A Long Time Dead (28 page)

It would be his own fault if he
did
get hurt, she told herself. He'd been the one who'd pursued her, not the other way around. And she made no promises to him – given no commitments. So he simply didn't have the right to think he had any sort of hold over her.

‘Monika?' Baxter said, worriedly.

‘I've been working on a case down south,' she said.

‘
Where
down south?'

‘I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that. It's all very hush-hush, you see. But I should be back in Whitebridge in a couple of days, three days at the most, and – if you like – we can get together then.'

‘You sound like you're doing no more than throwing me a bone,' Baxter told her.

Yes, I do, don't I? Paniatowski thought.

‘I didn't mean it to come out like that at all,' she said. ‘I'm really looking forward to seeing you. But before I can come home, I need to get shut of this bloody awful case. And that's precisely why I ringing you now – because I need a favour from you to
help me
close it.'

‘I see,' Baxter said.

‘You don't sound very enthusiastic about the idea of helping me,' Paniatowski said.

‘Of course I'm enthusiastic,' Baxter replied, without much conviction. ‘Why wouldn't I be?

‘You just didn't seem—'

‘I'm absolutely over the moon about it! I feel as if all my birthdays have come at once!'

‘There's no need to overdo it,' Paniatowski said.

‘Just tell me what the favour is,' Baxter told her.

‘It's nothing, really. Remember you told me that you'd done some training with the FBI in Washington?'

‘Of course I remember.'

‘And did you get on well with the people you met over there?'

‘Yes, as matter of fact, I did.'

‘Well enough to persuade one of them to do you a similar kind of favour to the one you'll be doing for me?'

‘Probably,' Baxter said. ‘Of course, I've not actually slept with any of
them,
but I suppose it is just conceivable that they'll do it because they like me just for myself.'

Woodend paced up and down outside the phone box, puffing furiously on a Capstan Full Strength.

He should have thought of all this earlier, he fretted. He should have made the mental connections the night before, while he was talking to Abe Birnbaum. Now, with the Americans already starting to prepare for their return to the States, he might come up with the answer too late.

Which wouldn't be a bad thing, Charlie, a nagging voice in the back of his head said.

Wouldn't it? he wondered.

No, the voice said. Because even if you
find
the answer, you've still no idea what you're going to do with it.

Monika Paniatowski stepped out of the phone booth, and Woodend took her place.

‘Sometimes, the things you get me to do make me feel like a real bitch,' Monika said, over her shoulder – and with a hint of bitterness. ‘But perhaps I shouldn't blame you for that. Perhaps being a real bitch is just what comes naturally to me.'

We'll sort it out later, Monika, Woodend thought. Whatever your problem is, I promise you we'll sort it out later.

He picked up the phone and dialled a London number.

‘I thought I might be hearing from you, sir, but I never expected it would be so soon,' Bob Rutter said.

‘Aye, well, neither did I, but events have been movin' at the speed of an express train down here,' Woodend told him. ‘Have you ever heard of a firm called New Elizabethan Properties?'

‘They're a construction company, aren't they?' Rutter asked. ‘I've seen their signs on some office blocks and public buildings in the centre of London, but I think they mainly concentrate on building houses for the moderately prosperous. What made you ask about them?'

‘Their head office is somewhere in London, isn't it?'

‘Yes, I believe it is.'

‘Well, I'd like you to pay it a visit.'

T
he man in the pinstriped suit had reached that stage in his life when he was about to shed the mantle of youth, yet was not quite ready to assume the cloak of middle age. He had introduced himself to Bob Rutter as the senior project manager for New Elizabethan Properties, and then – almost as an afterthought – had added that his name was Brian Bosworth. He had shaken Rutter's hand with practised firmness and invited him to sit down. That had all been five minutes ago, and since then he had not stopped talking.

‘Quality, that's the key,' Bosworth was saying. ‘New Elizabethan is committed to bringing
quality
housing to all parts of the country. The old Haverton Camp is just
one
of our many exciting new projects which are aimed at making London-style sophistication available to everyone.'

