Dangerous Games

by Sally Spencer

But it hadn’t felt like that at time, Woodend told himself, as he saw the barbed-wire fence of RAF Blackhill up ahead of him. It hadn’t felt like that at all.

  Back then, it had seemed with each successive, and ever-worsening, news bulletin that nuclear war was inevitable – as if the end of the world was not only likely, but imminent. People in Whitebridge had walked round in a daze, almost like sleep walkers, their stomachs gripped by fear, their minds attempting to fight off an all-engulfing panic. And then, in the middle of this count-down to destruction, a young girl had gone missing.

  Her name was Helen, and she had been the daughter of Squadron Leader Dunn. From the very start of the investigation, Woodend had been almost certain that she’d been kidnapped by a dangerous psychopath, and was already as good as dead – but that had not stopped him from driving his team of officers harder than he’d ever driven a team before.

  As he approached the gate of the base, Woodend slowed down, coming to a halt just in front of the barrier. Two sentries had been watching him for some time, and now one of them walked over to him.

  ‘This is a military installation, sir,’ he said, politely but firmly.

  ‘I know that,’ Woodend replied, looking up the towers at the corners of the perimeter fence, and thinking it would be difficult to miss the fact. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Woodend of the Central Lancs Police, an’ I’ve got an appointment with Group Captain Featherington-Byres.’

  The sentry first ran his eyes over Woodend’s hairy sports coat and then over the Wolseley. He did not seem unduly impressed with either.

  ‘I’ll have to ring through and get confirmation,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Woodend agreed.

  The sentry returned to his box and picked up the phone.

  Watching him only vaguely, Woodend found his mind returning to the Helen Dunn case.

  He’d been totally wrong about the nature of that investigation, he thought. But that hadn’t been his fault, because what he’d believed had been what he’d been intended to believe – what he’d been manipulated into believing. Helen’s abductor, as he discovered when he personally rescued her, was no sexual deviant – and her kidnapping was less to do with the girl herself than with the Cold War between the West and the USSR.

  The barrier was lifted, and the sentry waved him on.

  Woodend slipped the car into gear, and eased it forward. He would never have imagined, three years earlier, that he would ever be raising the Helen Dunn case again, he thought. But there he was, doing just that – and once again, though Helen might be the centre of the discussion, it was not really about her at all.

  The bar in the officers’ mess couldn’t quite decide whether it was just a basic watering hole in which brave fighting men met to tell each other stories of breathtaking escapes, or a pleasant social club in which an officer and a gentleman could comfortably entertain his lady wife – and, as result, it was not really satisfactory as either of those things.

  Woodend entered it under escort, and was taken over to the table where Group Captain Featherington-Byres was waiting for him.

  Featherington-Byres was in his middle forties, and had one of those handlebar moustaches which most flyers had stopped sporting at the end of the War. He stood up when Woodend drew level with him, gave the chief inspector a broad smile and a firm handshake, and indicated that he should sit down.

  ‘But he’s edgy,’ Woodend thought. ‘An’ I can’t say that I blame him for that.’

  ‘I’m assuming that since this is an informal meeting …’ Featherington-Byres began. He paused for a moment. ‘It is informal, isn’t it?’

  ‘More or less,’ Woodend replied.

  He had been wondering about how to go about handling this meeting since the idea of it had first come into his head. For a while, he had toyed with simply asking for what he wanted right from the start. But that would never work. Group captains were probably as much political animals as chief constables were – and if they saw no need to make concessions or grant favours, then no concessions would be made, and no favours granted.

  So he had decided to employ an entirely different strategy. He would keep Featherington-Byres guessing about what he wanted. He would allow him the freedom to speculate on what his demands could possibly be. Then, at the point where he judged the group captain’s imagination had all but settled on something completely outrageous, he would present his comparatively modest request. And, with any luck, Featherington-Byres would feel so relieved that he would agree to it without too much argument.

