The Red Herring Page 14

  ‘A cold stone,’ Rutter said.

  ‘A very cold stone indeed,’ Woodend agreed.

  Twenty

  It was as Monika Paniatowski’s MGA overtook a lorry in a way which could have only been called reckless – even by her own high-speed standards – that DCI Horrocks finally spoke.

  ‘Is there something on your mind, Monika?’ he asked. ‘Because if there is, I rather think I’d like to hear about it – before you kill us both.’

  Paniatowski slowed down almost to a crawl, infuriating the driver of the lorry she’d so recently shot past. ‘Are you any more comfortable with this speed, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Out with it, Monika,’ Horrocks said.

  Why not? Paniatowski asked herself. Why not tell the bastard exactly what was going through her head?

  ‘What the hell sort of stunt do you think you were pulling back there at the base, sir?’ she demanded.

  ‘Stunt?’ Horrocks repeated. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean. If you remember, I asked you if it would embarrass you to stay in the room while Tooley told me more about his adulterous activities. I certainly wanted you to, because I knew that would make him uncomfortable – and men who are not at their ease often let slip more than they intended to. So when you said you didn’t mind staying, I took you at your word. If I’d realised how much it would upset you––’

  ‘It didn’t upset me,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’m a detective sergeant, not a nun. If he’d pulled out his John Thomas, slapped it on the desk, and asked us both to sign it for him, I wouldn’t have got upset – I’d just have asked him if he wanted my full name or only my initials.’

  ‘So if that didn’t bother you . . .?’

  ‘It’s what happened later that I’m angry about.’

  ‘You mean the fact that I did eventually ask you to leave?’

  ‘You know bloody well that’s what I mean.’ Paniatowski said, pressing down harder on the accelerator again and picking up speed as she approached a sharp bend. ‘Listen, sir, can’t we make a deal?’

  ‘What kind of deal?’

  ‘If you don’t treat me like a complete bloody idiot, I won’t treat you like one.’

  Horrocks nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘Why did you throw me out?’

  ‘The reason I asked you to leave when I did was because I could see that the rest of the interview would have nothing to do with the particular investigation you were involved in.’

  ‘Then what did it have to do with, sir?’

  ‘I thought I told you to call me Jack.’

  ‘I’ve tried that, and I don’t feel comfortable with it. Chief Inspector Woodend’s a friend of mine – I trust him – and I don’t even call him by his first name.’

  Horrocks smiled. ‘Which is another way of saying, I suppose, that you don’t trust me.’

  ‘You haven’t given me much reason to so far, have you?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Horrocks replied. ‘All right, let’s start again, shall we? Your interest in talking to Captain Tooley was to see how he squared up as a murder suspect. Having heard him for yourself, do you think it’s likely that he’s Verity Beale’s murderer?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Paniatowski admitted.

  ‘Neither do I. His brain might be residing somewhere in his underpants, but that doesn’t make him a killer. He’s a worried man – we both saw that – but I think he’s far more worried his wife will find out about his little fling than he is about being charged with the murder. Do you agree with me on that?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘So, having put him fairly low down on our list of suspects, I took the opportunity to do a favour for a colleague.’

  ‘A colleague? From the Yard?’

  ‘No, not from the Yard. From the Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington DC.’

  ‘You seem to have some long-distance friends,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘His name’s Sam Goldsmith, not that that will mean anything to you. I met him at one of these international conferences which senior officers have to attend from time to time, and we seemed to hit it off right from the start.’

  ‘How very cosy for the pair of you,’ Paniatowski said, still refusing to be mollified.

  ‘You’re getting what you told me you wanted, Monika – just don’t push it too far,’ Horrocks said, with a hint of reproach in his voice.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Carry on.’

  ‘As you may, or may not, know, the FBI has a records and files system that we could only dream of possessing here in England,’ Horrocks continued, ‘and so, last night I gave old Sam a ring to see if there was anything useful he could tell me about Tooley. Or anyone else on the base, for that matter.’

  ‘Go on.’

  That’s where I got the information about Tooley being something of a Red sympathiser – from Sam. Frankly, I didn’t think that would be of much use to us in the Verity Beale case, and it hasn’t been. On the other hand, since Sam had tried his best to help us, I thought I’d return the compliment by finding out whether there was anything Captain Tooley has done since he’s been here in England which could be added to his FBI dossier.’

  ‘And was there?’

  ‘Not on the surface. Frankly, I think the Americans in general – and the FBI in particular – are a little too obsessed with “Reds under the bed”. Still, I suppose you can’t blame them at the moment, what with all this palaver blowing up over Cuba. And it never does any harm to have the Yanks on your side, does it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘So have I explained my actions to your satisfaction?’

  ‘It might have helped if you’d briefed me about what you were going to do before we ever saw Tooley,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Now I’ve got to know you better, I won’t make the same mistake again,’ Horrocks said, perhaps just a little ambiguously.

  ‘Any word yet on the Armstrong Siddeley which was parked outside the pub where Miss Beale had her last drink?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘The Yard’s still working on it,’ Horrocks said brusquely.

