A Long Time Dead

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Well, that is nice for you,’ Paniatowski said sarcastically. ‘And is it your intention, sir, at some point in the distant future, to tell me why you’re looking for them?’

  ‘If I’m right about them, that should be very obvious to you,’ Woodend said, opening a third box. ‘An’ if I’m wrong, then we might as well just pack our bags an’ go home.’

  ‘Which is what I thought we were planning to do anyway,’ Paniatowski commented.

  Woodend opened a fourth box, looked inside, and let out a low whoop of triumph.

  ‘If I’d have been in Special Agent Grant’s shoes – which is to say, workin’ from Special Agent Grant’s brief – I wouldn’t have left these pictures around for just anybody to see them,’ he said.

  ‘You wouldn’t have?’

  ‘I most definitely would not.’ Woodend spread out the photographs on the table top. ‘Of course, to be fair to the man, he can’t really have been expected to see the need to get rid of them. An’ why is that?’

  Monika Paniatowski sighed. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ she said, resignedly. ‘Why is it?’

  ‘Because he wasn’t privy to my little chat with Abe Birnbaum last night. So he doesn’t know everythin’ that I know. None of them do.’

  ‘None of who do?’

  ‘Just as I thought!’ Woodend said, ignoring the question and devoting his whole attention to examining the photographs. ‘Just as I remember them!’

  The excitement in his voice was so evident – and so intense – that Paniatowski began to wonder if perhaps the strain of an investigation in which he’d been so personally involved hadn’t been too much for him.

  ‘Take a look at these four shots in particular, Monika,’ Woodend urged. ‘Take a close look, and tell me exactly what you see.’

  Paniatowski did as she’d been instructed. ‘I see the reconstructed torso,’ she said.

  ‘Look again!’

  She did. But the rib cage had not suddenly rearranged itself to give her a vital clue, and what she was looking at was still just bones.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say,’ she confessed.

  ‘An’ you call yourself a detective sergeant,’ Woodend said, with a good-natured exasperation which had been sadly missing since the start of this case. ‘Do you notice anythin’ special about this torso, Monika?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t say that I do.’

  ‘Well, exactly!’ Woodend said. ‘There is nothin’ special about it. Now do you see what I’m on about?’

  The perplexed expression slowly left Paniatowski’s face, and a look of excitement – almost equal to Woodend’s own – replaced it.

  ‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Now I do see!’

  Twenty-Seven

  The nearest public telephone phone box to Haverton Camp was on the edge of Haverton Village, and as luck would have it, it was neither occupied nor had it been vandalized.

  ‘You really think that the telephone lines back at the camp might be tapped?’ Paniatowski asked Woodend, as they climbed out of the Wolseley.

  ‘I’m almost certain they’re bloody tapped,’ Woodend told her. ‘Grant will have wanted to know the way our minds were workin’ at every stage of the investigation, an’ a tap on both our phones was one of the ways he could have found out.’

  And another way was to come to my caravan in the middle of the night, and climb into bed with me, Paniatowski thought bitterly.

  ‘He won’t have learned much which will have caused him serious concern,’ Woodend continued. ‘He’ll know Bob Rutter went to Coutes’s flat, but he’ll probably assume that was a waste of effort – which is what I thought it was, until all the other pieces of the puzzle started to fit together.’

  ‘The whole thing still sounds just incredible to me,’ Monika Paniatowski confessed.

  ‘Aye, to me an’ all, if I’m honest,’ Woodend admitted, ‘but as Sherlock Holmes once said, when you’ve eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth.’

  He reached into the voluminous pocket of his hairy sports coat, and brought out a handful of loose coins which, if he’d been at home, Joan would long ago have removed for the sake of the coat’s shape.

  ‘You make the first call,’ he told Paniatowski. ‘An’ do all you can to be persuasive.’

  ‘Would you like me to tell him I’m making the phone call stark naked?’ Paniatowski asked tartly.