  ‘So the meeting’s informal, but as yet undefined,’ Featherington-Byres said, when it became plain that Woodend had said all he was going to for the moment. ‘At least, it’s undefined to me – because while you clearly must know the purpose of it, I’m still very much in the dark.’

  ‘That’s right, you are,’ Woodend agreed.

  Featherington-Byres gave him another opportunity to say more, but Woodend didn’t take it.

  The group captain cleared his throat. ‘So, given its informality, I thought it might be better to hold it here rather than in my office,’ he said.

  ‘Especially since that means we can take full advantage of facilities while we chat,’ Woodend replied.

  It was clearly not the comment Featherington-Byres had been expecting, and it seemed to throw him even more off-balance than he was already. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.’

  ‘We could have a drink,’ Woodend explained helpfully. ‘At least, I’m assumin’ we could. Unless, of course, all the alcohol I can see around me is just here for show.’

  Featherington-Byres laughed unconvincingly. ‘Very good!’ he said. ‘You can be quite amusing when you want to be, can’t you? And naturally we must have a drink, Chief Inspector. What’s your poison? Pink gin?’

  Woodend shook his head. ‘Unlike you fellers in the RAF, I like to keep both of my feet firmly on the ground,’ he said, ‘so, if you don’t mind, I’ll stick to best bitter.’

  They said nothing more until the drinks had arrived, and even then Featherington-Byres did not speak until Woodend had taken a deep slurp of his pint. Then he asked, ‘Is the beer to your satisfaction?’

  ‘Not a bad pint at all,’ Woodend told him.

  Featherington-Byres took a sip of his pink gin, then said, ‘It’s been a long time since we last met, hasn’t it, Mr Woodend?’

  ‘Three years,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘During the Cuban Missile Crisis, wasn’t it?’

  Oh no, I’m not lettin’ you get away with that, Sunshine, Woodend thought.

  ‘I suppose it was durin’ the Cuban Missile Crisis,’ he said aloud, ‘but I tend to think of it more as bein’ durin’ the Helen Dunn Kidnappin’ Crisis.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Helen Dunn kidnapping,’ Featherington-Byres agreed uncomfortably. ‘But happily, that crisis – much like the other one with the missiles – was brought to a successful conclusion.’ He paused. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I suppose it all depends how you measure success,’ Woodend said. ‘It’s certainly true I managed to rescue the girl, but let’s not pretend that she wasn’t psychologically damaged by the experience. An’ let’s not forget that there was a suicide involved, as well – the details of which could have been very embarrassin’ for the RAF, if they’d got out.’

  Silence descended over them again, until Featherington-Byres eventually broke it by saying, ‘Though I’m perfectly willing to repeat it now, I think I did thank you at the time for all you’d done, didn’t I?’

  ‘Aye, you did,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But, do you know, I could never quite work out what it was exactly you were thankin’ me for. Was it for findin’ Helen? Or was it for keepin’ the lid on things – for makin’ sure that the details of what actually happened never became public knowledge?’

  ‘For rescuing Helen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. I saw no need to thank you for the othe
r thing – since you only did what any other decent patriot would have done in your place.’

  I didn’t do it to be patriotic, Woodend thought. I did it because the poor girl had suffered enough, without havin’ her name dragged through the gutter press.

  ‘From what you’ve just said, it sounds to me as if you think that the interests of the RAF an’ the interests of the country are identical?’ he said to Featherington-Byres.

  ‘Yes, that is what I think, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘An’ does the same hold true of the Army?’

  Featherington-Byres scowled. ‘I imagine that every branch of the armed forces assumes it has the right to expect the co-operation of the citizens it is prepared to lay down its life to protect,’ he said.

  ‘In other words, yes?’

  ‘As I said, I imagine it to be the case, but I really can’t speak for the Army.’

  ‘But do you speak to the Army?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I was wonderin’ how much back-scratchin’ goes on between the services?’ Woodend said.

