A Long Time Dead (20 page)

He'd hadn't even been driven by
lust
!

Mary had been nothing but a challenge from the very beginning – and how much more of a challenge she'd become once she had fallen for Kineally.

‘Robert phoned the very next morning,' Mary sobbed, ‘and the moment I heard his voice, I knew that Dougie had been lying to me.'

‘Did you tell him what had happened?'

‘No.'

‘You do know you'll have to tell him when he gets back to Haverton, don't you?'

‘I can't! I just can't.'

‘You must.'

‘Do you think he'll forgive me if I do?'

Would he? Woodend asked himself. It was true that Coutes had tricked her into bed, but shouldn't Mary have had enough faith in Robert for the trick not to work?

‘I don't know if he'll forgive you,' Woodend admitted. ‘I think he will. But even if he doesn't, you still have to tell him. He has a right to know.'

‘I suppose he does,' Mary said gloomily. ‘I
know
he does
.'

From somewhere in the dark night, a steam whistle shrieked like a banshee. The train, against the odds, was very nearly on time.

The sailors and soldiers gathered up their kitbags. The land girls stood up – shakily, so it must have been wine they were drinking after all. The civil servants ceased to debate. And the woman with the children placed a protective hand on each of the kid's shoulders, just in case they should feel the urge to rush towards the metal monster which was about to arrive.

‘Your train's here,' Mary Parkinson said, dully.

‘Aye, it is,' Woodend agreed.

The train steamed into the station, its wheels screaming as the brakes were applied, its boiler hissing furiously at this interruption of its purpose.

‘You'd better get on board then,' Mary said, when the loco-motive had finally juddered to a halt.

‘Yes, I suppose I better had.'

‘After all,' Mary said, laughing unconvincingly, ‘you don't want to have to face a court martial, do you, Charlie?'

‘No, I certainly don't want that,' Woodend agreed, his laugh as hollow as Mary's had been.

He began to walk towards the locomotive, then stopped and turned around again.

‘I'm not so sure I was right,' he said.

‘What?'

‘Every man who's goin' into battle needs to know he's leaving behind a woman who loves him,' Woodend said. ‘So, for God's sake, whatever you do, don't tell Robert what happened.'

‘And have him go into battle believing a lie?'

‘A lie? What lie? You
do
love him, don't you?'

‘With all my heart. But—'

‘Look, you made one mistake – an' it wasn't even really your mistake,' Woodend argued passionately. ‘You'd never have done what you did if that bastard Coutes hadn't lied to you.'

‘It was still my decision,' Mary said flatly. ‘It was still my lack of faith that caused it all.'

‘If Robert's got to die, at least let him die knowin' that he's loved,' Woodend said. ‘An' if he manages to come back in one piece, marry him!'

‘If he asks me to.'

‘He'll ask you to. Marry him, an' make him happy for the rest of his life. That'll more than pay him back for one little slip.'

‘You make it sound so simple,' Mary said.

‘It is – if you just decide that's the way you want it to be.'

The rest of the passengers had already climbed on the train, and the guard was walking along the platform, slamming the doors.

‘You'd better go,' the girl told him.

‘Remember what I said,' Woodend pleaded. ‘Not what I said earlier – what I said just now. Promise me you'll not tell him.'

‘The train, Charlie. Get on the train,' Mary said, and he could tell she was crying again.

‘I'm not goin' before you promise me—' Woodend began.

‘We all have to do our duty,' Mary interrupted him. ‘And yours is to get on that train.'

She was right. He climbed on to the train, closed the door behind him, and pulled down the window. He'd half-expected that once he'd turned his back on her, she'd have gone, but she was still there, watching him.

‘Think about it,' he urged. ‘Your future is in your own hands. Mary – an' there's not many of us can say that at the moment.'

She nodded, sadly. ‘Goodbye, Charlie,' she said.

‘Not goodbye,' Woodend countered, trying his best to sound light-hearted. ‘It's more a case of “so long”, isn't it?'

‘No, it's goodbye,' Mary said firmly. ‘I don't think we will ever meet again.'

The guard blew his whistle, and the train slowly began to chug out of the station. The girl did not move, and Woodend only lost sight of her when the train track curved away.

Instructors at police colleges had this annoying teaching trick of stopping training films half-way through, Woodend remembered.

‘How many men were there in that scene by the docks?' they would ask their students. ‘What colour was the car? Was the man in the bowler hat wearing an overcoat or a macintosh?'

The students would argue among themselves, but eventually agree that there had been four men, the car had been black, and the man in the bowler hat had been wearing an overcoat.

‘Are you absolutely – one hundred percent – sure about that?' their instructors would demand.

And the students would say that they were.

The instructors would wind back the film and show that scene again – only to reveal that there were
five
men, the car was
brown,
and the man in the bowler hat wasn't wearing a coat at all.

‘How do you account for the discrepancies?' the instructors would ask, in a slightly hectoring tone.

And the students would bow their heads and admit in a mumble that they didn't know.

‘You didn't see what actually happened at all, did you?' the instructors would ask.

No, the students would agree, they hadn't.

‘What you saw was what you
expected
to happen! Or what you
wanted
to happen! Or what you felt
should have
happened! That's what civilians do all the time. But you're not supposed to be civilians, are you? You're
policemen.
You're supposed to be trained
observers
!'

Sitting alone in the interrogation trailer, lighting up yet another Capstan Full Strength, Woodend softly repeated those instructors' words to himself.

‘You're policemen. You're supposed to be trained observers.'

He took a drag on his cigarette, and began to re-wind his own mental film – so that now he was walking backwards along the platform, now turning to Mary, now swallowing the words he had spoken.

