Dying in the Dark (19 page)

‘You've got a closed mind when it comes to Maria's murder,' Woodend said, ‘an' that's just not like you. You've got to learn to rise above your own personal pain, an' seek out the truth.'

‘We already know the truth.'

‘If you really think like that, there's no real point to havin' bobbies at all, is there?' Woodend demanded furiously. ‘If crime detection involves doin' no more than arrestin' somebody who
could
be the murderer, then school dinner ladies could do our job.'

‘Please, Charlie, won't you just look at the facts of the case?' Monika pleaded.

‘That's just what I intend to do,' Woodend told her. ‘But first I've got to make sure I have all the facts available to me. An' I don't. Not yet! But I'm gettin' there.'

‘Are you?' Paniatowski asked, almost pityingly.

‘Yes, I bloody am. An' I don't think I'll even have to look very hard to find them. I think they're probably so thick on the ground that I'll practically trip over the buggers. So why hasn't DCI Evans found them? Because he isn't even botherin' to look for them.'

‘Or because he's right and you're wrong,' Paniatowski said. ‘Because you
wish
that certain facts were there, and he
knows
they aren't.'

‘You're such a smartarse, aren't you, Monika,' Woodend said. ‘So sure you know everythin' there is to know. Well, let me tell you somethin' that I've
already
found out.'

‘Don't do this to yourself,' Monika pleaded.

‘This Bascombe feller, who I was talkin' to tonight, happens to live on Ash Croft,' Woodend said, ignoring her. ‘An' do you know where Ash Croft
is
, Sergeant Paniatowski?'

‘Yes, I know where it is.'

‘It's very close to Bob and Maria's house. In fact, the only thing that
separates
it from Bob's house is a strip of buildin' land.'

‘I know.'

‘Good! I'm delighted to hear that you do at least know
somethin
'. Anyway, the point about Ash Croft is that there are very few houses on it which are occupied yet. Which means – an' I shouldn't need to tell you this – that very few cars will normally be parked on that road. So I asked this Bascombe feller if he'd noticed any strange vehicles parked there the night Maria was murdered. An' he bloody had, Monika! He bloody had! He'd spotted a dark-green Ford Cortina GT. One of the new models. An' before you ask how he can be sure of that, he's sure because he's a motor enthusiast, an' he went right up to it to get a closer look. Do you see where I'm goin' with all this, Monika?'

‘Yes, I see where you're going,' Paniatowski replied.

There was a dull, almost lifeless tone to her voice, but Woodend was now so fired up that he didn't even notice it.

‘It could have been the
killer's
car,' he said. ‘The killer could have parked there, slipped across the buildin' site under the cover of darkness, an' murdered Maria. But does Chief Inspector Evans know anythin' about this green Cortina? Does he buggery!'

‘You can't be sure of that,' Paniatowski said, her voice as flat and cold as an ice rink.

‘Can't I? Then tell me this. If he knows about it, why hasn't he done a follow-up investigation?'

‘Perhaps he has.'

‘Bollocks! If he'd followed it up, he'd have had the driver in for questionin' by now. Findin' him would have been an absolute doddle, wouldn't it? Because, when all's said and done, there can't be
that
many new, dark-green Cortina GTs in the Whitebridge area.'

‘No, there can't,' Paniatowski agreed heavily. ‘But I know of one, at least.'

‘Well, there you are then!'

‘What kind of car do you think Bob drives?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I
know
what kind of car he drives. A Vauxhall Victor. But what's that got to do with anythin'?'

‘He
did
drive a Victor. But he's been planning to trade it in for something else for a quite a while, and he took delivery of his new car just a couple of days before Maria was killed.'

‘An' what … what make of car is it?' Woodend asked, wishing he was dead.

‘It's a Ford Cortina GT,' Paniatowski said. ‘The latest model. And it's dark green.'

