The Red Herring Read online

  ‘Why should they suspect you?’

  ‘Because of who I am!’

  ‘Let’s think about who you are, if that’s what’s concerning you,’ Dove had said, irritatingly calmly and logically. ‘You’re a highly qualified man, holding down a highly respectable job. You’ve no criminal record – you don’t even have any outstanding parking tickets. You’re paying off a mortgage you can easily afford, and you have a wife and two children. Now isn’t that all true?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all true.’

  ‘You’re Mr Middle Britain – so conventional you’re almost boring. It’s never going to cross anybody’s mind that you’d risk all that to do something which could mean you’d end up behind bars for the rest of your life. That’s what makes it so safe, you see – we’re both totally above suspicion.’

  Oh, he had a way with words, did Martin Dove, Cray thought bitterly. He could talk anybody into anything. But his words didn’t seem to mean so much when they came up against stark reality.

  ‘You all right, Mr Cray?’ one of the welders called to him from the scaffolding.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Cray shouted back.

  But he was thinking, Is it so obvious I’m in a state that even a man standing so far away from me can see it?

  They should have called it off the moment Verity Beale had seen them together in the Spinner, he thought.

  Verity Beale!

  What a cunning, scheming bitch she had been! The first time they’d met, he’d thought the encounter had been accidental. But it hadn’t been at all! Nothing Verity Beale did – or, rather, had ever done – had been accidental. She had played him like a violin. He could see that now. She had pretended to be interested in him, whereas all she’d really had an interest in was what he stood for.

  Yes, once they’d seen Verity in the pub, they should have realised the game was up, and cut their losses. And if it had been left up to him, that was just what he would have done. But bloody Martin Dove had persuaded him – once again – that if they took the necessary precautions they could still get away with it.

  He wondered if anybody had seen them together in the park the previous lunchtime – wondered if, even now, some policeman was matching up a series of reports which would eventually lead to his arrest.

  He couldn’t bear the thought of a trial. He would never be able to stand the shame. If it looked as if an arrest was imminent, he promised himself, he would take his own life without a second’s hesitation.

  As a distraction from his problems, he looked up at the shiny metal body which was gradually taking shape under the hangar roof.

  The TSR-bloody-2! He had to laugh when he heard the politicians talking so confidently about it on the television.

  He remembered the joke he had once heard.

  Question: What’s the definition of a camel?

  Answer: A camel is a horse designed by a committee!

  That was what this plane was – a horse designed by a committee. Everybody involved wanted something different from it, and because of that, what had originally been intended as a small, fast, strike-fighter had become a monster forced to incorporate a larger crew, a higher speed, longer range, higher altitude and a shorter take-off. And it simply could not be done! As a direct result of all the interested parties – the Army, the Navy and the Air Force – insisting on keeping what they wanted, the end product was bound to be something that nobody wanted.

  Cray lowered his eyes from the fuselage to ground level. He had not been expecting to see the two men standing in the workshop doorway, looking around as if they weren’t quite certain where to go next – but when he did, he felt his heart start to beat faster.

  He was being irrational, he told himself. The men, whoever they were, probably had a perfectly legitimate reason for being there which had nothing to do with him. But even as his brain argued the case for their innocuousness, his heartbeats were accelerating from a canter to a gallop.

  One of the foremen approached the men, and when they had exchanged a few words with him, he pointed towards the plane.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ a frightened voice somewhere in Cray’s brain screamed. ‘Nothing to do with me! Nothing to do with me!’

  They were walking towards him now. One of them was tall, almost totally bald, and had one of those drooping moustaches that the villains always sported in cowboy films. The other was shorter but broader, and had on glasses with metal frames. They were both wearing suits, but they were not the muted conservative suits that men from the Ministry of Aviation favoured. Nor was the grim set of their features anything like the expressions of mild boredom he was used to seeing on the faces of the bureaucrats he was accustomed to dealing with.

  The shame of it, he thought again.

  And he found himself wondering how his mother would feel when the newspapers arrived at the nursing home where she lived, with his story splashed all over the front pages.

  The men drew level with him, and came to a halt.

  ‘Mr Cray?’ asked the taller one with the drooping moustache. ‘Mr Roger Cray?’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s me,’ Cray stuttered.

  ‘And that’s your Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire out there in the middle of the staff car park, is it, Mr Cray?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case, if you don’t mind, sir, we’d like you to come along with us.’

  ‘And if I do mind?’

  The man with the bald head and the moustache smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile – not by any stretch of the imagination. ‘We’d like you to come along with us anyway.’

  ‘You’re policemen, are you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I think I’d like to see your warrant cards,’ Cray said, trying to sound braver than he actually felt.

  The bald man looked at his shorter companion. ‘He wants to see our warrant cards,’ he said.

  ‘Then it’s a great pity that we’ve left them at home, isn’t it?’ the shorter man replied.

  The bald man shrugged. ‘Sorry, sir, we don’t seem to be able to oblige you there.’

  ‘I want to call my solicitor,’ Cray said.

  ‘Perhaps later,’ the shorter man told him.

