The Enemy Within (8 page)

‘Do you happen to know any unarmed combat?' the doctor asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Excellent again. I'm most delighted for you. But please don't try any of it out on me. Just imagine that you're the woman on the table. Struggle as she might have struggled.'

Paniatowski made a show of resistance, and found that the dainty doctor was stronger than she looked. Much stronger.

‘I'm going to draw the scalpel across your throat,' Dr Shastri said. ‘It shouldn't hurt at all, because I'm using the blunt side.' She paused. ‘At least, I
think
I'm using the blunt side.'

Gallows humour, Paniatowski thought, as she felt the cold steel pass across her throat. You had to laugh!

And she would have done – if her throat hadn't suddenly locked up!

Dr Shastri released her grip and stepped back. ‘It would have all been over in absolutely no time at all,' she said cheerfully. ‘The windpipe is cut, blood floods into the lungs. Then it is simply a case of “Goodbye, lady”.'

Paniatowski massaged her throat. ‘Would the killer have to have been a strong man?' she asked in a rasping voice.

‘Not particularly. He was taller than his victim – the nature of the wound indicates that – but then that is only to be expected, for the poor woman was no giant.'

‘Is there evidence of any other form of assault?'

‘Rape, you mean? Or perhaps some other form of sexual interference?'

‘Yes.'

‘None. Apart from some bruising to her arms and the slash across her throat, he did her no harm at all.'

‘What else can you tell me? Had she been drinking?'

‘Indeed. She had drunk a great deal of carrot juice.'

‘Carrot juice?'

‘Yes, but that is only to be expected under the circumstances.'

‘She was very sick, wasn't she?' Paniatowski said.

Dr Shastri beamed. ‘What a fine detective you are,' she said. ‘Most people would have seen the bald head and noticed the huge weight loss, yet still thought that nothing was wrong with the woman. But you, Sergeant, are a trained observer. If you were to see a man with only one leg, for example, it would not take you more than a minute or two to deduce that he had lost the other one.'

Paniatowski grinned. ‘And as hard as you may find it to believe, there are people even better at this job than I am,' she said. The grin faded away. ‘What was it? Cancer?'

The doctor nodded. ‘The enemy within. Your victim had been on an intensive course of chemotherapy.'

‘Was it doing her any good?'

‘Virtually not at all. The cancer had reached an advanced stage. Even with the drugs, she must often have been in a great deal of pain. It could almost be said that her killer did her a favour.'

Paniatowski reached into her handbag and produced two miniature vodka bottles.

‘Drink?' she suggested.

Dr Shastri walked over to the shelves and returned with two glass retorts. Looking at them, Paniatowski decided it would be wisest not to ask what they contained previously.

‘It is against my religion to drink alcohol,' the doctor said. ‘So only a small one for me, please.'

Paniatowski unscrewed the caps and poured out the liquid. Dr Shastri knocked hers back with all the panache of a hardened Cossack.

‘Can I ask you to do something for me, Doc?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Of course. It's what I've been waiting for.'

‘You have?'

‘Naturally. Or was I wrong to assume that the vodka you have given me was nothing more than a bribe?'

Paniatowski grinned again. If it hadn't been for the other woman's golden-brown skin, she'd have been willing to swear they were twins, separated at birth.

‘No, you weren't wrong,' she admitted. ‘It was a bribe.'

‘So what is it you wish me to do to earn it?'

‘I wish you to make one quick phone call,' Paniatowski said.

T
he clock was just striking noon as Woodend entered the upstairs dining room of the pub which the brewery insisted was called the White Swan, but the locals refused to recognize by any other name than the Dirty Duck. He looked around him. There was no sign of Dexter Bryant. But his arrival had not gone unnoticed. An attractive woman in her late forties first smiled at him and then signalled that he should join her.

Woodend walked over to the table. ‘I'm afraid you may have mistaken me for somebody else,' he said.

