Dying Fall

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Yes, but however good the intentions are, things might still slip out,’ Rutter said, showing increasing difficulty. ‘One of my colleagues might see me entering or leaving the surgery. Or perhaps Doc Taylor might say to one of them, “You should have a full medical check-up, like Bob Rutter had.” He wouldn’t mean to be giving anything away, you see, but that’s just what he would be doing.’

  ‘You want a full medical check-up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you don’t want any of your colleagues to know that you’ve had it?’

  ‘That’s correct. At least, I don’t want them to know about it just for the moment.’

  ‘Might I ask why?’ Dr Shastri said.

  ‘Because they might start wondering why I’ve had the check-up.’

  As, indeed, I am now, Dr Shastri thought.

  ‘Are you worried that something might be seriously wrong with you?’ she asked solicitously. ‘Is that why you want to keep the whole thing a secret?’

  ‘Oh God, no, it’s nothing at all like that,’ Rutter said. ‘I have the odd ache and pain – that happens when you get past thirty, and work the hours I do – but, in general, I feel as fit as a fiddle.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I just think that, before taking any important step, it’s the responsible thing to do.’

  ‘I see,’ Shastri said – though she didn’t.

  ‘I had a medical just before I married Maria, and—’ Rutter began, before stopping abruptly again.

  ‘And …?’ Dr Shastri prodded.

  Rutter grinned sheepishly. ‘Is anything I say to you confidential?’

  ‘As a doctor, I am only required to keep my lips sealed on medical matters. But as a friend, and I do like to think of myself as a friend …’

  ‘You are. You are!’

  ‘… you can rely on my absolute discretion.’

  Relief flooded Rutter’s face, and it was plain to Shastri that he had been keeping something important bottled up inside himself, and that she had just given him permission to release it.

  ‘Well, the simple truth is that I’m thinking of getting married again,’ Rutter said.

  ‘How wonderful!’ Dr Shastri exclaimed.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said the doctor, who had heard all the rumours about his affair with Monika, and, liking them both, had been secretly hoping for some time that they would get back together again. ‘And I’m sure Sergeant Paniatowski will make an absolutely beautiful bride.’

  Then she saw the look of surprise – almost of horror – which came to Rutter’s face, and found herself wishing she were as dead as the body on the table.

  It wasn’t really necessary for Rutter to say, ‘It’s not Monika I’m thinking of marrying.’

  But he said it anyway.

  Eight

  Monika Paniatowski absolutely loathed this new assignment that Woodend had given her. The job she’d originally signed on for involved catching criminals, not doing background checks into people with no police record in the hope of finding some hint of criminal activity.

  But Charlie was right, as he usually was. Tel Lowry was attempting to impede the investigation. That made him the enemy – and to fight back, you needed to be properly armed.

  And so she had spent an hour or so going through old copies of the local newspapers, putting some flesh on the bones of Lowry’s personal history.

  She’d learned that the factory had been founded by his father, and that while his brother, Barclay, had studied engin­eering at college and then obediently followed the old man into the family business, Tel had preferred to travel a different route, and, in 1950, had joined the air force as a helicopter pilot trainee.

  He’d seen active service in the Malaya Emergency in the early 50s, where his helicopter had taken a direct hit. In the crash landing that followed, it was generally agreed, it had been a miracle he wasn’t killed. He’d been awarded a medal for courage under fire, promoted to the rank of flight lieutenant, and posted back to Britain. It was while he was serving in his new post at RAF Abingdon that he’d received the news of the tragic accident which had occurred at home.

  The accident was big news in the Whitebridge Evening Post, and the centre of the front page was dominated by a large picture of a mangled Rolls-Royce. There’d been two people in the car when it had spun out of control and crashed into a tree. One of them, Lowry’s father, had been killed outright, while the other, his brother Barclay, had had to be permanently hospitalized.

  Tel Lowry had resigned his commission immediately.

