Death Watch Read online

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because it’s such an obvious demotion.’

  ‘And don’t they want it to be obvious?’

  ‘Yes, but they can only push things so far. Put me into Burglary an’ they’re sayin’ it was somethin’ of an error of judgement on their part to ever give me the kidnappin’ case in the first place, because it was just beyond the threshold of my competence. Put me into Traffic, on the other hand, an’ they’ll be sayin’ I was out of my depth long before I was put in charge of the investigation – in which case, they’re the bloody fools an’ I’m just the bumblin’ idiot.’

  ‘So you think it will be Burglary?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I don’t know – an’ frankly, at the moment, I don’t give a damn,’ Woodend replied morosely. ‘What’s got me worried is that the bastard who killed Angela Jackson is still out there. I want to see him collared, an’ I don’t think either Crawley or Mortlake are up to the job. But there’s nothin’ I can do about that, is there? Because I’m out, an’ they’re in.’

  A man in a tweed jacket and brown trousers, who had been watching them for some time, chose that moment to walk over to their table and say, ‘Could you spare me a few minutes for a word in private, Chief Inspector?’

  Woodend looked up at him. ‘I really don’t want to talk to you, Dr Stevenson,’ he said.

  ‘Please!’ Stevenson said.

  ‘I could always go and powder my nose, if you wanted me to, sir,’ Paniatowski said tactfully.

  Woodend sighed. ‘Aye, you might as well,’ he agreed, and when she’d stood up, he said to Stevenson, ‘Take a seat, Doc.’

  Stevenson sat. ‘You must hate me,’ he said.

  ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t quite made up my mind about that, one way or the other,’ Woodend admitted. ‘You could have told me that you didn’t think Brunton was guilty, you know. You could have pushed your code of medical bloody ethics to one side for a second, an’ at least given me a hint. If you’d done that, I could have let him go, an’ we just might have found the girl in time.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Stevenson said. ‘I think the girl was doomed from the moment she was kidnapped.’

  ‘You could still have told me,’ Woodend persisted. ‘You could have given me a fightin’ chance.’

  ‘It was more complicated than you seem to think, Chief Inspector,’ Stevenson said awkwardly.

  ‘Was it? How?’

  ‘Edgar Brunton has this problem, and, on a purely personal level, it’s a serious one.’

  ‘He hates his wife. An’ – by extension – he hates women in general,’ Woodend said.

  Stevenson looked as if he’d just been struck by a brick. ‘He told you that himself, did he?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I worked it out. Or rather, my sergeant did. This trick-cycling game’s not as difficult as you fellers with a personal stake in it would have us believe. I’m right about his problem, aren’t I?’

  Stevenson glanced around, as if he expected to see the committee of the General Medical Council lurking in the corner, taking notes.

  ‘I’d go so far as to say that Brunton strongly resents women,’ he admitted, ‘but I’m not sure I’d be able to claim – with any degree of certainty – that he actually hates them.’

  ‘Still, you knew enough about him to know he couldn’t be the murderer – but you still said nothin’ to me.’

  ‘That’s the point! I didn’t know!’ Stevenson protested. ‘I suppose it’s true that I thought the prospect was highly unlikely, given what he’d said to me during the sessions we’ve had together.’

  ‘Well, then …?’

  ‘But I couldn’t be absolutely sure. Some patients manage to completely fool their doctors. Not many, but enough. How was I to know whether or not he’d been fooling me? I asked myself if I could take the chance of you releasing a dangerous psychopath back onto the streets, purely on my say-so. And I decided I couldn’t. I kept hoping and praying that you’d uncover a piece of evidence which would clear matters up, one way or the other.’ Stevenson raised his hands to his face. ‘Oh God, I was such a coward, wasn’t I?’

  ‘I’m not here to judge you,’ Woodend said, feeling a sudden – and unexpected – pity for the man.

  Stevenson lowered his hands again. ‘It’s very kind of you to say that,’ he told the chief inspector. ‘But it doesn’t really help much.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’

  ‘No! Because ever since the moment you had me locked up, I’ve been judging myself, and finding myself wanting.’

  The words made Woodend uncomfortable – as did the reminder of Stevenson’s incarceration.

  ‘I apologize for arrestin’ you,’ he said.

  ‘You only did what you thought was right,’ Stevenson told him.

  ‘Yes, I did think it was right – at the time,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But lookin’ back on it, it seems to me that at least a part of the reason I did it was because I was furious with you – an’ wanted to make you suffer.’ He paused to light up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘What time did they eventually let you go?’

  ‘Just before midnight.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Everybody had forgotten about me. But that’s perfectly understandable – after the discovery of Angela’s body, you all had a lot on your minds.’ Stevenson gave Woodend a thin smile. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue the police for false arrest.’

  ‘Superintendent Crawley will be relieved,’ Woodend said, then, realizing how ungracious he must have sounded, he added, ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Stevenson replied.

  There was a short, awkward silence, then Woodend said, ‘I still think you have somethin’ to contribute to this case. But I’m not sure that you’ll be allowed to.’

