The Punishment She Deserves

by Elizabeth George

  He set to taking the glasses from the tray that had been placed on the bar. Barbara wasn’t sure how to get to the information she wanted: whether on the night of Druitt’s death, Gary Ruddock had been phoned about binge drinking, which he then had to handle from the police station as best he could do. For it was one thing to confirm that he did indeed at times deal with the binge drinking. It was another to get specific with Jack Korhonen about one particular night without inadvertently tipping Ruddock to the fact she was checking a story that the IPCC had already checked.

  She was about to take a stab in that general direction when Jack Korhonen said, “There’s the man now,” and Barbara turned to see that Gary Ruddock had entered the pub. It seemed that he was something of a regular, for Korhonen said, “You’re later’n usual.”

  Ruddock strolled to the bar, saying, “Couldn’t get Rob to the toilet in time. A shower was required afterwards.”

  “Better you than me,” Korhonen said.

  Ruddock said to Barbara, “Your guv cool down?”

  Before she could reply, Korhonen said, “You two acquainted?”

  Ruddock replied with, “Barbara Havers, she’s Scotland Yard.”

  “Is she indeed?” Korhonen asked, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “Now that’s a pretty detail that hadn’t yet come out in our confab. Mostly, we were speaking of the Plantagenets.”

  “Heavy going, that,” Gary Ruddock said.

  Barbara decided it was time for her to make tracks. She said she was off and if she could get the bill . . . ? Korhonen said, “For Scotland Yard? It’s on me, madam. Come back when you reckon you know which Plantagenet you want to study, eh? Might be I c’n help you. With something.”

  She said right, she would do that, and all the rest. Then to Ruddock, “We’re off back to London in the morning. Thanks for your help.”

  “Anything else I can do?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to hearing the recording of that phone call, by hook or by crook, if you can help there in any way.”

  “Oh. Right. That.” Ruddock nodded and seemed to consider this. He said, “Could be . . . I might be able to arrange for it to be sent to you.”

  “What’s this?” Korhonen asked.

  Ruddock said, “There was a 999 call about that bloke, Ian Druitt. You know. The deacon. The bloke who—”

  “Oh Christ. ’Course. Him.”

  “The sergeant and I were on our way to give a listen to the recording made when she got called back by her guv.” Then he added to Barbara, “I can give it a go.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Much appreciated.” She nodded at them both and left the pub. She’d got very little for her efforts, merely confirmation that binge drinking went on and that Gary Ruddock dealt with it. It was less than nothing, really. If Ruddock managed to get his mittens on the recorded phone call, there might be something in that. But there was nothing else to hang her hopes on.

  Outside, bright lights shone on the tables, chairs, and furled umbrellas that constituted the pub’s outdoor seating area, empty now of anyone. Beyond the short lane leading to that terrace, Quality Square opened. She could see how the noise from outdoor drinkers would be a real irritant to anyone living in the vicinity. The square was small, so noise would echo, and although it was mostly lined with shops, there were accommodations above each of them, in addition to two ancient dwellings. No doubt both the dwellings and the accommodations were occupied by people who didn’t take lightly to pissed college kids conglomerating beneath their windows.

  Barbara left the way she’d come, through the passage and into Castle Square. There, she was no longer alone. She saw the Alsatian first because he was at rest on the pavement a short distance away, in front of a cheese shop along Church Street, his head on his paws. In the shadows of the shop doorway, what looked like a heap of bedding was propped up. It moved lumpishly. An arm emerged. Harry had evidently found his spot for dossing, and Barbara decided to give conversation a go.

  The Alsatian raised his head as she approached. A low growl issued from the dog’s throat. Harry said, “Steady on, Pea,” and changed his position slightly. He’d been leaning up against one wall of the entry since it was too narrow for him to recline. He patted the ground just next to his bedding—Barbara could tell it was a sleeping bag of indeterminate age and indeterminate cleanliness—and he brought forth a torch, which he shone up into her face. As if the torch were a command, Pea began to rise. The man said, “Stay back,” and Barbara halted at once as she didn’t fancy tangling with a dog looking like an extra from a film about Nazis.

  The man said, “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean you. I meant Sweet Pea. She worries about me rather too much. Down, Pea. She looks all right, girl.”

  The man’s voice was a complete surprise. He sounded like a newsreader on the telly: all received pronunciation and the like, the kind of voice rarely heard in these days of displaying one’s roots with pride. Barbara didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

  She said, “You’re Harry.”

  “And my pleasure in speaking to you would be . . . ?”

  “Barbara Havers,” she said. “New Scotland Yard.”

  “Those are words I certainly never expected to hear.” He set down the torch and began to remove himself from the bedding. She told him it was fine by her for him to remain where he was. If she could have a word, she’d be grateful, she told him.

  “Certainly,” he told her. “As long as this isn’t a governmental programme to move individuals off the streets.”

  “Is there a programme to do that?”

  “I haven’t the least idea. But I recognise that this can always happen, political movements being what they are. Some people, I find—and particularly politicians—do so dislike the sight of anyone sleeping rough in city centres and towns. Which is why, frankly, I used to remain in the countryside. Mostly just beyond villages. One sometimes needs to take advantage of shops and post offices and banks and the like.”

