Death Watch (25 page)

‘Your
probation
officer!'

‘I have to see him once a week. It's one of the conditions of my parole.'

‘Oh,' Mortlake said, clearly disappointed.

The dispensary of the Pendleton Clinic was as neat, shining, and perfect as the rest of the institution, and Rutter found it easy to imagine the fat director leading his rich clients through it as if they were on a conducted tour of a stately home.

The man in charge of it introduced himself as Tom Wade. He, too, was good-looking – the director aside, that seemed to be a requirement of the job – and though he was in his early thirties, he seemed to have somehow retained the wide-eyed innocence of a much younger man.

‘There are three members of my staff always on duty during the working day,' he told Rutter.

‘And at night?'

‘Just one man. We don't need any more, once the operating theatres have closed down.'

‘The director tells me you've recently tightened up on security in here,' Rutter said.

Wade frowned. ‘Have we? If we have, nobody told me about it. And as far as I can see, we use the same procedures we always have.'

‘So there've been no changes at all in the last six or seven months?'

‘I suppose it depends on what you mean by changes. One of my staff – a chap called Norman Willis – was sacked.'

‘By you?'

Wade laughed. ‘No, not by me. Hiring and firing isn't one of my responsibilities. He was sacked by Mr Derbyshire.'

‘And what was the reason given for his dismissal?'

‘Mr Derbyshire said he didn't fit in. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps Norman felt that, too – because he certainly didn't kick up any fuss when he was given the elbow. In fact, he gave me the distinct impression that he couldn't get out of the clinic fast enough.'

‘When was this?' Rutter asked.

Wade frowned with concentration. ‘Let me see. It was just after the bi-yearly stock-taking, so it must have been about seven months ago.'

‘Who does this stock-taking?' Rutter asked. ‘Is it you?'

‘No, I've got more than enough work on my hands already, without having to do the bean-counting myself,' Wade said. ‘Mr Derbyshire gives that job to an outside agency.'

‘Now that is interesting,' Rutter said pensively.

T
he area where Monika Paniatowski's three circles intersected had looked small enough to be perfectly manageable when seen on the map, Woodend thought, but when you were actually walking around that same area on foot, it seemed to be almost never-ending.

He hadn't realized before – although perhaps he should have done – just how much of his home town had fallen into decay. Corner shops, where he had spent his precious pocket money on gob-stoppers, were now gone. Pubs he had drunk in as a young man had long ago called ‘last orders' for the final time. Chip shops had stopped frying, pawnbrokers had ceased to accept pledges. There were whole streets he had wandered through on his childhood expeditions which were now boarded up, and waiting in creaking emptiness for the demolition ball.

Perhaps it was all for the best, he told himself. People were no longer content to live in a two-up, two-down cottage, with the only tap located in the back yard, and the kettle perpetually on the boil, heating up water for the tin bath in front of the open fire. They had endured a bloody depressing Depression and a depressingly bloody World War. Now they expected better – and who could blame them?

He met very few people on his journey through this wasteland – and not a single one of them had been a policeman.

And why was that?

Because Superintendent Crawley and DCI Mortlake had either dismissed the idea of a search as pointless, or – what was even worse – had never even considered the possibility at all!

‘You stupid bastards!' he said. ‘You stupid, stupid bastards!'

He had spoken more loudly than he'd intended, but that didn't matter, since there was no one there to hear him.

He reached Gladstone Street, which was yet another row of old terraced houses. There had once been an ironmonger's shop on the corner, which stocked everything you could possibly need and possibly imagine, Woodend remembered. Now that had gone, too. The frontage had been ripped out, and a large metal door – currently closed – had replaced it.

He read the sign above the door.

Mainwearing's Automobile Repairs

Quality, efficiency, speed

All our repairs carry a full guarantee

Woodend looked up the street. There was not a single house which looked to be still occupied.

This was just what he'd been out searching for, he thought – the perfect place for a sadistic killer to hide his latest victim.

But the killer wasn't Mainwearing. At the time Angela Jackson had been kidnapped, he'd been busy at work in the corporation bus garage, and had three witnesses to confirm it.

‘You stupid bastards!' he said again.

But what if they weren't? nagged a voice in his head. What if Crawley and Mortlake were right in their assumptions, and the girl was being held somewhere else entirely?

Who was the stupid bastard then?

Despite the fact that his alibi had checked out, Peter Mainwearing had still been detained for two hours in one of the cells, which, he supposed, was a peevish punishment for his having an alibi in the first place.

When the police did finally get around to releasing him, he felt in such need of a drink that he headed straight for the Dog and Duck, which was a pub that he would not normally have been seen dead in, but did have the one virtue of being close.

The public bar of the Duck had a local reputation for being a rough place. And even in the lounge bar – which was at least a
little
more genteel – Mainwearing's smart brown suit was a beacon for comment. As he stood at the counter ordering his drink, he could already hear several crude and unflattering comments being made behind him – but it was not until he'd actually been served that things started to go seriously wrong.

The trouble took the form of a large man with a scar on his cheek, who prodded Mainwearing's shoulder – harder than was strictly necessary – and demanded, ‘Don't I know you?'

‘I don't think so,' Mainwearing told him.

‘I think I do,' the man insisted. ‘I did some buildin' work for you once. My name's Wally Decker. Remember me?'

‘No,' Mainwearing said weakly – and unconvincingly.

‘An' your name's Mainwearin', isn't it?

There seemed no point in pretending any longer. ‘That's right,' Peter Mainwearing said.

‘Course, when I was workin' for him, I didn't know who he was – or what he'd done,' Decker said, addressing the bar in general. ‘It wasn't till after I'd finished the job that my mates started raggin' me about what a good time I must have had with the pervert. If I
had
known, I'd never have gone anywhere near him – however much he was payin'.'

