The Enemy Within (14 page)

‘But I thought we'd agreed that––'

‘Why should you, when we'll soon be going away?'

‘It's better being at the supermarket than staying here alone.'

Better – but not much!

‘I won't tease you any more,' he said. ‘It's not fair.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘If I were you, I'd go into work late tomorrow. Very late indeed. And when that nasty Mr McCann starts shouting at you for it, I'd hand in my notice.'

‘You've got the tickets!' she said excitedly.

‘I've got the tickets,' he confirmed. ‘We sail the day after tomorrow.'

‘So we really will be going?'

‘Yes, we really will be going.'

‘For how long?'

‘Two weeks.'

She'd been hoping for a month. But perhaps that had been asking for
too
much, she told herself, doing her best to dampen down her disappointment. And anyway – looking at it from the purely practical viewpoint – while she was sure she could manage two weeks, there was no guarantee that in a month she'd still feel up to enjoying herself.

‘We're going to have a lovely time,' she promised. ‘The best time in the world. I'm going to make you so happy.'

‘I know you are,' he said.

There is danger in quiet

For who is to say

What evils are planned

'fore the ending of day?

T
he previous morning, the murder of an unknown woman on Mad Jack's Field had been
the
topic of conversation at the bus stops and in the cafes. That the corpse had a name in time for the evening papers had rekindled some interest in the subject, even among those who had no idea who Betty Stubbs was. But now it was old news, and the first thoughts of the majority of people waking up that dark November morning were about personal matters – work, money, sex, Bonfire Night – rather than the fact that there was a killer on the loose.

Even for those most closely involved in the whole sorry business, Betty's death did not necessarily occupy their consciousness as they emerged slowly from sleep. Charlie Woodend awakened wondering how his daughter Annie was getting on in nursing college, and pledging that as soon as this case was over, he and Joan would make the time to visit her. Elizabeth Driver rolled out of bed feeling resentment against both Woodend and Bryant, and promising herself that she would have her revenge on them, whatever it took. Monika Paniatowski was thinking of her unhappy childhood and wishing she could put it all behind her. And Bob Rutter, lying in bed next to his pretty, blind wife, asked himself what kind of man he could be to even think of betraying her.

At nine o'clock, with the thoughts of his own problems pushed temporarily to the back of his brain, Bob Rutter arrived at the morgue. He was not alone. The man who accompanied him was approaching fifty, had iron-grey hair, and marched rather than walked. In the past, Rutter had taken members of the general public to view a body and had seen them either vomit or faint – and sometimes do both. He had no such concern this time. Sergeant Frank Atkins, late of the Royal Marine Commandos, had seen enough violent death during the course of his career to be able to take Betty Stubbs' body in his stride.

‘It's a very neat cut,' Atkins said, looking down at the body. ‘Very neat indeed. No jagged edge, which means you can rule out most hunting knives. My guess – and it's only a guess – is that the weapon which inflicted this wound was a Fairbairn Sykes.'

‘A what?' Rutter asked.

Atkins laughed good-naturedly. ‘I keep forgetting how young you are, son,' he said. ‘The Second World War must seem like ancient history to a lad like you.'

‘Not quite,' Rutter said, feeling stung and slightly defensive – as he always did when anyone commented on his comparative youth. ‘I remember the war. I was too young to fight, but I had to live through the Blitz. Still, I've no idea what a Fairbanks––'

‘Fairbairn. Fairbairn Sykes.'

‘I've no idea what that is.'

‘When the Commandos were formed in 1940, Captains Fairbairn and Sykes were appointed as the first instructors in close-combat fighting. Nice harmless term, isn't it? “Close-combat fighting!” But what it actually meant was
dirty
fighting – fighting that definitely didn't stick to the Marquis of Queensbury Rules. Anyroad, Fairbairn and Sykes decided straight away that one thing their men really needed was a good knife. The problem was, they couldn't find a suitable one.'

‘That's amazing,' Rutter said.