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘I was wonderin’ if an RAF group captain, for example, has pals in the army who might, in turn, have influence in the War Office?’

  ‘Are we talking here about RAF group captains in general terms? Or are we talking about me in particular?’

  ‘We’re talkin’ about you in particular.’

  ‘Do you know, I rather thought we might be,’ Featherington-Byres said. ‘And in answer to your question, I’ve always thought it was a pity there was so much inter-service rivalry, and so I have done my best to cultivate contacts in both the army and the navy.’

  ‘I’ll take that as another “yes” then.’

  Group Captain Featherington-Byres sighed softly. ‘I knew this would happen one day,’ he said.

  ‘Knew what would happen one day?’ Woodend asked innocently.

  ‘Knew that since you’d done us some small service by managing to keep the details of the Helen Dunn situation out of the papers …’

  ‘I thought you told me that was no more than my patriotic duty.’

  Featherington-Byres grinned, a little shamefacedly. ‘I didn’t think that kind of moral pressure would work on a man like you, but I had to give it a try, anyway,’ he admitted. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘Since I’d done you some small service by keeping Helen Dunn out of the papers …’

  ‘… I knew you’d eventually be back here, demanding your quid pro quo.’

  ‘That’d be Latin, would it?’ Woodend asked.

  Featherington-Byres laughed. ‘Don’t think you can pull that country bumpkin act on me, Chief Inspector. I’ve seen the way you work, so it simply won’t wash.’

  ‘So you’re right, an’ I’m here because I want my pound of flesh,’ Woodend admitted.

  ‘And that will involve …?’

  ‘I’d like you to grease a few wheels for me – to make sure they’re runnin’ smoothly when I have to give them a little push.’

  ‘What wheels?’

  ‘I want a member of my team to have access to the service records of all conscripts who were on active duty in Cyprus seven years ago.’

  ‘And may I ask why?’

  ‘Because I’m lookin’ for a really bad apple – or maybe even a few really bad apples.’

  ‘But you’re not interested in going after the whole barrel?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  Featherington-Byres considered the matter. ‘It might be difficult,’ he said finally.

  ‘It wasn’t easy keepin’ all the details of the Helen Dunn case out of the papers,’ Woodend pointed out.

  Featherington-Byres nodded. ‘So let me see if I’ve got this completely clear,’ he said. ‘You would like me to use my contacts to influence their friends to order their subordinates to allow you to look at military records. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And if I do that, then any debt you feel I may owe you will have been paid in full?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  Featherington-Byres frowned. ‘No?’

  ‘No. There is just one more little thing I’d like you to do for me,’ Woodend said.

  Sixteen

  Sitting across the pub table from her boss, Monika Paniatowski found herself studying Woodend closely. He had been late for the meeting in the Drum and Monkey – which was unusual for him. And he had offered no explanation for his tardiness, which was quite out of character. So just what was his game?

  The chief inspector drained his pint, looked around to make sure that the rest of the team had almost finished their own drinks, and signalled to the waiter to bring a fresh round.

  He had a surprise up his sleeve, Paniatowski decided, and he was holding it back until just the right moment, when he would produce it with great flourish, in much the same way as music hall magicians used to produce rabbits from their hats. It wasn’t a game Woodend played very often – he normally liked to keep his team completely up to date with developments – but on the few occasions when he was tempted, he played it for the maximum effect, and Paniatowski couldn’t help wondering just what this particular rabbit would be.

  The drinks arrived, and Woodend took a healthy slurp of his pint of bitter. ‘The uniformed branch have been able to establish no link between Pugh an’ the bookies, but given what we’ve learned since we started playin’ around with that theory, it doesn’t come as much of a shock,’ he began.

  Rutter nodded. ‘Pugh might possibly have been a secret gambler, but Lewis didn’t have the money for betting, and Bygraves didn’t have the inclination,’ he agreed.

