The Enemy Within (23 page)

‘It's never going to be easy, but it has to be done, so we might as well get it over now,' the Editor interrupted. ‘If you'd care to follow me, Chief Inspector.'

Bryant led Woodend down a wide hallway into a large, open-plan living room. There was a picture window at one end of the room, overlooking an immaculately laid-out garden. A staircase connected the living room to the house's upper floor.

‘Please sit down,' Bryant said dully, indicating a cream-coloured leather sofa.

Woodend hesitated. ‘Really, Mr Bryant, if you'd rather that I came back later––'

‘Sit!' Bryant ordered, taking a seat himself. ‘I want to apologize for my outburst by the bonfire last night, Chief Inspector.'

‘It was quite understandable.'

‘No, it wasn't. However much distress I may have been suffering, it was totally inexcusable of me to try to lay the blame for the tragedy at your door. You could not possibly have guessed that Constance would be the killer's third victim. If anyone should take the blame, that person should be me. I should not have been at the office last night. Whatever reassurances you might have given me about her safety, I should have been at home protecting my wife.'

You might
say
you don't hold me accountable, Woodend thought, but there's a large part of you that still does. A large part of me, too.

He wondered if there was something he could do to ease Bryant's obvious suffering, and thought back to his conversation with Perkins the previous evening. The man with the silver moustache hadn't quite said that he'd be in deep trouble if he revealed any of the contents of that conversation, but the threat had been clear enough. Well, screw him!

‘Did you know your wife worked for the security services?' he asked.

‘What?!'

‘She was a spy.'

Bryant laughed uneasily. ‘That's impossible,' he said. ‘We had no secrets from each other. If she'd been involved in that kind of work, I would certainly have known.'

‘There are some things you can't tell even those you trust and love,' Woodend said. ‘There are very strict rules about it.'

‘It's totally impossible!' Bryant protested.

‘You have every reason to be proud of her,' Woodend told him. ‘She fought for her country as bravely as any soldier. If she'd lived,' he continued, calculating that he could get away with at least one lie, ‘she'd have been awarded a medal for her work – though, of course, the Queen would have given it to her in closed session.'

For a moment, Bryant looked as if he had no idea of how to answer. Then he said, ‘You're very kind.'

‘Kind?'

‘To pretend that Constance had been involved in some work of national importance. But you really don't have to pretend at all, you know. My wife didn't have to
do
anything special – she
was
special!'

And she'd done a brilliant job of fooling her husband, Woodend thought. Still, he was glad he'd spoken out. Bryant didn't believe what he'd said now, but later, when he came to appreciate what a gaping void his wife's death had left in his life, he might come to accept the truth and draw some comfort from it.

He cleared his throat. ‘I have to ask you about the circumstances surrounding your wife's death,' he said regretfully.

‘Of course,' Bryant agreed.

‘You said you weren't here when she left the house?'

‘That's right. I was down at the paper.'

‘We think she may have gone out to meet someone. Do you have any idea who that might have been?'

Bryant shook his head. ‘None. Constance tired very easily and spent a good deal of the day resting. As a result, she didn't have much of a social life, and even what little there was came through me. I can think of no one she might have wanted to see on her own.'

‘Where was your stepson last night?'

A look which was a mixture of wariness and anger appeared in Bryant's eyes. ‘Why do you ask that?' he demanded.

‘He's the son of a murder victim,' Woodend said gently. ‘I have to know.'

A little of the tension drained out of Bryant's body. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘Pardon me for being brusque. LH was probably here. He rarely leaves the house.'

‘So he might know if––'

‘I doubt if he'd have noticed Constance going out, if that's what you were going to ask. Sometimes he's in such a trance-like state that he wouldn't even notice if the house fell down around him.'

‘Why do you call him LH?' Woodend asked. ‘I thought his name was Richard.'

Bryant laughed weakly. ‘It's a nickname my wife gave him. He was quite small when his father died in India, but he was very brave about it. Hence the name Lionheart, you see.'

‘Richard the Lionheart. Like the king.'

