“When’s the bitch going to come out again?” he asked his dashboard.
He should have had a full team on a case like this, he thought. Six or seven men, so that he could run a proper round-the-clock surveillance operation. With resources like that, he’d probably already have all he needed to make his case. But he didn’t have a team. Hell, ever since he’d been suspended the day before, he didn’t even have official status.
He thought about the board of inquiry he was soon to appear before. He’d beat the charge of illegal entry, just as he’d beaten the charges at all the other inquiries, for one simple reason – because the pencil pushers who sat in judgement of him knew that nobody else could get the results he could. And if additional proof of his indispensability were necessary, he’d give them Annie Peterson’s head on a platter. True, he didn’t exactly know what she was up to yet – but he was sure she was up to something.
Terry Clough had none of his brother’s self-assurance, Woodend thought. While Michael was an independent thinker and a rebel, Terry was nothing more than Robbie Peterson’s lieutenant, his right-hand man, and now that Peterson was gone, Clough looked completely at sea.
“Tell me an’ my sergeant here about the night of the murder,” the Chief Inspector said.
“There’s not much I can say,” Clough replied. “I was down at the lake with my brother when Robbie was killed.”
“Talkin’ about personal matters?”
“That’s right.”
“An’ I’m willin’ to bet you’re not prepared to go into more detail about them than that.”
“Why should I? What me an’ our Michael talked about don’t have nothin’ to do with the murder inquiry.”
His brother had briefed him well, Woodend decided. “All right,” he said. “If you won’t tell me what you an’ Michael were arguin’ about, at least fill me in on those two lads who work on the ghost train.”
“The Green brothers. What about them?”
“Have they got criminal records?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, son,” Woodend said. “One quick call to Maltham nick an’ I’ll have the information anyway. All I want you to do is save me a little time. Is that too much to ask?”
Clough shrugged. “Yes, they’ve both got form,” he said sullenly.
“Have they done any time inside?”
“Eighteen months apiece.”
“What had they done to earn that?”
“I think Robbie said they’d been handlin’ stolen property.”
“So knowing that about them, why did he give them jobs?”
Michael Clough would have come up with some guff about Robbie wishing to rehabilitate them just as he’d supposedly rehabilitated himself. His brother merely said, “I don’t know.”
“It couldn’t have been because he was usin’ them in one of his rackets, could it?” Woodend asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Clough replied.
“You’re sayin’ that Robbie wasn’t involved in any rackets?”
“I’m sayin’ that if he was, I didn’t know anythin’ about it. Look, I might have been a bit bent in the past—”
“How bent?”
Clough grinned nervously. “I’m not goin’ to tell you that, now am I?” he asked, trying to pretend he though the Chief Inspector’s question was no more than a joke.
“I’m not interested in bangin’ you up for somethin’ you did when you were in Liverpool,” Woodend said patiently. “All I’m tryin’ to do is what your brother would probably call, ‘put things in context’. So why don’t you just tell me what were you involved in?”
“I used to be one of Robbie’s collectors,” Clough admitted.
“You want to spell that out a bit more?” Woodend suggested.
“I used to go round to the pubs an’ clubs that were payin’ Robbie for security, an’ collect the money every week.”
“That’s it? No strong-arm stuff? No robberies?”
Clough shook his head. “Maybe I would have got into that eventually, but just before I married Jenny, Robbie had a quiet word with me. He said he didn’t want to run the risk of his daughter’s husband goin’ to prison, so he’d find me a job which was legit. He also said that if he ever heard of me doin’ anythin’ crooked, he’d have both my legs broken.”
Which, seen without the benefit of rose-coloured glasses, was pretty much what Michael Clough had said. “So I take it Robbie approved of you marryin’ his daughter, then,” Woodend said.
“It was his idea.”
“It was what?”
Clough shrugged again. “His idea. I mean, I’m not sayin’ I don’t love her or anythin’ like that, but he was the one who first suggested it.”
And Woodend thought he knew why Robbie had suggested it. His wife despised him, and his younger daughter wanted nothing to do with him. So all he was left with was his darling Jenny, and he didn’t want to lose her. What better way to make sure he still kept her affection than by marrying her to a nonentity like Terry Clough – a man who would never be serious competition for him.
“Did Robbie have any enemies?” Woodend asked.
“Not down here.”
“But in Liverpool?”
Another shrug. It was almost habitual. “When you’ve been involved in the rackets, like Robbie was, you’re bound to have crossed a good few people in your time.”
“Do you know a man called Alex Conway?”
Clough frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure.”
“I’ve never met anybody called that, but I think I may have heard the name. Robbie could have worked with somebody called Conway in the Forties.”
And he could still have been working with him until a couple of days ago, Woodend thought – right up to the point when Robbie got that nail in his temple.
The Chief Inspector lit a cigarette, then realising he’d not offered one to Clough, slid the packet across the table. That was the trouble with this feller, he decided. He was so insignificant that you hardly noticed he was there – even when you were talking to him.
“Is the club openin’ tonight?” Woodend asked.
“I expect so.”
“But you don’t know for sure? Aren’t you in charge, now that Robbie’s dead?”
