The Dark Lady (10 page)

“Yes?”

“I wondered if, as someone from Bavaria, the Dark Lady would mean anythin' to you.”

Müller's eyes flickered, but only for a split second. “Why should you ask me that? What's it got to do with being Bavarian? As I understand it, the Dark Lady is nothing but a local ghost.”

“An' you believe in ghosts, do you?”

“No, I don't believe in ghosts,” Müller said. “But as a good Catholic, I do believe in demons.”

The bar of the Westbury Social Club had just opened when Woodend got back to it, and there was only one customer – Mike Partridge, the red-faced balding man whom Woodend had identified the previous evening as the leader of the club's British contingent.

Partridge gave him a noncommittal nod, then returned to the serious business of studying his pint of bitter.

The chief inspector ordered his own pint from Tony and took it over to Partridge's table. “Do you mind if we have a word?” he asked.

Partridge looked up. With a face as red as his, it wouldn't always be easy to tell when he was getting angry.

“A word?” the production worker repeated.

“That's right.”

“Or do you mean an interrogation?”

“You can call it an interview if that makes you feel any better,” Woodend said easily.

“Why 'ere?” Partridge demanded. “Why 'aven't you come to my 'ouse, like you did with all the uvvers?”

The question offered a good opportunity to take the measure of Partridge's character, and Woodend grasped it with both hands.

“All the others – all the ones I've seen at their houses – they're foreigners,” he said. “I wouldn't want to drink with them. But us English – well, we've got to stick together, haven't we?”

“I've nuffink against foreigners,” Partridge said defensively.

“Neither have I,” Woodend told him, winking. “Not as long as they stay where they belong – which is well an' truly in their own bloody countries.”

“BCI don't encourage that kind of talk,” Partridge said. “They way they look at it, we're all one big team.”

“An' is that how
you
look at it?”

“Yes.”

Woodend decided to try another tack. “Were you in the war, Mr Partridge?” he asked.

“I was.”

“An' did you see any action?”

“I was wounded durin' the D-Day invasion. Got shot in the leg. They gave me a medal, but that don't do anyfink to take away the ache I get when the weather's damp.”

“So because of a Kraut, you're goin' to be in pain for the rest of your life,” Woodend said. “An' you're tryin' to tell me that you don't bear the Germans any ill will?”

Partridge shrugged. “I wouldn't 'ave 'Itler or Goebbels round to tea, if that's what you're askin',” he said. “But the way I've got it figured, the bloke who shot at me was just doin' 'is job. Bloody hell, I was shootin' at 'im an' 'is pals – what else did I expect 'im to do but fire back?”

He sounded very plausible, but Woodend was still not convinced. “How long have you lived in the park, Mr Partridge?” he asked.

“I don't live 'ere,” Partridge told him. “I'm a single man, and all the 'ouses in the park are for married couples.”

“Where do you live, then?”

“I've got a flat in Maltham.”

“So why do you do your boozin' here?”

“It's where my pals are.”

“An' how do you get here?”

“On my push bike.”

“Must be four miles to Maltham,” Woodend said thoughtfully. “That's an eight-mile round trip when you add it up. It seems like a lot of effort just for a couple of pints.”

“The exercise does me good.”

“Even with your bad leg? Tell me, Mr Partridge, where were you when Gerhard Schultz was murdered?”

“Probably somewhere between 'ere an' Maltham.”

“Did you see anybody?”

Partridge shook his head. “At that time of night, there ain't many people about.”

“Still, it would have been handy for you if a bobby had pulled you over for havin' no lights on your bike.”

“It would have been 'andy, right enough,” Partridge agreed. “but unfortunately, it didn't 'appen.”

Woodend offered the other man one of his Capstan Full Strength, but Partridge shook his head and pulled a packet of thinner, cheaper Park Drive out of his jacket pocket.

“You're not from round these parts, are you, Mr Partridge?” the chief inspector asked. “From your accent, I'd say you come originally from the other side of London.”

