Dead on Cue (8 page)

Paniatowski nodded, though it was clear she had no idea where Woodend was going.

‘This Miss Smythe doesn't appear to have as strong a stomach as you do, Sergeant,' the chief inspector continued. ‘She saw all that blood an' gore, an' right away she had an attack of the vapours. The doctor who examined her when she came round again is of the opinion that it might be better if she stayed away from work for a couple of days.'

Rutter and Paniatowski were both still looking puzzled – and Woodend was starting to enjoy himself.

‘I know one of the top fellers in North West Television vaguely,' he said. ‘I met him on a case a few years back, while the pair of you were still crawlin' around in nappies. Horace Throgmorton, his name is. I was talkin' to him on the phone, not half an hour ago. I put my idea to him, an' he thought it was a right good one.'

‘What idea?' Rutter asked exasperatedly, beating Paniatowski to it by a fraction of a second.

‘It should be obvious,' Woodend told him. ‘This director feller needs a new bagman, an' I need to have one of my people movin' around the studio without attractin' too much attention to themselves.'

‘You're saying you want me to pretend to be a director's personal assistant?' Paniatowski asked.

Woodend chuckled. ‘On that case in Blackpool, you pretended to be interested in curtain design,' he pointed out, ‘an' I know for a fact that if it hadn't been useful to the investigation, you'd never even have noticed there
were
curtains over the windows.'

‘But I've already told you I know nothing at all about how television works!' Paniatowski protested.

Woodend chuckled. ‘You're a smart lass – you'll soon pick it up.'

‘So I'm supposed to learn a new set of skills
and
do police work at the same time, am I, sir?'

Woodend nodded. ‘Like I said, you're a smart lass.'

‘And no one at the studio will know I'm a bobby?'

‘Not a single one of them. The only people who'll have been told the truth about you will be a couple of clerks in the personnel department back in Manchester.'

Paniatowski thought about it for a second, then grinned. ‘Could be an interesting challenge, sir,' she said.

‘Oh, it'll be that, all right,' Woodend agreed. ‘What with us blunderin' around in a world we know nothin' about, an' the press screamin' at us to come up with a quick result because – after all – it's not every day that a big television star gets herself topped, it could turn out to be far too bloody interestin'.'

It was a quarter past ten when Woodend turned off the asphalted road and headed down the rutted track which led to his handloom weaver's cottage.

He didn't like arriving at the scene of a crime with any preconceptions, so, as usual, he was trying not to think about the murder. But that was not proving as easy as it normally did, because this was not like a normal case. He had never met Valerie Farnsworth – and now he never would – but having watched her on his television screen twice a week, he felt as if he already knew her.

He shook his head in annoyance at himself. He
didn't
know her, of course – he only knew the character she'd played in
Maddox Row
. Yet he couldn't cast off the feeling that though she'd only been acting the role, she must have put a part of herself into Liz Bowyer – that he must have at least glimpsed a little of her individual essence even though she had only spoken someone else's lines.

And it was not just true of her. Jack Taylor, the laughing postman; Sam Fuller, the cranky old-age pensioner; Madge Thornycroft, the Row's gossip – he felt he knew a little about the actors who played all of them.

Yet how much do we really know about
anybody
? he wondered.

How much did he even know about his daughter – his own flesh and blood? He was sure it must have been hard for her to leave all her friends behind in London. But
how
hard? Was the semi-tantrum she'd thrown merely a sign that she was fighting her way through the painful process of adolescence? Or was there a more fundamental problem behind it? He'd meant to have a talk to her earlier in the evening, when she'd calmed down – but then he'd had to go out to meet Rutter and Paniatowski.

If she was still up, he'd talk to her before he turned in for the night, he promised himself. And it would be a
real
talk in which he'd let her speak frankly without him interrupting – a real talk during which he would hide his own feelings and concentrate on her needs.

He turned the corner and glanced up at Annie's window. The curtains were drawn closed, and the room was in darkness.

