The Red Herring Page 9

  ‘She sounds like a very serious girl,’ Woodend said.

  ‘She is a very determined girl,’ the squadron leader answered.

  Or was it just that she’d got a very determined father pushin’ her forward? Woodend wondered.

  Monika Paniatowski stood on railway station platform and watched the London train – which was bringing the chief inspector from Scotland Yard to Whitebridge – slow to a halt. She found herself wondering what he would be like, and decided that, since the Yard and Charlie Woodend had never got on, the new man would be everything that Woodend was not. The idea did not please her.

  As soon as the train had finally stopped moving, the door opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, wore a black, almost funereal suit, and had a hawk-like face with piercing, intolerant eyes. She could not have pictured the man from the Yard better if she’d tried.

  Paniatowski walked over to the new arrival and held out her hand. ‘I’m Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m here to brief you and generally show you around.’

  ‘Brief me?’ the hawk-faced man repeated. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘You are Chief Inspector Horrocks of Scotland Yard, aren’t you, sir?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Certainly not!’ the man replied. ‘My name’s Porritt. I’m in haemorrhoid creams and tablets.’

  ‘I think it’s me you’re looking for,’ said a voice with a slight Scottish burr just behind her.

  Paniatowski turned around. The man who had spoken was younger than she’d expected – not more than a few years older than she was. He was tall, broad, and had the kind of film-star good looks which would always have ensured that he played the town marshal in a white hat, rather than one of the unshaven gunslingers wearing black ones.

  ‘Jack Horrocks,’ he said, holding out a strong right hand. ‘You’re Sergeant Paniatowski, are you? Mind if I call you Monika?’

  ‘No, sir, I . . .’

  The Yard man smiled, revealing a set of perfectly even white teeth. ‘I’ve never been much of a one for formality,’ he said. ‘Call me Jack. I could use a drink,’ he glanced down at his expensive watch, ‘but I don’t suppose there’s much chance of that at this time of day – in this kind of town. Is there anywhere we could get a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes . . . I . . .’

  Horrocks smiled again. ‘Then we’ll settle for that, shall we?’

  Paniatowski was feeling slightly bemused as she led the man from the Yard to the station buffet. He hadn’t been what she’d been expecting at all, she thought. In fact, if she’d sat down and produced ten thumbnail sketches of Jack Horrocks, none of them would have come even close.

  When they reached the buffet, Horrocks gestured that she should sit down. Monika took a seat, and watched the graceful, athletic way that the man moved across to the bar. And she was not alone, she noted – men who looked like Jack Horrocks were few and far between in Whitebridge.

  ‘Paniatowski?’ the chief inspector said reflectively, when he’d taken the seat opposite Monika. ‘That’s a Russian name, isn’t it?’

  The sergeant tried not to bridle, as she usually did when such a suggestion was made to her.

  ‘The family probably did come from Russia originally,’ she admitted grudgingly, ‘but I was born in Warsaw. I consider myself a Pole – and a Lancastrian, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Horrocks agreed, with yet another smile. ‘Chief Inspector Woodend’s been in charge of this case so far, hasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right, he has,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘You probably know him, don’t you?’

  Horrocks shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But Mr Woodend was serving at the Yard himself until a little over a year ago.’

  ‘And I’m just coming up for the end of my first year, so we must have just missed each other,’ Horrocks said. ‘I understand from the minimal briefing I was given before they shoved me on the train at Euston that you’ve got another flap on here, apart from the murder. What is it, exactly?’

  ‘A schoolgirl went missing at lunchtime.’

  A cloud passed over the chief inspector’s face. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘You think we’re finally starting to get civilised, then something like that happens to remind you that there are men walking round who are worse than animals!’ Horrocks said, more to himself than to Paniatowski. ‘Bastards! Hanging’s too good for them. I’d roast them over a slow spit if I had my way.’ He paused. ‘Sorry about that little outburst, Sergeant. I’ve got daughters of my own, you see.’

  ‘Understood, sir,’ Paniatowski said.

  Horrocks sighed. ‘Well, I suppose that means we can’t expect much help from the local force on our case, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll do what they can for us,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Horrocks agreed. ‘But I’d feel guilty even having to ask. And I’m not sure it’s necessary. We’ve supposedly got the best team of criminal investigators in the world back at the Yard. We’ll use them for all the background inquiries. And anything that needs old-fashioned legwork, we’ll do ourselves if we possibly can. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘Right, brief me on what we’ve got so far,’ Horrocks said, crisply and businesslike.

  ‘There’s a couple of leads,’ Paniatowski said. ‘One of them is an Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire which seems to keep cropping up in our inquiries.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Verity Beale’s landlady saw it dropping her off at her door at least once, and though she was out with somebody else entirely last night, we believe the same car was parked outside the pub in which she drinking.’

  ‘But you don’t have the driver’s name or address yet?’

  ‘No, sir. We’d started making inquiries in that direction, but I expect they were dropped as soon as most of the team was switched to the Helen Dunn disappearance. If you like, I can––’

  ‘The Yard should be able to come up with a list of possibles as quickly as the local boys could – if not quicker,’ Horrocks said. ‘Now what about the man our Miss Beale actually was out drinking with last night?’

