Dying Fall (9 page)

‘Every party experiences a dip in popularity mid-term,' Lowry said sulkily. ‘It doesn't mean that on the day …'

‘So in order to protect your seat on the council – and so you can continue to be a big fish in what's really a very small and murky pond – you're prepared to leave these
non-ratepayers
unprotected, are you?'

‘As I explained to Chief Inspector Woodend, there's no guarantee that the killer will strike again soon, if ever,' Lowry said.

‘And, as I'm sure Cloggin'-it Charlie explained to you, there's no guarantee that he
won't
,' Polly Johnson countered.

‘Not much of a story at all, so far,' Elizabeth Driver said, over the phone, to her editor in London. ‘The burning-alive bit of it is great, of course, but it's a pity that it couldn't have been someone more sympathetic who got fried. I mean to say, who gives a damn about a sweaty tramp?'

‘There's a nice juicy murder in Hampshire I'm thinking of sending you to cover,' the editor said with some relish. ‘They've been finding body parts all over the place, but so far they haven't located the head.'

‘I'd rather stay here,' Driver said.

‘No doubt you would,' the editor agreed. ‘But you see, that's not the way it works. I'm the one who pays the piper, so I'm the one who gets to say what tune is played.'

‘You might miss a top-notch story if you
do
pull me out,' Driver cautioned. ‘After all, the great Chief Inspector Woodend could make an arrest in a day or two – and even if the victim isn't interesting, the murderer could be.'

The editor sniffed. ‘More than likely, it'll turn out to be the work of some local yobbo,' he said.

More than likely it would, Driver thought. But she wasn't ready to leave Whitebridge yet. In fact, there were several reasons to stay.

She counted them off on the fingers of her right hand. Her book was nearly completed, and this was the ideal place in which to put the finishing touches to it. She needed to finally work out what her future relationship with Bob Rutter was going to be – and that was easier to work out in Whitebridge, too. And most important of all, she needed to get the town – and especially the town's police – firmly into the public mind through some scandal or other, so that when the book did eventually come out, it would have even more impact. She was not quite sure how she would achieve this third objective yet, but she was confident that something would occur to her in the next few days.

‘Are you still there?' her editor asked, impatiently.

‘If you let me stay, I'll get you a tremendous headline within the next seventy-two hours,' Driver said.

The editor sniffed again. ‘And that's a promise, is it?' he asked.

‘It is,' Driver confirmed.

‘Well, it's a promise you'd better keep,' the editor said, ‘because one thing you should always bear in mind, Liz, is that you're only as big as your last big story.'

‘A
m I speaking to Detective Inspector Charles Woodend?' asked a woman's voice at the other end of the telephone line.

‘You are,' Woodend confirmed.

‘I'm an anonymous informant,' the woman said.

Woodend grinned. ‘Are you, indeed? Well, has anybody ever told you,
Anonymous Informant
, that you sound just like Councillor Polly Johnson, JP?'

The woman laughed. ‘Damn it! Rumbled!' she exclaimed. Then, in a more serious voice, she continued, ‘You've got trouble, Charlie, and it's in the form of Councillor Lowry.'

‘I know all about that,' Woodend said. ‘He wants to cut back on overtime, an' I don't. But how did you find out? Has he been tryin' to nobble you?'

‘Well,
of course
he's been trying to nobble me,' Polly Johnson said, speaking slowly now, as if she'd just realized she was addressing a simpleton. ‘And I told him where he can stick it. But there are other councillors on the authority – especially the ones with small majorities – who might be more than willing to listen to him.'

‘Thanks for the warnin',' Woodend said.

‘Watch your back, Charlie,' Polly Johnson advised.

‘I will,' Woodend told her. ‘In fact, I've already sent my sergeant out to collect a bit of body armour.'

When Pogo had left police headquarters, he had determined to put the offer that the blonde sergeant had made to him firmly out of his mind. It was too late to start getting involved in life again, he argued to himself.
Far
too late. He was drifting slowly into oblivion – and that was just fine with him.

