‘That moors road is a treacherous one to drive, especially at night,’ Woodend said.
‘But he wasn’t driving along it, was he?’ Paniatowski countered. ‘He was parked at the viewpoint.’
‘Then he made a mistake,’ Woodend said. ‘Two mistakes, I suppose. The first was he thought he was in reverse, when he wasn’t. An’ the second is that he hit the accelerator too hard.’
‘Those are simply not mistakes that Bob would have made,’ Paniatowski said firmly.
‘Be careful what you say, Monika,’ Woodend cautioned. ‘Because if it wasn’t an accident, it was suicide. An’ if it was suicide, it was also murder.’
‘And what if it was?’ Paniatowski argued. ‘What can anybody do about it now? Are they going to dig up his body, and put it on trial?’
‘No,’ Woodend said. ‘But if Elizabeth Driver’s relatives thought murder was a possibility, they could well decide to sue the estate for unlawful killin’. An’ where would that leave little Louisa?’
‘You’re right,’ Paniatowski agreed.
Woodend drained his pint, and signalled to the waiter to bring across another round of drinks.
‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘do you really think Bob would have killed himself when he had his little daughter to consider? Oh, I know he made you her guardian – an’ I know you’ll do a wonderful job of bringin’ her up – but would he have ever been so irresponsible as to willingly deprive Louisa of her own father?’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ Paniatowski said. ‘He did a few shitty things in his time, but he’d never have done anything like that.’
‘Well, there you are then,’ Woodend said. ‘Can I go back to my story about Bob’s flight to Munich now?’
Paniatowski smiled weakly. ‘Of course, sir,’ she said.
But it seemed as if the story would never be told, because even as he re-launched himself into it, the bar door opened, and Dr Shastri walked in.
Her arrival caused quite a stir among the other drinkers. They were not used to exotically beautiful women in saris and sheepskin coats wafting across their line of vision, and they gaped at her as if they did not quite believe that she was real.
If Dr Shastri noticed the sensation she was causing, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she walked over to the team’s table and said, ‘I know this is a private party, but might I join you for a few minutes?’
‘Of course you can, lass,’ Woodend said. ‘Can I order you a drink, or don’t you …?’
‘I do drink in private, as Sergeant Paniatowski knows, but I can’t ever recall doing it in public,’ Dr Shastri said. ‘My family would not approve.’
‘Well, then …’
‘However, since my family are all in India, I would not say no to a double vodka, which I have only recently – and as a result of Monika’s dedicated tutelage – learned to appreciate.’
Woodend grinned, and ordered the drink. When it came, Dr Shastri knocked it back in a single gulp, which left even Monika Paniatowski impressed.
‘My official post-mortem report on Inspector Rutter will not be published until tomorrow,’ Shastri said, placing the glass back on the table and running her index finger briefly across her lips, ‘but I thought that the three of you might like to hear my findings in advance.’
‘It’s very kind of you, lass, but I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Woodend said awkwardly.
‘I, on the other hand, think it is very necessary,’ the doctor countered. ‘Bob Rutter was dying long before his car went over that edge. He had been dying for some time.’
‘What?’ Woodend said.
‘It might not have shown much on the outside, but inside he was riddled with cancer. It was inoperable, and he would have been dead within a few months.’
‘And do you think that he knew?’ Monika Paniatowski asked.
‘He knew,’ Dr Shastri confirmed. ‘On the first day of your investigation, he asked me to recommend a doctor who would give him a complete medical check-up.’
‘So did he already suspect that something was wrong?’ Woodend asked.
‘No, I am fairly sure that he didn’t.’
‘So why did he want a medical at all?’
‘I have no idea,’ Dr Shastri lied. ‘At any rate, I rang the doctor after I had completed my autopsy, and he told me that he had made Bob aware of his condition as soon as he possibly could, which, as it happened, was when he returned from Oxford, last Wednesday morning.’
‘So there was no wonder he looked so bloody rough when I saw him Wednesday lunchtime,’ Woodend said. ‘I thought he was just feelin’ guilty about not pullin’ his weight on the case. But it wasn’t that at all. He was lookin’ rough because he’d just been given a death sentence.’
‘And on Wednesday evening, he asked me if I’d be willing to be Louisa’s guardian, if anything should happen to him,’ Paniatowski said.
‘But … er … despite his illness, there’s no doubt his death was an accident, is there?’ Woodend asked.
‘Do you think there’s a possibility that he committed suicide?’ Dr Shastri replied.