‘Exactly. He's always been brave.' Bryant paused for a second. ‘Did you see any action in the last war, Chief Inspector?'

‘Yes.'

‘A lot?'

‘More than enough.'

‘I never got to do my share of the fighting. I volunteered, but I was turned down on medical grounds. I don't think I've ever quite learned to accept that rejection. Richard, on the other hand,
did
fight for his country. He was a hero, and any personal problems he's having now are as a direct result of that heroism.'

‘Personal problems?'

‘He has a nervous disposition as a result of his experiences. He doesn't relate well to people, even the ones who want to be close to him. He made his mother suffer sometimes, but I – as the man who dared to replace his real father – bore the brunt of the attacks. I've never minded that. However unfair and unreasonable he is, I'll keep on trying to get through to him, because though we all owe him a debt for what he had to endure in Malaya, those of us who have never endured war ourselves owe it most of all. I feel responsible for him. Does that sound foolish?'

‘No,' Woodend said sympathetically. ‘It doesn't sound foolish at all.'

There was a sudden loud thud from upstairs.

‘Is Richard at home now?' Woodend asked urgently.

‘Yes, he––'

‘Which is his room?'

‘Second to the left at the top of the stairs,' Bryant said.

But he was talking to empty space, because Woodend had jumped up from his seat and was already dashing towards the staircase.

The bedside cabinet lay on the floor, where Richard Quinn had kicked it. Quinn himself hung from the high-ceilinged light fitment by a pillowcase which he had twisted to form a rough cord. He could not have been hanging there for long – only since Woodend had heard the thumping sound from downstairs – but he had already started to change colour.

The Chief Inspector grabbed hold of the young man's trunk, and lifted it to take pressure off the neck. Behind him, he heard the sound of Dexter Bryant entering the room.

‘Find somethin' to cut him down!' Woodend shouted. ‘An' be quick about it!'

Bryant looked wildly around the room for a moment, then rushed over to his stepson's dresser and opened the drawer. The knife he pulled out of it had a long blade and a wickedly shaped edge. When he drew it across the stretched pillowcase, the fabric gave instantly.

Bryant dropped the knife on to the floor. Woodend hoisted Richard Quinn into a carrying position, took him over to the bed, and laid him gently down on the cover. Perhaps while Quinn had been hanging there, his whole life had flashed before him – but in real time no more than a few seconds had passed.

Quinn's eyes had begun to bulge slightly, and he was making choking noises, but Woodend guessed that no permanent damage had been done.

‘Why did you do it, LH?' Dexter Bryant asked anguishedly. ‘Why did you try to kill yourself?'

‘Mother . . .' Quinn gasped.

‘What about her?'

‘Wanted her dead . . . often enough. Now . . . she is.'

There was a loud imperious banging at the front door. Bryant clapped his hand to his forehead, as if this, on top of everything else, was enough to make his head explode.

‘What in God's name . . .?' he said.

The banging continued.

‘You'd better answer it,' Woodend said.

‘But LH . . . ?'

‘He'll be fine for a minute. Go and see who's there. Maybe they'll be able to help.'

Bryant nodded, and left the bedroom.

Woodend knelt over Richard Quinn. ‘What did you mean when you said you wanted her dead – and now she is?' he asked.

‘Shouldn't wish for bad things to happen,' Richard Quinn croaked.

‘Is that all you did? Wished for bad things to happen?'

‘That was . . . enough . . . wasn't it?'

Woodend became aware of several sets of footfalls on the stairs, and then the room was full of people. The Chief Inspector looked first at Dexter Bryant and then at DCS Newton and the two uniformed constables.

‘What's goin' on?' he demanded.

‘Thank you, Charlie, I'll take over from here,' Newton said.

‘Take over what?'

Ignoring Woodend, Newton walked over to the bed. ‘What's happened to him?' he asked, looking first down at Richard Quinn and then turning towards Dexter Bryant.

‘He . . . he tried to hang himself.'

‘I'm not in the least surprised about that,' Newton said, returning his gaze to the man on the bed. ‘Can you hear, Mr Quinn?'

