The Enemy Within (16 page)

‘Are you trying to say there's no difference between me and Betty Stubbs?' Paniatowski demanded furiously.

‘No! Of course not!'

‘Then just what
are
you saying?'

‘This has nothing to do with you. It's all to do with me. I made wedding vows, just as Betty's punters did. Does the
way
I choose to break them really matter all that much?'

‘You mean that as far as you're concerned, you're equally guilty whether or not you pay for it.'

‘Yes,' Rutter said. ‘I mean, no!'

‘What am I to you? Nothing more than a piece of meat?'

‘That's a really crappy thing to say.'

‘And what you've been saying
isn't
crappy?'

Rutter put his hand on Paniatowski's arm. ‘Look, Monika, I really care for you. But what we've been doing is not right. And it's not fair on Maria.' He hit his forehead with his free hand. ‘Does the fact that she's blind make it even worse? I don't know. I just can't say any more.'

‘I've never wanted to break up your marriage,' Paniatowski said, her eyes misting slightly.

‘I know that.'

‘I've never made any demands on you. I've never asked you for any assurances.'

‘I know that too.'

‘So if you want to stop seeing me, just stop seeing me.'

‘But I don't want to stop seeing you,' Rutter said. ‘I love you.'

‘Don't try to make a fool out of me – and don't lie to yourself. It's Maria you love! Can you deny that?'

‘Of course I don't deny it. I don't
want
to deny it. I do love her. And maybe what I feel for you isn't the same kind of love at all. But it still
is
love.'

It was no longer just moisture in Monika's eyes – it was real tears. ‘My God!' she said. ‘What a bloody mess!'

Standing on the opposite side of the road to police headquarters, Elizabeth Driver had been watching the little scene develop between Paniatowski and Rutter with some interest. Of course, she was too far away to hear what they were actually saying, but from their stance and their gestures she could draw the reasonable conclusion that whatever it was about, it was certainly serious.

Suddenly Paniatowski bowed her head.

Was she crying? Elizabeth Driver asked herself. Surely not! Monika Paniatowski didn't cry – ever!

But if she wasn't crying, why had Rutter taken her head between his two hands? And why was he now lifting it up again and kissing her on the forehead?

This was wonderful, Driver told herself. This was just too good to be true.

W
oodend looked, with some concern, at the other two members of his team who were facing him across the desk. There'd been a time when Rutter and Paniatowski had found it a strain even to be in the same room, he thought. Then things had changed. For the previous few weeks, they'd been so close he couldn't have slid a piece of paper between them. Now their relationship seemed to have reached a third level. Now they were united – but only by pain.

‘Is there somethin' the pair of you would like to tell me?' he asked.

Paniatowski shook her head.

Rutter mumbled something which may have been, ‘No.'

‘Are you sure about that?' Woodend asked, ‘because, to be honest, I've seen star attractions at autopsies who put on a better show than you two are managin' at the moment.'

Paniatowski favoured him with a weak smile.

Rutter couldn't even manage that.

Neither of them seemed the least inclined to say what was on their minds.

‘Well, since nobody seems to have anythin' more interestin' to talk about, we may as well discuss the investigation,' Woodend said. ‘Would either of you happy-go-lucky folk care to give an opinion on how my little chat with the bar steward has altered our view of the case?'

‘We always knew our killer was probably playing games with us,' Paniatowski said, making the effort, ‘but until this morning we didn't have enough information to even begin to speculate on his relationship with his victim.'

‘An' now it's all crystal clear, is it?'

‘No, but there are certain things we can rule out. Assuming that this Mr X is our murderer––'

‘An' seein' that Betty Stubbs was settin' out to meet him just before she was killed, it seems more than likely that he is.'

‘Assuming that, we can rule out the idea that he was looking for a woman –
any
woman – and she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We can also discard the theory that she was killed simply because of
what
she was. He didn't just know she was a prostitute – he knew her as a
person.
So whatever sickness is driving him, it's specific rather than general.'

