The Butcher Beyond Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  By Sally Spencer

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  THE BUTCHER BEYOND

  Sally Spencer

  For his generosity of spirit in loaning me Inspector Paco Ruiz,

  I dedicate this book to my alter ego, James García Woods

  By Sally Spencer

  The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

  THE SALTON KILLINGS

  MURDER AT SWANN’S LAKE

  DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

  THE DARK LADY

  THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

  DEAD ON CUE

  THE RED HERRING

  DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  A DEATH LEFT HANGING

  THE WITCH MAKER

  THE BUTCHER BEYOND

  DYING IN THE DARK

  STONE KILLER

  A LONG TIME DEAD

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  DEATH WATCH

  A DYING FALL

  FATAL QUEST

  The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

  THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

  THE RING OF DEATH

  ECHOES OF THE DEAD

  BACKLASH

  LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

  A WALK WITH THE DEAD

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2004 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey SM1 1DF.

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2004 by Sally Spencer.

  The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Spencer, Sally, 1949-

  The butcher beyond. - (A Chief Inspector Woodend mystery)

  1. Woodend, Charlie (Fictitious character) - Fiction

  2. Police - England - Fiction

  3. Murder - Investigation - Spain - Fiction

  4. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9’14 [F]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6140-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0105-8 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  Prologue

  There were four of them gathered together that night in the large and opulent drawing room which looked down on Cadogan Square. Three were sitting – though for one of them it was not a matter of choice. The fourth was standing with his back to the Adam fireplace, holding a month-old Spanish newspaper in his slightly trembling hands.

  The man who had no choice but to sit was in a wheelchair. His clothes proclaimed that he was wealthy – and his clothes did not lie. Despite his left-wing leanings, the crippled man had a bank balance that several small countries might justifiably envy, and this house – for all its grandeur – was only one of the properties he called home.

  The other two seated men looked far less affluent. True, the sharp faced one on the sofa was wearing a good jacket and a hand-made pair of shoes, but these were now so far from being new that they had almost given up the battle of trying to appear even respectable. His companion – facing him across the coffee table from an easy chair in which he did not look in the least at ease – was even more of a contrast. He was tall and thin, with a shock of grey hair, and wore his ragged grey suit as if it were literally no more than rags.

  The stocky bald man by the fireplace screwed up the newspaper in a sudden bout of rage, and threw it on to the floor.

  ‘You’ve all read the report, haven’t you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Of course we’ve read it,’ said the sharp-faced man. ‘We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t.’

  ‘They’re going to promote him to Provincial Governor!’ the bald man said bitterly. ‘That butcher – who should long ago have paid for his crimes by his own death – is to be made the governor of a whole province! It’s an insult to us all.’ He paused, as if to give more weight to his next words. ‘But more especially,’ he continued, ‘it is an insult to the dead – to those who were willing to spill their own blood for something greater than themselves!’

  A heavy solemnity fell across the room, as all the men in it put names and faces to those – many of them little more than boys – who had sacrificed their lives in that time, so long ago.

  The silence was broken by a clattering sound – the noise made by five small cubes as they bounced across the antique coffee table which stood between the sofa and the easy chair.

  ‘Do you have to do that, Roberts?’ the bald man asked angrily.

  The dice thrower – the sharp-faced man whose clothes had seen better days – calmly examined the exposed faces of the poker dice on the table, then swept them up into his hand. ‘It helps me to think,’ he said.

  Of course it did, the bald man thought. He should have remembered that. Most men had minds that worked on a single thread, like the winding tackle back in the pit. Their minds either went down – as did the lift when taking the miners to the coal face – or went up – like the lift bringing the scarred and blackened men back to the surface. Roberts had never been like that. His mind could go up and down simultaneously – and sometimes even to the side – without one operation ever getting in the way of the others.

  ‘So you’re thinking, are you?’ the bald man asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And could we know what you’re thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking that I share your outrage – but not your surprise. The world isn’t fair, Pete. I’ve always known it, I suppose, but that bull
et in the leg really brought it home to me. I’d never quite realized, before that point, just how educational a hot piece of metal can be.’

  ‘You survived,’ the bald man said, sounding more callous than he’d intended to.

