The Dark Lady (2 page)

“It's not just the papers, sir,” he said. “There are other things in Germany which might give us a lead.”

“Such as?”

“His clothes, for a kick-off. Most of them were pretty shoddy stuff, but that jacket of his is quality, made by a real tailor. I don't know how many jackets that particular tailor will have made, but I'm willing to bet he kept a record of them somewhere and—”

Phillips's eyes hardened. “You've only been my bagman for a couple of days, and already you're off on a wild-goose chase, Armstrong.”

The sergeant screwed up his courage even tighter. “I'm sorry if I'm speaking out of line, sir, but it doesn't seem to me as if you're very interested in solving this murder,” he said.

Instead of exploding as Armstrong had expected him to, Phillips took another sip of his pint. “You never met my son, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“He was a captain in the Cheshires. He took part in the D-Day landings and got through it without with a scratch. Then they sent him into the Ardennes. He didn't come back from there.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know,” Armstrong said, but from the faraway look in his boss's eye, he doubted that Phillips had even heard him.

“His unit had a bunch of German troops pinned down,” the chief inspector continued. “Reginald – that was my son – did the decent and honourable thing, and offered them the chance to surrender. They came out with their hands in the air, but one of them stayed behind in the woods, and when Reg stepped forward to take their surrender, the bastard shot him.”

“I'm really sorry, sir,” Armstrong repeated, and this time his words did get through.

“I'm sorry, as well,” Phillips said. “More than sorry. That boy meant the world to me. So if one of our British lads has taken it into his head to stab some Kraut ex-soldier . . .”

“We don't know for sure he was an ex-soldier, sir.”

“They were
all
soldiers. Bloody hell, they were so short of manpower by 1945 that they were drafting every available man – pensioners, and kids of thirteen and fourteen – into the army. So, as I was saying, if one of our local lads has taken it into his head to kill some bastard of a Kraut who didn't have any right to be in this country anyway, then I'm not about to bust a gut trying to find him.” He paused, and looked Armstrong straight in the eyes. “Have I made my position quite clear to you, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Phillips said. “The thing I admire most in the men who serve under me is loyalty, Albert. I reward loyalty. Ask any of the inspectors back at the station. But, if anyone ever decides to cross me . . .” He left the rest unsaid, knocked back the remains of his pint and stood up. “It's time I got back to the station. Even if what you're really doing is bugger all, it's always wise to
look
busy.”

Armstrong watched his boss walk to the door. The chief inspector was a bitter and twisted man, he thought. And he was wrong in the decision had taken. Terribly, terribly wrong.

A crime had been committed, and it was the job of the police force to do all it could to bring the person responsible to justice. They had no chance of catching the murderer with Chief Inspector Phillips heading the investigation – that much had been made plain – but one day, Armstrong promised himself, the case would be solved, because he, personally, was determined never to let it die.

C
hief Inspector Charlie Woodend looked down at the naked body on the slab. The dead man was in his early forties, he guessed. He'd probably been quite handsome, too, though it was hard to say for sure with half of his face stove in.

Woodend turned to his sergeant. “Give me whatever you've got so far, Bob,” he said.

Bob Rutter consulted his notebook. “The victim's name was Gerhard Schultz.”

“German, Austrian or Swiss?”

“German.”

“It's sixteen years since I last saw a dead German,” Woodend said. “Somewhere on the Rhine, it was. The difference is, he was a soldier, an' I was the one who'd killed him.” He shook his head. “Thank God I'll never have to do anythin' like that again.”

“At the time of his death, Schultz was employed as a time-and-motion manager by British Chemical Industries,” Rutter continued. “He'd only recently been posted to this area.”

“How recently's recently?”

“A few weeks before he was killed.”

Woodend nodded. “Then the feller must have had a real talent for makin' enemies quickly,” he said. “What do we know about Herr Schultz's movements on the night he died?”

