Death Watch Page 18

  ‘I didn’t come here to be analysed,’ Woodend said.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Stevenson agreed. ‘You came here to ask for my help. But now you are here, you’re afraid that my loyalty to my wife will prevent me from providing it.’

  ‘An’ will it?’

  ‘I wasn’t happy about your being taken off the Jackson case, either,’ Stevenson said. ‘Killers like the one who murdered Angela are notoriously difficult to catch until they make their big mistake. And some don’t make that mistake – ever! Even the ones who do eventually slip up can often get away with five or ten – or even twenty – murders before they’re eventually apprehended. But I thought you had a very good chance of catching this one before anything as terrible as that was allowed to happen.’

  ‘Better than DCI Mortlake has?’

  Stevenson smiled. ‘He’s my wife’s new boss,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t appreciate me casting any aspersions on his ability, would she?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose she would,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘But if, without it being seen as a criticism of Mr Mortlake, I can help you in your “unofficial” investigation, then I’ll be glad to do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Woodend said.

  Elizabeth Driver sat at her desk. Lying in front of her was the manuscript of the book which Bob Rutter believed was going to be a tribute to his murdered wife.

  As if that was ever going to happen!

  As if she could ever be bothered to write a book about blind, plucky little Maria, which, while it might bring a tear to the eyes of a few sentimental idiots, would never sell more than a couple of thousand copies!

  Rutter was essential to the book she was actually writing. She’d realized that from the start – even before her literary agent had made it abundantly clear to her. Rutter was the one who could provide her with the mundane details which would make her wilder claims sound authentic, even if they had been cooked up after a few gin and tonics. And she was far from convinced that he would stay the course, because though she’d finally slept with him – after a show of reluctance which would have had her countless lovers rolling around the floor in fits of laughter – she sensed she was losing her grip on him.

  Part of the reason, she suspected, was that he’d not yet seen any of the book she was supposed to be writing, so perhaps she’d have to buckle down and produce a few pages of saccharine-laden prose which would fool him into believing she was serious about the project.

  But another problem was the brat. Louisa didn’t like her, and made that plain on every possible occasion. And since Rutter had a mawkish attachment to the child, it was beginning to sour his relationship with her.

  And then there was Charlie Bloody Woodend. He was to be one of the centrepieces of her book – a moderately famous policeman who turned out to be bent; a popular idol discovered to have feet of clay.

  Her decision to destroy Woodend had been based on the fact that, looked at objectively, it would make a good story, but there had been the added bonus that after all their clashes over the years – most of which she had lost – she would finally emerge triumphant.

  But how could she bring Woodend down now, when he’d already been brought down?

  How could she expose the crime-busting copper for what he really was, when he wasn’t a crime-buster at all, but merely a pencil-pusher?

  As much as she hated the idea of helping him, there was no choice in the matter, she decided. To bring Woodend down, she was going to have to build him up again first. She didn’t yet know how she would go about it, but no doubt something would occur to her, as it always did. And in the meantime, she’d better write something to appease Rutter.

  She threaded a sheet of paper into her typewriter, and began to hit the keys. It wasn’t easy going, but after five minutes, she at least had something.

  To know Maria was to understand the triumph of the human spirit. How many women, who lost their sight in their early twenties, would have found they had the backbone to build a new life – a life in perpetual darkness? And how much more incredible is it that not only did she bravely build a new home for her husband, but also took the courageous decision to have a child?

  Truly disgusting! Driver thought, reading it back to herself. Absolutely vomit-worthy.

  Still, that bloody moron Bob Rutter would lap it up.

  Martin Stevenson had insisted that any further conversation between them took place away from the psychology building.

  ‘You’re not one of my students, and you’re not one of my patients, so it would be inappropriate to use either my office or my consulting room for what we have to say to each other. Anyway, I think we’d both be more comfortable if we held our discussion on neutral ground.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ Woodend had replied.

  And so they had gone to the student-union bar.

  It was a dark, semi-subterranean place. The walls were painted in garish colours, and plastered with left-wing political posters. Hidden speakers – and there seemed to Woodend to be hundreds of them – pumped out eardrum-bursting rock-and-roll music. The tables looked as if they had been rescued from the wreck of the Titanic, and the chairs had clearly not been designed for anyone who thought that – even in the dim and distant future – they might start suffering from back problems. All in all, the bar was the chief inspector’s worst nightmare of a place in which to drink.

  Stevenson himself seemed quite at home, despite the fact that his smart blue suit made him stand out like a sore thumb against the faded blue jeans that most of the other customers were wearing. He waved to several of the students, and stopped to have a brief word with a couple more.

  ‘You seem to be a very popular feller,’ Woodend said, as Stevenson led him to a corner table where the noise of the music was a little more bearable than it was in the rest of the bar.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Stevenson agreed, without even a hint of complacency in his voice.

  ‘How do you manage that?’

