The Woodcutter

by Reginald Hill

  As for her visit to the castle and what had transpired there, she examined each seemingly significant element clinically.

  Imo’s assertion about the paternity of her daughter, true or not, meant nothing. Wolf’s grief at her death was not likely to be diminished, while his pain at his wife’s betrayal could hardly be intensified.

  Sir Leon’s claim that when he resisted the marriage it had been Wolf’s well being he was concerned about rather than Imogen’s was surprising till you considered what the poor old sod’s life must have been like with a domineering wife and a wilful daughter. Also he’d been on the spot to see what the disappearance of Wolf had done to Fred Hadda, his loyal and loved head forester. The prospect of more pain being heaped on the poor devil’s head by his son’s insistence on what Fred saw as a foolish and potentially disastrous marriage must have affected him deeply. No wonder that he’d thrown all his feeble weight against the proposed union.

  Finally the photo. Maybe the old man had got the birthday wrong. Maybe Wolf’s memory had been at fault. Maybe in view of his subsequent sexual predilections, he had unconsciously been trying to stress that pubescent girls could be active temptresses.

  Conclusion. Individually each of these ‘significant’ elements was explicable and disregardable. She had merely overreacted to their coincidence.

  There was however another coincidence that surprisingly proved more resistant to clinical analysis.

  Twice she had got herself involved in something that was no longer her business, twice she had found herself acting more like a private detective than a clinical psychiatrist.

  Both times she had been interrupted by news that her father was dangerously ill.

  She was not superstitious, but she knew superstition was the name people often gave to feelings and intuitions that conveyed useful warnings outside the sphere of rationality.

  While not persuaded that Hadda was, in any sense that should alarm her professionally, dangerous, she had started to believe that there was danger in his proximity. So when she finally got back to London, in her mind she consciously, perhaps even a touch self-consciously, drew a line under the Hadda case.

  As for those little stirrings of desire she felt when she thought of him, she assured herself they were no more troublesome than the small pangs of indigestion she got after eating blue cheese.

  And just as easily treatable by giving it up.

  She threw herself into her work. After her extended break there was a lot of it to throw herself into. At Parkleigh, Simon Homewood welcomed her enthusiastically.

  ‘God, I’ve missed you,’ he said.

  His fervour sounded more than professional. He didn’t look well and when she asked him how his Christmas had been, he said, ‘Traditional,’ and changed the subject.

  A few days later she dropped into his office at the end of the day to give her customary updating on her work. During this she would pass on any particular concerns she had about individual prisoners, but she was scrupulous about not sharing any detail of her work with them that she would have classed as confidential had they been free agents.

  When she had finished, to her surprise he opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a bottle of sherry and two glasses.

  ‘You shot off so quickly before Christmas I never had time to offer you a festive drink,’ he said.

  Her reason for leaving so precipitately had been her decision to visit Hadda in Cumbria. She hadn’t mentioned it then and saw no reason to do so now.

  He poured and passed her a glass.

  ‘Happy New Year,’ he said. ‘We both deserve it, I think, to make up for what sounds like a couple of rotten Christmases.’

  He knew about her father, of course, but why his should be termed rotten she did not know.

  ‘So what made your Christmas so bad?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, domestic matters,’ he said vaguely. Then he took a drink and said, ‘Why am I being so coy? It will get out soon enough. Sally and I are splitting up.’

  Selfishly her first thought was, Oh shit! This changed everything. With luck he might postpone making any move on her till he got his domestic problems in some kind of order, but after that . . .!

  No doubt he’d try to take her rejection like an old-fashioned gent, but things were bound to change. She couldn’t see him settling for the kind of open, friendly if occasionally prick-teasing relationship she had with Giles.

  She said, ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, regarding her speculatively. She was suddenly fearful he might be about to jump the gun. Seeking a diversion, she heard herself saying brightly, ‘By the way, I ran into Hadda over the holiday.’

  He didn’t look surprised.

  ‘Ah yes. Hadda. And how is he getting on up there in his mountain fastness?’

  Why the hell had she got into this? she asked herself.

  ‘He seemed fine,’ she said. ‘Very domesticated. Quite a good cook, actually.’

  ‘You had a meal with him?’

  She said, ‘More a snack, really.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Well, the local vicar was there for part of the time.’

  As she said this, she was asking herself, Why am I feeling guilty? And what right does he have to question me like he was a Victorian father worried in case his daughter had compromised herself?

  Or am I overreacting and is he just questioning me like a prison director discussing a parolee with his prison psychiatrist?

  Homewood said, ‘Hadda’s the responsibility of the probation service now, Alva. Best to leave it to them, eh? You did marvels with him while he was here, and with your annual review due shortly, we don’t want anything muddying the waters, do we?’

  He said this with an emphasis she didn’t care for. She was halfway through her four-year contract and she’d assumed the pattern for the built-in annual review had been set last year when it had taken the form of a casual chat followed by an assurance that the Director would be ticking all the right boxes. The unpleasant thought slid into her mind that maybe Homewood had brought the subject up to remind her that it was in her interests to stay on friendly terms with him!

