Murder at Swann's Lake (16 page)

“I don't like offices that aren't my own,” Dowd said, grinning again. “They intimidate me.”

“I don't think there's much that intimidates you, Mr Dowd,” Woodend told him. “But if you'd prefer it, there's a pub up the road called The Red Lion. We could meet there”

“That'd do nicely,” Dowd said.

The room was painted in a gentle pastel blue, the carpet was a shade darker. There was a window facing the hospital grounds, and through it the patient could see a fine clump of elm trees. It was a pleasant room – a soothing room – and it was completely wasted on its present occupant, because
she
couldn't see
anything
.

Rutter stroked Maria's hand. “They've told me so little,” he said. “Only that you've had an accident and it's affected your sight. What happened?”

“A policeman at the demonstration hit me over the head with his truncheon,” Maria said simply. “The doctors think
that's
what caused the loss of vision.”

She sounded so weak, Rutter thought. She sounded as if she had sobbed herself into a state of complete exhaustion. And she probably had. “I think you're being very brave,” he said.

“It . . . it was terrifying at first,” Maria told him. “When I realised I couldn't see, I was in the bedroom, and the phone was in the living room. I knew I had to get to it, but it was so hard.”

“I understand,” Rutter said, stroking her hand again.

Maria shook her head. “No, you don't. You can't until it's happened to you. I thought I knew my flat like the back of my hand, but I was very, very wrong. When you can't see, everything's different. I . . . I kept banging into my furniture. It felt almost as if it was lying in wait to ambush me.”

“What happens now?” Rutter asked.

“They're going to operate on her tomorrow,” Joan Woodend said from her chair in the corner of the room. “They think there's a very good chance it will be successful.”

“How good?”

“Sixty per cent. Maybe even as much as seventy.”

Which meant there was at least a thirty per cent chance of failure. The doctor's words came back to Rutter.
‘They know they're in love, and they're sure they can cope with the situation. And then they think about it. I mean really think about it. They ask themselves what their lives will be like in five years' time. In ten years' time. In twenty years.'

“You're going to be all right,” he said. “But even if you weren't, it still wouldn't make any difference.”

Maria looked up at him, even though she could see nothing through her bandaged eyes. He thought about how beautiful she looked – and how vulnerable. “Of course it would make a difference,” she said softly.

“Not to us,” Rutter argued passionately. “I want to be with you whatever happens.”

He meant every word of it, he thought. He truly did. But even as he'd been speaking, there'd been a tiny corner of his brain which had asked him if he was lying – even to himself.

Maria squeezed his hand tightly. “I didn't want you to come, you know,” she said. “Joan never told me she was ringing you, or I'd have asked her not to. But I'm glad you came. You've given me new strength. And now I want you to go back to Cheshire.”

“And leave you alone?” Rutter protested. “I could never think of doing that!”

The pressure of Maria's hand increased. “You would go insane sitting around and doing nothing,” she said. “It will be much better for you to be kept busy – and I know that Mr Woodend will see to that.”

How could she think of him, and
his
feelings, at a time like this? he marvelled. How could any woman be strong? So loving? “I want to stay,” he said.

“And
I'd
rather you went back to your case,” she told him firmly. “I don't want to have to worry about you, as well as worrying about myself. Please do this one thing for me. Is it
so
much to ask?”

“No,” Rutter said gently. “No, it isn't.”

But he already knew that forcing himself to get on a train back to Cheshire would be the hardest thing he'd ever had to do in his life.

The uniformed constable stood in the hospital corridor, fiddling with his jacket buttons and wishing that his Super had sent someone else out on this particular job. He heard the click of the door handle, then the door itself opened to reveal a young man who looked like he'd just been through hell.

“Detective Sergeant Rutter?” the constable asked.

The other man nodded. “That's right. What can I do for you?”

The constable shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “My guv'ner sent me down. He'd like to see you.”

