A Long Time Dead Read online

  ‘I’d so like it if Douglas Coutes turned out to be the murderer,’ Woodend said.

  ‘I know you would,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘But are you prepared to consider the possibility that he might actually be innocent?’

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend replied. ‘Unfortunately, I bloody-well am.’

  Twelve

  It was after eleven o’clock when Woodend and Paniatowski returned to Haverton Camp, and though there were still two MPs on sentry duty at the gate, there was no other sign of life.

  ‘Well, everybody seems to be tucked up safely in his or her own little bed, ‘Woodend said, as he parked the Wolseley next to the trailers. ‘Do you know what George Bernard Shaw once said about Britain an’ America, Monika?’

  ‘Can’t say that I do.’

  ‘He said they were two countries divided by a common language.’

  ‘Having talked to Special Agent Grant for a few hours, I think Shaw was probably right,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘So do I. But I also think that he missed one other vital difference, which is that we’re divided by our drinkin’ habits.’

  Paniatowski smiled. ‘Go on, I’ll buy it,’ she said.

  ‘You see, the Americans don’t have a closin’ time as we know it,’ Woodend explained. ‘That means that some of their bars close earlier than our pubs, an’ some of them close later.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, takin’ that fact into account, there’s no wonder they’re confused, is there? Every society needs a clearly defined structure if it’s to function properly, an’ they haven’t got one.’

  ‘What about the American Constitution?’ Paniatowski asked, innocently.

  ‘Can’t say I’ve ever looked at that particular document,’ Woodend admitted. ‘I’m sure it’s a wonderful read, but I’d rather wait for the film to come out. Anyway, even allowin’ for the fact that it’s as fine a piece of work as everybody seems to think it is, there’s nothin’ gives structure like the “last orders” bell in a boozer. It’s the one fixed point in an ever-changin’ world, you see. Politicians may argue among themselves, scientists may dispute other scientists’ findings, historians may be continually reinterpretin’ the past in the light of new findin’s, but it’s an indisputable fact that at ten minutes to eleven that bell will ring, so you’d better get your last drinks in. An’ that one single event provides us with a universal certainty we can build our lives around.’

  ‘Unless you indulge in after-hours drinking, as we so often do,’ Paniatowski pointed out.

  ‘Aye, well, you can pick holes in most theories if you’re really determined to,’ Woodend said, climbing out of the car. ‘Do you want me to walk you back to your caravan, Monika?’

  ‘You wouldn’t normally make me an offer like that,’ Paniatowski said, half-suspicious, half-amused. ‘Is there any particular reason for this sudden attack of gallantry?’

  ‘Not really,’ Woodend said.

  But maybe there was, he thought.

  Maybe just talking about Robert Kineally had somehow summoned up the dead American’s spirit, and in making the offer, he was only doing what Kineally – a born gentleman if there ever was one – would have done in his place.

  ‘It’s a man’s natural inclination to want to protect a woman,’ he heard himself say.

  Paniatowski laughed. ‘I’ve got a black belt in judo,’ she reminded him. ‘Have you?’

  Woodend grinned. ‘No, I’m too patriotic to go in for all that foreign stuff. I have to rely on the traditional British martial arts – passed down through the generations – of the fist an’ the boot.’

  ‘Besides,’ Paniatowski said, suddenly growing more serious and reaching into her handbag, ‘I’ve got this as back-up.’

  She held out the knife for him to inspect. The blade was not visible at that moment, but at the touch of a button it would spring out.

  ‘Flick knives like that one are illegal in this country, Monika,’ Woodend pointed out.

  ‘I know,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’ve often thought of arresting myself for carrying it around. But since it was given to me by a policeman – for my protection, he said – I’d have to arrest him, too.’

  This conversation wasn’t about the knife at all, Woodend guessed – it was about Chief Inspector Baxter.