‘I'm not at all happy with this automatic assumption that he
is
sick,' Rutter said.

‘Oh, you've finally woken up, have you?' Woodend asked. ‘So you don't like the idea that he's a nutter. What's your alternative?'

‘That he had a much more conventional, down-to-earth motive for killing Betty Stubbs.'

‘Like what, for instance?'

‘We know he was one of her punters. Perhaps they had an argument over how much money he owed her. Or perhaps she tried to blackmail him – threatened to tell his wife what had been going on if he didn't cough up a lot of cash.'

Woodend shook his head sceptically. ‘Leavin' aside the 'northodox way he chose to dispose of the body for the moment, I still don't buy that. You're basin' your argument on the fact that he was one of her punters, an' I don't think there's any doubt that he was. But he wasn't a
normal
punter, like your Mr Eccles.'

‘How can you be sure of that?'

‘Because she wouldn't have let a normal punter know that she was sufferin' from cancer.'

‘Why not? She might have told a
lot
of people she had cancer.'

‘She won't have,' Paniatowski said. ‘People
don't
! They have no problem telling you about any other diseases. Far from it. There are professional invalids who'll trap you in a corner in the library and entertain you for hours with tales of their various ailments. But if it's cancer they've got, they keep quiet about it.'

‘I'm not convinced that's true,' Rutter said.

‘That's because your head is so full of your own ideas of the way things
should
be that you never bother to listen to what other people say or do,' Paniatowski countered angrily.

‘Monika!' Woodend warned.

Paniatowski took a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry,' she said.

‘That's all right. Just tread a bit more carefully,' Woodend advised her.

‘I was being unfair to you, Bob,' Paniatowski continued, in a more reasonable tone of voice. ‘If you've never known a family which has had to deal with cancer, you probably have no idea what it's like. The victim says nothing, and even when the victim's relatives tell you about it, they do it in a whisper.' She pursed her lips. ‘“Have you heard about our Wilfred? He's got can-cer.”'

‘Monika's right, you know, Bob,' Woodend agreed. ‘Looked at logically, cancer's no worse than any other serious illnesses – but that's not how most families see it. They act as if was somethin' shameful. It's almost like they think the victim is unclean – an' should have a bell round his neck, like a leper.'

‘Surely that's an exaggeration,' Rutter protested.

‘But not much of one,' Woodend said firmly. ‘We all
do
think of cancer as somethin' different – maybe because, of all the things that might happen to us, it's the one we fear the most. What was it that new mate of yours, Dr Shastri, called it, Monika?'

‘The enemy within.'

‘Aye,' Woodend agreed. ‘That just about sums it up as far as most folk are concerned.'

‘What you say
may
be true,' Rutter conceded, ‘but can we say with any certainty that Betty
didn't
tell any other people?'

‘We know she didn't tell Rodney Whitbread, the bar steward,' Monika pointed out. ‘And he was about the closest thing to a friend that she had towards the end.'

‘All right, so she kept it quiet,' Rutter agreed, shifting his ground. ‘In that case, how can we be so sure that she told Mr X?'

‘Because Mr X had promised to introduce her to a doctor who could work miracles,' Woodend said. ‘An' to be able to make that claim, he'd have to have known what
kind
of miracle needed performin'. You see––'

‘Enough! I'm convinced!' Rutter said, holding up his hands in surrender. ‘Maybe he did know about her disease. Maybe that's why he killed her.'

‘Do you want to expand on that?' Woodend asked.

‘Mr X becomes one of Betty's punters with no other thought in mind than getting his end away. But then the unexpected happens – he grows to like her, perhaps even to love her.' Rutter turned his head so that he was looking at neither Woodend nor Paniatowski. ‘Then he learns she's about to face a slow and painful death, and he decides to put her out of her misery before any of the real suffering starts.'

‘A mercy killin'?'

‘Yes.'

