Dying in the Dark (27 page)

‘The banks all turned you down, did they?' Woodend asked.

‘These
provincial
banks can be very short-sighted sometimes,' Dawes said. ‘I could, of course, easily raise the money in London, but I'd much prefer to use local capital.'

‘Have you contacted Derek Higson about this “unique business opportunity” of yours?' Woodend wondered.

‘As a matter of fact, I haven't.'

‘An' why is that?'

‘I read in the papers about one of his workers getting murdered. I thought he probably had enough on his plate for the moment.'

‘Very considerate of you,' Woodend said. ‘But I can't help wondering if that was the real reason.'

‘Of course it was. As I said—'

‘I can't help wonderin', you see, if you'd worked out that after makin' his life a misery like you did, he probably wouldn't piss in your mouth if your throat was on fire.'

‘I think you're overstating the case there, Charlie,' Dawes said. ‘I might have had a bit of fun at his expense, but I wouldn't go so far as to say that I made his life a misery.'

‘Wouldn't you? Well, I bloody would,' Woodend said relentlessly. ‘None of our families were particularly well off, but Derek's mother had to struggle to get by more than most. An' it showed in the way she turned him out for school, didn't it? His clothes were always beautifully clean, but they were always very nearly threadbare as well. Which, of course, was one of the main reasons that you an' your nasty little mates decided to pick on him.'

‘I think you're making a bit of a mountain out of a molehill,' Dawes said feebly.

‘No, I'm bloody not,' Woodend told him, in full flow now. ‘I remember one incident in particular. His mam must have run out of underpants for him to wear, an' she sent him to school in a pair of his sister's navy-blue knickers. Of course, it didn't show on the outside, but you an' your mates must have found out about it, some way or another – because when I went into the bog for a slash, three of you had grabbed him. An' do you remember what you'd done to him, Foxy?'

‘Yes, I remember.'

‘You'd pulled his shorts down, so that everybody else could see what it was wearin'.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘I knocked your teeth out on the spot, an' I've never once regretted it. You deserved far more than that for humiliatin' him the way you did.'

‘He was asking for it,' Dawes said sullenly.

‘Askin' for it!' Woodend repeated. ‘How the bloody hell could he have been askin' for it?'

‘His mam didn't
make
him wear the knickers. He
wanted
to. He stole them from his sister's drawer. That's how we found out about it. She was the one who told us.'

‘I don't believe you,' Woodend said.

‘And it wasn't a one-off, either. He started doing it regularly, after that time in the bogs. Well, he could afford to, couldn't he?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘He knew we wouldn't dare touch him again, because we were all afraid of you.'

‘If Derek had been wearin' girls' clothes on any kind of a regular basis, I'd have known about it,' Woodend said – but he was starting to sound unconvincing, even to himself.

‘Who'd have told you?' Dawes asked, sensing his uncertainty and going on to the attack. ‘Would Derek have told you himself, do you think?'

‘No, but surely somebody else—'

‘You didn't hit people very often, Charlie. But when you did, you hit them hard. Nobody was going to risk that. Nobody was even going to
mention
what Derek was doing in your hearing.'

‘If you're makin' this up …' Woodend said menacingly.

‘I'm not,' Dawes protested. ‘It's all true. We used to call him Gloria when you weren't around. No, that's not right. It wasn't Gloria at all. What was it now? It was Lulu.'

Woodend put his hand to his forehead.

‘Oh sweet Jesus!' he groaned.

T
he Higsons' house was located on the northern edge of Whitebridge. It was architect-designed, and had been cunningly constructed so that most of the major windows looked out on to the moors, rather than down into the grimy industrial town where Derek Higson had made his money. The house was large – even by the ostentatious standards of the local extravagantly rich. It had two swimming pools – one outdoors for when the Lancashire weather was kind, one indoors in acknowledgement of the fact that it usually wasn't – and was surrounded by gardens which were almost extensive enough to have been called ‘grounds'. Pleasant paths snaked through these gardens, passing a small orchard and a medium-sized waterfall. There were lights to illuminate these walks, but they were not turned on at that moment, so anyone looking out of the house would not have seen that there were uniformed policemen all around the edge of the property.

