Murder at Swann's Lake (20 page)

She reached out and ran both hands along the edges of the bed. Her palms brushed against the cold metal and her fingers touched the ends of the familiar bolts which held the frame together.

For a second, she was shocked at how quickly she learned to use touch as a substitute for seeing. And then that thought was swept aside by the realisation that if she wasn't under anaesthetic any more, the operation must be over.

She listened carefully, and thought she heard someone else breathing. “Is anybody there?” she asked.

“I'm here,” said a familiar voice.

Joan Woodend! Of course she's here, Maria thought. She's hardly left my side since this nightmare began. “Have the doctors told you anything?” she asked.

“They said there were no complications,” Joan replied. “Everything went just about as smoothly as it possibly could have done.”

But was it a success? Maria wondered in anguish. Will I able to see again? “When do the bandages come off?” she asked.

“On Sunday.”

How long it seemed until Sunday. How much darkness lay ahead before then. And there was always the possibility – the
strong
possibility – that once the bandages were removed, the darkness would remain.

Maria contemplated a bleak future. To be blind! To be constantly aware that there were obstacles lurking out there in the darkness, waiting to bang against her shins or trip her up. To be helpless in the face of tasks which caused absolutely no problem for normal people. She thought of the life she'd been half-planning with Bob. What would happen to that now? How could she have the children she'd so looked forward to, when she wouldn't be able to look after them?

“I'm sure it will be all right,” Joan Woodend said comfortingly.

But how
could she
be sure, if even the surgeons didn't know?

Sitting at a table in the pub closest to Number 7, Hatton Gardens, Woodend took a generous slurp of his pint and then smacked his lips contentedly. “There are some good things about Yorkshire after all, Bob,” he said. “Mind you, if you ever quote me on that, I'll deny I ever said it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rutter said.

Woodend put his glass down. “What exactly is it you're thankin' me for, Sergeant?”

“Most bosses I've worked with would already have asked me three or four times how I was bearing up under the strain. You haven't mentioned Maria since we left Swann's Lake.”

Woodend looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Aye, well, I figured that when you want to talk about it, you will,” he said.

“So what do you make of Alex Conway?” Rutter asked, indicating that time had not yet arrived.

“He's not your average villain, is he?” Woodend replied. “He might not exactly be as well educated as a grammar school boy like you – but he certainly wants to better himself.”

“Maybe he's not a villain at all,” Rutter suggested, picking up the double Scotch which he'd chosen in preference to his usual half of bitter.

“I'd agree with you on that, but for one thing – his flat,” Woodend said. “It's like he'd never been there.”

“Never been there?” Rutter repeated. “He's got his records, his books, his clothes—”

“Listen, lad, if you were ever to break into my house, you'd come away knowin' a lot about me,” Woodend interrupted. “I don't mean you'd know I liked Dixieland jazz or the Italian school of paintin' – though you'd have a fair idea about that. No, what I'm sayin' is, you'd know when I was born, when I was married, where I bank whatever's left of my miserable salary, how much my life is insured for – all kinds of details.”

“Documentation,” Rutter said, grasping the point.

“That's right. Bloody hell, I think I've still got my old army pay book. But this feller Conway has bugger all in the line of papers, which suggests to me that he's been anticipatin' the day when a couple of nosy bobbies like us would get a search warrant and turn his flat over. An' to think things through like that, you've simply got to be a villain.”

“You could be on to something there,” Rutter admitted.

“Add to that what your Miss Tufton said about him bein' away for rather longer than usual, and you've got the finger of suspicion in the death of Robbie Peterson pointin' straight at Mr Alex Conway.”

“You think they had an argument and Conway decided Peterson had to go?” Rutter asked.

“Not necessarily. Maybe Conway goes down to the club on Friday night just to talk. Then he finds Peterson asleep at his desk. ‘Hang on,' he says to himself, ‘with Robbie out of the way, I could be in charge of the whole racket.' It doesn't take more than a few seconds to pick up the hammer and nail, and bam! Peterson's dead. Now all Conway has to do is lie low while the murder investigation's goin' on, an' then he's back in business – this time on his own.”

Rutter looked distinctly dubious. “You think that Conway has gone into hiding?”

“That's what it looks like to me.”

“But why should he have done that? You said yourself that the only thing which connected him with Robbie Peterson – as far as we know – is an envelope. And what reason would he have had for thinking we'd get our hands on it? Does he even remember it? I know I'd probably have forgotten it, if I'd been in his place.”

Woodend gave his sergeant a look which could almost have been mistaken for dislike. “I hate it when you shoot down my theories with logic,” he said. “I bloody hate it. But if you're right, how do you explain the fact that Alex Conway has been away from his flat for so long?”

“We don't know he has,” Rutter argued. “Miss Tufton
thinks
he might have been gone for an unusually long time, but even she admits that she's very vague about such matters.”

“You're right again,” Woodend admitted reluctantly. “But I still think Alex Conway is our man.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Rutter asked.

“I'm goin' to find him, of course.”

Rutter drained his whisky and signalled to the waiter that he'd like another one. “It's all very well to say you're going to find him,” he told his boss. “But where, exactly, do you plan to start looking?”

“Well,” Woodend said, “I could do worse than begin with the public library.”

W
oodend's local library in Kilburn was similar to ones he remembered as a child, a grey, intimidating place presided over by a grey, intimidating woman who seemed to take it as a personal insult whenever anyone wished to check out a book. The library Alexander Conway made frequent use of, on the other hand, was a completely different story. It was light and airy. Selected books were displayed enticingly, instead of being confined to the shelves. There were paintings – mainly from the Italian school – on the walls, and pot plants which the Chief Inspector was willing to bet had not been provided by Doncaster Council. Someone had worked very hard to make this a pleasant place to be.

