Sins of the Fathers (2 page)

‘But, ultimately, I had to base my decision on what I thought would be best for the Party, Henry. I knew I could win the seat, you see, and I very much doubted that you could.'

‘In the current political climate, we could have put up a turnip as our candidate and it would still have romped home,' Marlowe said.

‘Perhaps you're right,' Pine conceded.

‘You know I'm right.'

‘But you still shouldn't look on this as a rout, Henry. You should see it more as a postponement.'

‘Should I?'

‘Of course. It won't be long before you're selected for another constituency. And think what an advantage it will be for you to have a friend in Westminster, speeding the process along.'

‘Throwing me crumbs from his table would be closer to the truth,' Marlowe said bitterly.

‘That's a little harsh,' Pine said. ‘Listen, Henry, I'm very grateful for what you've done for me—'

‘And so you bloody-well should be!'

‘—but even gratitude must eventually have its limitations. You can rely on my help in the future, there's no question about that – but you can't keep drawing on debts from the past, as if they were some kind of bottomless well.'

‘I could destroy you, you know!' Marlowe said.

‘Not without destroying yourself,' Pine countered.

‘So what?' Marlowe asked defiantly. ‘It might almost be worth it!'

‘You know that's not true,' Pine told him. He glanced down at his watch, though given the combination of night-time darkness and swirling fog, he knew he would be unable to read it. ‘I'm afraid I really do have to go now, Henry. I'm due at St Mary's Church.'

‘Oh, so you've suddenly found your religion again, have you?' Marlowe asked aggressively.

‘I never lost it,' Pine said mildly. ‘It's simply been in moth balls all these years – and now I'm taking it out for an airing.'

‘You're a cynical bastard,' Marlowe said.

‘And you are perhaps not quite cynical enough, Henry,' Pine responded, opening the door of his Cortina and climbing in. ‘You see things far too much in terms of black and white. The politician's art is to be able to distinguish the various shades of grey, and it's an art you'll have to learn if you're ever to start climbing the political ladder yourself.'

He turned the ignition key and, despite the dampness in the atmosphere, the Cortina fired first time.

Henry Marlowe stood and watched as the vehicle's tail lights were swallowed up by the fog.

If ever a man was asking to get himself topped, he thought, that man was Bradley Pine.

The three people – two men and a woman – who were sitting in the corner of the public bar of the Drum and Monkey that night were regulars, not only of that particular boozer but of that particular table.

The older of the two men, Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend, was in his early fifties. He was what people in Whitebridge would call ‘a big bugger', which meant that even violent drunks would think twice before taking a poke at him. He was wearing a hairy sports jacket and a pair of cavalry twill trousers, both items selected at random that morning from a wardrobe containing half a dozen similar jackets and several pairs of trousers which were almost identical.

The younger man, Constable Colin Beresford, was in his early twenties. He was wearing a blue suit which looked like it should have been reserved for Sundays. Occasionally, he would take a surreptitious glance at his watch, for while he felt honoured to be sitting in the company of the others, he was also conscious of the fact that it had been quite some time since he'd last checked on the state of his poor, demented mother.

The woman, Detective Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, was around thirty, and a blonde. She was smartly – though not expensively – dressed in a two-piece check suit, the skirt of which was short enough to reveal that she had rather sensational legs. Her largish nose suggested that she might be Central European in origin – and the nose did not lie. She could not have been called a beautiful woman, but to label her as merely ‘attractive' would not have done her justice, either.

The barman, who had been watching them – and waiting for a signal which would indicate they required two more pints of best bitter and one vodka without ice – turned to the landlord, who was polishing beer glasses.

‘Have you noticed that though there's not been a major crime for weeks, “the usual suspects” are in here again tonight,' he said jokingly.

The landlord placed the pint mug which he had been shining down on the counter.

‘You've got it arse-over-backwards, haven't you, lad?' he asked. ‘Since they're the bobbies, they'd have to be “the usual
suspectors
”.'

