The Witch Maker (22 page)

Paniatowski saw the look of enlightenment come to her boss's face, but had no idea what it meant.

‘Ozzie Warburton,' Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘Then your dad would have been called Walter, wouldn't he?'

‘I ... that's right.'

‘An' let me see if I can guess your mother's name. Would it have been Catherine, by any chance?'

‘Yes ... I ... she ...'

Woodend looked around the pub. Several other pensioners had entered the Black Bull after they had, and the old men were now sitting at a corner table. They were trying not to look across at the police officers, but they clearly wanted to. And they seemed very worried.

‘I think your mates would like a word with you, Mr Warburton,' Woodend said. ‘Why don't you take your drink over to their table an' tell them they've got absolutely nothin' to fret about.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'm in Hallerton to investigate a murder that occurred two days ago. It's not my business to hound a bunch of old fellers for somethin' that happened when Adam was a lad. An' even if it was my business, I still wouldn't do it. So go on, Mr Warburton! Tell your pals that not only are they in the clear but that I'd like them to have a drink on me.'

‘I ... thank you,' the old man gasped.

‘For what?' Woodend asked innocently. ‘I've not done anythin'.'

Ozzie Warburton climbed to his feet and hobbled over to the table where the other old men were sitting.

As Woodend turned his attention back to Paniatowski, there was a broad smile on his face.

‘Well, that's one mystery cleared up, at least,' he said.

I
t had taken Hettie five minutes to get to the far side of the Big Wheel without being noticed by either Pat or her mother. She'd been hoping that once she'd reached the point she was at now, she'd have been able to hear everything that the two of them were saying. And maybe she could have – if they'd been shouting at each other through megaphones. But they weren't. However emotional their conversation might be, they were arguing quietly, and she wasn't getting a word.

She sighed.

Well, there was nothing for it but to risk exposure, she told herself, though she could only guess what her mother would say if she caught her at it.

She reached the rim of the Wheel, then took one more cautious step, so she was now on the same side of it as her mother and the Irishman. She saw that they were looking intently at each other. That was a good thing. As long as they stayed like that, they were unlikely to spot her.

She strained her ears, and was rewarded with the sounds of a conversation which was just about as loud as if it were coming from a radio in another room.

‘Are you crazy, Pat?' her mother was asking. ‘Have you completely lost your mind?'

Calhoun shrugged. ‘We've been through this a dozen times, Zelda,' he said. ‘What's the point of coverin' the same ground again?'

‘Who do you think you are?'

‘I'm—'

‘Are you a bank manager? Or a teacher?'

‘No, I'm—'

‘You're a fairground worker, and you're Irish. That means you're doubly suspicious. That means you have to make twice the effort to keep your nose clean that anybody who sleeps under a roof would have to make.'

‘Some risks
are
worth takin',' Calhoun replied. ‘If they're for you! If they're for Hettie.'

If they're for
me
? Hettie thought, feeling her heart suddenly start to beat a little faster.

What risk – what possible risk – could Pat have run for
her
?

‘Once Harry Dimdyke was dead, it would have been better to have done nothing,' Zelda said. ‘It would have been better to lie low, and hope the whole thing would blow over.'

‘But I could see it wasn't
goin
' to blow over,' Calhoun argued. ‘How could it, after the murder? How could it, with that sharp copper from Whitebridge here, askin' all his questions? He'll uncover the truth. He's bound to – unless I can do something to stop him.'

For a moment, Hettie contemplated striding up to the two of them and demanding to know what the hell was going on. Then she saw the man in blue who was making a beeline for them, and decided that her best course of action would be to beat a hasty retreat.

Woodend took a sip of his pint, then glanced down at his watch. Fifty minutes had ticked by since he'd issued his ultimatum to Constable Thwaites. That left only another ten.

What would he do if Thwaites either refused to meet his demands or was unable to? He certainly wasn't going to fit the constable up on criminal charges, as he'd threatened. So he'd lose face – he'd lose some of what little authority he seemed to have in this village – and that was fatal for a bobby in charge of a serious investigation.

