A Long Time Dead (18 page)

‘I'm Eugene Kineally,' the caller announced.

The desert receded, the drummer ceased his insane attack. No ghost – just a brother.

‘Good morning, Senator,' Woodend said.

‘It's the middle of the night here,' Kineally told him, and then, as if to answer an unspoken question, he added, ‘With all that's going on over there, I just couldn't sleep.'

I'll bet you couldn't, Woodend thought.

‘If this is about the inquiry into your brother's death, then the person you should probably speak to is Special Agent Grant,' he said aloud.

‘This isn't an official call at all,' Kineally said. ‘In the morning, I'll be a senator again. Tonight, I'm just a brother.'

‘I see,' Woodend said.

‘Have they told you I was the one who insisted the FBI be brought into the case?' Kineally asked.

‘Yes, they have.'

‘And that the
reason
I insisted was because I didn't trust either the military police or the British police?'

‘It may have been mentioned,' Woodend said cautiously.

‘I'd never have made that demand if I'd known you were going to be involved with the investigation, Chuck. I want you know that I have absolute confidence in you.'

‘You do?' Woodend asked, reeling from the shock. ‘Why?'

‘Because Robert did.'

‘But how do you …?'

‘How do I know that? Because Robert wrote to me every day. Even when I was on active service in the Pacific, and he knew I wouldn't get any mail for months – if ever – he never missed writing. I still have those letters, and sometimes, late at night, I … I read through a few of them, and it's almost like he's still here. He wrote about everything that happened to him – and he wrote a lot about you.'

‘I'm honoured,' Woodend said humbly.

‘He told me that if he ever had to put all his trust in just one man, that man would unquestionably be you,' the senator continued. ‘He had great faith in you, Chuck – and so do I.'

‘I don't know what to say,' Woodend admitted.

‘I want to see my brother's death avenged. Even after all this time, I want to see justice done.'

‘I'll do whatever I can to see that happens.'

‘That's all that any man can promise. That's all I wanted to hear you say.' The senator's voice began to crack. ‘It's been a privilege to talk to you, Chuck. Good luck, and may God bless you!'

The line went dead, but for at least half a minute Woodend stood as frozen as a statue.

He had felt the heavy weight of the case pressing down on him before, but the phone call seemed to have made his burden almost unbearable.

B
ob Rutter had learned during his years in the Met that there were only two sorts of pubs which were regularly patronized by officers from Scotland Yard, and he had privately christened them ‘The Slimes' and ‘The Steams'.

‘The Slimes' were rough. They invariably had sawdust sprinkled on the floor – so useful for soaking up the blood that would undoubtedly be spilled by closing time! – and brass spittoons within expectorating distance of each table. They drew their clientele from the furthest, darkest fringes of society – burglars and fences, prostitutes and their pimps, bank robbers and would-be bank robbers, bookies and con men. When an officer immersed himself in one of these pubs, it was because he had to – because, if he wanted to talk to his snitches and listen to the current criminal gossip, this was the only place to be.

‘The Steams' were a different matter altogether. There was no uniformity of fixtures and fittings about them. They could be smart or shabby – or on the way up or down, from one state to the other. They could be located on one of the broad city streets, or hidden away down a back alley. What gave them their special character – as with ‘The Slimes' – was their clientele. They were policemen's boozers – a home from home.

In these pubs, a bobby was sure to come across someone else he knew on the Force, and be able to talk in a language the other man would understand. And if, due to pressure at work, a particular bobby became over-boisterous – or even fairly destructive – the landlord of the boozer had learned to look the other way. After all, they were only letting off steam, he would tell himself, and the police were normally good business. Besides, even if he did decided to report the infraction, who the hell was he going to report it
to
?

The pub outside which Rutter was standing at that moment – The Thames Waterman – was neither a ‘Slime' nor a ‘Steam'. Charlie Woodend would instantly have labelled it ‘poncy' – by which he would have meant that it was the embodiment of a brewery designer's distorted idea of what traditional pubs had once looked like. It was popular with clerks from the City's merchant banks and brokerage houses, and both policemen and criminals steered well clear of it – which was why, of course, Rutter's old friend, Inspector Tom Wright, had chosen it as the venue for their meeting.

Rutter entered the pub. From the doorway, he looked around the lounge – past the fishermen's nets and the lobster pots – and saw Wright at a table under an artificially aged advertisement for Ogden's Midnight Flake. Wright saw him, too, though he gave no indication that he had. Which meant, Rutter decided as he bought himself a pint, that this was going to be even more difficult than he'd thought it might be.

Rutter took his drink over to the table, and sat down opposite his old colleague.

‘Let's make this quick,' Wright said abruptly.

‘“How are you, Bob?”' Rutter responded, in a tone which was partly sarcastic and but mostly wounded. ‘“I was really sorry to hear that your missus got killed, my old mate.”'

‘If you want us to meet up as old mates, then pick up the blower and just tell me that's what you'd like,' Wright said brusquely. ‘When you do that, we'll go out on a bloody good piss up, and I'll let you cry on my shoulder all night, if it'll make you feel any better. But this isn't that kind of meeting at all, is it, Bob? The only reason we're here is because you want information. And not just
any
information. You want information on a bloody
Cabinet Minister
.'

‘That's true enough, but as I explained to you over the phone—'

‘What you did over the phone was to feed me some complete cock and bull story which I didn't believe for a minute,' Wright said harshly. ‘But, to be honest with you, I prefer it that way. I don't know why you want information, and I don't
want
to know. All I
do
want is to get this meeting of ours over and done with as soon as possible.'

‘You must have got some real dirt on Douglas Coutes if you're that worried,' Rutter said wonderingly.

‘You couldn't be wronger,' Wright told him. ‘The man's as clean as a whistle.'

