‘They could have—’
‘Most of the fellers who were with the fair twenty years ago will either have left it, retired or died by now. An’ even if we stretch belief to breakin’ point, an’ allow that one or two blokes who are here now might have been workin’ for the fair the last time round, how likely is it that one of them would have waited nearly a quarter of a century to get his revenge for somethin’ Harry did to him back then?’
‘Maybe it was a family grudge,’ Thwaites said. ‘You know how clannish these carnival folk can be.’
‘A bit like the people of this village?’
‘It’s not the same, sir. It’s not the same at all.’
‘Let’s assume for a minute that one of the fairground people wasn’t the killer,’ Woodend said. ‘Who is there in the village who might not be too unhappy to see Harry Dimdyke dead?’
‘Nobody. He was the Witch Maker.’
‘Is that the answer to every question in this village?’ Woodend asked, exasperatedly. ‘That he was the bloody Witch Maker?’
Thwaites face creased, as if he really did want to explain – really did want Woodend to understand – but, despite that, he was still having trouble finding the words.
‘The village is nothin’ without the Witch Burnin’,’ he said finally.
‘Oh come on,’ Woodend said, doing his best to sound reasonable – and just missing the mark. ‘I know the Witch Burnin’ brings a lot of visitors’ money into the village, but that’s only once in a generation, isn’t it? There has to be more to this place than that.’
‘It’s not a question of money, sir,’ Thwaites said petulantly.
‘Still, there must be plenty of it comin’ in durin’ the Witch Burnin’.’
Almost as if it had been done on cue, a loud voice behind them said, ‘I’ve told you before, I don’t want your custom. Not your custom – an’ not any your mates’ custom, either.’
Woodend turned. The speaker was the landlord, and he was addressing a young man with long greasy hair, a kerchief round his neck, and a gold ring in his ear, who standing at the other side of the bar.
‘I don’t have to drink it here,’ the young man said reasonably. ‘If you don’t want me in your pub, I’ll take it back to my caravan.’
‘There’s sellin’-out shops in Lancaster that’ll give you what you want,’ the landlord told him.
‘But that’s fifteen miles away!’
‘Fifteen miles or a thousand, I don’t give a bugger. You’ll still get nothin’ from me.’
‘I don’t see why you won’t—’
‘I’ve a right under the law to refuse to serve anybody I don’t want to serve. An’ before you say any more, there’s a police constable sittin’ at that table. Do you see him?’
‘I see him,’ the young man said, in a surly manner.
‘Then bugger off before I set him on you.’
The young man slunk out of the pub, and a smile which seemed both proud and complacent came to Constable Thwaites’ face.
‘You see?’ he asked.
‘No, I don’t,’ Woodend admitted.
‘Zeb won’t serve the fairground people, an’ neither will the shops. We don’t want their money – an’ we don’t want them.’
‘So why are they here?’
‘The Witch Burnin’s a public event, an’ as such, it has to be licensed. The county council wouldn’t grant that licence unless we agreed to allow it to be open to everybody – an’ that includes the fair.’
‘But you’d rather nobody came?’
‘That’s right. It’s like I told you – there’s no point to a bridge unless it runs over a river, an’ there’s no point to Hallerton without the Witch Burnin’.’
‘You’re jokin’, aren’t you?’ Woodend asked incredulously. ‘You have to be!’
‘It might seem like a joke to you, sir,’ Thwaites told him reprovingly, ‘but that’s how we see it.’
‘So everythin’ that goes on around here has no purpose if it doesn’t support the Witch Burnin’?’ Woodend asked, trying to understand.
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s the way it’s always been.’
‘This is the 1960s,’ Woodend said. ‘There’s a television in nearly every home in the land these days. There’s planes that can fly you all the way to Australia in little more than a day. Bloody hell, the Yanks’ll be puttin’ a man on the moon in a few years.’
‘But what’s that got to do with us, sir?’
Woodend sighed again. ‘Let me see if I can get this straight,’ he said. ‘You claim that nobody in the village would want to kill Harry Dimdyke because he was the Witch Maker?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Which, as far as you’re concerned, means that he could never have got up anybody’s nose? Which, in turn, means that nobody could ever hold a grudge against him, or want him dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You told me two things earlier. The first was that the Witch Maker never marries, an’ the second was that the burden of his office makes him an old man before his time.’
‘That’s quite correct, sir.’
‘But even dead, Harry Dimdyke looked far from clapped out. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he seemed to be a very vigorous man who’d never have been happy with a life of celibacy.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me there, sir.’
‘Most murders have either money or sex lurkin’ somewhere in their background. We ruled out one, so that must leave the other. Harry Dimdyke wasn’t gettin’ his oats at home, so where was he gettin’ them?’ Thwaites glanced down at the table. ‘I wouldn’t know about that, sir,’ he mumbled.
But he would, Woodend thought. He’d bloody have to!
‘Was he havin’ an affair with somebody’s wife?’ the Chief Inspector pressed. ‘Is that the big secret you’ve been tryin’ to keep from me?’
Thwaites said nothing.