‘Yes,' Quinn said faintly.

Newton cleared his throat. ‘Richard Thomas Quinn, I am arresting you for the murders of Elizabeth Stubbs, Lucille Tonge and Constance Bryant.'

‘This is insane!' Dexter Bryant screamed.

‘Please don't interrupt, sir,' Newton warned him. ‘You are not obliged to say anything, Mr Quinn, but anything that you do say––'

‘Richard was at home all evening,' Bryant protested. ‘With me! He couldn't have killed his mother.'

‘I understood that when you were informed of your wife's death, you were at your office,' Newton said coldly.

‘I . . . I . . .' Dexter Bryant stuttered.

‘Were you at your office or not?'

‘Yes, but . . .'

‘It's a serious matter to lie to the police,' Newton said sternly. ‘I may have to charge you.'

‘For Christ's sake, his wife's been murdered and his stepson's just about to be arrested!' Woodend thundered. ‘Cut the man a little slack, you unfeeling bastard!'

‘Escort Mr Bryant downstairs,' Newton told the two constables. ‘And as for you, Chief Inspector, we'll discuss that last remark of yours later.'

The constables each took one of Bryant's arms, and the Editor started to struggle.

‘Don't!' Woodend advised him.

‘But I can't just let them––'

‘You'll be of no help to Richard if you're locked up in a cell.'

Bryant nodded, accepting the logic of the argument, and allowed himself to be led out of the room.

‘Now perhaps we can get on with the business in hand,' Newton said. Then he noticed the knife that Bryant had used to cut through the pillowcase and was now lying on the floor. ‘Nasty looking instrument, that,' he told Woodend. ‘I'd say it'd be just about right for cutting throats. Wouldn't you?'

W
oodend flung open the Chief Constable's door, and stormed into the room. Marlowe was, as always, sitting behind the protective cover of his large desk. Seeing Woodend standing there, he first feigned surprise, then – obviously deciding that was not something he could carry off convincingly under the circumstances – he rapidly switched to an expression of mild annoyance and bureaucratic censure.

‘This can scarcely be considered appropriate behaviour, Chief Inspector,' he said sternly. ‘If you wish to schedule a meeting with me, then there are certain channels which must be gone though.'

‘What the bloody hell do you think you're playin' at?' Woodend demanded.

‘I'm not sure that I quite understand your question. What am I
playing
at? Is that what you said?'

‘All right,' Woodend said, exasperatedly. ‘If it makes you feel any happier, what the bloody hell is Newton playin' at?'

‘I should have thought that was obvious. Since you seemed unable to come up with a good line of inquiry in your current investigation – or, indeed, any line of inquiry at all – DCS Newton has stepped in. I did warn you that might happen, you know.'

‘Oh, you did,' Woodend agreed. ‘Indeed you did. An' the first thing Newton does –
havin'
stepped in – is to arrest Richard Quinn!'

‘I can't say with absolute certainty that it
was
the first thing that Mr Newton did. But it is certain that he's arrested Richard Quinn.'

‘On what grounds?'

‘That's an operational matter. I'm afraid you'll have to ask DCS Newton about it.'

‘Operational matter – bollocks!' Woodend said. ‘You know everythin' he knows – an' more. He wouldn't dare to do so much as fart without getting' your permission first.'

Marlowe sighed the sigh of a man who is trying to be reasonable, but, in fairness to himself, knows he cannot permit the interview to carry on for much longer. As a performance, it was better than his earlier attempts at surprise and annoyance – but not much.

‘If you can bring yourself to calm down for a moment, Chief Inspector, I might be willing to outline as much of the evidence against Richard Quinn as I currently have access to,' he said.

Woodend took a deep breath. ‘I'm calm,' he promised.

‘Very well. Let's first consider means. Did you know that Richard Quinn had combat training in Malaya?'

‘His stepfather mentioned that he'd served in Malaya an' won medals,' Woodend conceded.

‘He was a Royal Marine Commando, and the attacks on the three women bear all the hallmarks of commando training. In addition, the wounds are entirely consistent with a dagger called the . . . the. . .'