The Dark Lady (13 page)

The chief inspector lit a cigarette, and made a mental note to see Müller's wife the next day and ask her if she could confirm his alibi, and shifted his gaze to the English table.

Mike Partridge, having cycled all the way from Maltham, was sitting with his cronies. He never looked happy, Woodend decided. He had none of the aura of tranquillity which seemed to hover over Kurt Müller. But there was more an absence of something about him – his red face and balding head made him an unlikely figure for a tragic hero, yet that was the impression he gave Woodend. Maybe Bob Rutter's inquiries in Southampton the next day would explain why.

He took another swig from his pint glass. Why had the Poles taken that route through the woods? he asked himself for the fiftieth time. Perhaps he would take a leaf out of Tim Chatterton's book and go and find out for himself.

He stood up, and would have headed straight for the door if he hadn't noticed that someone was missing from the Italian table.

“Why hasn't Mr Bernadelli come out to play tonight?” he asked the Italians who were there.

Two of the men grinned broadly at him, and the third actually sniggered.

“Maybe he has better things to do with his time,” said the one who'd sniggered.

“Oh aye? Like what?”

“He is very good with his hands,” the Italian said. “Maybe he's mending a broken chair – or stuffing a new cushion!”

The other men at the table, who had obviously had a fair amount to drink, found this comment so achingly funny that they spluttered into their beers.

“The big trouble with private jokes is that people who aren't in on them never get to appreciate just how clever you've been in makin' them,” Woodend told the smirking man. “An' the big trouble with murder inquiries is that most of the time, they're not really very humorous at all. So I'll ask you again, shall I? Where's Mr Bernadelli tonight?”

The Italian's face assumed a mock-serious expression. “I really do not know, Mr Policeman,” he said.

“But if he was not our friend, we might make a pretty good guess,” said one of the others, giggling.

Bob Rutter ignored the knowing, slightly repelled look from the girl behind the counter, and took the two frothy coffees back to the table where the woman – who said her name was Roxy – was waiting for him.

Under the bright lighting, the prostitute's thick make-up appeared even more garish than it had out on the street. He took a closer look at her face. Her grey eyes had a hardness about them, her nose was quite a large one for a woman – almost, in fact, hooked – and her lips were perhaps a little too thick. Yet despite it all, there was no denying there was a strange attractiveness about her. Still, the sergeant found himself wondering just what kind of man would seek out her services.

Well, he reminded himself, there was Gerhard Schultz, ex-fighter pilot and time-and-motion man, for one.

Roxy unwrapped her sugar cubes carefully, and dropped them into her coffee. She watched the bubbles which formed as a result, and only when they had subsided did she look up at Rutter.

“So just what was it that you were so bloody keen to talk to me about?” she asked.

“I'd like you to tell me everything you know about a man called Gerhard Schultz.”

Roxy looked puzzled. “Never heard of 'im,” she said. “Is he a foreigner, or somethin'?”

“That's right. A German. He used to live on in a semi-detached house in Fulton Crescent.”

“Oh, now I know who you mean,” Roxy exclaimed. “I used to call 'im Adolf. Not to 'is face, of course.”

“How did you meet him?”

“The first time, he picked me up outside Woolworths. Said he wanted me for the whole night. Well, I was glad to get the weight off me feet, if the truth be told, so I said yes.”

“You went to his house?”

“That's right.”

“And you had sex?”

The prostitute smiled wearily. “Not straight away. He liked to play around a bit first.”

Rutter was starting to feel hot under the collar. Cloggin'-it Charlie, he was sure, would have had no difficulty with this conversation, but then Woodend wouldn't have felt quite so much like a callow youth under this experienced woman's gaze.

“Er . . . what do you mean when you say that he liked to play about a bit first?”

“He 'ad these costumes hangin' in 'is wardrobe. He said we should put them on.”

She was teasing him, Rutter thought – taking pleasure in his obvious discomfort. But he supposed that was fair enough – he'd scared her earlier, and now she was getting her own back.

