Death Watch (32 page)

‘How?' Stevenson challenged.

‘Well, for starters, you had quite a cosy little set-up in that house next to the garage. You needed to be sure that you wouldn't be disturbed, which in turn means you either had to own the place yourself or have a hold over whoever else owns it. It shouldn't be too hard to uncover that link.'

‘I do own the place, as a matter of fact,' Stevenson admitted. ‘I bought it as an investment, some time ago. But I haven't been near it since the day I purchased it.'

‘Bought it as an investment,' Woodend scoffed. ‘An almost derelict house like that! Some investment!' He paused for a moment. ‘An' then there's the spyin' equipment which you installed in the wall, so you could get your nasty little thrills from watchin' a poor innocent girl suffer. Very specialized, is stuff like that. There won't be more than a few places in the country that sell it – an' it should be a doddle to trace it back to you. An' when we search your house, we'll be sure to find your scrapbooks, won't we?'

‘My … scrapbooks?'

‘Aye, I thought we would. Brunton an' Mainwearin' didn't keep them, but then they were not so much
organized
offenders as
bein' organized
offenders.'

‘Everything you have is purely circumstantial,' Stevenson said. ‘You'll never make it stick.'

‘If it'll help, you just go on tellin' yourself that,' Woodend said encouragingly. ‘Keep on sayin' it right up to the point that you hear the steel door slam behind you for the last time. Because it
will
be the last time, you know? They're never goin' to let you out.'

They had almost reached the bridge, and two uniformed constables emerged from the shadows.

‘I've finished with him. He's all yours now,' Woodend said.

The constables advanced, placed Stevenson's hands behind his back, and cuffed him.

‘Any last words you'd like to say to me?' Woodend asked Stevenson, as he was about to be led away.

‘What are you
expecting
me to say?' Stevenson asked. ‘That I realize now that I've done wrong. That I'm sorry about what happened to the girl. Because if that's what you were waiting for, you're going to be sorely disappointed.'

‘No, I wasn't expectin' anythin' like that,' Woodend said. ‘But I might have done, if I hadn't had the advantage of spendin' so much time with you.'

‘What are you talking about?' Stevenson asked.

‘You're a very good teacher, Dr Stevenson,' Woodend said. ‘Possibly even a remarkable one. An' one of the things you've taught me is just how sick bastards like you actually think.'

I
t was over three hours after Martin Stevenson's arrest that Woodend found himself standing in front of the chief constable's desk and looking down at the seated Henry Marlowe, while Marlowe, in turn, glared back up at him.

‘Why
exactly
do you think I've sent for you, Chief Inspector?' the chief constable asked.

Woodend shrugged. ‘I suppose it could be to congratulate me on solvin' yet another crime that has had fellers with more pips on their shoulders completely baffled,' he suggested.

‘Your position is already precarious enough as it is,' the chief constable said. ‘Insolence will certainly not improve matters for you.'

‘Insolence, sir?' Woodend repeated. ‘I thought I was statin' no more than the simple truth.'

‘Superintendent Crawley tells me you physically manhandled him in front of a suspect who he was about to begin questioning,' Marlowe said. ‘You may deny it if you choose to, but I'm confident the suspect will confirm Mr Crawley's version of the events.'

‘Aye, an' if you can't take the word of a sexual deviant who tortures little girls, whose word can you take?' Woodend mused.

‘So are you denying it or not?'

‘Depends which part of your statement we're talking about. I deny the part about Crawley questionin' the suspect.
I
was the one who was questionin' Mainwearin' –
he
was the one who was buttin' in.'

‘Do you deny that you
manhandled
Superintendent Crawley?'

‘I slammed him up against the wall an' told him that he'd only got to interrupt one more time an' I'd deck him – if that's what you mean, sir. An' the
reason
that I did that was because I needed to have one more piece of information before I could go after Dr Stevenson – an' Mr Crawley was doin' his level best to prevent me from gettin' it.'

