The Red Herring Page 17

  The guard rose reluctantly to his feet, stepped out of his cosy cabin, and made his way to Rutter’s car.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

  Rutter showed him the warrant card. ‘DI Rutter, Whitebridge CID.’

  ‘Yes?’ the guard said, as if he regarded the information as far from fascinating.

  ‘I’d like you to open the gate for me,’ Rutter said, starting to feel exasperated.

  ‘Have you got a search warrant, sir?’

  ‘A search warrant? What do I need a search warrant for? I only want to question one of your workers.’

  ‘It’s like this, sir,’ the guard explained. ‘In my office, I’ve got a list of the people I’m allowed to admit into the complex, and if you’re not on that list, you don’t go through.’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Rutter demanded.

  ‘The rules, sir,’ the guard said, his face devoid of all emotion.

  ‘What if I were to go straight back to Whitebridge and get a bloody search warrant?’

  ‘I think you’d find that more difficult than you seem to imagine, sir,’ the guard said. ‘But if you did get a search warrant, then, of course, I’d have to let you in, because even a sensitive quasi-military establishment of this nature is not above the law.’

  He didn’t talk like the average security guard, Rutter thought. And under closer inspection, he didn’t look like the average guard, either. He was far too confident, and his eyes far too aware, for him ever to have settled for such a humble position.

  ‘I want to speak to somebody in authority,’ Rutter said.

  ‘I’m afraid I really couldn’t disturb anybody just at the moment,’ the guard said.

  ‘Then let me phone them from your office.’

  The guard shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t do any good, sir. I’ve had very strict instructions, not an hour ago, from the head of security. I’m not to admit anybody who isn’t on the list.’

  ‘He can’t have meant that to include the police.’

  ‘But he did, sir. He mentioned the police specifically.’

  ‘Could you at least bring the man I need to question to the gate?’

  ‘I suppose so, if he’s willing to come. What’s his name?’

  ‘Roger Cray. He works in––’

  ‘Quality control. I know. But he isn’t here. He left the plant half an hour ago.’

  Had the bastard done a runner? Rutter wondered frantically. Or even worse, had he gone to wherever he was keeping Helen Dunn a prisoner?

  ‘Did he say why he was leaving, or where he was going?’ he asked.

  ‘No, he didn’t. But I imagine he was going wherever the two policemen with him were taking him.’

  This was insane! Rutter thought. This was completely bloody insane!

  ‘What two policemen?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t say I caught their names.’

  ‘And how did they get in to the plant? Did they have a search warrant?’

  ‘Couldn’t say that either. I wasn’t on duty when they arrived,’ the guard lied.

  Twenty-Five

  Woodend and Simon Barnes walked to the edge of the playground, and came to a halt at the spot where Helen Dunn had last been seen.

  ‘I didn’t know Verity Beale had been givin’ Helen Dunn private lessons,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Barnes asked. ‘I would have mentioned it myself, the last time we spoke, but it didn’t seem very relevant then. After all, at that point none of us had any idea that Helen would go missing.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Woodend agreed. He offered his packet of Capstan Full Strength to Barnes and, when the teacher shook his head, lit one up for himself. ‘Miss Beale did seem to have rather a lot to do with the military, didn’t she?’ he continued.

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Barnes admitted, ‘but it’s certainly true that Helen’s father is in the Air Force.’

  ‘But it’s not just that, is it?’ Woodend persisted. ‘There were the classes on British culture that she gave at the American base.’

  ‘Ah yes, those classes,’ Barnes agreed. ‘I rather think she must have regretted ever taking them on.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It caused resentment among certain members of staff.’

  ‘Because she was doin’ so many extra classes that she kept getting’ sick an’ missin’ school?’

  ‘That may have been part of it,’ Barnes conceded.

  ‘An’ what’s the other part?’

  ‘There’s an unwritten rule operating in this school that the senior teachers get first refusal on whatever extra classes are available.’

  ‘An’ that didn’t happen in this case?’

  ‘No, when the base job first came up, several of my colleagues said that they wanted it, but it was given to Verity without anyone else being asked if they were interested.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how that might cause resentment,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ as a friend of hers, you can’t have liked that resentment very much, can you? In fact, I would imagine it made you right angry.’

  ‘As a Christian, I try to take a charitable view of all my colleagues,’ Barnes said evasively.

  ‘Try?’ Woodend prodded.

  ‘We are all of us too often critical of others,’ Barnes said philosophically. ‘I’m as guilty of that as anyone, but on such occasions I always try to remember what it says in the Bible: “Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”’

  ‘Still, it’s not always easy, is it?’ Woodend asked. ‘What was it that Alexander Pope said? “To err is human; to forgive, divine.”’

  ‘I’ve never thought Pope had it quite right, you know,’ Barnes said earnestly.

  ‘Because he was a secular writer?’

  ‘No, not just because of that. Because, I think, he was overlooking a fundamental truth. If we ascribe the power of forgiveness only to the deity, then aren’t we denying that part of God which resides inside each and every one us? And how can we not forgive others when we all act, at one time or another, as if we were “the jewel of gold in the swine’s snout”?’ Barnes laughed, suddenly and self-deprecatingly. ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘What for?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘For preaching. My religion is the driving force in my life, but I don’t see why I should inflict it on others.’

