Dying in the Dark (20 page)

‘No, we're not going to do that, either, sir,' Beresford said, unsmilingly.

‘So what are you goin' to do?'

‘We're going to
examine
it, sir.'

‘Examine it,' Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘That's an awfully general term, isn't it? What will you be lookin' for specifically?'

‘Couldn't say
specifically
, sir.'

Woodend frowned.
‘Couldn't
say? Or
won't
say?'

‘With respect, sir, we're doing some
specific
work for Chief Inspector Evans.'

‘There's very little difference between the two roads, you know,' Woodend said.

‘I'm afraid I'm not following you, sir.'

‘Elm Croft an' Ash Croft. They're on the same estate. Not a hundred yards apart, in fact. So any mud you find in the tyre treads could have come from either of them.'

‘Sir, I don't think—'

‘All I'm sayin' is, you shouldn't jump to any conclusions,' Woodend said hastily. ‘Don't assume that the first thought that comes into your heads is necessarily the right one. Consider all the other possibilities. That's the essence of good detective work.'

‘I don't think we're supposed to be discussing our work with you, sir,' Beresford said.

‘Who's even askin' you to discuss anythin'?' Woodend said, aiming for hearty but merely sounding weak. ‘All I'm doin' – as a senior an' more experienced police officer – is takin' the time to point out to you that there are certain pitfalls you should try to avoid.'

Beresford took a deep breath. ‘With the greatest possible respect, sir, that's not what you're doing at all.'

‘Then what
am
I doin'?'

‘You're asking us to treat this examination differently to any other we might carry out.'

‘Now why would I do that?'

‘Because we both know this particular car belongs to a member of your team.'

Woodend bowed his head, ashamed. ‘You're right, of course,' he admitted. ‘I was askin' you to treat it differently, an' I apologize unreservedly for ever puttin' you two lads in such an awkward situation. You'll accept my apology, won't you, Beresford?'

‘Of course we will, sir,' Beresford said. ‘A boss should look after his team, and in your position, I'd probably have acted in exactly the same way.' He hesitated. ‘But … er …'

‘But you're still goin' to have to report this conversation to DCI Evans – an' possibly to Mr Marlowe as well?'

‘Yes, sir. I'm sorry but—'

‘Now there's nothin' for
you
to be sorry about,' Woodend told him. ‘I'm the one who's overstepped the bounds. You'd be in dereliction of your duty if you
didn't
report it.'

‘Under the circumstances, that's very understanding of you, sir,' Beresford said gratefully.

Woodend managed to produce a grin which was
almost
genuine. ‘Understanding?' he repeated. ‘Bollocks, lad, it's just common sense.'

Bob Rutter gazed at the chocolate-and-cream-coloured wall of the police station holding cell.

Several previous occupants – perhaps through boredom, perhaps through desperation – had left a record of their time in there by scratching words into the cement.

‘I am inosent,' one of them had written.

‘The police is bastards!' a second had gouged in large, angry letters.

‘Forgive me, Alice,' a third had written.

And a fourth – someone with a sense of humour of sorts – had inscribed the word ‘Exit', with an arrow below it pointing to the floor.

Rutter had read all the words many times, as if they were a favourite book he kept returning to. Blindfold him, and he could still have pointed to exactly where they were. But he was not reading them at that moment. Instead, he was thinking of the future.

The
future
? his mind mocked.
What
future?

In a little more than twenty-fours, DCI Evans would either have to charge him or release him. And from the conversations he had had with the bullet-headed Chief Inspector, he was in no doubt as to which of these two available options Evans would choose.

He thought about his interview with Evans. What had he been doing between the time he had left home and the time he had returned to the burnt-out shell? the DCI from Preston had asked him. He'd just been driving around, he'd replied. Driving around where? Evans had demanded. And he'd said that he couldn't remember. That had been true at the time. Shocked as he had been by Maria's death, he had no idea where he'd been the previous night. But slowly his memory had come back to him, and now he had filled in quite a number of the gaps. Perhaps he should ask to see Evans again, because surely what he had remembered would give him an alibi of sorts. But the DCI would never listen. Why should he, when he was already convinced he had his man?

Once the charges had been laid, Rutter thought, returning to visions of his gloomy future, he would exchange this cell in the police station – which was home ground – for another cell in a remand centre completely unknown to him. He would, in other words, be entering enemy territory without any means to defend himself.

The authorities in the remand centre might just keep quiet about the fact he was a policeman, since they knew full well what happened to bobbies who'd been locked up.

Of course, they could always choose to go the other way – could it make it perfectly plain who he was, because they'd decided that a policeman who had gone bad deserved all that was coming to him.

And a great deal
would
be coming to him, if that happened.

Scalding tea would be thrown on his crotch and into his face. He would be beaten up on a daily basis. He might even be gang-raped if the other prisoners sensed – quite rightly – that he would consider this to be the ultimate humiliation.

It was even possible that he would be killed before he ever went to trial. And that, in a way, would be a relief.

An escape!

He pictured himself standing in the dock and listening to the sentence being passed. He could almost hear the judge's words.

‘In all my years on the bench I have never come across a more shocking case than this one. The defendant was a senior police officer, in whom we had placed our trust. And he betrayed that trust by committing the most heinous of all crimes. He murdered a woman! A defenceless woman. A
blind
woman
.'

There would be no mercy shown to him. He would receive the stiffest sentence the law made it possible to impose.

How old would the baby be when he came out of prison – if he ever
did
come out? In her twenties, at least. A grown woman – a woman who would be a complete stranger to him, yet would hate him as much as one human being could ever hate another.

He looked around the cell. The custody officer had taken his belt and shoelaces from him, as was standard procedure, but if he wished to hang himself then the bed-sheets would prove a more-than-adequate substitute.