“That's right,” Partridge admitted. “I'm from Southampton.”

“So what are you doin' in Cheshire? Have you got family livin' up here or somethin'?”

“No,” Partridge said cagily, and Woodend realised that this was the moment he had been attempting to steer the conversation towards – the moment he hit on something that the other man did not want to discuss.

“So why did you move?” he said. “Wasn't there any work in Southampton?”

“I expect there was if you were lookin' for it.”

“But you didn't look?”

“It was like this,” Partridge said. “After they'd patched up my leg an' I was discharged from the 'ospital, I felt like a change of air. So I came up 'ere. Does that satisfy you?”

“I don't see why it shouldn't,” Woodend told him.

But he was thinking, I've heard some absolute bollocks in my time but that has to take the biscuit.

Partridge drained the rest of his pint and stood up. “If you'll excuse me, I 'ave to be goin' now.”

Woodend nodded absently, but his mind was already off in another direction. Partridge came from Southampton. Hailsham's squadron, if it had fought in the Battle of Britain, must have been based somewhere in that area. All of which led to an interesting question – where, exactly, had Gerhard Schultz spent his time as a prisoner of war?

Woodend was already on his second pint when Inspector Chatterton entered the bar. The local man looked both harassed and frustrated.

“Caught Fred Foley yet, have you?” Woodend asked, although he already knew what the answer would be.

Chatterton shook his head. “It's like he's just vanished into thin air,” he admitted.

“Him an' his mangy old dog,” Woodend pointed out. “Anyroad, I'm glad you've turned up now, Tim, because I've got a couple of little jobs I'd like you to do for me.”

The look of surprise on Chatterton's face spoke volumes. This was not like Woodend at all. He didn't ask for help – if anything, he devoted his energy to fending it off.

“It's not much I want doin',” the chief inspector continued. “Just a few inquiries. Normally, I'd leave it up to my keen young sergeant, but he's gone off to Hereford.”

Chatterton did not seem to welcome the news. “BCI's got a plant in Hereford,” he said, frowning.

“Aye, I know,” Woodend replied.

Chatterton's frown deepened. “The company's very influential in these parts, sir.”

“Yes, I've already gathered that.”

“So you won't do anything which might offend the people in charge of it, will you, sir?”

Woodend sighed. “Look, I know it would be convenient for everybody round here if Schultz had been killed by poor old Fred Foley,” he said, “but I don't happen to think that he was.”

“Still, BCI is very conscious of its public image, you know, sir,” Chatterton said.

“It must be,” Woodend agreed, “or it'd never go around poisonin' half the countryside.” He was getting bored with the way the conversation was going. “Let's get back to my little jobs,” he suggested. “The first thing I want you to do for me is find out what you can locally about Mike Partridge.”

“Shouldn't be any problem,” Chatterton said, relaxing a little. “What was the second thing, sir?”

“What do you make of Simon Hailsham?”

“Solid enough sort of chap,” Chatterton said. “Meet him sometimes at the Lodge.”

“Oh, so the pair of you are members of the funny-handshakes brigade, are you?”

“Aren't you?” Chatterton asked, sounding surprised.

“Nay, lad. The last time I checked up on it, it still wasn't compulsory for a servin' bobby to belong to the Freemasons. Anyroad, I'd look bloody silly in an apron – an' I'm not exposin' my right bollock for anybody,” Woodend said. “But about this ‘solid enough sort of chap' of yours. If it doesn't offend your fraternal feelin's too much, I'd like you to do a thorough background check on him an' all. Not his war record, I'll put young Bob on to that – but anythin' you can come up with that he's done since 1945.”

The frown on Tim Chatterton's face had returned, and was now beginning to display ulcer-inducing worry. “Is there any particular reason for this check, sir?” he asked.

“Is there any particular reason I should tell you if there was?” Woodend retorted, with a harsh edge creeping into his voice. “You didn't ask me why I wanted a check on Partridge, now did you? An' far as I understand it, it's the role of local police forces to assist the Scotland Yard men workin' on their patch in any possible way they can.”

