Dangerous Games (6 page)

‘I'm right,' she said. ‘They know I'm right.'

‘
Do
you know where your husband was last night?' Paniatowski asked Mrs Pugh.

‘He told me he was going to the Tanners' Arms.'

Which was not more than a quarter of the mile from the bridge where he was found hanged, Woodend thought.

‘Is that his usual waterin' hole?' he wondered.

‘No, he usually goes – he usually
went
– to the Bull and Bush, which is just around the corner from here.'

‘An' was there any particular reason for him goin' to the Tanners' Arms instead?'

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, there was. He was meeting an old school-mate of his, who he hadn't seen for years.'

‘Does he have a name, this old school-mate of his?'

‘Mark Hough.'

‘If he hadn't seen him for years, why had he suddenly arranged to see him last night?'

‘He didn't say.'

‘And didn't you ask?'

‘Yes, I did ask, but he was very cagey about the whole thing.'

‘Then perhaps he had …'

‘But he wasn't cagey like he would have been if he'd had something he wanted to hide from me.'

‘No?'

‘No! It was more like he was holding back on a nice surprise, until the time was right.'

‘Was he big on surprises?' Woodend wondered.

‘He … he
always
liked to surprise me.' Mary Pugh started to cry again. ‘He … he was such a lovely man.'

‘I think you'd better go now!' Elaine Rogers said fiercely.

‘Aye, I think you're probably right,' Woodend agreed.

The sister, her footfalls beating out an angry tattoo on the floor, led the two police officers down the hallway. At first, Woodend thought it was only to make sure they really left the premises, but by the time they reached the front door it was clear that she had more to say – and that she didn't want Mary Pugh to hear it.

They stepped out into the garden, and Elaine Rogers closed the front door behind them.

‘How dare you even
suggest
to her that Terry didn't kill himself?' she demanded angrily.

‘What makes you so sure that he
did
kill himself, Mrs Rogers?' Woodend countered.

‘If nothing else, there was the look I saw on his face when he got that letter,' Elaine Rogers said.

‘What letter?'

Elaine Rogers glanced over her shoulder, as if to check that her sister had not followed them into the hallway and was now crouched down and listening through the letterbox.

‘This pregnancy's been very rough on our Mary,' she said. ‘She's had morning sickness as bad as I've seen it. So last week, when Terry was working shift, I said I'd stay with her overnight, in case she needed anything. That's how I happened to be here when Terry came home from work in the morning.'

‘An' that's when he got the letter?' Woodend guessed.

‘And that's when he got the letter,' Elaine agreed. ‘I had to let him into the house, because I'd got his keys. He saw the letter lying on the mat, and picked it up. It didn't worry him – not at first. I remember him saying something like, “Well, here's a rum thing – a letter with a typewritten address.” But when he opened it, and read what it said, he went very pale. And the next minute, he's rushing up the stairs to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, but even from the hallway I could hear the sound of him being sick.'

‘You didn't see this letter yourself?' Woodend asked.

‘No, I don't read other people's correspondence. Besides, before he ran upstairs, he screwed it up, and jammed it into his pocket.'

‘Was it a long letter?'

‘No, it was a single sheet of paper. And I think it was typewritten, like the envelope.'

‘What was in the letter?' Woodend asked.

‘How would I know?'

‘He might have said.'

‘He didn't! Not then – and not later.'

‘Well, then, you can't know anythin' at all about it for certain, can you?'

‘No, I most certainly can't.'

‘But I've got you marked down as a woman who could make a pretty good guess, whether or not, so I'd still like to hear what you think.'

For a moment, it looked as if Elaine Rogers was about to continue proclaiming her complete ignorance on the subject of the letter, then she shrugged and said, ‘Who can you think of who might send a typewritten letter to a working man like Terry?'

There was only one answer to that.

‘It's likely to be either council officials and debt collectors,' Woodend admitted.

‘But the things that council officials write to you don't make you want to puke, do they?'

‘You think he was in debt?'

‘I could almost swear to it.'

‘And who do you think he was in debt
to
?'

‘Who do
you
think? How do fellers like our Mary's Terry ever accumulate debts they can't afford to pay off?'

‘Through gamblin'.'

‘Exactly. He'll have been betting more than he could afford on the horses. Or on the dogs – because they can do just as much damage. And suddenly, with the baby on the way, he realized what a mess he'd got himself into. But it was too late for second thoughts then, wasn't it? There was no going back. So he hung himself off that bridge, because he knew that no bookie will ever go after the widows and orphans for the money he's owed. Once you're dead, as far as bookies are concerned, the debt dies with you.'

‘Are you still married yourself – or are you divorced, Mrs Rogers?' Woodend wondered.

‘Why are you asking me that?'

‘Just curious.'

‘I'm divorced. And if what you're
really
asking is why I kicked the bastard out, I did it because he was a gambler as well. But that doesn't mean I've got an obsession about men and gambling.'

‘Doesn't it?' Woodend asked mildly.

‘No, it bloody doesn't. All it
does
mean is that when the signs are there, I know how to recognize them.'

W
oodend had been something of a regular in the Tanners' Arms in the days when his old dad had worked as a tackler in one of the nearby mills.

Back then, it had been a strictly ‘spit and sawdust' pub – a place to which women did not choose to go, and where they would not have been welcome if they had. It had done most of its business in the hour or so after the end of a shift, and on high days and holidays had been virtually deserted.

There had been no food on offer in those days before the Second World War, and no music to listen to. The men had stood there talking loudly – since after a few years of working in the roar of the mills' machinery, they were all at least partially deaf – and knocking back as much ale as they could afford, in a fruitless attempt to rid their throats of the taste of the cotton dust.

