Murder at Swann's Lake

by Sally Spencer

  “You don’t seem certain.”

  “Well, I couldn’t say definitely they were both in the clubroom all the time. I mean, four hours is a long while to hold your water. Everybody has to go to the bog now an’ again.”

  “And your lavatory is across the yard, like it is in The Hideaway?”

  “Yes.”

  Woodend frowned. “How long could one of them have been out without you noticin’ it?”

  “It’s hard to put a time on it,” the manager said. “When you’re workin’ your arse off just to keep up with the orders, that’s all that’s on your mind.”

  “What’s your best estimate?”

  “Well, I suppose if either of them had been gone for more than ten minutes, I would definitely have noticed,” the manager reluctantly conceded.

  Woodend thanked the man and put the phone down. Ten minutes, he mused. The Bandbox was only a quarter of a mile away from The Hideaway. For a fit young man like Clem Green, it would have been perfectly possible to make the journey between the two clubs twice and kill Robbie Peterson within a ten-minute span. Motive didn’t present any problem either – the Greens could easily have decided that they were tired of working for Robbie when, with one little murder, they could have the entire operation to themselves. But if one of the Greens had committed the crime, it was going to be a bugger to prove.

  Woodend turned his mind to Michael Clough. If he was looking for a suspect, Clem Green had said, he could do worse than start with the young teacher. But why should Michael want to kill Peterson? Woodend couldn’t believe that he was involved in any of Robbie’s rackets, and the rackets, surely, were why Robbie had died.

  There was a knock on the open door and Woodend looked up to see Harold Dawson, the reporter with the bad teeth, standing there. Dawson looked, if anything, seedier than he had done the previous evening, and there was an expression in his eyes which could only be described as worried.

  “Somethin’ I can do for you, Mr Dawson?” the Chief Inspector asked.

  “No,” the reporter said vaguely. “I thought I’d just drop by to see how things were going.” He looked around the office. “I see what you mean about there being no point in my taking any photographs in here now. It’s completely different to the way it was in Robbie Peterson’s day. Except for that filing cabinet. That was Robbie’s, wasn’t it?”

  “Aye,” Woodend agreed, “it was.”

  “I expect it contained all Robbie’s bills and things.”

  “That’s what most people usually file away.”

  “Probably a few private things as well,” Dawson suggested slyly. “Letters from his friends and suchlike.”

  “What made you say that?” Woodend wondered. “Did Robbie get many letters?”

  Dawson was suddenly very guarded. “Oh, there’s no point in asking me,” he said. “I didn’t know about his personal affairs.”

  “You certainly seem very interested in them now he’s dead,” Woodend pointed out.

  “Well, I’m a reporter, aren’t I?”

  “As well as a close friend?”

  “I knew Robbie,” Dawson said, the guarded expression still in place. “But not what you might call well. If I saw him in the club, I might buy him a drink. But that was about as far as it went.”

  “But you are a regular at the club?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Were you in The Hideaway on the night Robbie Peterson was killed?” Woodend asked.

  “Er . . . no. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t.”

  “Then where exactly were you?”

  “If my memory serves me well, I went for a drive,” Dawson said. “I do that sometimes. It helps to clear my head.”

  “Did you go anywhere in particular?”

  “No, I just drove around.” Dawson stopped, suddenly, as if he’d been hit in the face with a shovel. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “Of course not,” Woodend said reasonably. “You’re a responsible journalist, like you told me last night. But before we can eliminate even responsible journalists from our inquiries, we have to have some account of their movements.”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know where I went,” Dawson said, obviously shaken. “I’m like that. Sometimes I’ve got so much on my mind that I can drive and drive and I have no idea where I’ve been.”

  “That must be very disconcertin’ for you,” Woodend said, in a tone which might have been interpreted as sympathetic by anyone who didn’t really know him.

  “Yes . . . well . . . if you’ll excuse me, I’d better be about my business,” Dawson mumbled.