Woodend and Paniatowski walked up the Higsons' drive on foot. At the front door, the Chief Inspector rang the bell. He'd been hoping it would be either Derek Higson or the housekeeper who came to the door, but it was poor, bloody Lucy Higson who actually did.

Not that she
looked
like poor, bloody Lucy, Woodend thought.

Dressed in a shot-silk blouse which emphasized her bosom, and a black skirt which showed off the shape of her sculptured legs, she was as stunning as ever.

Not that she even
saw
herself as poor, bloody Lucy, he added mentally.

She had all the poise of a woman with the strength to ride out her difficulties and the determination to finally get what she wanted. But all she
really
had was delusion. She hadn't realized that yet – but she soon would.

‘Is your husband at home, Mrs Higson?' Woodend asked.

Lucy smiled – still poised, still confident. ‘No, he's out as it happens, Chief Inspector,' she said. ‘But I
am
expecting him back at any time. Would you and your sergeant like to come inside and wait?'

Woodend sighed, and held out a piece of paper in front of him. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Higson, but we've got a warrant to search your house,' he said.

‘A warrant?' Lucy Higson repeated, a puzzled expression coming to her face. ‘To search my house?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

‘But what could you possibly be looking for?'

‘I'd rather not say, at the moment.'

Puzzlement was slowly being replaced by mild outrage. ‘The mayor is a personal friend of mine, you know,' Lucy said.

‘I'm sure he is,' Woodend agreed. ‘You're probably quite pally with the Chief Constable, an' all. But that's neither here nor there.'

‘Is there nothing I can do to stop you searching?'

‘Nothing at all.'

‘Then I suppose you'd better come in,' Lucy Higson said resignedly. ‘But if you think that I'm going to allow you wander around my house completely unsupervised, then you've got another think coming. I shall insist on accompanying you wherever you go.'

‘I'd be grateful if you would.'

Lucy Higson shook her head slowly from side to side, as if she still didn't
quite
believe all this was happening.

‘I don't know whose orders you're acting on, but to search the house of one of the most prominent, respectable and law-abiding men in Whitebridge is just plain ridiculous,' Lucy said. ‘Wouldn't
you
call it ridiculous, Chief Inspector?'

‘No, I wouldn't.'

‘Then what
would
you call it?'

‘I'd call it bloody tragic,' Woodend said

They went straight upstairs to the master bedroom.

‘Why, of all places, are you starting here, Chief Inspector?' Lucy Higson asked.

‘Please don't ask me questions you know I'm not goin' to answer,' Woodend replied.

It was a large room – and it needed to be in order to accommodate the two huge wardrobes it held.

Woodend and Paniatowski checked the one on the left. Men's suits, shirts, jackets, ties and trousers, all of them expensive.

‘That's my husband's wardrobe,' Lucy Higson said, with just a tinge of sarcasm to her tone.

‘I think we could have worked that out for ourselves,' Woodend answered, deadpan.

The wardrobe on the right contained dresses, skirts and blouses.

‘Could you please identify all these clothes as yours, Mrs Higson,' Woodend asked.

‘Who else's are they likely to be?'

‘Just do as I ask, if you wouldn't mind.'

Lucy Higson sighed and gave her wardrobe no more than a cursory inspection. ‘Yes, they're all mine. Are you satisfied now?'

‘I'm afraid I'm not. Do you have any other clothes than the ones which are here?'

‘There are my dirty clothes, of course. I imagine the maid will have taken them to the laundry room.'

‘Any others?'

‘There may be a few items I'll never wear again, but which I haven't got round to giving away to charity yet.'

‘
May
be a few items?' Woodend said.

‘There
are
a few items.'