Now, everything had changed. Cotton was no longer king in Lancashire, and though much of the new light industry had established itself in the industrial estate on the edge of town, a number of firms had chosen instead to colonize the skeletons of the old cotton mills close to the Tanner's Arms.

The pub had moved with the times, too, as was immediately evidenced by the fact that in place of the old front door – which had been latched – there were a pair of swing doors, which could be pushed open.

‘Swing doors!' Woodend said, bad-temperedly. ‘What do them buggers at the brewery think this is? A saloon in the Old West?'

‘You tell me, Gary Cooper,' Paniatowski said, almost
–
but not
quite
– under her breath.

Once inside, the changes were even more apparent. The brass spittoons had gone. The heavy wallpaper – stained dark brown by generations of nicotine-laden smoke – had been stripped away, and the walls painted in a soothing pastel shade. The old wooden benches had been replaced by padded red chairs and the long wooden tables by small round ones with beaten copper tops. The pub offered ‘executive lunches', and most of the customers were in suits.

The young man standing behind the bar was wearing a fancy red and white striped waistcoat which had a gold badge on it announcing that he was the assistant manager.

‘I'll be with you in a minute,' he told Woodend and Paniatowski off-handedly, before rushing to the other end of the bar, where two men smoking large cigars had just indicated – by the very vaguest of gestures – that they'd like some service immediately.

‘Assistant manager!' Woodend said with disgust, when the young man had gone.

‘What's wrong with that?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘Managers are for dull, soulless factories,' Woodend explained. ‘A pub's a livin', breathin' thing. It doesn't need a
manager
.'

‘Then what does it need?'

‘If it's to be cherished as it deserves to be, it needs a
landlord
, who's invested both his money an' his heart in the place.'

Paniatowski laughed. ‘Will you ever acknowledge that the modern world exists, sir?' she asked.

‘I doubt it,' Woodend replied.

The barman working under the alias of assistant manager returned to their end of the bar. He gave Woodend a slightly supercilious look, as if to say that in this haven of made-to-measure suits, his hairy sports coat was acceptable – but only just.

‘What can I do for you, sir?' he asked.

‘A pint of best bitter, an' a neat vodka,' Woodend told him.

‘Neat?' the barman repeated.

‘Neat,' Woodend confirmed.

‘Most of our customers consider that the proper way to drink vodka is with a mixer,' the young man said snottily.

‘Aye, well, most of your customers are probably big girl's blouses, then,' Woodend told him. ‘My friend here likes to
taste
what it is she's drinkin'.'

The barman shrugged, like a missionary who was not the least surprised to see that his words of wisdom had fallen on stony ground. Then, he reached for a glass and started to pull Woodend's pint.

‘Were you on duty last night?' Woodend asked.

The barman looked up. ‘Might I ask why you require that particular piece of information, sir?'

Jesus! Woodend thought. Whatever had happened to the old-style barman – the kind of man who would either have given him a straight answer to a straight question, or else accused him of being a nosy parker and then told him to mind his own business?

The chief inspector slapped his warrant card on the counter. ‘I
require
it, Sunshine, because askin' questions is what I do for a livin',' he said.

‘Oh, I see,' the assistant manager said.

‘I rather thought you would,' Woodend told him. ‘So, were you workin' last night or not?'

‘Yes, I was.'

Woodend produced a photograph of Terry Pugh, which had been taken in the morgue after Dr Shastri had done all within her power to disguise the fact that the body – like a Chinese puzzle – came in two parts.

‘Do you know this man?' he asked.

‘He's lying down,' the barman pointed out.

‘Boy, but nothin' gets past you, does it?' Woodend said.

‘Is he ill or something?'

‘You could say that.'

‘Oh?'

Woodend sighed. ‘He's been decapitated, so chances are that he'll never ride a bike again. But I asked you a question, Sunny Jim. Was this feller in here last night?'

The barman looked at the picture again. ‘You'd never guess he'd lost his head,' he said.

‘You'll lose yours, if you don't start answerin' my question soon,' Woodend threatened.

‘Yes, he was in here,' the barman said hastily.

‘Now you're not just tellin' me that to keep me happy, are you?' Woodend demanded.

‘No. I promise you that he was here. Came in about half past seven, bought a pint, and took it over to the table in the corner. And fifteen minutes later, he was gone.'

‘You're very precise,' Woodend said suspiciously.

‘Well, he stood out, didn't he?'

‘In what way?'

The barman shrugged awkwardly. ‘You know.'

‘No, I don't.'

‘Most of our clientele are management. They come in here either to discuss business with each other or to entertain their lady friends. They give the place a certain tone.'

‘I imagine they must.'

‘This chap – the one in the picture – was wearing overalls when he came in. Of course, there's no law against that …'

‘Though you probably think there should be!'

‘… but it did make him rather conspicuous.'

‘You probably wondered what he was doing in here at all,' Woodend suggested.

‘I did at the time, but now I know that he was supposed to be meeting Mr Hough.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Because after he'd left, Mr Hough himself came in, and asked me if I'd seen the man.'

‘So if he'd got a meetin' with this Hough feller, why did he leave?' Woodend wondered.

‘Probably because the other chap asked him to,' the barman said.

‘What other chap?'

‘He came into the bar about five minutes after his friend. At least, I'm assuming the man in the boiler suit was a friend of his.'

‘Get to the point,' Woodend growled.

‘He didn't order a drink. He went straight over to the table where his friend was sitting. I sent a waiter across – that's part of my responsibility as assistant manager – but the new arrival just waved the waiter away.'

‘That could almost have been construed as a challenge to your considerable authority,' Woodend said. ‘You can't have liked that.'

‘I didn't,' the barman told him, oblivious to the sarcasm. ‘I was just about to go across to the table myself, and tell him quite firmly that, in case he hadn't noticed, this wasn't a bus shelter …'