‘I’m there,’ Ruiz told him.
And in some ways, he thought, it was almost as if he’d never been away.
‘Can you remember how many murder cases you had to deal with, while you were in Madrid?’ Woodend asked.
‘Far too many,’ Paco replied.
‘An’ do you remember any of them?’
‘I remember them all.’
‘Me, too,’ Woodend said. ‘So this is my question – did you ever, in the course of any of those investigations, come across somebody who was implicated in a murder himself, but whose main concern seemed to be to point the investigation in a direction which might get one of the policemen involved out of trouble?’
‘Of course not,’ Ruiz said. ‘None of the criminals I had to deal with ever bore the police anything but ill-will.’ He grinned. ‘But then, perhaps your English criminals are of a somewhat gentler nature than our Spanish ones?’
‘If they are, I never noticed it,’ Woodend replied, returning the grin. ‘But this feller – this anonymous caller – really is on my side,’ he continued, growing more serious again. ‘I can sense he is, even from this distance. An’ that must mean that while he knows about the murders, he had nothin’ to do with them himself.’
‘That makes sense,’ Ruiz agreed.
‘So what are we left with?’ Woodend asked. ‘We’ve got a man who’s probably in late middle age. He knows about not one murder but two – an’ murders, furthermore, which have absolutely nothin’ in common, because one’s a sex crime an’ the other’s a typical underworld killin’. An’ this man – this Mr X – seems willin’, possibly at some risk to himself, to come to my aid.’
He looked out towards the sea, as if he hoped to see some inspiration gently floating towards the shore.
‘Knowin’ all that,’ he continued, ‘it should be easy enough to narrow it down, shouldn’t it? Even if we can’t come up with a specific name, we should at least be able to produce a profile of the kind of person who’d be willin’ to help me in these circumstances. An’ we can’t.’
‘That’s true,’ Ruiz agreed. ‘As you would say yourself, Charlie, “We simply haven’t got a bloody clue”.’
‘But it’s far from bein’ an insoluble puzzle,’ Woodend said, with a hint of self-anger in his voice. ‘I’m absolutely convinced of that. We only have to ask the right questions, an’ everythin’ will become clear. The problem is, we’ve no idea what the right questions are.’
TWENTY-ONE
‘I’t has been announced that Rex “Rubber Legs” Norton has died peacefully at his home in Blackpool, aged eighty-three,’ said the local newsreader, speaking from the wall-mounted television in the chief constable’s office. ‘Rex, who was born and raised in Whitebridge, had an uncanny ability to bend his legs into seemingly impossible – and amazingly comic – positions, which made him a great favourite of audiences on the pre-war music hall circuit.’
The very fact that George Baxter even had a television in his office was a sign of the times, Monika Paniatowski thought. When she’d joined the Force, the telly was something you watched to relax, when you were off duty. If you needed to contact the media back then – and they hadn’t even called it ‘the media’ in those days – you did it over a pint in their favourite pub. But it wasn’t like that any more – local television had started flexing its muscles, and any officer in charge of a major investigation ignored it at his or her peril.
‘Accrington’s new home for stray animals admitted its first two guests today,’ the newsreader said, going all misty-eyed, ‘and the fox terrier puppies, Bobby and Billy, already seem to be making themselves at home.’
Paniatowski shifted uneasily in her seat as a grinning kennel maid held up the two puppies for the camera’s inspection.
‘Would you mind telling me exactly why I’ve been summoned here, sir?’ she said.
‘Just be patient for a moment, Chief Inspector, and all will be revealed,’ Baxter replied.
Chief Inspector! He’d called her ‘Chief Inspector’. And that wasn’t a good sign.
‘We like to think we can have confidence in the police, but is that confidence really justified?’ asked the newsreader, as her facial expression instantly transformed itself from sentimental to serious. ‘In the past few years, a number of criminal cases in which there has been a miscarriage of justice have come to light nationally. And today, Mr Robert Howerd, the managing director of the Howerd Electrical chain of shops, has made allegations which may well lead to the re-investigation of yet another case – this time, very close to home.’
The scene changed to another studio, in which three people – Robert Howerd, Elizabeth Eccles and another, younger woman – were sitting stiffly side by side on a sofa, and gazing into the camera.
‘Tell us what happened to your brother, Mr Howerd,’ said a soft off-screen voice.
‘My brother Frederick was arrested twenty-two years ago for the rape and murder of a little girl who he hardly knew,’ Robert Howerd said in a voice edged with anger.
‘But surely, he confessed to committing the crime, didn’t he?’ the off-screen voice asked provocatively.
‘He did indeed confess,’ Howerd replied. ‘But we have reason to believe that the confession was coerced from him by the policeman who was in charge of the investigation.’
‘And are you willing to name that policeman?’
‘I am. It was Detective Chief Inspector Charles Woodend.’
‘Is that the same Chief Inspector Woodend who, until recently, was a well-known – and, many would say, well-respected – figure around Whitebridge police headquarters?’ the off-screen voice asked.
