The Dark Lady (3 page)

“That's right.”

“Except that, if I remember rightly, he said it wasn't like that at all. He claimed the girl led him on, then said no, an' that he wasn't so much tryin' to push her in the water as just push her away.”

“He did time for it,” Chatterton pointed out.

“Oh aye,” Woodend agreed. “Thing is, he wasn't in much of a state the last time I saw him, an' if he's slipped even further, then I can't really see him killin' anybody, even if he has had the trainin' to do it.”

“We all think we've got our man, sir,” Chatterton said.

“Well, maybe you're right an' I'm wrong,” Woodend told him. “But until you've got him safely under lock an' key, it can't do any harm for me to dig about a bit, can it? If nothin' else, it'll stop my brain cells from goin' any softer than they've gone already.”

They had left the town behind them, and were travelling down a straight, recently asphalted road.

“BCI built this for us for nothing,” Inspector Chatterton said, as if he felt it was time to change the subject from Fred Foley. “They're very highly thought of around this neck of the woods.”

“An' what did
they
get out of it?” Woodend asked.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You don't get owt for nowt, as we used to say in Lancashire. What happened to the old road?”

“It's part of the area BCI wanted to flood.”

Woodend nodded, as if he'd expected as much. “Why'd they want another lake?” he asked. “With all the subsidence you've had, I'd have thought you'd got more than enough stretches of water round here.”

“Oh, it wasn't water they pumped into it,” Chatterton explained. “It was chemical waste.”

Woodend shook his head. “When are people goin' to start learnin' that they can't go around poisonin' their own planet?”

“It's only a temporary measure,” Chatterton told him. “The experts say the birds and wildlife will be back in another thirty or forty years, as if nothing had happened.”

“Well, there's somethin' for us all to look forward to,” the chief inspector said sourly.

The road sign ahead said ‘Salton', and though Woodend had been expecting to see it, he still felt his stomach turn over.

“This is the place where Mr Woodend solved his first case in Cheshire,” Chatterton told the driver.

“It's the place where I nearly buggered everythin' up, an' almost got another little kiddie killed,” Woodend said.

They had reached the village proper, and were passing between two rows of squat terraced houses with grey slate roofs. Woodend glanced down Harper Street, where Fred Foley had, until fairly recently, lived in complete misery and almost indescribable squalor.

Was it really possible Foley had killed the big German? Woodend asked himself. Even with the evidence pointing that way, he just couldn't see it himself.

At the other end of the village, just before they climbed the hump-backed bridge, was the George and Dragon – and inside, which was what was causing Woodend's stomach to churn, would be the landlady, the delectable Liz Poole. It had been a long time since he'd fancied a woman like he fancied her, and the feeling had been mutual. If he'd been the kind of man who could . . .

But he wasn't that kind of man. He had his wife Joan and his daughter Annie back in London, and that precluded any amorous adventures. Still, even with the best intentions in the world, he couldn't resist hoping that as they passed the pub, Liz would be outside, scrubbing the front step and presenting her fine rump to the world.

But she wasn't there – and as the car went over the bridge, the chief inspector was not sure whether he felt disappointed or relieved.

Woodend lit a Capstan Full Strength. “Is there any other way to get from Maltham to Westbury Park?” he asked the driver.

“Yes, sir. It's a bit longer but—”

“I don't care how long it is,” Woodend interrupted. “Next time you drive me, that's the way we'll go.”

They turned off the main road, and travelled down a country lane which was lined with mature horse-chestnut trees, looking their best in their summer green. Ahead of them was the entrance to the park – two gateposts made of dressed white stone from which elaborate iron gates must once have hung.

As they passed between the posts, Woodend got his first sight of Westbury Hall. It was an impressive building, with tall chimneys, gable windows in the roof, and a dome over the central balcony. Probably late eighteenth century, the chief inspector thought. It must have taken an army of servants to run it when it was inhabited by the landed gentry, and even with all the modern electrical appliances, it must still present a formidable task.

“So this is the social club, is it?” Woodend asked Chatterton.

“That's right, sir.”

“An' who exactly is it a social club for?”

“It's for the people who live on the camp . . . I mean, the people who live in the park.”

Woodend could see what had caused Chatterton's slip. All the houses which made up Westbury Park were single-storied, long and thin, bringing back memories of countless army camps he'd been through in the war.

The car pulled up in front of the club, and Woodend got out and stretched his legs. He looked up at the almost cloudless sky, and at the swallows that were swirling on the air currents. He took in a deep breath of air, and suspected he would have relished it more if he didn't smoke so much – but even as the thought passed through his mind, he was reaching into the pocket of his hairy sports jacket for his packet of Capstan Full Strength.

Chatterton had got out of the car, and was standing next to him. “Shall we go and see where they found the body, sir?” he suggested,

“Aye, an' while we're gettin' there, you can tell me a little about the history of the place.”

“The hall? Or the park?”

“Both of 'em.”

“The hall belonged to the Sutton family from the late eighteenth century until the 1930s,” Chatterton said, leading him between two rows of the brick dwellings. “Then BCI bought it.”

“Seems to me like British Chemical Industries own pretty much everythin' around here,” Woodend said.

“They're probably one of the biggest landowners in the area,” Chatterton admitted. “And they're definitely the town's biggest employer – there's not a family in Maltham which doesn't have at least one member working for BCI, and it's usually more. That's why the chief constable, Mr Blake, is particularly keen to get a result on this case.”

Woodend sniffed. “Chief constables are always keen to get a result,” he said. “An' they always want it yesterday.”

He looked around him. The asphalted street was as quiet as one in an American frontier town which is waiting for Gary Cooper to stride down it, on his way to meet the men with black hats and a three-day growth of stubble. But just as in the films, the appearance was deceptive; as the three policemen made their way towards the wood, the chief inspector noticed that the curtains on several windows twitched.

