Dying in the Dark (9 page)

Perhaps a sighted person would have known that something was wrong, and got out of the house before the explosion occurred, he thought. And if that were the case, then life, which had already cursed her by striking her blind, had been doubly cruel in making that blindness the cause of her death.

‘Are you all right, sir?' Beresford asked.

‘Of course I'm not bloody all right!' Woodend snapped. ‘I've just lost someone I loved.'

They were approaching the Grapes when he saw a woman entering it. She was wearing a smart suit – with the skirt just short enough to reveal her excellent legs – and had long black hair which fell down over her shoulders.

Woodend's grief receded, and was replaced by a lake of bubbling volcanic anger.

So Elizabeth Driver was back in Whitebridge, he thought. He should have expected that from a woman who was not so much a crime reporter as a ghoul feeding off the misery of others.

‘Stop the car!' he said.

‘Pardon, sir?'

‘Stop the bloody car.'

‘But I thought—'

‘You're not paid to think, Constable. You're paid to do as you're bloody well told.'

Beresford signalled, and pulled over to the curb. ‘Do you want me to—' he began.

‘You just wait here until I come back,' Woodend said, climbing out of the car.

He had been too restrained in the past, he told himself as he walked towards the pub door. He had let Elizabeth Driver get away with all kinds of things, because he had not wanted to soil his hands by coming into contact with a louse like her. Well, those days were gone. He would finally tell her exactly what he thought of her. He would pull no punches, because she merited no such consideration.

He knew that what was about to follow really had nothing to do with Driver – that his rage was directed at the rotten world in general, rather than at a rotten reporter in particular. But he didn't care. He needed to hit out – and Elizabeth Driver was the perfect target.

He pushed the swing door open. Elizabeth Driver was already standing at the bar, and he heard her order a gin and tonic.

Under normal circumstances, perhaps, he might have noticed the shake in her voice. But these were not normal circumstances.

He walked up to the bar, and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you again, Miss Driver,' he said sarcastically.

The look on Elizabeth Driver's face, when she turned round, came as something of a shock.

He thought he'd seen her whole repertoire of expressions – her defiance when he'd caught her trying to pull a fast one on him and his investigation; the mixture of sullenness and anger when he'd thwarted her plans to distort the truth; the cunning expression which crept into her eyes when she was about to offer him some kind of deal; the way that expression turned sultry when she had decided that – since all else had failed – she might as well offer him her body again, because maybe this time he just might succumb.

Yes, he'd thought he'd seen them all. But never – never – had he seen her so haggard and nervous.

For a moment he was almost inclined to hold off on his attack, but she'd never shown anyone mercy in the past, and so she had no right to expect it from him now.

‘How'd you get up here, Miss Driver?' he asked. ‘Overnight train? First-class sleeper, as befits a reporter of your obvious calibre?'

Elizabeth Driver looked confused. ‘N … no!' she said.

Had she stuttered? Woodend asked himself incredulously. Had this woman, with nerves of steel and ice running through her veins, actually
stuttered
?

‘I've … I've been here for a few days,' she continued.

‘Why?' Woodend asked.

She should have told him to mind his own business – the old Elizabeth Driver would have done just that – but instead she looked down at the floor and said, ‘It was a private matter.'

‘But now you're here, you thought you might as well stay and cover the murder?'

‘Yes.'

‘An' why not? It's got all elements that a journalist of your stature can really get her fangs into, hasn't it? A single defenceless woman, viciously killed. Blood and gore all over the place. If you push it, you might even to be able to bring in the sex angle. It's just up your street. Handle it right – as you always do – an' your paper's circulation should go through the roof.'

‘It's not like that this time,' Elizabeth Driver said, almost pathetically.

‘Isn't it?' Woodend asked, unrelentingly. ‘Then what
is
it like?'

‘I want to see justice done,' Elizabeth Driver said – and for once she really
did
sound sincere.