  “Feel free to drop by any time, sir,” Woodend told him.

  Sergeant Dash puffed on his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke circle. “Took me years to get that right,” he said, with smug satisfaction.

  “Must have done,” Rutter replied, looking around the police canteen at all the uniformed officers grabbing a hurried cup of tea before they went on duty. “So what did your Super have to say to you?”

  “He said he was pissed off that we appeared to have a major villain on our patch who we knew absolutely nothin’ about. He went on to say, an’ I’m quotin’ here, ‘When I was walking the beat, just before the War, not a thing slipped past me. We had an idea of how to do our job back then, but the young coppers today know less about real policin’ than next door’s cat does’.”

  Rutter smiled. “Do you think we’ll ever go on about the good old days when we’re his age?” he asked.

  Dash grinned back. “Probably. Anyway, the upshot of it was that he wants this matter clearin’ up, an’ with that end in view, he’s willin’ to give you all the assistance you need.” The grinned broadened. “Within reason, of course.”

  “Of course,” Rutter agreed.

  “So what can we do for you?”

  “I’d like your men out doorstepping in Hatton Gardens,” Rutter said. “I need a better description of Alexander Conway than Miss Tufton provided us with, and I’d be very interested in anything else the neighbours could tell us about him.”

  “Consider it done,” Dash said.

  “I’d also like to know whether Conway owns or rents the flat. If he rents it, talk to the landlord. If he owns it, have a word with the man he bought it from. And put in a request to the Yard to see if they have any idea who he is or what he’s done.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  “And I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the house, so we’ll know when Conway gets back.”

  Dash shook his head dolefully. “You’ve as much chance of gettin’ the Super to agree to that as I have of joinin’ the Dagenham Girl Pipers,” he said.

  Jenny Clough stood in the doorway of the office. She was holding a tea tray in her hands, and on the tray rested a steaming mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. Her face was pale and drawn, but she looked to Woodend like a woman who was making a real effort to get a grip on herself.

  “Is it all right if I come in?” she asked, slightly hesitantly.

  Woodend gave her an encouraging smile. “Anybody bearin’ refreshment is always most welcome,” he said, pushing aside the sheaves of notes he’d made since Harold Dawson’s departure.

  Jenny entered the office and placed the tray on the desk. “The biscuits are custard creams,” she said, putting the plate in front of him and mug of tea to his right. “If you don’t like them, I’m sure I can find you some chocolate digestives from somewhere.”

  “Custard creams will do me champion,” Woodend assured her. “It really is very kind of you to find the time to look after me, Mrs Clough.”

  Jenny shrugged. “Men need a cup of char when they’re workin’,” she said. “Besides,” she continued, almost as if she were making a confession, “I’ve run out of other things to do in the house.” She grinned ruefully. “There comes a point when even I have to accept that the cooker’s clean enough.”

  Woodend nodded understandingly. He’d seen this before – women attempting to cast off
their grief by burying themselves in domestic chores. And sometimes it even worked. “If you ever want somebody to talk to – not as a bobby, just as another person – you can always come to me,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Jenny said, swallowing hard. “Thank you so much.”

  She picked up the tray and turned to go. Then, suddenly, she froze, and the tray, which had slipped out of her hands, clattered noisily to the floor.

  What the hell had happened to her? Woodend asked himself. Had she seen somebody – or something – through the window? But when he looked himself, he saw that the yard was empty. “That’s the matter, lass?” he asked.

  Jenny began to shake violently. “Help me!” she gasped. “Help me!”

  Woodend jumped up from his desk and put his arms around her. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he said.

  “Get . . . get . . . me . . . out of here.”

  She seemed to have lost the use of her legs, and it was more a question of lifting her to the door than helping her to it, but once she was outside her body started to relax and her breathing became more regular.

  Still holding onto her, Woodend checked the yard again. If Jenny Clough had seen anyone through the window, there was no sign of him now. “What happened in there, Mrs Clough?” he asked.