  ‘There are times when he’s just like a mother hen to me,’ Paniatowski continued, confirming his suspicions. ‘He clucks, and he fusses, and he treats me like I’m a delicate china doll. And that can sometimes become just a little tiring, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps he is a little over-cautious from time to time,’ Woodend said, ‘but all men are prone to bein’ like that as they grow older.’

  ‘You’re not,’ Paniatowski said. ‘You might be older than God yourself, but you can still act like a bull in a china shop when the mood takes you.’

  ‘Aye, an’ just look where it’s got me,’ Woodend said. ‘I could have been Chief Constable by now, if I’d learned to practice a little more caution.’

  ‘I sometimes yearn for the dangerous – the unpredictable,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Is that so wrong?’

  Woodend shrugged. ‘There’s not much point in askin’ me, lass. As an agony aunt, I’d make a pretty good hatstand.’

  Paniatowski laughed again. ‘You’re right, of course. Some people are never happy with what they’ve got – even if what they’ve got is more than they’d ever dared hope for.’ She turned towards her trailer. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight, lass,’ Woodend said. ‘See you in the mornin’.’

  Paniatowski had only been inside her trailer for a minute when she heard the knock on the door.

  ‘Have you forgotten something, sir?’ she called out.

  ‘It’s not Mr Woodend,’ the voice outside said. ‘It’s me. Ed Grant.’

  Ed Grant? Paniatowski thought. Not Special Agent Grant, or even Edward Grant, but Ed Grant!

  She opened the door, and looked out into the night. Earlier, she reminded herself, Grant had been wearing a sober suit and a dark tie. Now he was tie-less and had put on a casual jacket.

  ‘This is something of a surprise,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you, Special Agent?’

  Grant flushed slightly. ‘I … uh … was taking a walk around the camp before turning in for the night, and I happened to see that your light was still on,’ he said unconvincingly.

  ‘And so you rushed over here because you thought I might be being burgled?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘No, not exactly. I … uh … thought you might like a nightcap before you went to bed.’

  Paniatowski glanced over her shoulder, at the small fridge in the trailer’s kitchen.

  ‘I’m not sure there is anything to drink,’ she said. ‘I haven’t actually checked.’

  Grant reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a half-bottle of vodka. ‘We could always drink this,’ he suggested.

  ‘A Commie drink?’ Paniatowski asked, with mock-incredulity.

  Grant shrugged, awkwardly. ‘I figured if it was good enough for a fine lady like you to drink, then it was certainly good enough for me.’

  ‘But wherever did you get it?’ Paniatowski wondered. ‘I thought you told me they wouldn’t have any in your commissary.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Grant agreed. ‘Thing is, I thought I’d take the opportunity to see something of this wonderful little country of yours, so I went for a drive. I came across this cute little town – Exeter, I think it’s called – and that’s where I bought the vodka.’

  So he had not only managed to drag himself away from his precious documents, but he’d driven all the way to Exeter, Paniatowski thought.

  ‘And when you went on your walk, just now, you took the vodka with you for company?’ she asked.

  Grant flushed again, deeper, this time. ‘I’m not very good at this, am I?’ he asked.

  ‘Not very good at what?’

  ‘At being casual. “Casual” isn’t something they teach you how to be i
n the FBI.’

  Paniatowski found herself warming to his obvious discomfort. ‘Why don’t you just say what’s really on your mind?’ she suggested.

  Grant took a deep breath. ‘The fact is, I was hoping we’d have the opportunity to spend some time together,’ he confessed.

  Paniatowski thought of Bob Rutter, her old lover, and Chief Inspector Baxter, her solid, stolid sometimes-part-time current lover. Neither of them could have been truly called a man of the world, but even so, Grant seemed like a stumbling, bumbling boy in comparison to them.

  But that didn’t necessarily make him unattractive.

  ‘I … uh … probably shouldn’t have intruded on your free time,’ Special Agent Grant said.