He was nervous, Bob Rutter thought. The man was definitely
very
nervous.

‘I was asking about your surveyor,' he prompted.

‘I beg your pardon?' Bosworth said.

‘You used three surveyors on the Haverton Camp job – but only one of them was actually from this office. When I phoned, I told you he was the one who I wanted to talk about.'

‘You're quite right about where the surveyors came from,' Bosworth gabbled. ‘We like to use local people whenever we can, you see. Gives them a sense of participating in the project. Makes them aware that we really do care about their interests and desires.' He paused, and grinned weakly. ‘Got rather carried away there, didn't I? Sort of missionary zeal, I suppose.'

‘Yes, I suppose it is,' Rutter agreed sourly. ‘And as long as you're talking about the company in general terms, you don't need to talk about the surveyor in particular, do you?'

‘I hope you don't think that I—'

‘What's his name?' Rutter snapped.

‘Nicholas Bosworth.'

‘Really? That's the same surname as yours. Is it a coincidence? Or is he, perhaps, a relation of yours?'

‘He's my younger brother.'

‘And where will I find your younger brother?'

‘I'd rather he wasn't disturbed.'

‘I'll bet you'd rather he wasn't. But you see, what you want or don't want is of no particular interest to me. You've already wasted nearly half an hour of valuable police time – and that's a prosecutable offence. So why not tell me where I can find him, and save yourself any future trouble?'

‘He'll probably be at his flat,' Bosworth said, defeatedly.

‘At his flat? At this time of the day? What's the reason for that? Is he on holiday or something?'

‘Not exactly.'

‘Then why?'

‘He's … er … on sick leave.'

‘Is he now? And what's his problem? Has he broken his leg? Or has he been struck down with the bubonic plague?'

‘His problems are more of a psychological nature. It came as quite a shock to him, discovering a body at Haverton Camp like that. It was such a pity. He'd been doing so well before then, and it set him right back.'

It was clear from the expression on Brian Bosworth's face that the moment he'd uttered that last sentence of his, he bitterly regretted it. But it was already too late.

‘Set him back to
what
?' Rutter demanded.

‘Nick's … er … had a few problems?'

‘What kind of problems?'

‘I'd prefer not to—'

‘Women? Drink? Drugs?'

‘No, nothing as extreme as that. He likes to have the odd flutter on the horses.'

‘What you're trying to say is that he's a compulsive gambler.'

‘
Was
a compulsive gambler. He hasn't placed a bet for months,' Brian Bosworth said, unconvincingly.

‘How did he happen to be given the surveying job at Haverton Camp?' Rutter wondered.

‘He … er … asked for it.'

‘Did he now? Isn't that interesting!'

‘But there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for his asking to be sent there.'

‘Then I'd certainly like to hear it.'

‘The company gives quite a generous allowance to staff whose work takes them outside London, and if you live frugally while you're away, you can save most of it. Nick built up quite a lot of debts when he was gambling, and this was one way of helping to pay them off.'

‘As convincing fairy tales go, I rate that somewhere between Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the Three Little Pigs,' Rutter said. ‘He's told you all about it, hasn't he?'

‘All about what?'

‘Hasn't he?'

Brian Bosworth nodded his head mournfully. ‘He had to tell someone,' he said. ‘He just
had
to. And who else would he choose to confide in but his big brother?'

‘
When
did he tell you? Was it before he went to the camp? Or did he leave it until after he came back?'

‘It was after he came back. If he'd told me what he was planning to do before he left, I'd never have let him go.'

‘I'd like his address,' Rutter said.

‘I don't think—'

‘If you don't give it to me, somebody else will.'

‘You're right,' Bosworth said defeatedly, writing out the address on a slip of paper. ‘You won't be too rough on him, will you?'

