Murder at Swann's Lake (3 page)

“Yes, I do,” Maria admitted. “I know it's foolish – I was only a tiny child when my parents became refugees, and I haven't been able to go back since – but I
feel
Spanish, and until the Dictatorship is finally toppled, I'll never really be whole. That's why I will be going to the demonstration tomorrow.”

Ah yes, the demonstration. Rutter had been trying to force his worries about it to the back of his mind, but they simply wouldn't stay there. “Do you really have to go?” he asked. “It's not as if General Franco himself was coming to London.”

“No, but the man who
is
coming is one of his closest advisors.”

“I know that, but—”

“Someone has to make the protest,” Maria said passionately. “Someone has to show him that the barbarities of Franco's regime are not forgotten in the rest of Europe.”

“There'll be police on duty outside the embassy,” Rutter warned her. “Probably a large number of them.”

Maria shrugged. “Of course there'll be police. Now that your government is on good terms with the Dictatorship, it feels obliged to do its utmost to protect Franco's lackeys.”

“Things may get out of hand.”

“You mean your British bobbies, of whom you are all so proud, might suddenly become as vicious as the General's
guardia civil
?”

“Of course not,” Rutter said. “But we're not used to protests in London. We're not trained to handle them.”

“There was the march by the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament a few months ago,” Maria replied.

“The CND march was entirely different,” Rutter pointed out.

“Because all the marchers were British?” Maria asked, an edge of anger in her voice.

Rutter sighed. “No, not because they were British,” he said. “Because they held their meeting in Trafalgar Square, which is a public space. Because they didn't threaten private property.”

“We will not be threatening private property. It will be a peaceful demonstration.”

“I'm sure it will,” Rutter agreed. “But put anybody – including policemen – in a difficult situation they're not used to handling, and there's always a chance there'll be trouble.”

“Then that's a risk I'll have to run,” Maria told him. “Listen, Bob, my parents and I have a good life here. My father is a professor and when I get my doctorate, I will probably teach at the university too. Very nice for us. But there are other members of my family back in Spain who are not having such an easy time of it. I have an uncle who lives in poverty because all his property was confiscated. I have a cousin who is in gaol for no other crime than calling for democracy. I will be marching for them.”

“If you must go, then I'm coming with you,” Rutter said.

Maria laughed, alleviating the tension which had been building up inside her. “If you did march with us, you wouldn't be working at Scotland Yard very much longer.”

“I don't care about the Yard. I just want to know that you'll be safe.”

“You
do
care,” Maria said, turning serious again. “You know you do. Your work is desperately important to you, just as my protest is to me. We both have to do what we have to do, Bob.”

She was right, he thought. However depressing her insight might be, it was undoubtedly completely on target.

They had reached Hyde Park Corner where a newspaper vendor, wearing a muffler despite the warm weather, was bawling at the top of his voice about an ‘'orrible murder' in Cheshire. Rutter reached in his pocket for some small change.

“You're off-duty, Bob,” Maria said. “Leave it.”

“I can't,” Rutter told her, handing the vendor the coins. “If it's important enough to make the London papers, then it'll be important enough to make the Chief Constable call in the Yard.”

“You see what I mean about your job?” Maria asked accusing, though she was secretly glad of anything which steered them away from another fractious discussion about the demonstration. “There has been a murder and you automatically assume that you will be involved in solving it.”

“I will,” Rutter told her. “In case you've forgotten, I work for Chief Inspector ‘Cloggin' it Charlie' Woodend, who—”

“Who you worship,” Maria said, with a smile playing on her lips.

“Who can be both bloody brilliant and bloody impossible – often at the same time – and is the best bobby I've met,” Rutter answered. “But that wasn't what I was going to say.”

Maria forced her face into an expression of mock humility. “I'm sorry I interrupted,” she said.