  ‘I’ve had worse things inflicted on me in my time,’ Woodend said. ‘But tell me, Mr Barnes, how did this resentment that some of the other teachers felt manifest itself?’

  ‘I know that at least one member of my department went to complain about it to the deputy head.’

  ‘An’ what did Hargreaves have to say?’

  ‘He said that his hands were tied. There was nothing he could do about it, because that commander at the base had specifically requested that Verity be given the job.’

  ‘Hang about!’ Woodend said. ‘Miss Beale was new to the school – an’ new to the area – yet the commander at the base asked specifically for her?’

  ‘That’s what Walter Hargeaves said. Of course, he may not have been telling the complete truth.’

  ‘Or to put it another way, he may have been lyin’.’

  Barnes smiled. ‘Walter is famous for both his verbal footwork and his wry sense of humour. It’s often said of him that he speaks with a forked tongue – and with one fork firmly in each cheek.’

  Woodend laughed. ‘Let’s get back to Miss Beale an’ Helen Dunn,’ he said, becoming serious again. ‘Did you know that Helen had been caught shopliftin’ in Whitebridge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An’ that Miss Beale had fought to have it kept from her parents?’

  ‘Yes, again. Verity said she felt that the poor girl should be given a second chance.’

  ‘An’ she seemed to have enough clout to make her wishes become reality, despite normal school policy.’

  Simon Bar
nes seemed to have stopped listening and, instead, was gazing thoughtfully into the park.

  ‘I said, she seemed to have enough clout to make her wishes become reality,’ Woodend repeated.

  Barnes turned, as if he was just snapping out of a trance. ‘There’s been something that’s been weighing on my mind since yesterday,’ he said. ‘I’ve been debating with myself whether or not to tell you about it, and, to be honest, I’m still not sure I’ve come up with an answer.’

  ‘If there’s even the remotest chance it might help us to find Helen, you have to tell me.’

  Barnes nodded. ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘But before I do, you must understand that I personally cannot believe that the person I’m going to mention had anything to do with Helen’s disappearance.’

  ‘Noted,’ Woodend said. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen him going into the park, either. In fact, it’s become quite a habit of his.’

  ‘The name!’ Woodend said. ‘Give me his name, Mr Barnes.’

  ‘I was in the staff room yesterday lunchtime, at around twenty-five to one, and I just happened to look out of the window,’ Barnes said. ‘I saw one of the staff cross the road and disappear into the park.’

  ‘His name!’ Woodend repeated.

  ‘It was Martin Dove,’ Barnes said.

  ‘The Latin teacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The one who had been glancing at his watch all the time Woodend had been asking questions about Verity Beale! The one who seemed as if he had much more important matters on his mind than the murder of one of his colleagues!

  ‘There’s Martin now!’ Barnes said. ‘But I don’t know who those people with him are.’

  Woodend turned to follow Barnes’s gaze. The Latin teacher was walking across the playground, flanked by a bald man with a droopy moustache on one side of him and a short, broader man on the other. He looked far from happy with the situation.

  The chief inspector stepped into the three men’s path. ‘Could I just have a quick word, Mr Dove?’ he asked.

  The prisoner and escort – because that was what they looked like – came to a halt.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I afraid Mr Dove can’t spare the time to talk to anybody at the moment,’ the bald man said, his tone in no way matching the regret expressed in his words.

  ‘Who are hell are you?’ Woodend demanded.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the bald man countered.

  Woodend reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his warrant card. ‘Chief Inspector Woodend. Central Lancs police.’

  ‘Then we’re all in the same game,’ the bald man said. ‘But we got here first, didn’t we?’

  ‘I’d like to see some identification,’ Woodend told him.

  ‘I’m sure you would,’ the bald man responded. ‘But I’m not going to produce any, am I?’

  ‘In that case––’ Woodend began.

  ‘Mr Dove is coming with us,’ the bald man said. ‘You can try to stop us if you like, but I really wouldn’t recommend it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Woodend asked. ‘And why’s that?’

  The bald man grinned. ‘Because if it came to violence there’s two of us against you and that streak of piss and wind you’ve got standing next to you.’

  For the first time in his life, Woodend knew what it meant when people said they needed to pinch themselves to make sure they weren’t dreaming.

  These two strangers might have refused to show him their warrant cards, yet his instincts told him that, despite their refusal, they really were policemen of some sort. And yet policeman just didn’t act like they were acting.

  It wasn’t that he thought all bobbies were paragons of virtue. Far from it! He’d had to deal with some real nasty buggers in his time, men who’d been willing to stab him in the back at the first opportunity – Christ, he was working for a couple of them at that moment – but even bastards like Ainsworth at least followed the protocol when they were face-to-face with him!

  ‘What kind of lunatic game do you think you’re playin’, comin’ on to my patch an’ actin’ like it was your own?’ he demanded.