‘But true,' Atkins told him. ‘The last big advance in knife development had been the Bowie knife in the 1830s. So, the pair of them went to the Wilkinson's Sword factory – you may have used their razor blades – and told the managing director exactly what they wanted. And he had it made for them.' A far-away look came into Atkins' eyes. ‘It's a lovely weapon. Heavy grip that sits nicely in the palm of your hand. Double-edged blade and a point that's as sharp as buggery. Even an amateur can do a good job with a knife like that.'

‘How difficult would it be to get hold of one?'

‘I wouldn't exactly call them rare.'

‘So what would you call them?'

‘Let's just say there's just enough of them about to make them a collector's item – which means that if you're prepared to pay the asking price, you could get your hands on one easy enough.'

‘That really wasn't what I wanted to hear,' Rutter told him.

By nine thirty Elizabeth Driver had breakfasted, smoked her first three cigarettes of the day, and was placing a long-distance call to London. She was well aware, even as she dialled, that the reporter she was ringing would not welcome hearing from her at that time of the morning. Well, screw him! He owed her, and if collecting her debts caused him to lose some of his beauty sleep, she really didn't give a damn.

The man was as gruff and annoyed as she'd expected him to be. ‘Didn't get to bed till two,' he complained.

‘But
before
you went to bed, you found out what I need to know?'

‘Some of it.'

‘Let's have it, then.'

‘Wait while I go and find my notes,' the reporter grumbled.

He kept her on hold for a full five minutes. ‘Did you say you were going to
fetch
your notes, or were you carving them into stone?' she asked, when he eventually came back on the line.

‘Had to go for a piss,' he said grumpily. ‘Scotch goes straight through me these days.'

‘Then you should drink less,' she said tartly. ‘What have you got for me?'

‘Dexter Percival Bryant,' the man read. ‘Born 1915. Father was a major in the artillery and was killed in action in 1917. Dexter was educated at Westminster School, then at St John's College, Oxford.'

‘What!' Elizabeth Driver exclaimed. ‘St John's College? He went to
university
?'

‘Yes.'

‘Journalists don't go to university.'

‘He did.'

‘What did he study?'

‘Languages. Came away with a First Class degree, so he must be bright. No wonder he was the best crime reporter on the Street.'

Some people started out with all the advantages, Elizabeth Driver thought bitterly. But that didn't matter. Bryant
had been
the king of Fleet Street crime reporters – but he wasn't there now, and the crown was up for grabs!

‘What did he do in the war?' she asked, half-expecting to be told that the bastard had been awarded the VC.

‘He applied for active service, but was turned down. Flat feet, apparently. Spent his war in the pay corps at Kettering.'

Well, that was something, at least, Driver thought. ‘Any scandal ever stick to him?' she asked. ‘Any suggestion he might have been involved in black marketeering?'

‘Not a whisper. Got an honourable discharge in '45, and went straight to Fleet Street as a junior reporter.'

Damn! Elizabeth Driver thought. ‘What else have you got?' she asked.

‘Not a great deal. He turned out to be very good at his job. Was chief crime reporter of the
Standard
by the time he was thirty-five. The other papers tried to poach him, but he wouldn't go. They say he even turned down a couple of editorships.'

This wasn't going at all well.

‘He must have got his hands dirty at some time,' Elizabeth Driver said hopefully. ‘You never get anywhere by being pure as the driven snow.'

‘Seems he did.'

‘What about his first marriage? How did that break up?'

‘First marriage? What are you talking about?'

‘I just assumed that––'

‘There wasn't a first marriage.'

Incredible! Everybody was divorced on the Street, and the more important you were, the more divorces you were likely to have had.

‘All right, tell me about his one and only wife,' she said.

‘They got married about two and a half years ago. She'd been a widow for nearly fifteen years. She's got one son, in his twenties now. I think he lives with them, but I'm not sure.'

‘Why did he and his wife give up the Street and move to a dump like Whitebridge?'

‘They said they'd had enough of the pressure of working for the nationals. Said they wanted a quieter life.'

