Death Watch (21 page)

The man smiled again. ‘Really?'

‘Really! You would be, too, if you'd been brought up by a dad who's a geography teacher.'

‘Oh well, if I've got an expert on hand …'

The man held out the map to her. Unfolded as it was, it was like being handed a large, opened newspaper.

Mary took it in both hands, and held it a couple of feet from her face. ‘Shouldn't take a minute,' she said.

Or it wouldn't have, she told herself, if this had actually
been
a map of Whitebridge.

But it wasn't.

Her first thought was that the man was playing some kind of joke on her. Her second was he was
so
bad with maps that he didn't even realize this wasn't a town map at all, but one of the whole of Scotland.

There was no time for a third thought, because Mary felt the map being pushed, with some force, into her face. There was no time to struggle either, because she was only just starting to understand what was happening to her when she felt a blow to her head, and everything went black.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, as a result of favourable tail-winds over the Atlantic, we are slightly ahead of schedule, and should be landing at approximately five o'clock, local time,' the pilot said over the tannoy.

‘That's just typical!' the man sitting next to Dr Martin Stevenson snorted in disgust.

‘What's wrong with being early?' Stevenson wondered.

‘Nothing. Nothing at all! As long as they tell us well enough in advance that we're
going
to be early. But they didn't, did they? My wife won't turn up until at least six o'clock because – so she says – she doesn't like to be kept waiting around. So I'll be the one who'll be waiting, won't I?'

‘I suppose so,' Stevenson agreed.

He had already suspected that his fellow passenger was the kind of man who, if he found a ten-pound note lying in the street, would complain that it wasn't a twenty – and what he'd just heard merely confirmed it.

‘I expect you're in the same boat yourself,' said the man, who had noticed Stevenson's wedding ring, and was plainly searching for common ground on which they could share annoyance.

‘The same boat?' Stevenson repeated.

‘Your wife won't turn up until later, either. Well, that's women for you, isn't it?'

‘Actually, I wasn't expecting my wife to pick me up anyway,' Martin Stevenson said.

‘No?' the other man said. ‘Can't she drive or something?'

‘As a matter of fact, she's a very good driver,' Stevenson told him. ‘Probably better than me, in fact. But she's working, you see.'

‘And I suppose she just couldn't be bothered to take the day off,' the man said sympathetically.

‘It's not a question of being
bothered
,' Stevenson replied. ‘The reason that my wife won't be there to pick me up is because she happens to take her work very seriously.'

And that was no more than the truth, he thought to himself.

Since there was a phone free in the baggage hall, and since his own luggage had not yet arrived on the carousel, Martin Stevenson decided to ring his wife, on the off-chance she was home.

She was.

‘But you've only just caught me in,' she told him, the excitement clearly evident in her voice.

‘I'm glad you seem so pleased to have me back,' he said.

‘What?' Rosemary Stevenson answered, as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

‘And since you ask, the conference went very smoothly,' Stevenson continued. ‘My paper was extremely well received, and there were a couple of university department chairmen there who even hinted at the possibility of offering me a visiting professorship next year.'

‘I don't think I'll be at home when you get back,' Rosemary said. ‘In fact, you won't be seeing much of me at all for the next few days.'

‘Have you heard a word I've said?' Stevenson wondered.

‘The thing is, I've just been assigned to my first big case. In fact, it couldn't be bigger.'

Stevenson sighed. When his wife was in this mood, he knew from experience, there was no way on earth she was going to pay any attention to what he wanted to tell her. On the other hand, if he didn't pay attention to what
she
wanted to say, she would very likely cut up nasty. And after the hectic few days he'd had, the last thing he wanted to have to handle was a row with his wife.

‘Couldn't be bigger,' he repeated. ‘What is it? A murder?'

‘Not yet. But there's a fair possibility it could end up as one.'

She was teasing him, he thought. Teasing him about a serious crime!

She was so wrapped up in herself and her own doings that she imagined it was all he was interested in, too. Still, for the sake of domestic tranquillity, he supposed he had better continue to play the game.

‘What is it, then?' he asked. ‘An armed robbery that went wrong?'

‘Not even close,' she told him. ‘Would you like a clue?'

He suppressed another sigh. ‘I suppose so.'

‘You don't sound very keen!'

‘I am. I promise you I am. It's just that I'm rather tired, because I haven't really stopped …'

‘The clue is that when Monika Paniatowski finds out I've been assigned to this case, she'll be really pissed off,' Rosemary said.

And then she hung up.

W
oodend was in the living room of his hand-loom weaver's cottage, sitting in the battered old armchair he'd treated himself to on the day he'd been promoted to the rank of inspector. In one hand he held a copy of Charles Dickens'
Bleak House
, and in the other was the inevitable Capstan Full Strength. He looked at peace with the world, and – for the moment at least – he was.

In the kitchen, Joan Woodend was preparing the supper. She had left the door open while she worked, because she knew – though she would never let her husband
know
she knew – that Charlie sometimes got an almost childlike pleasure from watching her cook. Now, with the meal in its last stages of preparation, she turned towards the living room and said, ‘I really enjoyed that day out, Charlie.'

‘Good,' Woodend said. He spoke abstractly, since half of his mind was still immersed in Dickens' prose.

‘She's a lovely little girl, that Louisa,' Joan said.

‘She is,' Woodend agreed.

‘An' Monika's such a nice young woman.'

‘She's a real champion.'

Joan glanced over her shoulder to check on the progress of the meal, then said, ‘You know, I used to worry about you an' her.'

‘Me an' who?'

‘You an' Monika?'

‘An' why ever would you have done that?'

‘Well, she's a very good-lookin' young woman …'

‘She is.'