‘Havin' your throat cut is quick enough – but it's also terrifyin',' Woodend said. ‘If he'd really cared about her, he'd have poisoned her. Or smothered her while she was sleepin'. If he'd cared, he'd have left her lyin' on her own bed, perhaps with a bunch of flowers in her hands. But he didn't do that. He stuffed her in the bloody bonfire.'

‘I've had a thought about why he told her she could be cured,' Paniatowski said.

‘Go on,' Woodend encouraged.

‘I used to have a friend whose father was a gamekeeper on the Earl of Sutton's estate. He took us around it once, and let us feed the pheasants. Do you know
why
they feed the pheasants?'

‘To fatten them up?'

‘Partly. When you go shooting, it
is
nice to come home with a nice fat bird. But the real reason they do it is so that the pheasants have no reason to wander off somewhere else. It's a way of making sure that the birds will still be there when the shooting season opens.'

‘An' you think that's what the killer was doin'?' Wood-end asked.

‘Yes, I do. He was feeding her hope, for no other reason than to ensure that she'd be around when the time came to kill her. And it's possible she wasn't the only one he was feeding up, isn't it?'

‘More than possible,' Woodend agreed gloomily.

T
he baby – poor little thing – had been unsettled all afternoon, and had only just quietened down when the doorbell rang.

‘
Hijo de puta
!' Maria Rutter said exasperatedly – though she spoke the words softly in order not to awaken the sleeping child.

The bell rang again, more persistently this time. Maria closed the nursery door gently behind her, then walked rapidly down the hall. Though she could not see it, her hand found the latch immediately, and after checking that the safety chain was in place, she opened the door a few inches.

‘Mrs Rutter?' said a woman who, Maria guessed from her voice, was probably in her late twenties.

‘Yes, I am Maria Rutter.'

‘What a lovely accent you have. So soft and yet – dare I say it to another woman – so sexy.'

‘Who are you?' Maria asked.

The visitor laughed. ‘Sorry, didn't I mention that?'

‘No, you didn't.'

‘I'm Liz Driver. I assumed you'd know it was me, since you were expecting me.'

‘But I
wasn't
expecting you.'

‘You weren't?' Elizabeth Driver asked, apparently mystified. ‘Are you sure that Bob didn't tell you?'

‘Certain.'

‘Well, I suppose he's got so much on his mind at the moment that it's hardly surprising he forgot. But even if you didn't know I was coming, you at least know who I am, don't you?'

‘I don't think so.'

Elizabeth Driver sighed. ‘Such is the fleeting nature of fame. I'm a reporter from the
Daily Globe
. I've worked with Bob before. I'm almost hurt that he hasn't mentioned me to you.'

‘I would have remembered.'

‘Anyway, he arranged to give me an interview, and he said that since he'd be in this area, it would be easiest to do it at his home. And that's why I'm here.'

‘That doesn't sound like Bob at all,' Maria said.

‘I can assure you that––'

‘He never brings his work home. And if anyone was going to make a statement to the press, it would be Charlie Woodend.'

‘I hope you don't think that I'm here under false pretences,' Elizabeth Driver said.

‘That's
exactly
what I do think,' Maria told her. ‘There are people who suppose that once you lose your sight, you lose your brain as well. But that isn't the case at all. I didn't know what to think of you at first, but now I do. I don't like you, and I don't trust you. And if you don't leave immediately, I'll call the police.'

‘Listen, Mrs Rutter––'

‘I have some influence with the police in this town, you know,' Maria said.

And then she laughed, more to show she was not to be intimidated than through genuine amusement.

There was silence from the other side of the door.

‘I'm serious,' Maria said.

‘I'm sure you are,' Elizabeth Driver replied, sounding thoroughly ashamed of herself. ‘You're quite right not to trust me. In fact, you're right about everything. I
didn't
arrange to meet your husband here. And I
did
think that because you're blind, it would be easy to fool you. I promise I won't make that mistake again. I promise I'll treat you – and all blind people – with the respect you deserve.'