“What sorts of costume did Schultz have?” he asked the prostitute.

Roxy smiled again. “You men! Policemen and milkmen, doctors an' bus drivers – you're all the same when it comes down to it, aren't you? All you're really interested in is the juicy details.”

Rutter was sure he was blushing furiously. “The details might be pertinent to the inquiries I'm conducting,” he said – meaning it, but knowing that he was sounding unconvincing.

“Oh, that's why you're askin', is it?” Roxy said disbelievingly. “Well, there were only two. A corset for me – which was so tight it nearly crushed me bleedin' ribs, by the way – an' a uniform for 'im.”

“What kind of uniform?”

Roxy laughed throatily. “Most men would be more interested in what kind of corset it was.”

“Tell me about the uniform,” Rutter said, running his index finger between his shirt collar and his neck.

“It was an army uniform. German, I suppose.”

“Are you sure it was army?” the sergeant asked. “Or could it perhaps have been airforce?”

“I couldn't tell the difference.”

“Did it have wings on it?” Rutter persisted.

“Can't say I noticed.”

“Close your eyes and try to picture it.”

Roxy shook her head. “That wouldn't do no good,” she said.

“You don't know that until you try.”

The prostitute sighed. “Yes, I do. The punter rents me body, but he doesn't rent me mind. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“All the time he's puffin' an' gruntin' away, I'm not really with 'im. I'm thinkin' about where I'm goin' for me 'olidays next year or addin' up the Co-Op bill. So you see, you're lucky I can remember 'e was wearin' a uniform at all.”

“What did you do when you'd put your costumes on?” Rutter asked, trying another line of questioning.

“He'd tie me to a chair, an' shout at me. Really rant, if you know what I mean. Sometimes he could go on for hours.”

“What kinds of thing would he shout?”

Roxy laughed again. “Do I look like somebody who understands German?” she asked.

“So he shouted at you in German?”

“I imagine it was German he was speakin'. It certainly wasn't nothin' that I could understand.”

What happened next?”

“He'd untie me legs – but not me hands – an' I'd stand facin' the wall, while he whipped me.”

“Whipped you!” Rutter repeated.

“Only very light. There was no way I was goin' to get cut for a miserable five quid. Then, when that was over, we'd do the business. All the messin' around got 'im proper worked up. I 'ave to admit, he was a real tiger between the sheets. Once or twice I even enjoyed meself.”

“How often did you see him?”

Roxy shrugged. “I don't keep a diary,” she said. “It was probably about once a month over the last couple of years. Then he said he wouldn't be needin' me again, because he was movin' away.”

“Did he ever tell you any personal details? You know what I mean. Did he ever confide in you when you were lying in bed together?”

“He wasn't one of them who needed to be conned into thinkin' it was a romantic evenin',” Roxy said. “He paid for 'is pleasure, an' he wanted full value for money.”

“Did you ever meet any his friends?”

Roxy gave him a hard stare. “Listen, I may be on the game, but there's some things that even I draw the line at, an' three in a bed is definitely one of them.”

“I didn't mean that,” Rutter said hastily. “All I was asking was whether any of his friends called at the house while you were there.”

“No.”

“And he didn't mention any names. Like Simon Hailsham? Or Mike Partridge?”

“I told you, it was strictly business with 'im. I could turn 'im on in bed without askin' 'im what he wanted, but apart from that, I don't know any more about 'im now than I did when he first picked me up outside Woolies.”

It was half an hour past midnight as Woodend made his way though the park, but there were lights on in at least a third of the living rooms, no doubt because men who had come off the ten o'clock shift wanted to grab a couple of hours' relaxation before turning in for the night.

When the chief inspector reached the edge of the woods – the edge from which Ted Robinson claimed he had seen the Poles emerging – he switched on his torch. The closest tree was lit up almost as if it were day, but the ones beyond the edges of the beam were little more than ominous black shapes. Woodend lit a cigarette for company, and stepped into the woods.