  Paniatowski took a step back inside the trailer. ‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘You open the bottle, and I’ll find us some glasses.’

  Thirteen

  The darkness that had shrouded the earth since the setting of the evening sun was slowly conceding its dominance to the newly-born morning sun, already on its slow climb towards its zenith.

  At ground level, small, furry nocturnal creatures scurried towards their hiding-place-homes, and small diurnal creatures slowly emerged from their sleepy burrows. In the trees, the birds had already begun their daily song of gratitude at having survived another long cold night. And Woodend, lying in his trailer-bed, reflectively scratched under his armpit.

  He was not at all happy to be playing any part in this investigation, he told himself. It wasn’t just that the whole situation was fraught with career-busting political possibilities – although it undoubtedly was. It wasn’t even that, given the time which had passed, the murder was almost impossible to solve with any degree of certainty – though that was true as well. What really depressed him was that he was being forced to investigate his own past – interrogate his old self – and he was not at all sure that he would like what he might uncover.

  Woodend rolled out of bed. He was a bath-taking man by inclination, but there was no bath in the trailer, so a shower would have to do. He wedged himself inside the shower cabinet, and – after just a moment’s indecision – decided to ignore the inviting hot tap and use only the cold. He emerged from the shower shivering – but feeling virtuous – and after putting on his dressing gown, he decided to reward himself with his first cigarette of the morning.

  He allowed the first few inhalations of the blessed nicotine to snake their way around his lungs, then padded over to the trailer’s kitchen area. There didn’t seem to be a teapot. However, since the caddy did not contain the loose tea he’d expected, but only little bags of the stuff (Tea bags! What was the world coming to?) he soon realized that a pot wasn’t really necessary.

  By using three tea bags in a large mug, he managed to produce a brew which was almost as good as the one he would have got at home, and he was just lighting up his second cigarette of the day when the phone rang.

  He picked it up.

  ‘Woodend.’

  He had expected to find himself talking to either Paniatowski or Grant – but it was neither of them.

  ‘How are you, sir?’ asked the thin, uncertain voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘How are you, Bob?’ Woodend replied.

  What a bloody stupid thing to say, Charlie Woodend, he told himself angrily. How do you think the lad is? How would you be, if it had been Joan who’d been murdered?

  ‘Forget I even asked you that question,’ he told Bob Rutter. ‘I know how you must be feelin’. Like shit! But it will get a little better, over time. I can promise you that, lad.’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to imagine it could get much worse,’ Rutter said, chillingly matter-of-factly. ‘Listen, sir, I don’t know where you are – they wouldn’t tell me in Whitebridge, and I had to use a bucketful of favours to even get your number out of them – but I assume that you’re working on a case.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Woodend said cautiously.

  ‘Want to talk it over?’

  ‘I’m not really sure I can.’

  ‘The thing is, I’ve been to see the police shrink again, and he says I’m not stable enough to return to my normal duties yet.’

  ‘An’ he’s probably right about that, don’t you think? Take your time, Bob. Nobody’s rushin’ you. Nobody at all. You come back to work when you’re good an’ ready.’

  ‘I’m ready now,’ Rutter said, desperately. ‘Whatever the shrink’s opinion, I know I am.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be too sure …’

  ‘If I don’t get back to work soon, I’ll go crazy. That’s why I’m ringing you now.’

  ‘Listen, Bob—’

  ‘I’m not asking for a major part in an investigation. I know that’s not possible. I’d be happy just doing a little bit of the background work for the case you’re involved in now.’

  But what kind of ‘backroom work’ could anybody do on a case which was as tightly wrapped up in the Official Secrets Act as this one seemed to be? Woodend wondered.

  Still, it must have taken a lot of guts for Bob Rutter to force himself to make this call in the first place, and Woodend just couldn’t bring himself to turn the poor feller down flat.

  ‘Where are you, Bob?’ he asked.