  “But no longer?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s no longer the countryside for you?”

  “Alas, no. I’ve become rather too old, and I require a bit more shelter.” He gestured to the recessed doorway. “And, to be frank, my sister likes to know she can contact me in an emergency, although what that emergency would be, I have never been able to ascertain. Please, though, you must allow me to rise. This feels decidedly awkward, and if I continue in this position, I’ll only end up with a crick in my neck.”

  He didn’t wait for permission. He struggled out of the sleeping bag and brushed himself off. He picked up the torch and stood. He was tall and rangy. Closer to him, Barbara could see that he was also shaved, and although his greying hair was too long, it was clean. He switched the torch off. “Saving the battery,” he explained. “And you do look harmless.”

  “I like to think I am. Can we go somewhere to talk?” she asked him.

  He smiled, as she could see from the dim light of a streetlamp some twenty yards away. “Claustrophobe, I’m afraid,” he said regretfully. “It will have to be in the open air.”

  “That’s why you sleep rough? A room with all the windows open won’t do for you?”

  “Unfortunately, no, although it did at one time. And aren’t you a fine detective, Barbara Havers. Look at the information you’ve gleaned from me so quickly. What is your rank, by the way? I’d prefer to eschew the familiarity of referring to you by your given names.”

  “I’m a detective sergeant. The name’s fine, by the way. Barbara, I mean.”

  “Not when one is brought up as I was. Detective Sergeant Havers, I’m Henry Rochester. Harry, as you’ve learned. How might a conversation with me be helpful to you?”

  “I’ve seen you here and there in town, Mr. Rochester. Flogging things in the market as well.”

  “Please.
Harry.”

  “Barbara, then.”

  “Very well. It’s only fair, isn’t it. Barbara. And yes, I do get round a bit. Mostly in the centre of town, as I like the atmosphere. Surrounded by history, you know. One can almost hear the phantom sounds of horses’ hooves as the Yorks come galloping out of the castle.”

  Barbara wasn’t about to go there again. Still, she said, “You’re a historian?”

  “I was once. But that was in the days when an open window would suffice, and I could operate within a classroom. History was my subject.”

  “Must be tough, letting all of that go.”

  “I find that acceptance of life’s vicissitudes is the sole requirement for contentment. My material needs are small, and when they arise, they’re taken care of nicely, as modern banking allows me to access my funds at cash points. Thanks to my father’s fascination with various economical ways to dry one’s hands in public, something of a fortune—if you’ll pardon me for being so crude as to mention money—was amassed and then left to me and to my sister. Catherine would, of course, prefer that I live other than as I do, but she’s able to force her concerns about me into submission. Thus, I go through life unburdened.”

  “And in the fresh air.”

  “And in the fresh air.”

  “Inclement weather isn’t a problem? Winter either?”

  “I am, fortunately, quite robust. I do have an acquaintance here in town who insists I take shelter sometimes in an area beneath his home that’s entirely open to the air, and he also allows me to store my winter belongings there. Heavier clothing, heavier sleeping bag, and the like. Altogether, I consider myself most blessed.”

  They’d strolled together to Castle Square, where several benches allowed one to rest while viewing Ludlow Castle’s crenellated walls, brightly lit as usual. Sweet Pea accompanied them, remaining at Harry Rochester’s side and settling at his feet when he and Barbara sat.

  “May I ask what brings you to Ludlow?” Harry said to her.

  “The death at the police station in March. Have you heard about it?” Barbara had little hope Harry might know about Ian Druitt’s death. She reckoned his newspaper reading was somewhat limited due to his life in the streets. The same went for his telly viewing, she supposed.

  But he surprised her. “Oh yes. Poor man.”

  “Did you know Ian Druitt?” Barbara brought out her fags and offered one to Harry. He said thank you, no, as he’d given them up. But then he changed his mind and said a mere one couldn’t hurt, could it. Barbara assured him that the time he spent in the fresh air no doubt negated the harm of the weed, and she repeated her question once she’d offered Harry her plastic lighter.

  “Not to speak to him at any length greater than it took to refuse his offer of an anorak one night. I did see him about. But I tend to see everyone out and about at one point or another. Some of them I know, others I merely recognise.”

  “Sleeping rough like you are, no one tries to move you along? Town council asking someone to have a word?”

  “You mean the police? No, that hasn’t happened. You must know, I expect, that we have no regular police constables in the town. The police presence is confined only to Officer Ruddock.”

  “The PCSO,” Barbara said. “You know him, then.”

  “As his job is to maintain order in the streets, I know who he is. But I couldn’t say I actually know him.”

  “Does he attempt to move you along?”

  “Only on the odd occasion when I’ve set up in a spot that causes someone to lodge a complaint. I do try to be careful about that, but there are times I misread a location. Restaurants, I find, do not take well to someone dossing in their doorways, even after hours.”

  “Any other spots he moves you away from?”