  ‘What about Verity Beale’s personal history before she came up to Lancashire?’

  ‘They’re still working on that, too.’

  ‘The forensics from the Spinner car park?’

  ‘I’m waiting for that report, as well.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, it doesn’t seem as if the Yard’s doing very much at all,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘And with all due consideration for your feelings of impatience, Sergeant, it’s the officer in charge, not his bagman, who decides whether or not the case is moving at a satisfactory pace,’ Horrocks replied, with an edge to his voice.

  Paniatowski swallowed – hard! ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘So given that we haven’t got much information to work on, where do we go from here?’

  ‘Well, as you’ve been at such pains to point out, there’s not really much we can do until we hear from London,’ Horrocks said. ‘Why don’t we go for a drive?’

  ‘A drive?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you could show me a bit of the countryside, and then we could stop off at a pleasant pub for lunch.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, sir,’ Paniatowski pointed out.

  ‘True. But it’s unlikely the murderer’s going to go away just because we take a few hours off, now is it? Besides, I’m a new boy here. I think it might be useful to get the lay of the land – develop a feeling for the area. Isn’t that the way your beloved Chief Inspector Woodend – Cloggin’-it Charlie – usually works?’

  ‘Yes, sir, it is,’ Paniatowski said. ‘But how did you know that?’

  Twenty-One

  Only the previous morning, Park Road had been no more than a quiet street which ran past Whitebridge’s oldest school. The murder – and the kidnapping which followed it – had changed all that. The modest sign which announced the name of the school was now flanked by two hastily painted notices which scre
amed that the public were not admitted under any circumstances. The playground, empty the last time Woodend visited the school, was being patrolled by three uniformed men from a private security firm. And on the fringes of the park itself stood at least a couple of dozen people, gazing with morbid curiosity at the school buildings, as if they expected them to be the backdrop for some sudden, dramatic incident.

  Nor was that all, Woodend noted as he slowed down and indicated that he was pulling in. Standing at the gate, and obviously arguing with one of the security men, was a young woman who had long black hair and was dressed in one of the trench coats which had almost become de rigueur for crime reporters.

  The chief inspector sighed heavily. He was not surprised that Elizabeth Driver had chosen this particular story as the material from which to spin a piece of creative fiction she would then pass off as hard news, but she was certainly a complication he really didn’t need on a case which mattered as much to him as this one did.

  Ignoring the double yellow lines on the road, he parked his car just beyond the school gate. By the time he had opened the door to step out, Elizabeth Driver, notebook in hand, was standing directly in front of him.

  ‘Those bloody idiots on the gate won’t let me go into the school,’ she complained.

  ‘How amazin’,’ Woodend replied.

  ‘I could really help them with this one.’

  ‘Maybe you could if you wanted to,’ Woodend agreed, ‘but let’s face it, Miss Driver, helpin’ other people has never really been one of your priorities, now has it?’

  ‘So you won’t give me a quote on the murder?’

  ‘The murder investigation has nothin’ to do with me,’ Woodend said, thinking to himself: Unless it’s connected to the kidnapping.

  And if it was connected, Elizabeth Driver was the last person he’d tell!

  The reporter smiled. ‘I know the murder investigation hasn’t got anything to do with you. That’s rather what I hoped for a quote on.’

  ‘Come again?’ Woodend said.

  ‘I’ve covered enough murders now to know the way the police run things, and I’ve never come across anything like this investigation.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Woodend asked, becoming curious, despite himself.

  ‘There’s normally a big team assigned to a murder. This time, in case you haven’t noticed, the team consists solely of your mate, Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, and a chief inspector from London.’

  ‘An’ in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got a missin’ girl who’s takin’ up most of our manpower,’ Woodend countered.

  ‘So you’re saying that Miss Beale’s horrific murder is being largely ignored?’ Elizabeth Driver prompted.

  ‘No, I’m not sayin’ that at all – as you well know. What I am sayin’ is that it’s bein’ mostly handled by people outside this force – mainly from the Yard – which is somethin’ you should already know if you were doin’ your job properly.’

  ‘Another thing,’ Elizabeth Driver said, undeterred, as always, by the implied rebuke. ‘Why is this copper from London doing his level best to keep away from the spotlight? He wasn’t part of the television appeal last night, and he hasn’t called any press conferences yet.’

  ‘Maybe somebody’s warned him about people like you,’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘If you’d just put aside your personal dislike for me for a moment, and listen to what I have to say, you might learn something very interesting,’ Elizabeth Driver told him.

  ‘All right,’ Woodend agreed. ‘You’ve got two minutes.’

  ‘Despite the fact you’ve worked in Scotland Yard yourself, you don’t actually know this Chief Inspector Horrocks, do you?’

  ‘You were supposed to be tellin’ me somethin’ I didn’t know, not interrogatin’ me.’

  ‘That’s just what I thought,’ Elizabeth Driver said, reading her own meaning into his words. ‘You’ve never actually heard of the man, have you? And do you know why?’

