“Now why the bloody hell would anybody pretend to be a Scottish gipsy?” Woodend asked himself as he walked back along the towpath.
An ambulance was parked next to the damaged police car. Its light was flashing, coating the watching villagers in a ghostly blue glow one second, banishing them to the darkness the next. Black was doing his best to keep the crowd back, but was meeting with very little success.
It’s not the lad’s fault, Woodend thought. They’ve known him all his life. To them, he’s just little Phil, dressed up in a uniform.
The ambulance men emerged from the store, Downes between them, supine, on a stretcher. The spectators edged forward.
“Clear a space!” Woodend roared. “Give ’em room to work!”
The villagers shuffled reluctantly backwards.
The stretcher was loaded, the ambulance turned round and was gone. The crowd drifted away, leaving the Chief Inspector and the Cadet alone.
“You found the other one, did you, Blackie?” Woodend asked, remembering the blood on his uniform.
“Yes, sir.” Black sounded distressed. “He was at the corner of Harper Street. There was blood . . . all over him . . . an’ . . .”
“Save it till the mornin’,” Woodend said. “Think you’re up to standin’ guard here until I can send for somebody from Maltham?”
“Yes, sir,” Black said determinedly.
“Good lad. When they arrive, you get yourself off home. Have a cup of Horlicks or somethin’ an’ go straight to bed.” He patted the cadet on the shoulder. “An’ don’t dwell on it, son. The first time you see blood’s always the worst.”
“Foley?” Woodend said, sipping at the strong hot tea that Mrs Davenport had brewed.
“He was at home, sir,” Rutter said, “but he took a long time to answer the door. He was either asleep or in a drunken stupor.”
“Was he really pissed,” Woodend asked, “or just actin’?”
“If he was, he’s a bloody good actor.”
“Everybody who lives in a village is a bloody good actor,” Woodend said. “It’s not like the city, you know, where you can just blend into the background. In a village you’re constantly on the stage, an’ if you want to keep any part of yourself to yourself, you’ve got to learn how to put on a show.”
“Shall I go and question him again?” Rutter offered.
“No. If he wasn’t drunk then, he will be by now.” Woodend turned to Davenport. “What about Poole?”
“He wasn’t in the bar, sir. His wife said he had a headache an’ had gone to bed. So I went round to the side door. Had to knock three or four times before he answered. Real nowty he was, wanted to know what right I had to disturb him at that time of night.”
“What was he wearing?” Woodend asked. “Pyjamas an’ a dressin’ gown?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Davenport replied. “He was fully dressed.”
Chapter Eleven
If Constable Sowerbury hadn’t met Constable Highton on the steps of Maltham Central, he might have had a considerably easier day. As it was, they were together when the old desk sergeant noticed them.
“Take your helmet off, Highton,” he ordered.
Highton did, to reveal his quiffed hair style.
“I’ve told you before about that,” the sergeant growled. “Get it cut.”
“It is cut, Sarge – Elvis Presley style.”
He was a cocky bugger, the sergeant thought. Young coppers had had to be much more respectful when he’d joined the Force.
“Elvis Presley style, is it?” he asked. “Well, the last time I saw a picture of Elvis Presley, he had a short back an’ sides.”
“That’s because he’s in the army now.”
“Aye, an’ if you were still in the army, you’d have to look halfway decent too.”
Highton grinned.
“You’re a square, Sarge. You want to get with it.”
If Sowerbury hadn’t sniggered then, he might have got away with it. But he did, and was instantly tarred with the same brush as his friend. The sergeant had been wondering who to give this unpleasant assignment to, and they had provided him with the answer.
“I want to get with it, do I? Well, I’ve got somethin’ for you to ‘get with’. Report to Chief Inspector Woodend in Salton. He’s a nice little job for you.”
“So what exactly happened last night?” Woodend asked.
“We worked for quite a while after you’d gone, sir,” Rutter said, “then we decided to pack it in. Black was the first to leave, then a little while later Davenport went out to––” he stopped, realising that he did not know why Davenport had gone out.
