The Enemy Within (5 page)

‘You're an idiot!' he told himself aloud.

A prize idiot, in fact. Because he wasn't a little boy any more. He no longer need fear that the bobby would ask him if he'd scrumped the crab apples which were bulging in his pocket from somebody's orchard. Nor was it necessary to worry that the constable might have heard that he'd asked Lizzie Dibble to show him her knickers. He was a grown-up now – a hardboiled reporter out on an assignment which had been personally handed to him by the great Dexter Bryant. If anything, the presence of the bobby should have reassured him – because that presence proved that something serious
had
actually happened on or around the field.

Jamie parked the car close to the kerb, and began to walk towards what was left of the bonfire. He had not gone more than a few yards before a gruff voice said, ‘An' where do you think you're goin'?'

Jamie swung round. For a moment he was disconcerted by the fact that the voice sounded old enough to be his father's – but that wouldn't have deterred Dexter Bryant, and he was buggered if was going to let it bother ‘Scoop' Clegg.

He reached into his pocket for his press card, and held it out for the other man to examine under his flashlight.

‘Reporter!' he said, unnecessarily.

‘That's as maybe,' responded the constable, who didn't like the duty he'd been assigned in the first place, and certainly didn't like having to deal with jumped-up kids who would probably be earning more than
he
was in two or three years' time. ‘Yes, you may indeed be a reporter, as it says on your card. But I'm still goin' to have to tell you to move on.'

‘I work for the
Courier
!' Jamie Clegg said, close to outrage.

‘An' I
read
the
Courier
,' the constable responded. ‘Have done for years an' years – probably since long before you were born. But what's that got to do with the price of fish?'

Jamie Clegg swallowed hard and pulled his notepad out of his pocket. ‘If you could just answer a few questions . . .' he began tentatively.

The constable shook his head. ‘The only feller around here who's entitled to answer questions about the murder is Mr Woodend . . .'

The murder! Jamie repeated silently in his head. So there'd been a
murder
!

‘ . . . an' it was Mr Woodend himself who told me that nobody's allowed near the crime scene – not even a reporter from the Mid Lancs
Courier
. So, all things considered, you'd best get back on your bike, son.'

Get back on your bike!

Jamie Clegg felt a wave of humiliation wash over him. What did this bobby take him for? A paper boy? A butcher's delivery lad?

‘I didn't come by bike,' he said. ‘I came by
car
!
My
car!'

The constable chuckled. ‘Then climb back in it, an' get your little legs working the pedals,' he said.

‘It's a Ford Popular, not a kiddie car!' Jamie said, but – having suffered enough blows to his self-esteem already – he did not stay to hear the constable's response.

His heart was beating furiously against his ribcage, and his cheeks burned as if they were on fire. He opened the driver's door of his Ford Pop and slid behind the wheel.'You'd best get back on your bike, son!' he repeated bitterly.

Well, he could certainly do that – metaphorically, if not literally.

But should he?

What would Dexter Bryant do if he were faced with a situation like this one, he wondered?

I
t was still possible that there might be a mundane solution to this murder, Woodend thought as he gazed down at the extinguished fire which might yet turn out to be the ashes of his own career. It was still possible that, come the morning, some dishevelled man would present himself at police headquarters and confess that – in a bout of temper – he had killed his wife and stuffed her in the bonfire.

But while it just
might
be possible, it was far from likely. Because Monika was right. This killer did not see death as a conclusion. For him, it was only part of a process.

‘DI Rutter's just arrived, sir,' Paniatowski said, from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

Woodend turned around. Someone was certainly approaching, and even though the distant street lights did not provide enough illumination to see him clearly, there was no doubt that it was Bob.

It had something to do with the way Rutter walked which made him so identifiable, Woodend decided: the broad strides which carried with them the suggestion that he was a very important business executive rushing – but with dignity – from one vital meeting to another.

From the very start – from the time they'd worked together on the murders in Salton – Bob had always looked more like a businessman than a policeman. And that was far from a disadvantage in a force which seemed increasingly to assign more value to appearance and cost-efficiency than to good police work. In fact, if Bob could only bring himself to give up his annoying habits of honesty, loyalty and straightforwardness, Woodend thought, there was absolutely nothing to stop him going right to the top of his chosen profession.

Rutter drew level with them, and came to a smart halt.

‘You took your time gettin' here,' Woodend said, acting instinctively on the principle that while he might love the inspector like the son he'd never had, there was never any harm in taking a high-flier like Rutter down a peg or two.

‘Took my time?' Rutter repeated, unconcerned. ‘I didn't know there was any rush. Besides, I thought it might be useful to drop in at headquarters and see if there was anything to be learned from there.'

‘An' was there?'

Rutter shook his head. ‘No one's reported that a woman of the right age has failed to turn up at home when she was expected.'

‘Maybe she's
not
expected – at least, until later,' Woodend suggested. ‘She could be a factory shift-worker. Or a nurse on night duty. She might even be a barmaid or pub entertainer.'

‘I'd already thought that possibility through,' Rutter told him. ‘I've had the lads back at the station ringing all the local hospitals, factories and pubs. If one of their employees has failed to turn up, we should hear about it within the hour.'

‘Anythin' else?' Woodend asked.

‘I've alerted all motor and foot patrols – especially in this area – to keep an eye open for any suspicious characters. There's always the chance that the murderer's still hanging around near the scene of the crime.'

‘Aye, there is always a chance,' Woodend agreed. ‘But not much of one. Not with this feller.'

Rutter took out his cigarettes, gave one to Paniatowski and placed a second in his own mouth. He didn't offer the packet to Woodend. He already knew that if had have done, the offer would been refused. The Chief Inspector, though he rarely put his thoughts on the matter into words, considered cork-tipped coffin nails to be far too safe and unmanly to ever consider smoking them himself.

