The chief inspector checked his watch. He had over an hour to kill before he met Houseman’s gorgon, which was more than enough time to give his brain cells their necessary infusion of best bitter.
He reached the end of the concourse, nodded to the vigilant commissionaire, and stepped cautiously into the car park. But caution was not necessary. The reporters’ cars had all disappeared, and though the two outside-broadcast vans were still there, they looked empty and forlorn.
Woodend grinned. He should have known it would be like this. He might run on bitter, but journalists ran on whisky and soda, and it was already well past their filling up time.
Bob Rutter had left him the Humber, and Woodend climbed behind the wheel. There was a pub on the edge of the village, he remembered from the drive in that morning, but as it was the closest watering-hole to the studio, it would undoubtedly be the one the journalists had chosen themselves. If he wanted a bit of peace and quiet, he would be wise to go further afield.
He drove for four miles before he came a pub called the Green Man. He parked the Humber, headed straight for the bar and ordered himself a pint. It was only as the barman was pulling it that he noticed the woman with the jet-black hair sitting on a tall bar stool at the other end of the counter.
‘Hell an’ damnation!’ he said softly to himself.
‘I’ll pay for that drink,’ the woman called out to the barman as she reached into her purse.
The barman looked questioningly at Woodend, and when the chief inspector firmly shook his head, he said, ‘If it’s all the same to you, madam, the gentleman would prefer to buy his own drink.’
The woman slid off her stool and edged up the bar so she was standing next to Woodend. The chief inspector sorted out some change, and slid it across the counter as if she wasn’t there.
‘I wasn’t trying to pick you up,’ she said.
‘I didn’t think you were,’ Woodend replied, before taking a slow sip of his beer.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Woodend sighed. ‘Don’t I?’
‘It’s probably because my hair’s a different colour from the last time you saw me. My name’s Eliz—’
‘It’d take more than a change of colour that’s come out of a bottle to make me forget a pain in the backside like you,’ Woodend interrupted her. ‘Your name’s Elizabeth Driver, an’ the last time we talked you were a junior reporter on the Maltham Guardian.’
‘I don’t work there any more,’ Elizabeth Driver said, with an edge of reproach to her voice.
‘I’m not in the least surprised.’
‘No, you wouldn’t be. After all the fuss you made to my editor, he really had no choice but to sack me.’
‘You brought it on yourself,’ Woodend said indifferently. ‘An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else, Miss Driver – you were lucky just to lose your job. After the way you deliberately buggered about with my investigation at Westbury Park, you could have ended up in jail.’
‘You’d never have made the charges stick,’ Elizabeth Driver said with a complete absence of remorse. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t unemployed for long. I told you at the time I’d soon get another job. You remember that, don’t you?’
‘Aye, I remember.’
‘And only three days after I’d picked up my cards from that tired little rag in Maltham, I was offered the plum post of northern crime correspondent for the Daily Globe.’
‘I’m sure you an’ the paper are well suited to one another,’ Woodend told her.
‘And just what do you mean by that?’
‘Given the choice, the Globe has always preferred makin’ up the news to reportin’ it. Well, that’s a lot less effort, isn’t it?’
‘The Globe is a serious national newspaper,’ Elizabeth Driver said tightly.
‘No, it isn’t. It’s a sensationalisin’ scandal sheet of the worst kind,’ Woodend corrected her. ‘Always has been. Anyway, I take it that this meetin’ isn’t purely by chance.’
‘Very few things I do are by chance,’ Elizabeth Driver said complacently. ‘I knew you’d want a pint, and I calculated you’d think that this pub was just far enough away from the studio to ensure you’d be safe from reporters.’
‘You always were a smart lass,’ Woodend told her. ‘That’s why it’s such a pity to see you squanderin’ your talents on a rag like the Globe.’
‘It’s not just my job situation which has changed since the last time we met – yours has as well,’ Elizabeth Driver pointed out, with a cutting edge to her tone. ‘You were a hot-shot from Scotland Yard back then. Now you’re nothing but a country policeman.’
Woodend laughed with genuine amusement. ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been a hot-shot anythin’, lass. I’m just a simple bobby whose job it is to catch criminals – when he can.’
‘You don’t have to stay out in the sticks for ever,’ Elizabeth Driver told him. ‘Scandal sheet or not, the Globe could do you a lot of good.’
‘Could it?’
‘Of course it could.’
‘But you’d want somethin’ in return?’
‘Naturally I would.’
‘An’ what might that somethin’ be?’
‘If you were to make sure that I was told of new developments in the case a few hours before any of the other reporters, I could build you up into some kind of national hero.’
‘An’ what if I don’t want to be a national hero?’
‘Everybody wants fame,’ Elizabeth Driver said dismissively. ‘Especially when you consider the alternative.’
‘Which is?’
‘Instead of portraying you as a hero, I could paint you as a complete buffoon – the sort of music-hall comic policeman who can’t even find his own way home without a trained police dog to show him the way. Imagine six million people picking up the Globe and reading that!’
‘Aye,’ Woodend said. ‘Just imagine it.’
