The Enemy Within (22 page)

Maybe Monika was on to something, Woodend thought. But the brief flare of hope she had fired quickly died away, and he was once again surrounded by the darkness of confusion and incomprehension.

I
t was not until he had almost reached his Wolseley that Woodend noticed the two men standing beside it. They were both wearing camel-hair coats and bowler hats – articles of dress as alien to Whitebridge as an aborigine's loincloth. One of the men was very tall, and built like a brick outhouse. The other was a dapper little man with a neat silver moustache. They were the kind of fellers who would hand an anvil to a man already sinking in a swamp – and Woodend was in no doubt who they had brought the anvil for this time.

‘Chief Inspector Woodend?' asked the man with the silver moustache.

‘Depends,' Woodend replied. ‘Who's askin'?'

‘My name's Perkins,
Superintendent
Perkins.'

‘You look a bit of a short-arse to be a bobby,' Woodend said.

The other man should have taken offence, but didn't – which was very worrying indeed.

‘Have you got some identification on you?' the Chief Inspector continued.

Perkins – if that really was his name – reached into the pocket of his overcoat, produced a warrant card, and held it in front of Woodend for a couple of seconds at the most.

‘Satisfied?' he asked.

‘Not really,' Woodend said. ‘But you're not goin' to let me take a closer look at it, are you?'

‘No, I don't think that would serve either of our interests,' Perkins said, returning the card to his pocket. ‘Shall we get into your car, Chief Inspector?'

‘Just the two of us?'

‘Yes.'

Woodend looked across at Perkins' companion. ‘What about King Kong here?'

‘Rodney is perfectly content to stay where he is.'

‘Good for Rodney,' Woodend said, opening the door of the Wolseley and climbing into the driver's seat.

Perkins slid in from the passenger side. ‘Sorry for the melodrama,' he said, ‘but we really
do
need to have a little chat.'

‘Is that right?' Woodend replied, noncommittally.

‘It is indeed. You are currently involved in investigating a series of murder cases. Would I be right in assuming that you consider the man you're looking for to be a maniac?'

Woodend scratched his nose. ‘Aye, that's how I'd describe a feller who's slit three women's throats.'

‘How
exactly
do you plan to go about the investigation of Constance Bryant's death?'

‘She died sometime in the last three hours,' Woodend countered. ‘How the bloody hell have you managed to get from London to here so fast?'

‘We flew.'

‘On a commercial flight?'

‘Not exactly. You still haven't answered my question, Chief Inspector. How do you propose to investigate Constance Bryant's death?'

‘If you're a bobby, as you claim to be, you shouldn't need to ask me that,' Woodend pointed out.

‘I
am
a policeman. But I'm not
your
kind of policemen.'

‘Then what are you? Special Branch?'

Perkins sighed. ‘I could have had you summoned to London easily enough, if I'd wanted to. Instead, I was courteous enough to come and see you – thus causing minimum disruption to your investigation. I think that entitles me to a little consideration.'

‘In other words, you're the one who asks the questions, an' I'm the one who answers them?'

‘Precisely. And now we've got that clear, we can start anew. Why do you think Constance Bryant was killed?'

‘Because the murderer, for his own peculiar reasons, has decided to target women with inoperable cancer.'

‘So you'll be focusing the thrust of your investigation on the killer himself, which means that there'll be no need to examine the backgrounds of the victims too closely, will there?'

‘What a load of bollocks you do talk,' Woodend said disgustedly.

‘Would you care to explain that?'

‘We don't know that inoperable cancer is the
only
common factor. Bloody hell, I haven't seen the statistics, but it wouldn't surprise me to find out there are hundreds of women in Mid Lancs dyin' of the same thing. So what makes the killer choose the women he does? We know his victims probably hadn't met each other socially. We know they didn't go to the same schools, or belong to the same organizations. But that's not to say there isn't
somethin'
linkin' them
other than
the cancer. So in answer to your question, we'll be lookin' into their backgrounds very closely indeed.'

‘I'm afraid it's not convenient to have you look too closely at Constance's,' Perkins said.

‘An' why's that?'

‘Because she was one of us.'

‘A spy?'

‘An intelligence operative. As a journalist with a roving foreign brief, she proved very useful to us.'

‘Was she workin' for you when she died?'

‘No, she'd retired.'

‘Because of her health? Or because her uncle had left her the Mid Lancs
Courier
in his will?'

‘Her health. There was no uncle.'

‘Then who did she inherit the paper from?'

‘From a man who would have gone bankrupt years ago if we hadn't been subsidizing it. A man who agreed to be called her uncle as the price of keeping his newspaper afloat.'

‘So the
Courier
was no more than Constance Bryant's pension plan – an' when she found out she was ill, she decided to cash it in?'

‘Exactly.'

‘Do you buy a newspaper for all your retirin' agents?'

‘Of course not. Most of them wouldn't want it.”

‘But Constance Bryant did?'

‘All our agents have different dreams – a different crock of gold they hope to eventually find at the end of the rainbow. One might want a small commercial fishing boat. Another might wish to run a quiet country pub. In Constance's case, it was a small provincial newspaper.'

‘An' you always give them what they want?'

‘Whenever possible. It's the thought of their eventual reward which keeps them going under pressures which would break most people.'

‘I can't help thinkin' it was very convenient for you that Constance's “uncle” chose to die at just the right time,' Woodend said.

Perkins laughed, with what sounded like genuine amusement. ‘That's the trouble with dealing with members of the general public like you,' he said. ‘You've watched too many films. You all see conspiracy and dirty operations where none exist.'

‘So you didn't kill the paper's previous owner?'