‘Whatever for?' Woodend wondered. ‘Why should you give a toss about Pamela Rainsford?'

Elizabeth Driver looked at him blankly. ‘Who?' she asked.

‘Pamela Rainsford! The murder victim!'

‘Oh, her,' Elizabeth Driver said.

‘What do you mean? Oh her? Who else could we be talking about?'

‘Maria Rutter.'

‘But that was an accident, for God's sake!'

‘You haven't been told, have you?' Elizabeth Driver said, shocked.

‘Haven't been told what?'

‘It wasn't the explosion – or the fire – that killed her. She was already dead by then.'

‘How could you possibly know that?' Woodend asked.

But he already knew the answer to his question. Dr Shastri would never leak her findings to the press in exchange for a few pounds, but there were plenty of people connected with the morgue who would.

‘The initial findings suggest that she was killed by a blow to the back of the head,' Elizabeth Driver said flatly.

‘But she hadn't got an enemy in the world,' Woodend said, still unable to believe it. ‘Who'd have had any reason to kill her?'

‘Who do
you
think?' Elizabeth Driver asked. ‘Who
usually
has a motive in domestic murders?'

‘You're not sayin' …' Woodend gasped. ‘You can't be sayin' …'

‘And who do you think it was who was taken straight from the hospital to the interrogation room in police headquarters?' Elizabeth Driver asked.

T
he man who entered the interview room and sat down opposite Bob Rutter was around forty-six years old. His head was bullet-shaped, and he had darting eyes. Between his large nose and thin-lipped mouth rested a short, overly clipped moustache.

‘DCI Evans,' he announced.

‘I know who you are,' Rutter answered.

More to the point, he knew
what
Evans was. The DCI, based in Preston rather than Whitebridge, had a formidable reputation as a hatchet man – an officer more than willing to do the unpalatable jobs that none of his colleagues wanted to touch.

It was Evans who had been brought in to try to fit up Cloggin'-it Charlie on corruption charges during the Dugdale's Farm murder. And though he had not been successful on that occasion, he had a good track record otherwise, and had left a trail of destroyed careers in his wake all over Central Lancashire.

‘I have a series of questions which I'd like to put to you, Mr Rutter,' Evans said flatly.

‘You do know that my wife's just died in an awful tragic accident, don't you?' Rutter asked. ‘That I'm totally devastated by it? That I've got a young child to take care of?'

‘I'm fully aware of everything connected with the incident,' DCI Evans replied.

‘The
incident
!' Bob Rutter said aghast.

‘And you should be well aware that in circumstances like these, there are certain formalities which have to be gone through,' Evans continued.

‘I'm perfectly willing to go through the procedures, but does it have to be right now?'

‘Yes.'

‘Look, I'm not an ordinary member of the general public. I'm on the Force. I would have thought that entitled me to a little leeway.'

‘I'm afraid it doesn't. Once we start bending the rules for our own people, it isn't long before we start bending the rules for others. And that's when the rot really starts to set in.'

‘Surely a few hours wouldn't make any difference.'

‘We all have our jobs to do,' DCI Evans said sternly. ‘And mine is to ask you a few questions.'

‘And when I've answered them, can I go?'

‘We'll see about that.'

Rutter sighed. ‘Ask your questions,' he said.

‘Could you account for your movements yesterday?'

‘
All
of yesterday?'

‘From about six o'clock in the evening onwards should be more than sufficient.'

‘We're working on a case,' Rutter said. ‘A woman who was murdered down by the canal. My boss, Mr Woodend, was asking questions at the factory where the woman worked. I was in charge of the house-to-house questioning in the area where the dead woman had lived.'

‘And this house-to-house questioning went on until …?'

‘I don't know exactly.'

‘
Why
don't you know exactly? Didn't you look at your watch when the investigations were concluded for the day? Didn't you jot the time down in your notebook?'

‘I wasn't actually there when the house-to-house questioning finished,' Rutter admitted.