T
he weather forecasters had been predicting a relatively mild autumn, but the weather itself was refusing to play along with them, and on the morning after Teddy Allcard had his nose broken, the air in Whitebridge was chilly and the sky heavy with thick grey clouds.

Monika Paniatowski, crossing town in her beloved MGA, found herself thinking about the nature of murder investigations.

It was a common belief in police circles that a squad assembled to deal with a homicide should strive to become a well-oiled machine. It was a belief she herself had shared, until she'd started working for Charlie Woodend.

‘I don't like usin' the term at all,' Woodend had told her, back in their early days together. ‘A well-oiled machine! It's too cold. Too mechanical. It makes what we do seem like a science.'

‘And isn't it?' Paniatowski had asked.

‘Oh, I'll not deny there's room for science an' logic in an investigation, but there's an
art
to it as well.'

‘So if we shouldn't try to be a machine, what exactly
should
we try to become?'

‘An organism,' Woodend had said. ‘A livin' breathin' organism.'

‘Like a cat or a dog?'

‘No, more like an octopus. The way I see it, each member of the team is a tentacle, feelin' about in the murk, an' sendin' its impressions back to the brain. An' the brain's job is to put all these impressions together, an' build up a complete picture.'

He was right, of course. Cloggin'-it Charlie usually
was
right. And thinking back over the cases they'd investigated together, Monika Paniatowski could appreciate just how well the theory worked out in practice – just how well the tentacles and the brain had gelled with one another.

But that only worked as long as the brain was up to the job. And Woodend's wasn't – not on this particular case. Because the brain was ignoring the tentacles. It had no real interest in receiving the messages they were sending it on the Pamela Rainsford case. Its only concern was to try to prove that someone other than Bob Rutter had murdered Maria Rutter two nights earlier.

Paniatowski pulled up at a red light, and reached into the glove compartment for her cigarettes. She shouldn't have to be making this visit to Pamela Rainsford's flat, she thought, because that ground had already been covered by someone else. But now the brain had abdicated its responsibility, the tentacles were going to have to do more of the thinking.

Like the few of its original inhabitants who were still in residence there, Hebden Brow had seen itself go down in the world.

Once it had stood on the very edge of Whitebridge. There had been an uninterrupted view of the moors from bedroom windows, and the row of single-residence houses had been owned mainly by mill managers, doctors and rising businessmen. Now there was only an uninterrupted view of the new council estate, and most of the houses had been converted into flats.

This was not new territory to Monika Paniatowski – most of the Margaret Dodds case had been centred on Hebden Brow – and as she turned on to the street, she remembered the details of that investigation and felt an involuntary shudder run through her whole body.

Pamela Rainsford had lived on the top floor of number 33, Hebden Brow. Many of the occupants of upper-storey flats on the Brow were obliged to enter their houses through a communal front door, but Pamela had been lucky in this respect, since there was a cast-iron staircase running up the outside of the building which gave her a private entrance.

‘Nice for her,' Paniatowski thought as she climbed the stairs. ‘Nice for
her
– and unlucky for
us
.'

She had not known quite what to expect from the flat. Would it reveal Pamela's penchant for risky sex in public places? Would her flirtatious nature – so sourly noted by Mr Bascombe – be obvious from the decor? Or would the picture presented be one of the neat, thoroughly respectable, young woman who Derek Higson imagined had worked as his secretary?

She opened the door, and felt a wave of disappointment wash over her as she saw that, at first glance at least, it was the thoroughly respectable side of Pamela which was on show.

The furniture was light, modern and nondescript – more Whitebridge High Street than New Horizons Enterprises. There were scatter cushions in royal blue on the sofa and armchair, and a poster showing James Dean in
Rebel Without a Cause
on the wall. The curtains matched the cloth which covered the sofa, the carpet had been chosen to blend in with the curtains.

The kitchen revealed a tidy mind. The plates were neatly stacked in the appropriate place, the pans thoroughly scoured, the knives and forks laid in the drawer with almost military precision.