‘Of course not. It was convenient that he died when he did, but it wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't. He'd long understood that when Constance wished to take over, it would be time for him to retire.'

‘Who knows about her background?' Woodend asked.

‘One more person than knew about it half an hour ago.'

‘Your mates in Whitehall may consider that a clever answer,' Woodend said, ‘but you're in the North now – an' we'd just call it smart-arsed.'

Perkins sighed again. ‘Her head of section knew, naturally, as did her controller. Two or three other operatives had to be made aware, plus a couple of people in finance and accountancy. The Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary probably know – but not
necessarily
. It amounts to little more than a handful of people.'

‘Did her husband know?'

Perkins laughed again, unmistakably contemptuously this time. ‘I knew Dexter Bryant when we were both up at Oxford. He had quite a good mind. Might have done quite well in the Foreign Office. Instead he became a
crime
reporter.'

‘Meanin' what?'

‘If Constance had married someone following a gentlemanly profession, it might have been operationally convenient to make her husband aware of her position. But no one was going to risk informing a grubby little hack.'

‘So you're sayin' that he
didn't
know?'

‘I should have thought that was obvious.'

‘You don't think there's any chance
she
might have told him?'

‘All our operatives are rigorously trained to keep their professional and private lives completely separate.'

‘He's an intelligent man. He might have guessed.'

‘He may well be intelligent – if all those years on Fleet Street haven't rotted his brain. But we are very, very good at providing cover stories for our operatives. I can assure you, Chief Inspector, that Mr Bryant won't have had a clue what was really going on.'

‘Shouldn't he be told now?'

‘What on earth for?'

‘Did Constance run any risk when she was workin' for you?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘I mean
real
risk?'

‘If she'd been arrested – and there was always a fair chance she would be – the Russians could have put her on trial and sentenced her to twenty or thirty years in prison. But that's by no means the worst thing that could have happened to her. Over the years, several of our operatives have simply disappeared. They'll be dead now, of course, but God alone knows what happened to them
before
they were executed.'

‘So she was a heroine?'

‘We tend not to use emotive terms of that nature ourselves, but I suppose I have no objection to you employing it.'

‘An' you don't think it might be some consolation to the man who's just lost her to know that?'

‘I think it might be of some consolation to
you
to know that it is of some consolation to
him.
'

‘I'm not followin' you.'

‘Oh, I think you are. You feel guilty about not being able to prevent Constance's death. You think if you can bring a little comfort to her husband, it might help to assuage some of that guilt.'

The bastard was spot on, Woodend thought. But the fact that he'd hit the nail on the head didn't alter the fact that telling Dexter Bryant about his wife's heroism was still the right thing to do!

‘Espionage is a complex business,' Perkins continued. ‘If we expose Constance as one of our agents, we will be putting at risk other agents who had contact with her. We simply couldn't allow that to happen.'

‘You can't
stop
it happenin'!' Woodend retorted. ‘You may have signed the Official Secrets Act, but I certainly bloody haven't.'

‘True,' Perkins agreed. ‘But could you actually reveal the secret, knowing it might lead to further loss of life? Could you really stand to have
more
deaths on your conscience?'

‘You're enjoyin' this, aren't you?' Woodend demanded.

‘I'm merely doing what needs to be done. And so must you. You will not tell Mr Bryant that his wife was ever an agent of ours. And as for the officers under your command – that's Detective Inspector Rutter and Detective Sergeant Paniatowski, is it not––?'

‘You know bloody well it is!'

‘––you will instruct them not to investigate Constance Bryant's background any further. You may give them any reason you wish for this, except, of course, the correct one. Do you understand?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you'll do as I've instructed?'

‘I don't have much bloody choice, do I?'

‘You have no choice at all,' Perkins said. He reached into his pocket and handed Woodend a card. ‘You can contact me at this number, should the need arise. Just give your name and you'll be put straight through.'

Woodend examined the card. ‘This is a London number,' he said.

‘Yes, it is,' Perkins agreed.

‘But you won't be
in
London, will you? You'll be right here until this whole mess is cleared up.'

‘My exact whereabouts should be no concern of yours,' Perkins said smoothly. He opened the car door and stepped out on to the pavement. ‘Well, since that seems to be all, I'll wish you a pleasant good night, Chief Inspector.'

‘An' I'll wish
you
a bloody long walk on a bloody short pier!' Woodend said morosely.

Each soul has a cellar

Of deepest dark sin

And there may be found

The enemy within.

‘I
t's not often we get children listening to the morning weather forecast, but I'm willing to bet there's a goodish number of you tuning in today,' said the cheery voice over the car radio. ‘So here it is, kids. There's a fair amount of cloud about, and it may rain a little round about lunchtime, but if you keep your fingers crossed and wish very hard, we just might have a dry Bonfire Night after all.'

Woodend switched the radio off. Wet or dry, how many parents in the Whitebridge area would let their kids out when there was still a triple-killer on the loose? he wondered.

He had just entered Hill Rise. It was one of those prosperous estates which had sprung up as soon as the post-war period of austerity was over. Well-heeled solicitors lived on Hill Rise, as did successful businessmen. And until the previous evening it had been the home of Constance Bryant, newspaper proprietor and retired spy.

The Bryant house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a handsome building – though, like the man whose home it was, not ostentatious. As Woodend walked up the path, he found himself wondering what kind of reception he would receive.

It was Bryant himself who answered the door. He looked as drawn and haggard as might have been expected in the circumstances, but at least he was in control of himself enough to have shaved and put on fresh clothes.

‘If it's inconvenient––' Woodend began.