‘Since you haven’t asked, I assume you’ve already got all the details you need on the murder,’ Rutter said.
‘Far from it,’ Woodend told him. ‘But bein’ at the scene, I probably know more about the death of Harry Dimdyke than you do, sittin’ on your arse in Whitebridge.’
‘Harry Dimdyke?’ Rutter repeated, puzzled.
‘Yes. That’s the victim’s name, lad.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the most recent victim.’
‘What?!’ Woodend exploded.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but since you are already at the scene, I assumed somebody would already have briefed you on the Stan Dawkins case.’
Woodend gripped the phone receiver so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t shatter.
‘They’re buggerin’ me about, aren’t they?’ he said furiously.
‘Well, it does seem strange that you haven’t been told,’ Rutter admitted.
‘You tell me, lad,’ Woodend said. ‘You give me all the details that I should, by rights, have had since this mornin’.’
Seventeen
It had been a long night for Constable Thwaites – long and troubled. He had tossed and turned. Several times a raging thirst had forced him from his bed. He had knocked back a pint of water each time, but it had done no good. Sleep would not come, and the thirst would not go away.
Finally, when dawn had broken, he’d got dressed in his uniform and gone downstairs to his office. And there he sat, waiting for he knew not what, but knowing that he was waiting for something.
When he saw the Wolseley draw up outside, he finally understood what his vigil had been about – realized that he had cast himself in the role of sacrificial lamb, and had been preparing himself for the arrival of the high priest without whom the sacrifice could not be made.
The high priest was wearing his customary hairy sports jacket. He looked very angry as he climbed out of his car, and seemed even more enraged to see the gate barring his path to the police house office. He wrenched at the latch, swung the gate open, and marched up the path with furious – almost giant – strides.
Watching his progress through the window, Thwaites shuddered. He had known it was going to be bad – but he’d never imagined it would be anything like as bad as this.
When Woodend opened the door, Thwaites jumped to his feet and gave a clumsy salute. If he had hoped that would serve to propitiate the angry gods, the look in Woodend’s eyes quickly assured him that it wouldn’t.
‘I thought I might just calm down overnight, but when I woke up this mornin’ I was as angry as I’d been when I went to bed,’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘Now why do you think that is?’
‘I ... I don’t know, sir,’ Thwaites said.
‘You’re either a bloody liar or a bloody fool,’ Woodend told him. ‘An’ I’m beginnin’ to suspect you might be both. Am I hurtin’ your feelin’s, Constable Thwaites?’
‘Well, sir—’
‘Because this is nothin’! Nothin’ at all! I haven’t even got in my stride yet!’ Woodend glanced down at the chair the constable was standing next to. ‘I’d take the weight off my feet if I was you,’ he advised. ‘Because for the kind of bollockin’ you’re goin’ to get, you’ll need to be sittin’ down.’
Thwaites sank heavily into the chair. ‘What have I done wrong, sir?’ he asked.
‘What have you done wrong?’ Woodend replied, sitting down opposite him. ‘You’ve been holdin’ back information that just could be vital to my investigation into the murder of Harry Dimdyke.’
‘I never—’
‘You remember that theory of yours – the one that the fairground people might have had a grudge against this village?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Can you think of any reason why they might have had a grudge?’
Thwaites shrugged. ‘They’re funny folk, fairground workers. You never know what’s goin’ to upset them.’
‘Tell me, Constable Thwaites, does the name “Stan Dawkins” mean anythin’ to you?’
‘It’s got a familiar ring to it,’ Thwaites said.
‘Stan Dawkins was one of the workers on the fairground that visited this crappy little village for the last Witch Burnin’. An’ do you know what happened to him?’
‘He got killed?’
‘He got killed,’ Woodend agreed. ‘The mornin’ after the Witch Burnin’, he was discovered on the edge of the village. He’d been beaten to death.’
‘I remember now,’ Thwaites admitted.
‘It took you long enough,’ Woodend said. ‘Now let me ask you this, Constable – don’t you think it’s just possible that Stan Dawkins’ death could have been connected with Harry Dimdyke’s death?’
‘How, sir?’
Woodend slammed his fist down on the desk, and the whole room seemed to shake.
‘For God’s sake, Thwaites, isn’t it obvious?’ he demanded. ‘Harry Dimdyke could have been killed in revenge for what somebody in this village did to Stan Dawkins twenty years ago!’
‘But the village had nothin’ to do with this feller Dawkins’ death,’ Thwaites protested. ‘It was one of the other carnival workers who killed him. The inspector in charge of the case said so.’
‘Accordin’ to the research my inspector’s just done, the officer in charge of the investigation had no idea who’d killed Dawkins. Yes, it could have been one of the carnival workers. But I don’t think it was. An’ can you guess why I don’t think it was?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Because you don’t think it was.’
‘Have you started readin’ minds now, sir?’ Thwaites asked, in a sudden burst of defiance.
‘I’ve always read minds,’ Woodend told him. ‘It’s part of my job. An’ would you like to know what I’ve read in that slim, badly printed volume that makes up your mind?’
‘You’ll tell me, won’t you, whether I want to hear it or not,’ Constable Thwaites said.