The barman chuckled. ‘Which would make Cloggin-it Charlie the
Chief Suspector
, I suppose,' he said. ‘Chief Suspector Woodend! I rather like the sound of that.'

‘I think we've gone quite far enough with that particular line of whimsy,' the landlord cautioned.

‘It's only a joke!' the barman protested.

‘It's always a mistake to take the piss out of the customers,' the landlord told him gravely. ‘They're our bread an' butter, in case you need remindin'.'

‘I know that, but—'

‘An' Mr Woodend alone spends enough in here to keep us in puddings an' all.'

It was Father Taylor who greeted Bradley Pine at the door of St Mary's. He was a young priest, who had been in the parish for less than three years, and thus presented a marked contrast to Father Kenyon, who had served this particular flock for so long that there were now very few of the communicants of the church under the age of forty who had not been personally baptized by him.

‘Welcome, Mr Pine!' the young priest said, full of enthusiasm. ‘It's good to see you.'

‘It's good to be here, Father,' Pine replied.

He was speaking no more than the truth. Though he might have glibly told Henry Marlowe that he had put his religion in moth balls, that had never really been the case, and recently he had found it a great source of comfort and a great source of strength.

‘Are you here for a moment of quiet prayer?' Father Taylor asked. ‘If so, I'll leave you to it.'

‘No, I …' Pine began. ‘I'd rather like to make my confession. I know it's not the normal time, but …'

Father Taylor laughed. ‘This is a church, not an office with fixed opening hours,' he said. ‘If you wish to confess your sins, I'm more than willing to hear them at any time.'

‘That's … er … very kind of you, Father, but Father Kenyon is my usual confessor,' Pine said awkwardly.

‘So he is,' Father Taylor agreed. ‘But we in the priesthood are all God's instruments. Each and every one of us serves as no more than a telephone line to the Almighty.'

Pine frowned. He knew the young priest meant well – and it couldn't have been easy, coming into a parish in which the other priest was already an established figure – but he was not sure he was quite comfortable with the casual, modern way that Father Taylor talked about his religion.

‘If you don't mind, Father, I'd prefer to make my confession to Father Kenyon,' he said.

A look of disappointment flickered across Father Taylor's features, and then was gone.

‘Of course I don't mind,' he told Pine. ‘Father Kenyon's in the vestry. I'll go and fetch him.'

Pine watched the young priest cross the church. He supposed he could have confessed to him rather than to Father Kenyon – they
were
both God's instruments, as the priest had pointed out – but he had a feeling that Father Taylor was perhaps a little too unyielding for his taste.

Father Kenyon, on the other hand, was almost as much of a politician as he was himself. Father Kenyon would give him the absolution he needed, even though the old priest would probably have a pretty shrewd idea of where he was going when he had made his confession – and even what he would do once he got there!

There was some truth in what the landlord of the Drum and Monkey had said earlier about Charlie Woodend's drinking habits. The chief inspector liked pubs, especially his local. He claimed that best bitter was nature's way of lubricating the brain, and given his success rate in clearing up cases, there were very few people – at least, few below the rank of chief superintendent – who were prepared to dispute it. That night, however, Woodend hadn't gathered his team together to discuss an investigation. Instead, he planned to make an announcement about what was potentially a very delicate situation. And now – having been in the pub for over two hours, and with four pints under his belt – he supposed he'd better get on with it.

He cleared his throat, looked from Monika Paniatowski to Colin Beresford and back again.

‘Inspector Rutter was given his final clearance from the police shrink the day before yesterday,' he said. ‘Which means that he'll be reportin' for duty again tomorrow mornin'.'

There was an awkward pause.

Then Constable Beresford said, ‘Well, sir, I must admit that certainly
is
good news.'

Good news?
Woodend repeated silently.

It all depended on who you were – and how you looked at it.