“I’m the assistant manager, like I always was, but my mother-in-law is the boss now.”
Of course she was. Doris probably wouldn’t allow Terry Clough to clean the windows without supervision.
“My sergeant and I would like to join,” Woodend said. “So if you wouldn’t mind, we’ll be needing some membership application forms.”
Terry Clough tried an ingratiating smile. “You won’t need a membership card to get in, Chief Inspector,” he said.
“Oh, but I will,” Woodend told him. “There’s one thing you’d better learn about me quickly, Mr Clough. I always play things by the book.”
The Red Lion was less than half a mile away from The Hideaway. It had ivy climbing up its walls, and had probably been built in the days when there was actually a Swann family living in Swann’s Lake.
“Well, this is where you’ll be staying,” Inspector Chatterton said as he and the two detectives walked across the car park to the front door. “Like I told you before I booked it, it’s only a pub.”
Woodend raised his eyebrows in comic exasperation. “Only a pub?” he repeated. “Did they send you overseas durin’ the War, Inspector?”
“No,” Chatterton said. “I never got the chance.”
“Then count yourself lucky,” Woodend told him. “I went through the lot. The Western Desert. The D-Day Invasion. Crossin’ the Rhine. An’ apart from wantin’ to see my missus again, the only thing that kept me goin’ sometimes was the thought of gettin’ home to my local pub.”
Chatterton laughed. “Very good, sir.”
Bloody fool! Woodend thought. “I’m not jokin’,” he said. “I mean it. You know w
hat they say about nookey, Inspector? They say there’s no such thing as a bad jump – it’s just that some are better than others. Well, it’s the same with pubs. I’ve never seen a bad one yet.”
They reached the door and were greeted by a small, round woman with a jolly red face.
“This is Mrs Thorpe, the landlady,” Chatterton announced.
They shook hands. “I’ve made up your beds,” Mrs Thorpe said. “They’re nice rooms, in easy reach of the lavatory. Now I expect you’re hungry after a hard day’s work. What would you say to a nice plate of bacon, liver and onions?”
“I’d say, ‘Grand’,” Woodend told her. He grinned at Chatterton. “See what I mean, Inspector? It’s times like this when I can almost believe it was worth gettin’ shot at.”
Seven
The Hideaway’s organist leant over the microphone. “This next number’s by The Crickets, an’ it’s called ‘That’ll Be The Day’,” he said, with some attempt at showmanship.
“The Crickets!” Woodend said disgustedly to his sergeant as the organist played the opening bars.
Rutter grinned. “Something wrong with the name, sir?”
“When I was a lad, I used to listen to a band called Louis Armstrong’s Hot Seven,” Woodend replied. “Louis Armstrong was their leader, there were seven of them, an’ the music they played was hot. See what I’m gettin’ at, Sergeant? That name made sense, which – unless they rub their legs together on stage – this band’s doesn’t.”
He turned to face the dance floor again. The organist looked as if he would have been much happier playing the music of an earlier era, but nevertheless his efforts had already enticed several couples onto the dance floor, the older ones doing their best to incorporate the beat into a rather uneasy foxtrot, the younger ones treating it as an invitation to jive.
“Tell me, Sergeant,” Woodend said, “do you really think this so-called music’s got a future?”
“Oh yes,” Rutter replied enthusiastically. “Rock ‘n’ roll is here to stay.”
The Chief Inspector sighed. “You know, lad, sometimes you make me feel very old,” he said.
Woodend picked up his pint of best bitter. This was his third, which meant, he estimated accurately, that he’d probably been in the club for just about an hour. He held the beer up to the light. A grand pint – fifty times better than they served down south, and at one and tuppence, a real bargain. He liked being in Cheshire. It wasn’t as good as his native Lancashire – nothing ever would be – but it wasn’t bad. He liked the club, too, and it gave him a slightly malicious satisfaction to know that his sergeant – who was only drinking halves – was nothing like as comfortable there as he was.
A man in a shabby grey suit, who had been hovering near the bar, made his way over to their table. “You’ll be the two detectives from London,” he said. “Chief Inspector Woodend and Sergeant Rutter, is it?”
“That’s right,” Woodend agreed. “And you’d be . . . ?”
“Harold Dawson. I work for the Maltham Chronicle. Would you mind if I joined you?”
“Be my guest,” Woodend said.
Dawson slid into the chair opposite Woodend. “How’s the investigation going?” he asked.
“We’ve been here less than a day, Mr Dawson,” Woodend said. “There’s not really much to report yet. So you work for the local paper. What are you? A reporter or a photographer?”
Dawson laughed and Woodend thought there was more bitterness than humour behind it. “I’m a photographer by training,” he said, “but on a rag like the Chronicle, you’re expected to turn your hand to anything. Not that there’s much challenge in it. You don’t have to be an Agatha Christie or a Dorothy Sayers to cover Women’s Institute meetings. Just take down the full name of the old bag who was lucky enough to win the cake raffle, and you’ve got your scoop.”
“You must be pleased about this murder, then?” Woodend said.
“Pleased?” Dawson repeated, as if the word had startled him.
