The Red Herring Page 8

  ‘Mr Parkinson, entertain us with your quotation,’ Dove said.

  ‘Malo me Galatea petit, lasciva puella, et fugit ad salices et se cupit ante videri.’

  ‘Translation?’

  ‘Galatea throws an apple at me, cheeky girl––’

  ‘Cheeky girl!’ Dove interrupted. ‘Look at the context, boy. Whatever she’s trying to be, it’s certainly not cheeky.’

  ‘Sexy girl?’ Parkinson asked.

  ‘Sexy girl,’ Dove agreed.

  ‘Galatea throws an apple at me, sexy girl, and runs away into the willows and wants to have been spotted.’

  ‘And there you have it, gentlemen, an adage as true today as it was when it was written two thousand years ago,’ Dove said. ‘She might run away – but she always wants to be caught. I think we’ll have one more. How about you, Mr Bentley?’

  ‘Facilis descensus Averno: Noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis,’ Bentley said. ‘Sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras, Hoc opus, hic labor est.’

  ‘Easy is the way down to the Underworld: by night and by day dark Dis’s door stands open; but to withdraw one’s steps and make a way out to the upper air, that’s the task, that is the labour,’ Dove translated rapidly in his head – and found that he had started to shake uncontrollably.

  The incident room was one of the largest rooms in the entire station, but there were so many officers crammed into it that they were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder.

  Woodend ran his eyes over the team. Some were from his own station. Others had been drafted in from neighbouring divisions. A few were special constables, normally only called in to help with crowd control at football matches and carnivals. There were about sixty of them altogether, he calculated.

  When Ellie Taylor had disappeared, there’d only been three – himself and two constables – involved in the search.

  ‘And even that’s probably a waste of three good men,’ Chief Inspector Brookes had said at the time.

  ‘But she’s been missin’ for two hours, sir,’ Woodend had protested. ‘There’s still a good chance––’

  ‘Either she’s nipped off for a spot of nookie with her boyfriend – in which case she’ll turn up later with an excuse so thin you couldn’t wrap fish in it,’ Brookes had interrupted, ‘or she’s been snatched by some nutter – in which case she’ll be dead by now and there’s not much more we can do till the corpse turns up.’

  Woodend cleared his throat. ‘As you all know, a little lass has gone missin’,’ he said. ‘Now there may be a perfectly innocent explanation for it, but it’s our job to assume the worst.’

  Every officer in the room nodded gravely.

  ‘Time is our biggest enemy,’ Woodend continued, ‘so I’m expectin’ a big initial push from you people. I want everybody who was within half a mile of the school at the time Helen disappeared questioned. I want every man in the Whitebridge area with a history of sex offences pulled in, an’ given a grillin’ like he’s never been given before.’ He paused for a second. ‘Some of you have worked with me before, and know I’m very particular about suspects bein’ treated strictly by the book. Isn’t that right?’

  Several of the officers mumbled that yes, that was right.

  ‘Well, you can forget all about the book on this case,’ Woodend continued. ‘If any of the perverts you’re questionin’ happens to end up with a few bruises, you’ll find me quite willin’ to believe that they’re self-inflicted wounds – an’ to swear to it under oath if that’s what’s necessary.’

  Nobody smiled, nobody who knew him saw it as typically gruff Woodend humour. They all knew that – just this once – he was being deadly serious.

  ‘There’ll be appeals for information on the wireless, the television an’ in the newspapers,’ Woodend told them. ‘If this case runs to form, then we should get hundreds of calls jamming the switchboard. A lot of them will be from cranks with nothin’ better to do with their time, but we’ll treat each an’ every one as if it was the one that we’ve been waitin’ for.’

  He lit a Capstan Full Strength. When he inhaled, he discovered that instead of the comforting harshness he was used to, it tasted like dried cow dung.

  ‘Give up any idea you might have of gettin’ any sleep, or of seein’ your families an’ friends, until this is all over,’ he said. ‘We’ll be workin’ round the clock. Are there any questions before Inspector Rutter hands out the assignments?’