  ‘There’s no real trick to it. I have a real enthusiasm for my subject, and work hard to communicate that enthusiasm to those I’m paid to teach. Besides, I genuinely like and respect my students – so why wouldn’t they feel the same about me?’

  They both ordered beer, and when it arrived, Woodend was surprised to find that it was a rather fine pint.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ Stevenson asked, when they’d both had a few swallows of ale.

  ‘I’ve got this idea,’ Woodend said, and outlined his theory that Angela Jackson’s post-mortem injuries had originally been intended to be inflicted before she died.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Dr Stevenson admitted cautiously, when he’d finished. ‘But it’s also equally possible that your police doctor – Dr Shastri, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That Dr Shastri might have been right when she suggested that the post-mortem injuries were part of a predetermined ritual.’

  ‘But if I’m right, an’ he killed her before he was intendin’ to, what could have been the reason for it?’ Woodend persisted.

  ‘He may have suddenly lost his temper with the girl, and killed her without actually meaning to.’

  ‘An’ what would have made him do that?’

  ‘The first thing you must train yourself to understand is that, to him, the girl is not important in herself,’ Stevenson said.

  ‘I understand that already,’ Woodend replied.

  Stevenson frowned. ‘I’m not sure you do,’ he said. ‘At least, not fully. To get a clear picture of what the predator is like, it’s necessary to go back to what he probably did in childhood.’

  ‘All right,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘There are a number of documented cases of killers who started to torture when they were no more than children themselves,’ Stevenson continued. ‘They typically began with ants and flies. They’d burn the ants by holding a magnifying glass between them and the sun, and they’d pull the wings of flies and watch, fascinated, as the fly spun around and aro
und, totally helpless.’

  ‘I knew kids at my school who did that,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Yes, it is remarkable how much cruelty lurks in even the most benign of us,’ the doctor said. ‘There is a difference, however, between the boys you knew and the man who eventually became our predator. He will have graduated from insects to small creatures like frogs and birds, and then to domestic animals – dogs and cats. And though he might have gained greater pleasure from killing the bigger creatures – mainly because they were better able to make clear to him their awareness of what was being done to them – his attitude to all the creatures he tormented would have been essentially the same.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Woodend said.

  ‘The reason it will have remained the same is that they were all nothing but objects to be used for his pleasure. And his attitude will not have changed when he progressed to human victims. That is why he could do things to Angela which would have turned any normal person’s stomach.’

  Woodend shuddered. ‘You’re right, I don’t think I did quite understand before,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m certainly gettin’ the picture now.’

  ‘But if the girl in herself is unimportant, the killer’s perception of what she is – or what she represents, which is often the same thing – is vital,’ Stevenson continued. ‘He wants her to react in a particular way. He expects her to react in a particular way. And if she doesn’t, he is very likely to view it as her wilful attempt to spoil his fun. That is when he may lose his temper to such an extent that he kills her before he planned to.’

  ‘But Angela was smothered,’ Woodend pointed out. ‘That doesn’t seem like the act of an angry man.’

  ‘He may have seen smothering her as a disciplinary measure,’ Stevenson said. ‘Taking her to the brink of death and then pulling her back, as a way of teaching her a lesson. But the problem with going to such extremes is that it is easy to get it wrong. And that could be what happened. He may simply have misjudged it.’ The doctor paused for a moment. ‘This is all pure speculation on my part, you realize. I would need to study the man before I could say more.’

  ‘Now that you know exactly what was done to Angela, do you still think that the image he presents of himself to the outside world will be of a perfectly normal, well-balanced man?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Stevenson replied. ‘What he did to Angela only reinforces my original impression. He is a man wearing a mask, you see. But detecting the mask is made more complicated for you by the fact that at least part of the mask is real.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He doesn’t just act normal – he is normal in many respects. But deep inside, he is a wounded animal, who suffered a trauma – or series of traumas – during the course of his childhood from which he has never recovered.’

  There was one more question that Woodend was finding it difficult to ask, though he knew that he must.

  He swallowed deeply, and said, ‘How much time have we got?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘How long will it be before he kills Mary Thomas?’

  Dr Stevenson pressed his fingertips of his right hand against the fingertips of his left, and the expression on his face said that he was finding it as difficult to answer the question as it had been for Woodend to ask it.

  ‘Even if you’re wrong about Angela’s death occurring earlier than was intended – even if he killed exactly when he planned to – I don’t think it will be as quick this time,’ he said finally.

  ‘Could you explain to me why you think that?’

  ‘Tell me, Chief Inspector, do you remember the first time you made love to a woman?’

  ‘Of course I do! It’s not somethin’ you’re likely to forget, is it?’

  ‘It was all over very quickly, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose you could say …’

  ‘You were so eager, now that you were finally getting what you’d wanted for so long – what you’d dreamed about for so long – that you rushed blindly into it, and found yourself ejaculating almost before you’d got started. Am I right?’

  ‘Close enough,’ Woodend said uncomfortably.