“Your guv'ner?” Rutter repeated. “And who might he be?”

“Superintendent Jackson, Sarge.”

The name rang no bells with Rutter. “You wouldn't have any idea
why
he wants to see me, would you?” he asked.

The constable looked down at his boots. “I think it might be about what happened at the Spanish embassy on Sunday,” he admitted. “You see, Superintendent Jackson was the man in charge.”

“Then we'd better not keep him waiting, had we?” Rutter said, fighting for breath as he felt an iron band suddenly start to tighten across his chest.

T
he lounge of The Red Lion was full of horse brasses and plush seating, but almost entirely empty of customers. Woodend bought a pint of bitter for himself and a double whisky for Sid Dowd, then took them over to the table where the Liverpudlian was waiting. “Doris seemed very appreciative of the fact you'd turned up for the funeral,” he said as he sat down.

“Doris is a two-faced cow who'll suck up to anybody with money,” Dowd said, without obvious heat. “Now if I was still Young Sid – the lad who used to deliver groceries on his push-bike when she was a little girl – it would have been an entirely different story. She'd have told me to piss off before I even got through the churchyard gate.”

“You've know her a long time, then?”

“Too long.”

“If she's as bad as you're makin' out, what did Robbie Peterson ever see in her?” Woodend asked.

“She was a good-lookin' girl,” Dowd replied. “But that's not really the point. It's what
she
saw in
him
that mattered.”

“An' what did she see?”

“She saw a young man who was goin' places in the rackets.” Dowd shook his head. “Poor Robbie. Once she'd got her hooks into him, he had no chance. It was years before he even started to suspect that she'd married him for what she could get out of him. Still, once he
had
realised it, he didn't let history repeat itself.”

“How d'you mean? Repeat itself?”

“With Jenny,” Dowd said. “When she was no more than a kid, she had this lad sniffin' after her. A good-lookin' boy, he was, but it was Robbie's dosh, not Jenny herself, that he was after.”

“An' what happened?”

“Robbie warned him off.”

“Worked him over, you mean?”

Dowd shook his head. “There was no need for violence. A stern warnin' an' a hundred quid in his pocket, an' the lad was soon gone. Mind you, if he hadn't taken the hint, then Robbie really would have got nasty.”

“He didn't do such a good job of protectin' his other daughter, did he?” Woodend asked.

Dowd frowned. “Annie was a lovely little kid,” he said, “as soft an' sweet as you could ever wish for. But she changed completely when Robbie sent her to that fancy boardin' school.”

“In what ways?”

“All sorts of ways. She started shop-liftin', but stupidly – as if she
wanted
to get caught. She was never charged, of course – Robbie saw to that – but if she hadn't had a dad with influence, she'd probably have ended up in a remand home.”

“Maybe she would have considered that preferable to her posh boarding school,” Woodend said thoughtfully. “What else did she do?”

“She liked throwin' bricks through windows an' smashin' up cars – especially if they were her dad's windows or her dad's cars. It was like she hated the whole world in general, but Robbie in particular.” Dowd's eyes suddenly widened. “You don't think Annabel could have killed Robbie, do you?”

“I'm more interested in findin' out whether
you
think she could have done it,” Woodend said.

Superintendent Jackson was around forty-five years old, with a square head and belligerent eyes which, for the moment, he was trying to infuse with sympathy. “I was very sorry to hear about what happened to your fiancée, Sergeant,” he said to Rutter, who was sitting opposite him. “A tragic accident.”

Accident? Rutter thought. Accident! “There'll be an inquiry, of course,” he said.

“Indeed there will,” Jackson assured him. “My men came under very heavy attack from stones and bottles. I've no intention of letting the perpetrators get away with it.”

Rutter gripped the arms of his chair. “I meant an inquiry into what happened to Maria. I want to see the policeman who assaulted her up on serious charges.”