  “Primary schools don’t go down well. But I expect Mr. Ruddock mostly sees me as harmless as I actually am because it’s generally ‘Hallo there, Harry, hope you’re staying out of trouble,’ and that’s it. Unless, of course, I find a few things that want selling in the market square. I do have to say that Officer Ruddock isn’t pleased when I do that, as I have no license to be a vendor.”

  Barbara sucked in on her fag and nodded at this, saying, “I saw him having a word with you today. But why do you flog things in the market when you don’t need the money?”

  Harry flicked ash onto the cobbles, took another hit, then carefully ground the cigarette out beneath his shoe. He picked the dog-end up and put it into his pocket. “I do so hate to see anything go to waste,” he told her.

  For a moment she thought he meant the cigarette, but then she twigged he was referred to selling items in the market. “Clobber you find, you mean?”

  “People are remarkable when it comes to what they throw away. I rescue it and sell it. Occasionally Officer Ruddock takes exception. He’s an equal opportunity policeman, however. He rousts everyone else who’s selling illegally as well.”

  “Sounds like he doesn’t give anyone real aggro.”

  “He might do, but he’s never to me. I find him a decent bloke with a tiresome job on his hands. I don’t like to make it more difficult than it already is.”

  “Why tiresome?” she asked.

  “I should say tiresome looking. To me, that is. Walking round neighbourhoods in town, checking locks on shop doors, collecting drunken college students in the street, driving them home when they’re too inebriated to be on the road, let alone behind the wheel of a car.”

  “Did you see him on the night Ian Druitt died, by any chance? Officer Ruddock was asked to fetch him to the station, and they would have been coming from the church, St. Laurence’s. This was in March.”

  Harry scratched his head. “That would be difficult for me to recall. Most nights look to me like other nights, and as a result, things blend together. Is there anything that might distinguish this particular night, aside from Mr. Druitt’s death?”

  Barbara thought about this. Harry Rochester was correct, of course. People did not generally recall what occurred on a given night in their lives unless they were creatures of such compulsive habit that any variation would throw them into hopeless disarray. There was a chance, however, that one small detail might help him. She said, “Does it help to know there was binge drinking going on? Officer Ruddock wasn’t able to take care of it as he usually does, so it might well have gone on for some time.”

  Harry said, “Alas. Binge drinking is an unfortunate feature of life in Ludlow. It happens several times a month. Officer Ruddock generally deals with it, but I couldn’t possibly tell you if there was a night he failed to do this.”

  “On this night, it probably would have gone on for a while because he would have had to take care of it by phone.”

  Harry mused on this, and then said, “I can’t say how successful that might have been, to tell you the truth. Generally, he handles bingeing in person.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Now that would be difficult for me to say exactly. I assume he begins by clearing the drinkers out of pubs, after which he moves them off the streets. But the only part of what he does that I’ve actually seen is when he loads one or two or more into his car and drives them home. At least I assume he’s driving them home. I suppose he could be taking them to the police station to . . . what is the term? . . . to dry out. Truthfully, though, I have no way of knowing. There’s the man now, though. You could ask him.”

  Barbara had been facing away from the passage into Quality Square as she talked to Harry. Now she pivoted and saw that Gary Ruddock had just emerged. He saw them and raised a hand in greeting, although he didn’t approach.

  He called out genially, “You two stay out of trouble,” and walked to his car, which he’d left just beyond the entrance to West Mercia College. He climbed inside and drove into Dinham Street, which would, Barbara reckoned, put him onto the route to his home. She found herself
wondering—post helping old Rob shower—what had brought him out on this night at all.

  8 MAY

  VICTORIA

  LONDON

  Isabelle Ardery was aiming for patience as she waited for the assistant commissioner to return from lunch. According to Judi-with-an-i, Sir David had gone to Marylebone, meeting a nameless political powerbroker for a discussion about broking political power. Judi was privy to no additional information. That the assistant commissioner was long past due she was willing to reveal. Traffic, doubtless, was its usual nightmare. She had suggested that Sir David might want to go by Underground. But, well, one knew Sir David.

  Isabelle recognised the implied ellipsis at the end of the sentence. Yes, indeed, she thought. One could hardly visualise David Hillier besmirching any part of himself with a ride via public transport from St. James’s Park station to Baker Street and back again. Since there was no direct route to Marylebone, he would assure himself that it was far better to have a car take him, no matter how late that rendered him.

  She was prickling over much of her body. She knew what it would take to soothe her anxiety about the coming meeting with her superior officer, but she couldn’t afford to do anything other than try to cope. The unexpected phone call from the assistant commissioner on the previous night might have seriously dented her professional reputation. She had to take care of that, and shortly after awakening that morning in Shropshire, she’d come up with the plan to do so.

  She’d begun by dealing with the rest of the vodka. There had been merely three inches left—perhaps a bit more. She downed only half of it, and she’d poured the rest down the bathroom basin. She tossed the bottle in the rubbish, and she told herself that that was it. Being rung up on the previous night by Sir David Hillier had constituted exactly what she needed to put an end to all this drinking nonsense.

  Shortly thereafter, Peace on Earth had knocked her up with the early morning coffee she’d ordered. She drank it all as she dressed, so by the time she met Barbara Havers turning in her room key at the front desk, she felt entirely herself.