“OK, say they’ve almost definitely been here,” Rutter said. “Why is Swann’s Lake better than anywhere else?”
“Oh, it’s not better than anywhere else,” Woodend said dismissively. “Manchester would be better – except there, like I said before, you’d have a smarter police force to deal with. No, what Swann’s Lake is, is better than anywhere else of its size. Think about it. If a couple of shady characters appear in most communities as big as Swann’s Lake, they’d be noticed immediately. But here there’s so many new faces comin’ in an’ out every day that they’d be practically invisible.”
“And you’re sure Peterson was involved?”
“Certainly I am. The map wouldn’t have been in his filin’ cabinet otherwise. And then there’s his Liverpool connections. Who would be in a better position to get the fags nicked in the first place?”
“But even if he was involved in a smuggling racket, does that get us any closer to finding out who murdered him?” Rutter asked.
“Of course it does,” Woodend said. “Look, right from the start we’ve thought this was a gangland killin’, and now we have a suspect. Peterson and this Conway character had a sweet little Trans-Pennine number goin’ for them. But then somethin’ went wrong. Maybe they argued over how to split the money. Maybe Conway decided he just couldn’t trust Peterson any more. Whatever the reason, Conway decided to have his partner killed.”
“A couple of hours ago, you were saying the Clough boys were behind it,” Rutter pointed out reasonably.
“I was suggestin’ the Clough boys might be behind it,” Woodend said defensively. “And they still could be. For all I know, Doris could have done her old man in ’cos she was sick of him whistlin’ in the lavatory. I’m not sayin’ we should abandon our other lines of inquiry. All I am sayin’ is that this Conway character is the best suspect we’ve come up with so far. So it looks to me like one of us will have to go to Doncaster and follow it up.” He leant back in his chair. “I know that road,” he continued. “It’s a long pull, an’ if you get stuck behind a lorry goin’ over the Pennines, it can take for-bloody-ever.”
With his boss still high on his Minefield Mood, Rutter decided it might be wisest to play along with the game. “So which one of us will be going, sir?” he asked.
A huge grin spread across Woodend’s face. “I haven’t really decided yet,” he said. “But I think it might well end up bein’ you.”
Six
Woodend reached across the desk and offered his opened packet of Capstan Full Strength to Michael Clough. “Fancy a weed, son?”
Clough shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Oh, you’re one of the cork-tipped brigade, are you?” Woodend said. “I might have guessed.” He turned to the other desk where Rutter was sitting. “Throw your fags over, Sergeant.”
“I don’t want one of those, either,” Clough said. “I don’t smoke. And neither should you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Woodend said, taken aback.
“Whatever the tobacco companies claim, smoking’s bad for your health. People like us – people with some standing in the community – should be setting a good example for the youngsters, not leading them into bad habits.”
“Well, bugger me,” Woodend said.
He examined the man sitting opposite him more closely. Michael Clough looked every inch the dedicated, liberal teacher who was used to fighting a continuous battle with narrow-minded authority and was, therefore, making it clear from the start that he was not the least intimidated to find himself in the presence of the two Scotland Yard men. Yes, Woodend thought, he had it all down pat – the slightly unruly hair, the cord jacket with leather patches on the elbows, the knitted tie, the CND badge in his buttonhole. The only thing which spoiled the effect was the slight discoloration around his right eye which told the Chief Inspector that, sometime in the last few days, Clough had probably been in a fight.
Woodend leant back in his chair. He couldn’t ask straightforward questions to Clough, as he had with Doris Peterson. If he was going to get anywhere with this cocky young bugger, he was going to have to go round the houses. “Tell me about Robbie Peterson,” he said.
“What do you want to know?”
Woodend shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that, lad. I’d rather hear what you want to tell me.”
Michael Clough placed his hands on the desk and looked around him as if he were about to make a speech. “You have to put things in context,” he said. “You need to understand what it was like living in certain parts of Liverpool before the War. There was a great deal of poverty, a great deal of injustice and a great deal of ignorance.”
He was making a speech, Woodend thought, and probably one he’d made many times before. But there was no doubting the young man’s sincerity. “Go on,” he said.
“Robbie Peterson was brought up in the kind of environment in which you had to be tough to survive, and where the only way to break free from the grind seemed to be to turn to crime.”
“He was in the protection racket, wasn’t he?” Woodend said.
“Among other things,” Michael admitted.
“Which means that he wasn’t some kind of modern-day Robin Hood,” Woodend pointed out. “He wasn’t robbin’ from the rich to give to the poor – he was creamin’ off some of the hard-earned money of other poor buggers who were trying to claw their way out of poverty and desperation.”
Michael Clough sighed. “I’m not saying that what he did was right, but I am saying that until you’ve been in that situation yourself, you’ve no right to sit in judgement.”
“No, I haven’t,” Woodend agreed. “I leave that to the courts. You can see the good side to everybody, can’t you, lad?”
“Isn’t that better than seeing only the bad side?” Michael Clough countered.