  ‘I want to call him now,’ Cray insisted.

  The bald man bowed his head and bent forward until his face was almost touching Cray’s.

  ‘Solicitors are for normal people,’ he said in a low, menacing voice. ‘People who have rights.’

  ‘I . . . I have rights,’ Cray protested.

  The shorter man shook his head. ‘No, you don’t, Mr Cray,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Even criminals have the right to––’ Cray began.

  ‘But then you’re not even that – not even a normal criminal,’ the shorter man interrupted him. ‘You’re scum! I’ve seen better things than you crawl from under a rock.’

  ‘Maybe we shouldn’t take him away, after all,’ the bald man said his partner. ‘Maybe we should just leave ourselves.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Cray gasped, before he could stop himself.

  ‘Of course, before we do go, it’d only be fair to have a word with the other people who are working here, and tell them exactly what he’s done, don’t you think?’ the bald man said.

  ‘You wouldn’t do that!’ Cray said, almost fainting with fear.

  ‘That’s exactly what we’ll do, if necessary,’ the shorter man said. ‘But it won’t be necessary, will it? Because now you’ve had time to think about it, you realise that the best thing you can do is come with us voluntarily.’

  ‘Where will you take me?’ Cray asked. ‘To Whitebridge Police Headquarters?’

  ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ asked the bald man. ‘You’d feel safe in Whitebridge Police Headquarters. But no, we’re not going there. We’ve got a special place for people like you.’

  Twenty-Four

  Woodend surveyed the teaching staff of King Edward’s Grammar School, who were sitting in a half circle a
round him. Some were still in a state of shock over what had happened, others seemed to have come to terms with it. Some looked like men driven into teaching by a sacred mission to impart their knowledge, others had expressions which stated clearly that they would have taken any job which guaranteed them a reasonable rate of pay and longish holidays. They were, in other words, as diverse as any other bunch of professionals he might find gathered together in one place, he thought.

  ‘The last time I talked to you, it was about Miss Beale’s murder, but that’s not my direct concern any more,’ he said. ‘I’m investigatin’ Helen Dunn’s disappearance now, an’ I’d be grateful for anythin’ you could tell me that might help me find her.’

  One of the teachers, a middle-aged man with a haircut which looked as if it had been performed with wire cutters, raised a hand.

  ‘Yes, Mr . . .’ Woodend said.

  ‘We’ve already had your lads––’

  ‘Could each of you give me your names before you speak?’ Woodend asked. ‘It’ll make it easier for me to remember who said what.’

  ‘Lewis Etheridge, Head of Craft,’ the man with the wire-cutter haircut said, as if by announcing his position, his words would carry more weight. ‘We’ve already had your lads swarming all over the place. Isn’t it a waste of time to repeat what we’ve already put down in our statements?’

  ‘That’s possibly true,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But it’s also possible that by talking to you all together, rather than to each one separately, I might spark off a memory which might otherwise have stayed hidden. An’ if there’s a chance that might help Helen, shouldn’t we give it a try?’

  The majority of the teachers nodded, and even Etheridge shrugged his shoulders in resigned acceptance.

  ‘Right, for starters, did any of you notice anythin’ odd about Helen yesterday?’ Woodend asked.

  A teacher with a short beard put his hand up. ‘Martin Dove,’ he said. ‘I’m not trying to sound flippant here, but Helen Dunn was odd most of the time. It was very hard to draw her out in class discussion––’

  ‘You’re talking about her like you know she’s already dead,’ said a voice from the edge of the group.

  ‘She is very hard to draw out in class discussion,’ Dove corrected himself. ‘Most of the time she seems to live in a world of her own – except that when you mark her work, you realise she’s been listening to – and remembering perfectly – every word that’s been said. So I can’t say I did notice anything particularly strange about her yesterday.’

  Other teachers nodded in agreement, but none of them seemed to feel they had anything more to contribute.

  ‘Right, let’s move on to lunchtime,’ Woodend suggested. ‘Who was on yard duty yesterday?’

  ‘I was,’ said a middle-aged man with an ample stomach covered with a green suede waistcoat. ‘Dennis Padlow, Head of Languages.’

  ‘An’ did you notice Helen, Mr Padlow?’

  ‘Yes. She was standing by the railings near the gate. It’s not the first time I’ve seen her there. She always seems to want to get as far away from the other pupils as possible.’

  ‘What time would that have been, Mr Padlow?’

  ‘In the earlier part of the lunch hour, I would say,’ the head of languages said. ‘Probably about half past twelve.’

  ‘Did you stay in the playground for the whole of the lunch hour?’

  ‘In the playground, yes, but not necessarily in that part of the playground. I also had to patrol the lower and back playgrounds.’

  ‘So you couldn’t say with any certainty when she stopped bein’ by the railin’s?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Was she carryin’ anythin’ in her hand?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ Padlow said.

  ‘The pencil case, you idiot,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Oh, of course, the pencil case,’ Padlow agreed. ‘Helen always carried – carries – her pencil case around with her, almost as if she’s afraid that some other pupil will steal it if she leaves it in her desk.’

