Dangerous Games (31 page)

Hough smiled. ‘So what suddenly turned me into the Mad Hangman of Whitebridge?' he asked.

‘Love,' Woodend said.

‘Love?'

‘You fell in love with Priscilla Charlton. You dreamed of marryin' her, an' havin' her bear your children. But, of course, that was never goin' to happen. Still, you thought you could reconcile yourself to that. Then you met Terry Pugh – purely by accident – in Whitebridge town centre …'

‘You're doing nothing but blowing hot air,' Hough said.

‘What's the matter?' Woodend challenged. ‘Are you afraid you can't handle the truth?'

Hough considered the question for a moment, then shook his head and said, ‘No, I can handle it. You carry on.'

‘You met Terry Pugh in town, an' he told you that his wife was expectin' a baby. Suddenly, the balance you'd established in your life just disintegrated. It didn't seem fair, did it? The two of you had both had a hand in killin' the girl, yet he was goin' to have kids, an' you weren't.
That's
when you decided that justice had to be done. At least, justice is what you decided to called it.'

‘It
was
justice,' Hough said angrily.

‘Yes, I'm sure that's what you told yourself. I'm sure you argued that it
had to be
justice, because you were goin' to die, too.'

‘That's exactly it.'

‘But you'd reached the point at which you considered that your own life wasn't worth livin' anyway, so what did it
matter
if you did die?' Woodend shook his head slowly, from side to side. ‘It wasn't the search for justice that was drivin' you, Mr Hough. It was
anger
. It was
envy
.'

A tear began to trickle down Hough's cheek. ‘Do you have to try and rob me of my last illusion, Chief Inspector?' he asked.

‘Yes, I think I do,' Woodend told him seriously.

‘In God's name, why?'

‘Because it's my duty to do all that I can to stop you from killing yourself. And the more you see it as some grand noble act, the more you're likely to do it. But it isn't noble at all, Mr Hough. It's petty an' it's peevish.'

‘So what's the alternative to killing myself?' Hough asked. ‘A lifetime in prison? Because they're never going to let me out, you know.'

‘Probably not,' Woodend agreed. ‘But you're a very talented man, an' you could do a lot of good for the world, even from prison. An' when you do eventually die, you'll have the opportunity to die like a man, instead of like a snivelling wretch – which is just what you'll be if you kill yourself now.'

‘You make a strong case, Chief Inspector,' Hough told him. ‘But unfortunately, not strong
enough
.'

His hands grasped the wheels of his chair, and he propelled himself forward. The chair flew through the air, then plummeted to the ground. Hough remained, swinging at the end of a rope, a few feet below the level of the floor.

He had been right about one thing, Woodend thought – he
had
calculated the necessary length of the rope perfectly.

‘W
hat have you got to say about the bloody mess you've got us into, Chief Inspector Woodend?' Henry Marlowe demanded, in a voice that was almost a roar.

‘The mess
I've
got us into?' Woodend replied.

‘That's what I said. Not only have we had three murders in the last few days, but we've had two suicides in the last few
hours
. And let's just take a closer look at those two suicides, shall we?'

‘If you like.'

‘The first one had such an element of coercion to it that it was
virtually
a murder. And as for the second, that was dramatic enough to ensure it will be on the front page news tomorrow morning – and probably for days after that.' Marlowe paused for a second, but only to draw breath. ‘Have I missed anything out, Mr Woodend?' he continued. ‘Is there some further disaster I've not even heard about yet?'

‘You're wrong about Martin Murray's suicide being coerced,' Woodend said. ‘Mark Hough's intervention might have speeded the process up a little, but he would almost certainly have killed himself eventually.'

‘What are you talking about!' Marlowe demanded. ‘Don't you realize that I don't give a toss about Murray's state of mind. All I care about is how bad this makes us look.'

‘I don't see how we could have handled it any differently,' Woodend told him. ‘We're simply not trained or equipped to deal with professional assassins, which is what Nikopolidis more or less was. An' how likely did it seem that Hough was behind the whole thing – that he was intendin' to die himself?'