‘No, I … er … don’t think that at all,’ Woodend said.
‘And neither do I,’ Dr Shastri told him. ‘The way his hands were gripping the steering wheel would indicate that he was attempting to regain control of the vehicle until the very last second.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Woodend said. ‘I mean …’
‘You mean it merely confirms the suspicions of your own, professionally trained, eye?’ Dr Shastri suggested.
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Woodend agreed gratefully.
Dr Shastri stood up. ‘I am afraid that in my attempts to demonstrate to you my drinking prowess, I drank rather too much, rather too quickly,’ she said. ‘Now I am feeling rather squiffy, and if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go home and lie down for a while.’
She was not the least bit drunk, Woodend thought admiringly. It was just that she had done the job she’d set out to do, and now she was gracefully withdrawing.
Paniatowski stayed for another ten minutes, then she, too, stood up and said, ‘I have to get back to my … to my … I have to get back to Louisa.’
‘Try that again,’ Woodend ordered her.
‘I … I have to get back to my ward,’ she said sheepishly.
‘And again!’ Woodend said.
‘I have to get back to my daughter,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Aye, you do,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ me an’ young Beresford have to stay here an’ keep knockin’ back the ale until the pair of us are pissy-arsed drunk.’
Dr Shastri was sitting on her living-room sofa, slowly and elegantly smoking a cigarette – which was another unseemly habit that her family back in India would have disapproved of.
She was not alone. Curled up against her was Scheherazade, her fluffy white Persian cat.
Shastri was running through in her mind, for one last time, an account of the last moments of Bob Rutter’s life. But not an official account – nor yet the one she had given Woodend. This was an account of what had actually happened.
‘I shall be frank and open with you,’ she said to the cat, ‘because I know that I can rely on your discretion.’
Now that she was taking notice of it, the cat began to purr softly.
‘Inspector Rutter was a nice man – a thoroughly decent man,’ Shastri said. ‘And an honourable one – which, to a poor misguided Indian like myself, still counts for something. Elizabeth Driver, on the other hand, appears to have been a thoroughly nasty piece of work, who was more than willing, when it was to her own advantage, to use her power as a journalist to destroy other people’s lives. Perhaps she’d been planning to destroy Bob Rutter’s life. Do you think that is likely, Scheherazade?’
The cat gave her a questioning look.
‘You are quite right to doubt that,’ Shastri agreed. ‘It is not at all likely, since his life was already almost over. But what if she had been planning to destr
oy the lives of people he felt close to? How would he have felt about that, my furry princess?’
The cat cocked its head, and placed a demanding paw on her arm.
‘I lied when I said that Inspector Rutter’s hands had been clutching tightly at the steering wheel,’ Shastri continued, gently brushing the cat’s ears. ‘The truth is that they were not on the wheel at all. And there was one other thing, which I did not so much lie about as omit to mention. There were recent scratch marks all down Mr Rutter’s right cheek. And you know all about scratching, don’t you, my little destroyer of furniture?’
Scheherazade emitted a low meow, to indicate that while the stroking was pleasant, it was still not vigorous enough.
‘Of course, I knew immediately what had caused the scratches, because I am, after all, a trained doctor. And I knew that Charlie Woodend would know, too, because he is a trained detective. Which is why I did not allow him to see his old colleague until the undertaker had worked his magic.’
The cat’s purring grew louder, as Shastri worked some magic of her own.
‘Why did I not want him to know the truth, my slayer of mice? It is perhaps a little complicated for your furry brain to understand, but it is a question of life assurance. If Charlie had known the truth, he might have done something which would have cost baby Louisa a great deal of money. He would not have wanted to do it, you understand, but he would have felt compelled to. That is the English way. I, on the other hand, come from a culture which understands that whilst doing what is right and doing what is legal can sometimes be the same thing, it is not always necessarily the case.’
Scheherazade meowed again, and Shastri realized that in telling her story, she had been neglecting her duties.
‘And what happened to the skin which had been ripped from Mr Rutter’s face, you ask?’ she said, increasing her stroke rate again. ‘Why, I found it under Miss Driver’s nails – and immediately destroyed it before it could do any more damage. What a single-minded person Miss Driver must have been, Scheherazade. In her situation, you or I would have panicked. But she was made of sterner stuff, and in the final few seconds of her life, her one thought – her only remaining desire – was to inflict as much damage as she could on the man who was deliberately plunging her to her death.’
Dying Fall Page 26