The Enemy Within (7 page)

Thus it was that Woodend found himself standing at the podium in the ‘press centre' that morning, addressing three local reporters.

The Chief Inspector made a brief statement, and then asked if there were any questions.

‘What was the motive for the murder, Chief Inspector?' asked a pipe-smoking reporter for the Burnley
Telegraph
.

‘Come on, Horace, you know it's far too early for me to start speculating about that,' Woodend said.

‘Is it true that you think the killer is an escaped lunatic?' asked the man from the Preston
Evening News
, who, like Woodend, smoked Capstan Full Strength.

‘If he is a nutter, then it's certainly news to me,' Woodend replied.

‘When do you hope to be able to identify the victim?' asked the Accrington
Post
man, who was addicted to short black cigars.

‘I can't say when we'll know who she is for sure, but since we're plasterin' Whitebridge with her photograph even as I speak, I'd be surprised if we didn't know by this evenin' at the latest.'

‘Are you looking for a serial killer?' the pipe smoker asked.

Woodend frowned. ‘We're lookin' for the man who slit that poor bloody woman's throat an' stuffed her into the bonfire. I've no idea whether he's killed before – an' neither have you.' He glared meaningfully at the pipe smoker. ‘So if I was in your shoes, Horace, I'd think very carefully before I even
hinted
at anythin' like that in my rag.'

The cigar smoker raised his hand. ‘Chief Inspector, would it be possible to comment on––?'

‘I've told you all I can for the moment,' Woodend interrupted. ‘Keep in touch with the duty desk, and they'll let you know when I'll be available again.'

He stepped off the podium and walked quickly to the door. Behind him, he heard one of the men fire off another question, but he ignored it.

He didn't blame the reporters for trying to squeeze as much information out of him as they possibly could. He would have done the same in their position. They saw this murder as a big chance to make a name for themselves, and were only too well aware of the fact that once the hot shots from Fleet Street arrived, they would be elbowed aside. If, on the other hand, they could come up with a significant angle on the story
before
then, they had a fair chance of seeing their by-lines in the national press. And who knew what that might lead to?

He really
would
have helped them if he could have done, Woodend thought as he approached his office, if only because he got a lot of pleasure from seeing the underdog come out on top occasionally. But the simple truth was that, apart from a black and white photograph of the dead woman, he had very little to give them.

R
utter sat in his car at the edge of Mad Jack's Field, staring at his car radio. When he'd had it installed only a few days earlier, he'd been like a kid with a new toy, but now even this latest miracle of the 1960s was failing to thrill him.

The problem wasn't that he didn't know what to do to get himself out of the mess he'd fallen into, he thought. He
did
know – he simply didn't want to
act
on that knowledge.

He reached forward lethargically, and switched the radio on. He was just in time for a news bulletin.

‘Beatlemania' continued to follow the group on their tour of the country, the announcer said. At their last concert, even a cordon of two hundred policemen had not been enough to stop the screaming fans from mobbing their van.

‘Waste of police resources,' Rutter mumbled.

The news continued. Kim Philby, the former British intelligence officer who had gone missing in the Lebanon a few months earlier, had finally emerged in Russia. At his press conference, he had condemned the decadent West and praised the communist system. Ever since the defection of two diplomats, Burgess and Maclean, some twelve years earlier, the newsreader said, the security services had suspected that there had been a third member of their spy ring. Now it was clear that Philby, who had attended university with the other two,
was
that third man.

‘That's what I call brilliant detective work!' Rutter said sarcastically. ‘MI5 are now sure he's guilty – but only because he's told them he is!'

President Kennedy, seeking a re-nomination no one doubted was his for the asking, was planning to campaign in Texas towards the end of the month, the newsreader concluded. Among the cities he would visit were San Antonio, Houston and Dallas.

Jack Kennedy was just like all the others, Rutter thought sourly. He might talk about building a new Camelot, but when it came down to it, all he really cared about was getting re-elected. A couple more years, and he would be indistinguishable from every other politician who wanted to be president.

The bulletin ended and the theme music to a popular quiz programme filled the space it had vacated. It was a jaunty tune aimed at lightening the spirit and promising much fun to come. Rutter twisted the off-knob on the radio with such force that it came off in his hand.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the knob. Then his mind began to review his reactions to what he had heard on the radio. He had disapproved of the Beatles, for God's sake! He had criticized the security services without any knowledge of the problems and constraints they were working under. And he had slammed Jack Kennedy, whom he had previously regarded as the great shining hope of the free world.

He groaned inwardly. What was happening to him?

‘The case!' he told himself. ‘Concentrate on the case!'

Why had the killer placed his victim in the bonfire? Because he was playing a game, of course! Because he was trying to draw attention to himself. But weren't there other – perhaps even more dramatic – ways that he could have achieved the same effect?

Why not make an even more public display of his victim?

Why not, for example, hang her from a lamp standard? Or dump her body on the doorstep of the Mid Lancs
Courier?

And what was so special about bonfires? What hidden significance did they hold for the killer?

Rutter got out of his car, strode rapidly towards the phone box which he had noticed about hundred yards down the road, and dialled home.

‘Hello?' said Maria, his wife, her slight Spanish accent now supplemented with a thin overlay of Lancashire.

‘It's me,' Rutter said. ‘I don't want you leaving the house today.'

‘What are you talkin' about?'

‘I want you to stay at home.'

‘But there is food which needs to be bought. Besides, the baby needs some fresh air.'

‘I'll do the shopping,' Rutter promised. ‘And I'll take the baby out, too, as soon as I get home. You stay inside. And make sure the doors are locked.'

‘Is somethin' the matter?' Maria asked, sounding alarmed.