‘You should have spotted it sooner,' Marlowe said.

‘Aye, you're right,' Woodend agreed. ‘Not that it would have made much difference to the outcome, even if I had.'

‘It would have made a difference to this
police force
,' Marlowe said. ‘It would have made a difference to your future
prospects
.'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘I have to inform you, Chief Inspector Woodend, that as from this moment you are suspended on full pay.'

‘Until when?'

‘Until a board of inquiry can be convened to investigate your mis-handling of this case.'

‘You mean to determine whether or not I
did
mis-handle it,' Woodend suggested.

‘No, I meant exactly what I said,' Marlowe told him.

Woodend nodded slowly. ‘So the board's report is already written, is it? At least in your head?'

‘Yes, it is,' Marlowe said, with unusual candour. ‘I intend to break you, Chief Inspector. I shall take no personal pleasure from it, but that is what I intend to do.'

‘I don't think you're bein'
quite
honest about that last point, sir,' Woodend said. ‘The truth is that if you
can
break me, you'll be chuffed as little apples.'

‘Perhaps you're right – in the long term,' Marlowe conceded. ‘Perhaps, at some time in the future, I will be able to truly savour the process I am about to initiate. But at the moment, I am simply doing whatever I can to ensure my own survival.'

‘An' there's no room in the lifeboat for two,' Woodend said.

‘Just so,' Marlowe agreed. He held out his hand, palm upwards. ‘If you don't mind, I'll take your warrant card now, Chief Inspector.'

An air of gloom hovered over the team's usual table at the Drum and Monkey that night.

‘Have you spoken to Monika, sir?' Rutter asked, more to fill in the silence than because he wanted to hear the answer.

‘Aye, I have spoken to her,' Woodend replied. ‘Her plane was diverted to somewhere down south, so she'll not be back till the mornin'. She's not exactly pleased about it, but at least it means she's been spared havin' to attend this mournful bloody gatherin'.' He took a slug of his pint. ‘An' while we're on the subject of my wake, I'm not entirely sure you two lads should be here, either. Now I've been given the black spot, you might be well advised to pretend that any past association you've had with me was certainly not a matter of choice on your part.'

‘It doesn't work like that, sir,' Beresford said, and his tone was very gentle, as if he were talking to an injured bird. ‘We're on your team, and we'll continue to be on it until there's no team to be on.'

‘Too bloody true,' Rutter agreed. ‘Anyway, I'm confident you'll beat this thing, sir.'

‘I'm not so sure you're right about that,' Woodend said. ‘The press will be screamin' for
somebody's
blood, an' I have to admit, I'm likeliest-looking donor. Anyway, why
should
I fight it? I'm only a few years away from retirement, an' while the pension won't be exactly wonderful, I'll be able to live off it, as long as I watch the pennies carefully. Who knows, I might just move to Spain, an' set up a private detective agency with my mate Paco.'

‘It doesn't sound like you,' Rutter said dubiously.

‘Doesn't it?' Woodend asked. ‘Listen, for the past twenty years I've been puttin' more hours into the job than Soft Mick. I've worked till my back ached an' my head was spinnin'. I've seen things that would probably turn most men's stomachs – an' which have certainly turned mine. An' on top of that, I've had to serve under a long line of dickheads, culminatin' in the Dickhead-in-Chief, Henry-bloody-Marlowe. Who needs it?'

Rutter grinned. ‘
You
do,' he said.

‘Aye, you're right,' Woodend agreed with a sigh. ‘
I
do.'

‘Phone call for Mr Rutter,' the landlord called across the bar.

‘Better take it,' Woodend said. ‘It could be that they've already assigned you a new boss, an' he's wonderin' what you're doin' still dancin' the hornpipe on a sinkin' ship.'

Elizabeth Driver was lying in a deep luxurious bath, in a hotel where her bill – when it was finally presented – would just about equal the national debt of a small country. She was not alone in the bath, but she had given the muscular young man who was sharing it with her strict instructions that he should keep quiet while she made her phone call – and since she had delivered the instructions in words of one syllable, she was fairly confident that he had understood her.