  No one said anything. What questions could there be? What – at this stage – could any of them possibly want to ask?

  Woodend waited for a second, then strode rapidly to the door. He was thankful that the men’s toilets were just two doors down from the incident room, because if they’d been any further he wasn’t sure he’d have made it. He entered the nearest cubicle, pulled the door closed behind him, and bent over the bowl.

  Gazing down into the water, he had a terrifyingly clear vision of how Ellie Taylor had looked when they pulled her out of the Thames, then his stomach exploded and the vision was broken up by a flood of vomit.

  Twelve

  ‘Don’t take this in any way personally, ma’am,’ said Major Dole, ‘but I’m just a tad surprised that your captain has assigned a case of this importance to a mere detective sergeant.’

  And a female detective sergeant, to boot, Paniatowski thought. That’s what’s going through your mind, isn’t it, Major Dole? A female detective sergeant! I can see it written in your eyes.

  ‘Chief Superintendent,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘We don’t have captains over here in England, Major Dole. We have chief superintendents instead. And I’m not in charge of the case. I’m only doing a little of the spadework while I’m waiting for the man who’s really in charge to arrive from London.’

  The major nodded, as if now he was finally getting the picture. He was around thirty-five years old, Paniatowski guessed, with broad shoulders and grey eyes which, in other circumstances, she might have found rather attractive. They were sitting in his office, in the centre of the American section of the air-force base. A number of framed certificates and commendations hung on one wall, a couple of large-scale maps of different parts of Europe were pinned to another. For the second time since she’d sat down, she heard the fearsome roar of a jet plane taking off overhead.

  ‘So how can we help you with your “spadework”, Sergeant?’ Major Dole asked.

  ‘One of your men was out drinking with Verity Beale shortly before she met her death and––’

  The major held up his hand to silence her. ‘Hold it right there, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘You can’t say with any certainty that it was one of our men who was out with her, now can you?’

  ‘He was driving a big American car––’

  ‘What make?’

  ‘The landlord of the pub’s not sure about that.’

  ‘Then it might not have been an American car at all?’

  ‘We don’t make large cars in England, as you may have noticed. Besides, he had an American accent and––’

  ‘There’s no such thing as an American accent, any more than there’s such a thing as a British accent.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but––’

  ‘Was he from the South? The East Coast? The Midwest? California, maybe? Or does the landlord know as little about accents as he seems to know about automobiles?’

  ‘He couldn’t pin it down that clearly, but he was absolutely sure that it was an American––’

  ‘The man could just have easily have been a Canadian.’

  ‘This is Lancashire, Major Dole,’ Paniatowski said wearily. ‘We don’t get a lot of foreign visitors here. Why would a Canadian come to Whitebridge?’

  ‘Why would anybody from anywhere come to Whitebridge?’ Dole asked, smiling.

  He wasn’t making a joke, Paniatowski thought. Or if he was, it was a joke with a purpose – aimed at distracting her, either through amusement or injured local pride, fro
m the matter in hand. Well, stuff him!

  ‘Miss Beale gave classes here,’ she said. ‘So who is it more likely she was out with? A Canadian who’d come to Whitebridge to prospect for gold? Or an airman she met when she was giving her lessons?’

  ‘Let’s assume that he is one of my boys,’ the major said, in a careful, measured tone. ‘Where does that take us?’

  ‘I’d like to question him.’

  The major frowned. ‘I’m not entirely certain what the legal and diplomatic position is in this particular situation,’ he confessed.

  ‘A very serious crime’s been committed and––’

  ‘True, it has,’ Dole agreed. ‘But this base is as much American territory as downtown Omaha, and the men serving on it come under the jurisdiction of the United States military authorities, not the British civil one.’

  ‘You’re saying that I can’t question him?’