  ‘Aye – if it’ll help,’ Woodend replied. ‘In fact, if you think a bit of method actin’ will make your performance any more convincin’, you could strip off before you even begin to dial the number.’

  Paniatowski gave him a look which would have frozen most men in their tracks, but she was not in the least surprised when Woodend didn’t even seem to notice.

  When he was like this, she thought – when he had the scent of the chase in his nostrils – the rest of the world did not really exist for him.

  She stepped into the booth, dialled Dunethorpe CID, and asked to be connected to Detective Chief Inspector Baxter.

  ‘Monika!’ Baxter exclaimed, when he came on to the line. ‘Where are you? I’ve been ringing and ringing, but nobody at your headquarters seems to know how to get in touch with you. And, apparently, you felt absolutely no desire at all to get in touch with me.’

  He sounded hurt, Paniatowski thought. But how much more wounded would he have been if he’d known about what had gone on between her and Special Agent Grant?

  It would be his own fault if he did get hurt, she told herself. He’d been the one who’d pursued her, not the other way around. And she made no promises to him – given no commitments. So he simply didn’t have the right to think he had any sort of hold over her.

  ‘Monika?’ Baxter said, worriedly.

  ‘I’ve been working on a case down south,’ she said.

  ‘Where down south?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. It’s all very hush-hush, you see. But I should be back in Whitebridge in a couple of days, three days at the most, and – if you like – we can get together then.’

  ‘You sound like you’re doing no more than throwing me a bone,’ Baxter told her.

  Yes, I do, don’t I? Paniatowski thought.

  ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that at all,’ she said. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing you. But before I can come home, I need to get shut of this bloody awful case. And that’s precisely why I ringing you now – because I need a favour from you to help me close it.’

  ‘I see,’ Baxter said.

  ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic about the idea of helping me,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Of course I’m enthusiastic,’ Baxter replied, without much conviction. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?

  ‘You just didn’t seem—’

  ‘I’m absolutely over the moon about it! I feel as if all my birthdays have come at once!’

  ‘There’s no need to overdo it,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Just tell me what the favour is,’ Baxter told her.

  ‘It’s nothing, really. Remember you told me that you’d done some training with the FBI in Washington?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘And did you get on well with the people you met over there?’

  ‘Yes, as matter of fact, I did.’

  ‘Well enough to persuade one of them to do you a similar kind of favour to the one you’ll be doing for me?’

  ‘Probably,’ Baxter said. ‘Of course, I’ve not actually slept with any of them, but I suppose it is just conceivable that they’ll do it because they like me just for myself.’

  Woodend paced up and down outside the phone box, puffing furiously on a Capstan Full Strength.

  He should have thought of all this earlier, he fretted. He should have made the mental connections the night before, while he was talking to Abe Birnbaum. Now, with the Americans already starting to prepare for their return to the States, he might come up with the
answer too late.

  Which wouldn’t be a bad thing, Charlie, a nagging voice in the back of his head said.

  Wouldn’t it? he wondered.

  No, the voice said. Because even if you find the answer, you’ve still no idea what you’re going to do with it.

  Monika Paniatowski stepped out of the phone booth, and Woodend took her place.

  ‘Sometimes, the things you get me to do make me feel like a real bitch,’ Monika said, over her shoulder – and with a hint of bitterness. ‘But perhaps I shouldn’t blame you for that. Perhaps being a real bitch is just what comes naturally to me.’

  We’ll sort it out later, Monika, Woodend thought. Whatever your problem is, I promise you we’ll sort it out later.

  He picked up the phone and dialled a London number.

  ‘I thought I might be hearing from you, sir, but I never expected it would be so soon,’ Bob Rutter said.

  ‘Aye, well, neither did I, but events have been movin’ at the speed of an express train down here,’ Woodend told him. ‘Have you ever heard of a firm called New Elizabethan Properties?’

