Death Watch (23 page)

‘That's why I'm hopin' they come up with the same idea independently of us,' Woodend said. ‘But if
we
suggest it, they're likely to ignore it – precisely
because
we suggested it.'

‘You're right, of course,' Rutter said. ‘It sickens me to admit it, but that's exactly what they're likely to do.'

‘We'll split the area we need to search into three parts,' Woodend said. ‘But not equal parts. I'll take the biggest one, because cloggin'-it is my speciality, an' because you'll both have other things to do.'

‘Hang on a minute,' Paniatowski said. ‘I know Bob's going to try and trace the source of the drug, but what other things have
I
got to do?'

‘You'll be consortin' with the enemy,' Woodend said.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘Sorry, I meant “consultin' with our colleagues”. We need to know how the official investigation's goin', an' since they're unlikely to tell us if we ask them a direct question, you're just goin' to have to be sneaky.'

‘Is there any particular
way
you'd like me to be sneaky?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘Aye. I'd like you to cosy up to the newly promoted Detective Sergeant Rosemary Stevenson.'

‘You must be joking!' Paniatowski said.

‘Not at all. You've got a lot in common. You're both women sergeants in a police force where most of the officers are still men, half of whom believe that a woman's place is the kitchen, an'—'

‘And Rosemary Stevenson absolutely hates my guts,' Monika Paniatowski interrupted.

‘
Did
hate your guts,' Woodend corrected her. ‘Hated them when you were a detective an' she was still in uniform. But the situation's changed, hasn't it? Rosemary's the top dog now …'

‘Top
bitch
,' Paniatowski said.

‘If you like,' Woodend agreed easily. ‘She's part of an important investigation team – an' you're not. I'm sure she'd more than welcome the opportunity to be really condescendin' to you. An' if you eat a little humble pie, you'll be givin' her all the chances she'll need.'

‘I'd rather rip my own tongue out,' Paniatowski said.

‘I'm sure you would,' Woodend replied. ‘But that wouldn't help
our
investigation, whereas brown-nosin' will.'

‘All right,' Paniatowski said, with a look of distaste on her face. ‘I'll do my best to cosy up to Rosemary Stevenson – but I don't have to like it.'

‘No, you don't,' Woodend agreed. ‘Truth to tell, you'll probably bloody
hate
it.'

They all left the Drum and Monkey at half-past eleven, and by twelve o'clock Woodend was parking his old Wolseley in the visitors' car park at the University of Central Lancashire.

It was the first time he'd ever visited the university, and as he walked across the campus, he was trying to work out exactly why it should be making him feel so uneasy.

His own schooling had never gone any further than Sudbury Street Elementary – which he had left at age fourteen to go to work in the mill with his dad – but that was not to say that he had anything against advanced education. In fact, he wished anyone who was lucky enough to receive it nothing but the best. So it was not the
idea
of a university he found unsettling, he decided, but the actual place itself. He felt – though he couldn't quite say why – that there should be more ivy and gargoyles around. Somehow, all this steel, glass, and concrete did not sit well in his mind with learning and research. No doubt Monika Paniatowski would have said he was old fashioned if he'd expressed this idea to her, he thought – but then Paniatowski said he was old fashioned about most things.

The psychology building was in the centre of the complex. It was three storeys high, and had a wavy roof which reminded Woodend of a piece of cardboard left out in the rain. The porter on the desk directed the chief inspector to the second floor, where Dr Stevenson had his office.

Woodend climbed the stairs and knocked on the doctor's door. After a moment, a voice from the other side of it called out, ‘Come in.'

Martin Stevenson was sitting behind his desk. The last time they'd met had been in the Drum and Monkey, and Stevenson had been wearing a tweed jacket and brown cavalry-twill trousers. This time, the doctor was dressed in a sharp blue suit that Bob Rutter would probably have immediately lusted after. But there was nothing sharp about his face. He looked tired – and perhaps a little stressed.

‘I'm sorry to turn up like this, without callin' first,' Woodend said apologetically.

‘It's not a problem,' Stevenson assured him. ‘Knowing that I'd be suffering from jet-lag, I've deliberately made no appointments for today.'

‘So you've been travellin', have you?' Woodend asked.

‘Indeed. I was in San Francisco. I only got back last night.'

‘But you'll have heard about …'

‘The awful thing that happened while I was away? Yes, of course I've heard about it. I've got an inside source, remember.'

‘Your wife,' Woodend said.

‘My wife,' Stevenson agreed.

‘It's because of your wife that I had my doubts about comin' here today,' Woodend admitted.

‘Oh?'

Oh! Was that it? Woodend wondered. He was in a difficult situation here – as he thought he'd just indicated to Stevenson – so why couldn't the man help him out a little?

Because, he supposed, given the obvious purpose of his visit, Stevenson was in a bit of a difficult situation himself.

And because the man was a bloody
shrink
– and bloody shrinks always seemed to believe that you should do most of the talking, however difficult that might be for you.

‘I was never very happy about not bein' able to complete my investigation into the Angela Jackson murder,' he said, approaching the subject obliquely.

‘I know you weren't,' Stevenson said.

‘And it only makes it worse that, because I didn't catch the killer, he's been able to snatch another poor bloody girl.'

‘You're weighed down by feelings of guilt,' Stevenson said, quite matter-of-factly.

‘I wouldn't put it quite like that.'

‘Wouldn't you? Then don't you think you might perhaps be deluding yourself?'

‘I didn't drop the case – the case dropped me!' Woodend said angrily.

‘Now you're starting to try to justify yourself,' Stevenson told him. ‘And that simply won't work.'

‘Will it not?'