  ‘I thought we’d made it perfectly plain what the game was,’ the bald man said. ‘The rules, as well. We’re taking Mr Dove away with us, and if you try to stand in the way, you’ll only get hurt.’

  ‘I’ll have your bollocks served up on a plate for this,’ Woodend snarled. ‘Who’s your boss?’

  The bald man smirked. ‘Names don’t matter,’ he said. ‘Just take it from me that my boss is bigger than your boss. Now step out of the way.’

  It was very tempting to have a pop at him, if only to see the smirk disappear as the nose flattened. But Baldy was right – Woodend couldn’t take on both of them – and, seeing no other option, he stepped to the side and let them pass.

  The two ‘policemen’ and their prisoner crossed the road. They stopped in front of a parked Ford Zephyr, and while the bald man was bundling Martin Dove into the back seat, his partner opened the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel. And then they were gone, driving off down Park Road.

  Woodend reached into the voluminous pocket of his hairy sports jacket and pulled out the radio which he – and the rest of the Central Lancs Police – had only recently been issued with.

  ‘There’s a black Ford Zephyr just reachin’ the bottom of Park Road,’ he told the controller. ‘I want it intercepted as soon as possible.’

  ‘Do you have the number, sir?’ the controller asked, and when Woodend had recited it to him, he said, ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about that particular vehicle, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean, there’s nothin’ you can do?’ Woodend demanded. ‘I’ve just told you what to do.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the controller said awkwardly. ‘But I’ve also received a strict instruction from DCC Ainsworth that a car with that registration is not to be impeded in any way.’

  Twenty-Six

  I will not be intimidated, DCC Ainsworth told himself. I’m in charge here, I’m perfectly capable of being a hard, ruthless bastard when necessary, and I will not be intimidated!

  Yet it was hard not to be intimidated by Woodend at that moment. He was a big man under normal circumstances, but now, swollen with rage, he seemed to fill half the room.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, so we can discuss this calmly over a couple of glasses of Scotch?’ the DCC suggested.

  ‘With respect, sir, it’s answers I want right now, not Scotch!’ Woodend replied.

  ‘Then you’d better ask your questions, hadn’t you, Chief Inspector?’ Ainsworth suggested.

  ‘I’ve just seen Martin Dove – a teacher who may be involved in both Helen Dunn’s kidnappin’ and Verity Beale’s murder – arrested by two bobbies who wouldn’t even show me their identification,’ Woodend said. ‘Then I ring up my inspector an’ find that the same thing’s happened to him when he tried to question an engineer called Roger Cray. So what I want to know is this – who are these fellers and what the bloody hell are they doin’ on my patch?’

  ‘They’re from the West Riding Police. Both Cray and Dove come within the scope of an investigation they’ve been conducting for some time – an investigation which has nothing to do with any cases we’re handling.’

  ‘What kind of investigation?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to reveal that at the moment.’

  ‘So the two fellers who I saw arrestin’ Martin Dove at Eddie’s were from Yorkshire?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Then why did they have London accents?’

  ‘I have a Kent accent, yet I still work for the Central Lancs Police,’ Ainsworth said. ‘What’s the point you’re trying to make, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘That I don’t believe a bloody word of any of this!’

  ‘I’d think carefully before you called me a liar again, Charlie,’ the DCC said, his voice suddenly as cold as an outside lavatory
in February. ‘You’re not dealing with a soft touch like DCS Whittle here. One more word out of place, and I’ll have you on suspension for insubordination.’

  He meant it, Woodend thought. Whatever flack he had to take from the Police Federation later, Ainsworth was clearly willing to make good his threat now. And suspension was something Woodend dared not risk, because, with him out of the picture, who would there be to look out for poor little Helen Dunn?

  The chief inspector took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I was completely out of line just now,’ he forced himself to say.

  ‘So you accept the fact that the two detectives you saw in the playground were from Yorkshire?’

  ‘If that’s what you tell me, sir, then of course I have no alternative but to believe you.’

  Ainsworth nodded. ‘I really think you should sit down, Charlie,’ he said, opening his drawer and taking out two glasses and a bottle of Bell’s.

  Woodend sat, and watched as the DCC poured out two shots of Scotch. ‘How long have you known about this Yorkshire Police operation, sir?’ he asked, trying as hard as he was able to sound reasonable.

  ‘I can’t go into specifics, you understand,’ Ainsworth replied, ‘so let’s just say that I’ve known about it for quite some time.’

  ‘It must be an important operation.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Important enough to mean that while these two bobbies from Yorkshire were allowed into the BAI factory, my lad Bob Rutter – investigatin’ a case that really matters locally – couldn’t get past the gate.’

  ‘I understand and sympathise with your concerns, Chief Inspector,’ Ainsworth said.

  ‘That’s as may be, sir – but you’re still not prepared to tell me what I need to know.’

  Ainsworth shook his head. ‘I’m really sorry, but I can’t.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t these two fellers from Yorkshire show me some identification, even though they were operatin’ on our patch?’

  ‘They were instructed not to show their warrant cards to anyone below the rank of DCC.’