Stone Killer (11 page)

‘No, you haven't, have you?' Woodend agreed over his shoulder. ‘But then I don't need to wait for orders from you, because I'm not one of your bloody soldiers, am I?'

There were a number of armed officers on the High Street – some hiding behind police vehicles, some standing just beyond the line of fire – but Woodend did not notice any of them. He took in a deep gulp of air, and thought about what had gone on inside the bank.

He had tried his level best to sound in control of the situation, but he wasn't convinced he'd even been close. He had spoken with an air of confidence and assurance which had been far from his true feelings. He had told himself that he was handling the whole bloody mess as well as he could have handled it – as well as
anyone
could have handled it – but now he was far from sure that was the case.

His whole body was trembling, as if he'd been suddenly struck down by the flu. His heart was galloping so fast it was threatening to burst.

It had been a mistake to take quite so much air into his lungs all at one go, he thought.

‘Are you all right, sir?' some disembodied voice called from the distance.

Of course I'm not all right! he wanted to call back.

But he never got the words out, because his body, acting with a will of its own at that moment, chose to double over, and his stomach – taking advantage of the position – decided to heave almost its entire contents out on to the street.

T
he Philosophers' Arms was a pretentious name to give to any pub, Monika Paniatowski thought. And the décor – powder-blue, over-stuffed sofas which hunkered beneath gilt-framed portraits of great historical thinkers – chimed with the name's pretensions perfectly.

Apart from the barman – who was standing behind the bar counter and half-heartedly polishing beer glasses – the place was empty.

‘Well, what do you expect?' Paniatowski could imagine Woodend saying. ‘The Philosophers' Arms! Sofas! Soft lightin'! No drinkin' man worth his salt would be seen
dead
in a poncy dive like this.'

Yes, that's what he would have said if he'd been here.

But he
wasn't
here, was he?

He was back in Whitebridge.

Treating this case just as he'd treated all those he'd successfully solved in the past.

Stubbornly sticking to his old well-tried ways, without even bothering to ask himself if those old ways still worked.

The barman looked up at his one-and-only customer. He had thin, sandy hair, Paniatowski noted, and was probably somewhere in his mid-thirties. His eyes were pale blue and washed out, and his chin, which might once have tried to pass itself off as firm and determined, now seemed to have settled for being only slightly less than weak.

‘What can I get you, love?' he asked, favouring her with the typical barman's brief – energy-efficient – smile.

‘Are you Hal Greene?' Paniatowski said.

The barman grinned. ‘Now that depends, doesn't it?'

‘On what?'

‘On who's asking. If he owes you money, then I'm definitely not him. On the other hand, if you're looking for Hal because you've been told he can give you a good time, then I'm definitely your man.'

He'd obviously successfully completed the full course in the School of Clumsy Flirting, Paniatowski thought, but though he'd remembered the script perfectly, his heart wasn't really in it.

She reached into her handbag and produced her warrant card. ‘My name's Monika,' she said sweetly. ‘But if you like, Mr Greene,
you
can call me “Sergeant Paniatowski”.'

The barman's grin rapidly faded away, to be replaced by a look of some concern.

‘If it's about what happened the other night, you have to understand it's not my fault,' Greene said.

‘Isn't it?' Paniatowski replied noncommittally.

‘These days, kids will do anything to pass themselves off as eighteen,' Greene told her. ‘Even though they've more bum fluff than bristle, the lads put sticking plasters on their faces, to make it look as if they've cut themselves shaving. And as for the girls – well, the amount of rolled-up toilet paper they stuff down their bras doesn't bear thinking about. And on a busy night, Sergeant Paniatowski, I simply don't have the time to give all my customers a thorough inspection.'

‘I'm not here about under-age drinking,' Paniatowski assured him.

‘Then why
are
you here?'

‘I'd like to ask you a few questions about Clive Burroughs.'

‘What for? Clive's dead and buried. It's all over and done with.'

