Murder at Swann's Lake (11 page)

“Harold Dawson. I work for the
Maltham Chronicle
. Would you mind if I joined you?”

“Be my guest,” Woodend said.

Dawson slid into the chair opposite Woodend. “How's the investigation going?” he asked.

“We've been here less than a day, Mr Dawson,” Woodend said. “There's not really much to report yet. So you work for the local paper. What are you? A reporter or a photographer?”

Dawson laughed and Woodend thought there was more bitterness than humour behind it. “I'm a photographer by training,” he said, “but on a rag like the
Chronicle
, you're expected to turn your hand to anything. Not that there's much challenge in it. You don't have to be an Agatha Christie or a Dorothy Sayers to cover Women's Institute meetings. Just take down the full name of the old bag who was lucky enough to win the cake raffle, and you've got your scoop.”

“You must be pleased about this murder, then?” Woodend said.

“Pleased?” Dawson repeated, as if the word had startled him.

“Aye. At long last you've got a story with some meat on it. A story you can probably sell to the national papers if you play your cards right.”

Dawson grinned sheepishly. “You're quite right about that, Chief Inspector,” he admitted. “Several of the London papers have been in contact with me.” He signalled the waiter. “What can I get you and your sergeant to drink?”

“No offence, but we'd prefer to buy our own,” Woodend said.

Dawson smiled, revealing a set of teeth which could have done with serious dental work. “Don't want to be accused of taking bribes – is that it?” he asked.

“Somethin' like that,” Woodend agreed.

“But you've got nothing against co-operating with the press, have you, Chief Inspector?”

“Not as long as I'm dealin' with a responsible journalist who wouldn't print anythin' which might impede my investigation.”

“That's me. ‘Responsible' is my middle name,” Dawson said.

I'll just bet it is, you slimy bugger, Woodend thought. But aloud he merely said, “I'm glad to hear it. In that case, we shouldn't have any trouble gettin' on with each other.”

The waiter arrived, and Dawson ordered a pint. “I was . . . er . . . wondering if you'd give me your permission to take some photographs for the nationals,” he said to Woodend.

“Of what?”

“Oh, you know – the club, the lakeside attractions, things like that.”

“This isn't Russia,” Woodend said. “As long as you don't trespass, you can photograph what you want.”

“Ah, but there's the problem,” Dawson said. “One of the things I'd like to take pictures of is Robbie Peterson's office. And that's private property.”

“What possible interest could photos of Robbie Peterson's office be?” Woodend wondered.

“It's the scene of the crime, isn't it? The place where the dastardly deed was done. And most people who read the kind of newspapers I freelance for have got an insatiable appetite for blood and gore.”

“I suppose I could let you have some of the official police photographs,” Woodend conceded.

Dawson looked disappointed. “Official pictures don't have any atmosphere to them. I'd rather take my own, if you don't mind.”

“I don't mind,” Woodend said. “But there wouldn't be much point now. Apart from one filin' cabinet, all the original furniture's been removed.”

“And where's it gone to?” Dawson asked.

“You'll have to ask Inspector Chatterton about that. But wherever it is, I don't expect he'll want you fiddlin' about with it. Strictly speakin', it might still turn out to be evidence.”

“Oh, I see,” Dawson said. “Well, I suppose the official police photographs will be better than nothing.”

He might say that, Woodend thought, but he didn't mean it. The fact was, he had absolutely no interest in the official photographs. So what was it exactly that he
did
have an interest in?

If Gerry Fairbright had been back home in Oldham, he would have been pacing the living room by now. But that was the problem. He wasn't at home. Nor was he in Port Talbot, where his wife firmly believed him to be. Instead he was stuck in this cream sodding Alpine Sprite caravan – where there was no
room
to pace – stewing in his own juice.

If only he hadn't been such a bloody fool. If only he'd learned his lesson last time. Or the time before! But he hadn't.