  ‘I’m saying that until the position’s been clarified to my complete satisfaction, I’m not convinced that I have the authority to allow you to interrogate anybody on this post.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’ Paniatowski protested.

  ‘Wiser heads than ours have laid down the procedures,’ the major said seriously. ‘All we can do is to follow them.’

  ‘Couldn’t we at least narrow the list of suspects down a bit?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I’m not quite clear what you mean by that,’ the major told her. ‘And I’m not certain I’m happy with the word “suspect” being applied to any of the men serving on this post.’

  Paniatowski took a deep breath, and wondered how Woodend would have handled a situation of this kind. No, thinking like that wouldn’t help at all, she decided. She already knew how Woodend would react, and she had neither his rank nor his physical presence to carry off that kind of eruption. Better, far better, to pretend she was the smooth-talking Detective Inspector Rutter.

  ‘I didn’t mean to suggest that any of your men was more of a suspect than anyone else in the county,’ she said. ‘But it would still help if we knew at least the name of the man who was with Miss Beale just before she died. And it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out, should it? I don’t imagine there are that many men here who drive big imported cars and were also off the base last night.’

  Major Dole sighed. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but if you have been, you’ll know that the international situation is very tense at the moment.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So this base is not just here for decoration. We’re a vital wing of the American military strike force – and Nato’s as well,’ the major added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Ever since this crisis started to develop, we’ve been on a high level of alert, and while we hope it will never happen, we might be called into action at any moment. Given that, you can’t really expect me to devote much of my time to investigating what is, after all, a purely local matter. I’ve seen you, I’ve explained the situation as I see it, and that should be good enough for you.’

  And suddenly, Paniatowski thought she understood what was going on.

  ‘You’re worried he might turn out to be important, aren’t you!’ she demanded, forgetting she was pretending to be Rutter and slipping into full Woodend overdrive.

  The major frowned again. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re worried that he might be one of your leading pilots, and that when you need him to drop a couple of bombs on Russia he won’t be available – because he’ll be in the Whitebridge nick, answering questions about the murder of Verity Beale.’

  ‘That’s the most outlandish statement that I’ve ever heard,’ the major said coldly.

  ‘If that’s true, then all I can say is that you must have led a very sheltered life,’ Paniatowski countered.

  The major stood up. ‘This meeting is at an end, Sergeant Paniatowski,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I rather thought it might be,’ Paniatowski replied.

  Thirteen

  The Dunns’ house was located a couple of streets up from the one in which Verity Beale had lodged, and had the same air of Edwardian respectability about it. As Woodend walked up the path he found himself wondering whether Helen Dunn, who had probably spent much of her life on military bases, had begun to regard the place as her home yet.

  It was the squadron leader himself who answered the knock on the door. The man was in his middle-to-late thirties, Woodend estimated. He was not very tall, but he was exceptionally broad, and even though his uniform had a tailored look about it, it was still possible to detect his muscles bulging under the sleeves. An ex-rugby player, the chief inspector decided – and one who had not allowed his body to go to seed once he had given up the game.

  Dunn’s pale blue eyes were both emotionless and analytical, and as he ran them up and down his visitor’s body, they seemed to miss nothing.

  ‘Yes?’ the squadron leader said.

  ‘Chief Inspector Woodend, sir.’

  ‘Are you the man in charge of the search for my daughter?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Then why the hell aren’t you back at your headquarters, directing the operation?’

  ‘The wheels have been set in motion, sir,’ Woodend said. ‘Everything that can be done, is being done. My not being there for an hour or so isn’t goin’ to make any difference one way or the other.’

  Dunn nodded. ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he admitted. ‘Any system that depends entirely on the presence of one man can’t have been much of a system in the first place.’ He ran his hand over his forehead. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I seemed abrupt but I’ve been––’

  ‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ Woodend said. ‘Would you mind if I came in for a few minutes?’

  ‘Come in?’ Dunn repeated, as if he were finding it difficult to follow a normal conversation. ‘I . . . yes . . . please follow me.’