‘So what do we do next?' Rutter asked.

‘There's not much we
can
do,' Woodend replied. ‘This area needs searchin' – there may still be some clues that haven't
quite
been destroyed by the Mongol hordes who were here earlier – but it'd be stupid to attempt a job like that until it's light again. So, all in all, I think we could do worse than adjourn to the nearest pub an' await further developments.'

‘Can we clear up one point before we go?' Rutter asked.

‘Course we can, lad.'

‘You said it was highly unlikely the killer was still in the immediate area. Why is that?'

‘Monika an' me think he's too clever to do anythin' so obvious.'

‘Do you?' Rutter asked, sounding unconvinced. ‘Based on what?'

Woodend grinned. ‘Based on the fact that we're both highly trained professionals who've been proved to be right
almost
as many times as we've been proved to be wrong. Isn't that true, Monika?'

Paniatowski said nothing.

‘Are you with us, lass?' Woodend asked.

Still no reply. Woodend turned to look at his sergeant, and was surprised to see that she had slipped out of her high-heeled shoes and was beginning to edge away from the remains of the bonfire.

‘Is something the matter, Monika?' Rutter asked.

‘Shut up and keep talking!' Paniatowski whispered.

It was a confusingly worded request, but both Woodend and Rutter knew exactly what she meant.

‘Don't suppose it matters what we actually
say
, as long we keep our voices at just about the same tone an' level,' Woodend guessed.

‘She's seen something, hasn't she?' Rutter replied conversationally.

‘That's the only explanation I can think of.'

Suddenly Paniatowski was gone – sprinting towards the edge of the field, chasing a dark figure who had risen from the ground like a zombie rising from its grave.

‘Shall I––?' Rutter asked.

‘Monika can look after herself,' Woodend told him. ‘Anyway, as fit as you think you are, you'd never catch up with her now.'

Paniatowski's quarry was running awkwardly towards the boundary of the field. It was the petrol can he was carrying which was causing him problems, Woodend thought. It wasn't particularly large or heavy, but it still had the effect of throwing him off balance and slowing him down. Paniatowski, without his disadvantages, was closing the gap between them. Barring mishaps, she would catch up with him before he even had time to reach the road.

A mishap occurred!

Something – a tin or a brick, or maybe a root – caused Paniatowski to lose her footing, and she flew through the air like an acrobat stretching out for an invisible trapeze. The man whom she was chasing stopped for a moment – perhaps to catch his breath, perhaps to assure himself that Paniatowski no longer presented a threat – then belatedly dropped the petrol can and, with a fresh burst of energy, sprinted towards the road.

One of the constables patrolling the perimeter had seen what was happening, but though he set off in pursuit, it must already have been clear to him that he had started from too far away to have any real hope of catching his man.

The fugitive crossed the road and disappeared down a back alley which led to a maze of other back alleys. Though the constable continued to follow, he knew his man was lost.

By the time Woodend and Rutter had reached her, Paniatowski had rolled herself over into a sitting position, and was massaging her left knee.

‘How bad is it?' Woodend asked worriedly.

‘Laddered my bloody nylons,' the sergeant said through gritted teeth. ‘And they were fresh on today.'

Woodend found himself examining the ladder. It was a cracker – a champion among ladders – running all the way from her calf to the middle of her thigh. Then he felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Though his interest in Monika had been concern rather than prurience, he could see how it might be misinterpreted. He quickly turned away, expecting Rutter to do the same automatically.

But Rutter didn't!

Worse yet, there was nothing at all self-conscious in the way the inspector was looking at Paniatowski. This was no explorer getting his first exciting glimpse of a hitherto unknown territory. Rather there was an ease about the whole encounter which suggested that Paniatowski's body was as familiar to him as his own back yard.

Which was not good! Woodend thought. Not good at all!

‘If I give you some support, do you think you'll be able to stand up?' Rutter asked Paniatowski.

‘I'll give it a try,' the sergeant answered.

Rutter bent down and grabbed Paniatowski under the armpits. It was a perfectly normal, natural thing to do. It was not even slightly sexual. But watching the scene, Woodend couldn't help wishing that the inspector had taken hold of the sergeant a
little
more gingerly, and could have seemed at least
a mite
uncomfortable with the contact.

‘You want to tell us what's just happened, Monika?' Woodend asked, the words coming out more gruffly than he'd intended.

Paniatowski, now upright and still being supported by Rutter, pressed her left foot tentatively on the ground. It caused some pain, but she looked as if she could live with it.

‘I heard a noise,' she said. ‘I was convinced that someone was watching us. Then I spotted him. And that's about all there is to it.'

‘So perhaps the killer did return to the scene of his crime, after all,' Rutter suggested.

‘Not a chance!' Woodend told him.

‘How can you be so sure of that?'

‘Because of what the man tried to take away with him.'

‘The petrol can?'

‘That's right.'

‘I'm not sure I'm following you,' Rutter admitted.

‘The petrol can didn't appear on the scene until those kids brought it, long after the body had been dumped,' Woodend explained. ‘The killer would have known that – or at least would have known it had nothing to do with the murder. On the other hand, the man who tried to take it away
didn't
know. He thought it might be a clue. Hence, he couldn't have anything to do with the crime.'

‘I suppose you're right,' Rutter conceded.

‘I
am
right,' Woodend said. He turned to Paniatowski. ‘Think you can walk to the car?'

‘Probably.'

‘Then we'd better get that knee of yours some medical attention.'

‘I don't need it,' Paniatowski protested. ‘The knee's all right.'

‘It'll be even better after the application of a little embrocation,' Woodend insisted.

‘I'm not having horse liniment rubbed into
my
knee,' Paniatowski said firmly.