‘That’s certainly a possibility.’
‘So why didn’t you ask the assistant to reserve it for you?’
‘I suppose I was so angry – both with the thief and my own carelessness – that I didn’t think of that.’
‘But you didn’t show that anger? Nobody noticed you were angry?’
‘I suspect that the nature of our respective professions causes us to show different faces to the world, Chief Inspector,’ Edgar Brunton said. ‘It is perfectly acceptable for a policeman like yourself to be belligerent – it’s sadly what we’ve come to expect of those who enforce the law – but a solicitor is supposed to appear calm at all times, and that becomes a habit.’
‘Where did you get the car from?’ Woodend demanded suddenly.
‘What car?’
‘The one that you used to take Angela Jackson to your hideaway.’
‘Since I did not kidnap the girl, your question is irrelevant.’ Brunton turned his attention to Rutter. ‘You’ve been very quiet, Inspector.’
‘Have I?’ Rutter asked. ‘Maybe that’s because I was listening to what you had to say.’
‘But surely, by now, it must be time for you to take on the appearance of the good cop.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you do! The first phase of the interrogation involves the chief inspector throwing out accusations left, right, and centre, until he’s almost foaming at the mouth. Then we come to the second phase, where you step in with a more gentle, reassuring manner. And I’m so grateful to you for this softer approach that I immediately spill all the beans that I’ve been holding back from bad-cop Charlie. That’s almost guaranteed to work.’
‘This isn’t a game, you know,’ Woodend said angrily.
‘I do know that,’ Brunton agreed. ‘That’s why I’ve been trying to help you in the only way that I can – which is to make it perfectly clear that you’re talking to the wrong man. But you’re not interested in that, are you? You like playing games! Playing games is what justifies your existence. So I’ve given up on you, Chief Inspector, and knowing – as I do – that within twenty-four hours you’ll be issuing me a grovelling apology, I’ve decided to extract as much fun out of my present unfortunate circumstances as I possibly can.’
‘And if a child dies while you’re having your fun?’
‘Then that’s your fault, rather than mine, because instead of wasting your time putting me through the third degree, you should be out there looking for the real kidnapper.’
Woodend was the first to step out of the interview room and into the corridor, but Rutter was close on his heels.
‘Shut the door behind you,’ Woodend said.
Rutter did as he’d been instructed, then said, ‘Well, what do you think about the—’
Woodend raised his hand to quiet his inspector. ‘Can you give me a minute, Bob?’ he asked.
‘No problem,’ Rutter told him.
But it was more than a minute he needed. For five minutes, Woodend prowled up and down the corridor like a wounded angry lion. Then, taking exception to a piece of the corridor wall which appeared to be exactly the same as every other piece of corridor wall, he threw a punch at it with so much force that the plaster around the point of impact cracked.
‘Did that help?’ Rutter asked sympathetically.
‘No, I can’t really say it did,’ Woodend admitted, looking down at his bruised and bleeding knuckles.
‘If you’d like me to take over the questioning for a while …’ Rutter suggested.
‘Brunton’s such an arrogant bastard!’ Woodend said, glancing back up the corridor, at the closed interview-room door. ‘He’s a supercilious arrogant cocky bastard!’
‘He’s certainly all of that,’ Rutter agreed readily. ‘But do you think he’s a guilty bastard?’
‘Oh, he’s guilty, right enough,’ Woodend replied. ‘I’m convinced of that. I can smell it on him. I can see it written in big letters above his head. But he thinks I’m never goin’ to be able to prove he’s guilty – an’ I don’t know why he should be so confident of that.’
‘Probably because, as you’ve just pointed out yourself, he’s an arrogant bastard.’
‘There’s more to it than simple arrogance,’ Woodend told him. ‘There has to be. He knows somethin’ that we don’t.’
A uniformed constable appeared at the other end of the corridor. ‘Dr Stevenson’s arrived, sir,’ he said.
‘Where is he?’