A plump young woman with a jolly red face and long, undisciplined brown hair was sitting behind the main desk reading a true romance magazine. When Woodend coughed she looked up, smiled and said, “Can I help you, sir?”

“I'm looking for the librarian,” Woodend told her. “The
chief
librarian, I mean.”

“Then you'll be wanting Miss Noonan,” the girl said, still smiling. “I'm afraid she's out on her coffee break. I'm Miss Jones, the assistant librarian. Is there anything
I
can do for you?”

“Very possibly,” Woodend said. “I'm a policeman.” He produced his warrant card and held it out for her to see.

The girl's eyes widened and her smile disappeared. “
A chief inspector
,” she said. “Has somebody done something wrong?”

“If somebody somewhere hadn't done something wrong, I'd be out of a job,” Woodend said, grinning reassuringly. “But it probably isn't anybody you know.”

Miss Jones relaxed slightly. “What do you want to ask me?” she said.

“I'm interested in one of your customers—”

“Patrons. Miss Noonan doesn't like the people who come into the library being called customers. She says we're running an institution for enlightenment – not a shop.”

“Patrons, then,” Woodend agreed. “The one I'm interested in is probably a regular. He's about my height, somewhere around fifty, has blond hair and a moustache, which he always keeps well trimmed—”

“Oh, that'd be Mr Conway,” the assistant librarian said. “You're not telling me that he's—”

“I'm sure he's as pure as the driven snow,” Woodend lied. “But I'd still like to find out a little more about him. Would that be all right?”

The girl nodded doubtfully. “I suppose so.”

“How long has Mr Conway been coming here?” Woodend asked, starting with an easy one.

“Well, he's certainly been a regular patron for as long as I've been working here.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“Three years now. Of course, he's not regular in the sense that he comes in every week. We can go a whole month without seeing him.”

“He's a keen reader, isn't he?”

“
Very
keen. Sometimes we have to order the books from the central library especially for him. But Miss Noonan doesn't mind doing that. She says that's all part of the service.”

“What kind of person is he?”

“Oh, he's very nice. Very soft-spoken. And a little shy,” Miss Jones lowered her eyes, “at least, he is with me.”

“But not with Miss Noonan?”

Miss Jones looked as if she wished she could cheerfully have bitten off her own tongue. “And he's a very smart dresser,” she said, side-stepping the question. “Always has a nice suit on.”

“What about his shoes?”

Miss Jones gazed at him in wonder. “You've never met Mr Conway, have you?” she asked. “You wouldn't be asking all these questions if you had.”

“You're right,” Woodend admitted. “I've never met him.”

“So how do you know about his shoes?”

I don't, Woodend thought. All I do know is that they were the only articles of clothing missing from his flat. But aloud, he said, “Why don't you tell about the shoes, Miss Jones?”

“Well, they're very smart, too. Black leather. And he always keeps them beautifully polished. But—”

“But he only has one pair?” Woodend interrupted.

Miss Jones's awe of the Chief Inspector was growing with every second which passed. “Some of the clothes he wears would go much better with a pair of
brown
shoes.”

“You think he's only got the one pair, don't you?” Woodend asked.

“It's the only explanation.”

Woodend grinned again. “On the quiet, you're a bit of a detective yourself, aren't you?”

Miss Jones giggled conspiratorially. “I wonder what he does when they need repairing?” she asked. “Does he go around in his carpet slippers all day?”

“Now that really would look strange,” Woodend agreed. “But let's go back to what we were talking about earlier, shall we? You said that he was shy with
you
, but he wasn't—”

Behind him, Woodend heard the door swing open. The effect on Miss Jones was immediate. With one hand she opened her desk drawer, and with the other hastily stuffed her true romance magazine into it. Then, smoothing down her hair, she assumed an expression the Chief Inspector supposed she thought was appropriate for an assistant librarian.

“Is everything all right, Miss Jones?” asked a woman with a brisk, businesslike voice. “Can you handle this gentleman's problem, or do you want me to take over?”

Woodend turned round to face the owner of the voice. She was about middle height, wore severe steel spectacles and had her hair in a tight bun – none of which really disguised the fact that with her oval face, almost rosebud lips and wide green eyes, she was a rather attractive woman.

“I said, can you handle this gentleman's problem, Miss Jones?” the formidable Miss Noonan repeated.

“I. . .er. . .he'sa. . .um—”MissJonesmumbled.

“I'm a policeman,” Woodend said, rescuing the struggling library assistant. “Chief Inspector Woodend.”

He handed her his warrant card. Miss Noonan studied it carefully and then turned it over, almost as if she expected to see a label from Joe's Joke Emporium on the other side.

“I see,” she said, finally handing the card back. “And what possible business can a Chief Inspector all the way from Scotland Yard have in a small branch library such as ours?”

“If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions,” Woodend said.

“Me?” Miss Noonan said.

“You,” Woodend confirmed.

“What kind of questions?”

Woodend glanced meaningfully at Miss Jones, who was pretending to readjust the wheels on her date stamp. “I think it might be better if we talked in private,” he said.

“Perhaps you're right,” Miss Noonan agreed. “We'll use my office. It's this way.”

It was not so much an office she led him to as a stock cupboard, but there was just enough room for the two of them to sit down without any indecorous rubbing of knees.

Now that she was sitting still, Woodend had a chance to look at her more closely. His initial impression of her face was confirmed. She was very attractive, despite her attempts to hide it. Her linen suit was severely cut – almost on masculine lines – but it didn't quite conceal the fact that she had a good figure underneath. She was in her late thirties or early forties, Woodend decided – and she wore her age extremely well.

“I'm inquiring about one of your customers . . . er . . . patrons,” the Chief Inspector said. “A Mr Alexander Conway.”