  So it really was true! Woodend thought. That cold bastard Dunn had his daughter so intimidated that she actually carried her pencil case around with her.

  ‘Are you sure she had it with her yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘I couldn’t swear to it,’ Padlow replied. ‘You know what it’s like when you take something for granted – you tend to see it even if it’s not there. But I’m almost certain she did.’

  ‘Could you describe it to me, sir?’

  Padlow frowned in concentration. ‘It’s just a fairly typical pencil case, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Long and thin, with rounded edges. Covered in a plastic with . . . I think . . . a green tartan design on it.’

  ‘Nearly right, Dennis,’ said another teacher, ‘but it’s a red case, not a green one.’

  ‘No, it is green,’ a third teacher said.

  ‘Maybe she has two,’ Padlow said, as if he were the chairman of a committee, doing his best to seek a reasonable compromise between warring factions.

  It didn’t really matter which colour it was, did it? Woodend thought despondently. If the girl had had the pencil case on her, then any leads which might come from checking who had access to her classroom had just disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  ‘Is there anythin’ else anybody can tell me that might be useful?’ he asked. ‘Think hard.’

  All the teachers made a show of searching their minds, but none of them seemed able to offer anything new.

  ‘Right, thank you for your time,’ Woodend said. He focused his gaze on the gangly man sitting at the edge of the semi-circle. ‘Could I have a few words with you on your own, Mr Barnes?’

  ‘Of course,’ the history teacher said.

  Any attempts at conversation that Paniatowski had made on the journey back from Preston were ignored by the man sitting next to her in the MGA. Well, Charlie Woodend sometimes went like that when he was thinking through a case, she told herself, and though Horrocks was as different from Woodend as chalk was to cheese, maybe that was what he was doing too.

  It was not until they passed the sign which announced that they were entering Whitebridge that Paniatowski spoke to her passenger again.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ she said, ‘but I really do need to know where we’re going.’

  ‘What’s this road we’re on now?’ Horrocks asked.

  ‘Preston New Road, sir.’

  ‘Then that will do fine. Slow down, and drop me off at the next red traffic light.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Next red traffic light. Drop me off. What is it about that you don’t understand?’

  ‘The dropping you off bit. Don’t you want me to come with you, wherever it is you’re going?’

  ‘I’ve no objection in principle to you tagging along while I continue to orientate myself,’ Horrocks said easily, ‘but I’ve got another task I’d rather you devoted yourself to, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘What task?’

  ‘That light’s turning red. Pull in to the curb.’

  Paniatowski did as she’d been instructed, and Horrocks stepped out of the car.

  ‘What I want you to do,’ he said from the curb, ‘is to go to the library and check through the back copies of the local newspapers for any references to Verity Beale. Shouldn’t take you more than three hours to do that, should it? I’ll meet you back at the station when you’ve finished.’

  ‘You’re not serious, are you?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘About it taking you three hours?’

  ‘About me going through the local newspapers.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be serious about that?’

  ‘Because it’s not the kind of job that you ask an experienced DS to do. If anybody has to do it – and I don’t really see the value of the exercise myself – it should given to the greenest DC available.’

  ‘But we don’t have any DCs available, green or otherwise,�
�� Horrocks pointed out. ‘They’ve all been drafted into this kidnapping case. That’s why I need you to go to the library.’

  ‘If you’re just looking for something to keep me occupied for the next couple of hours, why don’t you just come right out and say it?’ Paniatowski demanded, barely controlling her anger.

  Horrocks smiled. ‘I’m just looking for something to keep you occupied for the next couple of hours,’ he told her. ‘But remember what I said, Monika. However much – or however little – you contribute to solving this case, I’ll personally see to it that you don’t come out the loser. Years from now, you’ll look back on this as your real break.’

  ‘I want to earn my break when it comes,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘And so you will,’ Horrocks replied. ‘“They also serve who only stand and wait.” One more thing, Monika.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘If you should happen to run into Chief Inspector Woodend before we meet again, I want you to remember that, for once, you’re not working on the same case as your boss is. You will remember that, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Paniatowski said noncommittally.

  ‘And that means that you shouldn’t discuss the case you are working on with him – neither any of the details nor any of the specifics,’ Horrocks continued, ignoring her tone. ‘Treat him as if he were a journalist. Say you have no comment.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me what’s going on, sir,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I wish I knew why––’

  ‘The light’s changed to green again, Monika,’ Horrocks said. ‘Better pull off again before some keen young copper gives you a ticket for obstruction.’

  Then he smiled again, turned away from her, and strode off purposefully up the street.

  The fence which surrounded the British Aircraft Industries’ plant at Blackhill was as high as the one surrounding the air base just up the road from it. And it needed to be, Bob Rutter thought, because protecting the secrets of the planes they were still building was just as important as protecting the secrets of those which were already flying.

  He slowed down as he approached the gate, and reached in his jacket for his warrant card. He could see a guard sitting in the blockhouse, and expected him to come out immediately. But the man gave no indication of getting up, and after waiting for close to a minute, Rutter hooted his horn.