“To shave, sir,” Davenport said. “If I don’t shave last thing at night, my missus won’t let me ne–– I mean, she likes me to shave before I go to bed.”
Woodend thought of chubby Davenport and his roly-poly wife frolicking about in bed like young hippos. It was hard to suppress a smile.
“I just stayed here, sir,” Rutter continued. “Waiting for you.”
“And how did you come across Constable – Yarwood, is it?” Woodend asked Black.
“I saw him at the corner of Harper Street, sir. He was staggerin’. I thought he was drunk at first. It wasn’t till I got close that I saw that he was badly hurt.”
“Did you see anyone else either on Maltham Road or in Harper Street?”
“No, sir.”
No, Woodend thought. In his condition, it would have taken Yarwood at least five minutes to get that far. Plenty of time for the killer to get back to his house – or his boat.
“I brought Yarwood straight back here,” Black said.
“He was nearly delirious,” Rutter added, “babbling on about his eyes and being blind. We left him with Mrs Davenport, I sent Black to the George to get you – you know the rest.”
The killer had been in the salt store, a few hundred yards from where he’d been having his pint, and had slipped through his fingers. Woodend cursed inwardly, then told himself that there was no point in crying over spilt milk.
“I’m goin’ to brief the men at the salt store, then I’m off to the hospital,” he said crisply. “Sergeant Rutter, get on to the Yard. Find out if they’ve come up with anythin’ new on McLeash or the Reverend Gary Ripley. Davenport, I want you on house to house. Check up on where everybody was last night. Black . . .”
“Could I come with you, sir?” the cadet asked. “I’d like to see how Constable Yarwood’s gettin’ on.”
“Aye,” Woodend said. “Why not?”
Highton and Sowerbury stood talking to the constable on guard outside the salt store.
“An’ you’ve been here all night?” Sowerbury asked.
“Since midnight anyway. Apparently, that Chief Inspector from London wants it guardin’ twenty-four hours a day.”
“So why does it need two of us?” Highton wondered.
The answer was provided by the arrival of the Chief Inspector from London.
“I want you to borrow some overalls from Brierley’s men – an’ a couple of them big sieves,” Woodend said. “Then you’re goin’ to sift through that salt.”
Sowerbury gazed at the endless white vista.
“All of it, sir?” he asked, incredulously.
“All of it,” Woodend repeated.
“But what exactly are we lookin’ for, sir?”
“If I knew that,” Woodend replied, “I wouldn’t need you to look for it in the first bloody place.”
Maltham Infirmary was a converted workhouse and looked it. However much they spent on it, Woodend thought as he walked down the long, tiled ward, they would never quite be able to eradicate the age-old smell of desperation and poverty.
Downes’s bed was in the middle of the ward. He was sitting up, pale but cheerful. A white bandage was wrapped in tight layers around his head, so that it looked like a topless turban.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but there’s not much I can tell you. I noticed the store had been broken into,
went inside, an’ blacked out.”
“Any ideas about the feller who hit you?”
“Couldn’t even say for sure it was a man. Could’ve been a woman, a kid even. Young, old, tall, small, I’ve no idea.”
No, and the assailant wouldn’t even have to have been physically strong, not when armed with wire cutters.
Yarwood’s bed was at the far end. His face and hands were swathed in bandages, and he was far less perky than his partner.
“I saw Downes go into the shed, an’ when he didn’t come out again I decided to follow him. Next thing I knew, the windscreen broke an’ there was glass everywhere.”
“What happened then?”
“I was terrified some of it had got in me eyes. I’m . . . I’m a pistol shooter, had a decent crack at the regional championship this year.” If his hands had not been bandaged, Woodend was sure he would have clenched his fists. “There can’t be anythin’ worse than bein’ blind. Nothin’. I tried to get the glass out, but there was so much of it. My eyes . . . my eyes were full of blood. I knew I needed help, so I got out of the car an’ started making my way to the Police House. I suppose I could have gone to the pub – it was closer – but I didn’t think, you see. I was feelin’ dizzy.”