  ‘But surely if that’s what you really do think, then you’ll give me another chance to—’

  ‘It isn’t my case any more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been taken off it. It’s been assigned to somebody else.’

  ‘But that’s terrible!’ Stevenson told him. ‘If anyone can track this man down, it’s you.’

  ‘We could sit here all day, exchangin’ compliments an’ makin’ each other feel better,’ Woodend said awkwardly. ‘Or you could just listen, while I tell you what I think you should do next.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Stevenson told him.

  ‘Contact DCI Mortlake. Use all your powers of persuasion to convince him that you have somethin’ of value to offer.’

  Stevenson nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘An’ just so you’ll be prepared for anythin’ he might throw at you, I suppose I’d better fill you in on the details of what we found on the waste ground.’

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor said. ‘That might be a good idea.’

  Woodend told Stevenson about the condition the body had been discovered in, and the note that had been found nailed to her leg.

  ‘If we don’t catch him, do you think he’ll kill again?’ the chief inspector asked, when he’d finished.

  Stevenson nodded sombrely. ‘I’m almost certain that he will.’

  ‘Soon?’

  This time, Stevenson shook his head firmly. ‘No, not soon.’

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘From the very nature of the note, which almost seems like an announcement of his arrival on the scene, I would guess that this is his first killing.’

  ‘That was my thought, too,’ Woodend said.

  ‘And in virtually all cases, there’s quite a long gap before the killer decides to strike for a second time.’

  ‘What do you mean by “long”?’

  ‘Normally, it will be between six months and a year. But remember, that’s the gap between the first and the second killing. As his obsession expands and develops, the space between the killings will grow shorter and shorter, until it finally reaches the point at which the urge is so overpowering that he will kil
l every single time he has an opportunity.’

  So DCI Mortlake and Superintendent Crawley had around six months to get a result, Woodend thought.

  And would they be able to?

  He wanted to say that they would – wanted to convince himself that, with the entire resources of the Central Lancs Police Force behind them, even a couple of incompetents like Crawley and Mortlake were bound to catch the man before he struck again.

  He wanted to say it – but, looking at the situation objectively, he very much doubted whether it would be true.

  The Invisible Man sat at the table, with the morning’s national and local newspapers spread out in front of him.

  Most men in his position would have bought all the papers from the same place, he thought with smug satisfaction, but then he was not most men.

  He was far too canny to have made that kind of elementary mistake. He had realized – as the average killer would not have done – that such an action would have left a clear trail. And it only needed one policeman to be clever enough to go around the newsagents, asking if any customer had shown undue interest in the news, for the whole game to be up. So, bearing that in mind, he had driven all over town, buying two newspapers here and one newspaper there, until he had the complete collection.

  In many ways, he was most gratified by the coverage that the killing had received, though it annoyed him that there was no mention of the note left with the body, nor of the name he was using.

  The police were probably holding back some of the information deliberately, he thought. He had read they often did that, so that when they made an arrest they could trick the suspect into revealing himself through the fact that he had information which the general public didn’t.

  As if that kind of cheap trickery would work on him!

  As if any of their clumsy ruses would work on him!

  Even so, it was still a disappointment that his message to the world – to all the men in the world – had been suppressed.

  But it didn’t really matter, he told himself. Not when you took a long-term view of things. The police would have to release his name eventually – if not after the next killing then at least after the one which followed it.

  He was not yet sure when the next killing would take place. He felt, in many ways, like a painter or sculptor who has just finished his masterpiece, and is quite content, for the moment, to simply rest on his laurels.

  But this feeling would not last forever. He was certain of that. Eventually he would feel the urge begin again. At first, it would be no more than a minor irritation, a little like an annoying itch. But slowly it would grow, until it built up into a great surging river which would burst its banks if he failed to satisfy it.

  Yes, the urge would most certainly return. It might not be for as long as a year. It might be considerably less than that.

  But it would return.

  PART TWO:

  The Visible Men

  Seventeen

  Woodend was lying on his back, a few yards below the crown of a gently sloping Yorkshire hill. A soft spring breeze was blowing softly around him, and as he gazed idly up at an almost cloudless sky, he gave his thoughts free rein to wander wherever they wished.

  ‘Are you asleep, Charlie?’ asked a woman’s voice, half accusatory and half amused.

  He raised himself on one elbow. ‘Asleep? Me? Certainly not!’

  ‘Well, you looked like you were asleep.’

  ‘I was doin’ no more than absorbin’ the peace an’ tranquillity that we’re surrounded by,’ Woodend said, with as much injured dignity as he could muster – but even as he spoke the words he was already beginning to admit to himself that perhaps he had dozed off for a few minutes.

  He looked down the hill. In the near distance, a small flock of sheep were munching contentedly at the lush grass. Beyond them, he spied several baby rabbits running around – revelling in the new freedom that emergence from their dark burrows had given them. There were daffodils swaying sedately in the soft spring breeze, and deep-blue bugle flowers resting regally on top of their large spikes.

  At this time of year, there was nowhere better on God’s green earth than the Yorkshire Dales, he told himself.

