The Enemy Within (27 page)

When she noticed Woodend standing over her, a look of alarm came to her face.

‘No worries, lass, I'm not lookin' for trouble,' Woodend said. Then, without waiting to be invited, he pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘You've never been exactly scrupulous, Miss Driver,' he continued, ‘but, I have to say, you seem to be gettin' worse by the day.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Elizabeth Driver replied.

‘Still, if you were goin' to blackmail anybody, I think you were wise to choose Bob Rutter, rather than Monika Paniatowski. Bob's a bit of an old-fashioned sort when it comes to dealin' with women – but Monika would have knocked your front teeth out.'

‘How dare you suggest I tried to blackmail your inspector?' Driver demanded.

‘Come on, lass, there's no point in puttin' on a show when there's nobody but me here to appreciate it,' Woodend said. ‘Besides, if we're goin' to be partners – even
temporary
partners – we should at least try to be honest with each other.'

‘Partners?' Driver repeated, amazed.

‘That's right,' Woodend said. ‘For once I'm changin' the rules, an' I'm goin' to make you a special offer.'

‘What kind of special offer?'

‘I give you an exclusive on this case, an' in return you promise to forget everythin' you've ever found out about Bob an' Monika.'

Revenge was sweet, Elizabeth Driver thought, so very, very sweet.

‘So you can be corrupted, after all,' she said.

‘Like I told you, it's a one-time offer, an' though it sticks in my craw to make it, I'm doin' it to prevent three lives from bein' ruined.'

Elizabeth Driver took a long, slow sip of her drink – prolonging the moment, squeezing every drop of pleasure she could out of her victory.

‘A few days ago, I might have been interested,' she said. ‘More than interested. Really excited. But I've moved on since then. I'm in the big league now.'

‘Meanin' that you're gettin' your information straight from the horse's arse – the horse in this case bein' the Chief Constable.'

‘A journalist never reveals her sources.'

‘An' you still intend to run this story about Bob an' Monika, do you?'

‘Not just now. I've got much bigger fish to fry at the moment. But when I hit my next quiet patch, I'll probably dig it up again.'

‘You really don't care about the damage you'll do, do you?'

‘They're the ones who couldn't keep their underwear on. I'm just reporting the facts.'

Woodend smiled, suddenly and disarmingly. ‘I really don't know why I'm fussin',' he said. ‘You won't be printin' the story of Bob and Monika in the
Globe
, because you won't be
workin'
for the
Globe
after tomorrow. An' who cares if you run it in your next paper – which will probably be the Back-of-Beyond
Weekly Advertiser
, if you're
lucky
– because only three men an' a dog will read it.'

Elizabeth Driver laughed. ‘Is that the best you can do?' she asked. ‘Some kind of veiled threat that I'd have to be an idiot to fall for?
Won't be working for the Globe after tomorrow
! I'll never have been in a stronger position than I'll be in tomorrow. I'll have an exclusive!'

‘True,' Woodend agreed. ‘But you'll have the
wrong
exclusive.'

He sounded
so
confident that alarm bells started to ring in Elizabeth Driver's head. ‘What do you mean – the
wrong
exclusive?' she asked.

‘You'll be pinnin' the murders on an innocent man, while all the other newspapers – which I will have personally briefed – will be namin' the guilty one. On the other hand, if you do the deal with me, it could just as easily be the other way around.'

I
n most of the houses in Whitebridge, food had been bolted down and favourite television programmes ignored for once.

Crowds had already started to gather at the dozen or more bonfire sites around the town. Small children, woollen hats pulled down tight over their ears and mittens fastened to their hands, gazed up in wonder at the large dark shape which was soon to be set afire purely for their pleasure. Slightly older kids held on tightly to the cardboard boxes which contained their precious hoards of fireworks. Parents issued last-minute instructions on safety and good behaviour. Civic-minded adults and older teenagers began to pour petrol on the rags they would use to start the fires. It was cold – devilishly cold. But it would soon be as hot as hell. Guy Fawkes, the enemy who had lurked menacingly within the very centre of government, was about to be burned in effigy once more.