  ‘London. I’ve brought the baby down here to be with her grandparents. It’s for the best, I suppose. I can’t look after her properly myself at the moment, the state I’m in.’

  He really did need to work, Woodend thought, and quickly racked his brains for something – anything – he could toss to the inspector who he’d come almost to regard as a son.

  ‘Have you still got any of your old contacts from your days in the Met, Bob?’ he asked.

  ‘A few. Why?’

  ‘Do you think you could make use of them to do some background checkin’ for me?’

  ‘On what?’

  On what indeed? Woodend wondered. He was walking through a minefield of officialdom and secrecy here, and if he put a foot wrong, the whole thing would blow up in his face.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a feller called the Right Honourable Douglas Coutes?’ he asked.

  ‘Coutes? Isn’t he the Minister of Defence?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He’s not been murdered, has he? Surely if he had been, it would be headline news.’

  ‘No, he’s not been murdered.’

  ‘Then what …?’

  ‘He’s peripherally involved in the case I’m workin’ on,’ Woodend lied, ‘but, for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t tell anybody else that.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘An’ I was wonderin’ if he – or anybody close to him – might have been of especial interest to the Met, recently.’

  ‘It’s not likely, is it?’ Rutter asked.

  No, Woodend thought, it’s not likely at all. If Coutes is guilty of a serious crime, it’s one he committed twenty years ago.

  ‘My first rule of thumb is collect up as much information as I can, however irrelevant it might turn out to be later,’ he said, improvising wildly around the truth. ‘Havin’ worked with me as closely as you have, you should know that better than anybody.’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘But you’re probably right, Bob. A long-shot like this isn’t worth wastin’ your time—’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Rutter said firmly.

  ‘No, now I’ve had time to consider it, I think—’

  ‘I want to do it.’

  ‘You can’t tell your pals in the Met the reason why you’re interested in Coutes,’ Woodend warned.

  ‘No problem there, is there – since I don’t actually know myself,’ Rutter countered.

  ‘But you’re goin’ to have to come up with some sort of story to explain away your questions.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  This was crazy, Woodend thought. If things went wrong, they could both be accused of breaching the Official Secrets Act. If things went wrong, they could both be sunk without trace.
r />   ‘Well, tread carefully, lad,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘I always do tread carefully in my professional life,’ Rutter said. ‘It’s only in my private life that I bugger things up.’

  ‘You mustn’t go heapin’ all the blame on yourself—’ Woodend began – but he was talking to a dead line.

  There was an energetic knocking on the trailer door, and when Woodend opened it, he found a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Special Agent Grant standing there.

  ‘The first of our witnesses arrived at the camp some time in the night,’ the Special Agent said.

  ‘Thanks for tellin’ me,’ Woodend said.

  ‘So I thought we could roll up our sleeves and get started straight away,’ Grant said.

  Woodend sighed. ‘You can die of over-enthusiasm, you know,’ he said. ‘But fortunately, there is a cure.’

  ‘A cure?’ Grant repeated.

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend told him. ‘It’s called “growin’ older”.’

  Woodend had conducted more interrogations in his career than he now cared to remember. And the interview rooms in which he’d conducted them – whether in London, Whitebridge or some other provincial city or town – had all been pretty much-of-a-muchness.

  The only window in these rooms would generally be close to the ceiling and rather small, thus ensuring that the man being interrogated could neither be distracted by looking out of it, nor seek to put an end to his ordeal by jumping through it. The walls of the rooms were almost invariably painted in two colours – chocolate brown to waist height, and sickly cream from there to the ceiling. The table and chairs could come in a variety of mismatched styles, but were united by the fact that they had all had a long history of service, and only found their way to this room when no one else – not even the most junior of junior officers – was prepared to tolerate using them any more.

  The trailer which Special Agent Grant had set aside for interrogations in this case was – to say the least – from another world. It differed from all the other trailers the Americans had brought with them in that it had no windows, and it bore the sign TC1 on its side in bold black letters.