  ‘We believe he was an American from the base.’

  Horrocks raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Only believe?’ he asked. ‘I should have thought you’d have found out for sure by now. And questioned him, too, if it comes to that.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ Paniatowski confessed. ‘I’ve spoken to the major in charge of base security. I can’t honestly say he was very co-operative. In fact, he seemed to be doing everything he could to stop me from even finding out the man’s name.’

  ‘Bloody Yanks!’ Horrocks exclaimed, but without real rancour. ‘You know what we used to say about them during the war, don’t you?’

  Paniatowski smiled. ‘I wasn’t in Britain myself, at the time, sir––’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Jack. But I believe they said that the trouble was they were over-paid, over-sexed and over here.’

  ‘Spot on! Still, we’d have been lost without them. Would be even today, as a matter of fact. But that doesn’t mean we can allow one of them to stand in the way of our investigation. We’d better go and have a word with this major, and tell him it’s time he started playing as one of the team.’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll be as easy you seem to imagine it will,’ Paniatowski cautioned.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Nothing’s too difficult if you approach it with the right attitude,’ Horrocks replied airily.

  Fourteen

  The sherries which Squadron Leader Dunn had poured for them both once they were back in the perfectly ordered lounge came in elegant crystal glasses which positively sparkled.

  Woodend looked down at his glass. Dunn had gauged the amount of liquid in it to a fiftieth of an inch, he guessed, not because he was a mean man but because he always gauged ever
ything with precision.

  ‘You must have seen some action in the last show, mustn’t you?’ Dunn asked.

  ‘Aye, I was in the war – an’ I did see some action,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Far too bloody much of it, as far as I was concerned.’

  ‘Did you win any gongs?’

  Woodend felt his hand unconsciously reach up to the spot just below his breast, on which his medals had been pinned a million years earlier. He hadn’t wanted them then, and now they languished in a drawer somewhere in his cottage, gathering dust.

  ‘Well, were you decorated?’ Dunn demanded, with the air of a man who was used to having his questions answered immediately.

  ‘Aye, I did get a couple of medals,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But to tell you the truth, Mr Dunn, I don’t really feel very comfortable talkin’ about my experiences in the war.’

  ‘A couple of medals,’ Dunn said dreamily, missing the tone of Woodend’s comment completely. ‘That must mean you were right in the thick of it. You were lucky. Damn lucky! I was only fifteen at the time of the Battle of Britain. If I’d only have been born two or three years earlier, I could have been up there in my own Spitfire, shooting down the Huns with the rest of the chaps.’

  ‘A lot of promisin’ young lives were cut short durin’ that battle,’ Woodend pointed out. ‘If you’d been old enough to fly in 1940, yours could have been one of them.’

  ‘And would that really have mattered?’ Dunn asked seriously. ‘I love my country with all my heart, and I can think of no better way to die than fighting in its defence.’

  ‘I’ve had men die in my arms, an’ as far as I’m concerned, war may be necessary, but it’s never glorious,’ Woodend said.

  But Dunn was not really listening. ‘There are no great leaders left. At least, not on our side,’ he said. ‘The Reds need putting in their place, but both our government and the Americans seem to want to handle them with kid gloves. And what’s the result of that? I’m condemned to being a peacetime pilot – a warrior in name only.’

  ‘You might get your chance yet,’ Woodend said.

  ‘What was that?’ Dunn asked, coming down off his cloud.

  ‘I said you might get your chance yet. If the Russian government doesn’t back down over this business in Cuba, you could still find out what fightin’ a war’s really like.’

  ‘Yes, that is always a possibility,’ Dunn said brightening.

  Woodend took a sip of his sherry. ‘Where’s Mrs Dunn at the moment?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘She’s upstairs – in her bedroom. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to her about Helen.’

  ‘She can’t tell you anything that I haven’t already told you myself,’ Dunn said dismissively.

  ‘Besides, I’ll need to brief you both on how to conduct yourselves when you make your appeal on television this evenin’.’

  ‘Tell me what we should do, and what we should say, and I’ll pass the information on to her.’

  ‘I’d prefer to talk to her myself, if she’s at all in any state to see me,’ Woodend said. ‘I know she must be very upset an’ all that––’

  ‘She is, indeed. She’s never had the self-discipline to keep her emotions under proper control.’

  ‘––but I still think it might be helpful if I could––’

  ‘And, naturally, she’s feeling guilty, too.’

  ‘Aye, people always do in situations like this, even when they’ve no reason to,’ Woodend said.

  ‘But she does have a reason to,’ Dunn countered. ‘She was supposed to pick Helen up at a quarter to one, to take her to the dentist’s surgery on the base. She was five minutes late, as she so often is. She’s admitted that to me. If she’d got there on time, Helen might never have been taken.’

  ‘At this precise moment, we’ve no idea of exactly when Helen was kidnapped,’ Woodend pointed out to him. ‘It could have happened well before a quarter to one.’