‘Well? Was he dippin’ his wick in somebody else’s candle holder?’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say, sir,’ Thwaites replied stonily.
‘This is a village!’ Woodend exploded, unable to keep his temper under control any longer. ‘You can’t fart in a place like this without everybody knowin’ about it. An’ you’re tryin’ to tell me you don’t know whether or not Harry Dimdyke was gettin’ a bit on the side?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If I think you’re holdin’ back on me, I can make things difficult for you,’ Woodend threatened. ‘In fact, with a little bit of effort, I can make them bloody impossible. So, for your own good, can I suggest you start pullin’ with the rest of the team?’
‘I know nothin’ about Harry Dimdyke’s private life which would assist your investigation,’ Thwaites said stiffly.
‘How many more years have you got to serve before you’re eligible for a pension?’
‘Four an’ a half.’
‘You could lose that pension, you know. If you were kicked off the Force for misconduct, your pension rights could go right down the drain. Is that what you want to happen?’
Thwaites took a deep breath. ‘I want to live out my time in this village, sir. I’d rather do it with a pension than without one, but if it comes to a choice between one an’ the other, I’ll choose the village.’
‘An’ what about justice?’ Woodend demanded. ‘Am I the only one who wants to see Harry Dimdyke’s killer arrested?’
‘We all want to see him arrested,’ Thwaites said levelly. ‘But we know that whoever killed him, he wasn’t one of us. Can I go now, sir?’
‘Aye,’ Woodend said wearily. ‘Bugger off back to your cosy little police house, an’ give a bit of thought to what it’d be like to lose it.’
Eight
Woodend looked across the pub table at the chair in which – until a couple of minutes earlier – Constable Thwaites had been sitting so uncomfortably. It was strange, he thought, but the constable seemed
to make more of an impression with his absence than he had ever managed to do with his presence.
‘I didn’t handle our friend, the local bobby, very well, did I?’ he asked his sergeant.
‘It’s hard to imagine how you could have handled him worse,’ Paniatowski replied.
Plain-speaking had always played a larger part in their working relationship than social niceties, Woodend thought, and all Paniatowski was doing now was speaking plainly. So he had no right to feel offended. None at all.
Yet he did. Worse, although he knew there was absolutely no justification for it, he felt a sudden urge to strike out.
‘How long have you been an expert on human relations, Sergeant?’ he demanded, unreasonably.
‘Sorry?’
‘I should have thought that after the complete bloody mess you made of things over that affair with Bob Rutter, you’d have been a little tolerant of other people’s failin’s.’
Paniatowski said nothing. There was nothing she could have said. Because she recognized the underlying truth of her boss’s statement – acknowledged that she and Detective Inspector Bob Rutter had indeed made a complete bloody mess of things.
It was Woodend who finally broke the silence which had fallen between them. ‘I’m goin’ to make a phone call,’ he said. ‘If you want another drink, order it – an’ I’ll pay for it when I get back.’
Bob Rutter had been a stickler for tidiness even before his wife’s blindness had made it imperative that everything should always be in the right place – and his desk was a fair reflection of his overall attitude. His in-tray and out-tray were both placed precisely in parallel with the edges of the desk, and the correspondence resting in them was neatly squared-off. His pencils were all well-sharpened, his blotting paper changed every couple of days. Order reigned supreme.
There was only one personal item in evidence. It was a photograph, in a silver frame, placed in such a position that Rutter would see it every time he reached for his phone. The woman in the photograph was smiling optimistically in the direction of a camera she was unable to see. She had dark hair and olive skin. She was unquestionably beautiful, but he would have loved her just as much even if she hadn’t been.
There was a photograph at the other end of the desk to balance the one of Maria, Rutter thought, looking at the empty space. But this second one was invisible to everyone but him. The woman in it was blonde. Sometimes he saw her as smiling, sometimes as angry. She was not blind except – on occasion – to the consequences of her actions. Nor was she exactly beautiful. But he loved her too.
The phone rang, cutting through his introspection, and he reached for it gratefully.
‘You busy?’ asked the voice on the other end of the line.
‘I’ve not got anything on that I can’t shelve for a while, sir,’ Rutter said. ‘Why? What do you want? Something to do with this new murder you’re investigating?’
‘Aye, that’s right. I’d like you to spend a bit of time in that dusty basement that our beloved Chief Constable has the nerve to call the “Criminal Records Resources Centre”.’
‘And what should I be looking for in the CRRC?’
‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Woodend admitted. ‘Anythin’ relatin’ to criminal activity in the village of Hallerton, I suppose.’
‘That’s a bit vague.’
‘I know it is, but I don’t really have anythin’ more specific to give you. I’m tryin’ to build up a picture of the place, you see, an’ the locals are bein’ rather less than helpful.’
‘Monika’s with you in Hallerton, is she?’ Rutter asked, before he could stop himself.
‘Yes, she is. Why wouldn’t she be?’
‘No reason,’ Rutter said, then added hastily, ‘How far back would you like me to go with my search?’
‘Ideally, to 1604.’