  ‘It is with great regret that I have done so,’ he’d told the Post. ‘The air force has been my life, and I had hoped to continue serving my country in it for many more years to come. But now a new responsibility has been thrust upon me, and I cannot escape it. Lowry’s is, and always has been, a Whitebridge company, and I could not contemplate letting it fall into the hands of outsiders.’

  Even then, he sounded like a politician, Paniatowski thought. And perhaps that had been deliberate. Perhaps, once he’d lost his opportunity to rise in the air force, he’d determined to rise in local government. But that merely made him ambitious – not criminal. And he was a war hero – even if the war in which he’d been heroic had been much smaller than the one in which Charlie Woodend had served.

  If she went to the boss with nothing more than this, he would throw a fit, Paniatowski told herself. And so, with great reluctance, she was going to have to dig somewhere else for dirt.

  The moment he returned to headquarters, Bob Rutter found himself summoned to the chief inspector’s office, and he had barely time to close the door behind him before his boss launched into his attack.

  ‘What the hell are you playin’ at, Inspector?’ Woodend demanded. ‘This is a murder case, an’ you’re supposed to be one of the people leadin’ it. Which means that you don’t go skivin’ off whenever you feel the inclination – you stay on the soddin’ job until it’s finished.’

  ‘Can I say something, sir?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘No, you bloody well can’t,’ Woodend told him. ‘At least, not until you’ve heard everythin’ that I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Go ahead, then,’ Rutter told him.

  ‘I don’t need your permission!’ Woodend exploded. ‘Listen, Bob,’ he continued, calming down a little, ‘I know things have been bloody rough for you, an’ I could have understood it if you’d said you couldn’t continue doin’ the same job you’d done before Maria’s death. But you didn’t say that, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Rutter agreed. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘What you did say was that you wanted your old job back – very badly. So I gave you the chance. I let you in on the Haverton Camp case even before you’d been properly signed off the sick – which was a pretty big risk for me.’

  ‘I know it was,’ Rutter told him. ‘And I’m grateful.’

  ‘For a while, I thought it was workin’ out,’ Woodend said. ‘You were a bit wobbly on a couple of cases, but, on the whole, you did well.’

  ‘Except that you’d much rather I hadn’t got involved with Liz Driver,’ Rutter said.

  ‘Elizabeth Driver has nothin’ to do with this,’ Woodend said, his anger returning.

  ‘Hasn’t she, sir?’

  ‘No, she bloody hasn’t. What we’re talkin’ about here is your performance – an’ it simply isn’t good enough.’ Woodend paused. ‘You’ve been almost like a son to me, Bob, an’ if I wasn’t a northern workin’-class male, who doesn’t go in for any such soppiness, I might even go so far as to say I loved you. But I love my job, an’ all, an’ I need to have people workin’ with me who I can rely on. So I’m goin’ to have to let you go, Bob. There’s no choice in the matter. I’m goin’ to have you transferred to some other, less stressful duties.’

  Rutter said nothing for perhaps half a minute, then he asked, ‘Can I speak now?’

  Woodend sighed. ‘Yes, you can speak now,’ he agreed.


  ‘I know who the murdered man is,’ Rutter said.

  ‘You know what?’

  ‘A couple of hours ago, I found myself wondering if he’d keep whatever valuables he had on him while he slept. And I decided he probably wouldn’t, because when you’re asleep, you’re at your most vulnerable. So what would he have done with them?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Woodend said.

  ‘I thought it likely he’d have hidden them, but that his hiding place would probably be somewhere close to where he dossed down for the night. So I went back to the old mill, and looked around. There was a loose brick in the wall, close to where the body was found, and when I took it out, I found these behind it.’

  He took a clear plastic envelope out of his pocket, and laid it on the desk. Inside it, Woodend could see a battered wallet, two faded photographs of a woman, and a dog-eared driving licence.

  ‘His name’s Philip Turner,’ Rutter said. ‘He comes from Manchester, and he was fifty-one years old when he was murdered.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been doin’ since you left headquarters?’ Woodend asked. ‘Looking for his personal possessions?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rutter said.

