Murder at Swann's Lake (14 page)

So what was he left with? Bugger all!

The visitor had already come out of the door and was walking rapidly down the street. It didn't make sense, any of it. Yet Gower's instinct told him there was something going on, and whatever it was, it was big.

He lit another cigarette from the first, then almost choked as he saw who was coming down the road. This young man walked with nothing of the wariness of the last three. If anything, his gait was defiant. Nor was he as well dressed as they'd been. They'd worn suits, he was wearing a corduroy jacket and grey-flannel trousers. The man did not hesitate as the others had done, either. He walked boldly up to Annabel Peterson's door, rang the bell, and was immediately admitted.

So Michael Clough not only knew about Annabel's secret flat, but had decided to pay a call on her, Gower thought. Now that was interesting.

And what was even more interesting was that it was a full hour before he came out again – and when he did, he looked as if he'd really been put through a wringer.

Woodend sat at his dented desk in what had once been Robbie Peterson's office, the telephone receiver in his right hand. “So the Green lads
were
workin' for you last Friday night?” he asked the manager of The Bandbox.

“That's right,” the other man replied.

“How many waiters did you have on duty that night?”

“Four. We were so busy that I was workin' behind the bar myself.”

“An' both of the Green brothers were there all the time from seven right through to eleven?”

A pause. “Yes,”

“You don't seem certain.”

“Well, I couldn't say definitely they were both in the clubroom all the time. I mean, four hours is a long while to hold your water. Everybody has to go to the bog now an' again.”

“And your lavatory is across the yard, like it is in The Hideaway?”

“Yes.”

Woodend frowned. “How long could one of them have been out without you noticin' it?”

“It's hard to put a time on it,” the manager said. “When you're workin' your arse off just to keep up with the orders, that's all that's on your mind.”

“What's your best estimate?”

“Well, I suppose if either of them had been gone for more than ten minutes, I would definitely have noticed,” the manager reluctantly conceded.

Woodend thanked the man and put the phone down. Ten minutes, he mused. The Bandbox was only a quarter of a mile away from The Hideaway. For a fit young man like Clem Green, it would have been perfectly possible to make the journey between the two clubs twice
and
kill Robbie Peterson within a ten-minute span. Motive didn't present any problem either – the Greens could easily have decided that they were tired of working for Robbie when, with one little murder, they could have the entire operation to themselves. But if one of the Greens
had
committed the crime, it was going to be a bugger to prove.

Woodend turned his mind to Michael Clough. If he was looking for a suspect, Clem Green had said, he could do worse than start with the young teacher. But why should Michael want to kill Peterson? Woodend couldn't believe that
he
was involved in any of Robbie's rackets, and the rackets, surely, were why Robbie had died.

There was a knock on the open door and Woodend looked up to see Harold Dawson, the reporter with the bad teeth, standing there. Dawson looked, if anything, seedier than he had done the previous evening, and there was an expression in his eyes which could only be described as worried.

“Somethin' I can do for you, Mr Dawson?” the Chief Inspector asked.

“No,” the reporter said vaguely. “I thought I'd just drop by to see how things were going.” He looked around the office. “I see what you mean about there being no point in my taking any photographs in here now. It's completely different to the way it was in Robbie Peterson's day. Except for that filing cabinet. That was Robbie's, wasn't it?”

“Aye,” Woodend agreed, “it was.”

“I expect it contained all Robbie's bills and things.”

“That's what most people usually file away.”

“Probably a few private things as well,” Dawson suggested slyly. “Letters from his friends and suchlike.”

“What made you say that?” Woodend wondered. “Did Robbie get many letters?”

Dawson was suddenly very guarded. “Oh, there's no point in asking me,” he said. “I didn't know about his personal affairs.”

“You certainly seem very interested in them now he's dead,” Woodend pointed out.

“Well, I'm a reporter, aren't I?”

“As well as a close friend?”