He must have wished Robbie Peterson dead a hundred times, he thought, but he'd done so without considering the implications of what that death might mean to him. Now that Robbie actually
was
dead, he could see quite clearly that he was in an even more difficult position than he'd been in before. True, Peterson had been a vicious greedy bastard, but at least Gerry had known the rules when dealing with him. Whereas now. . .

He looked out of the caravan window. He could see the club, all lit up, and even hear the faint strains of the electric organ. Maybe he'd go for a drink, he thought. But that really wasn't the answer. Drink might loosen his tongue – might even make him go and confess to that Chief Inspector from London. And that would never do at all.

He opened the cupboard under the tiny sink and took out his tool set. “You've got to do it,” he muttered to himself. “You don't have any bloody choice.”

With trembling hands, he selected a hammer, a small chisel and a screwdriver. He could do the job easily with these tools, he thought. But there was a part of him which wished that it
wasn't
easy – wished that it was bloody impossible, so that whatever happened, it wouldn't be as a result of his decision.

It would be best to break into the office at about three o'clock in the morning, when there'd be nobody around and he could do a proper job. Yes, three o'clock would be just about right. But that meant he still had a lot of time on his hands. So maybe, despite what he'd promised himself earlier, he would have a drink. After all, what harm could one pint do?

Sid Dowd lit the thick Havana cigar and inhaled luxuriantly before swinging round in his executive leather chair to face his assistant. “They say each one of these coronas is rolled individually on a dusky virgin's thigh,” he said.

“Is that right, Mr Dowd?” Phil asked indifferently.

Dowd sighed. That was the trouble with this new breed of heavies, he thought – they had absolutely no sense of romance. It had been different in the old days. Certainly things had been rougher – more violent – back then, yet despite that, the people he'd worked with had had some dash about them. Now he employed fellers like Phil, who did their job well enough –
better
then well enough – but had about as much flair as undertakers' assistants.

Thoughts of undertakers reminded him of something. “They're burying Robbie Peterson on Tuesday,” he said.

“So I believe,” Phil responded.

“I think I'll go and pay my last respects.”

“Which car will you be needing, Mr Dowd?”

Sid sighed again. That was what he meant about these youngsters. No sense of style. “I'll be wantin' the Roller, of course,” he said. “An' while I'm down at Swann's Lake, I just might take the opportunity to put that Chief Inspector right on one or two things.”

The atmosphere in The Hideaway was warming up in all senses of the word. Many of the women had discarded their cardigans – and with them their inhibitions – and now were dancing with other women's husbands. Woodend watched as hands meant to steer partners slipped down backs and nestled, briefly, on buttocks. It was all harmless fun, he thought, though he doubted whether his sergeant, in the first flush of love, would approve. He remembered his own mild flirtation with Liz Poole during the Salton case. That had never come to anything, nor would he have wished it to, but it was strange to think that she was only a few miles away from Swann's Lake at that very moment. He wondered if she had read about the case in the newspapers, and knew he was so close to her pub. He wondered . . .

But enough of wondering. The past was the past, and he was in Swann's Lake to investigate a new murder, not to revive old memories.

“What did you make of that reporter, Bob?” he asked Rutter.

The Sergeant took a thoughtful sip from his glass of beer. “I didn't like him,” he said.

“
Because
he was a reporter?”

Rutter shook his head. “No, not because of that. I got the impression that our Mr Dawson's interest in the case was more than just professional.”

Which was exactly what Woodend had been thinking. “Would you care to expand on that?” he asked.

“I'd like to,” his sergeant replied. “But I can't. I just get a gut feeling that he's involved in some way. Not with the murder – I'm almost sure he had no part on that – but maybe with something which
led up to
the murder. It's almost as if . . .”

But Woodend was no longer listening. Instead, his eyes were following a man of around thirty, who had just entered the club. “See him, Sergeant?” he asked. “His name's Gerry Fairbright. He owns one of the caravans, and he's here on his own because his wife had to go back to Oldham to look after her sick mother. Well, that's the story he gave me, anyway.”