Damn, he'd frightened her! He'd never intended to do that. The world was a scary enough place for a woman who could not see it, without him doing anything to add to the sense of menace.

‘There's nothing for you to worry about,' he said soothingly. ‘You're in no danger. It's just that I'm a bit nervous, and I'd be happier in myself if I knew you were safe.'

‘What's happenin' with the case, Bob?' Maria asked.

‘Nothing. It's just that I––'

‘Robert!'

Rutter sighed. He could rarely fool his wife for long, especially once her suspicions were aroused. Perhaps because she
lived
in the dark, she was adamant that she should not be
kept
in the dark about his affairs.

His
affairs
! He wondered how long he could keep
that
particular secret hidden.

‘Tell me, Robert! I need to know!' Maria insisted.

‘It's going badly wrong,' he admitted, not sure if he was talking about his life or the case.

‘You'll sort it out,' Maria said, deliberately injecting confidence and reassurance into her voice. ‘You know that, don't you?'

‘Yes,' Rutter replied.

But he didn't mean it, because something deep in his gut told him that this murder was only the beginning – that before the investigation was over, things both professional and personal would have turned a bloody sight worse.

When Woodend reached his office, the phone on his desk was already ringing. He picked it up, and found himself connected to Dexter Bryant.

‘Isn't it odd that during all those years you were working for Scotland Yard, and I was working for the
Daily Standard
, our paths never crossed?' Bryant said, after he'd introduced himself.

‘Aye, very odd,' Woodend replied noncommittally.

‘Is that what you
really
think – or are you just being polite?' Bryant asked, and Woodend could tell by the tone of his voice that he was smiling.

‘It's true I was hardly ever in London,' Woodend admitted.

‘And I was hardly ever out of it,' Bryant said. ‘As far as my editors were concerned, a murder which didn't happen in the London area could scarcely be called a murder at all.'

‘Aye, they did tend to think like that,' Woodend agreed.

‘And it was scarcely by chance that
you
spent most of your time in the provinces,' Bryant continued. ‘If there was one thing that the top brass in Scotland Yard disliked more than your way of conducting an investigation – and they really
did
dislike that, you know – it was the fact that your unorthodox methods usually seemed to produce a result. I don't think they ever slept comfortably in their beds unless they knew that you were at least a hundred miles away from them.'

Woodend found that he was smiling, too. ‘If I remember rightly, I wasn't the only one who got up the noses of the brass at the Yard,' he said. ‘There were a fair number of them who wouldn't have exactly shed a tear if you'd been transferred from crime reportin' to the
Daily Standard
's knittin' and sewin' page.'

‘You don't hold that against me, I hope,' Bryant said.

‘No,' Woodend assured him. ‘Not at all. You can tell a lot about a man from the enemies he acquires – an' if you compared your list to mine, I think we'd find a considerable overlap.' He paused for a second. ‘As pleasant as it is to chat to you, I take it this isn't a social call you're makin', Mr Bryant.'

‘Not
just
a social call,' Bryant agreed. ‘I think we need to talk. Are you free for lunch?'

‘In case it's escaped your attention, I'm conductin' a murder investigation.'

The Editor chuckled. ‘No, you're not,' he said.

‘Is that a fact?'

‘Did you notice that I didn't send one of my lads down to your press briefing?'

‘Aye, I did, as it happens.'

‘That's because I knew it would be a waste of time. Your subordinates may be running around like headless chickens, but until you've got a positive identification of the body, you're not actually
conducting
anything. Isn't that right?'

‘Close enough,' Woodend admitted.

‘So how about we meet up at the Dirty Duck at around twelve?'

Why not? Woodend asked himself.

Bryant was right about there not being much for him to do until the body was identified, so he might as well get a good lunch inside him. Besides, the timing of the Editor's offer intrigued him. It had been several months since Bryant had taken over the running of the
Courier
. So why did he feel the sudden urge to meet now?

I
t came as a surprise to Monika Paniatowski to discover that Dr Shastri smoked, because none of the other Asian women she'd met had acquired the habit. On the other hand, she accepted, none of the other Asian women she knew were police pathologists who made jokes about slicing meat.

The last piece of meat that Dr Shastri had sliced still lay on the dissection table. The incision which ran the length of her torso had been neatly sewed back together again with strong black thread.

‘Would it be all right if I put her wig back on her head now?' Paniatowski asked.

Dr Shastri giggled. ‘What's your problem, Sergeant? Would you rather not be reminded of the fact that where once she had brains she now has balled up pages of the
Daily Express
?'

‘No, it's not that,' Paniatowski said. ‘I want to get some idea of how she looked to other people.'

‘Then by all means replace the wig. It won't bother me. And it certainly won't bother her!'

Paniatowski lifted the corpse's head, slid the wig in place, adjusted it, then took a few steps back. The dead woman must once have had a roundish face, she decided – the sort of face that many men found, in an earthy sort of way, to be highly attractive. But the roundness had all but gone now. Despite the liberal application of make-up, the woman had a haggard appearance which – although having her throat cut couldn't have helped – had already been there while she was still alive.

The same could be said for the body. The ample breasts had begun to wither; skin which had once strained to contain fat now hung as flaps of loose flesh on the thighs.

‘Would you like to know how it happened?' Dr Shastri asked.

‘How do you mean?'

‘Shall I demonstrate how she died?'

‘Yes, I suppose that might be a good idea.'

Dr Shastri giggled again. ‘Excellent,' she said. ‘At last, a moment of excitement in my humdrum day.' She stubbed out her cigarette in one of the stainless steel dishes designed to hold human organs. ‘Turn your back to me.'

‘What?'

‘Turn your back on me.'

Paniatowski turned. She heard the doctor's footsteps, and felt Shastri's left arm go across her chest and grab her right arm.