Sins of the Fathers (9 page)

She had tried to mend fences – God alone knew how hard she had tried. She'd done her best to charm him, and he'd been distinctly unimpressed. She'd promised to write him up favourably in her articles, and he'd told her where she could stuff it. She'd even said she'd have sex with him – had offered him, on a plate, the body that half the hacks in Fleet Street fell asleep in their lonely beds lusting over – and been rebuffed.

The low point had come when Woodend had realized that it was she who had told Maria Rutter – a few days before her murder – that her husband Bob had had an affair with Monika Paniatowski.

There was no climbing out of that particular hole, she thought. Woodend would never – ever – forgive her for what she had done. But Bob Rutter, if handled right, just might. And while that wasn't as good as having Woodend himself on her side, it was
almost
as good.

The Whitebridge Golf and Country Club had been closely modelled on the mock-Gothic palaces that many rich men with no taste had built for themselves towards the end of the nineteenth century. It was located on the north side of the city, far away from the dark satanic mills which had financed its construction. It was a pleasant enough place, Woodend admitted, if you happened to like manicured lawns and flower beds laid out with almost military precision, but for him it came nowhere near matching the savage grandeur of the moors.

There were only a few club members in the bar when he arrived and they looked at him with suspicion, for while there
were
chief inspectors in the Central Lancs Constabulary who they – at a push – would have regarded as
almost
their social equals, Woodend was definitely not among that number.

Woodend walked across the room to the bar counter. The blank-faced steward, standing behind it, watched his progress carefully, yet somehow managed to appear as if he were looking right through him.

‘A pint of best bitter, when you've got the time, lad,' the chief inspector said.

The steward blinked. So apparently, while Woodend might be invisible, he was not quite inaudible.

‘I'm terribly sorry, sir, but we're not allowed, by law, to serve non-members,' the steward said.

‘Fair enough,' Woodend replied. ‘I'm all for obeyin' the law myself, which is why – if I was you – I wouldn't go out on my bike after dark again without first checkin' my lights very carefully.'

To his left someone chuckled, then a voice said, ‘That sounds like a threat to me.'

Woodend turned. The man who had addressed him was in his fifties, and was wearing a blue blazer with the club's badge on its pocket.

‘A threat?' Woodend repeated. ‘You've got it all wrong, sir. What you've just heard me offer was advice – kindly meant, an' purely in the interest of road safety.'

The man chuckled again, and held out his hand. ‘Tom Carey, the club secretary. And you're Chief Inspector Woodend, aren't you?'

‘That's right,' Woodend agreed, taking the hand.

‘Henry Marlowe phoned me earlier, and said I should be expecting you,' Carey said.

‘Aye, he would have done,' Woodend said. ‘Normally, he'd move heaven an' earth to stop me pokin' my nose around in places like this, but since he really needs a result on the Pine case, he's had to compromise.'

‘Compromise?'

‘Aye. He's givin' me a bit of rope, but he's also put a few of his minders in place to make sure I don't tug on it too hard. You've been nominated as his minder here.'

Carey smiled. ‘I can see you know our Henry quite well,' he said. He turned to the barman. ‘A gin and tonic for me, and a pint of bitter for Mr Woodend, Donald. Put it on my account.'

The two men took their drinks over to a table.

‘So how can we help you, Mr Woodend?' Carey asked.

‘I'm tryin' to build up a picture of what Bradley Pine was like,' Woodend told him.

‘Is
that
how the Central Lancs Police conduct their investigations?' Carey asked, sounding more curious than censorious. ‘I thought that these days it was all fingerprints and blood samples. Very scientific and modern, of course – but perhaps a little boring.'

‘There are fellers on the Force who rely on forensics to do their job for them,' Woodend admitted, taking an exploratory sip of his pint and quickly deciding that the golf club's beer had more than earned its fine reputation. ‘But that isn't the way I work.'

‘So what
do
you do?'

‘I try to get inside people's heads.'