The curtains which were drawn across the front window of the house at the end of the cul-de-sac were made of thick velvet, but even so they could see that there was a light on inside.

‘I'd be happier if we'd brought more men with us,' Bob Rutter said.

‘No point in goin' in mob-handed,' Woodend told him. ‘I want Bryant spooked – but I don't want him spooked
yet
!'

‘What if he doesn't get spooked at all?' Paniatowski asked.

‘He will.'

‘I don't see how you can be so sure of that. So far, he's shown nerves of steel. And let's face it, sir, you haven't got enough evidence to get a rat convicted of being a rodent.'

‘Ultimately, it won't boil down to clear-cut evidence,' Woodend assured his sergeant. ‘That's not the kind of game he's in.'

‘I hope you're right,' Paniatowski said.

‘Do you think he'll have a gun?' Rutter asked.

I bloody
hope
he will, Woodend thought. If he doesn't, my whole plan will fall apart.

But aloud, he said, ‘He won't be armed. He's too professional to run the risk of keepin' a weapon in the house.'

‘How can you say that, considering all the risks he's run already?' Rutter persisted.

‘That was different. The risks he ran before were
worthwhile
risks. At least, that's how they'll have seemed from his standpoint.'

‘And having a gun isn't a worthwhile risk?'

‘No,' Woodend lied. ‘In Bryant's line of work, a gun's not much use – because by the time you feel the need of one, you're already finished.'

Rutter shook himself, more as a gesture of disbelief than because he was cold. ‘Let's get on with it, then,' he said.

‘You're stayin' outside,' Woodend told him.

‘Why?'

‘Because if we don't come out again within forty-five minutes, I'm goin' to need somebody to radio headquarters an' inform them of the fact.'

‘If he's not armed – as you claim he isn't – why
shouldn't
you come out?'

Woodend sighed. ‘Look, nothin's goin' to go wrong, but it's always wisest to keep somebody in reserve,' he said.

‘Then keep Monika in reserve. Let me go in with you.'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

Because things could go
very
wrong, and Rutter had a wife and child who depended on him, Woodend thought.

‘I'm takin' Monika in because Bryant will feel less intimidated by a feller an' a woman than he would by two fellers,' he told Rutter.

‘I don't believe you,' Rutter said.

‘I don't give a bugger what you believe. You'll do as you're bloody well ordered,' Woodend snapped.

All over Whitebridge, the night sky began to redden as the fires caught hold. Now the fireworks started. Rockets escaped from the empty milk bottles in which they had been placed, flew through the air until they burnt up all their powder, then arced and hurtled back to the ground. Catherine wheels spun furiously on fences, roman candles flung up bright green stars and silver fountains.

In this wonderland, the children danced around the blaze in a frenzy of excitement. There were no big kids to get in their way or tell them to shove off. The big kids didn't consider it cool to arrive at the bonfire so early in the evening. Instead, they stood on street corners, throwing penny bangers at one another. To the uninitiated, it sounded rather like gunfire.

It took a single ring to bring Bryant to the door. He ran his eyes over Woodend and Paniatowski, checked to see if they really were alone, then said, ‘I'm surprised to see you here, Chief Inspector.'

‘Are you, sir?' Woodend asked. ‘I'm a little surprised that you're surprised. Would you mind if we came in?'

‘What if that's not convenient?'

‘Then we'll go away. An' you'll spend the rest of the night wonderin' what it was I'd been goin' to say.
Is it
inconvenient?'

Bryant favoured him with a thin smile. ‘Not really,' he admitted. ‘In fact, I'm glad of the company. It's better than being left alone with my own thoughts.'

‘Aye, they can be very uncomfortable, can your own thoughts,' Woodend said.

Bryant led them into his open-plan living room, and gestured that they should sit down. ‘Now what was it you wanted to say?'

‘You're a clever man, Mr Bryant,' Woodend told him. ‘Perhaps sometimes a little
too
clever.'