  He led Woodend down the hallway and into the lounge. The first word which struck Woodend as he entered the room was ‘precision’. The sofa did not touch the wall, but was exactly parallel to it. The two chairs which accompanied the sofa were set at a precise ninety degrees to it, and faced each other perfectly. The pictures of vintage military aircraft on the walls hung as straight as if they were in a fastidious art gallery. There was not the slightest hint of a kink in the fireside rug. Even the ornaments on the mantelpiece and in the display cabinet seemed to have been set out according to some master plan.

  It was more like a museum than a lounge, Woodend thought, except that in a museum it might be possible to find a little dust if you looked carefully, and here such a search would be futile.

  ‘Would you like to sit down?’ Dunn offered.

  ‘No, I’d prefer to stand,’ said Woodend, unwilling to disturb the symmetry of the furniture.

  ‘Why are you here?’ the squadron leader asked. ‘Did you come because you felt it was your duty to offer me the conventional reassurances and platitudes? We both know that would be a waste of time. My daughter’s fate is not in your hands, but in the hands of a madman. And if you find her, it won’t be because you have been clever, but because he has been careless.’

  ‘Does that mean I shouldn’t try?’ Woodend asked.

  Dunn bowed his head. ‘No, of course it doesn’t mean that.’

  ‘Well then, that’s why I’m here – because I’m tryin’,’ Woodend said.

  ‘I don’t see how––’

  ‘If your daughter’s been kidnapped by a stranger, then I am wastin’ my time,’ Woodend told him. ‘But if the kidnapper’s someone who knew her – even slightly – then there’s a chance that by bein’ where she’s been, and by seein’ who she’s seen, I might be able to get a lead on him.’

  ‘It seems a long shot,’ Dunn said doubtfully.

  ‘It is a long shot,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But I’m a sniffer-out of details, a sifter of minutiae. I do that particular trick better than most, an’ I sometimes find links that everybody els
e has overlooked. So while there’s a chance that there is a link to be found that will lead me to Helen, I’ll give it all I’ve got. Now, if you’d allow me, I’d like to look round her room.’

  ‘Of course,’ the squadron leader said. ‘Please follow me.’

  His daughter Annie’s bedroom had always been a bit of a mess, and Woodend often chuckled at the thought of what a shock to her system it must have been when she’d moved into the student nurses’ hostel and had a battleaxe of a warden inspecting her living quarters every week.

  Helen Dunn would have had no such problem. Her bedroom was as neat and tidy as the living room they’d just left – her books stacked perfectly on her bookshelf, her stationery all perfectly aligned on her desk.

  There were no pictures of pop singers or film stars pinned to the wall, as there had been in Annie’s room. The only picture of any sort was a photograph on her bedside cabinet. There were two girls in the picture. One of them was a much younger Helen, the other a slightly older girl who was obviously a relation.

  ‘Her sister?’ Woodend guessed.

  ‘Yes,’ the squadron leader replied, his voice totally devoid of expression. ‘That’s Janice.’

  ‘An’ is she . . .?’

  ‘She died. While we were posted in Germany.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Woodend said. ‘Was it a sudden illness?’

  ‘It wasn’t an illness at all,’ Dunn told him. ‘It was an accident. She drowned.’

  It almost seemed like there was a curse hanging over the family, Woodend thought.

  ‘Do Helen’s friends come around here very often?’ he asked, more to change the subject than because he was really interested in the answer.

  ‘Helen does not have much time for friends,’ Dunn answered.

  ‘She doesn’t?’ Woodend asked, but he was thinking, ‘What kind of kid doesn’t have time for friends?’

  ‘Helen wishes to study at Oxford University,’ Dunn said. ‘She is well aware of just how stiff competition is for places, and is striving hard to get herself into a position in which she will be one of the front runners. In addition, her sports activities take up much of her time. She’s not a natural athlete, but if she works hard at it she should be able to reach a very acceptable standard eventually.’