  ‘By, but this has been a really grand day out, hasn’t it, love?’ he asked the woman.

  ‘Perfect in every way,’ Monika Paniatowski agreed contentedly.

  Woodend reached into the pocket of his hairy sports jacket, and extracted his packet of Capstan Full Strength. But even before he opened it, he could tell by the feel of the packet that it was empty.

  ‘Damn it, I seem to have run out of fags, Monika,’ he said. ‘Can I borrow one of yours?’

  ‘They’re filter tips, Charlie,’ Paniatowski said.

  Of course they were! He should have remembered that she smoked the same kind of poncey cigarettes as Bob Rutter did.

  He sighed theatrically and said, ‘Well, I suppose I’ll just have to lower my standards for once.’

  Paniatowski laughed. Then she took two cigarettes out of her packet, put both of them in her mouth, lit them, and handed one to Woodend.

  His relationship with Monika had changed so much since their failure in the Angela Jackson case had resulted in them no longer working together, Woodend thought.

  He’d worried, when they’d first been split up as a team, that they’d also grow apart as people, but the reverse had proved to be true. They were closer now than they’d ever been. He was grateful for that, and tried to avoid remembering, too often, that their increased intimacy was due, in no small part, to the way that Bob Rutter had behaved.

  He checked his watch. ‘Joan and Louisa seem to have been gone quite a long time,’ he said, slightly concerned.

  Paniatowski laughed again. ‘You worry far too much,’ she said. ‘The way you fret over that child, you’d think you’d never brought up one of your own.’

  But he had fretted over Annie, too, when she was growing up, he thought. He still fretted over her. It was just a thing that men with daughters did.

  Besides, it was not really Louisa he was worried about at that moment – it was Joan. Ever since she’d had her mild heart attack in Spain, two years earlier, he simply hadn’t been able to stop himself from thinking of that heart of hers as little more than a ticking time bomb.

  ‘When’s Bob back?’ he asked, to take his mind off his wife’s condition.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘It’s really very good of you to look after little Louisa while he’s away,’ Woodend said.

  Especially, he added silently, when we both know – though neither of us would ever admit it to the other – that Bob’s spending his time with that bloody Driver woman.

  ‘It gives the nanny a break from her duties,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Besides it’s no hardship at all for me to take care of Louisa. She’s a lovely little kid.’ She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Bloody,’ Woodend admitted. ‘I didn’t join the police force to spend my days pushin’ paper around. I don’t like it – an’ I’m not very good at it.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll move you into something more interesting soon,’ Paniatowski said.

  But they both knew that was not going to happen.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’ of takin’ early retirement,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Seriously?’ Paniatowski asked, alarmed.

  ‘Seriously,’ Woodend agreed. But then he chuckled and continued, ‘The only problem with doin’ that is, it would give Henry Marlowe more satisfaction to see me go than any man’s entitled to in one lifetime.’ He took another drag on the filter-tip cigarette, and decided he would never get used to them. ‘How’s your new job goin’?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite well,’ Paniatowski told him.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. The Domestic Violence Unit’s doing pioneering work, and I think I’m making a valuable contribution to it.’ She paused. ‘Only …’

  ‘Only, it’s not the
job you were born to do?’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘Only, it’s not the job I was born to do,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  They heard the sound of a little girl giggling loudly, and turned to see Joan and Louisa coming slowly over the crest of the hill.

  ‘My Joan really shouldn’t be pushin’ herself like that,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘She’s having the time of her life. Louisa’s like a granddaughter to her, and the longer she’s with her, the younger she looks herself.’

  And there was some truth in that, Woodend conceded – but he still didn’t want to be the widower of a young-looking corpse.

  Joan and Louisa drew level with them.

  ‘You should have come with us, Uncle Charlie,’ the little girl said excitedly. ‘We saw an elephant’s footprint. Didn’t we, Auntie Joan?’

  ‘We saw somethin’ that I said certainly looked like an elephant’s footprint,’ Joan replied cautiously. ‘But I’m not too sure there are any wild elephants in Yorkshire.’

  She was short of breath, Woodend thought. She was trying to hide it from him, but she was definitely short of breath.

  ‘So what have you two been talkin’ about while we were off explorin’?’ Joan asked Woodend and Paniatowski. ‘Old times, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Not really,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Well, I am surprised.’

  And so, in a way, was Woodend. There’d been a time when he and Paniatowski couldn’t have been together for more than five minutes without talking shop, but he supposed that now those days were gone – and never coming back – they’d both decided to almost pretend that they’d never existed.

  ‘We should be setting off for home, or we’ll be missing Louisa’s bedtime,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Woodend agreed.

  And he was thinking to himself that it was almost heart-breaking to see how attached Monika had become to the little girl.

  Because – sooner or later – it was bound to end in tears.

  Mary Thomas had lived in Whitebridge for a little more than two months, and though it had initially been a big wrench to leave all her old school friends behind in the Valleys, she had quickly decided that there had also been quite a lot of advantages to the move.