The smile on the woman's face melted away into a look of concern. ‘Oh dear,' she said. ‘How embarrassing. I'd have staked my life on your being the right man. You
look
so much like a chief inspector! You certainly
ought
to be one, even though you're not.'

‘As a matter of fact, I am,' Woodend said.

‘Then you
are
Mr Woodend?'

‘Yes.'

The smile returned. ‘I knew my journalistic instincts hadn't let me down,' the woman said. ‘I'm Constance Bryant, Dexter's wife. My husband's terribly sorry but he's going to be late – he has some family matters to deal with – and he said that we should start without him. Do please sit down.'

Woodend sat, and when the waiter came he ordered a mixed grill with all the heart-clogging trimmings. Constance Bryant, in contrast, wanted only a cheese salad.

‘You're expecting me to ask you about your current case, aren't you?' Mrs Bryant said brightly.

‘It's what people normally do,' Woodend admitted.

‘And if I did ask, you'd fob me off with generalities, wouldn't you? You'd say, for example, that it was too early in the investigation to draw any firm conclusions.'

‘Probably.'

‘And all the time, the thought would be going through your mind that I'd got a real nerve to probe like that. You'd want to say that I'd never dream of asking a doctor about the health of one of his patients, so what gave me the right to question a policeman – who's just as much a professional as any quack – about his investigation. Or perhaps you'd want to cut straight to the chase and tell me it was none of my bloody business.'

Woodend grinned. ‘You sound like a woman who's talked to a lot of bobbies. An' I noticed you talked about
journalistic
instincts. Are you in the same business as your husband?'

‘Yes and no. I'm a journalist by trade, and before I married Dexter I was a foreign correspondent for more years than I care to remember.'

‘Then you must have married Mr Bryant . . . ?'

‘Rather late in life?'

‘I wasn't goin' to say that,' Woodend told her, a little uncomfortably.

Constance Bryant laughed. ‘Of course you were, and you should be grateful I've pulled you out of a potentially embarrassing situation. Dexter's my second husband. My first died.'

‘I'm sorry,' Woodend said.

‘It was a long time ago,' Constance Bryant said. Then she shook her head. ‘No, I'm lying. I'm very happy with Dexter now – I couldn't imagine being married to anyone else – but whenever I think of Edward's death, it seems to me as if it only happened yesterday.' She paused, and a look of remorse came to her face. ‘But now I
am
embarrassing you.'

‘Not really,' Woodend said unconvincingly.

‘Change the subject. Ask me something else. Quickly!'

‘How did you become a foreign correspondent?'

Constance Bryant smiled again. ‘A good question,' she said. ‘Edward was a businessman, and we lived in India. Have you ever been there?'

‘No.'

‘Then I'd better explain a little about what life was like for us. We didn't mix with the natives. It wasn't our choice – it simply wasn't the done thing. So we were forced to live in a very closed society. We gave dinner parties, we played bridge at the club – and all we ever saw were the same old faces again and again. At first I had my son, Richard, to distract me, but as he began to grow and need me less, I became incredibly bored. Then I got the idea of writing articles for the English papers, and discovered I was rather good at it. Edward died, and Richard and I came back to England. I needed to do something to earn my own living, and journalism seemed the natural choice. The
Daily Standard
took me on as foreign correspondent, and I travelled the world covering revolutions, famines and natural disasters. I don't suppose it could have been described as an easy life by any means, but I enjoyed it.'

‘But all the time, your ultimate goal was to live in Whitebridge an' run the Mid Lancs
Courier
,' Woodend said.

‘You're teasing, aren't you?'

No, Woodend thought, with a sudden shock of realization. He wasn't teasing – he was flirting.

‘I . . . er . . . wasn't suggesting you'd made the wrong decision,' he said, to cover his confusion.

‘There's a lot of pressure in working for a national newspaper, and the more important you are, the greater that pressure is,' Constance Bryant said. ‘Dexter and I had been at the top of our profession for quite a long time. We decided to slow down a little, and when I inherited the newspaper from my uncle, it seemed as if fate was pointing us in the direction we'd already decided to take.'