‘Vodka,' Paniatowski said.

‘Pardon?'

‘When I walked in, you asked me what you could get me. Well, I'll have a vodka.'

Greene went over to the optics and measured out the drink. ‘Have this one on the house,' he suggested.

‘Not a chance!' Paniatowski replied, slipping her money across the counter. ‘So what can you tell me about Clive Burroughs?'

‘Not a great deal.'

‘Now that is surprising,' Paniatowski mused. ‘Because according to the thick file that they have back at Dunethorpe Central, you were one of Burroughs' best friends.'

‘Oh, I'm not saying I didn't
know
him,' Greene said.

‘Very wise.'

‘I
did
know him. But only not really well, if you see what I mean. Just well enough to say hello and ask him how he was getting on.'

Paniatowski looked around her. ‘I really like this pub,' she lied. ‘It's very classy.'

‘Yes, it is, isn't it?' Greene agreed. ‘We like to think it's a cut above the average.'

‘In fact, I'm getting so fond of it that I just might stay till closing time,' Paniatowski said.

‘Pardon?'

‘Yes, I think I'll stay. It might be interesting to find out if it really is as difficult to spot under-age drinkers as you seem to think it is.'

Greene did not take the announcement well. For several moments he fell silent, then he said, ‘All right, Clive Burroughs was my friend. Or at least, I
thought
he was at the time.'

‘How often did you see him?'

‘He used to come here most nights. When he wasn't out chasing skirt, that is.'

‘Yes, I heard he was a bit of a ladies' man,' Paniatowski said. ‘Now tell me something I
don't
know.'

‘I'm not sure where to start.'

‘Did he have any enemies?'

‘I suppose you could say that the woman who battered his head in wasn't exactly his friend.'

‘Apart from her?'

‘There's a few men round here who wouldn't have been too kindly disposed to him if they'd found out what he was getting up to with their wives. But they never
did
find out. He was far too careful for that.'

‘Who else?'

‘Other than them, nobody comes to mind. He could be a real charmer, could Clive – with men
as well as
women.'

‘Did it seem as if there was anything he was particularly worried about just before he died?'

‘Not
just
before he died, no.'

‘Earlier, then?'

‘For the last year or so of his life, he was a bit concerned about how his business was going.'

‘A
bit
concerned? What does that mean?'

‘You know.'

‘No, I don't,' Paniatowski said. ‘I'm a
bit
concerned I might get a ladder in my new stockings. I'm a
bit
concerned the cost of vodka may go up. Is that the sort of concerned he was?'

‘Well, no.'

‘So what kind of concerned was he?'

‘All right, he was a worried man,' Greene conceded.

‘Worried about what?'

‘The business had been going through a very lean patch, and he was finding it difficult to meet all his commitments. One night, when he was feeling really low, he told me there was a real possibility he might even go bankrupt.'

‘But, by the time he died, that had all sorted itself out?'

‘Yes.'

‘Because business picked up?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘Because he'd come into some money?'

‘Again, not exactly. He said that he'd found somebody – a woman from Whitebridge – who was prepared to give him a loan for as long as he needed one.'

‘That would have been Judith Maitland?'

‘I assume it was now, though he didn't actually mention any names at the time.'

‘Did he give you any indication of
why
she was prepared to lend him the money?'

‘Not really. He just smirked, in that way he had, and said she just couldn't resist him.'

‘In other words, she was putty in his hands because she was having an affair with him.'

‘That's what I took it to mean at the time.'

‘But not now?'

Greene shook his head. ‘No, not now.'

‘And what's caused you to change your mind?'

Greene picked up a pint glass from the counter, and, despite the fact it was already sparkling, began to polish it with vigour.

‘I'd much rather not say,' he mumbled.

‘And I'd much rather you
did
,' Paniatowski said firmly.

Greene sighed. ‘I suppose it can't do much harm to tell you now,' he said, in a dull, defeated voice. ‘Most of the people around here already know all about it anyway.'