It came as no surprise to Woodend that he was being watched. In fact, the surprise would have come only if he hadn't been. People needed the police to clean up their mess for them, but they wanted nothing to do with the inquiry themselves. That was why he liked working from pubs. Folk enjoyed going into their locals, and if the price of getting a couple of pints down them was a few minutes' conversation with a detective from London, then it was a price they were usually prepared to pay.

“When was the camp built?” Woodend asked Chatterton.

“Early in 1942. The Americans had entered the war by then, and the government needed somewhere to house all the GIs who were being sent over, so they requisitioned the hall and grounds – the hall for the officers to live in, the grounds to put up barracks.”

“You know what they used to say about the Yanks, don't you?” Woodend asked. “That the only problem with them was that they were overpaid, oversexed an' over here.”

Chatterton grinned. “Anyway, by the middle of 1944, most of the Yanks had been moved out,” he continued, “and at the same time there was a need for somewhere to put all the Italians who'd been captured during the invasion of Italy, so Westbury Park became a prisoner-of-war camp. After the war . . . well, you can see for yourself what happened, can't you, sir? There was a housing shortage, so BCI made the buildings a little more welcoming – putting a layer of bricks on each side of the wooden walls, for example – and moved some of their own workforce in.”

“An' there's still a housin' shortage sixteen years after the war finished, so they're still here. It's a bloody disgrace,” Woodend said, in the nearest he ever came to a growl.

“Oh, they're nice houses inside, sir,” Chatterton protested. “They've got indoor bathrooms and all modern conveniences. Quite a lot of the people who live here really aren't looking forward to the day when their council houses are ready and they're moved out.”

A small girl wearing an embroidered headscarf and a curious expression appeared briefly in the doorway of one of the houses, then slipped back inside. “Did you see that kid?” Woodend asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Didn't look very English to me.”

“She probably isn't,” Chatterton said. “You see, as well as the housing shortage, there was a labour shortage in this area just after the war, so British Chemicals recruited quite a lot of foreign workers. Polish refugees – that kid's dad was probably one of them – Italian and German ex-POWs who'd fallen for local girls or just didn't fancy going back to their own countries, and a mixture of other nationalities. So while the majority of the people who live in the park are English, there's a fair smattering who aren't.”

“A veritable United Nations,” Woodend said. “Wonderful! That should make my job a lot easier.”

He was talking as if there were a real case to investigate, Chatterton thought – as if there weren't an obvious suspect already being sought – but he knew Woodend well enough not to remind him of the fact.

They had reached the edge of the park, and Chatterton pointed to a narrow track running between the trees.

“That's the way Mr Schultz went on his last walk,” he said. “The path's about three quarters of a mile long. It leads right down to the lake. It's very popular with picnickers and courting couples.”

“Why isn't it sealed off?” Woodend asked.

“It was for a time, but our boys have been over it with a fine-toothed comb, so there didn't seem much point in keeping it closed any longer.”

“An' what did these boys of yours find with this fine-toothed comb they were usin'?”

“Apart from the button from Fred Foley's coat, not much,” Chatterton confessed. “It rained overnight, you see. Quite a fierce storm. So any tracks there might have been were pretty much washed away.”

“Seems like the murderer had luck on his side,” Woodend said. “Or maybe he had inside knowledge. Perhaps what we should be lookin' for is a weatherman with homicidal tendencies.”

Chatterton was getting used to Woodend's sense of humour, and there were only a couple of seconds between the chief inspector's statement and the inspector's chuckle.

“I'm surprised you didn't find the murder weapon,” Woodend mused. “In my experience, most killers who use a blunt instrument abandon it near the scene of the crime.”

“I've got some men out searching the field where we found Fred Foley's overcoat,” Chatterton said, and pretended not to notice when Woodend shook his head doubtfully.

They followed the path as it twisted and turned between the trees. “How did the dead man manage to see his way along here at night?” the chief inspector asked. “Did he have a torch with him?”

“We didn't find one if he did,” Chatterton said. “But there was a full moon that night, so he wouldn't have had too much difficulty picking his way between the roots.”

“You're sure of that?”

Chatterton nodded. “I tried it myself the following evening. It wasn't exactly as light as day, but I managed perfectly well.”

“Glad to hear you've not just been sittin' on your hands, waitin' for me to arrive,” Woodend said. “There's some forces I could mention that think just because they've called in the Yard . . .” He stopped speaking and came to a sudden halt. “We're gettin' close, aren't we?”

“How did you know that, sir?”

“I can sense it. I'm a bit psychic on occasion. It's nothin' to be proud of – I sometimes think all it means is that I'm slowly goin' round the twist – but there it is, an' I use it when I can.”

“The body was found just round the next bend,” Chatterton said, and when they'd turned the bend he pointed down to the root of a mature chestnut tree. “Just there.”

Woodend closed his eyes tightly, and tried to conjure up a picture of what had happened on this spot a few nights earlier, but he appeared to have used up all his psychic powers for that day.

“Right, Inspector,” he said, “where's that pint of best bitter you've been promisin' me?”

T
he bar of the Westbury Social Club was an uneasy mixture of faded elegance and modern practicality, with a moulded ceiling gazing down disapprovingly on a formica-topped bar, and high, elegant windows serving as no more than a backdrop for stacks of empty beer crates. There was a billiard table, such as the one the original inhabitants of the house might have played on, and a dartboard, of which they would definitely have disapproved.

The only person in evidence in the bar when Woodend, Rutter and Chatterton arrived was the steward, a middle-aged man called Tony, with a bald spot on the crown of his head and watchful, interested eyes.