It was good news for Bob Rutter, certainly – he'd been saying for some time that he'd finally got over the nervous breakdown he'd suffered as a result of his wife's murder, and was eager to climb back into the saddle.

It was good news as far Woodend himself was concerned, too. He'd worked with Rutter since his days down in Scotland Yard, and had come not only to trust him absolutely, but almost to regard him as the son he'd never had.

But what about Monika – Bob Rutter's one-time lover, his co-conspirator in the adulterous affair carried on behind Rutter's blind wife's back? She'd been wracked with guilt when Maria was murdered, even though the affair was long over by then. How would she feel about having to work closely with Rutter again?

Not that any of these considerations were on young Beresford's mind at that moment, Woodend realized. He was much more concerned about the effect that Rutter's return would have on
him
.

The landlord leaned out over the bar counter. ‘Phone call for you, Mr Woodend,' he called out.

Woodend rose to his feet and walked over to the bar.

‘Do you think there'll still be a place for me on the team when Inspector Rutter gets back, Sarge?' Beresford asked Paniatowski, the moment the chief inspector had gone.

Paniatowski took a sip of her vodka. ‘You know, Beresford, the question you should really be asking yourself is not whether you'll be
allowed
to stay on the team, but whether you
want
to.'

‘Why wouldn't I want to?'

‘Because, if you do stay, you'll be working directly under the man who's at the very top of Mr Marlowe's Shit List. And some of that shit is bound to stick to you eventually.'

‘Maybe you're right, but it doesn't seem to bother you too much,' Beresford pointed out.

‘It bothers me a great deal,' Paniatowski corrected him. ‘I'd like to be the first female chief inspector in the county, but I'll never get promotion as long as I'm Cloggin-it Charlie's bagman.'

‘So why don't you put in for a transfer?'

‘I've given that possibility serious consideration,' Paniatowski admitted. ‘But in the end, I just can't bring myself to do it.'

‘Why not?'

Why not indeed, Paniatowski wondered.

Because, she supposed, she owed Woodend.

Because a couple of times when she'd been in danger of drowning in a sea of her own neuroses, he had kept her afloat.

Because there was a bond between them that … that she didn't even want to start trying to analyse.

‘He's very good at what he does,' she said, knowing full well she was copping out of really answering the question – and not giving a damn. ‘I'm learning a lot from him – more than I think I could learn from any other senior officer on the Force.'

‘I think
I
could learn a lot from both of you,' Beresford said seriously. ‘And if that means joining the Shit List myself, it's a price that I'm more than willing to pay.'

Woodend returned from the bar, looking thoughtful.

‘What's happened?' Paniatowski asked.

‘It seems there's been somethin' of a blip in the normally smooth an' democratic process of electin' ourselves an MP,' Woodend told her.

‘Sorry, sir, I'm not sure I quite understand what you're getting at?' Beresford said.

‘He means one of the candidates has been murdered,' Paniatowski translated. ‘Which one is it, sir?'

‘Off-hand, I'd have to say it was the one who'd
really
pissed somebody off,' Woodend replied.

T
here was very little traffic moving on the dual carriageway which ran between Whitebridge and Accrington that night, and the few drivers who had chosen to brave the thick fog did so with all the hesitation and timidity of an old lady negotiating an icy puddle.

‘I can remember when this road was first opened, in the early fifties,' Woodend said, peering through the windscreen of his battered Wolseley into the swirling confusion. ‘The local press made such a noise about it that you'd have thought it was the newest wonder of the world, beside which the Great Pyramid at Giza and the Coliseum in Rome shrank to mere insignificance.' He paused for a moment. ‘Do either of you remember all the fuss?'

‘No, I can't say that I do, sir,' Beresford replied – truthfully – from the back seat. ‘I was only a little kid, back then.'

‘And I'm not
that
much older than the constable,' Paniatowski said, from the front passenger seat.

‘Babies!' Woodend said, in mock disgust. ‘I'm workin' with babies. I'm more like a nanny to you than a boss.'