‘But you had no right to “go after” Dr Stevenson in the first place. If you knew he was guilty, you should have informed Superintendent Crawley and DCI Mortlake immediately.'

‘Ah, but that's the point,' Woodend said. ‘I didn't know – I only strongly suspected. It wasn't until well into our walk along the canal bank together that I became absolutely convinced Stevenson was my man.'

‘Very well, then, if you weren't sure you should still have informed Superintendent Crawley of your
strong suspicions
, and then stepped aside while he continued the investigation.'

‘What? An' have him bugger the whole thing up?'

‘It was his investigation to bu— to conduct, and the one thing I will insist on in this force is the proper respect for the chain of command.'

‘I'll bear that in mind in future,' Woodend promised.

‘If I have my way – and I sincerely believe that this time I finally will – there won't
be
any future for you,' Marlowe promised him.

‘You're sackin' me?'

‘After the abominable way you behaved with Superintendent Crawley, that is certainly my intention.'

‘I did crack this case, you know,' Woodend reminded him. ‘It was me who actually put the villains behind bars.'

‘There is more to policing than simply catching criminals,' Marlowe said.

‘Is there? Like what?'

‘There is orderliness. There is image. These are essential elements of modern police work, but you have never made any attempt to come to terms with them. And that, Mr Woodend, is why you will simply have to go. Have I made myself clear to you?'

‘Clear enough,' Woodend said.

The phone rang, and Marlowe picked it up.

‘I said I didn't want to be interrupted, except in an emergency,' he barked into the receiver.

In spite of the situation he found himself in, Woodend couldn't help grinning at the turn events were taking. Marlowe had been waiting for this confrontation for a long time – he probably even dreamed of it – and now his big dramatic moment had finally come, it had been interrupted by a phone call. It seemed a real shame!

The colour had drained from the chief constable's face, and his hand was gripping the receiver so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

‘What?' he said into the receiver. ‘You're absolutely sure of that? … But it's a nightmare. It's a bloody disaster!'

He slammed the phone down on its cradle.

‘Bad news, sir?' Woodend asked, the grin still on his face.

‘Shut up, Chief Inspector, and listen very carefully to what I have to tell you!' Marlowe said angrily. ‘When you leave this office, I want you to go straight to your own. And once you're there, you're to stay there – and talk to no one – until I summon you again. Is that perfectly clear?'

‘Perfectly,' Woodend said, mystified.

It was over two hours before the promised summons from the chief constable came, and, when Woodend returned Marlowe's office, the first thing he noticed was that his boss had changed into his best dress uniform.

Marlowe ran his eyes briefly – and distastefully – up and down Woodend's frame, then said, ‘I don't suppose you keep a decent lounge suit in your office, do you, Chief Inspector?'

‘Afraid not,' Woodend told him.

Marlowe sighed heavily. ‘I suspected as much. Well, you'll just have to do as you are.'

‘Do as I am for
what
?'

‘We're going to attend a press briefing, you and I,' the chief constable said grimly.

‘A press briefin'?' Woodend repeated. ‘Look, you can try an' get me sacked if you like, but if you think that while you're crucifyin' me for the benefit of the media I'm goin' to just stand there an' take it—'

‘For God's sake, man, shut up!' Marlowe screamed. ‘Shut up! Shut up!
Shut up!
I am not about to crucify you, however much I might wish to. All I'm asking you to do is to attend a press briefing, and listen to what I have to say. You'll get your chance to put your own point of view when I've finished speaking, and I promise you that there'll be no comeback from me, whatever you choose to say. That's fair, isn't it?'

‘Very fair,' Woodend agreed. ‘In fact, considerin' you're the one that's makin' the offer, sir, I'd have to say it's
remarkably
fair.'

Woodend had expected to see both Superintendent Crawley and DCI Mortlake at the briefing, but there was no sign of either of them. In fact, the only two people on the platform were the chief constable and himself.