“He was drinking in the Westbury Social Club until nearly closing time, then, according to several people who were there, he said he was going for a walk in the woods. That's where he was found the next morning. Cause of death – repeated blows from a flatish blunt instrument.”

Woodend nodded again, and lit up a Capstan Full Strength to kill the taste of the formaldehyde which had invaded the back of his throat.

“An' what can
you
tell us about him, doc?” he asked the man in the surgical smock who was washing his hands in the corner sink.

“Not a great deal,” the doctor admitted. “He was in pretty good shape for a man of his age.”

“So he died healthy, then?”

“You could say that. He'd eaten a substantial meal about three hours before he died, and he'd been drinking.”

Woodend inhaled, and was reminded how adept formaldehyde was at wrapping itself around nicotine.

“So he'd been drinkin'?” he said. “How much? A lot?”

The doctor shrugged. “A fair amount. Given his weight and height, I would say that he was possibly tipsy, but definitely not drunk.”

“That's probably the best way to be if you're goin' to get your head caved in,” Woodend said.

Chief Superintendent Mather of the Mid-Cheshire constabulary – known because of his considerable bulk as ‘Mountain' Mather – was not in a good mood, and when he was displeased everyone within range had to know the reason why. The person hearing him gripe at that moment was Inspector Tim Chatterton, a mild-mannered officer who was already working hard at acquiring his first ulcer.

“It's bloody typical of Sexton, is this,” he ranted. “Calls himself a chief constable! Chief constable my arse. The station cat could make a better job of it than he does. An' as for backbone, he's got about as much of that as a worm. An' what's the result – as soon as somethin' a little out of the ordinary happens, he panics an' calls in Scotland Yard.”

“A murder's more than a little out of ordinary, sir,” Chatterton pointed out in all fairness.

“An' now we've got a pair of London smartarses tramplin' all over our patch,” Mather continued, ignoring his subordinate's comment completely. “Listen, Tim, you've worked with this Woodend chap before, haven't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's he like?”

Chatterton searched for the right words. “Unconventional,” he said finally.

“An' just what's that supposed to bloody mean?”

How could he even to begin to describe Woodend's little ways? Chatterton wondered. “For a start, Mr Woodend's not got much use for police stations,” he said. “The last case he worked on, up at Swann's Lake, he used the room where we'd found the victim as his centre of operations. He's not afraid to say what he thinks, either – and it doesn't matter who he's talking to. I believe that's got him into trouble a number of times.”

Mather shook his head despairingly. “Do you know what the last thing we need on a case involvin' BCI is? The last thing we need is some sod runnin' round like a bull in a china shop. It's not even as if we
need
any help. We've had the button right from the start of the investigation, an' now we've got the bloody coat – an' I mean
bloody
– as well. It's only a matter of time before we make an arrest, though I expect this Yard man will claim all the glory.”

“I don't think you need worry on that score, sir,” Chatterton said. “One thing you can definitely be sure of with Mr Woodend is that he always gives credit where credit's due.”

“Well, I'm still pissed off that he's here,” the chief superintendent said. “An' so – now it's too bloody late – is the bloody chief constable. But we're stuck with him, aren't we? At least until we can find an excuse to send him packin'. So I'm looking to you, Inspector Chatterton, to keep a very tight rein on the bugger indeed.”

Keep a rein on Cloggin'-it Charlie Woodend? Chatterton thought. You might as well try bottling the west wind.

“I'll do my best, sir,” he said, wondering how long it would be before he found himself on a diet of milk and raw eggs.

Chatterton's car arrived at the morgue just in time for him to see Woodend and Rutter coming out, and the inspector was forcibly struck – as he had been the first time he'd met them – by the difference between the two men. Woodend was nearly fifty, and had the build of a rugby player. He was wearing a hairy sports jacket, cavalry twill trousers and brown suede shoes with such a natural air that Chatterton was prepared to bet that the only suit he'd ever worn had been the one the army gave him when he was demobbed. Rutter, on the other hand, was dressed in a smart blue suit, as if he already was the superintendent he was undoubtedly destined to be. He looked young for his twenty-five years, and though he had a well-muscled body, he seemed almost dapper beside his boss.