  No! She wouldn’t believe that. But that didn’t mean she had to sit down under his implied criticism.

  She said defiantly, ‘Just because a client leaves Parkleigh doesn’t stop him being a client in my book. If I feel a patient needs help, that’s what he gets from me.’

  ‘And you felt that Hadda needed help? On what grounds, may I ask?’

  She thought of telling him about Luke Hollins’s letter, but that could lead to an unravelling of the whole visit to Birkstane and that was something she preferred to avoid.

  She said, ‘No particular reason. Just checking up that all was well.’

  ‘Very conscientious of you,’ he said. ‘Though why this should involve a meal and an overnight stay, I don’t quite see. Look, Alva, this isn’t me talking as your boss, it’s me talking as your friend. You ought to be more careful. It’s all right meeting these people in controlled conditions, but they can be unpredictable. Hadda might have been playing games when he was in prison, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been indulging in real sexual fantasies about you, and I doubt if they just involve your foot!’

  Prat! she thought. If this was how you tried to control your wife, no wonder she dumped you.

  She emptied her glass and stood up.

  ‘I have to dash,’ she said. ‘Thanks for the drink. Good night.’ She left not quite at a run but fast enough not to give him time to protest.

  As she approached the main gate, she saw another visitor being let out. She hurried to save the duty officer the bother of shutting and opening the gate again, but Chief Officer Proctor stepped out of the gatehouse and fell into step beside her. At the gate he nodded to the duty man and said, ‘I’ll see Dr Ozigbo out.’

  He watched till the man vanished into the gatehouse, then said, ‘Sorry to hear about your father, miss.
Hope he’s OK.’

  She’d seen him distantly a couple of times since her return, but this was the first chance for conversation they’d had.

  She said, ‘Thank you, George. He’s doing fine.’

  ‘Good. And how are you doing, miss?’

  ‘I’m fine too, George.’

  ‘That’s good. Mr Homewood missed you.’

  ‘Did he? I hope you missed me too, George.’

  She spoke rather sharply, her mind going back to that earlier occasion when she’d felt Proctor was trespassing on private ground. What was his motive? Perhaps he’d heard of Homewood’s marital problems and was now trying to act as his pandar! No, that didn’t really make sense . . .

  ‘Did, as a matter of fact, miss. Know we don’t always see eye to eye, but you’re straight. Straight and discreet. Mr Ruskin, he was straight too. Maybe not quite so discreet. Anyway, like I say, we’re all glad you’re back. The Director especially. Lonely job, that. Needs to know everything, if he’s to do it properly, that’s why he takes such an interest. Mustn’t hold you back, miss. I think we’re in for a bit of rain. Goodnight now.’

  What the hell was that all about? she asked herself as she walked the short distance to the visitors’ car park. Standing by the entrance she saw the man who’d left the jail ahead of her. This time she recognized him. It was Wolf Hadda’s solicitor, Mr Trapp.

  They had never met formally but she had glimpsed him at the time of the probation hearings and when he’d picked up Hadda on his release.

  A flurry of rain gave her an excuse to put her head down and hurry past without glancing his way. They only had one connection and her brief exchange with Homewood had made her realize how dangerously alive in her mind Wolf Hadda still was.

  She got into her car. The rain was setting in now and she switched on the wipers. Each sweep of the running windscreen brought Trapp into view. Why on earth was he just standing there, hatless, umbrella-less, protected only by a thin raincoat that already looked as if it had reached saturation point?

  Now she saw him, now she didn’t. It was as if the wipers were offering her a choice. Or rather, as if a choice was being made for her. Like plucking petals off a flower . . . he loves me . . . he loves me not . . . She could just drive out of the exit. She didn’t even have to go past him.

  But the car was moving towards him. My choice, she told herself firmly. A humanitarian act, nothing more.

  She wound down the window and said, ‘Mr Trapp, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She said, ‘You’re getting wet.’

  He said, ‘Yes.’

  Losing patience with herself more than him, she said, ‘Well, get in, man!’

  He hesitated then walked round the car and slid damply into the passenger seat.

  He really was an unprepossessing-looking little man; not quite scruffy, but close to down-at-heel. She’d seen photos of Toby Estover. From that smooth, sophisticated, immaculately tailored figure to Mr Trapp was an uncomputable distance. Put them side by side and you had a measure of Hadda’s fall. Yet from what she read of the trial records, Trapp had done his job well. And hadn’t Hadda, in one of his biographical pieces, said something that implied a previous acquaintance? Something about a favour, and something more than merely professional, she guessed, if Wolf had been a house guest of the Trapps at Christmas . . .

  Careful, you’re being a PI again, she warned herself.

  She said, ‘Alva Ozigbo.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. Then, as if feeling a need to offer explanation, he added, ‘My wife’s picking me up. She shouldn’t be long. I finished earlier than expected.’

  ‘Well, let’s see if we can get you dry for her,’ she said, turning the heater up full blast. ‘It would be unjust if you caught a cold just because you were super efficient.’