  ‘I survived,’ Roberts agreed. ‘But I still bear the scars. Here –’ he pointed to his leg – ‘and here –’ pointing to his brain.

  The meeting was somehow slipping off the rails, the bald man thought. They were there to map out the future, not relive the past.

  He cleared his throat. ‘We must decide whether or not we go back – whether or not we are prepared to face our demons,’ he said.

  The man in the wheelchair narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘If you did go back, how many of the others could you rely on to support you?’

  The bald man looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘How many? Do you mean, from this side of the Channel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the answer is none.’

  ‘None?’

  ‘Like you, Henderson, my old friend, their hearts are in it, but their bodies are no longer up to the task. They couldn’t even make it to this meeting, though they sorely wanted to come. What chance is there, then, that they could make the journey back to old battlegrounds?’

  ‘And what about the foreigners?’

  ‘I haven’t asked them. There seemed no point until we had reached a decision ourselves.’

  Henderson nodded sagely. ‘You say our absent British comrades’ hearts are in it, Pete, but is yours?’ he asked. ‘Because without you, you know, there can be no operation.’

  The bald man’s discomfort increased. ‘I am just one member of the group,’ he protested. ‘My personal decision should carry no more weight than anyone else’s does.’

  ‘You were never just one of the group,’ Henderson contradicted him. ‘You were our leader.’

  ‘We had no leaders,’ the bald man said defensively.

  ‘We had no acknowledged leaders,’ Henderson agreed, ‘yet you were the man we’d have followed all the way to hell and back, if you’d asked us to. And since hell is precisely the destination we’re discussing, I’ll ask you again – is your heart in it?’

  ‘I’d be lying if I said I wanted to go,’ the bald man admitted. ‘I have a wife who I love dearly. I have a responsible job in which I feel I’m doing some good, in which I feel I’m fighting for some of the things we fought for back then.’

  ‘But …?’ Henderson asked.

  The bald man waved his podgy hands helplessly in the air. ‘No sane man would happily risk all that to go back to a country in which he is still regarded as a criminal, in order to carry out an act which will certainly be classified by those in power as a crime.’

  ‘But …?’ Henderson asked for a second time.

  ‘But there’s no choice, is there?’ the bald man said, almost angrily.

  ‘You’re wrong about that,’ Henderson told him. ‘You don’t have to do the job yourselves. I could hire a man to do it for you.’

  ‘Are you talking about a professional assassin?’

  Henderson smiled. ‘Perhaps it would be more constructive to look on him as a professional vermin controller,’ he suggested.

  ‘And do you know where we would find such a man?’

  ‘Of course not. But I could certainly find out – and by tomorrow night, at the latest.’ Henderson smiled again, self-deprecatingly this time. ‘When you’re as rich as I am, Pete, everything and anything is possible. So now you do have another option. The question is, are you willing to take it?’

  The bald man hesitated. ‘It’s not up to me alone,’ he said. ‘We should put it to the vote, as we always used to.’

  Henderson nodded. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘But since I am unable to assist you, should you decide to go yourselves, I do not feel that I have any right to a voice in taking the decision, either.’

  ‘I understand,’ the bald man said. He turned to Roberts. ‘Which way do you vote?’

  The gambler rolled his poker dice again. Two jacks, a queen, a king and an ace.

  ‘Let’s first be clear on exactly what we’re voting for,’ he said. ‘When we first walked into this room – and a very tasteful room it is, by the way, Henderson – the question we had to answer was whether we should put our pasts behind us or whether we should deal with unfinished business. But that’s no longer the question at all, is it? Now the only issue is if we do the job ourselves or hire a professional killer. Am I right, Pete?’

  ‘Yes,’ the bald man said.

  Roberts shook his head admiringly. ‘Neat footwork. Very neat. You were always good at twisting the situation around – at talking us into things we would have considered unthinkable a few minutes earlier.’

  ‘Back then, I did what I had to do,’ the bald man said. ‘If I persuaded you to put your lives at risk, it was because I thought that was what was necessary to achieve our objectives. But times have changed – and so have circumstances.’

  ‘Have they really?’ Roberts asked.

  The bald man smiled. ‘Yes, and you do not have to look at the outside world to realize that – you have only to observe the four of us gathered here. So no pressure – not any more. If you wish to put the past behind you, I’ll respect that. If you wish to leave before any vote is taken, that is no more than your right and I wouldn’t blame you at all.’

