Death Watch (7 page)

‘I didn't ask for your life story, I asked for your alibi,' Woodend said, glancing at Paniatowski again and seeing that she was starting to come out of the trance into which her own painful memories had drawn her.

‘I have my own garage,' Mainwearing continued, unruffled. ‘It's a very modest business, but I'm quite proud of it. That's where I was when your officers picked me up.'

‘An' that's where you were all afternoon, is it? Workin' on a motor, no doubt. All by yourself!'

A slight, amused smile came to Mainwearing's lips. ‘If I had been working alone in my garage, that wouldn't be much of an alibi, now would it?' he asked. ‘As a matter of fact, I'd only just got back to the garage when your men came for me. For the previous four hours, I'd been working at the municipal bus station on one of the double-deckers that was having some rather complicated engine trouble. You can check on that, if you like …'

‘Don't worry, I will.'

‘… but it will be a waste of police time. I was working side by side with two of the bus company's own mechanics, and because it was such a rush job, we didn't even stop for lunch. All we had to eat was sandwiches, and we munched away at them while we were working on the engine.'

Mainwearing was either the best liar he'd ever met, or he was telling the truth, Woodend decided. He was almost convinced it was the latter – though he'd still make sure he had the alibi checked out.

‘Do you want us to catch whoever abducted this young girl, Mr Mainwearing?' he asked.

‘But of course,' Mainwearing replied, looking shocked that the question even needed to be posed.

‘Then help us out,' Woodend suggested. ‘Give us some sort of lead to latch on to.'

‘Like what?'

‘Tell us the name of somebody we should be takin' a closer look at.'

‘I wish I could, but I've no idea who the guilty party could be,' Mainwearing told him. ‘Alcoholics often band together. I suppose that's because as long as all the people around them are drinking as heavily as they are, they can convince themselves they're normal. Sex offenders aren't like that. Theirs is very much a solitary obsession.'

Yes, by and large it
was
a solitary obsession, Woodend thought. He'd said as much to Paniatowski earlier. And the very fact that it
was
solitary was the whole bloody problem!

‘Alcoholics have a knack of recognizin' kindred spirits even when other people don't,' he said, giving this line of questioning one last chance. ‘Are you tryin' to tell me you couldn't spot another sex offender?'

‘I probably could spot some of them,' Mainwearing admitted. ‘But not all of them, by any means. As I've already said, they're a very cunning breed. And just as a recovering alcoholic steers well clear of pubs and parties where he knows there'll be booze, I steer well clear of playgrounds – and anywhere else there might be children. So as much as I might wish to, I'm afraid I can't give you the name of a single sex offender living in the Whitebridge area, Chief Inspector.'

Woodend nodded defeatedly. ‘You can go now, Mr Mainwearing,' he said. ‘But if you're contemplatin' leavin' Whitebridge for any length of time, you must let us know where you're goin'.'

Mainwearing stood up. ‘Why should I want to go anywhere else?' he wondered aloud. ‘What would be the point, when wherever I went I could never escape myself?'

Woodend waited until Mainwearing had left the room, then turned to Paniatowski again. The colour had returned to the sergeant's cheeks, he noted, and she was not sitting as quite as stiffly as she had been earlier. But she still looked very troubled.

‘Are you all right, Monika?' he asked.

‘All right? Why wouldn't I be all right? Of course I'm all right,' Paniatowski replied in an aggressive tone which showed she clearly wasn't.

I
t was a long-standing tradition that, at the end of a day spent investigating a major case, Woodend's team would congregate around their special table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey. It was at this table – over pints of best bitter for the men, and glasses of vodka for Monika Paniatowski – that theories were exchanged, and imaginative leaps in detection made. It was at this table that finding the solution to complex crimes often began.

That night the team arrived at the pub just before closing time, and as they sat down it was plain to all of them that the magic – the usual electricity which leapt from one to the next – was notable only by its absence.

‘The problem is that there's nothing for us to get our teeth into in this case,' Bob Rutter said dispiritedly, as he sipped without enthusiasm at the pint Woodend had just bought him.

Yes, that was
exactly
the problem, the chief inspector agreed silently.

Most violent crimes were relatively simple to solve, because the victim had some direct connection with his or her attacker.

A wealthy man is murdered – take a very close look at the people who stand to benefit from his estate.

A victim's body displays signs of a frenzied attack – find out who had a deep grudge against him.

Greed and anger – these were the two main driving forces behind most killings.

But this case was different. It was more than likely that Angela Jackson had no connection
at all
with the man who had abducted her. He had snatched her simply because she was a young girl – and the chances were that any other young girl who'd happened to be around would have served his purpose just as well.

So how did you get a lead in a case like this one?

How could you possibly uncover the sick bastard's motive – when it was tightly locked away in his head?

‘So what have you got?' Woodend asked the rest of the team, and when none of them seemed eager to be the first to speak, he added, ‘Let's start with you, Colin.'

Beresford shrugged hopelessly. ‘We think there were at least thirty vehicles in the car park in the half-hour before Angela Jackson went missing. But that is only a rough approximation. We can account for sixteen of them, because they belonged to people we questioned in the cafe. That leaves fourteen – more or less. We know the make and model of some of them. For instance, there was a green Ford Cortina parked there – but how many green Cortinas are there in the Whitebridge area?'

‘Must be hundreds of them,' Rutter said.

‘Hundreds,' Beresford agreed. ‘Tracking down the one that was actually there could take us days.'

And days is just what we don't have, Woodend thought. Besides, even if we do find it, the chances are its owner merely parked it there while he went about his perfectly legitimate business.

‘Put out a general appeal for people who left their vehicles in the car park to come forward,' he said aloud.