  ‘Exactly,’ Woodend said. ‘So now that we’ve got that particular red herrin’ out of the way, let’s review what we actually do know so far,’ he suggested. ‘We know that our killer’s got a list of names, an’ though we don’t know how long that list is, we can be pretty sure that he’s workin’ his way through it. Terry Pugh was the first on the list, Reg Lewis was the second, and Tom Bygraves at least believes he’s the third, which is why he’s done a runner.’

  ‘Do you think that by running away he’s managed to escape the killer, sir?’ Bob Rutter asked.

  ‘He may have,’ Woodend replied. ‘On the other hand, it’s equally possible that that’s just what the killer wanted him to do.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow that,’ Beresford admitted.

  ‘Then I’ll explain it to you. Our killer’s more than clever enough to have worked out that we’re probably onto him by now, an’ that we may have identified Tom Bygraves as his possible third victim. Now that could make killin’ Bygraves in Whitebridge very difficult. An’ why is that, DC Beresford?’

  ‘Because we might have assigned men to watch Bygraves, in the hope that the killer would make an attempt?’ Beresford guessed.

  ‘Just so. Once Bygraves has left Whitebridge, however, he’s exposed, like a frightened deer caught in the crosshairs of a rifle sight. Not that the killer is likely to shoot him. If Bygraves dies, it’ll be by hangin’. Anyway, we’ve taken all the precautions we can take, haven’t we, Monika?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘Every motor patrol in Central Lancs has been given the model and license number of Bygraves’ car, and has been told that finding him is a top priority. In addition, every foot patrol officer in Whitebridge has been issued with pictures of Bygraves himself, and of the man Pugh was seen leaving the Tanner’s Arms with.’

  ‘The main problem is, we don’t know who else is on that list,’ Woodend continued, ‘an’ we can’t depend on the people concerned comin’ forward an’ volunteerin’ that information themselves, can we, Beresford?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘An’ why is that?’

  ‘Because Bygraves didn’t.’

  ‘Exactly! Even though he felt his life was in danger – even though he was nearly shittin’ himself – he still didn’t come to us. An’ there can be
only one reason for that – because he just couldn’t bring himself to tell us what this was all about. So in order to afford these fellers the protection they’re so obviously in need of, we’re goin’ to have to find out their names ourselves.’

  ‘And how will we do that?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘We got the names of the fellers that Mark Hough remembers servin’ with, an’ by tomorrow mornin’ the Ministry of Defence will have sent us the names of all the Whitebridge men who served in Cyprus. An’ so we’ll need to talk to each an’ every one of the buggers, in the hope that we can find at least one who’s sensible enough – or perhaps frightened enough – to tell us what we need to know.’

  ‘Isn’t that pretty much putting all our eggs in one basket?’ Bob Rutter wondered.

  ‘It would be, if that was all we were goin’ to do,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But we’ve got a second basket – our Monika.’

  Ah, the flourish! Paniatowski thought.

  ‘Me, sir?’ she said aloud.

  ‘You,’ Woodend agreed. ‘You’re off to Cyprus.’

  ‘Cyprus! The island of Cyprus?’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not talking about Cyprus Street, Accrington.’

  ‘When am I going?’

  Woodend checked his watch. ‘In about five hours from now.’

  ‘Five hours!’

  ‘You’ll just have time to go home an’ pack. Only, if I was you, I wouldn’t worry too much about includin’ your bikini in the packin’, because, while I’ve no doubt you’d look pretty sensational in it, you’ll be far too busy doin’ other things to even think of lyin’ about in the sun.’

  Paniatowski grinned. ‘I imagine I will,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll have two main jobs while you’re over there,’ Woodend continued. ‘The first is to try an’ put a name to the face of our prime suspect. An’ what’s the second?’

  ‘To do my best to find out just what did happen over there, seven years ago?’ Paniatowski guessed.

  ‘That’s right,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Because if you can find that out, we’ll at least have some chance of protectin’ any other poor buggers who happen to be on this nutter’s list.’