‘S
low down,' Woodend said, as Bob Rutter drove him across the moorland road which ran between Whitebridge and Bolton.

‘Slow down?' Rutter repeated.

‘Aye. The murder's not goin' to go away, you know, an' it's far too nice a day to rush.'

It
was
a nice day. There was a crispness to the air that morning which served as a sharp reminder that the warm hazy days of summer were now long gone and shimmering ground frosts were already on the way, but the sun was shining and showing off the moors in all their untamed beauty.

From his side window, Woodend watched the red admiral butterflies alighting on the clumps of purple heather, then spreading their wings to savour whatever warmth was being offered by the autumn sun. Most of the delicate, flittering creatures would not survive the winter, but that was nature's way. You'd had your time, and so you died – and only a fool would bother to complain.

Murder was not like that, he thought. Murder was a
disruption
of that natural order – an attempt by mere fallible human beings to play God – which probably explained why it often made him so angry.

They had left the moors behind, and were approaching the old industrial village which had once depended for its livelihood on the mill that had become the home of
Maddox Row
. Time to turn their minds to work. Woodend sighed, and began to flick through the sheaf of morning newspapers he held on his lap.

‘Valerie Farnsworth's murder may have been badly timed as far as our investigation goes, but it was bloody convenient for the press,' the chief inspector growled. He held up one of the newspapers. ‘Look at this!'

‘I'm driving, sir,' the ever-cautious Bob Rutter reminded him.

‘Aye, so you are,' Woodend agreed. ‘All right, I'll read it out to you. “Death of a Modern-day Siren”. That's from the
Daily Express
. “Television Glamour Girl's Tragic End”, the
Daily Mirror
calls it. Even the stuffy old
Times
has got in on the act, though, to be fair to it, it at least calls a spade a spade, an' refers to Valerie Farnsworth as a “sex symbol”.'

‘And was she?' Rutter asked, sounding slightly mystified.

‘Why do you need to ask that? I thought you told me you'd seen
Maddox Row
.'

Rutter frowned. ‘I have, but—'

‘But what?'

‘Did
you
find her sexy?'

‘Aye,' Woodend said, surprised. ‘Didn't you?'

‘She was nearly
forty
,' Rutter answered.

‘So?'

‘My mother's not much more than that.'

‘Do you know, lad, sometimes you make me feel very, very old,' Woodend said, thinking that perhaps it was not only red admiral butterflies which had almost had their day.

They had reached the edge of the village, and the old mill loomed up massively and impressively in front of them. It had been built to last, Woodend thought – constructed at a time when people had assumed that the mills would keep on churning out cotton fabric for a hungry British Empire forever. But things changed. Life moved on. Smoke had not belched out of the mill's tall chimney for years, and now the stack served as no more than a pillar on which to display the bright, shining NWTV logo.

There was a car park directly in front of the old mill, and in addition to the vehicles which would normally have been parked there, Woodend noticed two large television outside-broadcast vans and a number of cars with their owners standing beside them.

‘The gentlemen of the press seem to be out in force today,' he groaned. ‘That's just what we needed. Drive the car as close to the main entrance to the buildin' as you can, lad. With a little bit of luck, it should be possible to slip in unnoticed.'

It proved to be a groundless hope. The moment he had stepped out of the Humber, Woodend heard someone call out, ‘It's Cloggin'-it Charlie,' and within seconds he was surrounded by a bunch of men in trench coats, baying as loudly as any pack of hounds which has the scent of the fox in its nostrils.

‘Do you have any leads to go on yet, Chief Inspector Woodend?' one of the journalists shouted out.

‘Was the murderer a member of the cast?' demanded another. ‘Can you tell us if it's anybody our readers might have heard of?'

‘Will you be making an arrest soon?' bawled a third.

Woodend faced the pack, and held his hands up for silence.