‘That's already been done, sir,' Beresford said. ‘There's been an announcement on the local news, and the uniformed branch are sticking up posters all over the city centre. But until we start to get results, we're at a bit of a dead end.'

‘Bob?' Woodend asked his inspector.

‘Nothing from the park yet, sir,' Rutter said. ‘Have you had any luck?'

‘Me an' Monika have been talkin' to slime all day,' Woodend told him. ‘The only thing is, we both think it's the wrong
kind
of slime.'

The pub lights flashed, and the landlord called out, ‘Will you please empty your glasses, ladies and gentlemen.'

There was absolutely no need to leave at that moment, Woodend reminded himself. The other customers would soon be shown the door – in strict accordance with the licensing laws – but the team could stay on if they chose, as they'd done so many times in the past and no doubt would many times in the future. Yet what would be the point of staying on, when – without any new development – they had nothing more to say to one another?

He saw the landlord looking at him questioningly, and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow's another day,' he told the team. ‘And maybe tomorrow we'll get just the lucky break we need.'

It was twenty minutes past eleven when Rutter reached his home and found Janet, the new nanny, waiting for him in the hallway.

‘You're rather later than I expected you to be, Mr Rutter,' she said reprovingly. ‘The other parents I've worked for have always told me in advance what time they'll be home. And if they were going to be later than they'd said, they've rung up to let me know.'

‘You could have gone to bed once you'd settled Louisa down for the night,' Rutter pointed out.

‘I suppose I could,' Janet agreed, looking very far from mollified by the thought.

‘And in case you haven't noticed, we've got a big crisis on at the station,' Rutter snapped.

‘I
have
been watching the news, and I
do
feel sorry for the girl who's gone missing,' Janet told him. ‘But even so …'

She said no more, simply stood there, waiting for Rutter to make the next move.

He was handling things very badly, Rutter told himself. He was tired and irritated and frustrated, but that was still no excuse.

‘Look, you knew when I hired you that I worked irregular hours,' he said. ‘That was why I agreed to pay you more than the going rate.'

Janet's chin was set firm. ‘Money's not the point,' she said.

‘Then what is?'

‘Consideration. I may be your employee, but that doesn't mean I'm your slave. I'm entitled to a certain amount of respect.'

‘You're right, of course,' Rutter agreed wearily. ‘I appreciate having you here, and you are entitled to respect. I'll try to keep you better informed of my movements in future.'

Janet melted a little – though it was clear she was prepared to freeze up again, given the slightest reason. ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, Mr Rutter?' she asked.

‘That would be very kind of you,' Rutter replied, laying on the consideration and respect with a trowel.

As he followed her into the living room, the first thing that caught his eye was two brightly wrapped packages.

‘How did these get here?' he asked.

‘They were delivered earlier, by private messenger,' Janet told him, as she headed for the kitchen.

Rutter tore the wrapping paper off the nearest, and when he opened the box he found an expensive-looking teddy bear staring up at him through dark glass eyes. He opened the second, and found a doll which appeared, at first glance, to be made of a plastic which looked like imitation china, but, on closer examination, turned out to be the real thing.

A china doll! Rutter thought. Who, in this day and age, could afford a
china
doll?

‘You seem to have some rich friends,' Janet said, seeing the toys when she returned with the tea.

‘Yes, I do, don't I?' Rutter agreed.

The Invisible Man was back in the crumbling terraced house – positioned at his peephole and watching the girl.

She had been filled with fear when she'd first regained consciousness, he thought.

But not with fear alone. Oh no! Disbelief and hope had been present, too.

Disbelief because she still could not quite bring herself to accept that this was anything more than a bad dream.

Hope because, like a bad dream, there had to be an end to it eventually, an end which would see her safely back home with her loved ones.

That had been then. That had been before she'd gained some inkling of just what was in store for her.

Now, the disbelief and hope had gone.

Now, all that was left was the fear.

And it would get worse, that fear. Soon it would no longer concern itself with what was happening to her at that moment, but would focus on what would happen
next
.

And even that would only be one more stage in her journey. Another step would come when she ceased to fear death – when she began to welcome it as a release.

As an escape from the sheer hell she found herself in.

And when she reached that stage, she would no longer be any fun to play with, and it would be all over.

No, that was not quite true, the Invisible Man corrected himself. She would die, certainly, but not in the swift and merciful way she sought. Instead, her death would be the final stage in the game – an exquisitely agonizing end, which would leave her as no more than an empty vessel. And standing over this shell would be the man who had brought about her end, feeling as powerful as any god that had ever held sway over the fate of mankind.

This feeling would not last. The Invisible Man knew that. Soon the cravings would start again, and another victim would have to be found. And another. And another. On and on, until the end of time. Or until he was caught.

Monika Paniatowski sat alone in her bland, impersonal flat, her gaze alternating between the blank television screen and the vodka glass that she held tightly in her hand.

There was no doubt that Mainwearing's comments about child abuse that afternoon had unnerved her and transported her back to one of the blackest periods in her life. But she could have shrugged all that off by now – if she'd had the mental space to do so. The problem was that such mental space had
not
been available, because of the other thing which had knocked her off balance – spending the early evening with little Louisa.

She was such an open and affectionate child. Paniatowski thought she could see some of her dead mother in her, but also something of her father. Yet mostly she was simply herself – a perfect little girl in her own right. Anyone would have found it hard to resist her, but resisting was even more difficult when you were a thirty-year-old unmarried police sergeant, who had been told by any number of doctors that you could never have any children of your own.

There was no point in brooding about what you couldn't have, Paniatowski told herself. Far better to count your blessings.