‘No – because you're the kind of man who rarely makes excuses for himself. So even though others don't hold you responsible for what happened or didn't happen – and even if you can understand, on an intellectual level, that there's nothing more you could have done – the guilt stays with you. And it will continue to stay with you until you have – in your own terms – made amends.'

‘I didn't come here to be analysed,' Woodend said.

‘No, you didn't,' Stevenson agreed. ‘You came here to ask for my help. But now you are here, you're afraid that my loyalty to my wife will prevent me from providing it.'

‘An' will it?'

‘
I
wasn't happy about your being taken off the Jackson case, either,' Stevenson said. ‘Killers like the one who murdered Angela are notoriously difficult to catch until they make their big mistake. And some don't make that mistake – ever! Even the ones who do eventually slip up can often get away with five or ten – or even twenty – murders before they're eventually apprehended. But I thought you had a very good chance of catching this one before anything as terrible as that was allowed to happen.'

‘Better than DCI Mortlake has?'

Stevenson smiled. ‘He's my wife's new boss,' he said. ‘She wouldn't appreciate me casting any aspersions on his ability, would she?'

‘No, I don't suppose she would,' Woodend agreed.

‘But if, without it being seen as a criticism of Mr Mortlake, I can help you in your “unofficial” investigation, then I'll be glad to do.'

‘Thank you,' Woodend said.

Elizabeth Driver sat at her desk. Lying in front of her was the manuscript of the book which Bob Rutter believed was going to be a tribute to his murdered wife.

As if that was ever going to happen!

As if she could ever be bothered to write a book about blind, plucky little Maria, which, while it might bring a tear to the eyes of a few sentimental idiots, would never sell more than a couple of thousand copies!

Rutter was essential to the book she was
actually
writing. She'd realized that from the start – even before her literary agent had made it abundantly clear to her. Rutter was the one who could provide her with the mundane details which would make her wilder claims
sound
authentic, even if they had been cooked up after a few gin and tonics. And she was far from convinced that he would stay the course, because though she'd finally slept with him – after a show of reluctance which would have had her countless lovers rolling around the floor in fits of laughter – she sensed she was losing her grip on him.

Part of the reason, she suspected, was that he'd not yet seen any of the book she was
supposed
to be writing, so perhaps she'd have to buckle down and produce a few pages of saccharine-laden prose which would fool him into believing she was serious about the project.

But another problem was the brat. Louisa didn't like her, and made that plain on every possible occasion. And since Rutter had a mawkish attachment to the child, it was beginning to sour his relationship with her.

And then there was Charlie Bloody Woodend. He was to be one of the centrepieces of her book – a moderately famous policeman who turned out to be bent; a popular idol discovered to have feet of clay.

Her decision to destroy Woodend had been based on the fact that, looked at objectively, it would make a good story, but there had been the added bonus that after all their clashes over the years – most of which she had lost – she would finally emerge triumphant.

But how could she bring Woodend down now, when he'd
already
been brought down?

How could she expose the crime-busting copper for what he really was, when he wasn't a crime-buster at all, but merely a pencil-pusher?

As much as she hated the idea of helping him, there was no choice in the matter, she decided. To bring Woodend down, she was going to have to build him up again first. She didn't yet know how she would go about it, but no doubt something would occur to her, as it always did. And in the meantime, she'd better write something to appease Rutter.

She threaded a sheet of paper into her typewriter, and began to hit the keys. It wasn't easy going, but after five minutes, she at least had something.

Truly disgusting! Driver thought, reading it back to herself. Absolutely vomit-worthy.

Still, that bloody moron Bob Rutter would lap it up.

Martin Stevenson had insisted that any further conversation between them took place away from the psychology building.

‘You're not one of my students, and you're not one of my patients, so it would be inappropriate to use either my office or my consulting room for what we have to say to each other. Anyway, I think we'd
both
be more comfortable if we held our discussion on neutral ground.'

‘I quite agree,' Woodend had replied.

And so they had gone to the student-union bar.

It was a dark, semi-subterranean place. The walls were painted in garish colours, and plastered with left-wing political posters. Hidden speakers – and there seemed to Woodend to be hundreds of them – pumped out eardrum-bursting rock-and-roll music. The tables looked as if they had been rescued from the wreck of the
Titanic
, and the chairs had clearly not been designed for anyone who thought that – even in the dim and distant future – they might start suffering from back problems. All in all, the bar was the chief inspector's worst nightmare of a place in which to drink.

Stevenson himself seemed quite at home, despite the fact that his smart blue suit made him stand out like a sore thumb against the faded blue jeans that most of the other customers were wearing. He waved to several of the students, and stopped to have a brief word with a couple more.

‘You seem to be a very popular feller,' Woodend said, as Stevenson led him to a corner table where the noise of the music was a little more bearable than it was in the rest of the bar.

‘Yes, I do,' Stevenson agreed, without even a hint of complacency in his voice.

‘How do you manage that?'

‘There's no real trick to it. I have a real enthusiasm for my subject, and work hard to communicate that enthusiasm to those I'm paid to teach. Besides, I genuinely like and respect my students – so why wouldn't they feel the same about me?'

They both ordered beer, and when it arrived, Woodend was surprised to find that it was a rather fine pint.

‘So how can I help you?' Stevenson asked, when they'd both had a few swallows of ale.

‘I've got this idea,' Woodend said, and outlined his theory that Angela Jackson's post-mortem injuries had originally been intended to be inflicted
before
she died.

‘It's possible,' Dr Stevenson admitted cautiously, when he'd finished. ‘But it's also equally possible that your police doctor – Dr Shastri, is it?'