least there they saw enough of him to realize that there was very little glamour in his job.

‘Yes, if you could ring the Drum an' Monkey, I
would
appreciate it,' he said aloud.

The connection was made, and the landlord of the Drum came on the line. ‘What time are you plannin' to close tonight, Jack?' Woodend asked.

‘Half past ten, Mr Woodend,' the landlord replied sanctimoniously. ‘Just as the law requires that I do.'

‘I'm not askin' you when you close your doors,' Woodend said. ‘I'm askin' when you're likely to stop servin'.'

‘Now, Mr Woodend—'

‘An' don't give me any crap about the two bein' the same thing. Your pub is notorious for its lock-ins. An' I should know, because I've taken part in any number of them.'

‘Sorry, Mr Woodend, I was forgettin' that you're one of my regular law-breakers,' Jack said, and from the tone of his voice Woodend could tell that he was grinning.

‘So what time
are
you thinkin' of closin'?'

‘On time. I fancied an early night for once. The regulars won't like it, but it
is
the landlord's prerogative.'

‘Could you do me a favour?'

‘If it's within my power.'

‘Kick the customers out when you feel like it, but don't go to bed until I get back.'

‘Any particular reason for that, Mr Woodend?'

‘Aye, there is,' Woodend said. ‘I'm just off down to headquarters, an' when I get there I'm goin' to be up to my neck in shit. So when I
have
finally cleaned the mess up, I'd rather like to wash away the taste of it in a place where I can feel comfortable.'

‘Will you be alone?' Jack asked.

‘That depends on just how good a shit-cleaner I turn out to be,' Woodend replied.

T
he corridors of police headquarters seemed so hollow when the place was nearly empty, Woodend thought, listening to the echo of his own footsteps as he approached the Duty Sergeant's desk.

The Duty Sergeant looked up. ‘What a bloody mess, sir,' he said without preamble.

‘It certainly doesn't get much bloodier,' Woodend agreed. ‘What happened
exactly
?'

‘Sergeant Paniatowski brought this feller in about an hour ago. He was mumblin' somethin' about her havin' tried to kill him. I took him straight to the sick room. When I'd got him settled in there, I put a call through to Doc Shastri, then escorted DS Paniatowski to the holdin' cells.'

‘Did she offer you any explanation for what had happened?'

‘Didn't say a dickie bird. To tell you the truth, she seemed to be almost in a daze.'

‘An' she's still in the holdin' cells now, is she?'

‘Yes, sir. Do you want to see her?'

‘Later maybe,' Woodend said. ‘I've other fish to fry first. Has she been charged yet?'

‘No, sir. Given that she's one of our own, I thought it best to leave it until a rankin' officer like yourself arrived.'

‘Quite right,' Woodend agreed. ‘Where's the complainant?'

‘He's still in the sick room, sir.'

‘When was the last time you spoke to him?'

‘It must have been round about ten minutes ago, sir. I took him a cup of tea through.'

‘An' what sort of mood is he in?'

‘What sort of mood would you
expect
him to be in, sir? He's the sort of feller who'd be an awkward bugger at the best of times – an' this isn't one of them. As far as he's concerned, he's had some of his own blood spilt, an' now he'd rather like to see some of Paniatowski's follow it.'

‘Does he know she's a policewoman?'

‘I couldn't say, sir.'

‘What did you call her when they arrived?'

‘Monika. Like I always do.'

‘An' did you, at any point, call her Sergeant Paniatowski, or give any indication that she might be on the Force?'

‘Not that I can recall, sir. The need for it never seemed to come up.'

‘Well, that's somethin', anyway,' Woodend said. ‘What can you tell me about the man?'

‘His name's Edward Allcard. He's thirty-one, lives in Leeds, but he travels all over the North sellin' machine parts. He comes to Whitebridge about once a month on average.'

‘Give me some statement forms, will you?' Woodend said.

The Sergeant reached into the drawer and produced the required forms. ‘Will you want somebody in there with you, or are you goin' to take the statement yourself, sir? he asked.

‘I'm rather hopin' there won't be any statement to be taken,' Woodend replied.

‘I wouldn't get my hopes up
too
high, sir,' the sergeant cautioned. ‘Allcard's itchin' to get it all down on paper.'

‘I'm sure he is,' Woodend agreed. ‘For the moment!'

Woodend had always thought that the ‘sick room' was rather a grandiose title for a place that contained no more than an examination table, a sink and a desk, but given Chief Constable Marlowe's penchant for giving the most ordinary of things the most extravagant of titles, he supposed he should be grateful it hadn't already been renamed the ‘Medical Response and Recuperation Unit'.

He knocked and opened the door. The man he'd come to see was sitting on the edge of the examination table. His nose was heavily bandaged, and there were blood stains on his shirt.

‘Mr Allcard?' he asked.

‘Yes,' the travelling salesman said aggressively. ‘And who the bloody hell are you?'

‘Chief Inspector Woodend.'

The title seemed to somewhat mollify Allcard.

‘Well, it's about time that somebody in authority came to see me,' he said. ‘When all's said and done, I'm the victim here. I shouldn't have been kept waiting like this.'

‘I'm afraid these things
do
take time, sir,' Woodend said sympathetically, crossing the room and sitting behind the desk.

‘That's all very well, but I need my beauty sleep,' Allcard replied. ‘I've got an important business meeting arranged in a few hours' time and …'

A looked of horror passed over what was visible of his face. He raised his right hand to it, though he was very careful not to touch his nose.

‘How can I go to my meeting looking like this?' he asked miserably.

‘You could say you fell over,' Woodend suggested. ‘Or better yet, say you hurt yourself rescuin' a poor little doggie from the canal. Most people are suckers for stories like that.'

‘Do you think it's funny, Chief Inspector?' Allcard demanded angrily. ‘Because, let me assure you I bloody don't. I've been attacked, and I want to see justice done.'

‘Quite so,' Woodend said soothingly.

‘I mean, it was a very
serious
attack. That nigger doctor said my nose was
broken
.'

‘Dr Shastri is an Indian,' Woodend said mildly.

‘That
wog
doctor, then,' Allcard said impatiently. ‘Why should it make any difference what jungle she's crawled out of? She's seen my nose, and she says it's broken.'

‘Where did you meet your attacker?' Woodend asked. ‘On the canal towpath?'

‘No, of course I didn't.'

‘Then where?'

‘I met her in a pub – a seedy little dive called the Drum and Monkey.'

‘A seedy little dive,' Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘An' why did you go into this
dive
in the first place?'

‘I would have thought a senior police officer like you should be able to work that out for himself,' Allcard said scornfully. ‘I went in there for a drink! When you work as hard as I do, you're entitled to a few bevvies before you finally turn in for the night.'

‘But why go into a
dive
?' Woodend wondered.

‘It was convenient,' Allcard said.

Woodend looked down at the piece of paper in front of him. ‘According to what you told the Desk Sergeant, you're staying at the Beaumarris Commercial Hotel. Is that right?'

‘Yes, I always stay there when I'm in Whitebridge.'

‘An' there are a number of pubs very close to it,' Woodend said. ‘So what were you doing in a boozer more than half a mile from your hotel?'

‘What's the point of all these questions?' Allcard asked. ‘The woman hit me. I've reported it. That should be the end of the story.'

‘My boss, the Chief Constable, likes us to get all the details down,' Woodend said. ‘It might seem a little pernickety to you – old-fashioned even – but that's the way he is, and we're stuck with him.'

‘I see,' Allcard said.

‘So what
were
you doin' in the Drum and Monkey?'

‘I fancied a short walk before I turned in.'

‘And this woman … Monika, is it?