‘Waiting for you in your office.’
Woodend nodded. ‘Good!’
Stevenson’s arrival was more than welcome, he told himself. Because perhaps the doctor could succeed where he’d failed – perhaps a trained shrink like him would find a way of getting under Brunton’s skin.
Dr Martin Stevenson was sitting in what was usually Monika Paniatowski’s chair. Woodend, observing him through the window, thought the doctor was looking a little nervous at the idea of helping the police on such a serious case – but that he was also rather excited at the prospect.
When the chief inspector opened the door and entered the office, the doctor jumped up from the seat as if he were on a spring, and said, ‘Have you made any progress?’
‘You could say that,’ Woodend told him. ‘We’ve got a suspect. He’s in his late thirties, a successful professional man with a family. He’s highly respected in the community, an’ has no criminal record we’ve been able to uncover. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s possible he may actually be what he appears to be – a pillar of the community,’ Stevenson said cautiously.
‘But there’s nothin’ in what I’ve just told you that would rule him out of the picture?’
‘Nothing at all. It’s fairly rare for the type of person I’ve studied to be actually married, but the psychological make-up of most of my subjects could certainly be able to accommodate marriage.’
‘I’d like you to talk to him,’ Woodend said. ‘Would you be willin’ to do that, Dr Stevenson?’
‘More than willing. In fact, I’m sure I’d find the whole experience fascinating.’
‘Well, then …’
‘But I must warn you that because of my professional code of ethics, I can’t even go near him without his explicit agreement. And how likely do you think it is that he will agree?’
‘Very likely,’ Woodend said. ‘Especially if I promise him that an all-clear from you would be his ticket out of here.’
‘Are you … are you prepared to make – and keep – such a promise?’ Stevenson wondered.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Don’t you … er … think that might be a little risky?’
‘Not if you’re as good at your job as I believe you to be.’
Stevenson looked troubled. ‘You’re putting a lot of responsibility on my shoulders, you know,’ he said.
‘They’re broad enough,’ Woodend told him.
Stevenson hesitated for a second or two, then said, ‘Very well. If he’s prepared to see me, I’m more than willing to see him.’
‘Good man!’ Woodend said enthusiastically. ‘You stay here, while I go an’ talk to Brunton, an’ then we’ll set up—’
‘Wait a minute!’ Stevenson exclaimed. ‘Did you say your suspect’s name is Brunton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Edgar Brunton?’
‘That’s the man. Do you know him?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Stevenson replied heavily. ‘And I’m afraid it won’t be possible for me to see him.’
‘But you were willin’ enough a minute or two ago,’ Woodend said. ‘What’s suddenly changed your mind?’
Stevenson folded his arms, and kept silent.
What the hell was going on? Woodend wondered. And then, suddenly, he thought he knew!
‘Tell me, doctor, is lecturin’ at the university all you do to earn a crust?’ he probed.
‘No,’ Stevenson said, with some reluct
ance.
‘Then how else do you earn money?’
‘I have a small – very limited – private practice.’
‘An’ is Edgar Brunton one of your patients in this small – very limited – private practice?’
‘If he was, I couldn’t tell you.’
‘So you’re not sayin’ that he’s not?’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘What are you treatin’ him for?’ Woodend demanded. ‘Is it the kind of mental condition which might lead him to kidnap an’ torture young girls?’
‘You’re making this very difficult for me,’ Stevenson said.
‘It isn’t exactly a picnic for me, either,’ Woodend told him. ‘A kid’s life is at stake, an’ all I’m askin’ you to do is help me save it.’
‘I know that.’
‘So if you won’t talk to Brunton directly, at least give me some kind of clue as to what to do next.’
‘That isn’t possible,’ Stevenson said, looking more and more distressed with every second that passed.
‘Since you know all about him, you’ll probably have a good idea of the sort of place he’d be likely to hide the girl,’ Woodend persisted. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘There’s nothing I can say on the matter.’