“What I
was
going to say is as far as the top brass are concerned, ‘Cloggin' it Charlie' is the Yard's expert on ‘Up North'.” Rutter permitted himself a grin. “Besides, if the truth be told, I think they'll jump on the excuse to get him out of London. He can be a real thorn in their sides when he wants to be.”

Rutter opened the paper and scanned the story. Social-club boss with criminal past found murdered in his office. Nail driven into his skull. It sounded interesting. But it couldn't have come at a worse time. The murder meant that when Maria was demonstrating outside the Spanish Embassy, he would already be in Cheshire. And he couldn't banish from his mind the thought that without him in London, something terrible was going to happen to her.

Detective Sergeant Gower stood to attention in front of his chief superintendent's desk. It was not a position his toad-like body felt comfortable with, but given the trouble he was in, he thought it the best stance to take.

“You were off-duty last night, weren't you, Gower?” the Chief Superintendent asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“So why did you go to the social club?”

“Because I wanted a drink?” Gower suggested hopefully.

The Chief Superintendent frowned. “Are you a member of the club, Mr Gower?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know any members of the club who might have been willing to sign you in?”

“I know a few of them,” Gower admitted, though he doubted whether any of the petty criminals who were members of the club would ever willingly have done a favour for him.

“Did you go into the club to see if they'd serve you, even though you were not a member?”

“No, sir.”

“But you did go into the office, didn't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An office which was in total darkness?”

Well, of course it was, Gower thought. I wouldn't have gone in if there'd been bloody lights on, now would I? “That's correct,” he said.

“And what made you do that?”

“I thought something was wrong.”

The Chief Superintendent shook his head almost despairingly. “Based on what?” he asked.

Gower shrugged. “Professional instinct.”

“And once inside, you discovered the body of Robbie Peterson.”

That's when I made my mistake, Gower told himself. I should never have reported it. I should just have got the hell out of there and left it to some other daft bugger to find the stiff. But aloud he said, “Yes, sir. That's correct.”

The Chief Superintendent frowned again, and looked down at the folder which was spread in front of him. “You've had a very chequered career, Sergeant Gower,” he said. “You can be a very good detective. You've managed to solve some cases the rest of us had all but given up on. But that's only one side of the story, isn't it?” He pointed his index finger squarely at Gower's chest. “The other side is that you've been disciplined several times for breaking with official procedure.”

“The villains I deal with don't follow official procedure,” Gower said, almost to himself.

“No, but we do,” the Chief Superintendent retorted sharply. “Shall I tell you what I think? I think that you were down at the club looking for just such an opportunity as the one you found. Isn't that the case?”

“I did not go to the club with any thought of entering the office,” Gower said. And for once he was telling one of his superiors the truth – it had been Annabel Peterson, not Robbie, who'd been the focus of his interest the night before.

“Was Mr Peterson the subject of any official investigation?” the Chief Superintendent asked.

“No, sir.”

“Yet you
were
investigating him?
Unofficially
?”

“Yes, sir,” Gower lied, considering that he'd been truthful enough for one day.

“And might I ask why?”

“Robbie was a villain from way back. He hadn't changed.”

“Do you have any proof of this?”

“No, sir.”

The Chief Superintendent sighed. “You really leave me very little choice of what action to take in this matter, Sergeant. You will be suspended pending an investigation into your conduct.”

It was unfair, Gower thought, but then that was only to be expected in this life. It wasn't fair that his wife had run off with a bloody milkman. It wasn't fair that he had to stand there now, listening to this prat who wouldn't know real police work if it hit him in the eye. But that was just the way things were.

Once out in the corridor, Gower quickly reviewed the meeting in his mind. He'd have been suspended whatever he'd said, he decided. So he'd played it just right – because the Chief Superintendent still had no idea that he was on to Robbie Peterson's daughter.

Doris Peterson replaced the hall telephone on its cradle, lit a cigarette and walked into the kitchen where her elder daughter was on her knees scouring the oven. “Well, that's settled,” she said.