“You were losin’ a lot of blood,” Woodend said.
“Anyway, somebody found me an’ took me down to the police house. He was bloody marvellous, he was.”
Woodend glanced at Black and saw that he was looking out of the window.
“And you didn’t see anythin’ of your attacker?”
“My eyes were full of blood. I thought I’d gone blind.”
“How are your eyes now?” Black asked quietly.
“The doctor said they’ll be all right,” Yarwood said.
He seemed unaware of the fact that he had ever met Black before, and the cadet did not enlighten him.
Woodend bought Black a cup of tea in the hospital canteen. It tasted strongly of disinfectant, but at least it was hot and wet.
“So they saw nothin’,” Woodend said, “but at least we’ve made some progress. I’m sure now that the killer left somethin’ behind. Otherwise why would he have taken the risk of returnin’ to the scene of the crime?” He poured more sugar into his teacup in an attempt to kill the smell of iodine. “Let’s see if you’d make a good detective, Blackie. What’s it likely to be?”
Black pursed his brow in concentration.
“It can’t be anythin’ too big, sir,” he said finally.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, for a start most people don’t usually carry big things around with them, and when they do – if they’ve got a suitcase or somethin’ – they’re not likely to forget ’em. Anyway, if it was big, we’d have found it before now.”
“So it’s small,” agreed Woodend, who was already three steps ahead. “Like what?”
“Somethin’ personal,” Black said. “Somethin’ that could be linked directly to him.”
“Go on.”
“His wallet or drivin’ licence.” Black thought again. “A weddin’ ring or a watch. A medal from the war or one of them St Christopher things.” He waved his hands in the air. “A pipe, a penknife – anythin’ that somebody in the village could identify.”
“Yes,” Woodend said softly. “Somethin’ somebody in the village could identify. An’ I think it’s there, lad, lyin’ under all that salt, just waitin’ for us to find it.”
When Woodend returned to the Police House, Rutter was waiting for him with his preliminary report. The Chief Inspector glanced through it. It was clearly laid out, the various points separated, the ones that Rutter considered important underlined. At the bottom was the heading ‘Speculations and Possible Lines of Investigation’.
He is a smart lad, Woodend thought, an’ he’ll make a good copper now he’s learnin’ a bit of humanity.
“Got anythin’ on Ripley or McLeash yet, Bob?” he asked.
“Nothing on Ripley, sir, but a good deal on Jackie.”
He reached for his notes.
“Just give me a verbal for now,” Woodend said.
“Well, firstly, Somerset House. There were quite a number of John or Jack McLeashes born between 1915 and 1921, but the Yard’s been able to trace them all.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Woodend said.
“Secondly, the boat. Staffordshire Police have located the builder. He remembers McLeash because of the way he paid for it. No bank loans, no builder’s repayment schemes – cash on the nail, five pound notes out of his pocket.”
“Lot of money for a gypsy to get his hands on at one time, isn’t it?” Woodend asked.
“Yes, sir. About his visits to the village: Brierley’s do keep records, but they only retain them for five years. McLeash has been a fairly regular customer, although there have been times when he hasn’t appeared for months. And that complicates the other inquiry. There’ve been no reports of murders on or close to the Trent and Mersey Canal, but as there are periods when we don’t know where McLeash was, that doesn’t prove a thing. He’s had a whole network to choose from. So I’ve asked the Yard to check on other canals, the Grand Union, the Oxford, any that connect with this one.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Woodend said. “I think you’ve just given me enough to make it worth my while payin’ yon bugger another visit.” He looked at his watch. It was just after eleven. “You take Black an’ go an’ find Davenport. I should think he’d appreciate a bit of help on the house to house.”
McLeash looked rough. His eyes were red and he hadn’t shaved. He was boiling a pot of coffee on his small spirit stove.
