Murder at Swann's Lake (18 page)

“Don't you think I know that?” Fairbright replied miserably.

“But from what they tell me, you've refused to see a lawyer,” Woodend mused. “Why is that?”

“A lawyer wouldn't do me any good.”

Woodend shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind—”

“I won't.”

The Chief Inspector took out his packet of Capstan Full Strength and offered one to the other man. “You made a better job of breaking into the office this time than you did the last,” he said.

“I never tried to break in the first time.”

“Somebody did.”

“I know,” Fairbright admitted. “I saw him.”

“And who was it?”

“I couldn't tell you. He was just a dark shape. But the moment I saw him, I got out of there as quickly as I could.”

Woodend took a deep drag on his cigarette. “What did you think was so important in that office that you'd run the risks you did?” he asked.

“I'm not sayin' any more,” Fairbright told him.

“We've already got you on a burglary charge,” Woodend told him. “Do you want to make it murder, as well?”

Fairbright's jaw dropped. “You surely don't think I killed Robbie Peterson, do you?” he gasped.

“Do you have an alibi for the time of the murder?”

“Yes . . . no.”

“Which is it, son?”

“I went for a walk.”

“Where?”

“Down by the lake.”

Down by the lake! At exactly the same time as Terry and Michael Clough claimed to have been there!

“Did you see anybody while you were takin' this walk of yours?” Woodend asked.

“No.”

“You're certain about that? You didn't hear two fellers arguin' with each other?”

“I told you, there was nobody down there but me.”

So either he was lying, or the Clough brothers were – and at that moment the Chief Inspector had no idea which it was.

“Have you ever been in trouble with the police before, Mr Fairbright?” he asked.

Fairbright's jaw quivered, as if he were on the point of bursting into tears. “No, I haven't,” he said.

“Not even when you were a youth? Drunk an' disorderly? That kind of thing?”

“My dad would have killed me if I'd done anythin' wrong,” Fairbright said bitterly. “He were right strict. I never even had a proper girlfriend before I went into the Army. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because all the lasses used to laugh at me when I told them I had to be home by ten o'clock. That's what my dad made me – a bloody joke.”

“He won't be too chuffed when he hears you've been arrested, then, will he?” Woodend asked. “An' he will hear. In fact, I think I just might give him a ring in the mornin' an' ask him to come down here an' have a word with you.”

Gerry Fairbright laughed. “You're a bit late for that. He's been dead for over two years.”

Woodend sighed. Luck just wasn't running his way on this case. “Nasty places, police holdin' cells,” he said, trying a new tack. “Oh, they don't look too bad at first, but when you've been in one of them for a few hours, you start to feel the walls closin' in on you. You don't want to go through that, do you, lad? Especially when you know, deep down, that the truth's bound to come out sooner or later?”

“You're wastin' your time,” Fairbright said. “I've told you I'm sayin' no more, an' I meant it.”

Woodend stubbed his cigarette exasperatedly in the ashtray. “It's your choice, lad,” he said, “but I think you're makin' a bloody big mistake.”

E
ven before he opened his eyes, Woodend realised that he had woken up grumpy, and the sound of drizzle pitter-pattering against his bedroom window did nothing to improve his mood. He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly noon. For a moment, he considered feeling guilty about making such a late start. But why the hell should he? He'd been up half the night trying to talk some sense into Gerry Fairbright, so wasn't he entitled to have a lie-in? Besides, what would he have done with his time if he'd got up earlier?

As he got dressed, he found himself remembering his childhood, back in Lancashire, and, in particular, the soapbox cart he and his mates had built. It had been a rickety old thing, crudely hammered together – and running on four pram wheels of slightly differing sizes – but his gang been incredibly proud of it. But it had also been a great bone of contention. Every time they took it out, they would row furiously about who got the first ride. Jack, who had gone last the time before, would argue he should be given priority this time. Albert, who'd provided the clothes line which was an integral part of the steering mechanism, would claim this gave him precedence. Each member of the gang, it seemed, had natural justice on his side.