‘All right, then, at least give me a clue about what he’s likely to do if I release him,’ Woodend pleaded. ‘Will he kill the girl at his first opportunity? Or is he likely to decide to keep her alive – because he’ll be convinced we’ll never catch him? I need answers, Doc. I desperately need answers right now!’
‘I know you do,’ Stevenson said, regretfully. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t give them to you.’
‘Can’t you, by God!’ Woodend demanded, as the anger he had been keeping a fairly tight lid on finally bubbled its way to the surface. ‘Well, in that case, Doctor Stevenson, I’ve no choice but to arrest you for obstructin’ the police in the course of their inquiries. What have you got to say about that?’
Stevenson sighed heavily. ‘I suppose you’re only doing your duty as you see it,’ he said.
‘Bloody right, I am,’ Woodend agreed.
‘And I hope you’ll accept that I am similarly bound to do mine, as I see it,’ Stevenson continued.
Woodend shook his head. ‘No, I don’t accept that,’ he said.
‘But surely …’
‘Listen to me, doctor,’ Woodend urged. ‘Whatever decisions I’ve made today, I’ll be able to live with in the future. But do you really – honestly – believe that you’ll be able to live with yours?’
Twelve
The police convoy was made up of three unmarked vehicles, each carrying two detectives. It entered the grounds of the Brunton house through a pair of ornamental gates, and from there proceeded up a long driveway, which was laid with expensive stone slabs, rather than being covered in ‘common’ asphalt. There were mature hardwood trees on each side of the driveway, and at the end of it was a house which, even by the standards of the Whitebridge rich, was large – and perhaps even just a little ostentatious.
Monika Paniatowski, who was in the lead car, took in the scene for a few moments and then turned to her driver. ‘The Bruntons seem to place a high value on their privacy,’ she said.
‘Don’t they just,’ Beresford agreed.
‘Which means our arrival will be about as welcome as a nun’s in a knocking shop.’
They had reached the turning circle in front of the house. Beresford parked with the care and attention of someone who had only recently passed his driving test, and the other two cars pulled in behind him.
There were six steps leading up to a terrace which ran the length of the house’s frontage and before Paniatowski had even had time to open her door, a woman appeared at the head of them. She was wearing an elegant cashmere suit, and her elaborate hairstyle was so highly lacquered that it looked as if it might be possible to bounce billiard balls off it. The picture of her on Brunton’s desk had not lied, Paniatowski noted – because for all her expensive accessories, she really was rather plain.
‘The lady of the manor,’ Paniatowski said to Beresford. ‘Do you want to show her the warrant, or shall I?’
Looking up at the woman, and seeing the stony gaze she was aiming in their direction, Beresford grimaced. ‘If it’s all the same to you, Sarge, I’d rather you did it,’ he said.
Paniatowski got out of the car, and walked towards the house. The woman on the terrace made no move to meet her halfway, but then the sergeant had never expected that she would.
It was as Paniatowski’s right foot reached the third step to the terrace that Mrs Brunton held out a warning hand to indicate that this invasion of her property had gone far enough.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘Isn’t it enough that you’ve taken my husband into custody? Have you come to arrest me as well?’
‘No, madam, we haven’t,’ Paniatowski replied evenly. She had a piece of paper in her hand, and now she held it out for inspection. ‘I have here a warrant to search these premises.’
Mrs Brunton bristled. ‘I simply cannot allow that,’ she said.
‘I’m afraid you really have no choice in the matter, madam,’ Paniatowski told her.
‘Your chief constable, Henry Marlowe, has dined at this house,’ Mrs Brunton said, speaking over Paniatowski’s shoulder and addressing her remarks not at the female sergeant with the warrant, but at the five male detective constables who were standing and waiting at the base of the steps. ‘In fact, he’s dined with us a number of times.’