It was only when she reached the bedroom wardrobe that Paniatowski felt a quickening of interest. The wardrobe was clearly divided into two halves. On the left side were the clothes that Pamela must have worn to work – respectable dresses and almost severe suits. To the right were clothes of an entirely different nature – dresses which failed to cover the knees, blouses which plunged to reveal a dangerous amount of cleavage.

Yet what had the search really told her? Paniatowski wondered, as she paused to light yet another cigarette.

That Pamela liked to attract men? She already knew that.

That she kept her life as a secretary and her life as a vamp apart? That had been evident for some time.

What would Charlie Woodend – the
old
Charlie Woodend – had made of all this? Paniatowski wondered. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine that he was in the room with her.

‘
Pamela Rainsford liked to show off, an' she liked to run the risk of bein' caught
,' Woodend's deep voice said in her head.

‘I know that, sir,' Monika said softly, to the empty flat.

‘
You might know it, but you've not really
thought
about it – you haven't really put yourself in her situation
,' the voice rumbled on.

‘Haven't I?'

‘
No, you bloody haven't. Think about your own situation. What's the best thing, as far as you're concerned, about investigatin' a case?'

‘Bringing the criminal to justice?'

‘Save that sort of guff for your promotions board. What's in it for
you?
How often do you enjoy the case while it's in progress?'

‘Not very often. It's usually a bit like coming down with a bad case of the 'flu.'

‘
So what
do
you enjoy
?'

‘Reliving it.'

‘
Reliving it
how?'

‘If I'm honest, I suppose I'd have to say I like wallowing in the triumph of it all.'

‘
Aye, a bit like a pig rollin' in shit
,' the imaginary Woodend said dryly. ‘
An' do you do this wallowin' alone?
'

‘You know I don't. I do it in the Drum, with you and …' her voice choked slightly, ‘… and Bob.'

‘
This is no time for emotionalism
,' the imaginary Woodend said sternly. ‘
Could Pamela relive her triumphs with anybody else?
'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because the only people she could have relived them with would have been the boyfriends. If the others are anything like the one I talked to, they wouldn't have been around any longer.'

‘So?'

‘So she'll have kept a diary!'

‘Aye, that's more than likely, isn't it?'

The diary was hidden under a loose floorboard beneath the bedroom carpet. It wasn't the best hiding place in the world, Paniatowski thought, but perhaps that was precisely why Pamela had chosen it. Knowing how vulnerable it was – how easily a determined person could find it – would only add to the danger and enhance the thrill.

When the two constables heard the sound of footsteps at the other end of the police garage, they already had the boot of the dark-green Ford Cortina GT open and were examining the contents. As the footsteps drew closer, the constables straightened up and saw a large man in a hairy tweed jacket walking towards them.

‘I never know what I'll find you doin' next, Beresford,' Woodend said jovially. ‘Beat policeman, driver, forensics examiner – you're a jack-of-all-trades, an' no question about it.'

‘I went on a Home Office course for this kind of work, sir,' Beresford said, in a flat voice. ‘It's as well to have a number of strings to your bow.'

‘Aye, it is,' Woodend agreed.

The constables did not resume their examination, but neither did they make any effort to continue the conversation.

‘Nice set of wheels,' Woodend said, after what seemed like an unbearable amount of time had elapsed. ‘Wouldn't mind ownin' one of these buggers myself. I expect you wouldn't mind one, either.'

‘No, sir, I wouldn't,' Beresford replied, his voice still toneless.

Another silence followed.

‘I hope you're not goin' to damage it,' Woodend said, trying his best not to sound too desperate. ‘It'd be almost a crime in itself to pull a nice shiny new car like this to pieces.'

‘We're not going to pull it to pieces, sir,' Beresford said.

‘So what are you goin' to do with it? Polish the bodywork an' check the tyre pressures?'

Woodend laughed, to show he had been making a joke, but the constables didn't join in.