“I knew Robbie,” Dawson said, the guarded expression still in place. “But not what you might call
well
. If I saw him in the club, I might buy him a drink. But that was about as far as it went.”

“But you are a regular at the club?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Were you in The Hideaway on the night Robbie Peterson was killed?” Woodend asked.

“Er . . . no. As a matter of fact, I wasn't.”

“Then where exactly
were
you?”

“If my memory serves me well, I went for a drive,” Dawson said. “I do that sometimes. It helps to clear my head.”

“Did you go anywhere in particular?”

“No, I just drove around.” Dawson stopped, suddenly, as if he'd been hit in the face with a shovel. “I'm not a suspect, am I?”

“Of course not,” Woodend said reasonably. “You're a responsible journalist, like you told me last night. But before we can eliminate even responsible journalists from our inquiries, we have to have some account of their movements.”

“To tell you the truth, I don't know where I went,” Dawson said, obviously shaken. “I'm like that. Sometimes I've got so much on my mind that I can drive and drive and I have no idea where I've been.”

“That must be very disconcertin' for you,” Woodend said, in a tone which might have been interpreted as sympathetic by anyone who didn't really know him.

“Yes . . . well . . . if you'll excuse me, I'd better be about my business,” Dawson mumbled.

“Feel free to drop by any time, sir,” Woodend told him.

Sergeant Dash puffed on his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke circle. “Took me years to get that right,” he said, with smug satisfaction.

“Must have done,” Rutter replied, looking around the police canteen at all the uniformed officers grabbing a hurried cup of tea before they went on duty. “So what did your Super have to say to you?”

“He said he was pissed off that we appeared to have a major villain on our patch who we knew absolutely nothin' about. He went on to say, an' I'm quotin' here, ‘When I was walking the beat, just before the War, not a thing slipped past me. We had an idea of how to do our job back then, but the young coppers today know less about real policin' than next door's cat does'.”

Rutter smiled. “Do you think we'll ever go on about the good old days when we're his age?” he asked.

Dash grinned back. “Probably. Anyway, the upshot of it was that he wants this matter clearin' up, an' with that end in view, he's willin' to give you all the assistance you need.” The grinned broadened. “Within reason, of course.”

“Of course,” Rutter agreed.

“So what
can
we do for you?”

“I'd like your men out doorstepping in Hatton Gardens,” Rutter said. “I need a better description of Alexander Conway than Miss Tufton provided us with, and I'd be very interested in anything else the neighbours could tell us about him.”

“Consider it done,” Dash said.

“I'd also like to know whether Conway owns or rents the flat. If he rents it, talk to the landlord. If he owns it, have a word with the man he bought it from. And put in a request to the Yard to see if they have any idea who he is or what he's done.”

“Piece of cake.”

“And I want a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the house, so we'll know when Conway gets back.”

Dash shook his head dolefully. “You've as much chance of gettin' the Super to agree to that as I have of joinin' the Dagenham Girl Pipers,” he said.

Jenny Clough stood in the doorway of the office. She was holding a tea tray in her hands, and on the tray rested a steaming mug of tea and a plate of biscuits. Her face was pale and drawn, but she looked to Woodend like a woman who was making a real effort to get a grip on herself.

“Is it all right if I come in?” she asked, slightly hesitantly.

Woodend gave her an encouraging smile. “Anybody bearin' refreshment is always most welcome,” he said, pushing aside the sheaves of notes he'd made since Harold Dawson's departure.

Jenny entered the office and placed the tray on the desk. “The biscuits are custard creams,” she said, putting the plate in front of him and mug of tea to his right. “If you don't like them, I'm sure I can find you some chocolate digestives from somewhere.”

“Custard creams will do me champion,” Woodend assured her. “It really is very kind of you to find the time to look after me, Mrs Clough.”