‘That's up to him,' Rutter said. ‘And here's a word of warning. If you ring and let him know him that I'm on the way – and if, because of that, he does a runner before I arrive – I'll have the local bobbies swarming all over this building within the hour. And your bosses wouldn't like that, would they?'

‘No,' Bosworth agreed gloomily. ‘I'm sure they wouldn't.'

The Rt. Hon. Douglas Coutes was looking across the table at Jack Braithwaite, his chief political aide. They were in the trailer which, for the previous few days, had officially been listed as Coutes's ‘accommodation', though, in reality, it had been no more than a luxury, unbarred, prison cell.

It was fascinating to observe how rapidly situations could change, the Minister thought. Only a few hours earlier, there had been a couple of grim-faced American military policemen standing guard outside this trailer, but now there was no sign of them at all. Less than
one
hour previously, the whole ‘trailer city' had been intact, but now it was being broken up, as several of the trailers were loaded on to big trucks on the first stage of their journey back to the USA.

But the changes in Coutes's own standing were even more interesting. The Prime Minister, previously too busy to talk to him, had sent a message which said that, after his ordeal, he must go down to Chequers for a weekend's relaxation. Cabinet colleagues, who had been impossible to contact for several days, had begun to ring him up to offer their congratulations. And Jack Braithwaite, conveniently confined to his bed for the last seventy-two hours with a virulent case of flu, had made a sudden dramatic recovery, and driven straight down to the camp.

‘Will you travel back to London with me, Minister?' Braithwaite asked. ‘Or should I have a car and driver sent down to pick you up?'

‘Neither,' Coutes told him. ‘I'll drive myself back. I'll probably do it overnight. I like driving in the dark.'

‘Are you sure, Minister?' Braithwaite said, apparently almost overcome with concern for his beloved master.

‘Why wouldn't I be sure?' Coutes asked.

‘Well, you've been under considerable stress.'

‘I'm
always
under stress. Stress is built into my job. And I positively thrive on it.'

‘That's true. But you've never been under this
particular
kind of stress before. There seemed, it has to be said, to be a great deal of damning evidence against you, and—'

‘Tell me, Braithwaite, did you think I'd actually be charged with the murder?' Coutes interrupted.

The other man flushed. ‘Of course not, Minister.'

‘The truth, Braithwaite,' Coutes said sternly. ‘I want the truth.'

The aide's flush deepened. ‘I'm afraid I thought it was almost inevitable, Minister.'

‘And so you, as one of my most loyal civil servants – perhaps even the
most
loyal – were greatly stressed at the thought of losing your master?'

‘Naturally, Minister.'

‘I, on the other hand, knowing myself to be completely innocent, had no such worries. I was sure I would be vindicated – as indeed, I was.' Coutes paused. ‘Do you think we might talk about the tasks ahead of us, now?'

‘Of course, Minister.'

‘I want you to arrange for the talks on the American military bases to resume the day after tomorrow. Let the General know – informally – that I am open to further compromise.'

‘But … but …' Braithwaite spluttered, astonished.

‘But what?'

‘But by falsely accusing you of murder, they have so weakened their own position that—'

‘That
they
should be the ones to back down?'

‘Well, yes.'

Coutes laughed. ‘How little you know about power, Braithwaite,' he said. ‘The very worst time to make people back down is when they are already feeling weak. They will never forgive you for it. On the other hand, if
you
are in the strong position, and
you
choose to back down, they will be eternally grateful. We will give the Americans
a little
of what they want in this particular negotiation, and they will give us a
great deal
of what we want in future conflicts of interest.'

‘But your Cabinet colleagues will never—'

‘Sanction such an agreement?'

‘Yes.'

‘My Cabinet colleagues are experiencing an emotion hitherto almost entirely unknown to them. Can you guess what it is?'

‘No, I—'

‘Guilt! They abandoned me, and they are feeling
guilty
about it. In a month or so, they will have persuaded themselves that they behaved entirely properly in the circumstances, but at the moment they will give me anything I want.' Coutes paused. ‘I know what you're thinking, Braithwaite.'