Chatterton gulped. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Look, Tim, I don't want you to check on him for any specific reason,” Woodend said, relenting his previous tone a little. “Half the time I do things, it's on a gut instinct. An' there's somethin' about Hailsham that just doesn't feel right to me. For a start, I don't like the way he's tryin' to drop this whole case in the lap of the Poles. An' I've got a suspicion that he might have known Schultz durin' the war – though I may be wrong on that. So just to get things clear in my own mind, I really would be grateful if you'd do what I asked.”

“All right, I'll do my best,” Chatterton said dubiously.

“Good lad! I knew I could depend on you.”

“I really would tread softly with BCI, sir,” Chatterton warned. “The company has powerful friends in high places.”

“Don't worry, Tim, I always tread softly,” Woodend said, “but I usually carry a big stick, an' all.”

T
he senior staff canteen in British Chemical Industries' Hereford plant seemed to be constructed entirely of tinted glass and polished steel. As Bob Rutter ran his eyes along the metal counter and up the round metallic pillars, he felt as if he were in a spaceship – and then he realised, with considerable chagrin, that that was a very Woodendish sort of thing to think.

“We deliberately made the place very modern, you see,” said the enthusiastic man who was sitting at the opposite side of the black glass table. “A thoroughly modern image for a thoroughly modern company – that was the thinking behind it. Certainly impresses our visitors from overseas, I can tell you that.”

Robin Quist, the head of the personnel department in Hereford, had wispy brown hair and cheeks which just avoided being plump. He was younger than the sergeant had expected him to be, and considerably less self-important than his opposite number at BCI's Maltham plant. In fact, he seemed remarkably open and honest for someone in his job – though Rutter hadn't yet dismissed the idea that it could all be a front.

“The nosh isn't at all bad in here,” Quist said, “and it's certainly cheap enough. BCI knows how to look after its workforce. Treat 'em well and you'll get the best out of them, that's our motto.” He waved at a young blonde waitress who had just finished taking an order at one of the other tables. “Over here as soon as you like, Mavis my sweet.”

The girl came immediately, and from the smile on her face it was evident to Rutter that Quist was one of her favourite customers.

“What do you fancy?” the personnel manager asked the sergeant.

“Whatever you recommend,” Rutter replied.

“In that case we'll both have the soup du jour, and lamb chops with all the trimmings, Mavis my little love,” Quist said. He turned back to Rutter. “Now we've got that little matter out of the way, how can I help you, Sergeant?”

“I suppose my first question should be: Did you know Gerhard Schultz for long?”

“I knew him for fifteen years, if you call that a long time. I was already here when he joined BCI.”

“What was he like to work with?”

A frown came to Quist's face. It didn't look very much at home there. “Gerhard was very efficient,” he said finally, “but . . .”

“But?”

“But perhaps a little abrasive,” the personnel manager said reluctantly. “Still,” he continued, brightening, “you have to remember it was just after the war when Gerhard joined the company, and men like him had been used to being in life-and-death situations where they expected their orders to be obeyed without question. My old boss, Arthur Fanshaw, was pretty much in the same mould. I just missed the war myself – that bit too young.”

“Fanshaw was in the RAF, wasn't he?” Rutter asked.

“How the devil did you know that?”

“The personnel officer in Maltham said something about

Schultz probably getting the job because he'd been a flyer. ‘They shared the comradeship of the skies' were, I think, his exact words.”

The soup arrived. “Mixed vegetable,” Quist said with glee. “You may be right about Gerhard having got the job because he was another flyer – albeit one from the other side. On the other hand, it may simply have been that old Arthur was half-cut when he hired him.”

Rutter took a spoonful of soup. It wasn't bad, he decided. “So Mr Fanshaw had a drinking problem, did he?” he asked.

Quist shook his head. “Not as such. I mean, he liked his booze, but he knew enough to keep off it while he was in the office. It was only at night that he went out on the razzle.”