‘Good for him,’ Paniatowski said, thinking, even as she spoke, how much she could sound like Woodend on occasion. ‘But you see, madam, where Mr Marlowe chooses to feed his face is irrelevant. It wouldn’t matter to me if he was your long-lost brother come back from the dead – because the plain fact is that this is a legally executed warrant, which entitles me to search the house. And that’s just what I’m going to do.’
‘And if I refuse to allow you to enter my home?’
‘We’re looking for a girl who may be dying in excruciating agony even as we stand here arguing the toss,’ Paniatowski pointed out.
‘I understand that – but it has nothing to do with my husband.’
‘We think it does. And if you try to stand in my way while I’m executing this warrant, I’ll have to have you removed. Forcibly, if necessary.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Mrs Brunton said scornfully.
Paniatowski took two more steps forward, stopping just short of the terrace.
‘We’re prepared to follow whatever course is necessary to get the little girl safely back to her family,’ she said in a voice which had become a harsh whisper. ‘And if I thought, for one second, that stuffing your head down the toilet would even slightly increase our chances of that, you’d be tasting shit right now. So, please, Mrs Brunton, don’t try to tell me what I would – or wouldn’t – dare to do.’
‘This is an outrage!’ the other woman said. ‘I shall complain to the highest authorities.’
‘You do that,’ Paniatowski told her. ‘But while you’re working out which of your many influential friends you should contact first, my team will be searching the house.’
It was an hour into his renewed interrogation of Edgar Brunton that Woodend had realized he was faced with two stark choices. The first choice was to break off the session again, and step out into the corridor until he’d cooled off. The second was to stay where he was, which, he recognized, would almost inevitably lead to him wringing his suspect’s bloody neck. He had wisely chosen the former option, and it was as he was pacing up and down outside the interview room that he saw the red-faced man in the muted grey suit striding angrily towards him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Charlie?’ Superintendent Crawley demanded. ‘Whatever could have possessed you to treat Edgar Brunton as if he were a suspect in the Angela Jackson abduction?’
‘He is a suspect, sir,’ Woodend
said. ‘In fact, he’s the prime suspect.’
‘And on what do you base this amazing conclusion of yours?’
‘On information gathered during the course of my investigation.’
‘Don’t give me any of that vague official-sounding crap!’ Crawley exclaimed angrily. ‘You’re not talking to a civilian here, remember. I’m your boss. I want all the details. And I want them now.’
Woodend outlined his evidence.
‘But you’ve got practically nothing!’ Crawley blustered, when he finished. ‘It’ll never stand up in court. Not for a minute!’
‘By the time it finally gets to court, I’ll have more,’ Woodend promised. ‘Besides, while I’d love to see Brunton go down for a long time, that isn’t my main concern at the moment.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Crawley asked astonished. ‘Then – in the name of God – what the bloody hell is?’
‘Gettin’ the girl back alive.’
Crawley glanced nervously up and down the corridor, as if to make sure that their conversation had not been overheard, and his part of it misunderstood – or possibly understood only too well.
‘Ah yes. Of course. Getting the girl back alive,’ he said feebly. ‘That’s the first priority for all of us. It goes without saying.’
‘I’m pleased to see that we appear to be on the same side, sir,’ Woodend said.
‘But allowing for the fact that it is our main priority, I’m far from convinced you’re going the right way about achieving it.’
‘Then what is the right way?’ Woodend wondered. ‘How would you do it, sir?’
‘Well, for a start, I wouldn’t put as much faith in this shrink as you seem to be doing.’
‘I’m convinced he’s right,’ Woodend said stubbornly.
‘Because Edgar Brunton fits the profile he gave you?’
‘Partly.’
‘So if he’d described an entirely different kind of man, would you have arrested an entirely different kind of man?’
‘Not unless there’d been other evidence pointin’ to him.’
‘Evidence!’ Crawley said scornfully.
‘Doesn’t it strike you as a little strange that Edgar Brunton only reported his stolen wallet to you several hours after it had supposedly gone missing?’ Woodend asked.
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