“Could you use a cup?” he asked. “I know I bloody could.”
Woodend sat where he had the night before. McLeash poured the liquid into two tin mugs and slid one across the table. The Chief Inspector took a sip. It was hot and strong and helped to burn away the taste of the hospital tea.
“So what can I do for ye?” McLeash asked.
Now he was sober, he had better control over his accent – but it was too late.
“Shall we drop the pretence, Mr McLeash,” Woodend suggested.
“I dinna know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Ever read a Sherlock Holmes story called ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’?” Woodend asked.
“No,” McLeash said suspiciously.
“A middle-class lady, the wife of a journalist, is walking through a not very respectable area one day when she sees her husband’s face suddenly appear at the top window of a cheap boarding house. She rushes upstairs to find him gone an’ a hideous beggar with a twisted lip in his place. Since the only way out of the room is through a window, below which runs the Thames, it’s assumed that the beggar has killed the husband an’ thrown him in the river.”
“Wha’s the point?”
“I’m comin’ to that. Holmes uncovers the truth. The journalist an’ the beggar are the same man. He put on the disguise in the first place because he was writin’ a story on beggin’, then found out he could make more money doin’ that than he could in his proper job. But rather than admit who he really was, he went to jail.”
“I’m still not followin’ you,” McLeash said.
“I think you are. You were fitted up for that robbery in Wolverhampton, you said. The cigarettes were planted on you.”
“So they were.”
“If that’s true, then it’s because you’re a gypsy and everybody knows gypsies steal. You fitted the part.”
“True,” McLeash agreed. “So what?”
“They’d probably have taken your word that you were innocent if you’d admitted who you really were, but you kept quiet. Ironic, isn’t it? The man with the twisted lip wouldn’t speak up because he was ashamed of his disguise and wanted to protect his respectable self – and you were ashamed of your respectable self and wanted to protect your disguise.”
“So who exactly am I supposed to be?” McLeash asked.
“I’ve no idea,
” Woodend said. “But you’re certainly not Jackie the Gypsy.”
“I dinna know what you’re talkin’ about,” McLeash said.
Woodend chuckled.
“I must have got you rattled. Your Scots is almost as bad as it was last night. But even without that slip, I’d have got on to you. For a start, you asked to see my warrant card.”
“An’ why shouldn’ I?”
“Because gypsies simply don’t. They’re used to bein’ pushed around by authority, an’ they’ve mastered the art of passive resistance. I’ve never met one who questioned that authority, as you did.
“An’ then there was your impersonation of an army officer. What was it you said? ‘Not the sort of chap we want in the army.’ Very funny – an’ very accurate. But how would a gypsy know what a Home Counties officer sounded like?”
“I go to the pictures a lot,” McLeash said.
“No, you don’t,” Woodend corrected him. “Readin’s your vice. Did you really expect me to believe that a book seller, even a junk dealer, wouldn’t recognise a first edition of Pride and Prejudice as valuable? An’ even if he didn’t, why should a gypsy be interested in buyin’ it? The print’s bloody awful, he’d be much more likely to go for somethin’ modern.”
McLeash smiled.
“Go on,” he said.
“An’ even allowin’ that those two highly improbable things came to pass, do you really expect me to believe that a man in the state you were in last night could sit down and actually absorb Jane Austen – unless he knew the book backwards? Where’s the rest of your library, Mr McLeash?”
McLeash pointed to the drawer underneath the bench on which Woodend was perched.
“You’re sitting on it,” he said, “Jane Austen, Henry Fielding, the complete works of Shakespeare . . .”
And this time his accent was neither Scottish or northern, but solid upper-middle class.
“So, Mr McLeash, if that is your name,” Woodend said, “what’s your game?”
“It is my name,” McLeash said. “A man’s legal name is what he chooses to call himself. You can’t tell me anything about the law, I’ve got a degree in it – from Oxford.”
“Oriel College?” Woodend asked.
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