And yet, despite his own wishes, Monika Paniatowski's words kept drifting back to him.

‘
It's the chance to be useful again – the chance to earn your own respect and the respect of others.
'

She should never have said it, he thought – should never have reminded him of a time when his opinion was sought and his judgement was valued.

And yet … and yet what was wrong with the idea of travelling a little way along the road she'd suggested? It wasn't a commitment, it was an experiment, and if he didn't like it, he could always turn back.

‘Give it a shot, Percy,' he said aloud.

And then he realized that, for the first time in a long while, he'd called himself by his real name.

The pub opposite Lowry Engineering was called, logically enough, the Engineer's Arms, and by the time the workers knocked off for the day, Monika Paniatowski had already positioned herself at a table in the bar.

She was hoping for information. Useful information. The sort of information that Elizabeth Driver would have gleefully splashed across the front page of her disgusting newspaper.

‘Factory owner's three-in-a-bed romp!' would do nicely, she thought.

As would ‘Factory owner raids workers' pension fund!'

It would, strictly speaking, be blackmail to use such information against Lowry, of course, but blackmail only in the interests of justice – blackmail to protect the community.

The workers began to pour into the bar. They looked as if they were dying for a drink, and after eight hours' hard work, they probably were.

Paniatowski studied the men, wondering which one she should approach. Then it occurred to her that it might be more interesting – and more productive – to wait and see which of them would approach
her
.

It didn't take long for an approach to happen. As soon as they paid for their pints, three of the men started to make their way towards her table.

Paniatowski studied them, and quickly assigned them into rough – but useful – categories. The one leading the group had carefully quiffed hair, and though he was wearing a boiler suit, he
moved
like a man decked out in his best dancing clothes. He was the Romeo of the group, and the others were only there as padding – a necessary backcloth for his performance. The second man had pale well-meaning eyes – and she instantly labelled him the Nice Guy. The third was red-faced, with a mouth which seemed to be permanently set in a look of disapproval – the Complainer.

Romeo reached the table first, and said, ‘Do you mind if we sit down with you, love?'

Paniatowski glanced around the bar, making it plain to him that she was well aware there were still plenty of
empty
tables to be had, then she smiled and said, ‘Be my guest.'

The men sat quickly, before she changed her mind, and Romeo said, ‘What's a pretty girl like you doin' in a place like this?'

‘I'm doing research,' Paniatowski said.

‘Are you? That is interestin'. Into what?'

‘Into pick-up lines.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I wanted to find out if there was one man left in the whole country who still used that corny “pretty-girl-place-like-this” line. And apparently, there is.'

Nice Man chuckled, a sour grin filled the Complainer's face and Romeo said, ‘No offence meant, love.'

‘And none taken,' Paniatowski assured him. ‘I'm Monika.'

‘I'm Jack,' Romeo said. ‘An' this is Teddy,' indicating the Nice Man, ‘an' Archie,' pointing to the Complainer.

‘Pleased to meet you,' Paniatowski said. ‘Do you all work at the factory across the road?'

‘We do,' Jack confirmed.

‘What's it like?'

‘It's a man's life,' Jack said, in a tone that was half-mocking and half-not.

‘It's hot, sweaty, tedious work,' said Teddy. ‘But we can't really complain – it puts food on the table.'

‘And who owns the factory?' Monika asked.

‘Well, it's called Lowry Engineering, so chances are it's owned by a feller called Lowry,' Archie said.

Teddy clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘There's no need for that kind of sarcasm,' he said. ‘The lass asked a civil question, an' she deserves a civil answer.' He turned his attention to Paniatowski. ‘The boss is called Tel Lowry, Monika.'

‘Councillor Lowry?' Paniatowski asked, sounding surprised.

‘That's right.'

‘I saw him on the local news once. What's he like?'