Perhaps that was what they all wanted, he suddenly realized.

Perhaps they were willing him to hang himself.

And perhaps he would oblige them.

A
s Woodend drove towards New Horizons Enterprises, he had an uneasy feeling in his gut which was so alien to his normal self that for quite some time he had no idea what it was.

It's guilt! he thought with a sudden flash of insight, as he pulled into the car park. It's bloody guilt!

And it had every right to be there, he quickly decided. He owed it to Pamela – just as he owed it to every murder victim whose case he'd investigated – to see that the killer was caught. And
nothing
– not even Bob's desperate state – could absolve him of that responsibility.

Yet had he been doing his job as well as he might have done? Had he buggery!

He got out of his car and slammed the door brutally behind him. He would get to the bottom of this case whatever it cost him, he promised himself. Even if he couldn't save Bob, he would at least prove that justice could be done
sometimes
.

Woodend was struck by a feeling of
déjà vu
the moment he entered the upholstery workshop. Looking around him at the legion of small men – and they did all
seem
to be small – who were busily engaged in stretching fabric, hammering in studs and screwing pieces of wood together, he tried to work out
why
it should seem so familiar to him. And then he had it. The place reminded him of the picture books of his childhood. It was as if he'd walked into Father Christmas's workshop, and found all his elves hard at work.

‘Can't you get a job here if you're tall?' he asked the foreman, Tom Doyle, who was no giant himself.

Doyle grinned good-naturedly. ‘Big men aren't suited to it,' he said. ‘Big men have big hands, you see, and for this kind of work you need to have the delicate touch. You'd be a rubbish ottoman-maker yourself.'

‘I expect I would,' Woodend agreed. ‘Seems to be a thriving business you've got here.'

‘It is,' Doyle agreed. ‘We go from strength to strength. Mind you, it was a different story a few years back. There was a period when I was almost convinced we'd go under.'

‘So what turned things around?'

‘Hard to say exactly,' Doyle admitted. ‘One thing, of course, is that people started gettin' more money in their pockets, an' once they could afford it, they decided to buy quality. But there's more to it than that. When Mr Higson's first wife died, he seemed to lose most of his interest in the business. Things weren't bein' run as they should have been.'

‘An' when did he start to get his interest back? When he got married the second time?'

‘Yes,' Doyle said, slightly warily.

‘You don't seem sure,' Woodend said.

‘Look, I don't want to knock Mr Higson,' Doyle said. ‘He's always treated his workers well. Besides, he's a brilliant salesman, to judge by the amount of orders we keep gettin' in. And that matters, does gettin' orders, because even if you make the best furniture in the world – an' ours come pretty close to that, in my opinion – it's a wasted effort unless you can persuade somebody to buy it.'

‘But …?' Woodend said.

‘But what?'

‘But what is it you're holdin' back?'

Doyle sighed. ‘He's got a lot goin' for him, as I said, but he's far too impulsive to handle the day-to-day runnin' of the company properly. An' that's where
Mrs
Higson comes in.'

‘You think she's the one who actually keeps the factory tickin' over?'

‘Think? I know it for a fact. But for God's sake, don't quote me.'

‘Why wouldn't I?'

‘Because she wouldn't like it to be generally known.'

‘Any reason for that?' Woodend wondered.

‘From what I've seen in this life, there's three kinds of women in the world,' Doyle said. ‘There's the doormats, who let their husbands walk all over 'em. Then there's the dragons, who like everybody else to know their husbands don't fart without askin' their permission first. But there's a third kind – a rare breed indeed – an' Mrs Higson is one of them.'

Woodend grinned. Since the moment Maria Rutter's kitchen had exploded, he seemed to have inhabited a poisoned planet all of his own, and the chirpy foreman was a welcome breath of fresh air.

‘So what do you call the third kind of women?' he asked.

‘Angels,' Doyle said. ‘I call them angels, an' Mrs Higson's the one right at the very top of the Christmas tree. She's one of them women who does everythin' she can for her husband, yet leaves him with the impression that his balls are still his own.'

‘And what kind of woman was Pamela Rainsford?' Woodend asked.

‘Depends on where she was, an' who she was with,' Doyle said, a little cautiously.

‘Would you care to explain that?'

‘I'm not sure I can.'

Woodend laughed. ‘Come on, Mr Doyle! The way you've got with words, you could explain anythin' you put your mind to.'

Doyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Mr Higson comes down the workshop now an' again,' he said finally, ‘an' when he does he usually brings – he usually
brought
– Pamela with him to take notes. Well, you've never seen such a little mouse as Pamela when she was trailin' in the boss's wake. Doormat? She was more like a mud-scraper.'

‘But there were other occasions …' Woodend prompted.

‘She went out with one of my lads – young Malcolm Shirtcliffe – for a while an'—'

‘Mrs Higson told me Pamela had nothin' to do with the shop-floor workers,' Woodend interrupted.

‘An' no doubt she believes it,' Doyle countered. ‘But how many bosses really know what's goin' on in the private lives of the people they've got workin' for them?'

‘True,' Woodend agreed.

‘Anyway, as I was sayin', she went with Malcolm, an' she was a real fire-breather to him. The poor lad never looked happy all the time they were seein' each other. Mind you, it was even worse when she broke it off. He was destroyed. In the end, he went an' took one of them assisted passages to Australia. I can only hope he found an angel waitin' for him there. Goodness knows, he deserves it, after what Pamela put him through.'

‘You didn't like her much, did you?' Woodend asked.

‘Oh, it probably wasn't her fault,' Doyle said hastily.

‘I've never understood people who say that you shouldn't speak ill of the dead,' Woodend told him. ‘Dyin' doesn't suddenly turn an arsehole into a saint. The fact that somebody's gone doesn't suddenly mean they didn't do harm while they were here.'