Stop!

Rerun!

‘You do know you'll have to tell him when he gets back to Haverton, don't you?'

‘I can't! I just can't.'

‘You must.'

‘Do you think he'll forgive me if I do?'

‘I don't know if he'll forgive you. I think he will. But even if he doesn't, you still have to tell him. He has a right to know.'

No mistake about it then! He was the one who had delivered the words. They were his – and his alone.

So why had they come as such a surprise to him? How could he have remembered so much about that encounter on the railway station, yet have completely forgotten this crucial part of the conversation?

He hadn't forgotten it, of course. If he had, he could never have recalled now with such accuracy.

What he had actually done, he told himself, was to allow his conscience to keep this part of the exchange between himself and Mary locked away in a shameful – and shaming – room at the back of his mind.

The interrogation trailer door swung open, and Special Agent Grant – positively glowing with health and vigour after his run around the camp – stepped inside.

‘OK then, let's get back to the job in hand,' he said enthusiastically. ‘Are you ready to begin the next interview, Chief Inspector?' he asked.

‘No,' Woodend said.

‘No?' Grant asked quizzically.

‘I have to make a phone call,' Woodend told him.

‘Well go right ahead. There's a phone just by your elbow.'

‘It's not the kind of phone call I make with you here,' Woodend told him. ‘It's the kind I have to make in private.'

T
he moment he'd dialled his home telephone number, Woodend felt himself starting to sweat.

This reaction was not something new to him. He'd been suffering from it ever since the holiday in Spain – ever since the doctors had informed him that Joan had a weak heart.

There was nothing to be gained by worrying, he told himself. Living with a heart condition was a bit like fighting a war. In battle, you'd catch a bullet – or you wouldn't. A weak heart would fail – or it would carry on working. You took all the precautions you possibly could, but you knew that, ultimately, the matter was out of your hands. Which meant that fretting over what might happen in the future was worse than pointless – because the fretting only served to sour whatever precious time you actually had left together.

He knew all that. He had explained it to himself a thousand times. Yet still, as he listened to the ringing tone on the other end of the line – as he unconsciously counted off the seconds – he couldn't help picturing Joan lying on the floor of their little cottage, already dead.

And the sweating got worse.

The ringing tone stopped, and a voice said, ‘Joan Woodend here. Who am I speaking to, please?'

‘It's me,' he said. ‘How are you, love?'

‘I'm fine,' Joan told. ‘Why are you calling? You're not checkin' up on me, are you, Charlie?'

‘No, of course I'm not, love,' Woodend protested. ‘The doctors told me that with a little care you'd be perfectly all right, an' I always believe what the doctors' tell me.'

‘Except when it comes to your own boozin' an' smokin',' his wife said scornfully. ‘So why
are
you ringin' me in the middle of a case? You
never
ring me in the middle of a case.'

‘I … er … wanted to consult you about somethin' to do with the investigation,' Woodend said awkwardly.

Joan laughed. ‘Now there's a novelty. What does this case involve? Bakin' scones? Or donkey-stonin' the doorstep?'

‘It's about the War,' Woodend said. ‘Or rather, how people felt durin' the War.'

‘Go on,' Joan said.

‘Did you ever find yourself attracted to anybody else while I was away fightin'?'

Another woman might have be thrown by such a question, and lapsed into silence. Joan Woodend wasn't.

‘I'd be lyin' if I said I hadn't been
attracted
to anybody else,' she replied immediately. ‘I was very lonely without you, an' there some good-lookin' lads around. But, I can assure you, Charlie Woodend, it never went any further than just fancyin' them.'

‘I know that. But say it
had
gone further.'

‘Where's this leadin', Charlie?' Joan asked suspiciously.

‘I've been tryin' to get inside somebody's head, an' I've not been havin' much luck.'

‘A woman's?'

‘Aye.'

‘You'd better go on, then.'

‘Say you had had a bit of a fling with another feller, an' bitterly regretted it afterwards. Would you have told me about it?'

‘That's not an easy question to answer, Charlie, since no such thing ever did happen.'

‘I understand that. But just try to put yourself in the place of a woman who it
did
happen to.'

This time there
was
a pause – a long one.

‘Not until after the War,' Joan said finally. ‘I wouldn't have told you until after the War.'

‘Why not?'

‘There'd have been no point, would there?'

‘Wouldn't there?'

‘None at all. I might have felt better in myself for havin' got the whole thing off my chest, but it certainly wouldn't have done you much good to be told, now would it?'

‘You don't think that couples should be honest with each other at all times?'

‘No! I think couples should be honest with each other
whenever possible.
But there are occasions when it's best to keep your trap firmly shut – and that would have been one of them.'

It was not the answer he would have liked to hear, but he recognized that it was probably the right one.

‘Thanks, love, you've been a great help,' he said. ‘I'll have to get back to work now.'

‘An' so will I, Charlie. Your phone call's put me right behind with all my chores.'

‘Don't go doin' too much, now,' Woodend warned, worriedly.

Joan laughed. ‘The house doesn't clean itself, you know.'

‘I
do
know that, but—'

‘I said, it doesn't clean itself,' Joan repeated.

‘Of course it doesn't,' Woodend agreed, nodding resignedly. ‘I don't know exactly how much longer this case will take, love, but—'

‘You never do know how long a case will take. But whenever it's over, I'll be here.'

But would she? Woodend asked himself, as he put down the phone.

Would
she?

For a full five minutes after the phone call, Woodend sat immobile. His eyes – almost unseeing – were fixed on the wall of the trailer. His mind had embarked on a guilty journey into its own dark corners and hidden recesses.