Dying Fall (5 page)

‘His name's Barry Thornley,' Roberts said. ‘I've know his whole family, and there's never been a good one yet. Bazza's got a gang of his own, and he's a great admirer of Councillor Scranton.'

Scranton had a megaphone in his hands, and now he raised it to his lips.

‘It's a pleasure to see so many honest working men gathered here today,' he said in a slightly metallic voice. ‘And do you know why? Because you're the backbone of this country. You're what made this country great.'

Several members of the crowd cheered, and Scranton looked very pleased with himself.

‘But there are forces afoot to rob this country of its greatness,' he continued. ‘Have you seen how many Pakis there are on the streets of Whitebridge? And there's more of them every day.' He paused. ‘Did you hear me say the name of your town?
Whitebridge!
Not
Brown
bridge! Not
Black
bridge! It's a town built by white people
for
white people.'

‘And built on the cotton that the Indians and “Pakis” grew,' Roberts said to Woodend.

‘Aye, you're right,' the chief inspector agreed. ‘It's funny that Scranton didn't think to mention that, isn't it?'

‘And it's not just the Pakis that are bringing the town down,' Scranton said. ‘There are the dirty thieving tramps and gypsies who you see all over the place. I hear one of the tramps was burned to death last night. Well, that's one less to worry about, isn't it?'

‘Bastard!' Woodend said.

‘The rest of the town council is frightened of me,' Scranton told his audience. ‘And why? Because I speak the truth! They're
so
frightened of me that they're abolishing my ward before the next election. But if they think that will keep me out of the council chamber, they've got another think coming. I shall stand in another ward. And whose ward do you think I'll stand in?'

‘Councillor Lowry's!' someone shouted out.

‘That's right,' Scranton agreed. ‘Councillor Lowry's. He thinks because he owns this factory, he can do what he likes. But he's wrong. People find it hard enough to be bossed about by men like him
at work
. They don't want to be told what they can and can't do – what they can and can't
think
– once they've left the factory gates behind them. So here is my message to Councillor Lowry – when the votes are counted after the next election, I'll still have a seat on the council. But you won't.'

‘He's quite impressive,' Woodend said reluctantly.

‘Yes, he is,' Roberts agreed. ‘You were a sergeant in the army, weren't you, sir?'

‘I was,' Woodend agreed.

‘So was I. Seems to me the sergeants are what make the army tick. They're the balancing point between the men and the officers, and if there's harmony, it's largely down to them.'

‘Agreed,' Woodend said.

‘I've never known a bad sergeant, but I've known bad corporals,' Roberts continued. ‘There's some – by no means the majority, but some – who resent not being sergeants themselves, and they try to establish their own positions by stirring up trouble and then posing as the champions of the other ranks. Do you know what I mean?'

Woodend nodded. ‘I've seen it myself.'

‘Councillor Scranton was a corporal in the RAF, which puts him on a par with his hero,' Roberts said.

‘His hero?' Woodend repeated.

‘That's right,' Roberts agreed. ‘Adolf Hitler was a corporal, an' all!'

T
he
real
nerve centre of the investigation was not – as the chief constable fondly imagined – the incident room in the headquarters' basement, but a corner table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey. It was there – over pints of bitter for the men and neat vodkas for Monika Paniatowski – that intuitive leaps were made. It was there that the single shafts of light – which often led them to the murky heart of a case – were produced. And it was there that Woodend found Paniatowski and Beresford when he walked through the door at a quarter to one on the first day of the investigation.

‘Where's Bob?' the chief inspector asked as he sat down. ‘Slipped out to the bog, has he?'

Monika Paniatowski shook her head. ‘He said he'd got something else to deal with first, but he'd be here shortly.'

‘An' is this “somethin' else” connected with the case?' Woodend asked.

‘I've no idea,' Paniatowski said flatly.

Which meant, Woodend assumed, that though she thought she had a
very good
idea what Rutter was doing, she wasn't about to tell
him
what it was.

