Murder at Swann's Lake (29 page)

“Mrs Clough isn't in the house,” Rutter told his boss, through the open office door.

Woodend looked up from the report he was writing. “Then maybe she's in the club,” he said abstractly.

“She isn't there, either.”

Woodend sighed. “So ask Doris where she is. Really, Bob, I should have thought a detective sergeant was perfectly capable of—”

“Mrs Peterson doesn't know either,” Rutter interrupted. “Says she hasn't seen her for a couple of hours.”

The pen dropped out of Woodend's hand, and he was suddenly giving his sergeant all his attention. “Are you sayin' she's disappeared?” he demanded.

Rutter laughed. “I wouldn't put it as melodramatically as that, sir.”

“Wouldn't you?” Woodend asked, picking up the phone. “Well, I soddin' well would!” He dialled 999 rapidly. “Operator, put me through to Maltham Police.” He covered the mouthpiece. “I should have anticipated this, Bob. I should have bloody known.”

“Known what?” the puzzled Sergeant asked.

But by then the Chief Inspector had been put through. “This is Woodend . . . yes, Scotland Yard. Get me Inspector Chatterton as quickly as you can.” There were several seconds pause before Woodend said, “Chatterton? . . . Jenny Clough's gone missin' . . . That's what I said. . . . I want her found as soon as possible. Put all your available men on the job. An' draft in as many as you can lay your hands on from other divisions. I want a search like there's never been in this area before. An' send a man round to Annie Peterson's. I want her picked up and bringin' down to The Hideaway.”

Rutter listened with growing incredulity. When Inspector Chatteron had offered men to help in the murder inquiry, Cloggin'-it Charlie had said he couldn't use them, he reminded himself. Now Woodend seemed to be attempting to mobilise the whole of the Cheshire police force over a matter which couldn't be called anything more than trivial. Of course, there was some cause for concern when the daughter of a murdered man went missing, he admitted to himself – especially when that daughter looked as upset as Jenny Clough had been doing recently. But did an absence of a couple of hours really justify such a hullabaloo? And what business was it of Woodend's anyway?

The Chief Inspector put the phone down and the Sergeant saw that his face was ashen. Woodend reached for his cigarettes, lit one and inhaled deeply. What
was
the matter with him? Rutter wondered.

“I should have had her in here before I talked to Michael Clough,” Woodend said, “but I didn't think there was any hurry. To tell the truth, I was probably deliberately puttin' it off. I can see now it was a big mistake – but it's too bloody late. God knows where she's gone, or what she's done.”

Rutter sat down opposite his boss. “I've a few questions I'd like to ask about the investigation, sir,” he said tactfully.

“The investigation?” Woodend repeated, as if he had no idea what Rutter was talking about.

Rutter suppressed a sigh. Woodend seemed to have completely lost his sense of balance – and the Sergeant had no idea why. Could it be that Jenny Clough had turned his head, just as Liz Poole had in the Salton case? Well, they said there was no fool like an old fool. But somebody had to snap him out of it – and quickly.

“I realise you're worried about Mrs Clough,” he said, “but now we know that Conway can't be our killer—”

“The murder!” Woodend said, as if the pin had just dropped. “You're still worryin' your head about the murder, aren't you?”

“It is why we're here, sir,” Rutter reminded him.

Woodend let out a deep sigh and looked at his protégé with disappointment in his eyes. “Bloody hell, lad, it's obvious who killed Robbie Peterson,” he said. “An' after what happened to Maria, you should be in a better position than most people to work that out. There were only three—”

The phone rang, and Woodend wrenched it off its cradle. “Yes,” he said. “Yes . . . yes . . . I see. Are you sure? . . . Well, tell your lads about her as well.” He put down the phone and turned his attention back to Rutter. “That was Inspector Chatterton,” he said grimly. “He's just had a report in from the man he sent to pick up Annie. Seems that she's disappeared an' all.”

T
he fairground was long since deserted, its flashing lights replaced by the pale glow of the moon, the gentle slap-slapping of the waves against the shore the only noise now that the hurdy-gurdy had been closed down for the night.