‘Then why all the drama?'

‘
Because
he's as clean as a whistle, you bloody fool. Because, if I'm asked to justify giving information on Douglas Coutes to a member of another force, I won't be able to.'

‘But surely, there's not much chance of that happening, is there?' Rutter asked.

‘You never know.'

‘London's a big city.'

‘Yes, but when you're talking about the people in it who really
matter,
it's a very small world indeed. And ministers don't like it when mere detective inspectors start showin' interest in them. Especially ministers who hold a defence brief. Especially ministers as full of themselves – and as downright bloody ruthless – as Douglas Coutes is.'

‘So what
have
you got for me?' Rutter asked.

‘Did you know I was on the Burglary Squad now?' Wright asked, with some hostility. ‘Is that why you rang me, rather than anybody else?'

‘No, I didn't know you were in Burglary,' Rutter said truthfully. ‘I rang you because we trained together, because we've covered each other's back more than once, and because I thought we were still good friends.'

‘I still don't like it,' Wright grumbled.

‘Like what?'

‘You wanted to know if anything that's happened to Coutes recently was of interest to the police. Well, apart from the natural interest shown in him by his own protection unit, there's only one thing.'

‘And that was?'

‘His London flat was burgled – and I was the officer who investigated it. How's that for a coincidence?'

‘That's all it is,' Rutter promised him. ‘A coincidence. They do happen, you know.'

‘Maybe,' Wright said grudgingly.

‘When did this burglary take place?' Rutter asked.

‘A month or so ago.'

‘Was he staying in the flat at the time?'

‘No, he was abroad. In America, I think. There was only his housekeeper there – and it scared the hell out of her.'

‘Why? Did she catch them in the act?'

‘Not exactly. It was half-past two in the morning, so, naturally, she was asleep.'

‘If she was asleep, how can you be so precise about the time?'

‘The burglars managed to circumvent two of the alarm systems, but they were unlucky – or a little bit careless – with the third. The alarm went off, and even given the state she was probably in, it was loud enough to wake the housekeeper up. But by the time she'd forced herself to get out of bed, the burglars were already well away.'

‘The state she was probably in?' Rutter repeated.

‘Did I say that?'

‘You know you did.'

‘Well, I probably shouldn't have.'

‘Give me a break,' Rutter pleaded. ‘It may turn out not to be relevant, but I'd still like to know.'

Wright sighed heavily. ‘Her name's Lily Hanson,' he said. ‘She was Coutes's mistress for a long time, but then she started to show her age. When he traded her in for a new model, he gave her two choices: she could collect together her things and get out, or she could stay on in the role of housekeeper. She stayed on, though it's only fair to say that she's not exactly over the moon about the new domestic arrangements.'

‘How do you know all this?' Rutter wondered.

‘How do you
think
I know? She told me herself.'

‘She seems to have been remarkably frank.'

‘Drink does that to some women. Makes them talk. Makes them say things they'd never say when they were sober. Lily was floating on a cloud for most of the investigation, and I must have heard her whole life story at least three times.'

‘So you think that when the burglary took place, she was probably sleeping off a boozing session?'

‘Exactly.'

‘I'm surprised Coutes tolerates it.'

‘He doesn't have to. She might drink like a fish while he's away, but when he's in London she somehow manages to keep a lid on it. But that won't last. It can't last. Sooner or later, she'll lose what little self-control she's still got left, and she'll be out on the street. Poor bloody woman!'

‘What did the burglars take?' Rutter asked.

‘Nothing. Not a blind bloody thing.'

‘That's probably because they were disturbed, is it?'

‘Probably.'

Rutter studied his old friend's face for some seconds. ‘But you don't think that
was
the reason, do you?' he said, finally.

‘No, I don't,' Wright admitted.

‘Why not?'

‘It took the burglars a lot of effort to get into the flat. It's true that they eventually tripped the third alarm, but before they could even get to that point, they'd already by-passed the other two – and sprung some of the best security locks the Burglary Squad's ever come across.'

‘So they were professionals?'

‘They were better than that.'

‘Better than
professionals
?'

Wright sighed. ‘Look, you know the way we work, Bob,' he said. ‘When any job's pulled, one of the first questions that we always ask is who could have pulled it.'

‘True,' Rutter agreed.

‘So after that break-in, we put our heads together and tried to come up with a few names. And we couldn't! Not a single bloody one! As far as the old hands in the Burglary Squad are concerned, there isn't any villain currently operating in London who could have done that job.'

‘So what you're saying is that if they were
that
good – and went to that
much
effort – it's inconceivable that they would have been willing to leave the flat empty-handed?'

‘I'm saying it
should be
inconceivable, but it seems to have happened.'

‘Is this Hanson woman a solitary drinker, or does she like to have people around her when she's getting smashed out of her head?' Rutter asked.

‘Definitely the latter,' Wright replied. ‘When Coutes is away, she's in the Duke of Clarence every night until closing time.' He frowned. ‘What made you ask that?'

‘No real reason at all,' Rutter said casually. ‘I was just curious.'

‘Y
ou were a US Military Policeman, attached to the unit serving in this camp in 1944?' Special Agent Grant asked the bald man sitting opposite them in the interrogation chair.

‘Yes, sir!' the man said loudly.

Woodend winced.

Why was it that some ex-soldiers – especially ones who'd held posts of some minor responsibility – never quite seemed able to lose the habit of shouting their answers? he wondered. Surely they should have been able to put the war behind them by now.

Put the war behind them! echoed the malevolent goblin which sometimes seemed to inhabit a dark corner of his brain. How far have you managed to put your war behind you, Charlie?

Not far enough, Woodend readily accepted. Nowhere near far enough. And since that first phone call from Douglas Coutes, it had become closer than it had been for years.