‘… an' there are girls, or so I've heard, who are rather attracted to older men.'

Woodend chuckled. ‘She'd never have me, lass, don't you worry. She's far too good for that.'

‘An' what does that make me?' Joan asked, starting to sound aggrieved. ‘Just good
enough
?'

‘Oh,
you're
far too good for me an' all,' Woodend told her. ‘Always have been, an' always will be. But you see, your problem is that like it or not, you're stuck with me.'

Joan smiled affectionately at her husband. ‘The local news is on in a minute,' she said. ‘Why don't you turn the telly on?'

‘Might as well,' Woodend agreed. ‘Not that there'll be any
good
news – because there never is.'

By the time the television had warmed up, the local news programme was just starting, and a grim-faced announcer was staring into the camera.

‘
First, the headlines
,' the announcer said. ‘
There is growing concern in Whitebridge over the apparent disappearance of a school girl.
'

‘Oh God, no!' Woodend groaned.

What was it Dr Stevenson had told him when he'd asked how much of a gap there usually was between the killings?

Six months to a year!

And this was just seven months!

‘
The police are as yet unwilling to either confirm or deny whether they believe this case to be connected with the abduction and brutal murder of schoolgirl Angela Jackson, late last year
,' the newsreader continued, ‘
but some non-police sources have already begun to point out the similarities.
'

A new image appeared on the screen. It was of a place that Woodend was more than familiar with.

Superintendent Crawley was standing on the podium in the press-briefing room, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Flanking him were DCI Mortlake and the recently promoted Detective Sergeant Rosemary Stevenson.

‘Mary Thomas is thirteen years old, and has only recently moved to Whitebridge,' Crawley was saying. ‘She is, by all accounts, a quiet, well-behaved girl, and we are treating her disappearance with the utmost seriousness. I urge anyone who has seen her today, or even thinks they
might
have seen her today, to contact Whitebridge Police Headquarters immediately.'

‘Is it the same murderer?' one of the reporters called out.

Crawley glared at him. ‘We don't know that there has even
been
a murder,' he pointed out. ‘In fact, we must all hope and pray that there has not, and that Mary will turn up at home – safe and well – in the near future. In calling this press conference, all we are doing is taking precautionary measures.'

‘Don't tell them that, you bloody fool!' Woodend bawled at the television screen. ‘Don't – for God's sake – allow them to walk away with the idea that what's happened to her might not be serious!'

He reached for the phone on his side table, and dialled a number he knew by heart.

‘Monika?' he said, when the woman at the other end of the line had picked up.

‘I heard it, too,' Paniatowski said.

‘The Drum an' Monkey, in half an hour,' Woodend told her.

‘I can't.'

‘You
can't
!'

‘I'm still looking after Louisa, remember.'

‘When's she due to go to bed?'

‘I'm starting to get her ready now.'

‘Have you got vodka in the house?'

‘No,' Paniatowski said. ‘I'm trying to cut down. Besides, with Louisa staying with me …'

‘Read her one of the shorter bedtime stories tonight,' Woodend said. ‘I'll call in at the off-licence for vodka an' beers, an' I'll be round at your flat as soon as I can be.'

He looked up, and saw Joan standing in the kitchen doorway. There was a blank expression on her face – so blank that he couldn't tell whether she was merely resigned or starting to get angry.

‘So you won't be wanting your supper, then?' she said, her voice as flat as her look.

Woodend shook his head. ‘Not now. Put it in the oven on a low heat, an' I'll eat it later.'

‘You won't,' Joan said.

‘You're right,' Woodend agreed. ‘I won't.'

Joan shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘I know you don't enjoy workin' in administration, but
I've
quite liked the fact that you've been home quite a lot for these last few months,' she said.

‘I know you have,' Woodend said. ‘I've liked it too. In a way.'

‘This new case has nothing to do with you, you know,' Joan said, and now he was starting to think that the anger definitely had the upper hand over the resignation. ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you at all. It would have had once – but not any more.'

‘A kid's gone missin',' Woodend said, standing up and walking over to the coat rack. ‘A
thirteen-year-old
kid. An' Marlowe's given a couple of numbskulls the job of findin' her. I can't just stand by an' let that happen.'

‘You don't have any choice,' Joan told him sharply. ‘They're not goin' to put you back in charge, you know.'

‘Of course I know that,' Woodend replied, slipping on his coat and walking towards the front door.

‘So what can you an' Monika do on your own?' Joan asked him, in a voice which had almost risen to a scream. ‘Do you seriously think that you can solve it by yourselves – without any backin' from the rest of the force?'

‘I don't know,' Woodend admitted. ‘But we've certainly got to try.'

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The Invisible Man was back in his chair in the derelict house. It had been a busy day for him – but also a very rewarding one.

He had not really anticipated the need to take another girl so soon. Though he had always warned himself that it might happen earlier, his
belief
had been that it would be a year – or perhaps a little longer – before the craving gripped him again. That he had turned out to be so wrong was probably, he suspected, due to the pressure of external circumstances on him – circumstances over which he had no real control. But he did not really want to go into that now.

He was, he thought, like a man in a small boat, being carried along by a huge wave. His main objective was not to speculate about how the wave came into being, but simply to stay afloat.

The urge to look through the spyhole was almost overwhelming, but he wanted to resist it as long as he could.

Think about something else, he ordered himself. Think about the latest football scores.

‘Manchester United 2 – Nottingham Forest 1. West Bromwich Albion 1 – Wolverhampton Wanderers …'

It was no good. He had never been very interested in football – or any other sport, for that matter. He was simply not a team player. His pleasures had always been of a much more personal and private nature.

Well then, if not football, what? Something connected to the periphery of his obsession – something he could think about without getting
too
excited.