‘Now that is interesting,' Evans said. ‘You were in charge of the team, yet you abandoned them.'

‘I didn't
abandon
them. I
left
them to get on with it. They're a good team. I trust them. Besides …'

‘Yes?'

‘I was tired. I was finding it difficult to concentrate on the job, and I didn't want to make any mistakes.'

‘You were tired,' Evans said, nodding. ‘So I assume that you went home to rest?'

‘You know I bloody didn't!' Rutter said angrily. ‘If I'd gone home, I'd have been dead as well.'

‘So what did you do?'

‘I drove around.'

‘Interesting,' Evans said. ‘You say that you were tired, but you drove around.'

‘Maybe “tired” is the wrong word to use,' Rutter said exasperatedly. ‘I was
tense
! All right! Are you happy with that? I was tense – and
when
I'm tense I find driving around relaxes me.'

‘Where did you go?'

‘What's this all about?' Rutter demanded.

‘You've been a policeman long enough to be able to work it out for yourself,' Evans said coldly. ‘But just in case you haven't, I'll be more explicit. What it's
about
, Mr Rutter, is my asking questions and you answering them.'

Rutter nodded, acknowledging that, unpalatable as it might be, what the other man had said was true.

‘I don't
know
where I drove,' he admitted. ‘I had a lot on my mind. I wasn't paying attention.'

‘What a very dangerous state to be in when you're behind the wheel,' Evans said. ‘How long were you away on this drive of yours?'

‘I left the house at about half past six. I got back just after nine, when it was … when it was all over.'

‘Do you remember stopping anywhere on this drive of yours? For petrol, perhaps? Or for a cup of tea?'

‘I filled up the petrol tank yesterday morning. And I wasn't thirsty, so I didn't stop for a drink.'

‘That's very strange,' Evans mused. ‘Whenever I'm feeling nervous, I always have a
terrible
thirst.'

‘I didn't say I was nervous,' Rutter protested.

‘No, you didn't,' Evans agreed. ‘You said you were tense. You said you were worried you'd make mistakes because you couldn't concentrate properly. But you never said you were nervous.'

He paused. Most men would have taken the opportunity to light up a cigarette, but DCI Evans didn't smoke. He didn't drink, either.

‘Did anyone see you on this drive of yours?'

‘Not to my knowledge.'

‘Pity. If you'd been involved in a minor collision, or been given a speeding ticket, you'd have had just the alibi you needed.'

‘
Do
I need an alibi?' Rutter asked. ‘What do I need an alibi
for
?'

‘There's a patch of unused land behind your house, isn't there?' Evans asked, ignoring the question.

‘There's a
building site
behind my house, to be strictly accurate,' Rutter corrected him. ‘It's going to be the next phase of the estate development.'

‘Patch of unused land or building site, it doesn't really make much difference,' Evans said carelessly. ‘The point is that anyone wishing to approach your house would not necessarily have to do it from the front. It would be perfectly possible to park on the street at the other edge of the land, cut across, climb over the back fence, and enter your house through the French windows. In the dark, it's likely the intruder could make the whole journey without anyone seeing him. He could even, if he had a mind to do so, leave the same way.'

‘What intruder?' Rutter asked. ‘Who are we talking about?'

‘Who indeed? Would you say that you and your wife had a happy marriage, Inspector?'

‘It had its ups and downs,' Rutter said.

‘And how would you describe the state it was in just before your wife's death? Up? Or down?'

‘It was fine.'

‘No problems?'

‘None at all.'

‘And if were to ask your friends and neighbours that same question, would I get the same answer?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're sure? Because it would look bad if that didn't turn out to be the case.'

‘Ask
who
you like
what
you like,' Rutter said defiantly.

‘Oh, I shall,' Evans said. ‘Rest assured, I shall. The reason your child was spared from the explosion last night was that she was at a neighbour's house. Is that correct?'