That was one of the troubles with Monika. She was still loyal to her ex-lover, and she still tried to protect him – even when he didn't deserve it.

Woodend signalled the barman to bring another round of drinks. ‘Well, even if Inspector Rutter isn't here, I suppose we'd better get started,' he said. ‘So what have you got to report, DC Beresford?'

‘There's not much
to
report,' Beresford said. ‘The tramps all claim they don't know each other, and I think they're mostly telling the truth.'

‘I agree,' Paniatowski added. ‘They didn't give up one kind of society simply to become involved in another. Besides, they spend their days teetering on the edge of survival, and there's no room for passengers on a journey like that.'

‘I wouldn't have phrased it quite like that myself,' Woodend said, ‘but I do know exactly what you mean.'

‘One of the tramps, a man called Tommy Moores, said he saw a man in a suit in the old cotton mill,' Beresford told the chief inspector. ‘Said the man looked at him, then moved on.'

‘An' are you inclined to take him seriously?' Woodend asked.

‘On balance, I don't think I am,' Beresford admitted. ‘He was a bit vague about when he'd seen the man, and I'm not entirely convinced that if he
did
actually see him, he saw him where he said he did. And it doesn't seem likely, does it, that a man intent on that kind of murder would be wearing a suit.'

Woodend laughed. ‘So what would he be wearin'?' he asked. ‘A jumper with “Arsonist-Murderer” written across the front?'

‘No, of course not,' Beresford said seriously. ‘But a suit would still make him stand out, so if there really
was
a man, he was a man who didn't mind being noticed – which would argue for him being some kind of council inspector.'

‘Fair point,' Woodend agreed. ‘Now let me tell you what
I've
learned this mornin'.'

He outlined Dr Shastri's theory on the hard mods, and what he had seen and heard outside the foundry gate.

‘So what do you think?' he asked when he'd finished.

‘I think we should lock up Councillor bloody Scranton and throw away the key!' Paniatowski said vehemently.

Of course she did, Woodend thought. She'd grown up as one of the few Polish kids in Whitebridge. She knew what it was like to be part of a minority that a lot of people looked down on.

‘I agree with you on that,' he told his sergeant. ‘But that's not the issue at the moment. What I want to know is how you feel about the theory that one of the hard mods could be our killer?'

‘I think it's a possibility,' Paniatowski said. ‘From what I've seen, they're violent enough, and they've got chips on their shoulders the size of boulders. But investigating them isn't going to be easy, because, in many ways, they're a bit like the tramps.'

‘They're outsiders?' Woodend suggested.

‘Yes,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘They live in their own world, and they're very resistant to the idea of anyone who doesn't belong entering it.'

‘So maybe we need somebody who
does
belong – or
seems
to belong,' Woodend said thoughtfully. ‘An' I may have just the feller.'

‘Who?'

‘I'll tell you later, when I've had time to think it through,' Woodend promised.

Elizabeth Driver felt her heart skip a sudden – and un­expected – beat as she saw Bob Rutter enter the residents' bar of the Royal Victoria, Whitebridge's swankiest hotel.

Damn! she thought. This shouldn't be happening. This isn't like me
at all
– and it's time I got it under control.

Rutter walked over to her table, kissed her lightly – but not
that
lightly – on the cheek, and sat down.

‘It's good to see you, Liz,' he said.

‘It's good to see you, too,' Driver agreed.

And it
was
! Despite the warning she'd given herself only moments earlier, it sodding well was!

‘You're here to cover the murder, are you?' Rutter asked.

‘That's right,' Driver agreed. ‘So we must be very careful that whatever we say to each other has nothing to do with the case.'

If only Charlie Woodend could hear this conversation, Rutter thought, he might finally come to accept that Liz had changed, that she wasn't the heartless, unscrupulous woman they'd known in their earlier investigations.

‘You don't have to stay here in this expensive hotel, you know,' he said.