‘What?!’
‘That’s just a bit of gallows humour,’ Woodend explained, ‘but I suppose you have to be here in this village to really appreciate it.’
‘Probably,’ Rutter agreed, having no real idea of what his boss was talking about. ‘So how far would you really like me to go back?’
‘Fifty or sixty years. An’ I want you to give me everythin’ you turn up – however trivial or inconsequential it might seem to you.’
‘Understood,’ Rutter said.
He replaced the receiver and glanced at the picture of his wife. It was only by an effort of will that he didn’t turn in the other direction and look at the picture which wasn’t really there.
Woodend returned to the table. Paniatowski hadn’t ordered another drink. In fact, she seemed to feel no great urge to finish the one she still had in front of her.
‘We’ll be needin’ somewhere to stay for the night, an’ this seems as good a place as any,’ the Chief Inspector said, thinking, even as he spoke, that the words sounded strained – that it was as if, in order to reach Monika, they’d have to climb over a huge barrier first.
‘Shall I have a word with the landlord when he gets back?’ Paniatowski asked, her voice neutral, almost machine-like.
‘Gets back?’
‘Well, he’s not here now.’
Woodend glanced across at the bar, and saw that his sergeant was right. There was absolutely no sign of Zeb, the under-friendly mine host of the Black Bull. He had probably slipped into his own quarters for a few minutes.
And why shouldn’t he have? Though the pub had been quite full when the two detectives arrived, they were now the only customers.
‘Not exactly popular, are we?’ he asked his sergeant.
‘Not exactly,’ Paniatowski agreed, in the same dull tone she had employed earlier.
Something was going to have to be done, Woodend thought.
‘I’m sorry about what I said earlier, lass,’ he told Paniatowski.
‘It’s all right,’ the sergeant replied, but without much conviction.
‘It’s not all right – an’ we both know that. If I’ve learned one thing in my years on the Force, it’s that it’s very easy to pass judgement on other people, but unless you’ve walked around in their shoes for a while, you probably don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’ He took a slug of what remained of his pint. It tasted like urine. ‘The only excuse I’ve got for speakin’ like I did – an’ it’s not a very good one – is that this bloody place has unsettled me.’
‘This place – or this case?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Seems to me they’re one an’ the same thing,’ Woodend told her.
Nine
The church and the primary school in Hallerton were located at the edge of the village, just as they were in so many other moorland communities. They looked across at each other, but were separated by the almost-straight road which ran all the way to a different world called Lancaster.
Woodend glanced down the road. Then, closing his eyes, he tried to picture it as it must have looked three hundred and fifty years earlier, in the days after Meg Ramsden had been burned at the stake. It was unlikely to have been paved back then – and even after only a few days without rain, any horses travelling along it would have thrown up a cloud of dust which could be seen for miles.
How dry had the road been when the High Sheriff’s men came? Had the villagers stood on this very spot and watched the dust cloud grow ever larger? Had they listening to the sound of the hoofs – no more than a distant rumble at first, but gradually getting louder, until it filled their ears?
Yes, they probably had. And though they must have known what the Sheriff’s men’s mission was, they’d made no attempt to run away.
Perhaps they’d gone to pray for guidance, Woodend speculated, turning towards the church. But given what he’d already learned about the people of this village, that didn’t seem likely. And even if they had gone into the church, it wouldn’t have been this church, because it was a hundred years old at most.
He took a closer look at the building. It didn’t seem quite right. True it had all the fea
tures typical of its time. There was a steeple, covered with the blue slates which would have to have been imported all the way from North Wales. There was a lych-gate, with a bench on which the bearers could rest the coffin during its final journey to the grave. So what was missing?
Woodend took a step back, and suddenly saw what was wrong. This church was smaller – much smaller – than any of the others in the area. It was almost as if the builders had been inspired less by faith and hope and more by a foreknowledge of the size of congregation the structure would eventually have to cater for.
He switched his attention to the school. It, too, resembled many others he had come across on the moors. It was constructed of the same blocks of dressed stone as the church, and roofed with the same blue-grey slates. The windows were high, in order to let in light while denying the children the opportunity of being distracted by views of the outside world. The playground was as austere and forbidding as any prison exercise yard.
The school had probably been built a few years later than the church, Woodend guessed, perhaps in the late Victorian era. At that time education had been regarded with grim seriousness, and even though boys and girls of the same family were often compelled by economic circumstances to share the same bed, the sexes entered the school by separate doors.
The church clock struck a quarter to four, the doors of the school opened, and the children streamed out. Woodend watched them with interest. They were obviously pleased to be free of their educational confinement, yet there was something orderly about the way they left the school – almost as if they were an army in retreat.
Woodend lit a cigarette and watched them until they had disappeared into the village. Then – on impulse – he strolled over to the school. Faced with the choice of entering through the boys’ door or the girls’ door, he was amused to find that his legs automatically inclined him towards the one used by the boys.
He passed through the cloakroom and into the hallway. Several classroom doors faced him, but only one of them was open. He knocked lightly on it, and stepped into the room.
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