  He smiled, a gentle, not quite melancholy smile that lit up his face.

  ‘Hardly that,’ he said. ‘When I told my client that in my judgment appealing against his sentence was a waste of time, money and energy, he indicated to me that sending him a bill for my services would enjoy much the same status, and if I cared to argue the toss, his brother would offer a few clinching arguments with a baseball bat.’

  ‘He sounds a well-educated man.’

  ‘That was the gist,’ he said primly. ‘His choice of words was more idiomatic.’

  She laughed. There was clearly more to Mr Trapp than met the eye. Or rather, met her eye. Presumably not Hadda’s.

  As if merely thinking the name forced her to utter it, she heard herself asking, ‘Did you know Mr Hadda before you acted as his solicitor at the time of his trial?’

  I’m just making conversation, she assured herself. Till his wife arrives.

  He took his time replying. Finally he said, ‘We’d met.’

  ‘Professionally?’

  He smiled again and said, ‘Yes. Our first meeting was professional.’

  Our first meeting. She tried to imagine a situation in which Wolf Hadda, newly wed to his princess and striding forth to conquer the business world, would have needed a solicitor like Trapp. Not completely impossible, but very unlikely.

  So this contact probably dated back to the five years between young Wolf running away from home and his return with his three impossible tasks accomplished.

  The mystery years, the years of emerald mines, piracy, buried treasure . . .

  A car turned into the car park, a muddy and dented Toyota. Trapp leaned across and pressed the horn, catching the Toyota driver’s attention, and it drew up alongside.

  Alva wound down her window and found herself looking at a broad-faced woman with rose-pink hair and a disconcertingly direct unblinking gaze.

  Trapp said, ‘Doll, this is Dr Ozigbo. She kindly offered me shelter till you came. Dr Ozigbo, my wife, Doll.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Alva.

  ‘Likewise,’ said the woman. ‘Hope he’s not messed up your car.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Trapp, scurrying round to climb in alongside his wife.

  In a moment we’ll go our separate ways, thought Alva. Fate does much, but you’ve got to take a few steps to meet it.

  She called, ‘Mr Trapp, I meant to ask, how is Mr Hadda? A lot of people are concerned to learn how he’s doing. I’d like to be sure everything’s going well . . .’

  ‘Fine, so far as I know. I’ll tell him you were asking after him, shall I?’ said Trapp.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She felt there was something else she ought to say but couldn’t imagine what it might be.

  The woman, who’d been staring fixedly at her during this exchange with her husband, now stuck her head out of the window as if to take an even closer look. Alva had to force herself not to flinch before that fierce, assessing gaze.

  Doll said, ‘That colour, how do you get it?’

  It took a second to register the reference was to her hair not her skin, though in both cases the answer was the same.

  ‘Actually, it’s natural.’

  ‘Oh. Pity. Wouldn’t have minded giving it a try. Nice to meet you, dearie. You’re ever in Chingford, give us a call.’

  She handed Alva a card. Then the window wound up and the Toyota pulled away.

  So what’s happened here? wondered Alva. The card suggested that Doll Trapp anticipated meeting her again, and probably not to discuss the colour of her hair.

  The one subject they had in common was Wolf Hadda.

  If Homewood hadn’t offered her a drink, she would have been in her car and on her way home before Trapp left the prison. She might even have escaped George Proctor’s interception. So she’d have been home by now enjoying a pleasant evening in front of the telly instead of driving along, her thoughts moving in time with the screen wipers between Hadda and Proctor and Simon Homewood.

  One thing her encounter with the Trapps had made her recognize was that the line she had drawn under Hadda had been for emphasis not closure.

  By the
time she drew up in front of her flat, a screech from her wipers as they swept drily over the screen told her the rain had stopped. It also did something else, bringing together the three men who’d been dividing her thoughts during the drive.

  Proctor had said Homewood needed to know everything to do his job properly.

  But now she’d had time to examine their encounter with the emotional temperature turned down, there were certain aspects of the Director’s knowledge that puzzled her.

  For a start, when she said she’d run into Hadda he’d instantly assumed it was in Cumbria rather than in Manchester, where he knew she had been staying with her parents.

  OK, that might not be all that significant. But later he’d referred to her spending the night at Birkstane even though she’d deliberately avoided mentioning it.

  A lucky guess, perhaps.

  But the final thing couldn’t be put down to guesswork. He’d mentioned her foot.

  So how the hell did he know about the sexual charade Hadda had played with her to find out if the surveillance audio really was switched off?

  3

  Toby Estover was wondering whether it were time for a change of secretary.

  It wasn’t that Morag wasn’t as efficient as ever in her professional duties and as obliging as ever in her personal services. The trouble was that in the first couple of weeks after his return to the office in the New Year she had shown signs of looking for something more from their relationship than a regular desktop bang.

  To start with she had tried to engage him in an exchange of idle chit-chat about the Christmas holiday, giving him more details of her family celebrations than he needed to hear, then leaving a gap that he was clearly expected to fill with more details of his festive break than he cared to give.