  Roberts rolled the dice. Two kings, three aces.

  ‘A full house,’ he said. ‘Alone, each of the faces adds up to nothing. Together, they are a winning combination. But, of course, there are other throws which can still beat them.’

  ‘Is that a “yes” or a “no”?’ the bald man asked.

  ‘When have you ever known me to let anybody cut me out of the action?’ Roberts questioned. ‘I vote we go back ourselves. It will certainly be cheaper – and probably much more interesting.’

  The man in the tattered grey suit had said nothing during the course of the whole meeting. Yet he had been silent only in the way a volcano on the point of eruption might have been called silent – and while his mouth had been shut, the room had been full of his mental rumblings.

  Now, when he spoke, it was as if fire and brimstone were gushing forth from him.

  ‘We are the strong right arm of the Lord – His instrument of justice,’ he said. ‘We will smite the unrighteous and the unclean as He commands us. Yea, even unto death.’

  ‘Even more enigmatic than my answer,’ Roberts said, greatly amused. ‘But that’s a “yes” too, wouldn’t you say, Pete?’

  The bald man nodded, but there was a troubled expression on his face.

  He was worried about the man in the grey suit, and realized now that he had always been worried. In the old days they had all been branded as extremists and fanatics, and had taken it as a badge of honour. But even then he had seemed more extreme – more fanatical – than the rest of them. He was a loose cannon. He was teetering on the edge of insanity. But if the mission was ever to succeed, he was an essential part of the team.

  ‘How do you vote, Pete?’ Henderson asked.

  The bald man shrugged. ‘Does that really matter now? Two out of three is a majority, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think we’d like to hear, anyway.’

  The bald man sighed. ‘I was listening the wheels of the train as I was travelling down here. They seemed to be saying, “You-don’t-have-to-go, you-don’t-have-to-go.” By the time I got off at Euston, I was almost convinced they were right. And when I was standing on your doorstep and ringing the bell, my mind was already searching for an excuse – a way to back out. Then you, Henderson, came up with that excuse. We didn’t have to go ourselves, you said. We could hire an assassin. It would be safer for us, I thought, and a professional killer would have a much greater chance of success than a group of middle-aged men who the years had made soft. It seemed like the perfect solution!’

  ‘Perhaps it was,’ Henderson suggested. ‘Perhaps it still is.’

  The bald man sh
ook his head violently. ‘No! A thousand times no! I felt no relief when I heard your idea. I experienced despair. And it was at that moment I realized that whatever the others decided to do, I had to go back. Even if I fail! Even if I’m killed myself! There is simply no other option for me.’

  Roberts rolled the dice again. A pair of nines! It simply wasn’t possible to score any lower.

  ‘Apparently, there is no other option for any of us,’ he said.

  One

  The immigration officer wore a green uniform, dark glasses – and a scowl. He examined Woodend’s passport carefully – holding it as if it were an unexploded bomb – then looked up and said questioningly, ‘¿Policía?’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t speak any Spanish,’ Woodend said apologetically.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Charlie, it’s obvious that he wants to know if you’re a policeman,’ Joan said exasperatedly.

  Woodend nodded. Of course that was what he’d meant. ‘Yes, I’m a bobb— … a policeman,’ he said.

  The immigration officer did not seem to welcome the news. ‘A sheaf inspector?’ he asked, peering even closer at the document.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You are here for to work? To investigate?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ Woodend said.

  Joan dug him in the ribs. ‘You shouldn’t blaspheme, Charlie,’ she hissed. ‘They’re very religious, are the Spanish.’

  ‘We’re here on holiday,’ Woodend said, forming the words slowly and carefully, letting each one rest on his lips for a second. ‘The doctor said my wife needed a rest.’

  Joan sighed theatrically. ‘They know nothin’ at all, do they?’

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Them doctors. They might have all those certificates up on their walls, but they haven’t an ounce of common sense between them.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Course it’s right. If the doctor thought I needed a rest, he should have told me to leave you at home.’

  Woodend grinned.

  The man behind the desk did not. ‘You would have allow your wife to travel alone?’ he asked incredulously.

  Culture clash, Woodend thought. That’s what they called it.