‘I served my time,' Mainwearing said wearily, but with a growing tremble in his voice. ‘That's all behind me now.'

‘Behind you?' Decker repeated. ‘You know a lot about bein' behind, don't you? It was bein'
behind
young kids that got you into trouble in the first place, wasn't it?' He laughed loudly at his own wit, then the humour drained away and he glared at Mainwearing and said, ‘It's not funny!'

‘I … I never thought it was,' Mainwearing protested.

Decker was not known to be the most intelligent of men. When a new thought came to him, it generally took its time, but it was plain from the expression on his face that one had just arrived.

‘What are you doin' here?' he demanded.

‘I … I came in for a drink,' Mainwearing said.

‘But where were you
before
you came in for a drink?'

‘That's really no business of yours,' Mainwearing said weakly.

‘No business of mine?' Decker repeated. ‘It is if I say it is. I think
I
know where you've been. The cop shop! Am I right?'

‘I … I really don't want to discuss it.'

‘They'll have been askin' you questions about that missin' girl, won't they? Did you tell them what you've done with her?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Course you didn't tell them! You wouldn't have the guts to come clean, would you? An' because most bobbies are nancy-boys themselves, they wouldn't have had the balls to beat it out of you.'

‘I think I'd better go,' Mainwearing said.

‘You'll leave when I tell you that you can leave,' Decker bawled at him.

Defying a man like this one would be a big mistake, Mainwearing told himself. But his legs refused to listen to his brain, and began moving him towards the door.

He had not taken more than a couple of steps when he felt Decker's fist slam into his stomach. He let out a great ‘whoosh' and doubled over, only to spring back again when Decker followed through with a blow to his face.

‘Where is she?' Decker yelled. ‘What have you done with her?'

Blood was bubbling up in Mainwearing's mouth. ‘I don't know,' he sobbed. ‘You have to believe me.
I don't know
.'

And then he was on the floor, his hands clutching his head in a desperate attempt to protect it, while the other man's boot went to work, with ruthless efficiency, on his ribs.

The director of the Pendleton Clinic was going redder by the second and – cradled in his executive leather chair as he was – was starting to resemble a fat lobster in a cooking pot.

‘This is a private clinic,' he said, glaring at Rutter across his desk. ‘You had absolutely no right to question my staff.'

‘And you had no right to conceal the fact that a criminal offence has been committed on these premises,' Rutter told him.

‘What criminal offence?' Derbyshire asked unconvincingly. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Why did you sack Norman Willis?'

‘I don't know. I'll have to look it up in his record.'

‘Maybe we can
both
look it up in his record,' Rutter suggested,

‘That won't be necessary,' Derbyshire bleated. ‘I do remember now. I terminated his employment here because his … because his work proved unsatisfactory.'

‘Where did you get that particular piece of information from?' Rutter wondered. ‘Did it come from the head of your dispensary?'

‘Yes … I mean, no.'

‘Which is it?'

‘I'm sure that the head of the dispensary would have told me if he'd
noticed
his poor performance.'

‘So let me see if I've got this straight,' Rutter said. ‘You're claiming that the man supervising Willis had no idea how he was doing his job – but you did?'

‘Well, yes.'

‘And
when
did you notice he wasn't doing his job? Was it just after you'd carried out a stock-taking?'

Derbyshire took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket, and mopped his brow. ‘You must understand my position, Mr Rutter,' he said. ‘The clinic's reputation is of paramount importance, and if there was even a hint of—'

‘He was stealing drugs, wasn't he?' Rutter interrupted.

‘There was possibly some discrepancy in stock,' Derbyshire admitted reluctantly.

‘He was stealing drugs!' Rutter repeated.

‘Only on a very minor scale. Any other hospital would have let him off with a warning, but here at the Pendleton Clinic …'

‘What drugs?'

Derbyshire shrugged. ‘The usual kind that people like him decide to steal, I suppose. Amphetamines, barbiturates …'

‘And halothane?'

‘I'm not a medical man by training, Inspector, so I don't really feel I'm in a position to …'

Rutter stood up and leaned across the desk, so that his face was almost touching the fat man's.

‘And halothane?' he repeated coldly.

‘I believe one small bottle of halothane
did
go missing,' the director conceded.

M
onika Paniatowski sat perched on a stool at the counter of the public bar of the Crown and Anchor. There was a mirror running the full length of the wall behind the counter, and in it she could see a reflection of DS Rosemary Stevenson and her ‘lads', who were sitting at a table behind her.

Ten minutes earlier, when she'd walked into what was virtually enemy territory, Paniatowski had been fully expecting to be greeted by a hail of jeering and mockery, as befitted someone who'd become virtually a pariah since the Angela Jackson case. But there had been no such torrent of abuse. In fact, Rosemary Stevenson's team had hardly seemed to notice her.

The reason for this passivity was immediately obvious. A heavy cloud of gloom – invisible but still palpable – floated over Stevenson's table, and those afflicted by it had little interest in anything but getting drunk.

Paniatowski recognized the mood. There had come a point in almost every investigation her own team had been involved in when it seemed as if – whatever they did – they would never crack the case. But then one of them – sometimes Woodend, sometimes Rutter, sometimes herself – would produce a slight flicker of hope, and the rest would rally round it until that flicker became a bright burning flame.

There was no evidence of such a thing happening soon in Stevenson's team. None at all. DCI Mortlake wasn't even there to give them the lead – and Stevenson herself was clearly not up to the job.

Rosemary Stevenson rose shakily to her feet, and tottered off in the general direction of the toilet. Paniatowski waited for a minute, then put her vodka glass down on the bar and followed.

By the time Paniatowski reached the loo, Stevenson was leaning against one of the basins and gazing, with bleary eyes, into the mirror.