‘So what’s it to be?’ Elizabeth Driver demanded impatiently. ‘Hero or buffoon? The choice is yours. Either of them will sell papers.’
‘I’ll tell you the way I see it,’ Woodend said softly.
Elizabeth Driver favoured him with a smile which was not yet quite triumphant. ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I think you should do your job in the way you see fit, an’ I’ll do the same thing with mine.’
‘If that’s a “no”, you’ll live to regret it,’ Elizabeth Driver cautioned him.
‘Not as much as I’d regret it if I allowed myself to slip down to your level,’ Woodend replied.
‘You’ll never learn, will you?’ Elizabeth Driver demanded angrily. ‘You’ve already lost one job through refusing to play the game like everyone else – and if you’re not careful, you’ll soon be losing another.’
Thirteen
When the phone rang on the desk he shared with Ben Drabble, Paddy Colligan made a dive for it, and once it was in his hand, he clamped the receiver tight against the side of his head.
‘Colligan,’ he said. ‘Yes, I . . . No, it really isn’t very convenient.’
Sitting opposite him, Ben Drabble wondered why Colligan seemed so concerned that even a hint of his caller’s voice should not be allowed to seep out into the room.
‘Yes, I was expecting you to ring just like you said you would,’ Colligan mumbled. ‘And of course I still . . . It’s not that easy . . . There are a lot of things going on here right now.’
Drabble recognised the tone in his partner’s voice as just like the one he himself used when he was talking to his bookmaker. But Paddy didn’t gamble. As far as he knew, Paddy had no vices at all.
‘I can’t now,’ Colligan said, ‘. . . because I just can’t, that’s why . . . you must understand the pressures.’ He listened to his caller for perhaps thirty seconds without interruption, then sighed heavily. ‘All right!’ he said resignedly. ‘Fifteen minutes – but no longer than that.’
Colligan slammed the phone back on its cradle. ‘I have to g
o out,’ he told his partner.
‘Now?’
‘Now! I won’t be long. I told . . . I said I couldn’t be away for more than fifteen minutes.’
‘So it’s somebody in the studio you have to meet?’
‘I don’t think that’s really any of your business, is it, Ben?’ Colligan asked coldly.
‘Isn’t it?’ Drabble countered. ‘We’re working to a deadline here. You do realise we’re still missing seven and a half minutes dialogue from Friday’s show, don’t you?’
‘We’ll probably work better after a short break,’ Colligan said defensively. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, suddenly shifting into attack mode, ‘I don’t complain about all the time you spend on the phone placing bets on the horses, so what right have you got to start bitching when I want to slip out for a few minutes?’
It was not a good time to have an argument, Ben Drabble realised – not with seven and a half minutes of script still left to write.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to poke my nose in your affairs,’ he said.
For some reason, the words seemed to make Paddy Colligan wince, then the Irishman forced a smile to his face and said, ‘Don’t worry about it. These things happen. With all the pressure we’re under, it’s actually a bit of miracle we haven’t killed each other.’
Bad choice of words, given the circumstances, Drabble thought – but he knew what his partner meant.
Paddy Colligan had been gone from the office for less than five minutes when the phone rang again.
Ben Drabble, wrestling with the script, tried to ignore it, but the bloody thing kept on ringing. Finally, when it was plain it was not going to go away, he snatched up the receiver.
‘Yes?’ he said irritably.
The man on the other end of the line chuckled. ‘Is that any way to talk to the person who’s going to make your fortune for you?’
‘Sorry, Vince,’ Drabble said. ‘Things are pretty tense in the office at the moment.’
‘I imagine they are – for most people,’ his agent said. ‘But they shouldn’t be for you. Hell, you should be cracking open a bottle of champagne after the stroke of luck you’ve had.’
‘Stroke of luck?’ Drabble repeated, mystified. ‘What stroke of luck?’
‘The murder! It couldn’t have come at a better time, could it?’
‘Couldn’t it?’
‘I’ll say it couldn’t,’ his agent said cheerfully. ‘Is that life imitating art – or what?’
‘You’re talking about my manuscript,’ Drabble said, finally catching his agent’s drift.
‘Of course I’m talking about your manuscript. I’ve got The Shooting Script on my desk in front of me, right now. I was going to start submitting it last week – but am I glad I waited?! The murder should at least triple the advance we can expect to be paid. And as for sales – they’ll go through the roof! When the publishers reveal that the writer of a book about a murder in a television studio was actually working in a real television studio where a real murder was committed, the public will be queuing up to buy copies.’
A vision of sudden wealth swam before Ben Drabble’s eyes – but unlike many other people’s visions in similar circumstances, it did not centre on what he could buy. Or perhaps, in a way, it did. The money would buy him peace of mind. The money would help him to escape from the fear which periodically gnawed at his innards. There would be no more menacing late-night phone calls. He would be able to walk down a dark alley without wondering whether there were two large men at the end of it, waiting to break his legs. He could pay off all his gambling debts. He would be free to start life again.
‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’ his agent asked.
Words seemed inadequate to describe the feeling of well-being which had swept over him, Drabble thought.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said weakly.