The Chief Inspector pictured himself, his turn finally having arrived, sitting in it at the top of the hill near the Co-op shop. Little Charlie Woodend, wearing short grey trousers, a grey flannel shirt and the sleeveless jumper his Granny Woodend had knitted for him. Little Charlie Woodend, bursting with excitement, knowing that once he got going, he'd fly down the steep slope like buggery. But before that could happen, he needed a push – and the teasing sods behind him seemed to think it was the best joke in the world to keep him waiting.

This murder case was like that, he recognised. He needed some kind of push. It could be anything. The Doncaster police might uncover some telling information on Alex Conway. Gerry Fairbright might get fed up of being confined in a police cell, and finally be willing to come clean about why he broke into Robbie Peterson's office. Someone in Swann's Lake – Harold Dawson and the Green brothers immediately came to mind – might do or say something which would give him the new lead he needed. But until one of those things happened, he was left sitting at the top of the hill, bursting with frustration.

“You're gettin' fanciful, Charlie,” he said aloud. “If you don't watch yourself, you'll be writin' poetry next.”

It was early afternoon when the police Wolsey pulled up in front of The Hideaway, and Rutter got out.

Woodend, who was shuffling his notes around in the vain hope they might suddenly tell a coherent story, followed his sergeant's progress across the yard. By Christ, Bob looked rough, he thought. More than rough – the poor devil looked completely crushed.

Rutter entered the office and flopped down in the visitors' chair opposite his boss. “I need to talk to somebody,” he said.

“I'm sure you do, lad,” Woodend said sympathetically. “An' I'm right willin' to listen.”

It was like inviting the flood gates to open. Rutter told of Maria's terror when she'd first discovered she'd gone blind – how even the furniture in her own flat had seemed hostile. He talked of the need for an operation and its chances of success. “She insisted I come back here,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “Can you imagine that? As scared as she was, she could still find time to think about what was best for me.”

“Aye, she's a grand lass,” Woodend said, sincerely. “One of the best.”

Rutter took a deep breath. “So what's happened while I've been away?” he asked, trying to sound his usual crisp, efficient self.

“You're sure you want to stay on the case, lad?” Woodend asked.

Rutter nodded. “Yes, I want to stay on it – at least, for as long as I can.”

“An' what exactly does that mean?”

“While I was in London, I had a run-in with a bastard called Superintendent Jackson. It was about—”

“I know what it was about,” Woodend interrupted him. “He rang me up last night.”

“So you know he's probably already set the wheels in motion to have me suspended pending an official inquiry.”

“You just leave Jackson to me,” Woodend said. “There'll be no official inquiry. I may not be able to sweep it under the carpet completely, but you should get away with no more than a slap on the wrist, and that won't really hurt your prospects.”

“My prospects don't matter, because as soon as we get back to the Yard, I'm going to hand in my resignation,” Rutter said.

“I wouldn't do that if I was you, lad,” Woodend advised.

“I don't have any choice,” Rutter retorted. “How can I continue to be a policeman when I've no faith in the Force any more?”

“An' what would you do once you were on Civvie Street?” the Chief Inspector asked. “Become a bank clerk? I can't see you sittin' behind a desk, Bob.”

“Maybe I'll go to Australia,” Rutter said. “The assisted passage is only ten pounds, and even an honest detective sergeant can afford that. And when I get there, perhaps I'll join the Australian police, because it's just possible that
they
might have a little integrity.”

Woodend shook his head. “You can't go condemnin' the whole barrel that makes up British policin' just because you think one apple's bad,” he said.

“Do you
think
Jackson's bad?” Rutter demanded.

“At the very least, he's badly bruised,” Woodend admitted.

“And the animal who attacked Maria? That's two bad apples so far, and we haven't even started.”

Woodend sighed. There was no reasoning with the lad at that moment. “You may well be right,” he told Rutter, “but there's nothin' we can do about it until we get back to London. So do you want to hear about the developments in the case or what?”