‘The very same Chief Inspector Woodend,’ Howerd agreed. ‘Though, at the time he wrongly arrested my brother, this “well-respected” figure was not based in Whitebridge, but was working for New Scotland Yard.’
The three of them together presented an interesting tableau, Paniatowski thought.
Robert Howerd kept looking at his niece after almost every sentence, as if he were continually seeking her approval. Elizabeth, for her part, barely seemed to be acknowledging him, preferring, instead, to stare fixedly at the camera with angry eyes. But however much she might appear to be ignoring him, she was still acutely aware of her uncle’s close proximity, Paniatowski decided, because every time he shifted his position, however slightly, her body instinctively shrank away. And if it was true that she did not wish to be too close to her uncle, it was even truer that the other woman on the sofa – the younger one, who was almost certainly Elizabeth’s daughter – didn’t want to be in the studio at all.
‘What are your reasons for believing your brother was innocent?’ the off-screen voice asked.
‘The certainty that he was not a man who would wish to face his Maker with a lie still on his lips,’ Howerd told her.
The Devonshire Arms was one of those Manchester pubs which catered for all tastes but the most refined. It had a public bar, in which shop workers and students would feel most at home. It had a best room, where men could take their wives and girlfriends, and be served by a waiter in a white – if sometimes slightly stained – cotton jacket. And it had the vault.
The vault was where the manual labourers congregated after a hard day swinging a pick or wielding a shovel. They were men of simple ambitions, the two main ones being to drink as much as they could afford and speak their minds without restraint. The air inside the vault was always blue with cigarette smoke and cursing, and ladies – of all kinds – were encouraged to steer well clear of it.
At lunchtime, the vault was a much quieter place. Then, its customers were not men who earned their living by the sweat of their brow, but men who didn’t have jobs at all – and showed absolutely no inclination to find one. These men spent less and scrounged more than the manual workers. They had hair which was not stylishly long but merely uncared-for long. They smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, and ran up debts – with a clear conscience – wherever they could. And some
of them, it had to be said, stank.
The man sitting in the corner of the vault at that moment was typical of the type of customer who he was forced to deal with at lunchtime, the barman thought, with some disdain.
His name was Mike, and if he had a second name, no one knew what it was. He was probably in his late forties, though the barman could point to some seventy-odd-year-olds who were in much better shape. He had been coming to the pub for as long as any of the current staff could remember, and was generally agreed to have turned being bone idle into an art form.
Normally, Mike would just sit there and gaze into space – as if contemplating a life which might have been – but today he was watching the regional news programme on the television.
No, he was doing more than just watching it, the barman decided – he seemed absorbed by it.
The barman looked up to see what the fuss was about. A man and two women, sitting side by side on a sofa, were being interviewed, though it seemed to be the man who was doing most of the talking.
‘I didn’t know you were interested in current affairs,’ the barman said jovially, but the other man ignored him.
Well, sod you, the barman thought. If you can’t be pleasant to me, I see no need to be pleasant to you.
The weather girl appeared on the screen, and Mike immediately seemed to lose interest. He drained what was left of his drink, then stood up and shambled over to the bar.
‘You couldn’t lend me the odd twenty quid, could you, Ralph?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Couldn’t lend you what?’ the barman repeated, in disbelief.
‘The odd twenty quid,’ Mike repeated.
‘No, I most certainly couldn’t,’ the barman said firmly.
‘Or ten quid, if things are a bit tight for you right now. I suppose I could manage with ten.’
‘Not ten quid, either.’
‘I’ll pay you back,’ Mike said. ‘I promise you I will.’
‘No chance,’ the barman replied.
Mike licked his lips, and ran his hand thoughtfully across the stubble on his chin.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘lend me ten quid now and I’ll pay you back a hundred next week.’
The barman chuckled. ‘Course you will.’
‘I mean it – honest,’ Mike said. ‘I’ve to get to Whitebridge – but once I’m there, I’ll be rolling in money.’
‘I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute,’ said the barman, and moved quickly across to the other end of the bar.
‘What do you hope will happen next?’ the off-screen interviewer asked Robert Howerd.
‘What I trust will happen next is that there will be a full official inquiry which will both exonerate my brother and bring to book those guilty policemen who, by their actions, caused my niece and her daughter so much unnecessary distress,’ Howerd said.
‘Thank you, Mr Howerd,’ the off-screen voice said. ‘And now we return to the studio for the local—’
‘But the police are not the only ones who are guilty of committing great wrongs,’ Robert Howerd said.
He was going off-script, Paniatowski realized – and, from the wild look in his eyes, it was likely that even he hadn’t planned that.
‘I have done great wrong myself . . .’ Howerd continued.
‘We’ve run out of time, Mr Howerd,’ the interviewer said, sotto voce.
‘I have sinned, and now I must pay the penance,’ Howerd said, ignoring her. ‘There must be restitution for what I have done. The Lord, my God, will settle for no less!’
Robert Howerd disappeared from the screen, and was replaced by a weather girl with chubby cheeks, who announced that there was a strong chance of rain later in the day.
The chief constable switched off the television.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘Well what?’ Paniatowski replied.