  “Nothin’ . . . nothin’ happened,” Jenny said. “It was just bein’ there. I thought I could handle it, but I couldn’t. It brought Dad right back to me, and it was all so . . . so painful.”

  “Is it all right if I let you go now? Do you think you can stand on your own?”

  Jenny nodded. “Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, you must think me a complete fool.”

  “Not at all,” Woodend assured her. “Your reaction is perfectly understandable under the circumstances. Probably something to do with shock.”

  But if it was shock, then it was delayed shock, he thought – because both when he’d interviewed her the day before, and when she’d brought him the beans on toast, being in the office hadn’t seemed to bother her at all.

  Wally the steward was polishing pint glasses behind the bar and a few couples who didn’t have kids to put to bed were already occupying the tables near the stage, but other than that Woodend and Rutter had The Hideaway to themselves.

  “I tried to push Sergeant Dash to keep a round-the-clock watch on Conway’s flat, but he said the best he could do was to have the bobbies on regular beat keep an eye on it,” Rutter explained. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to help, but they’re very short-handed up in Doncaster.”

  “They’re very short-handed everywhere,” Woodend said sourly. “Nobody ever wants to pay for a decent police force until they need it themselves.” He took a sip of his pint. “So have you got any theories about this Alex Conway feller?”

  “Miss Tufton told me he always keeps his hair and moustache neat and tidy,” Rutter said. “According to her, he must trim his moustache every day.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe he’s an ex-military man.”

  “We’re all ex-military men,” Woodend said. “The only difference is some of us were in the War an’ had nasty men firin’ real bullets at us, an’ some of us, like a certain sergeant I know, spent two years doin’ their national service an’ never got further than sunny Aldershot.”

  Rutter grinned. “It wasn’t that easy being a conscript. We had to make our own beds, you know.”

  “That’s my point,” Woodend told him. “Whatever kind of soldier you were, you were subjected to the same sort of bull. The same sort of spit an’ polish.” He thought of how the gap in the tool rack had annoyed him earlier in the day. “A place for everythin’, and everythin’ in its place.”

  “Maybe,” Rutter admitted. “But for most of us, especially the ones who were only in for two years, it starts to wear off in time.” He looked down at his feet. “When I first left the Army, I used to buff my shoes until I could see my face in them. Now, if I’ve got a reasonable shine, I’m happy to leave it at that.”

  “So you’re sayin’ for the habit to be so ingrained, this Conway feller must have served for quite a long time?” Woodend asked thoughtfully.

  “That would be my guess.”

  “An’ what else do we know about him?”

  “That he’s away from Doncaster a great deal, and that Robbie Peterson has a key to his flat.”

  “Not really enough to put a rope round his neck, is it?” Woodend asked.

  “Nothing like enough,” Rutter agreed.

  The phone rang on the bar, and Wally picked it up. “It’s for you, Chief Inspector,” he said. “Your wife.”

  Woodend made a comical face. “First time in years she considered me worth checking up on,” he said.

  He rose to his feet and made his way to the bar. Rutter lit a cigarette, and though he was not consciously listening to the conversation, he couldn’t help hearing Woodend’s half of it.

  “Hello, luv,” the Chief Inspector said. “What’s brought this sudden bout of concern on? . . . What? . . . Oh, my God! No—”

  Rutter turned round, alarmed. Woodend’s strong features had crumpled, and he was gripping the telephone so hard his knuckles had turned white.

  “Yes . . .” Woodend was saying. “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  Tell him, Rutter repeated to himself. He was the only person in Cheshire who Joan Woodend knew, apart from her husband. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Has anything . . . has somebody—”

  “Two whiskies, quick!” Woodend said to Wally. “And you’d better make them doubles.”

  The barman stuck the glasses under the optics, then handed them to Woodend. The Chief Inspector carried them back to the table. “Joan got a phone call from Maria this afternoon,” he said. “She was ringin’ from the eye hospital.”