He asked himself why he'd taken the risk.

Was it that the obscenities scrawled on Monika's car had got to him almost as much as they'd got to her?

It had to be. There was no other explanation.

He wondered when it was that he'd grown almost as fond of Monika as he was of his own daughter. But such speculation was pointless. What had happened had happened. He
did
feel protective towards the woman – and he'd just have to learn to live with it.

The pub door opened, and Mary Dimdyke stormed in. Her face was grim. Even so, her expression might have been softened by her wonderful golden hair, had she not chosen to tuck it all under the plain woollen cap she was wearing.

She walked directly over to Woodend and Paniatowski's table, and glowered down at them.

‘You're t ... tryin' to blame it on my d ... dad, aren't you?' she demanded. ‘You're t ... tryin' to say that he d ... damaged the car.'

‘An' didn't he?' Woodend asked mildly.

‘No, he bl ... bloody didn't.'

‘He's been doin' his best to obstruct the investigation ever since we got here,' Woodend pointed out. ‘You've seen him do it yourself. An' let me ask you one question, Mary. If your dad didn't do it, then who did?'

‘When I first saw you, I th ... thought you might be different,' Mary said. ‘I th ... thought
you
might understand. But you don't. You're like everybody else who c ... comes in from the outside. You always blame the D ... Dimdykes.'

‘Do we?'

‘You d ... didn't understand about Harry an' Tom. How could you have, when you'd never l ... lived in this village? Yet you c ... came in, an' you took them away to Lancaster Gaol – an' you h ... hanged them!'

‘That was over three hundred years ago.'

‘It was
y ... yesterday
. An' it will be
t ... t ... tomorrow
. You'll never stop, because you d ... don't understand us.' Mary paused to catch her breath. ‘I used to think my dad was wrong. I used to think it was all pointless. But he said that once I'd made my s ... sacrifice, I'd see what it was all about. An' he was right! I do!'

‘What sacrifice?' Paniatowski asked.

‘None of your bl ... bloody business!' Mary Dimdyke told her.

But Woodend thought he already knew. He was thinking back to the Witch Burning he had seen as a young man – to the horribly realistic Witch and her beautiful blonde hair.

‘Take your cap off, Mary,' he said.

‘Why sh ... should I?'

‘Why shouldn't you? Unless, of course, you're ashamed.'

Mary reached up, and snatched the cap free. There was hardly any hair under it. Her head looked like a wheat field just after the harvest.

The girl stood there for a moment, staring at him defiantly. Then the mask cracked, tears began to run down her face, and she turned and fled.

‘Dear God, what kind of place
is
this?' Paniatowski said, more to herself than to Woodend.

Nine more minutes ticked by on the pub clock.

Thwaites wasn't going to come through with the information, Woodend thought. He'd been a fool to ever imagine the local constable would. It simply wasn't possible to put pressure on a man who was already burdened beyond endurance by the weight of history.

The phone behind the bar rang, and the landlord picked it up.

‘Yes?' he said. ‘Yes, he's here.' He held out the receiver across the counter. ‘It's for you,' he told Woodend. ‘Constable Thwaites.'

The Chief Inspector picked up the phone. ‘Where are you?' he demanded.

‘I'm at the police house, sir.'

‘Why didn't you come to the pub, like I told you to?'

‘Because I didn't want to leave my prisoner unattended.'

‘Your prisoner!' Woodend repeated. ‘What prisoner?'

‘The bugger who vandalized Sergeant Paniatowski's car. I arrested him not ten minutes ago.'

C
onstable Thwaites met Woodend at his front gate. The local bobby was looking inordinately pleased with himself, the Chief Inspector thought. It was as if – after years of merely
playing
the part – he was finally coming to learn what it felt like to be a real policeman.

‘I've put the suspect in the detention cell, sir,' Thwaites said.