‘And, at the moment, you want to get inside Bradley Pine's?'

‘That's correct.'

‘Well, maybe I can help you there,' Carey told him. ‘Bradley was a pillar of the community, who constantly strived to improve the conditions of those less fortunate than himself.' He winked. ‘That's what it says in his political manifesto, anyway.'

‘But what would
you
say?' Woodend wondered.

‘I'd have say that I quite admired him, but never really knew him,' Carey replied, after a moment's thought. ‘I admired him because he came from nothing, and made no bones about it. He was an orphan, you know.'

‘Aye, I had heard,' Woodend agreed.

‘Some of the less socially secure members of this club try their damnedest to hide their origins. They spend small fortunes searching their family trees for some trace of nobility, and even have family crests commissioned. Bradley never did anything like that. Ask him about his family, and he'd admit quite openly that his father was a drunkard who had no one to blame for his early death but himself. And it must say something for the man, don't you think, that despite his refusal to put on any airs and graces, he still managed to get himself elected to the committee?'

‘If he was on the committee, then you, as club secretary, must have worked quite closely with him.'

‘I did.'

‘An' yet you say you never really knew him?'

‘None of the members really knew Bradley. He was friendly with all, but a
close
friend of no one. He didn't seem to need the assurances of support that most people do. I suppose that might have something to do with being brought up in an orphanage – you have to learn to rely on yourself alone.'

‘Can you think of anybody who might have held a grudge against him?' Woodend asked.

‘You'd have to be a saint for there to be nobody who held a grudge against you,' Carey said.

‘An' even then, there'd be some bugger who'd find a way to pick holes in you,' Woodend agreed. ‘But I'd still like an answer to my question.'

‘I'm sure there were people who resented the fact that Bradley was on the committee and they weren't,' Carey said. ‘I'm sure there are those who think they would have made a better parliamentary candidate. But I certainly can't think of anyone who disliked him enough to kill him.'

‘Business rivals?' Woodend prodded. ‘Jealous husbands?'

The question seemed to amuse Carey. ‘When you're the undisputed king of the interior sprung mattresses in central Lancashire, you
have
no business rivals,' he said.

‘It was a two-part question,' Woodend reminded him.

‘So it was,' Carey agreed. ‘Bradley's been a member of this club since soon after he registered his patent. Back then, there probably were a few jealous husbands around. After all, Bradley was young, unattached and rather good looking, so naturally there were rumours that his relationships with some of the other members' wives were perhaps a little too close.'

‘Were they
just
rumours?' Woodend asked.

‘Since he was not actually caught
in flagrante
, we'll never actually know for sure, but I have to say that it wouldn't surprise me if there'd been a little fire to go with all the smoke.'

‘You've been talkin' in the past tense,' Woodend said. ‘Haven't there been any recent rumours?'

‘No. In fact, there have been none at all for a good few years now.'

‘Why? Did he suddenly lose all interest in sex?'

‘No, I wouldn't quite say that.'

‘Then what
would
you say?'

Carey hesitated for a second, then said, ‘I'm not entirely sure I should say anything at all.'

‘The man's dead,' Woodend pointed out.

‘Yes,' Carey agreed, ‘but
she
isn't.'

‘She?'

‘This is all pure speculation,' Carey said cautiously.

‘I'll bear that in mind,' Woodend promised.

‘I think he fell in love.'

‘Who with?'

‘I really have no idea.'

‘Come on, Mr Carey,' Woodend urged.

‘I mean it, Chief Inspector. I have no idea.'

‘Then how do you know that he fell in love
at all
?'

‘I was in love once,' Carey said. ‘It was a long time ago, but I still recognize the signs.'

‘What signs?'

‘The look in his eyes, sometimes. The far-away expression on his face, as if he'd suddenly started thinking about the best thing that had ever happened to him. The fact that he no longer seemed anything like as interested in other women as he had once done. It's not something you can put your finger on, but then love's like that, isn't it?'