‘I'm know some of you lads from my time at the Yard, an' there's a few more of you I've met since I've been workin' up here in Lancashire,' he said. ‘So quite a lot of us are old friends, in a manner of speakin' – but
only
in a manner of speakin'.' He paused for a moment, to allow the journalists he'd had dealings with before to chuckle. ‘There's a lot of new faces here as well,' he continued. ‘People who don't know me from Adam yet.'

He surveyed the crowd, and felt his heart sink just a little as he noticed for the first time that among the male reporters, there was one woman. She was standing at the edge of the pack, as if she didn't really want to intrude – but Woodend was not fooled for a moment. Their paths had crossed before – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say they'd crossed
swords
before – and despite the fact that she'd been a blonde then and now her hair was jet black, he had no difficulty recognising her face.

Elizabeth bloody Driver! Just what he needed!

‘I've got a bit of advice for you newcomers,' he said, focussing his eyes on the dark-haired woman. ‘An' it's this. Talk to the old hands who've covered my investigations in the past. They'll tell you that I never rush into a case – that I like to get a feelin' for the scene before I start to draw any conclusions. So don't go expectin' any sudden dramatic statements in the next few hours, because you'll only be disappointed. An' don't start thinkin' that I've got a few pet reporters who I'll brief ahead of the rest of you. When I've got somethin' I want to say, you'll all hear it at exactly the same time.' He paused again, to light up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘That's about all for the moment. You can hang about if you like, but you'll only be wastin' your time. It's a lovely mornin', an' if I was in your shoes I'd take advantage of it an' go for a walk on the moors.'

A couple of the reporters laughed, as if he'd made a joke. And it probably was a joke to them, he thought. Most of the reporters he knew considered their trek from the car park to the lounge of the pub as more than enough exercise for any man.

One of the journalists standing close to Elizabeth Driver turned around, and cannoned into her. The woman was knocked slightly off balance, and her notepad flew out of her hand. The reporter mouthed an apology, then – despite his considerable middle-aged spread – bent down with alacrity and picked up the pad. As he handed it back to her, she gave him a warm – almost promising – smile.

Nicely done, Woodend thought. Very nicely done indeed. To most people, it would have seemed like a complete accident, but even if he hadn't seen Elizabeth Driver manoeuvering herself into a position which made such a collision inevitable, he'd have known better. The woman collected men the way other women collected money-saving offers from magazines – not because she wanted them at that moment, but because a time might come when it would be to her advantage to cash them in.

The two detectives turned their backs on the journalists, and headed for the studio's main entrance.

‘That was a very diplomatic little speech, sir,' Bob Rutter said. ‘Especially considering that it came from you.'

‘Aye, well, maybe I'm gettin' a bit mellower as I slip gently, but inexorably, into the autumn of my years,' Woodend replied.

Rutter laughed. ‘The autumn of your years? I wouldn't have used quite that term myself, sir.'

‘Wouldn't you?' Woodend asked. ‘Why not? After all, I am older than your mother!'

The studio was entered through two large plate-glass doors, just beyond which sat a commissionaire in an ornate uniform the colour of the moorland heather they had seen earlier. As Bob Rutter pushed one of the glass doors open, the commissionaire rose smartly to his feet.

‘Are you the press, gentlemen?' he asked, with an edge of polite contempt in his voice.

‘Do we look like experts in fiddlin' expense accounts?' Woodend asked.

‘I—' the commissionaire began.

‘We're bobbies,' Woodend said. ‘Show him your warrant card, Bob.'

Rutter took his card from his pocket, and handed it over. Most doormen would have given the card no more than a cursory glance, but this one examined it carefully before returning it.

‘That seems to be in order, sir,' he said. ‘Now if you'd just like to take a seat while I call—'

‘There's no need to call anybody,' Woodend told him. ‘We'll find our own way around.'

The commissionaire looked dubious. ‘The studio's a lot more complicated than it looks at first, sir,' he cautioned. ‘You might get lost.'