Jenny shrugged. “Men need a cup of char when they're workin',” she said. “Besides,” she continued, almost as if she were making a confession, “I've run out of other things to do in the house.” She grinned ruefully. “There comes a point when even I have to accept that the cooker's clean enough.”

Woodend nodded understandingly. He'd seen this before – women attempting to cast off their grief by burying themselves in domestic chores. And sometimes it even worked. “If you ever want somebody to talk to – not as a bobby, just as another person – you can always come to me,” he said.

“Thank you,” Jenny said, swallowing hard. “Thank you so much.”

She picked up the tray and turned to go. Then, suddenly, she froze, and the tray, which had slipped out of her hands, clattered noisily to the floor.

What the hell had happened to her? Woodend asked himself. Had she seen somebody – or something – through the window? But when he looked himself, he saw that the yard was empty. “That's the matter, lass?” he asked.

Jenny began to shake violently. “Help me!” she gasped. “Help me!”

Woodend jumped up from his desk and put his arms around her. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he said.

“Get . . . get . . . me . . . out of here.”

She seemed to have lost the use of her legs, and it was more a question of lifting her to the door than helping her to it, but once she was outside her body started to relax and her breathing became more regular.

Still holding onto her, Woodend checked the yard again. If Jenny Clough
had
seen anyone through the window, there was no sign of him now. “What happened in there, Mrs Clough?” he asked.

“Nothin' . . . nothin' happened,” Jenny said. “It was just
bein
' there. I thought I could handle it, but I couldn't. It brought Dad right back to me, and it was all so . . . so painful.”

“Is it all right if I let you go now? Do you think you can stand on your own?”

Jenny nodded. “Yes, I'll be fine. I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, you must think me a complete fool.”

“Not at all,” Woodend assured her. “Your reaction is perfectly understandable under the circumstances. Probably something to do with shock.”

But if it was shock, then it was
delayed
shock, he thought – because both when he'd interviewed her the day before, and when she'd brought him the beans on toast, being in the office hadn't seemed to bother her at all.

Wally the steward was polishing pint glasses behind the bar and a few couples who didn't have kids to put to bed were already occupying the tables near the stage, but other than that Woodend and Rutter had The Hideaway to themselves.

“I tried to push Sergeant Dash to keep a round-the-clock watch on Conway's flat, but he said the best he could do was to have the bobbies on regular beat keep an eye on it,” Rutter explained. “It's not that he doesn't want to help, but they're very short-handed up in Doncaster.”

“They're very short-handed everywhere,” Woodend said sourly. “Nobody ever wants to pay for a decent police force until they need it themselves.” He took a sip of his pint. “So have you got any theories about this Alex Conway feller?”

“Miss Tufton told me he always keeps his hair and moustache neat and tidy,” Rutter said. “According to her, he must trim his moustache every day.”

“So?”

“So maybe he's an ex-military man.”

“We're all ex-military men,” Woodend said. “The only difference is some of us were in the War an' had nasty men firin' real bullets at us, an' some of us, like a certain sergeant I know, spent two years doin' their national service an' never got further than sunny Aldershot.”

Rutter grinned. “It wasn't that easy being a conscript. We had to make our own beds, you know.”

“That's my point,” Woodend told him. “Whatever kind of soldier you were, you were subjected to the same sort of bull. The same sort of spit an' polish.” He thought of how the gap in the tool rack had annoyed him earlier in the day. “A place for everythin', and everythin' in its place.”

“Maybe,” Rutter admitted. “But for most of us, especially the ones who were only in for two years, it starts to wear off in time.” He looked down at his feet. “When I first left the Army, I used to buff my shoes until I could see my face in them. Now, if I've got a reasonable shine, I'm happy to leave it at that.”

“So you're sayin' for the habit to be so ingrained, this Conway feller must have served for quite a long time?” Woodend asked thoughtfully.

“That would be my guess.”

“An' what else do we know about him?”

“That he's away from Doncaster a great deal, and that Robbie Peterson has a key to his flat.”