  ‘They’re a construction company, aren’t they?’ Rutter asked. ‘I’ve seen their signs on some office blocks and public buildings in the centre of London, but I think they mainly concentrate on building houses for the moderately prosperous. What made you ask about them?’

  ‘Their head office is somewhere in London, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it is.’

  ‘Well, I’d like you to pay it a visit.’

  Twenty-Eight

  The man in the pinstriped suit had reached that stage in his life when he was about to shed the mantle of youth, yet was not quite ready to assume the cloak of middle age. He had introduced himself to Bob Rutter as the senior project manager for New Elizabethan Properties, and then – almost as an afterthought – had added that his name was Brian Bosworth. He had shaken Rutter’s hand with practised firmness and invited him to sit down. That had all been five minutes ago, and since then he had not stopped talking.

  ‘Quality, that’s the key,’ Bosworth was saying. ‘New Elizabethan is committed to bringing quality housing to all parts of the country. The old Haverton Camp is just one of our many exciting new projects which are aimed at making London-style sophistication available to everyone.’

  He was nervous, Bob Rutter thought. The man was definitely very nervous.

  ‘I was asking about your surveyor,’ he prompted.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Bosworth said.

  ‘You used three surveyors on the Haverton Camp job – but only one of them was actually from this office. When I phoned, I told you he was the one who I wanted to talk about.’

  ‘You’re quite right about where the surveyors came from,’ Bosworth gabbled. ‘We like to use local people whenever we can, you see. Gives them a sense of participating in the project. Makes them aware that we really do care about their interests and desires.’ He paused, and grinned weakly. ‘Got rather carried away there, didn’t I? Sort of missionary zeal, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Rutter agreed sourly. ‘And as long as you’re talking about the company in general terms, you don’t need to talk about the surveyor in particular, do you?’

  ‘I hope you don’t think that I—’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Rutter snapped.

  ‘Nicholas Bosworth.’

  ‘Really? That’s the same surname as yours. Is it a coincidence? Or is he, perhaps, a relation of yours?’

  ‘He’s my younger brother.’

  ‘And where will I find your younger brother?’

  ‘I’d rather he wasn’t disturbed.’

  ‘I’ll bet you’d rather he wasn’t. But you see, what you want or don’t want is of no particular interest to me. You’ve already wasted nearly half an hour of valuable police time – and that’s a prosecutable offence. So why not tell me where I can find him, and save yourself any future trouble?’

  ‘He’ll probably be at his flat,’ Bosworth said, defeatedly.

  ‘At his flat? At this time of the day? What’s the reason for that? Is he on holiday or something?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘He’s … er … on sick leave.’

  ‘Is he now? And what’s his problem? Has he broken his leg? Or has he been struck down with the bubonic plague?’

  ‘His problems are more of a psychological nature. It came as quite a shock to him, discovering a body at Haverton Camp like that. It was such a pity. He’d been doing so well before then, and it set him right back.’

  It was clear from the expression on Brian Bosworth’s face that the moment he’d uttered that last sentence of his, he bitterly regretted it. But it was already too late.

  ‘Set him back to what?’ Rutter demanded.

  ‘Nick’s … er … had a few problems?’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to—’

  ‘Women? Drink? Drugs?’

  ‘No, nothing as extreme as that. He likes to have the odd flutter on the horses.’

  ‘What you’re trying to say is that he’s a compulsive gambler.’

  ‘Was a compulsive gambler. He hasn’t placed a bet for months,’ Brian Bosworth said, unconvincingly.

  ‘How did he happen to be given the surveying job at Haverton Camp?’ Rutter wondered.

  ‘He … er … asked for it.’

  ‘Did he now? Isn’t that interesting!’

  ‘But there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for his asking to be sent there.’

  ‘Then I’d certainly like to hear it.’

  ‘The company gives quite a generous allowance to staff whose work takes them outside London, and if you live frugally while you’re away, you can save most of it. Nick built up quite a lot of debts when he was gambling, and this was one way of helping to pay them off.’