Woodend stopped dead in his tracks, and let his mouth drop open in mock amazement.

“Well, if it isn't Tim Chatterton,” he said. “Don't tell me you're goin' to be my liaison on this case?”

“That's right, sir.”

“Well, that's a lucky break.”

Despite himself, the inspector felt his chest swell slightly with pride. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“Aye,” Woodend told him. “It'll make a pleasant change not to have to train yet another local flatfoot into seein' things my way. You do remember how I work, don't you, Tim?”

Chatterton sighed. “Yes, sir,” he said, opening the back door of the Wolsey for the two Yard men. “The first thing you'll want to do is – what do you call it? – ‘clog it' round the scene of the crime.”

Woodend grinned. “Very good, lad. That's exactly what I want to do.” He climbed into the car. “An' what's the second thing I'll want?”

“You'll be wanting a pint. Preferably best bitter.”

The chief inspector's grin broadened. “Accommodation?” he asked, as if it were a test.

“You'll be staying at the Westbury Social Club,” Chatterton replied, sliding into the front passenger seat. “That's the place where Schultz himself was living, and also where he was drinking just before he went for his last walk. It's not really a hotel as such – though it does have guest rooms for visiting BCI staff – but the management is being very co-operative because they want this matter cleared up as much as we do. They've also put aside a room for you to use as an office.”

“Well done, Tim,” Woodend said. “You've done a grand job.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chatterton said, waiting for the comeback which usually accompanied any compliments which Woodend saw fit to bestow.

“Mind you, you
should
be gettin' good at it,” the chief inspector said, right on cue. “After all, this is the third murder you've had on your patch in – what is it, Bob? Two years?”

“Two years,” Rutter confirmed.

It seemed to Chatterton that this was too good an opening to miss. “Actually, sir, this case may turn out to be quite a lot less complicated than the other two you've been on.”

“Oh aye,” Woodend said, noncommittally. “Why's that?”

“While you were travelling up from London, a piece of vital evidence came into our hands.”

“Vital evidence, eh? Tell me more.”

“During our initial search of the area around the body, we found an old button,” Chatterton explained. “Of course, a button's not much use on it's own, but this morning we found the coat it came off, thrown behind a hedge not half a mile from the crime.” He paused for effect. “There were blood stains on it – stains which matched the dead man's blood group.”

“You've shown me the hat, now pull the bloody rabbit out of it,” Woodend said dryly.

“Several people have identified the coat. It belongs to a man called Fred Foley.”

“Foley,” Woodend mused. “That name seems familiar.” He turned to his sergeant for confirmation. “Bob?”

“He was a suspect in the Salton case, sir.”

Yes, Woodend could picture him now – a short muscular man who wore a greasy flat cap and had dirty fingernails. “He lives in Harper Street, Salton, doesn't he?” he asked Chatterton.

“Not any more,” the inspector replied. “He fell so far behind with his rent that eventually they chucked him out. For the last year or so he's been sleeping rough, but you could always find him if you wanted to. Now there's neither hide nor hair of him, but we've got men out looking, and we'll nab him in the end.”

“So I'm about as much use as a spare prick at a weddin', am I, Inspector?” Woodend asked.

Chatterton reddened slightly. “I wouldn't put it like that, sir. Once we've arrested the man, you'll be invaluable in getting him to confess.”

“Assumin' he did it. Or have we stopped botherin' with little details like that now?”

“Oh, he did it all right,” Chatterton said confidently. “He was a commando in the war, you know, so he's no stranger to killing – and he's got a criminal record for violence.”

“Threw a girl in the canal, didn't he?” Woodend asked, as more details came back to him.