‘You suppose!’ his agent repeated, incredulously. ‘Don’t try to tell me that you haven’t been worrying about your book sinking without trace – just like so many others do.’
‘I—’
‘And don’t try to tell me you haven’t already worked out for yourself that this murder is the best possible publicity you could have got.’
‘I may have thought about it in vague terms,’ Drabble confessed, ‘but I certainly wouldn’t have put it as strongly as you have. And if I can make a suggestion, Vince?’
‘Yes?’
‘When you start negotiating with the publishers, it might be a good idea if you didn’t sound quite so enthusiastic about the fact that Valerie Farnsworth has been murdered.’
‘Oh sure, I get it,’ the agent said – and Drabble could almost see him giving a broad wink.
‘Anyway, thanks for calling,’ the scriptwriter said, eager to put the phone down and revel in his new-found freedom in private.
‘Hang on a minute. I haven’t quite finished what I rang up to say to you,’ his agent told him.
There was a new edge to the man’s tone – a wheedling, yet commanding edge – which made Drabble’s stomach suddenly turn over.
‘Go on,’ he said cautiously.
‘The thing is, I know that all you writers are a mite touchy about changing anything once you’ve actually written it down . . .’
‘Touchy?’ Drabble repeated.
‘Sure. And I can understand it. You think you’ve finished the job, and you’d rather go out and have a good time than plough through the same material all over again.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Drabble demanded angrily. ‘That our unwillingness to change things is no more than laziness?’
‘Hey, kid, don’t get so tense,’ the agent said.
‘We don’t just write it down, you know,’ Drabble said passionately. ‘We agonise over every word. We sweat blood. And when we do finally manage to come up with the exact expression we’ve been searching so hard for—’
‘Yeah, I know you work very hard,’ the agent said, trying not to sound indifferent. ‘And it’s because I know it’s such hard work that I don’t want to see it all go to waste. That’s why – just to make absolutely sure we’ve got a rip-roaring success on our hands – I’d like you to make just a few adjustments to the plot.’
‘Writing’s not like painting a wall!’ Drabble protested. ‘When you’ve finished, you can’t just step back and look at the finished result, then touch up the odd spot here and the odd spot there. A book is an organic whole in which everything relates to everything else.’
‘Well, I know that,’ the agent said. ‘Of course I do. But the changes I want you to make are very minor.’
‘How minor?’ Drabble asked suspiciously.
‘This is only a suggestion. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘I think the book would have a lot more punch – publicity-wise – if you changed the victim?’
‘If I what?’
‘Changed the victim. See, in the light of the murder, The Shooting Script would make more of an impact if the person who got killed was one of the actresses, rather than the show’s producer.’
Fourteen
Maria Rutter heard the front door of her new detached home click open and she shifted her weight as a preliminary manoeuvre in the complicated process of getting out of her armchair.
She would be glad when her pregnancy finally came to full term, she thought, because however difficult it might turn out to be for a blind woman to look after her baby, it would be nothing less than a blessed relief after all this backache and general discomfort.
There were heavy male footsteps in the hallway.
‘Is that you, Bob?’ Maria asked.
‘It’s me,’ Rutter answered – and from the sound of his voice she could tell that something or other was not quite right with his world.
‘I didn’t really expect you to be coming home for lunch, sweetheart,’ Maria said.
‘I didn’t expect to be home myself,’ Rutter replied, almost gruffly.
Maria waited
for him to expand on the comment, but when it became plain that he wasn’t about to, she said, ‘I thought you were working somewhere near Bolton.’
‘Not me. Just Cloggin’-it Charlie and Paniatowski. It turned out I wasn’t really necessary.’
Maria frowned. In the previous few months, as she had grown accustomed to her blindness, she had become much better at imagining people’s expressions from the sound of their voices – but she still wished that she could see her husband’s face.
‘I’ll make you some food,’ she said.
There was an awkward pause, then Bob said, ‘Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so I’ll fix it myself.’
She had to get quicker at doing things, she told herself. She had to learn to perform tasks around the house almost as well as if she could see.
Rutter walked into the kitchen, and Maria forced herself out of her chair and followed him. She heard the sound of a cupboard door being opened, and the noise of several tins being banged together.
‘Baked beans on toast?’ she guessed.
‘That’s right,’ Rutter agreed.
For the first time since he had entered the house, she could detect a smile in his voice. Well, whatever had happened that morning, at least he could still summon up the energy to smile!
She reached out with her hand, and was pleased to discover the back of the kitchen chair was exactly where she’d thought it would be. She pulled the chair out and lowered herself carefully into it.
‘Are you going to tell me what it’s all about?’ she asked.
‘What what’s all about?’ Rutter said brusquely, as he clamped the tin-opener over the can and began to turn.
‘I may be blind, but I’m not stupid,’ Maria said angrily.
The tin-opener stopped turning. Rutter walked over to her and began softly stroking her hair.
‘I know you’re not stupid,’ he said apologetically. ‘And I’m so sorry for taking my mood out on you.’
‘Why are you in the mood in the first place?’
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