  ‘As convincing fairy tales go, I rate that somewhere between Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the Three Little Pigs,’ Rutter said. ‘He’s told you all about it, hasn’t he?’

  ‘All about what?’

  ‘Hasn’t he?’

  Brian Bosworth nodded his head mournfully. ‘He had to tell someone,’ he said. ‘He just had to. And who else would he choose to confide in but his big brother?’

  ‘When did he tell you? Was it before he went to the camp? Or did he leave it until after he came back?’

  ‘It was after he came back. If he’d told me what he was planning to do before he left, I’d never have let him go.’

  ‘I’d like his address,’ Rutter said.

  ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘If you don’t give it to me, somebody else will.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Bosworth said defeatedly, writing out the address on a slip of paper. ‘You won’t be too rough on him, will you?’

  ‘That’s up to him,’ Rutter said. ‘And here’s a word of warning. If you ring and let him know him that I’m on the way – and if, because of that, he does a runner before I arrive – I’ll have the local bobbies swarming all over this building within the hour. And your bosses wouldn’t like that, would they?’

  ‘No,’ Bosworth agreed gloomily. ‘I’m sure they wouldn’t.’

  The Rt. Hon. Douglas Coutes was looking across the table at Jack Braithwaite, his chief political aide. They were in the trailer which, for the previous few days, had officially been listed as Coutes’s ‘accommodation’, though, in reality, it had been no more than a luxury, unbarred, prison cell.

  It was fascinating to observe how rapidly situations could change, the Minister thought. Only a few hours earlier, there had been a couple of grim-faced American military policemen standing guard outside this trailer, but now there was no sign of them at all. Less than one hour previously, the whole ‘trailer city’ had been intact, but now it was being broken up, as several of the trailers were loaded on to big trucks on the first stage of their journey back to the USA.

  But
the changes in Coutes’s own standing were even more interesting. The Prime Minister, previously too busy to talk to him, had sent a message which said that, after his ordeal, he must go down to Chequers for a weekend’s relaxation. Cabinet colleagues, who had been impossible to contact for several days, had begun to ring him up to offer their congratulations. And Jack Braithwaite, conveniently confined to his bed for the last seventy-two hours with a virulent case of flu, had made a sudden dramatic recovery, and driven straight down to the camp.

  ‘Will you travel back to London with me, Minister?’ Braithwaite asked. ‘Or should I have a car and driver sent down to pick you up?’

  ‘Neither,’ Coutes told him. ‘I’ll drive myself back. I’ll probably do it overnight. I like driving in the dark.’

  ‘Are you sure, Minister?’ Braithwaite said, apparently almost overcome with concern for his beloved master.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be sure?’ Coutes asked.

  ‘Well, you’ve been under considerable stress.’

  ‘I’m always under stress. Stress is built into my job. And I positively thrive on it.’

  ‘That’s true. But you’ve never been under this particular kind of stress before. There seemed, it has to be said, to be a great deal of damning evidence against you, and—’

  ‘Tell me, Braithwaite, did you think I’d actually be charged with the murder?’ Coutes interrupted.

  The other man flushed. ‘Of course not, Minister.’

  ‘The truth, Braithwaite,’ Coutes said sternly. ‘I want the truth.’

  The aide’s flush deepened. ‘I’m afraid I thought it was almost inevitable, Minister.’

  ‘And so you, as one of my most loyal civil servants – perhaps even the most loyal – were greatly stressed at the thought of losing your master?’

  ‘Naturally, Minister.’

  ‘I, on the other hand, knowing myself to be completely innocent, had no such worries. I was sure I would be vindicated – as indeed, I was.’ Coutes paused. ‘Do you think we might talk about the tasks ahead of us, now?’

  ‘Of course, Minister.’

  ‘I want you to arrange for the talks on the American military bases to resume the day after tomorrow. Let the General know – informally – that I am open to further compromise.’