‘So who
does
run the
Courier
?' Woodend asked. ‘You? Or your husband?'

‘Our plan was to run it jointly, and that's probably what we'll end up doing.'

‘But you're not doin' it yet?'

Constance Bryant shook her head. ‘Ever since we've moved to Whitebridge, I've been rather under the weather. My doctor says it's an allergy, but until he has established exactly what
sort
of allergy, he can't prescribe the medication which will clear it up.'

She had been a good hostess, Woodend thought – but not a perfect one. All through the conversation, she had been glancing at the door whenever she thought Woodend wasn't looking, and now, seeing the look of relief come to her face, he realized just how nervous she must have been.

He turned to follow her gaze. Standing in the entrance were two men. One of them was, Woodend guessed, in his early fifties. He was of medium height, had black hair and was wearing a smart blue suit. The other was taller and much younger – possibly no more than twenty-five or twenty-six. His hair was unfashionably long, and his chin was covered with stubble. He was wearing the kind of combat jacket sold in the Army and Navy Stores. Neither man looked exactly comfortable in the other's company.

Constance Bryant rose from her chair.

‘Will you excuse me for a moment?' she asked, but she was already moving away before Woodend had had time to answer.

The woman joined the two men in the doorway. The Chief Inspector was too far away to hear what was being said, but he could read enough in the stance of the three people to get a rough impression of what was going on.

The younger man – who was possibly Mrs Bryant's son – had an aggressive air about him. Aggressive
and
aggrieved, the Chief Inspector guessed. The world as it was constituted did not appear to please him, and if he was unhappy with the world in general, then Whitebridge must get right up his nose.

Mrs Bryant, in contrast, couldn't give a hang about the world, but only about her son. She had lost her earlier aura of quiet confidence. Now she hovered uncertainly like a dog which fully expects to be beaten and will accept such a beating – should it come – as entirely justified.

And then there was Mr Bryant. He seemed torn between two opposing forces. On the one hand, he clearly felt sympathy for the younger man, and would gladly have taken on some of his burden, had that been possible. On the other hand, he was well aware of the effect that Richard was having on his mother, and would cheerfully have reduced him to a pulp if that could have alleviated it.

The trio appeared to have run out of things they wanted to say to one another – or perhaps of things they
could
say. Mrs Bryant took hold of her son's arm, and after a token show of resistance, he allowed himself to be led away. Mr Bryant watched them go, then brushed the edge of his hand over the lapels of his jacket, as if his troubles could be swept away like an unwanted piece of lint. That done, he squared his shoulders and turned to face Woodend's table.

Well, it had certainly been an interesting lunch
so far
, the Chief Inspector thought.

R
utter stood watching as the uniformed constables continued to search Mad Jack's Field. In theory, he supposed, he was
supervising
the search, but watching the officers' slow and meticulous progress only made him feel useless. He wanted to be away from there. He wanted to be
doing
things.

The screech of car tyres from somewhere close to the edge of the industrial estate made him look up. It was always possible, of course, that the sound heralded the arrival of some other lunatic driver – but he was putting his money on it being Monika Paniatowski.

He caught sight of the bright-red MGA approaching the nearest roundabout at something considerably in excess of the recommended speed. Monika had
always
driven too fast, he thought, but there'd been a time when he'd considered it more the traffic police's business than his. Now things had changed. Now, despite the fact that she was an excellent driver, he worried about her.

The MGA came to a shrieking halt a few yards from him. Paniatowski gave him a broad smile, and gestured that he should come over to her. It was not until he was halfway there that he realized that in the old days – when they seriously loathed each other – she would never have acted so imperiously towards a man who outranked her.

‘I've got a lead on our stiff, and I didn't want to wait until the boss is free before I got the all-clear to follow it up,' Paniatowski said.