‘I know that! But what's the
real
story?'

‘As far as I can tell, that
is
the real story.'

Nobody could be quite as clean as Dexter Bryant appeared to be, Elizabeth Driver thought. It would quite destroy her faith in human nature if they were.

‘Keep digging,' she said.

‘Oh, come on, Elizabeth! I've got a living of my own to make, you know.'

‘Keep digging!' she repeated fiercely. ‘If you can't find anything on Bryant himself, then expand the search. Find out if there's anything dodgy about his brothers and sisters––'

‘He doesn't have any. Like I said, his father was killed in 1917.'

‘His mother, then! Or his wife's mother. Give me some dirt on the family hamster, if that's all there is.'

‘Be reasonable, Elizabeth.'

‘I need a lever – something I can use against the smug bastard. And if you can't find it, then I might just be tempted to drop some papers I've been collecting on to your Editor's desk.'

‘You wouldn't!'

‘Papers, you shouldn't need reminding, which will prove conclusively that at the same time as you were claiming extortionate expenses for that story you were supposed to be covering in Dublin, you were, in fact, shacked up with a little typist in Chippenham.'

‘You're a bitch!' the man said. ‘A real twenty-one carat bitch.'

‘Oh, please! It's far too early in the morning for compliments,' Elizabeth Driver said, hanging up.

T
he clock on the wall in the Saltney Rise Crown Green Bowling and Social Club said it was ten minutes past eleven in the morning, and the only customers were the four regulars who had already been pacing nervously up and down outside when Rodney Whitbread had opened the doors on the stroke of the hour.

Whitbread himself leant against the bar, smoking a cigarette and musing about life in general. He liked his job as bar steward. The work wasn't unduly heavy, and while others had to drag themselves from their beds at seven, he got to lie in for a couple more hours. Besides, there were the perks. He never had to pay for his own ale, for example. And if he kept his wits about him, there was always the chance of making a little extra money on the side.

But it was that bit of extra money that could be the problem, wasn't it? he reminded himself. You thought you weren't doing no harm – that you were helping other people as well as yourself. And suddenly you found yourself in a hole so deep that you could see no way of ever climbing out.

He looked up when he heard the door swing open, and saw the big man in the hairy sports coat.

Trouble! There was no doubt about it.

This man was the law. And not the friendly uniformed bobby who came round for a drink after closing time. He was the real thing.

‘Sorry, sir, this is a members only club,' Whitbread said, without much conviction in his voice.

Woodend ambled over to the bar. ‘I don't want a drink, lad,' he said. ‘An' even if I did, I wouldn't waste my time suppin' the neck oil you sell here.' He looked down at the pumps. ‘Baldwin's Premium Bitter?' he continued, pulling a face. ‘Premium! Bitter! I wouldn't use it to drown slugs.'

‘Our customers seem to like it,' the bar steward said, unease giving way to professional offence.

‘Aye, they would. They're a funny lot, are crown green bowlers,' Woodend replied. ‘Me, I think ordinary bowlin's complicated enough, without stickin' a bloody great hump in the middle of the pitch.'

‘We'll have to agree to differ on that,' the bar steward said huffily.

‘True enough,' Woodend agreed. ‘Would you like to see my warrant card now?'

The steward's stomach did a somersault. ‘You're police?' he asked.

‘I am. But I'm not tellin' you anythin' you didn't know already. You had me spotted the moment I walked in.'

‘We stick to the law in this club,' the steward said. ‘Never open before eleven, always close on the stroke of three.'

‘Bollocks!' Woodend said, good-naturedly. ‘There's no point in belongin' to a private club if you can't squeeze in a few extra drinks after closin' time, now is there? Anyway, that's not why I'm here. You'll have heard about what happened to Betty Stubbs, will you?'

The steward shrugged. ‘Somebody might have mentioned it to me.'

‘So you knew her, did you?'

‘She used to come in a lot when her husband was alive. Ted was a fair bowler.'