“Yes,” Rutter said. “Give me all the details.”

Holding his trousers up with one hand, and conscious of his shoes slip-slopping with every step he took, Gerry Fairbright paced his small cell. When the Custody Sergeant had taken away his braces and his shoe laces, he'd felt insulted. Did the Sergeant really think he was the kind of man to do away with himself? he'd demanded. But now, after twelve hours in captivity, he saw the sense behind the regulation, because there had been moments – mad, mad moments – when death had seemed the easiest way out.

He heard the key click in the lock and the heavy door swung open. The Custody Sergeant entered the cell, carrying a metal tray. “I've brought your tea, lad,” he said, not unkindly.

“Has . . . has anythin' happened?” Fairbright asked.

“Happened?” the Sergeant repeated.

“Have they come any closer to catchin' Robbie Peterson's murderer?”

The Sergeant laid the tray on top of the fold-down table. “Ee, I wouldn't know anythin' about that, lad,” he said. “I've got enough on my hands just lookin' after you lot.”

The Sergeant turned back towards the door, and Fairbright felt an urge to ask him to stay – to sit down, so they could have a good natter about Bolton Wanderers' chance of winning the FA Cup again. But he knew it would do no good. For all the Sergeant's friendliness, he was a gaoler, and Gerry was the prisoner.

The door clanked hard behind the Sergeant, and Fairbright was alone once more. He lifted the lid which had covered his tray. Greasy sausages and lumpy mashed potatoes. Institutional stodge, the like of which he hadn't seen since National Service. And not even a knife to eat it with, because criminals like him were expected to manage with a spoon.

He sat down and lethargically began eating. His father was to blame for all this, he thought. If the old man hadn't kept such a tight rein on him when he was living at home, he'd have been an entirely different person now – a person who'd have seen no reason to make the kind of mistakes he'd made.

“I hope you're satisfied, you miserable old bugger,” he said to the dead man. “I hope you're really pleased with yourself.”

Was it possible that Woodend had been right in what he'd said the previous evening? Fairbright wondered. Wouldn't it be better to confess now, and get it all over with? No! There was still a slim chance he would get away with it, and as long as he had that hope to cling on to, he was determined to keep his mouth firmly shut.

From his corner table in The Hideaway, Woodend watched Harold Dawson knock back yet another double whisky at the bar. “That bugger wants to come an' talk to us,” he said to Rutter. “Only he's not quite sure if it's such a good idea.”

“I still don't see how he fits into the picture,” Rutter said.

“Neither do I,” Woodend agreed. “But forget him for minute. I'm tired of sittin' on my arse, doin' nothin'. It's time to put the cat among the pigeons.”

It sounded just like vintage Woodend, and Rutter could hardly resist smiling. “And how do you propose to do that, sir?” he asked.

“By breakin' the habits of a lifetime an' goin' to Yorkshire voluntarily,” Woodend said. “If Alex Conway won't come to us, maybe it's about time we went lookin' for him. I've had a word with the Doncaster police, an' by tomorrow mornin' they should have got a search warrant sworn out on Conway's flat.”

“What about Michael Clough, sir? Clem Green did seem to suggest he might be worth taking a closer look at.”

“He's on my list, Sergeant, especially since, bearin' in mind what Gerry Fairbright said, it's possible he wasn't down at the lake at all when Robbie was killed. But as a suspect, he ranks a long way behind Alex Conway.” He glanced across at the bar. “Ay up, I told you yon bugger would make his move sooner or later.”

Rutter looked in the same direction as his boss. Harold Dawson was approaching their table and there was definitely a slight stagger to his step.

Dawson came to a shaky halt directly opposite the Chief Inspector. “I hear you've arrested Gerry Fairbright,” he said.

“I'm surprised you know him, sir,” Woodend replied. “I wouldn't have thought the paths of a gentleman of the press and a fitter from Oldham would have crossed very often.”

“I met him in here a couple of times,” Dawson said. “We got talking, like you do.”