‘But you have no idea who this woman – if she exists – is?'

‘None at all.'

‘So she could be the wife of one of your members?'

‘Given that Bradley seemed to have virtually no social life outside the confines of this club, I'd be very much surprised if the woman in question
wasn't
a member's wife.'

‘There's a pretty good motive for murder, then,' Woodend said.

‘I don't think so,' Carey countered.

‘Why not?'

‘But if she is a member's wife, then the member himself certainly doesn't know about it.'

‘How can you be so sure of that?'

‘I've already said that it's not hard to spot a man who's suddenly fallen deeply in love, haven't I?' Carey said.

‘Yes.'

‘But doing that is rocket science compared to spotting a man who suspects he's been cuckolded. That's as easy as falling off a log.'

T
hough a little of the skill and ball control of a professional football match may have been lacking from the lunch-time match that was being played on the cinder pitch behind Hawtrey and Pine Holdings, the players themselves more than made up for it with their ferocity and enthusiasm – and Constable Beresford, a large mug of tea in his hand, had been watching the game with pleasure for over ten minutes when it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't actually there to enjoy himself.

He forced his gaze away from the pitch, and on to the old man in the flat cap and boiler suit who was standing next to him and had told him earlier that his name was Harry Ramsbotham.

‘I'm surprised they're playing a game at all on a day like this, Harry,' Beresford said, conversationally.

‘Are you now?' the old man replied. ‘An' why might that be?'

‘Well, when all's said and done, your boss has just been brutally murdered, hasn't he?'

‘That's true enough.'

‘And I would have thought they might have abandoned the game as a sign of respect.'

‘Mr Pine wasn't that kind of boss,' Harry Ramsbotham said.

‘Wasn't
what
kind of boss? Are you saying you all hated him? That you're all glad he's dead?'

The old man shook his head. ‘You young lads,' he said, almost despairingly. ‘Everythin's got to be either one extreme or the other with you, hasn't it? No, we didn't hate Mr Pine—'

‘Well, then—‘

‘—but he wasn't like family to us, either. He was the boss. He paid reasonably fair wages, we put in a reasonably fair day's work for them. By an' large, we had no real complaints about him, an' he had no real complaints about us. But nobody's goin' to break into floods of tears now that he's gone.'

‘I see,' Beresford said.

‘Of course, it was different in the old days,' Harry Ramsbotham continued, wistfully. ‘When old Mr Hawtrey died – that's Mr
Samuel
Hawtrey, I'm talkin' about, Mr Alec's dad – they closed down the factory for the day of the funeral, an' every man-jack who worked here went to it. An' there was a funeral tea afterwards, with enough booze flowin' for all his workers to drink to his memory. But like I say, them days are gone forever.'

‘I expect you're right,' Beresford agreed.

‘I
am
right. Old Mr Hawtrey knew the first name of everybody who worked for him. Even Mr Alec knew most of them. But the only people whose names Mr Pine knew were the managers.' Harry Ramsbotham paused for a moment. ‘No, that's not quite fair,' he continued. ‘He did know the names of most of the lads he'd worked with while he was makin' his own way up the ladder to the top.'

There was the sound of cheering from around the cinder pitch, and Beresford turned to see what was happening. A young apprentice had just artfully dribbled the ball around two of his older, slower opponents and was now facing an open goal mouth.

‘Take your time, lad!' Ramsbotham called out. ‘Don't just kick it!
Think
about it.'

The apprentice paused for a moment, perhaps as a result of the old man's advice, then slammed his foot into the ball with tremendous force. The goalkeeper made a desperate dive, but it was a wasted effort and the ball flew into the back of the net.

‘He's good enough to turn professional, that lad,' Ramsbotham told Beresford.

‘Did Alec Hawtrey own the whole business before Bradley Pine became a partner?' Beresford asked.

‘He most certainly did. Mr Samuel left it to him in his will – lock, stock an' barrel.'