  ‘Because I left the Yard before he joined it?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘So we don’t know each other because we’ve never met. Now there’s a scoop for your front page if I ever heard one.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask me when he joined the Yard?’

  Woodend sighed. ‘All right, if that will keep you happy. When did he join the Yard?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, that’s another highly instructive piece of information.’

  ‘But I should know, shouldn’t I? It should be a matter of public record.’

  ‘What exactly are you sayin’ here?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘I got one of my colleagues in London to ring the Yard and ask how long Horrocks has been working there. The man in Personnel he talked to said there was no such DCI.’

  ‘So whoever was answerin’ the inquiry couldn’t read the records properly. That’s nothin’ new.’

  ‘Half an hour later, the same man rang my colleague back. He was very apologetic. He said that, of course, there was a DCI Horrocks. He couldn’t think what had ever made him say there wasn’t.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’

  ‘So my colleague asked when Horrocks had joined the Yard, and the man suddenly went all vague again – said he’d have to check up on the exact details, and he’d get back to him on it.’

  ‘An’ he probably will.’

  ‘Then,’ Elizabeth Driver said, with a hint of triumph creeping into her voice, ‘my colleague asked where Horrocks had been working before he was transferred to the Yard, and the man said he believed it had been in “B” Department, which, as I’m sure you know, is the Traffic and Transport Division.’

  ‘Aye, by some quirk of fate I do happen to know that,’ Woodend replied dryly.

  ‘But there’s no record of any DCI called Horrocks working in “B” Department.’

  ‘So maybe he’s been recently promoted,’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘There’s no record of a DI Horrocks working there, either.’

  ‘Then perhaps the man from Personnel was wrong about where he’d been posted last.’

  ‘And there’s no record of a DI or DCI Horrocks working in “A”, “C” or “D” Department, either,’ Elizabeth Driver said, as if she were playing her trump card. ‘Don’t you think that’s just a little strange?’

  ‘I think your mate in London has probably got the whole thing round his neck,’ Woodend said. ‘I think that if he goes back an’ checks over his facts again – carefully, this time – he’ll soon find out exactly where Mr Horrocks was workin’ before he moved to the Yard.’

  ‘You might be pushing out the official line to me, but you don’t sound at all convinced yourself,’ Elizabeth Driver told him.

  No, I probably don’t, Woodend thought. An’ that just might be because I’m not.

  Bob Rutter sat as his desk at the top of the horseshoe in the incident centre, looking through tired eyes at the rest of the team. Apart from a lull in the middle of the night, every one of them had been almost constantly on the phone since Cloggin’-it Charlie and Helen Dunn’s mother had made their appeal for information the night before.

  Some of the calls had come from cranks, eager to implicate their neighbours or advance some insane pet conspiracy theory. Others had come from well-meaning people who desperately wanted to help, but who, in fact, had nothing to contribute. There had even been a few calls which had sounded promising, but had led the follow-up teams to quite another young girl than the one who had gone missing.

  It was possible – even probable – that this whole exercise would turn out to be a complete waste of effort, he thought. Yet every time he heard a telephone ring, Rutter experienced a tiny flicker of hope that this call might be the one which would prove to be a breakthrough.

  He turned to the large stack of statements and reports which had been building up on his desk since the previous afternoon. Each of the reports had been thoroughly checked through by at least two officers, and any
thing which might be of even the slightest importance reported to the collator, who had logged it for future cross-reference. That should have been the end of the process. Rutter was under no obligation to go through the pile himself, yet, feeling almost as driven as his boss was, he found himself reaching towards the stack.

  The first file he opened was a report on the search of the park which had been carried out the previous afternoon. There had been no rain for some time, the report pointed out, and thus, though crushed grass around the bushes opposite the school would indicate that someone had been standing there at some point in the day, there was no possibility of lifting any footprints. Nor were there any other clues, such as cigarette ends or personal objects which had been accidentally dropped.

  Rutter put the file to one side and reached for the next, which listed objects recovered from other parts of the park. He ran his eyes quickly down the list. Coins amounting to a grand total of one shilling and threepence ha’penny. A penknife. A scarf. A left glove. Four contraceptive sheaths (used) and one still in its packet. A pencil case. A set of house keys. An empty whisky bottle. A pornographic magazine. A Serbo-Croat phrase book . . .

  A Serbo-Croat phrase book! Who the bloody hell could have any possible use for a Serbo-Croat phrase book in Whitebridge? Rutter wondered.

  He reached for a third file – this one a report of people and vehicles spotted in the vicinity at the time of the disappearance – and the name of one vehicle leapt off the page at him!

  Rage was a rare experience for Rutter, but it blazed through him now.

  ‘Which incompetent half-wit’s in charge of checking car registrations against owners?’ he screamed.

  His team looked up, startled.

  ‘That . . . that would be me, sir,’ Sergeant Cowgill said.

  ‘And did you happen to notice that there was an Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire parked on the road at the bottom of the Corporation Park around the time Helen Dunn disappeared?’ Rutter demanded.