“We don't even know it was a bobby,” Jackson said. “Perhaps she was hit by one of the bricks or bottles. Maybe she fell down and got kicked in the head by one of her own people. I'm afraid those are the chances you take when you go on that kind of violent demonstration.”

“I've talked to her,” Rutter said, holding his rage in – but only just. “She's quite clear in her mind about what happened. She was attacked by one of the officers outside the embassy.”

“Assuming that's true,” Jackson said. “Assuming that, as a foreigner with left-wing views, she's not just saying it to discredit the British police.”

“What!” Rutter exploded.

“Let me finish,” Jackson said firmly. “Assuming – as I think likely – that she's not merely confused by the blow to the head. Where does that leave us?”

“With a policeman who's a disgrace to his uniform,” Rutter said through gritted teeth.

“For all we know, she might have been threatening the officer concerned,” Jackson continued. “Or
appearing
to threaten him. And let us say, for the sake of argument, that this officer made a poor decision and lashed out. Not meaning to hurt her, you understand, but only to drive her back. Are you prepared to ruin that young officer's career for one momentary mistake? How will that help your fiancée?”

“
Young
officer?” Rutter repeated. “I never said anything about him being young.”

“
Most
of the officers on duty that day were young,” Jackson said.

It was a good attempt at covering his gaffe, but not quite good enough. “You know who did it, don't you?” Rutter demanded. “You bloody know. And you're going to do all you can to protect him.”

Jackson's face hardened into its normal unyielding expression. “Given how upset you must be, I'll ignore your tone on this one occasion,” he said. “In answer to your question, no, Sergeant, I
don't
know. As I've already said, it's far from clear that any of my officers was involved in the incident at all.” He spread his hands out in a gesture of reasonableness. “You're a bright young bobby, Sergeant Rutter. You have a great future ahead of you in the police. Don't jeopardise that by taking any ill-considered actions in the heat of the moment.”

Rutter stood up. “Do you really think you can threaten me?” he asked. “Do you seriously believe that my job means so much to me that I'll take what happened to Maria lying down?”

“Listen to me, Sergeant Rutter—” Jackson said, with a warning edge to his voice.

“No, you listen,” Rutter interrupted. “Sod the job! And sod you as well,
sir
!”

“Isn't it about time we got around to the real purpose of this meetin'?” Woodend asked, taking a sip of the pint that Sid Dowd had just bought him.

“You're probably right,” Dowd agreed. “The fact is, I'm a little bit worried that this investigation of yours might start movin' along the wrong lines.”

“Now why should you think there's any danger of that?”

“You know that one of my bright young men was at the club the night Robbie was killed, don't you?” Dowd asked.

“I had heard.”

“An' you know that I've got what you might call a chequered past?”

“I know you're a Class A villain, Mr Dowd, if that's what you mean,” Woodend said.

The other man laughed. “So it'd be very easy for you to put two an' two together an' come up with five.”

“When I was at school, I was always slow at sums,” Woodend said. “I think you're goin' to have to explain it a bit clearer.”

“All right,” Dowd conceded. “A Class A villain wants to buy a share of Robbie's club, Robbie won't sell, and before you can say Jack Robinson, the poor bugger's dead. Naturally, the villain comes out near the top of your list of suspects. But he doesn't belong there.”

“I'm still listening,” Woodend said.

Dowd glanced around the pub. “Can I assume we're talkin' strictly off the record, here?” he asked.

“As long as you're not admittin' to any knowledge of the crime,” Woodend agreed.

“I'm not,” Dowd assured him.

“So go ahead.”

“I'm not claimin' to be as pure as the driven snow,” Dowd said. “A couple of the things I've got a hand in are a bit dicey, but in the last few years most of my businesses have gone legit, so that now I've barely got a bent penny in me pocket.”

“What's this got to do with Robbie Peterson?”

“I fancied havin' a share of his club. Why wouldn't I? It was a good business opportunity. But he said he didn't want to sell, and that was it.”