  ‘Or it could have happened in the couple of minutes after it,’ Dunn retorted. ‘But we’ll never know for certain now, will we? Because my wife couldn’t be on time to save her life – or anybody else’s!’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m goin’ to have to insist on talkin’ to her,’ Woodend said firmly.

  For a moment it looked as if Dunn would refuse, then he shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Very well, if you’re adamant, I’ll go and get her. But don’t expect a lot of sense out of her – she’s never been what you’d call a rational woman, even at the best of times.’

  The pile of reports on Bob Rutter’s desk was growing almost by the minute, but so far none of them seemed to be leading anywhere. Rutter was troubled. It was not the fact that two serious crimes had occurred less than a day apart which bothered him – for while that was rare, it was not unheard of. No, what really unsettled him was the common link of King Eddie’s.

  Did the fact that Verity Beale had known Helen Dunn have anything to do with her murder? he wondered.

  Did the fact that Helen Dunn had known Verity Beale have anything to do with her kidnapping?

  There seemed like there should be a link somewhere, but he was damned if he could see what it was.

  He turned his attention to the reports spread out in front of him. With the rumours about Miss Beale’s murder already starting to spread around ‘Eddie’s’, he had sent a team up to the school to question the pupils about what might yet turn out to be an equally horrific crime.

  Yes, some of the children admitted, they had seen Helen in the playground at lunchtime.

  No, they hadn’t talked to her – she was a strange girl, and didn’t have any real friends.

  Where had she been when they’d seen her? the officers had asked.

  Just in the playground, some of the boys had said vaguely, though a few were willing to admit that they’d seen her near the gate, looking out at the park.

  And had they seen anybody in the park itself?

  No, but they hadn’t really been looking.

  No one saw her step through the gate and cross the road?

  No, honest!

  But would they have admitted it if they had? Rutter wondered.

  They were only children, when all was said and done. They couldn’t be expected to comprehend the seriousness of the situation. All they would really be aware of was the fact that they had seen a fellow pupil do something wrong, and had not reported it, so they could well be in trouble themselves if they didn’t keep their mouths shut.

  While the first team had been talking to the children in the school, a second team had been questioning the people in the park. But the officers had found no one who would admit to having also been there at the time Helen Dunn disappeared. And it was more than likely that those questioned were telling the truth – it was autumn, there was a sharp edge to the air, and while people might stroll briskly through the park, it was unlikely that anyone would choose to loiter there for any period of time.

  A unit had checked the town centre, just in case Helen had nicked off school to look around the shops. But even as he was sending it out, Rutter had thought it was a waste of time – because even from what little he had learned of the girl so far, he had known she was not likely to do that.

  A second unit had checked both the railway station and bus station. Patrol cars had covered the whole of the town and the outlying areas looking for a young girl in a school uniform, but with no success. Other divisions, whose territory bordered Whitebridge, had been asked to keep a lookout, but had nothing to report.

  It was no longer possible to believe that the girl had simply wandered off and would soon return, shocked to find herself the centre of such a furore, Rutter told himself. She had been snatched – kidnapped by some pervert. God alone knew what was happening at that moment – what agonies she was already going through. But he held out little hope of finding her safe and sound. When they did discover her, it would be in a ditch or an abandoned building, her girlish knickers around her ankles, a scarf or a nylon stoc
king wrapped tightly around her throat.

  He wondered if he could have done more, and knew that he couldn’t. But still, as he waited for the phone to ring with good news or bad, he felt a solitary tear run down his cheek.

  Monika Paniatowski negotiated her MGA round the bends on the country lanes like a racing driver who was well aware that he was already fighting a losing battle against the clock.

  The speed didn’t seem to bother Chief Inspector Horrocks. Nor, for that matter, did the lack of space inside the sports car. Charlie Woodend, who was about the same size as the Yard man, always looked squashed up whenever he reluctantly agreed to be her passenger, yet somehow Horrocks managed to give the impression that there was plenty of room inside the vehicle. It was a neat trick – and Paniatowski wished she knew how he did it.

  ‘It’s not often you see a detective sergeant driving around in a car like this,’ Horrocks said, as the road entered Dirty Bill’s Woods. ‘How do you manage it on your salary?’

  Paniatowski turned towards him to see if there were any signs of insinuation on his face, but the man from the Yard looked completely guileless.

  ‘How do I manage it?’ she asked. ‘It’s easy. I just cut down on little luxuries like food.’

  ‘But not booze?’ Horrocks said, and once again there was no indication that he was being critical.

  ‘When you work with Mr Woodend, you can’t afford to regard booze as a luxury,’ she said.

  ‘That bad, is he?’

  ‘No,’ Paniatowski said. ‘He’s that good. Mr Woodend puts so much pressure on his team – and on himself – that if you worked for him and didn’t drink, your brain would explode.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Horrocks said. ‘Very interesting. I’m looking forward to meeting your Mr Woodend.’

  ‘I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,’ Paniatowski replied.