  ‘Apart from the time I took to visit Dr Shastri, and make an appointment with the doctor she recommended,’ he added mentally.

  ‘But the WPC said you’d gone off on personal business,’ Woodend told him.

  ‘Perhaps she’s right, and that is what I told her,’ Rutter conceded. ‘Possibly I said it because I thought that was easier than explaining what I was actually going to do, or maybe I just said the first thing that came into my head. To tell you the truth, my mind was so wrapped up in the case that I’ve no idea what I said.’

  Woodend’s face was filled with remorse. ‘I’m sorry, lad,’ he said.

  ‘Forget it, sir,’ Rutter said awkwardly.

  ‘No, I won’t forget it,’ Woodend replied. ‘I should have trusted you. God knows, you’ve given me reason enough to in the past. An’ there was me talkin’ about how I’d gone out on a limb for you, an’ forgettin’ how many times you’d done the same thing for me.’

  ‘Water under the bridge,’ Rutter said. He forced himself to smile. ‘If it’ll make you feel any better, you can buy all my ale at the victory celebration when we’ve solved this case.’

  ‘I’ll buy all your bloody ale for a month,’ Woodend promised.

  ‘Then you’d better think about taking out a second mortgage on your cottage,’ Rutter said, and though the smile was still in place, it was an effort of will to keep it there. He glanced down at his watch. ‘I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘We both need to get back to work.’

  As he was walking down the steps to the basement, Rutter found himself being assailed by a storm of mixed emotions. On the one hand, he felt guilty about lying to his boss, even if it was only a partial lie. On the other, he felt relief that the idea of searching for the dead tramp’s possessions had come to him as he was leaving the police morgue, because if it hadn’t – if he’d come back to headquarters empty-handed – he had no doubt in his mind that Woodend would have carried out his threat, and had him transferred.

  But would it have really mattered if that had happened? Though he’d rejected Liz’s idea of working for her when she’d first put it to him, it was now starting to sound more and more appealing. If he took the job, there would be no more guilt – no more attempting to perform the delicate balancing act between what he wanted to do and what he should do. He and Liz would travel the country together, covering murder cases. Instead of being harassed by the press, as he was now, he would almost be part of the press – and every night would be spent with Liz.

  It would mean making other arrangements for Louisa, of course, but she would benefit in all kinds of ways from the extra money his new job would be bringing in.

  And so what if taking the job meant abandoning his ideals and sinking down into the gutter? Hadn’t he already done enough good deeds to justify one life? And there was no doubt about it, the gutter was beginning to look like a very attractive place.

  Councillor Polly Johnson JP hadn’t had much time for the golf-club bar while her husband was alive, and was not exactly over-fond of it now. Nevertheless, she had developed the habit of dropping in for a drink on the way home from the magistrates’ court, because there were sometimes people there who she found mildly amusing – and because anything was better than going back to an empty house.

  Since she hated the idea of sitting alone at a table, she normally took a seat at the bar, despite the fact that the bar stools had been designed for tall men with long calves, not short women with stumpy little legs. Still, she had perfected the art of making the act of climbing on to the stool look easy, though she was convinced that some night, when she had had one drink too many, she would come tumbling off it with a lack of dignity totally unbecoming in a magistrate.

  She had only just completed her ascent of the seat when she felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to find Councillor Tel Lowry standing there. She was surprised, because though they were both councillors, and both sat on the Police Authority, their relationship could rarely be described as warm, and often reached the intensity of an Arctic chill.

  Lowry smiled winningly, and said, ‘Buy you a drink, Polly?’

  ‘I’ve already got one coming,’ Councillor Johnson told him.

  ‘Didn’t hear you order it,’ Lowry said.

  ‘That’s because I didn’t,’ Polly replied. ‘Since Jack is a bar steward par excellence, there’s no need to. The moment I walk through the door he springs to my aid.’

  Lowry turned to look at the steward, and saw he was indeed pouring a Scotch whisky into a glass half-filled with ice cubes.