‘The newspaper's paying for it,' Driver pointed out.

‘I appreciate that,' Rutter said. ‘But it might be somehow … cosier … if you stayed with me. We wouldn't have to share a bed – not if we'd decided not to – but it would be nice to have you around.'

‘Louisa doesn't like me,' Driver said, pleased that she finally seemed to be able to remember the brat's name.

‘She'll get used to you in time,' Rutter said hopefully.

Elizabeth Driver shook her head. ‘She won't. She'll
never
get used to me. And I don't want to put her under the pressure of even having to try.'

Besides, she added mentally, the less time I spend around the bloody kid, the happier I am.

‘You're very thoughtful,' Rutter said.

‘I try to be,' Driver replied. ‘And there are other factors to be taken into consideration as well as Louisa.
We
both know we won't discuss the case, even if we are living under the same roof, but we have to think about how it would look to
other
people.'

‘You're right, as you so often are,' Rutter said.

A waiter appeared at the table. ‘Can I bring you anything, sir?' he asked.

Rutter nodded. ‘A pint of bitter, please.'

A glazed look came to the waiter's eyes. ‘I'm afraid we don't serve beer in pint glasses, sir,' he said.

‘Pints are far too uncouth for a place like the Royal Victoria,' Elizabeth Driver said, grinning. She turned to the waiter. ‘Isn't that right?'

‘I'm afraid I couldn't possibly say, madam,' the waiter replied.

‘Would it be all right if I had two halves instead?' Rutter wondered.

‘Yes, sir, that would be perfectly acceptable,' the waiter said, deadpan.

As he walked away, Elizabeth Driver giggled quietly. ‘What am I going to do with you?' she asked Rutter.

‘I don't know,' Rutter replied. ‘What
are
you going to do with me?'

‘I think we both know the answer to that,' Driver replied, with just a hint of sexiness in her voice. ‘But before we get to all that heaving and groaning, why don't you tell me what you've been doing since we last saw each other? And remember, I don't want to hear any police business.'

It was so easy to talk to Liz, Rutter told himself, as he did as she'd asked. The subject of the conversation – even the words they used to express themselves – didn't really matter. It was the very
act
of talking which was important – which had such a soothing effect on him.

And then, belatedly, he realized how much time must have passed, and glancing down at his watch confirmed his suspicion was true.

‘I have to go,' he said.

Elizabeth Driver smiled again. ‘And where, exactly, are you off to?' she asked. ‘Let me guess. You're going to the Drum and Monkey – for another session of that brains' trust that runs on best bitter served in
pint
glasses.'

Rutter smiled back. ‘That's right,' he agreed.

‘Will I see you tonight?'

Rutter shrugged. ‘You know what it's like during an investigation. I can't promise anything.'

‘You don't have to be tied down by this job of yours, you know,' Elizabeth Driver said. ‘I could hire you as an investigator, to do all my legwork for me. You'd be very good at it, you'd be earning at least twice what you're earning now – and we'd get to spend much more time together.'

‘I won't say it's not a tempting idea,' Rutter admitted, ‘but how would it look if you employed someone you were emotionally involved with?'

‘It would look exactly like what it was – as if I was taking on the best man for the job.'

‘You're very sweet,' Rutter said, standing up. ‘And listen, I really will try to see you tonight, if I possibly can.'

‘I know you will,' Driver told him. ‘And if you can't make it, well, I'll understand – and I'll try not to be too dis­appointed at spending another night alone.'

‘You really
are
sweet,' Rutter said, leaning over and kissing her briefly on the lips, before turning away.

It was only as he was walking to the door that it occurred to Rutter that anyone overhearing the latter half of their conversation would have taken them for an old-established, rather happily married, couple.

‘So we've agreed we'll get nothin' much of any value out of questionin' the tramps?' Woodend said to Beresford and Paniatowski.

‘Except maybe from the one I talked to – the one who calls himself Pogo,' Paniatowski replied.