“Then answer me this. If Robbie was merely a victim of circumstance, why did he continue with his life of crime long after he’d made enough money to go straight?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Woodend spread his hands out in front of him. “Come on, son. You’re part of the family – even if you’re only on the fringes. You must know that Robbie was usin’ this club as a base to run his rackets from.”
“I don’t believe it,” Michael Clough said firmly. “I didn’t always get on with Robbie – which was probably my fault as much as it was his. But I do know that he moved to Swann’s Lake because he wanted a chance to make a new start – a chance to leave the past behind. Why would he risk that chance by doing anything illegal?”
“Maybe because that new start wasn’t everythin’ he hoped it would be?” Woodend suggested.
“I can’t accept any of what you’re saying,” Michael Clough told him. “I won’t accept it.”
No, he bloody wouldn’t, Woodend thought – not even if the evidence was staring him right in the face – because it didn’t conform to the world as seen through the eyes of Michael Clough. “All right,” the Chief Inspector said. “Let’s move on to the night of the murder. You were in The Hideaway, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Is that normally how you spend your Friday nights? Surrounded by smokers in a tatty club?”
“No. I belong to several voluntary organisations. I’m usually in committee meetings on Friday nights.”
“So why not last Friday? Weren’t there any committee meetings then?”
“Yes, there were,” Clough admitted. “But I thought that just for once, I’d give myself a night off.”
Woodend’s eyes narrowed. Michael Clough didn’t look like the kind of man who would shirk his duty, even occasionally. “I still don’t see why you chose The Hideaway,” he said. “Were you meetin’ someone there?”
“No.”
“Or perhaps ‘meetin’ someone’ is puttin’ it too strongly. Perhaps you were just hopin’ to run into someone.”
“No.”
“Not even the Peterson girl?”
For a couple of seconds, the effect of the words on Michael Clough was startling. The young man’s eyes flickered and his jaw wavered. Then he regained control of himself. “Why should you think I’d want to see her?” he asked.
“Annabel Peterson’s an attractive girl,” Woodend said. “Why wouldn’t you want to see her? Besides, she seems to me like a lass who’s got more than her share of troubles – and you’re just the sort of lad who’d want to try and sort it out, aren’t you?”
“Annabel has had a very difficult life,” Clough said, side-stepping the question.
“How’d you reach that conclusion?” Woodend asked, giving him a little more rope.
“Sending her away to a posh school was a mistake,” Clough explained. “She never really fitted in there, but at the same time it put a distance between her and the family. As a direct consequence of that she lives on the edge of two worlds, but doesn’t really belong to either of them. The result is that she’s confused, she’s unhappy, and she’s throwing her life away.”
Apart from that last bit, you could be talking about yourself, Woodend thought, but aloud he said, “So you were in the club hoping to see her?”
Michael Clough shook his head. “I’ve tried to help her before, and she’s turned me down flat. But she knows I’m always willing, and when she’s ready, she’ll come to me.”
“You got into what witnesses described as ‘quite a serious discussion’ with your brother Terry,” Woodend said, changing tack again.
“We talked,” Michael said guardedly.
“And was Robbie the subject of your serious conversation? Were you perhaps trying to persuade your brother to stop playing a part in his father-in-law’s racketeering?”
Michael Clough put his hands to his head, as if he despaired of Woodend ever understanding anything. “Terry works – worked – for Robbie in the club, and sometimes on the fairground. He’s not involved in any rackets.”
“He used to be, though – back in the good old days in Liverpool.”
“He gave that up when he married Jenny. Said he couldn’t run the risk of getting caught now that he had a wife to take care of.”
“But no children.”
“What?”
“They’ve been married for five years, and they don’t have any children yet. Why do you think that is?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Michael Clough said, suddenly sullen.
“You still haven’t told me what your ‘serious’ conversation with your brother was about,” Woodend said.
“It was about personal matters. Family matters. It had nothing to do with the murder.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Woodend pointed out. “Not unless you actually know who killed Robbie Peterson and why he killed him. Do you know that, Mr Clough?”
“Well, of course I don’t,” Michael Clough said angrily. “But I’m equally sure that what we had to say to each other had no bearing on it.”
“You and your brother went outside for some quite considerable time, didn’t you? Why was that?”
“It was hot in the club. We both felt the need for some fresh air.”
“So you would have been in the yard at the time Robbie Peterson crossed it to go to his office?”
Clough shook his head. “No, we went for a walk down to the lake.”
“So the office was in darkness when you left?”
“Yes.”
“And when you came back?”
“Yes.”
“But in the time it took you to walk down to the lake and back, somebody did Robbie Peterson in.”
“So it would seem.” Michael Clough glanced at his watch. “Is this going to take much longer, Chief Inspector?” he asked. “Because I have an appointment in Manchester in just over two hours time.”
“An appointment?” Woodend repeated questioningly.
“Yes, I’m giving a talk to a group of prisoners at Strangeways Gaol.”
“And what’s the subject?”
“Characters from Nineteenth-Century Literature,” Clough said. “I don’t expect you—”
“So there’ll be a lot of Dickens in it,” Woodend interrupted.