“But you don't believe it?

“No, I don't. He sounded to me like he was makin' it up as he went along. An' he's not behavin' like a man on holiday. He was watchin' us for a full three quarters of an hour this afternoon.”

“Watching
us
?” Rutter repeated.

“That's right. Watchin' us – or maybe watchin' Robbie's
office
.”

“But there's nothing in Robbie's office that could be of any possible interest to him,” Rutter pointed out.

“You know that, an' I know that,” Woodend said. “But maybe Gerry Fairbright doesn't.”

The steward in The Hideaway had long ago called last orders and it was hours since the final reluctant customers had drifted away to their caravans and bungalows. Now there was a blanket of silence over the whole of Swann's Lake. Now, Gerry Fairbright told himself, was the time to make his move.

He picked up the tools he had taken from the box earlier, and slipped them into his pocket. It would take him ten minutes, he thought. No more than that. He made his way through the sleeping caravan site to the fence which separated it from the club. Ten minutes – and he would finally have peace of mind.

It had been a mistake to go into the club. He'd realised that the moment he saw Woodend sitting there. But once he
had
seen him, there'd been no turning back, had there? That would have looked like turning tail and running. And that would have made the detective even more suspicious than he already was.

“It'll be all right,” he whispered softly into the darkness. “Once you've done the job, Woodend won't be able to touch you.”

Fairbright opened the gate – carefully, so as to avoid any noise. It was a clear night. He would have no problem seeing the lock. Everything would work out just as he'd planned.

He took two steps, and then stopped – horrified. He tried to tell himself he was imagining things, but it was no good. He was not alone in the yard. Worse! The other person – and he could not tell whether it was a man or a woman – was crouched in front of the office door, fiddling with the lock!

His heart beating so fast he thought it would burst, Fairbright turned around and made his way quickly back to his caravan.

A
heavy mist swirled around The Red Lion that Monday morning. It insinuated itself through the ivy. It rolled under the tables on the forecourt. And it pressed itself against the windows of the bar parlour where Woodend and Rutter were eating their breakfasts.

Rutter nibbled at a piece of toast and wondered how his boss could manage a full cooked breakfast after eight or nine pints of bitter the night before. But speculation about his boss's iron constitution was only a temporary diversion from the matter which was really weighing on his mind. He was going to Doncaster alone, to carry out an investigation which could provide the first real breakthrough in the case. But what if he messed it up? What if, without Cloggin'-it Charlie at his elbow to guide him, he did something incredibly stupid? He had never suffered from any lack of confidence before, and was surprised that he did now. But what surprised him even more was the realisation that it was not the thought of failing to solve the case which worried him – it was a fear of letting Woodend down.

“If I was you, the first thing I'd do when I got to Doncaster would be drop in on the local cop shop, an' find out exactly what they've got on this Conway character,” Woodend said, spearing a thick slice of bacon with his fork.

“And then?”

“You've got the element of surprise on your side. Pay our Mr Conway a visit.”

“You're sure he
will
be surprised?” Rutter asked.

“Absolutely. As far as Conway's concerned, there's nothin' to connect him with Swann's Lake. An' he's right – nothin' except for one brown envelope which Robbie was careless enough to leave in his filin' cabinet. So even if he's as guilty as Judas Iscariot, he'll not be expectin' a bright young bobby to turn up on his doorstep an' start askin' him about Robbie Peterson's murder.”

“Would you care to suggest any lines of approach, sir?”

“Well, I'd probably start by askin' him if he heard about Peterson's death,” Woodend said. “An' if he said he hadn't, I'd know he was lyin' – 'cos it's been in all the papers.”

“And if he says he
has
heard?”

“I'd ask him what he was doin' last Friday night.”

“If he is behind the murder, but didn't do the job himself, he's probably got a watertight alibi,” Rutter pointed out.