  ‘The second time was much better for you, wasn’t it? You had more idea of what to expect, and forced yourself to take it much slower – to really relish the experience. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s what I think our killer will be doing with his second victim. Taking his time. Relishing the experience.’

  Twenty

  The moment Rutter walked through the main entrance of the Pendleton Clinic, he felt that something was wrong. At first he could not pin down the source of the feeling, because, on the surface at least, the clinic looked to him to be perfectly fine. And then he put his finger squarely on the problem. It was not that the place looked perfectly fine – it was that it looked perfect!

  There was no sign of wear and tear in the foyer. Nothing seemed used. It was almost as if the building had only opened its door for business the second before he had arrived.

  And the people were perfect, too. The nurses crossing the foyer in their tailored uniforms could have been modelling them on the catwalk. The doctors had the clean-cut muscular look of Olympic athletes.

  All in all, the clinic did not resemble any working hospital Rutter had ever seen. Rather, it presented itself as an almost Hollywood-inspired picture of how a top-flight hospital should look – and if Dr Kildare had suddenly walked into the foyer, he would have been only slightly surprised.

  Rutter showed his warrant card at the reception desk, and said he’d like to talk to whoever was in charge.

  The almost-too-pretty receptionist who was manning the desk favoured him with a radiant smile, picked up the phone, chatted briefly to someone called Sonia, and then pressed a button in front of her.

  A good-looking porter in a smart blue uniform appeared at the desk almost immediately.

  ‘Take this gentleman to the administration suite, please,’ the receptionist said. ‘I’ve just made him an appointment with Mr Derbyshire.’

  The porter led Rutter down a long corridor which was as new and shining as the rest of the hospital seemed to be.

  ‘Are you ex-job?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ the porter said.

  ‘A lot of people involved in this kind of security work are ex-bobbies,’ Rutter explained.

  The porter laughed. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I’m an actor. I’m just resting at the moment.’

  ‘“Resting”?’

  ‘Between roles.’

  Now why aren’t I surprised? Rutter asked himself.

  The director of the clinic was called Lawrence Derbyshire. He was a roundish, pinkish man with a shiny bald head and a complacent expression which stretched all the way from his chubby forehead to his double chin. When they shook hands on the threshold of Derbyshire’s plush and fussy office, Rutter suspected he wasn’t going to like the man, and after five minutes of listening to him drone on about how wonderful the clinic was, that first impression had been more than confirmed.

  ‘Here at the Pendleton Clinic, we try to cater for the better class of patient,’ the director was saying at that moment.

  Rutter wondered what Woodend would have replied to that. Probably something like, ‘The better class of patient, eh? What does that mean, exactly? That they have more exclusive illnesses?’

  But he was not Cloggin’-it Charlie, and so contented himself with saying, ‘In other words, fee-paying patients.’

  ‘Well, of course,’ the director agreed, sounding surprised that such a clarification was even needed. ‘It is quite enough for our patients to have to deal with their illnesses. The last thing they need is to find themselves trapped in an environment with people who do not aspire to the same tastes or attitudes. That is why we engender an atmosphere here which is both comforting and familiar, stable and—’

  ‘Very impressive. I must remember to put my name down on your waiting list,’ Rutter in
terrupted. ‘But the reason I’m here at the moment is to check on your security.’

  ‘There is no need for that,’ the director said. ‘Our security is perfect. It has to be. Some of our patients are quite famous, you know.’ He turned to indicate an array of photographs of people on the wall behind him, some of whom Rutter vaguely recognized. ‘Really quite famous,’ he added for emphasis. ‘And if they thought that we were lax enough to allow every grubby little pressman with a camera to come sneaking in here whenever he—’

  ‘How secure are your drugs?’ Rutter asked.

  The director blinked. ‘Our drugs? Who mentioned drugs?’

  ‘I did. Just now,’ Rutter said. ‘Why do you ask? Has anyone mentioned them before?’

  ‘No, of course not. Our control system has always been second to none. In fact, we’ve recently improved it.’

  ‘If it’s second to none, why did you need to improve it,’ Rutter wondered aloud.

  The director had started to sweat, and the globules of moisture were beginning to roll down his fat cheeks.

  ‘We are constantly striving to improve our already excellent standards,’ he said.

  ‘So you’ve had no drugs go missing in … shall we say … the last six or seven months?’

  ‘No,’ the director croaked.

  Lying toad! Rutter thought.

  The man sitting opposite DCI Mortlake and DS Stevenson in Interview Room Three was wearing a brown suit and a tie with horses’ heads on it.

  ‘It says here that you’re a mechanic, Mainwearing,’ Mortlake said, looking down at his notes.

  The big bugger who pulled me in last time might have been rough with me, but at least he had the courtesy to put a ‘mister’ in front of my name, Peter Mainwearing thought. ‘I am a mechanic,’ he said aloud.

  ‘You know, it’s a couple of months since I last took my car into a garage, but I could have sworn that when I did, the mechanics were all wearing overalls,’ Mortlake said.