“I wonder where the hell they've gone,” Woodend said worriedly, as he looked across the lake. “I'd give half my pension to know that right now.”

“They'll be back,” Rutter said. “Doris says Jenny's taken nothing with her, and Inspector Chatterton told me Annie's suitcase is still on top of her wardrobe.”

“Oh, I never thought either of them was doing a runner,” Woodend told him. “I just wish I knew where they were.”

Rutter lit one of his cork-tipped cigarettes and held it up in front of him, like a firefly in the night. “Do you think the two of them are together?”

Woodend shook his head. “They're havin' enough difficulty handlin' their own misery, without dealin' with anyone else's.”

A fork of lightning cut across the sky, soaking both the funfair and the lake in its eerie light. For a few seconds, the air sizzled softly, then was filled with the explosive anger of a loud clap of thunder.

“When I was a kid back in Lancashire, we used to believe that if we counted slowly after a flash of lightnin', then whatever number we'd reached by the time we heard the thunder was how many miles away the storm was,” Woodend said.

“Actually there's a pretty solid scientific basis for that,” Rutter told him. “You see, light travels faster than sound and—”

“Oh, to hell with science,” Woodend said. “The way I see it is, when you're a kid it's very comforting to know what's comin', even if you don't know
why
it's comin'. The problem with us grown-ups is we forget the ‘what' an' think too much about the ‘how' and ‘why'. That's what gets us into so much trouble.”

A few drops of rain spattered on Rutter's shoulder. “I think we'd better get back to The Red Lion before the storm really arrives, sir,” he said.

“What time is it?” Woodend asked.

Rutter took out his torch and shone it on his watch. “It's two-fifteen, sir. That probably explains why I'm so bloody tired.”

Woodend didn't seem to notice the sarcasm. “Jenny's somewhere near here,” he said, almost to himself. “She's
got
to be somewhere near here.”

“You're wrong,” Rutter said. “If she'd been within a couple of miles of Swann's Lake, the local bobbies would have found her.”

“She wouldn't go far from home,” Woodend mused, as if he hadn't heard his sergeant. “Home means security – an' Jenny's never been one to strike out on her own.”

The rain was falling harder now, and starting to create small puddles in the indented clay beneath their feet.

Rutter felt a couple of drops of water wriggle their way past his shirt collar and slide down the back of his neck. “I really think we should make a move, sir,” he said.

A second sheet of lightning, even brighter that the first, filled the night sky, exposing in its harsh glare the lakeside attractions – the roundabout, now shrouded in green canvas; the coconut shy, firmly shuttered; the ghost train, squat and menacing . . .

“Follow me . . .” Woodend said, as if he'd had a sudden inspiration.

“Where are we going?” Rutter asked.

“. . . an' get your torch out again, because we're goin' to need it.”

Woodend strode rapidly past the rifle range and hoop-la stall. When he reached the ghost train, he mounted the platform, then stepped straight down onto the track. He pushed against one of the swing doors with his hand, and felt it give.

“She'd have her own key,” he said over his shoulder. “Or if she didn't, she'd know where to lay her hands on one.”

He pushed the door open wide enough to step through the gap and held it there while Rutter followed him. The Sergeant ran the beam of his torch over the walls, spotlighting papier maché ghouls and crude plaster tarantulas.

From somewhere beyond the first bend in the track came a noise which sounded like a wooden crate hitting the metal rails.

“She's in here!” Woodend exclaimed. “I bloody knew she was in here. Christ, I hope we're not too late.”

He was already running as he spoke. Twice, he stubbed his toes against the sleepers. Three times he almost lost his balance and only saved himself by slamming into the walls. Behind him, Rutter held the torch as steady as he could – and tried to avoid falling flat on his face.

They turned one bend and there was nothing ahead of them but more yards of empty track. Gasping for breath, they turned the second, and still there was no sign of Jenny Clough. It was only when they had rounded the third that they saw the body swinging from the steel beam.

Woodend grabbed Jenny around the waist and lifted her higher into the air. “My clasp knife!” he shouted to Rutter, as Jenny pummelled his head. “Get my bloody clasp knife! It's in my jacket pocket.”