“Aye. At long last you’ve got a story with some meat on it. A story you can probably sell to the national papers if you play your cards right.”
Dawson grinned sheepishly. “You’re quite right about that, Chief Inspector,” he admitted. “Several of the London papers have been in contact with me.” He signalled the waiter. “What can I get you and your sergeant to drink?”
“No offence, but we’d prefer to buy our own,” Woodend said.
Dawson smiled, revealing a set of teeth which could have done with serious dental work. “Don’t want to be accused of taking bribes – is that it?” he asked.
“Somethin’ like that,” Woodend agreed.
“But you’ve got nothing against co-operating with the press, have you, Chief Inspector?”
“Not as long as I’m dealin’ with a responsible journalist who wouldn’t print anythin’ which might impede my investigation.”
“That’s me. ‘Responsible’ is my middle name,” Dawson said.
I’ll just bet it is, you slimy bugger, Woodend thought. But aloud he merely said, “I’m glad to hear it. In that case, we shouldn’t have any trouble gettin’ on with each other.”
The waiter arrived, and Dawson ordered a pint. “I was . . . er . . . wondering if you’d give me your permission to take some photographs for the nationals,” he said to Woodend.
“Of what?”
“Oh, you know – the club, the lakeside attractions, things like that.”
“This isn’t Russia,” Woodend said. “As long as you don’t trespass, you can photograph what you want.”
“Ah, but there’s the problem,” Dawson said. “One of the things I’d like to take pictures of is Robbie Peterson’s office. And that’s private property.”
“What possible interest could photos of Robbie Peterson’s office be?” Woodend wondered.
“It’s the scene of the crime, isn’t it? The place where the dastardly deed was done. And most people who read the kind of newspapers I freelance for have got an insatiable appetite for blood and gore.”
“I suppose I could let you have some of the official police photographs,” Woodend conceded.
Dawson looked disappointed. “Official pictures don’t have any atmosphere to them. I’d rather take my own, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Woodend said. “But there wouldn’t be much point now. Apart from one filin’ cabinet, all the original furniture’s been removed.”
“And where’s it gone to?” Dawson asked.
“You’ll have to ask Inspector Chatterton about that. But wherever it is, I don’t expect he’ll want you fiddlin’ about with it. Strictly speakin’, it might still turn out to be evidence.”
“Oh, I see,” Dawson said. “Well, I suppose the official police photographs will be better than nothing.”
He might say that, Woodend thought, but he didn’t mean it. The fact was, he had absolutely no interest in the official photographs. So what was it exactly that he did have an interest in?
If Gerry Fairbright had been back home in Oldham, he would have been pacing the living room by now. But that was the problem. He wasn’t at home. Nor was he in Port Talbot, where his wife firmly believed him to be. Instead he was stuck in this cream sodding Alpine Sprite caravan – where there was no room to pace – stewing in his own juice.
If only he hadn’t been such a bloody fool. If only he’d learned his lesson last time. Or the time before! But he hadn’t.
He must have wished Robbie Peterson dead a hundred times, he thought, but he’d done so without considering the implications of what that death might mean to him. Now that Robbie actually was dead, he could see quite clearly that he was in an even more difficult position than he’d been in before. True, Peterson had been a vicious greedy bastard, but at least Gerry had known the rules when dealing with him. Whereas now. . .
He looked out of the caravan window. He could see the club, all lit up, and even hear the faint strains of the electric organ. Maybe he
’d go for a drink, he thought. But that really wasn’t the answer. Drink might loosen his tongue – might even make him go and confess to that Chief Inspector from London. And that would never do at all.
He opened the cupboard under the tiny sink and took out his tool set. “You’ve got to do it,” he muttered to himself. “You don’t have any bloody choice.”
With trembling hands, he selected a hammer, a small chisel and a screwdriver. He could do the job easily with these tools, he thought. But there was a part of him which wished that it wasn’t easy – wished that it was bloody impossible, so that whatever happened, it wouldn’t be as a result of his decision.
It would be best to break into the office at about three o’clock in the morning, when there’d be nobody around and he could do a proper job. Yes, three o’clock would be just about right. But that meant he still had a lot of time on his hands. So maybe, despite what he’d promised himself earlier, he would have a drink. After all, what harm could one pint do?
Sid Dowd lit the thick Havana cigar and inhaled luxuriantly before swinging round in his executive leather chair to face his assistant. “They say each one of these coronas is rolled individually on a dusky virgin’s thigh,” he said.
“Is that right, Mr Dowd?” Phil asked indifferently.
Dowd sighed. That was the trouble with this new breed of heavies, he thought – they had absolutely no sense of romance. It had been different in the old days. Certainly things had been rougher – more violent – back then, yet despite that, the people he’d worked with had had some dash about them. Now he employed fellers like Phil, who did their job well enough – better then well enough – but had about as much flair as undertakers’ assistants.
Thoughts of undertakers reminded him of something. “They’re burying Robbie Peterson on Tuesday,” he said.
“So I believe,” Phil responded.
“I think I’ll go and pay my last respects.”
“Which car will you be needing, Mr Dowd?”
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