  ‘Put it on my bill,’ Lowry called out, and the steward nodded.

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Polly said, wishing she’d ordered a single malt rather than a humble blend. ‘But to what do I owe this sudden burst of generosity?’

  Or to put it another way, she thought, if I’m not expected to pay for my drink with money, how am I expected to pay for it?

  ‘Terrible thing, this tramp being burned alive,’ Lowry said.

  ‘Terrible,’ Polly agreed.

  ‘But I still think we’re in danger of overreacting to it,’ Lowry continued.

  ‘Really?’ Polly asked.

  She took a sip of whisky, and wished again that she had asked for a malt.

  ‘Nearly every policeman in Whitebridge will be on the streets tonight. I can’t tell you how much that is going to cost us in overtime.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Polly Johnson countered. ‘I’ve seen the balance sheets. I can work it out for myself.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then,’ Lowry said. ‘And the problem is, you see, that if we use up vast amounts of the police budget on this case, where will we find the resources when we have to deal with a really serious crime?’

  ‘You mean that you don’t think burning someone alive is a serious crime?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s very serious,’ Lowry said hastily. ‘And I’m hopeful that the police will make an arrest soon. But, when all is said and done, our main responsibility is to protect our ratepayers – and tramps don’t pay rates.’

  ‘True enough,’ Polly agreed.

  ‘You’d think the police would see that,’ Lowry ploughed on. ‘Indeed, some of them do. Henry Marlowe’s very sound on the subject. But there’s one particular chief inspector who’s being very difficult.’

  Polly chuckled. ‘That would be Charlie Woodend,’ she said.

  ‘How … how do you know that?’

  ‘Easy. Charlie’s made a career out of being difficult.’

  ‘You know the man socially, do you?’ Lowry asked, sounding a little troubled by the news.

  ‘Not socially, only professionally,’ Polly Johnson said.

  Lowry visibly relaxed.

  Which was a big mistake
, Polly thought – because professional bonds, if they were strong ones, could be as binding as love. And her bonds with Woodend were strong, since twice before – after the Dugdale’s Farm murder and the Mary Thomas case – she had trusted him enough to go out on a limb, and in both those cases her trust had been more than justified.

  ‘I was hoping for your support in—’ Lowry began.

  ‘You won’t get it,’ Polly Johnson said.

  ‘You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet,’ Lowry protested.

  ‘You’re going to ask me to help you nobble Cloggin’-it Charlie. Well, you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘We won the last election on a promise to reduce council spending,’ Lowry pointed out.

  ‘You and your party won it on that promise,’ Polly countered. ‘I’m an independent.’

  ‘Even so …’

  ‘You’ve seen the same public-opinion polls that I have, haven’t you?’ asked Polly, who was really starting to enjoy herself. ‘Your party’s support’s down, and you personally are losing ground to Councillor Scranton, who, if I’ve heard right, intends to stand in your own ward.’

  ‘You’ve heard right,’ Lowry said glumly.

  ‘All of which means, as I see it, that you have to fulfil nearly all your pledges, or you’ll be out on your ear next time.’

  ‘Every party experiences a dip in popularity mid-term,’ Lowry said sulkily. ‘It doesn’t mean that on the day …’

  ‘So in order to protect your seat on the council – and so you can continue to be a big fish in what’s really a very small and murky pond – you’re prepared to leave these non-ratepayers unprotected, are you?’

  ‘As I explained to Chief Inspector Woodend, there’s no guarantee that the killer will strike again soon, if ever,’ Lowry said.

  ‘And, as I’m sure Cloggin’-it Charlie explained to you, there’s no guarantee that he won’t,’ Polly Johnson countered.

  ‘Not much of a story at all, so far,’ Elizabeth Driver said, over the phone, to her editor in London. ‘The burning-alive bit of it is great, of course, but it’s a pity that it couldn’t have been someone more sympathetic who got fried. I mean to say, who gives a damn about a sweaty tramp?’