‘Mr Howerd is demanding action and, much as I dislike the man personally, I think he has every right to. Don’t you agree?’
Of course she agreed, Paniatowski thought. Fred Howerd had been sent down for a crime he hadn’t committed, and something should be done about it. The only problem was that doing the right thing by Howerd would also involve doing the wrong thing by the man she most admired in the whole world.
‘I’m willing to submit a report which admits that mistakes have been made and clears Fred Howerd,’ she said.
‘That’s not enough,’ Baxter said.
‘Charlie Woodend didn’t plant that pencil,’ Paniatowski said. ‘You know he didn’t!’
‘No, I don’t know that at all,’ Baxter contradicted her.
She had a cassette tape in her pocket – one that even Beresford and Crane didn’t know about – and, for a moment, she was tempted to play it to Baxter.
But what would be the point – what would be the bloody point?
‘I think it’s time we put the inquiry on an official footing with another officer in charge – one who is not so personally involved,’ Baxter said.
‘Give me two days,’ Paniatowski pleaded. ‘Two days and you’ll have a full report on your desk.’
‘And what am I expected to do in the meantime?’ Baxter demanded. ‘How am I supposed to handle the media? Hell, forget the media – how am I supposed to handle the police authority, several members of which, I happen to know, are close personal friends of Robert Howerd?’
‘You’ll find a way,’ Paniatowski said. ‘You always do. You’ll run rings round them.’
‘So now you’re so desperate that you’re resorting to flattery, are you?’ Baxter asked.
Yes, I am that desperate, Paniatowski thought.
‘Two days,’ she repeated. ‘Please, George.’
She was exploiting the relationship they had once had. She knew it – and she hated herself for doing it. But what choice did she have?
‘Two days,’ Baxter said, weakening. ‘But suppose that, during those two days, you find even more damning evidence against Charlie Woodend? What will happen then?’
She wouldn’t find any such evidence, because there would be no such evidence to find, Paniatowski thought
‘Anything I find will be in my report,’ she said.
But what if she was wrong, a sudden panicked voice asked from somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind. Charlie would never lie to her, but what if he had cut corners, and then been so ashamed of it that his memory – for self-protection – had completely blanked it out?
‘Do I have your word that nothing will be excluded?’ Baxter asked.
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski promised.
And even as she spoke, she wasn’t entirely sure that she would have the strength of character to see that promise through.
Colin Beresford was gloomily examining his pint when his boss entered the public bar of the Drum and Monkey, and sat down opposite him.
‘Did you see Robert Howerd being interviewed on television?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Yes, I saw it,’ Beresford replied. ‘And I wasn’t the only one. Everybody saw it – at least, everybody who matters.’
It was time she did a bit of morale boosting, Paniatowski decided.
‘I established a real rapport with Walter Brown, and I’m almost certain that he’s going to come through with that list of names for me,’ she said brightly. ‘Of course, I’ll put the pressure on him if I have to – but I really don’t think that will be necessary.’
The statement did nothing to improve Beresford’s mood.
‘But even if you did manage to arrest the real killer – and you’ll admit that, after all this time, the prospect’s unlikely – that still won’t get Mr Woodend out of trouble, will it?’ he asked.
‘Mr X says it will,’ Paniatowski replied stubbornly.
‘Oh, well that’s all right then,’ Beresford countered. ‘If Mr X says it, it must be true.’
‘Another phone call for you, Chief Inspector,’ the barman shouted. ‘You’re gettin’ to be right popular.’
Paniatowski felt
her body tense.
‘It’s him,’ she said to Beresford.
‘It could be anybody,’ the inspector replied.
‘It’s him,’ Paniatowski said firmly.
When Paniatowski picked up the phone in the corridor, she heard the same harsh, disguised voice on the other end of the line.
‘How’s the investigation going, Chief Inspector?’ it asked.
‘It’s official police business,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘I can’t talk to you about it – and you know that!’
‘Have you talked to Walter Brown?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘And has he told you anything useful?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like, for instance, who Bazza Mottershead’s friends were?’
‘His friends?’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘Did you mean to say his friends? Or were you talking about his enemies?’
‘I can think of at least one man who would easily qualify to be both,’ the caller said.
‘And what’s his name?’
There was a short pause, then Mr X said, ‘There are some things you say you can’t tell me because it’s official police business. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Well, there are some things I can’t tell you because . . .’
‘Because of what?’
‘Because I can’t!’ Mr X said.
He sounded angry, Paniatowski thought. Perhaps that was because he had said more than he meant to, and almost revealed his secret – whatever that was.
‘Are you still there?’ she asked, though she could hear his breathing and knew that he was.
Silence.
‘Speak to me,’ she pleaded.
The man cleared his throat.
‘You have to accept that this is not an equal partnership,’ he said, finally.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean that you need me more than I need you.’
It wasn’t true, Paniatowski thought. She could sense a desperation at the other end of the line which was at least as deep as her own – but she knew it would be a mistake to argue with him.
‘What do you want from me?’ she asked.
‘I want you to stop hiding behind “official police business” and tell me how the investigation’s going.’
Echoes of the Dead Page 19