Marlowe stood up and outlined the details of the case with a briefness and lack of self-aggrandizement that left Woodend almost breathless with amazement. But the cabaret had only just begun.

‘There have been some wild rumours flying about, to the effect that the hero of the hour – Detective Chief Inspector Charles Woodend – is to be brought before a disciplinary board,' Marlowe said.

Woodend looked around him, wondering if there was another DCI with the same name in the room.

‘Nothing could be further from the truth,' Marlowe continued. ‘As some of you – especially the members of the local press – may know, Mr Woodend has spent the last six months serving this police force in a purely administrative capacity. This, I need not add, was entirely at his own request. He felt, and I agreed with him, that after so many years at the sharp end of policing, he needed a period to recuperate and reflect in more tranquil surroundings.'

Does he seriously think I'm goin' to let him get away with this crap? Woodend wondered.

‘Mr Woodend's work while in administration has been truly excellent,' the chief constable lied, ‘but when this current serious case broke, I felt the need to call on his investigative expertise again, and he agreed to provide it. He did not “front” the investigation, as I believe the current popular term would have it, but any of you who have covered his previous cases will have felt his driving force and guiding hand behind the more visible presence. With the successful conclusion of the case, DCI Woodend has now agreed that the time is right to return to his old job in the CID. Needless to say, I am delighted by his decision.' Marlowe paused, and gulped in a little much-needed air. ‘And now, I expect Mr Woodend would like to say a few words himself,' he concluded.

What the bloody hell is goin' on here? Woodend asked himself. Have I finally lost my bloody mind?

The chief constable bent down, so that his mouth was almost touching Woodend's ear. ‘Happy now, you bastard?' he hissed.

Woodend and Rutter were sitting at their usual table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey. Paniatowski, though absent, had promised to put in an appearance before closing time.

‘I don't understand it,' Woodend said, for perhaps the tenth time. ‘An' if I live to be a hundred, I'll
still
never understand it. Marlowe was so intent on bustin' me. An' given the number of regulations I've broken this time – plus the fact that I assaulted a superior officer – he could probably have got away with it. Then, all of a sudden, I'm not just reprieved, but I'm a bloody hero. It doesn't make any sense.'

‘There's a lot of things that don't make any sense,' Rutter replied. ‘Like the fact that neither Crawley nor Mortlake have been seen since this afternoon. There's a rumour going the rounds that they're both being transferred, though no one seems to know why.'

‘Well, it can't be for incompetence,' Woodend said. ‘If they were bein' moved for that, they'd have gone long ago.'

Rutter glanced down at his watch. ‘Better go and give the nanny a ring, just to let her know I'm going to be a bit late,' he said.

Woodend grinned. ‘Well, she's certainly got you well house-trained,' he said.

Paniatowski appeared in the main doorway, just as Rutter disappeared into the corridor. She was holding a newspaper in her hand.

‘This is the first edition of tomorrow morning's
Daily Gazette
,' she said, slapping the paper down on the table. ‘It came in the nine o'clock train from London, so you won't have seen it yet.'

‘Quite right, and I can think of no reason why I should want to look at that particular rag now,' Woodend said.

‘You will when you've read the article on the front page,' Paniatowski said confidently.

Woodend had finished reading the article by the time Rutter returned from using the phone, and had folded the newspaper up in front of him.

‘Something the matter?' Rutter asked, sensing a change in the atmosphere at the table.

‘Have you, by any chance, spoken to your friend Elizabeth Driver today?' Woodend asked.

‘That's not really any of your business, sir,' Rutter said, slipping into the defensive position he always adopted when Driver's name came up.

‘I'll take that as a yes, then,' Woodend said. ‘An' when you were talkin' to her, did you happen to discuss the Mary Thomas case?'

‘It's about time you started to understand that Liz is perfectly capable of wearing different hats at different times,' Rutter said, ‘and that before I tell her anything about my work, I make sure she's wearing her “friend” hat, rather than her “reporter” hat.'