He did not know which direction to strike out for, so he chose the course of least resistance, walking in a straight line until he encountered the brambles of a rhododendron bush, then veering off to either the left or the right. Around him, tiny insects buzzed. In the distance, an owl hooted. But other than that, the wood was silent.

He wondered how far he was from the lake. And how easy it was going to be to find his way back to the park. Perhaps, like Hansel and Gretel, he should never have entered the enchanted forest without first making sure that his pocket was filled with breadcrumbs.

He sensed that he was not alone in the woods just seconds before he heard the sound of a snapping twig. He came to a sudden halt, and swung his torch round in an arc.

“This is the police!” he said in a loud, commanding voice. “Whoever you are, come on out.”

Nothing moved. No one emerged.

“This is a free country, an' you've a perfect right to be in the woods at this time of night,” the chief inspector said. “So you're not in any trouble. I'd just like to know who you are.”

Talk about an understatement, he told himself. I'd bloody
love
to know who you are!

From the other end of the woods, the owl hooted again and this time, because of what had happened since the last call, it startled him. He strained his ears to pick up the sound of a cough or heavy breathing, but there was nothing.

Who could it be out there hiding in the trees? And whoever it was, why the hell should they want to be out there?

He had three choices, he decided. The first was to stick to his original plan and carry on exploring the woods, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The second was to beat a hasty retreat back to the safety of Westbury Park. And the third? The third was to try to find whoever else was in the wood – which, given that someone had been murdered in this same wood less than a week before, was probably not the wisest course.

He strained his ears for sound of the man's movement – and whatever else he was uncertain about, he felt absolutely sure it was a man out there – but the silence still prevailed. He would have to be guided by the noise of the snapping twig he had heard a minute earlier.

It was, he knew from experience, very difficult to pinpoint noise in a wood, where sound bounces from tree to tree, but as far as he could tell, the man was hiding somewhere over to his left. Shining his torch in front of him, he took a cautious step in that direction.

He had covered no more than a few yards when the man jumped him. The assailant came up from behind, springing on to his back, and wrapping his arms tight around the chief inspector's neck.

He'd never have got me so easy a few years ago, Woodend thought, as the two of them hit the ground. I must be gettin' old.

His attacker rolled him over, and straddled his chest. Woodend felt a fist crunch against his left cheekbone. This bastard meant business – and, by Christ, he was strong.

The other man raised his arm to strike again. Woodend caught it at the elbow with both his hands – and twisted. His opponent screamed, then did a somersault which was so sudden that Woodend lost his grip.

The chief inspector struggled to his feet at roughly the same moment as his attacker. He looked around for his torch. It was lying several feet away, uselessly lighting up an area of the wood where nothing was going on.

The other man had raised his fists, ready for a fresh onslaught.

“Aye, come on, lad,” Woodend said softly, taking up a fighting stance himself. “Let's see how well you do when you haven't got the element of surprise on your side.”

His opponent hesitated for a second, then turned and fled deeper into the woods. The chief inspector followed, but had taken only a few steps when his foot caught against a root and he went sprawling forward.

“Shit,” he groaned as he was lying on the ground. “Doesn't matter who you're chasin', Charlie – dark ladies on horseback or dangerous nutters in the woods, you always seem to end up fallin' over.”

He picked himself up and dusted himself down. He would have a few bruises come the morning, he guessed, but apart from that, all he had suffered was a loss of dignity.

He rescued the torch and shone it on the ground. There were several footprints, some of his own and some which looked as if they'd been made by a size-eight or -nine heavy industrial boot. So no surprises there.

If his attacker had wanted to, he could have done a much better job of it, the chief inspector thought. Why jump on him when it would have been just as easy to hit him on the back of the head with one of stones which lay readily at hand? And why, once he had chosen the former course of action, hadn't he followed it through?