‘Rutter,' said a voice at the other end of the line.

‘Oh, hello, darling!' Elizabeth Driver said – then wondered immediately if ‘darling' was not pushing things a little too far, a little too fast.

‘Is that you, Elizabeth?' Rutter asked.

No ‘darling' from him in return, then, so perhaps she'd better cool things off a little.

‘I heard on the news that you've solved the case of the headless man,' she said.

‘In a way – and at a cost,' Rutter told her.

‘At a cost?'

‘Cloggin'-it Charlie's been suspended. He doesn't think he'll survive the board of inquiry.'

‘But that's terrible!' Elizabeth Driver gasped.

‘Don't pretend to be upset about it, Liz,' Rutter said. ‘You never did like the man.'

There was an element of rebuke to his tone, she thought, but at least he was calling her Liz, which was a definite improvement.

‘You're right that Mr Woodend and I haven't always got on,' she agreed, ‘but I've always respected him for the good bobby he is, and I had been hoping that, as we got to know each other better, we'd learn to like each other more – if only for your sake.'

‘You never cease to surprise me,' Rutter said. ‘There I was, thinking you'd be over the moon that he was about to lose his job, and instead you really sound quite distressed.'

‘I
am
distressed,' Elizabeth Driver said.

And so she was. Charlie Woodend was going to be one of the cornerstones of her book. She didn't want him crucified now – she wanted him crucified when she was in a position from which she could hammer in the nails personally.

‘I've got another piece of news,' Rutter said. ‘And it's good news, this time. Louisa is coming to Whitebridge next week.'

‘Who?'

‘Louisa. My daughter!'

‘Oh, Louisa,' Elizabeth Driver said. ‘Must be a bad line, because I could have sworn you said something else. Yes, that
is
good news.'

She was simply going to have to cosy up to the snotty little brat if she was to get really close to Rutter, she told herself. It would be a strain, but it would still be a relatively small price to pay for having a best-selling exposé handed to her on a platter.

‘I'm really looking forward to meeting the little poppet,' she continued. ‘Listen, darling, I simply have to go now, because I'm working to a very tight deadline on my latest story, and my editor will go absolutely bananas if I don't manage to meet it.'

‘If you're that busy, then it was very nice of you to find the time to ring me,' Rutter said.

‘It wasn't nice at all,' Elizabeth Driver told him. ‘I rang you because I
miss
you.'

It was a rather good closing line, and so she hung up immediately.

The man at the other end of the bath smiled amiably at her, reminding her of a none-too-bright puppy who only wants to please.

‘Finished?' he asked.

‘The phone call's finished, but I'm certainly not,' Elizabeth Driver told him. ‘You remember that thing you were doing to me earlier?'

‘Yes?'

‘Do it to me again.'

Most of the customers in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey noticed the new arrival almost the moment he came through the door. Perhaps it was his expensive herringbone suit which immediately attracted their attention, or perhaps it was the aura of self-confidence which seemed to encase him. Whatever the cause, the man himself did not seem aware of the minor sensation he was causing, and having located Woodend, he made a bee-line for his table.

‘Good evening, Chief Inspector,' he said.

‘Good evening to you, an' all,' Woodend replied. He turned to Beresford. ‘This is Mr Forsyth. He's a spy.'

Forsyth laughed lightly. ‘Mr Woodend will have his little joke,' he told Beresford. ‘In point of fact, I'm no more than a very minor official in the Foreign Office.'

‘A spy,' Woodend repeated.

‘Have it your own way, Mr Woodend,' Forsyth said easily. ‘Would you excuse us for a few minutes, Constable Beresford?'

‘How do you know my name?' Beresford asked.

‘You've not been listenin', lad,' Woodend told him. ‘He's a
spy
.'

Beresford stood up. ‘Well, I'll … if you'll … call me when you need me, sir,' he said awkwardly.

‘Don't worry, I will,' Woodend replied.