‘An' where will I find them?'

‘Where does anyone put things they don't want any more? They'll be in trunks in the attic.'

‘Then that's where we'll go next,' Woodend said.

All the clothes in the attic trunks were Lucy Higson's size, and she identified them as belonging to her.

They moved on to the laundry room, and Paniatowski and Woodend carefully went through the dirty clothes hampers.

‘What a glamorous life you police officers really do lead,' Lucy Higson said, and the sarcasm was much more in evidence this time.

She was starting to become uneasy, Woodend told himself. She was starting to suspect that there might actually be something wrong.

‘Do you send any of your clothes to an outside laundry?' he asked.

‘No, the maid does everything.'

‘An' there are no clothes anywhere else in the house?'

‘What
is
this obsession of yours with clothes?'

‘Just answer the question, please.'

Lucy Higson sighed again. ‘No, there are no clothes anywhere else in the house.'

‘Is there any part of the house where your husband doesn't like you to go? Anywhere he considers his private space?'

‘I don't know what kind of marriage you and your wife have, Chief Inspector, but my husband and I keep no secrets from each other,' Lucy Higson said witheringly.

That's all
you
know, Woodend thought.

‘Does Derek have an office in the house?' he asked.

‘He has a
study,
if that's what you mean.'

‘An' how often do you go in there?'

‘Not very often.'

‘Because he doesn't like you to?'

‘Because I see no
need
to.'

‘We'll look at that next,' Woodend said.

Derek Higson's ‘study' was all that might have been expected of it. A large mahogany desk dominated the centre of the room, and there was space enough in one corner of it for a half-sized snooker table. There were framed photographs of various stages of the factory expansion on the wall, as well as a map of Europe with several coloured pins stuck in it.

‘The map shows the places we conduct our criminal activities from,' Lucy Higson said. ‘The red pins indicate where we have brothels, the blue ones where we fence all our stolen property.'

‘I'd thought it might just be places you shipped your furniture to,' Woodend said.

‘Well, aren't you a clever little policeman. You should go straight to the top of the class.'

‘Please, Mrs Higson,' Woodend said.

‘Please what?'

‘Please don't make this any harder than it has to be.'

There was a full-length cupboard built into the wall. Paniatowski opened it to find several fishing rods and a set of golf clubs.

‘Derek's a keen sportsman, Chief Inspector,' Lucy Higson said. ‘You should try developing a few outside interests yourself. It's very healthy for the mind. And a man who's totally obsessed with his work does come up with some very strange ideas, you know.'

Paniatowski tapped the back of the cupboard with her knuckles. ‘It's hollow,' she said.

She removed the fishing rods and the golf clubs, and examined the panel at the back of the closet.

‘It's got a false back,' she told Woodend.

‘Can you remove it?'

‘No problem at all. It's only held in place by a couple of clips.'

‘Your warrant gives you permission to search the house, not to dismantle it,' Lucy Higson said, with an edge of panic to her words now.

She doesn't
know
about her husband for a fact, Woodend thought, but she certainly
suspects
that something isn't quite right.

‘Did you hear me?' Lucy Higson demanded. ‘I will
not
have you pulling my house apart.'

‘We're only goin' to remove one panel, an' if we cause any damage, we'll pay for it,' Woodend said.

Lucy Higson walked towards the door. ‘Well, I'm certainly not going stand around and watch while my home is destroyed,' she said.

‘Stay where you are,' Woodend said.

‘You can't—'

‘Stay!' Woodend repeated.

Paniatowski removed the panel from the cupboard, delved into it again, and emerged holding two dresses and a wig. The dresses were cheap and garish. One of them was covered with shiny blue sequins, the other with shiny red ones. Both of them were so large that they would have swamped Lucy Higson. The wig was made up of long, platinum-blonde, hair.

‘Are these your clothes, Mrs Higson?' Woodend asked.

‘You know they're not,' Lucy Higson replied.

And then she burst into tears.