Jenny Clough, who had been cleaning and polishing relentlessly all day, looked up from her work. “What's settled?” she asked.

“I've just been talking to Wally on the blower. He thinks he can get me extra staff for tonight.”

“Extra staff!” Jenny repeated incredulously. “You're never thinking of opening tonight, are you? Not with Dad hardly cold?”

“You can't afford sentimentality in this business,” her mother replied practically. “Customers expect you to be open, and if you're not, they just go somewhere else. And there's a danger that might become a habit with them.”

“It's not right,” Jenny protested.

“People who work hard for a living are entitled to their bit of fun when they're on their holidays,” her mother pointed out. “The world doesn't stop for them just because Robbie's gone.”

Jenny bit her lower lip. “It shows a lack of respect,” she said.

Doris sighed. “It's not as if I'll be behind the bar myself,” she said. “Anyway, I've not noticed that your dad's death has stopped
you
workin'.”

Jenny stood up and slammed her scouring pad down on top of the cooker. “That's not fair!” she said, almost shouting the words. “I'm only doin' this to take my mind off things.”

“So maybe I'm doin' the same.”

“You!” Jenny screamed. “You didn't give tuppence for him!”

“Well, I'm certainly too old to go around pretendin' I'm devastated by his death,” Doris admitted.

“Did you
ever
love him?” Jenny demanded. “Was there a time when you really did care? Or has he never been more than a meal ticket to you?”

“Did you ever love
your
husband?” her mother countered. “Or did you just marry him because it was what your wonderful dad wanted?”

“Dad was good to you,” Jenny said fiercely. “He was good to all of us. And what did he get in return? You treated him like dirt, and Annabel did everything she possibly could to embarrass him.”

“Well, at least he still had you, didn't he?
You
were always his good little girl.”

Jenny ran her hand agitatedly through her dark hair. “Somebody had to show him affection. Somebody had to let him know that he was appreciated.”

“Who do you think killed him, Jenny?” Doris asked, surprisingly gently.

The question seemed to catch her daughter off-guard, as if, up to that point, she had still not come to terms with the death, let alone the manner of it.

“Well?” Doris repeated. “Who
do
you think killed him?”

“I don't know.”

“Of course you don't,” Doris agreed. “But I'll put money on it that if you sat down and tried to make a list, you could come up with nine or ten names in no time. Now that's true, isn't it?”

“I suppose so,” Jenny admitted reluctantly.

“So let me ask you this,” Doris said. “If your dad was so bloody marvellous, how is that there are so many people who'll be really chuffed to see him dead?”

Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend mopped up the last of his gravy with a piece of bread, popped the bread into his mouth and leant back in his chair.

“You've excelled yourself with that meal, lass,” he told his wife.

Joan Woodend smiled, so that dimples formed in her plump cheeks. “You always say that,” she pointed out.

“An' it's always true,” Woodend said. “You could hardly cook when I married you. An' now look at what you serve up.”

Joan shook her head. “Don't try that line on me, Charlie Woodend,” she said playfully. “If I hadn't been able to cook, you'd have ended up takin' somebody else to the altar.”

It wasn't true, but Woodend still somehow managed to look guilty. “Do you want a hand with the plates?” he asked.

Joan stood up. “No, I'll do it. You get yourself back to that book of yours.”

Woodend walked over to his favourite armchair and picked up his copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. Soon he was completely enveloped in Jane Austen's world – a closed world where newcomers were treated with both anticipation and suspicion. It was like that for him, he thought. His job meant that he was always the newcomer, stepping into a society which had its own rules and ways of doing things. That was why, unlike most other officers of his rank, he didn't send his subordinates to do his footwork for him. He liked to get about himself, to absorb the atmosphere of the area and listen to the gossip in the local pubs. He was aware of his nickname – ‘Cloggin'-it Charlie' – and though the man who'd thought it up had probably intended it to be insulting, he himself preferred to think of it as a badge of honour.