‘Know about what?'

‘I was quite upset when I heard that Clive got himself killed,' Greene said. ‘I mean, don't get me wrong, I always knew he was a bit of a bastard – he'd never pretended to be anything else, at least not to me – but I still couldn't help liking the feller. And when I was standing over his grave, I just couldn't stop myself from shedding a few tears.'

‘Very touching,' Paniatowski said.

‘Of course, if I'd known then what I know now,' Greene continued, a sudden violent anger entering his tone, ‘I'd have pissed on his coffin instead of weeping over it.'

Though she suspected she'd already worked out just what he was about to tell her, Paniatowski said, ‘So what exactly is it that you know now that you didn't know then?'

‘My wife, Doreen, left me a couple of months ago,' Greene told Paniatowski, and now the anger transformed itself into self-pity. ‘Just packed her bags and went. Said she had no choice. Said she couldn't stand being with me any more, because all the time she was, she was thinking of him.'

‘Him? Clive Burroughs?'

‘That's right. Clive-bloody-Burroughs. Clive-stab-your-best-friend-in-the-back Burroughs. All those nights she said she was out with her mates, she was really out with him. So, you see, it wasn't Judith Maitland he was having an affair with – it was my Doreen.'

T
here was not a soul to be seen in the car park at Whitebridge Police Headquarters when Woodend drove on to it, but by the time he'd actually climbed out of his old Wolseley, the press was bearing down on him like a pack of hounds that had scented blood.

‘I have no comment to make personally concerning this situation,' he told the dozen or so reporters who surrounded him and began baying for news. ‘Any statements which are to be issued will come directly from the Chief Constable's office.'

‘Have you seen any of the hostages yourself?' one of the reporters on his left called out.

‘How long do you expect the Cotton Credit Siege to last?' another asked from his right.

‘As I've already said, I've no comment to make,' Woodend repeated firmly. ‘So if you wouldn't mind gettin' out of my way, we can all avoid the need for me to book you for obstruction.'

A reluctant gap opened in the tight circle of journalists, and Woodend stepped into it.

‘Have you spoken to Major Maitland yourself?' asked a female voice he immediately recognized as belonging to an old enemy.

Woodend, already clear of the circle, stopped in his tracks, and swivelled round.

‘What was that you just said, Miss Driver?' he demanded.

Elizabeth Driver smirked, clearly proud of the fact that she had brought him to a halt when all her colleagues had failed.

‘I asked you if you'd talked to Major Maitland, Chief Inspector.'

‘An' who might he be, when he's at home?' Woodend asked.

Elizabeth Driver's smirk turned itself into a broad smile. ‘He's the man who started all this,' she said.

‘Somebody's been feedin' you a load of cock-an'-bull, Miss Driver,' Woodend said. ‘I've never even heard of this Major Mainfleet—'

‘Maitland. His name's Major Maitland.'

‘… an' I can't imagine where you'd get the idea that an army officer would want to try an' rob a bank.'

‘But it's not a robbery at all,' Elizabeth Driver said.

Sounding surprised.

Pretending she really had believed him when he claimed to have no knowledge of Major Maitland.

‘Not a robbery?' Woodend said, playing the deception game to the end, even though he knew he'd already lost it.

‘All Major Maitland wants is for his wife to be released from gaol,' Elizabeth Driver told him. ‘And exactly when is that going to happen?'

Woodend turned again, and strode angrily towards the station entrance. Elizabeth Driver had her own, carefully cultivated, sources in the Force – he suspected the Chief Constable to be among them – so she often learned things she had no right to know. But normally she would keep them to herself until she'd written her story. The fact she was bandying Maitland's name around at this point had to mean that all other reporters also knew it, or soon would – that what he was dealing with was not so much a leak as a bloody flood.

‘Who the hell released Major Maitland's name to the bloody press?' Woodend demanded.