Death Watch

by Sally Spencer

  ‘There have been some wild rumours flying about, to the effect that the hero of the hour – Detective Chief Inspector Charles Woodend – is to be brought before a disciplinary board,’ Marlowe said.

  Woodend looked around him, wondering if there was another DCI with the same name in the room.

  ‘Nothing could be further from the truth,’ Marlowe continued. ‘As some of you – especially the members of the local press – may know, Mr Woodend has spent the last six months serving this police force in a purely administrative capacity. This, I need not add, was entirely at his own request. He felt, and I agreed with him, that after so many years at the sharp end of policing, he needed a period to recuperate and reflect in more tranquil surroundings.’

  Does he seriously think I’m goin’ to let him get away with this crap? Woodend wondered.

  ‘Mr Woodend’s work while in administration has been truly excellent,’ the chief constable lied, ‘but when this current serious case broke, I felt the need to call on his investigative expertise again, and he agreed to provide it. He did not “front” the investigation, as I believe the current popular term would have it, but any of you who have covered his previous cases will have felt his driving force and guiding hand behind the more visible presence. With the successful conclusion of the case, DCI Woodend has now agreed that the time is right to return to his old job in the CID. Needless to say, I am delighted by his decision.’ Marlowe paused, and gulped in a little much-needed air. ‘And now, I expect Mr Woodend would like to say a few words himself,’ he concluded.

  What the bloody hell is goin’ on here? Woodend asked himself. Have I finally lost my bloody mind?

  The chief constable bent down, so that his mouth was almost touching Woodend’s ear. ‘Happy now, you bastard?’ he hissed.

  Woodend and Rutter were sitting at their usual table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey. Paniatowski, though absent, had promised to put in an appearance before closing time.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Woodend said, for perhaps the tenth time. ‘An’ if I live to be a hundred, I’ll still never understand it. Marlowe was so intent on bustin’ me. An’ given the number of regulations I’ve broken this time – plus the fact that I assaulted a superior officer – he could probably have got away with it. Then, all of a sudden, I’m not just reprieved, but I’m a bloody hero. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘There’s a lot of things that don’t make any sense,’ Rutter replied. ‘Like the fact that neither Crawley nor Mortlake have been seen since this afternoon. There’s a rumour going the rounds that they’re both being transferred, though no one seems to know why.’

  ‘Well, it can’t be for incompetence,’ Woodend said. ‘If they were bein’ moved for that, they’d have gone long ago.’

  Rutter glanced down at his watch. ‘Better go and give the nanny a ring, just to let her know I’m going to be a bit late,’ he said.

  Woodend grinned. ‘Well, she’s certainly got you well house-trained,’ he said.

  Paniatowski appeared in the main doorway, just as Rutter disappeared into the corridor. She was holding a newspaper in her hand.

  ‘This is the first edition of tomorrow morning’s Daily Gazette,’ she said, slapping the paper down on the table. ‘It came in the nine o’clock train from London, so you won’t have seen it yet.’

  ‘Quite right, and I can think of no reason why I should want to look at that particular rag now,’ Woodend said.

  ‘You will when you’ve read the article on the front page,’ Paniatowski said confidently.

  Woodend had finished reading the article by the time Rutter returned from using the phone, and had folded the newspaper up in front of him.

  ‘Something the matter?’ Rutter asked, sensing a change in the atmosphere at the table.

  ‘Have you, by any chance, spoken to your friend Elizabeth Driver today?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘That’s not really any of your business, sir,’ Rutter said, slipping into the defensive position he always adopted when Driver’s name came up.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ when you were talkin’ to her, did you happen to discuss the Mary Thomas case?’

  ‘It’s about time you started to understand that Liz is perfectly capable of wearing different hats at different times,’ Rutter said, ‘and that before I tell her anything about my work, I make sure she’s wearing her “friend” hat, rather than her “reporter” hat.’

  ‘Her “friend” hat!’ Paniatowski repeated, with some disgust.

  ‘You don’t know her as she is now,’ Rutter said. ‘She’s changed a great deal since you last met.’

  ‘So you did discuss the case with her?’ Woodend persisted.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Rutter said defiantly.

  ‘An’ when would that have been, exactly?’

  ‘An hour or so before your first interview with Mr Marlowe. I was very disturbed about what was probably going to happen to you. I needed to talk to someone about it, and I knew Liz wouldn’t abuse my confidence.’

  ‘Wrong!’ Woodend said.

  ‘Wrong?’ Rutter repeated.

  Woodend unfolded the newspaper. ‘Take a look at this!’

  Rutter quickly scanned it. ‘Bloody hell fire!’ he said.

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought when I read it,’ Woodend told him.

  BLIND JUSTICE!

  by Elizabeth Driver

  The statue of Justice which sits proudly on top of the Central Criminal Court wears a blindfold to demonstrate her impartiality. The law treats everyone equally, which is only how things should be.

  But there are other ways in which justice – or perhaps I should say the police – can be blind, as is shown in the case of Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend of the Whitebridge Police.

  I have been a big fan of ‘Cloggin’-it Charlie’, as he is affectionately known to his colleagues, for a number of years. The brilliance of his detection work is universally admitted, though his unorthodox approach can sometimes make other, less imaginative officers, feel uncomfortable.

  Yesterday, Cloggin’-it Charlie brilliantly cracked another difficult case, the brutal murder of one little girl, and the kidnapping and physical abuse of another. And what is to be his reward for this new triumph, you ask yourselves. A medal, perhaps? Promotion to the rank of superintendent?

  Not according to my sources close to the Central Lancs Police. They claim that Charlie is be hauled up before a disciplinary board, and may even lose his job.

  There was more in the same vein, but Rutter had read enough to get the general idea.

  ‘Good old Liz!’ he said. ‘Well, that explains Marlowe’s sudden turn-around, doesn’t it?’

  Yes, it certainly did, Woodend agreed. The phone call that had come through while he was getting slated in the chief constable’s office must have outlined exactly what this article was going to say, and Marlowe – like the coward he was – had been thrown into a complete panic.

  ‘You must thank Miss Driver for the article the next time you talk to her,’ he told Rutter.

  ‘I rather think you should thank her yourself,’ Rutter said, with a hint of a rebuke in his tone.

  ‘Aye, you’re right,’ Woodend agreed.

  And Bob was right. He should do it personally.

  But he didn’t like being indebted to a woman with the moral standards of a slug. And what was really concerning him was that he couldn’t work out why she’d gone in to bat for him.

  There was one thing he was certain of – that he wasn’t buying into Bob’s vision of her as the new improved Elizabeth Driver, with her halo sparkling brightly in the golden sunlight. No, she was playing some devious game of her own, and though he had no idea what it was yet, he was sure he would find out soon enough – and that when he did, he wouldn’t like it at all.

 

 

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