‘I didn't know there even
was
a detention cell in the police house,' Woodend replied.

‘Well, there isn't exactly,' Thwaites admitted. ‘I suppose what it is really is just a storeroom. But it's only got one small window, which makes it almost as good as a cell. And I've put a table an' chairs in it, so you can sit down while you're interrogatin' the prisoner.'

He really was like a kid with a new toy, Woodend thought. And it suddenly occurred to him that he might have hit on the big problem in this village – that it had never developed because it had never allowed itself to play with the new toys that the advancing world offered it.

Thwaites led him into the house and down a corridor. He stopped at a door at the end of it, and extracted a set of keys from his pocket with great solemnity. Then he opened the door and stepped to one side in order to allow Woodend to enter the ‘detention cell' first.

The normal contents of the room – temporary traffic signs, bollards and posters warning of the dangers of foot and mouth disease – had been hastily pushed to the edges, and in the centre was a battered table and two chairs. Sitting on one of the chairs was a well-built young man with red hair.

‘Name?' Woodend said.

‘Patrick Michael Calhoun.'

‘Hang about a minute,' Woodend told him. ‘That's not a local accent you've got, is it?'

The Irishman gave him a strained smile. ‘Well spotted,' he said, trying to sound more relaxed and at ease than he obviously felt.

‘So where
are
you from?'

‘County Cork.'

‘An' you don't live in this village?'

‘Never been here in my life until a couple of days ago.'

With growing fury, Woodend turned to Thwaites. ‘Outside, Constable!' he said. ‘Now!'

‘Sir?'

‘I'll talk to you out-bloody-side.'

The two men stepped into the corridor, and Woodend closed the door behind them.

‘Is this some kind of joke?' he demanded. ‘Or do you just think that I'm so bloody thick that you can fob me off with anythin' you feel like.'

‘I've no idea what you're talkin' about, sir,' Thwaites protested.

‘Whoever vandalized my sergeant's car was local, an' did it for a specific purpose. What possible reason could this Calhoun feller have for doin' it? Come to that, how did he even know the car belonged to Sergeant Paniatowski?'

‘Maybe he'd been watchin' her.'

‘An' why should he have been doin' that?'

A slight, almost superior, smile crossed Thwaites' lips. ‘Because if he's the murderer, he'll have been followin' anybody involved in the investigation as closely as he could.'

He was right, Woodend thought. The bloody local yokel bobby was right. It was perfectly possible that there was some connection between what had happened to Paniatowski's car and the murder.

So why hadn't he come to the same conclusion himself? Because, he supposed, he was angry – angry about what had been done to Monika, angry about what had been done to Mary Dimdyke. And his brain didn't do its best work under those conditions.

He forced himself to focus.

‘Is there any special reason you've pulled this particular lad in, Constable?' he asked. ‘Or were you just workin' on the theory that anybody with red hair an' an Irish accent is automatically a villain?'

‘It was certainly his red hair that put me on to him in the first place, sir,' Thwaites said.

‘Would you care to explain that?'

‘Several people in the village noticed a red-headed man close to the museum at roughly the time of the attack on Sergeant Paniatowski's car. One of them even saw him bending over the bonnet, though he couldn't swear that the man was tryin' to do it any damage. Well, nobody in Hallerton has red hair, so I went up to the funfair, an' talked to the manager. A Mr Masters, as it turned out.'

‘I know his bloody name,' Woodend said, bad-temperedly. ‘Go on with what you were sayin'.'

‘He – that's Mr Masters – told me the only redhead he's got workin' for him is this Calhoun feller, an' so I brought him in.'

‘Did you caution him?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘An' what did you say?'

‘That I was arrestin' him on the charge of damaging a red MGA, licence number ...' Thwaites pulled his notebook out of his pocket and read the licence number out. ‘That he was not obliged to say anythin' but anythin' he did say would be taken down an' might be used in evidence against him.'

‘An' that's
all
you said.'