‘Bloody right, I will,’ Woodend agreed. ‘If you’d thought one of the carnival workers had killed Stan Dawkins, you’d have mentioned it right from the start. “They’re animals, sir,” you would have said. “They killed one of their own the last time the funfair was here. Why wouldn’t they have killed one of ours this time?” But you didn’t say that – an’ the reason you didn’t is because you don’t want the Dawkins investigation reopenin’, in case I blunder across some evidence which points me to the killer.’
‘So you’re sayin’ I know who murdered Dawkins, are you?’ Thwaites demanded hotly.
‘No,’ Woodend told him. ‘All I am sayin’ is that you’re pretty sure it was somebody from Hallerton.’
Thwaites’ chin quivered slightly. ‘I want to talk to a Police Federation lawyer,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t, if I was you,’ Woodend advised him.
‘Why? Because you’re afraid it’ll get you into trouble?’
Woodend smiled disconcertingly. ‘Nay, lad. Not me. You! It’ll get you in trouble.’
‘I have the legal right to—’
‘We’re not talkin’ about legal rights here. It’s nothin’ at all to do with the law. The reason I wouldn’t do it if I was in your shoes is because the village wouldn’t like you bringin’ in yet another bugger from outside!’
Thwaites said nothing, but it was clear from the defeated expression which came to his face that the argument had squarely hit its target.
‘Somethin’ else you forgot to mention was the suicides,’ Woodend said. ‘Now why was that?’
‘They have nothin’ to do with the murder.’
‘Know that for a fact? Because if you do, you’ll also know why those two women killed themselves, won’t you?’
‘Nobody can ever really know what goes on in the mind of somebody who takes their own life,’ Thwaites said defensively.
‘But you think you know, don’t you? You think you’ve at least got an inkling?’
‘No,’ Thwaites said unconvincingly.
Woodend suddenly stood up �
�� so violently that his chair toppled over and crashed to the floor behind him.
‘I don’t like frightenin’ the men who serve under me,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it at all – but I’ll do it if I have to. An’ when I do it, I make a pretty good job of it. You’re frightened of me right now, aren’t you, Thwaites?’
‘I ...’
‘The problem is, there’s somethin’ that’s frightenin’ you even more. But this I promise you, Constable – once I find out what that somethin’ is, you’re finished in the Mid Lancs Police.’
The Chief Inspector turned and left the police house office, slamming the door behind him as he went.
For perhaps two minutes after he’d gone, Constable Thwaites sat there doing all he could to bring his trembling under control. Then he stood up on shaky legs and reached for his keys. He didn’t want to go out – didn’t want to leave the cosy safety of the police house. But there was no choice in the matter, because Tom Dimdyke needed to be told what was going on – and needed to be told quickly.
Eighteen
From the outside, the caravan had looked like an attractive prospect for someone – say a female detective sergeant – who suddenly decided to jack her career in and take to the open road. Once inside, Paniatowski quickly changed her view about it as a potential permanent home. She didn’t like the metal walls, which clanged every time she inadvertently touched them with her elbows. She didn’t like the fact that everything so obviously had to be in the place assigned to it, otherwise there would be no room to move. And she was not entirely happy about sitting on a bed, with only a fold-down table between her and Ben Masters.
Masters was around fifty-five, she guessed. He had the tanned skin of a man used to working outdoors, and the yellowing teeth of a man who had never availed himself of the facilities offered by the National Health Service. Two of his fingers were stained permanently brown by nicotine, and the bloodshot lining in the whites of his eyes bore testament to the fact that he liked a more-than-occasional drink. He wore a battered trilby hat on his head, and had a discoloured kerchief tied in a sloppy knot around his neck. He was not, Paniatowski thought, someone she would be delighted to be set up with on a blind date – though from the way he looked at her it seemed that he wouldn’t have minded at all.
‘So why are you here?’ Masters asked, giving her what he probably considered to be an engaging smile.
‘I told you that when we first met, Mr Masters. I’m Detective Sergeant Paniatowski and—’
‘What I mean is, why has your boss sent a young woman like you, instead of coming here himself?’
Because I am a young woman, Paniatowski thought. Because Cloggin’-it Charlie thinks that fairground folk – who instinctively distrust the law – are more likely to talk freely to me than they would to him.
But aloud, she said, ‘How do you know I’ve even got a boss?’
‘I know you’ve got a boss because, as far as I can recall, detective sergeant isn’t anywhere near the top rank in the rozzers.’
‘What I mean is, how do you know I’ve got a boss here in Hallerton? How do you know I’m not in charge of this investigation?’
Masters flashed his teeth again. ‘Except when we’re doing business with it, we like to keep ourselves apart from the outside world. It’s like water and oil, you see – we just don’t mix well together. But that’s not the same as saying we don’t know what’s going on out there.’
‘I think I’m beginning to see that,’ Paniatowski said.
Masters ran his eyes over Paniatowski’s charcoal-grey jacket and skirt, but the lust he had made such a show of earlier seemed to be strangely absent from this new examination.