‘He's like all bosses,' Archie said. ‘Spends most of his time talkin' about his concern for his workers, when the only thing he's really concerned about is Tel Lowry.'

‘That's not quite fair,' Jack said. ‘He's a better boss than most.'

‘An' unlike most bosses, he's not frightened of gettin' his hands dirty,' Teddy added. ‘Do you know that when he took over the company he knew nothin' about engineerin'. Now he's got a degree in it – an' he earned that degree by studyin' in his free time, when he'd already put in a day's work at the factory.'

‘You make him sound like a saint,' Archie grumbled, ‘but the truth is, we hardly see him at all these days.'

‘Maybe so, but that's not because he's sailin' round the Med on a private yacht, livin' the life of Reilly, now is it?' Jack countered. ‘The reason we don't see him is because he's devotin' all his energy to local politics.'

‘I suppose it's all right for them as can afford it,' Archie said.

‘If I'm remembering correctly, Councillor Lowry's not married, is he?' Paniatowski said.

Jack nodded. ‘No, he isn't.'

‘Lives with his mother,' Archie said. ‘A
proper
mummy's boy.'

‘Now I find that
very
hard to believe,' Paniatowski said. ‘He looks to me like the kind of man who'd be having affairs left, right and centre – and a lot of them with
married
women.'

‘Well, there's been rumours enough,' Archie said. ‘He had this secretary once, who was married to one of the shop-floor foremen, and—'

‘You seem very interested in the boss,' Jack said, and for the first time there was a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Even in the light of that comment, it might be possible to squeeze a little more information on Lowry from these men, Monika thought. But it wouldn't be a good idea. In truth, she'd pushed it as far as she dared – perhaps further than she
should have
. Any minute now, they'd start asking who
she
was, which was a short step from one of them – probably Archie – telling Lowry about the encounter. And then the fat
would
really be in the fire.

Besides, this job was leaving a bad taste in her mouth, and though she agreed with Woodend that it might be useful to get the dirt on Lowry, what she really wanted to do was put some flesh on the bones of the
real
investigation.

‘I said, you seem very interested in the boss,' Jack repeated.

Paniatowski laughed lightly. ‘Do I really? Perhaps I fancy him, and didn't even realize it.'

‘There's no accountin' for taste,' Archie said.

‘But I'll tell you who I definitely
didn't
fancy – the man I saw standing on a soapbox outside the factory gates, when I drove past earlier.'

‘That would be Councillor Scranton,' Teddy said.

‘Does he work in the factory as well?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Ron Scranton doesn't work in the factory or anywhere else,' Archie said with disdain. ‘He's never done a hard day's work in his life.'

‘Really?' Paniatowski said sceptically.

‘Really,' Archie repeated.

‘He surely must do
something
to earn a living.'

‘He
calls
himself the regional organizer of the British Patriotic Party,' Archie said, ‘so I expect they're the ones payin' his wages. But if they're givin' him more than a couple of bob a week, they must be soft in the head.'

‘Now you're not bein' fair, Archie,' Jack said. ‘However you feel about him personally, you have to admit he's got some good ideas, don't you?'

‘I suppose so,' Archie said.

‘What do you think about Scranton, Teddy?' Paniatowski asked.

Teddy seemed torn between his natural good nature and telling the truth as he saw it. ‘I don't like him, either,' he said finally. ‘But somebody's got to keep the Pakis and tramps down, haven't they?'

Pogo had been studying the other tramp for some time. The man was standing, with casual nonchalance, against a lamppost which was situated a few yards from the back entrance of the market cafe.

Pogo understood his game, having played it often enough himself. The tramp was trying to pretend that he had no interest at all in the bins, because if the owner of the cafe realized what he was after, he'd drive him away – and then any chance he had of picking up some tempting scraps would be gone.

He approached the other tramp cautiously, because he might – like many tramps – be of a nervous disposition. And he might – like many tramps – carry a knife or a razor.

The tramp spotted him. ‘I was here first,' he said. ‘And that makes it my pitch.'