‘Is it possible to be
too
clever?'

‘Oh yes, I think so. Because cleverness often leads to complications. Take your idea of sendin' Jamie Clegg to cover the first murder at Mad Jack's Field. That was clever, but it also made him stand out in my mind – and he was the last bugger you needed to have me rememberin'.'

‘I can't claim to understand anything of what you've just said,' Bryant told him. ‘Why was it clever of me to send Jamie Clegg?'

‘Because you'd got the measure of him by then. Even if you didn't tell him to, you knew he'd do somethin' stupid like sneakin' on to the field an' tryin' to steal evidence.'

‘And why ever should I have wanted him to do that?'

‘Because not only did it give you a plausible reason for meetin' me, but it also allowed you to demonstrate what a nice feller you were to your employees – an' by extension, what a nice feller you were in general.'

‘But why should I have
wanted
to meet you?'

‘Because you believe in the old maxim that you should keep your friends close, an' your enemies closer. It was another nice touch, by the way, to arrange it so that the first person I talked to in the Dirty Duck was your wife. An' the way you managed to make sure that I got a glimpse – but only a glimpse – of your stepson, was nothin' short of masterful. Sort of like settin' the scene before the play had really begun.'

Bryant assumed the impassive carved face of an Indian warrior in a bad western. ‘The marshal speak in heap big riddles,' he said. ‘He want tell Tonto what whole bloody thing about?'

‘Very amusing,' Woodend said dryly. ‘Take a note of it, Monika – I might want to use it at parties.' He turned his attention back to Bryant. ‘Let's move on to somethin' else, shall we? Like your war record, for example.'

‘My war record?'

‘Most of the people I know who didn't see any action in the war like to keep quiet about it, even when it wasn't their fault,' Woodend said. ‘But not you, Mr Bryant. You went out of your way to tell everybody – me included – that you worked in the Army Pay Corps. Now why is that?'

Bryant grinned. ‘Because I'm more honest and open than most people you know?'

‘No. Because it wasn't true. You
did
see active service. But you were told not to talk about it.'

T
he guys had long ago been totally consumed by flames, and though the children might tell themselves they wished Bonfire Night would last for ever, the thrill was already starting to pall a little. Rockets no longer elicited the ‘ahs' which had been no more than their due half an hour earlier. Catherine wheels had lost a little of their magic. Even the bonfires themselves were past their zenith, and though true enthusiasts were searching for more materiel to keep them going, some of the children were already drifting away. Like everything else in their short lives, the actual event had not
quite
lived up to the anticipation.

Bob Rutter looked down at his watch. Woodend and Paniatowski had passed through Bryant's front door only fifteen minutes earlier, he calculated, so why did it feel as if they'd been gone for at least two hours?

He wished – he
really
wished – that he knew what Cloggin'-it Charlie was up to. Woodend had
said
he intended to get a confession out of Dexter Bryant, but if he was right in his theories about the man, there was no way that Bryant would be willing to spill the beans. Woodend had
said
that Bryant wouldn't be armed, but again, if he was the man that Charlie was convinced he must be, he'd be a fool not to have some kind of weapon on hand.

Rutter stamped his feet against the cold. He should never have let any of this happen. He should never have allowed Monika to go inside. If anything happened to her . . .

He had no claims over Monika Paniatowski, he reminded himself. She was not his to command. At the very best, she had lent herself to him. And should she die on this night, he must force himself to mourn her as a friend rather than grieve for her as a lover – for anything else would be yet another betrayal of wonderful, blameless Maria.

He looked at his watch and saw that a mere two minutes had ticked painfully by since the last time he had consulted it.

Woodend had been silently counting off the seconds which had passed since he mentioned Dexter Bryant's war record, and had reached a hundred and forty. Bryant himself had neither said anything nor shown, by the expression on his face, what he was thinking. But thoughts
were
speeding through his brain. Woodend was sure of that, because Bryant was one of the most intelligent and
calculating
men he had ever met.