  “The eye hospital!” Rutter repeated. “But Maria doesn’t even wear reading glasses.”

  Woodend put his hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more serious than short-sightedness,” he said. “You’re goin’ to have to catch the first available train back to London.”

  Ten

  Woodend made his way up the country lane which led towards the Church of St Mary in Swann’s Lake. It had been raining quite heavily earlier that morning, but by half-past ten the clouds had completely disappeared, the hedgerows had lost their glossy sheen, and even the small puddles which had formed at the edge of the road were almost dried out.

  The church loomed up ahead. It had been built early in the nineteenth century, the Chief Inspector guessed, before they had got the concept of the Gothic Revival quite right. Now it stuck out like a blot on the landscape – a small church trying to pretend it was a cathedral, a structure which attempted to soar and only succeeded in being a dwarf standing on tiptoes.

  There was time for one more cigarette before he reached the churchyard, Woodend thought. He lit a Capstan Full Strength and wondered how his sergeant was getting on. Had he already seen Maria? And if not, what had they told him about her? He wished he could be there with the lad. But he had a job to do and it was time he got on with it. Grinding the half-smoked cigarette under the heel of his right shoe, he strode on towards the church.

  A group of mourners had already gathered by the time Woodend arrived. There was the widow – scarcely grieving, but at least appropriately clad in a black dress which covered her attractive legs right down to the middle of the calves. There was Robbie’s eldest daughter, Jenny. She was clutching tightly to her husband’s arm for support, and from the pained and sympathetic expression on Terry Clough’s face, it was obvious that even if Robbie had talked him into marrying Jenny, he truly loved her now. Michael Clough was there, too, wearing his brown corduroy jacket with a black armband and looking, as John Donne had once said, as if the bell also tolled for him. Of Annabel Peterson, there was no sign – but that was probably to be expected.

  Woodend let his glance fall on the other mourners. The Green brothers had turned up, looking as
shifty and mistrustful as they habitually did, and there were several other faces unknown to Woodend. But there was no tall, blond man with a carefully clipped moustache. Alexander Conway, whatever his connection with the murder, had clearly decided to stay away.

  Heads were turning towards the gate, and when Woodend allowed his to follow them, he saw that a shiny black Rolls Royce Silver Dawn had just pulled up in front of the church.

  “Well, look what the cat’s dragged in,” Doris said to her daughter. “I’d never have thought he’d have put in an appearance. Not in a million years.”

  The man getting out of the back of the Rolls was wearing an expensive black mourning suit, which contrasted most attractively with his mane of silvery hair. He was somewhere between fifty-five and sixty, Woodend guessed, but he had the body of a much younger man, with powerful broad shoulders and a barrel chest.

  Seemingly unaware that all eyes were on him, the man in the mourning suit made his way straight to the widow, bent down, and kissed her on the cheek. “My deepest condolences, Doris,” he said.

  “It was good of you to come, Sid,” the widow replied.

  Woodend’s plain Lancashire Methodist background had ensured he’d not been inside many Anglican churches, but even from his limited experience this one seemed much more ornate than the average. Certainly, it was not somewhere he would have felt comfortable worshipping in. He wasn’t comfortable with the vicar, either. The Reverend Wilfred Cunliffe Jones, now standing at the lectern, was a florid man with an aquiline nose and a superior tilt to his chin – the sort of fashionable priest who went down well in some of the more prosperous areas of London, but would have been laughed out of the East End.

  The vicar cleared his throat, and gazed down on his congregation with a look which may have contained compassion, but seemed awfully close to disdain. “I did not know Mr Robert Peterson long,” he said in a plummy voice. “Indeed, he was a comparative newcomer to this area. But by all accounts he was very happy here and made some good friends in the time he spent amongst us. I’m sure those friends will miss him deeply.”

  Is that it? Woodend wondered.