‘Nice outfit you’ve got on,’ he said. ‘But it’s deceptive.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. What you should really be wearing is a figure-hugging costume and sparkling tights.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Because you’re not the star performer. That job’s been given to the big bugger in the tweed jacket who came up from Whitebridge with you. You, my dear, are what we in the trade call “the beautiful assistant”.’
He was playing a game – or perhaps a series of games – Paniatowski suddenly realized. He’d been doing it from the moment they entered the caravan.
First, he’d tried to intimidate her by pretending to fancy her. Now he’d changed gear, and was attempting to make her feel worthless. Well, if push came to shove, she was not a bad games’ player herself.
‘You must know all about the trade – and the tricks of the trade – because you’ve been with this funfair for a long time, haven’t you?’ she said.
A hint of caution crept across Masters’ face, as if he understood that she was on to him.
‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve been with the fairground a very long time. Man and boy. I’ve been running it myself for the last fifteen years, and my old dad – may he rest in peace – ran it before me.’
‘And this is the funfair which was here, on this same site, for the last Witch Burning?’
‘Might have been,’ Masters said reluctantly. ‘Difficult to remember something like that, don’t you think? We go to a lot of places up and down the country – and twenty years is a long time.’
‘Where did the figure of twenty years come from?’ Paniatowski asked innocently.
‘You said—’
‘No, I didn’t. I took great care not to.’
Masters smiled again, and a hint of grudging respect was starting to creep into his expression.
‘You’ve got more about you than most of the beautiful assistants have,’ he conceded. ‘I seem to recall, now I put my mind to it, that we were here at the last Witch Burning.’
‘And do you also recall that one of your workers – a man called Stan Dawkins – was killed while you were here?’
‘Is this where Stan died?’ Masters asked. ‘I suppose it could have been, now you mention it.’
‘Let’s stop sniffing round each other’s backsides to see what it smells like, shall we?’ Paniatowski suggested. ‘I know that you can help me if you really want to. And you know that, if I went looking for them, I could easily find enough breaches of the health and safety regulations to close this place down.’
Masters shook his head admiringly. ‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’ he asked. ‘You’d make a first-class barker at one of our sideshows. Let me know if you ever consider changing careers.’
‘Tell me about Dawkins,’ Paniatowski said.
‘What’s to tell?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘He was raised in a children’s home. In Southampton, I think. We get a lot of orphans working in our business.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Maybe it’s because they want to taste a bit of freedom after years of being cooped up in an institution.’
‘Or maybe it’s because most of them have very little training, and have to take work where they can get it,’ Paniatowski suggested.
Masters chuckled. ‘Oh, you’re a hard one, all right.’
‘So Stan Dawkins didn’t have any family?’
‘None that I know of.’
‘But he must have had friends.’
‘Not that I can remember.’
‘That Big Wheel really doesn’t look very safe to me.’
‘It’s not even properly up yet!’
‘It still doesn’t look safe. And I’ve got my doubts about the bumper cars as well.’
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ Masters protested. ‘Carnival folk are very clannish. Dawkins might have made mates – given time – but he wasn’t with us long enough for that. He’d only been working here a few weeks when he was killed. Believe me!’
Paniatowski smiled charmingly. ‘I’m not sure I’d believe you if you were on fire and said you were feeling quite hot.’ She paused. ‘What can you tell me about the night of the murder?’
‘Nothing! Real
ly!’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘What do you think happens when the fairground closes down for the night?’ Masters asked.
‘Everyone has a cup of tea, says their prayers, and then is tucked up in bed by the Bearded Lady?’ Paniatowski asked facetiously.
Masters threw back his head, and laughed with what seemed like genuine amusement.
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘It’s bloody hard work running the attractions, and when they’ve finished, the lads want to wind down a bit. So what they do is, they go to one of the caravans and crack open a bottle of whisky.’
‘And Dawkins did this?’
‘Usually.’
‘I thought you said he didn’t have any friends.’
‘You don’t have to be bosom buddies to get drunk together. We depend on each other on the fairground. It’s us against the world. So even if we’re not all exactly friends, we’re certainly comrades.’
‘I see,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I take it, from what you’ve already implied, that Dawkins wasn’t in the “drinking” caravan that night?’
‘Correct. Nobody saw him from the time the fair closed down for the night till the time my dad, as the boss of the place, was called in by the police to identify the body.’
‘The villagers thought someone from the carnival killed him.’
‘They would!’
‘Well, you can’t really blame them, can you? I mean, it does seem the most likely explanation, doesn’t it?’
Masters’ fists clenched, and his face darkened, ‘Of course it does!’ he said angrily. ‘More than likely! Almost a dead cert, in point of fact. You can’t trust any of these carnival people, can you? They’re all thugs and robbers. It’s well known. Well, let me tell you something, Detective Sergeant Paniatowski, we’ve got our share of villains working on the fairground – but it’s no bigger a share than you’ll find on the outside.’
Paniatowski chuckled. ‘I got right up your nose, didn’t I?’ she asked. ‘I never thought I’d be able to, but I did.’
Masters hesitated for a moment, then joined in her amusement. ‘You’re all right, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘And like I told you – any time you want a job on the fairground, just come and see me.’
The Witch Maker Page 9