“That’s right,” Clough agreed, surprised.
“And let me guess what your theme will be,” Woodend said. “It’ll have to be something along the lines that the likes of Bill Sykes and the Artful Dodger aren’t really bad in themselves, but are more victims of their upbringin’.”
Michael Clough’s eyebrows rose. “It seems I’ve underestimated you, Chief Inspector,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, lad,” Woodend advised him. “It happens all the time. Well, if you don’t want to be late for that lecture of yours, you’d better get going now.”
Clough, looking a little relieved, stood up and walked towards the door. Woodend waited until he actually had his hand on the latch, then said, “There is just one more question I’d like to ask, sir.”
Clough reluctantly turned round. “And what might that be?”
“That black eye of yours. It’s a real shiner. Who gave it to you?”
“I walked into something,” Michael Clough told him.
“Aye,” Woodend replied. “I thought you’d say that.”
Annie Peterson’s high-heeled shoes made a sharp clicking noise as she walked rapidly down Cardigan Street. This was always the dangerous part – the part where some busybody from the Ministry of Labour could spot her and start to wonder what someone who lived in a one-roomed rat-trap the other side of town was doing in a posh area like this.
By the time she was passing Number 44 Cardigan Street, she was already opening her handbag and taking out a packet of cigarettes. As she drew level with the front gate of Number 46, she stopped, put a cigarette in her mouth, and lit it. Then she turned, as if she’d thought she’d heard someone calling her. The street was deserted.
Annabel pulled a set of keys out of her bag, walked quickly down the path of Number 46, inserted one of the keys into the front-door lock and turned it. After another quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being observed, she pushed the door open.
Only once she was inside the pleasantly decorated hallway did she feel safe. And even there, the feeling was not as strong as it used to be. The two detectives from London – especially the older one – had ensured that.
Annabel opened a second door, the one which led to her flat. Yes, that Woodend man had definitely got her rattled, she thought. And not without cause. Being interviewed by him had been a gruelling experience. It had felt as if he’d found a chink in the screen she’d erected between herself and the world, and looking through it could see her as she really was – naked and vulnerable. And if he could do that, it wouldn’t be much of a trick to find out about this flat. Then the trouble would start.
She flopped down in one of her armchairs, already playing out the almost inevitable interview in her mind.
‘Why do you pay the rent on two flats, Annabel?’
‘It’s a free country, isn’t it?’
‘More to the point, how can you afford to pay the rent on two flats? What’s the dole pay out these days?’
‘Two pounds a week.’
‘The flat in Cardigan Street must cost nearly that. So where’s the money been coming from, Annabel? Your dad?’
‘I wouldn’t touch a penny of Robbie’s money.’
‘Your mum, then?’
‘It’d still be Robbie’s money.’
‘You’re not on the game, are you?’
‘No. Haven’t you heard? I give that out for free.’
‘Then where’s the extra money comin’ from, Annie? You must be getting’ it from somewhere!’
She needed help. Needed it badly. She picked up the phone, which was sitting on a small table beside her, and dialled.
“Can I help you?” asked a crisp, efficient voice.
Annabel gave the operator the number, then listened with growing desperation to the ringing tone.
Where are you, Michael? her mind screamed. Where the hell are you?
“I’m afraid there’s no answer,” the operator said. “Please try again later.”
The line went dead. Annabel slammed the receiver onto its cradle, stood up and began to pace the room. Bloody, bloody Michael Clough. Always there when she didn’t want him, not answering his bloody phone when she really did.
She stopped in front of the sideboard, and slid open the top drawer. Lying in it was a photograph which she’d long ago torn in two, and yet had never been able to bring herself to throw away completely.
She held the two halves together now, so that they formed a complete picture. A man and a girl were standing together in front of what had once been a Victorian cotton magnate’s mansion, but since just after the First World War had functioned as a very expensive girls’ boarding school. The man was dressed in a suit which proclaimed that while he probably had a great deal of money to spend, he had very little taste. He had his arm resting on the girl’s shoulder and was smiling proudly. The girl herself, dressed in her school uniform, wore an expression which was a mixture of dismay and anxiety.
“How they all laughed after you’d left, Robbie,” she told the photograph. “You thought you’d cut a fine figure, didn’t you? But you hadn’t. They teased me about it for months. You were a joke they never got tired of.” She looked into the distressed eyes of the girl she’d once been, then back at the smiling face of the proud father. “You knew I was unhappy there, didn’t you? But you refused to take me away, because you wanted to make me into a lady. Well, look at me now!”
But he couldn’t look at her now – because he was dead.
The two pieces of the photograph were still in her hands. It would have been easy for her to damage it further – to rip and rip in a frenzy of destruction until only pieces of glossy black and white paper were left. But she didn’t do that. Instead, she placed the two halves back in the drawer, and, wiping a tear from her cheek, returned to her chair.
Detective Sergeant ‘Toad’ Gower drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of his old Morris Oxford, which was parked in front of Number 20 Cardigan Road, just up the street from Annabel Peterson’s secret flat.
Murder at Swann's Lake Page 7