The Sergeant reached into his boss's pocket and pulled out the old-fashioned knife.

“Now cut through the noose,” Woodend said. “An' for God's sake be quick about it.”

Rutter found the box which Jenny Clough had stood on – the one they had heard falling as they entered the tunnel – and righted it. As he climbed onto it, Jenny lashed out with her left arm, knocking him to the ground.

“Get behind her,” Woodend gasped, as he struggled to maintain his grip on the wriggling, kicking woman.

Rutter moved the box, mounted it again, and opened the clasp knife. Jenny was trying to speak – to scream – but her words came out as no more than a loud gurgle.

“Don't struggle, Jenny, luv,” Woodend begged. “Please don't struggle.”

Rutter tried to hold his torch with one hand and cut through the swinging rope with the other. But it wasn't working! It wasn't bloody working! He needed both hands to do a proper job. He dropped the torch and groped in the darkness for the rope. When he'd found it, he began to slice, hoping he didn't take his own hand off in the process. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Christ, the rope was thick. Thick – and as hard as granite.

“Hurry up, lad,” Woodend grunted. “I'm not sure how much longer I can hold her.”

The rope finally gave. With that parting, Jenny Clough's resistance collapsed, and she went from being a writhing, clawing she-cat into nothing more than a dead weight. Woodend lowered her gently to the ground, but kept a firm hold on her. “Are you all right, lass?” he asked into the darkness.

“I left it too late, didn't I?” Jenny Clough croaked.

The sun was shining brightly across the interview room at Maltham police station. It was hard to believe that only a few hours earlier the thunder and lightning had been hurling their anger towards the earth. Woodend and Rutter sat side by side at one end of the table, and seated opposite them was the pale, dark-haired woman with the rope burns around her neck.

“The police doctor says it's all right for you to talk to us,” Woodend told Jenny Clough, “but if you don't feel up to it, lass, you've only to say.”

“I made the noose the moment I went into the tunnel,” Jenny replied. “Then I just sat there for hours, looking at it. It was only when I heard the doors open that climbed on the box and slipped the rope over my neck.”

“We know all that,” Woodend said softly.

“Why did I wait so long?” Jenny asked, with anguish in her voice.

“It's always very hard to take that final step,” Woodend said. “Wouldn't you rather talk about somethin' else?”

“Like what?”

“Tell me about your father.”

“Nothing ever really worked out for Dad,” Jenny said. “Mum didn't love him. My sister didn't love him. But I did!
I
loved him.”

“I know you did.”

“Nobody but me appreciated what a hard time he'd had when he was growin' up. Nobody but me even noticed he was tryin' to put the past behind him.” A tear formed in the corner of her eye and she brushed it away with her finger. “I would have done anythin' for him. I married Terry because that was what he wanted, and when he came to Swann's Lake, I came too – because I knew he'd have been lonely without me.”

“An' then you fell in love with Michael Clough,” Woodend said.

Jenny laughed. “Yes, that was ironic, wasn't it? I'd known him all my life – he was practically the boy-next-door – and suddenly I was hopelessly in love with him. And for the first time in my life, I understood what real happiness was.” Her face clouded. “But you can't build a wall with your happiness, can you? You can't shut out the rest of the world with it.”

“No,” Woodend agreed. “You can't.”

“There was still my dad, you see. I was sure that if I went off with Michael it would break his heart, because the way he'd see it, if I loved Michael so much, it must mean that I loved
him
less than I used to.” She reached up with her hand and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “But that wasn't the only thing that worried me. I was terrified Dad might be able to talk me out of it. Or talk Michael out of it. He'd already got rid of one man I wanted to marry – back in Liverpool – an' if history repeated itself, only much worse this time, I knew I'd wither up an' die.”

Ah yes, the man in Liverpool. What exactly had Sid Dowd said about him? That he'd been a good-looking lad, but it was Robbie's money, not Jenny, that he'd been after. That Peterson had given the lad a stern warning and a hundred pounds – but if that hadn't worked, he wouldn't have hesitated over finding a more violent solution to his problem. Would the new Robbie Peterson – the one who had become Alex Conway – have acted in a different manner? There was no way of knowing now.