The Red Herring

Table of Contents

Also by Sally Spencer

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

THE SALTON KILLINGS

MURDER AT SWANN'S LAKE

DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

THE DARK LADY

THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

DEAD ON CUE

THE RED HERRING

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

THE ENEMY WITHIN

A DEATH LEFT HANGING

THE WITCH MAKER

THE BUTCHER BEYOND

DYING IN THE DARK

STONE KILLER

A LONG TIME DEAD

SINS OF THE FATHERS

DANGEROUS GAMES

DEATH WATCH

A DYING FALL

FATAL QUEST

The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

THE RING OF DEATH

ECHOES OF THE DEAD

BACKLASH

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain and the USA 2002 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9 – 15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Ltd.

Copyright © 2002 by Sally Spencer.

The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-5707-1 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483 - 0084-6 (epub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This eBook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

F
or most people in the declining mill town of Whitebridge, the fear was not an immediate thing. Their heads were not pounding as they switched off their wireless after hearing the announcement. Their hearts didn't race as they put on the kettle to make a soothing cup of tea. They noticed no tremble in their legs as they stepped outside for a breath of northern industrial air. The simple truth – and they liked
simple
truth in Whitebridge – was that it hadn't really begun to sink in yet.

In a way, they were like victims of a rail crash, who know their train has hit something, but have yet to fully grasp the implications. But however much they might have wanted to, they could not remain in ignorance for long. Slowly and steadily, like fog rising from a murky river, the reality of the situation began to engulf them, until they were encompassed by panic.

It just couldn't be happening, they told themselves from the centre of that panic.

The Russian leader – the bald-headed man who'd banged his shoe on the table at the United Nations – could not have put missiles on Cuba. And even if he had, the American president – who was so handsome he might have been a film star – could not have retaliated by placing a tight naval blockade around the island.

It just couldn't be happening because both those things were virtually acts of war. And the world couldn't afford a war – not now there were nuclear weapons capable of vaporising millions and millions of people in seconds.

Yet it
was
happening. The chickens had all come home to roost. The wind had been sown, and whirlwind was about to be reaped. The two most powerful men in the world were each writing a suicide note, both for themselves and for the rest of humanity.

Had any of these worried citizens of Whitebridge been told that only a few hours after the paralysing announcement there would be a man in their midst – a man faced with the same prospect of the impersonal destruction of his whole race as they were facing themselves – who would somehow find the will and the energy to destroy a
single
soul in a highly personal and brutal manner, they would have thought it incredible.

But he did – and he would!

C
aptain Wilbur Tooley of the USAF stood in front of the mirror straightening his necktie and examining his face closely for signs of ingrained Southern Baptist guilt.

‘Who's giving the class tonight?' asked a voice behind him.

It was not a question he welcomed, and Tooley swallowed hard. ‘The woman, I think.'

‘Which woman? The pretty redhead? The one we met in church?'

Doing his best to freeze his face into a mask of innocence, Tooley turned round to look at his wife. Mary Jo had been pleasantly plump when he'd married her, but since then she'd given birth to their two kids and had never managed to lose all the extra weight she'd put on during pregnancy, so that now she was looking more and more like a round rubber ball.

‘Yeah, she's the one we met in church,' he agreed.

‘And what's the class on?'

Tooley shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘I'm not exactly sure, honey. I think it's something about Britain searching for a new role now she's lost an empire.'

‘Sounds dull.'

‘It probably will be.'

‘Do you have really to go?' asked the round rubber ball.

‘It's something officers are expected to do,' Tooley replied.

‘But what if something happens to you tomorrow?' she asked. ‘What if you don't come back? Do you realise this could be the last night we ever spend together as a family?'

Yes, he realised it. And yes, he knew that he ought to spend the time with his family. But it wasn't what he
wanted
.

‘You shouldn't talk like that,' he said. ‘I've got enough on my mind when I'm in the air, without having to worry about family problems.'

Mary Jo's eyes moistened. ‘I'm sorry,' she said.

‘Forget it,' Tooley told her – but he was thinking: How can I be such an
asshole
?

‘Could you at least promise to come home straight after class?' Mary Jo asked.

Tooley shook his head. ‘I can't,' he lied. ‘There's a ton of stuff going down. I might be needed.'

‘You're needed
here!
'

‘I'm sorry,' Tooley muttered, echoing his wife.

And he was. Sorry that his high principles could so quickly be overruled by his more basic instincts. Sorry that he was not half the husband he had once thought himself to be.

Verity Beale slowed down as she approached the main gate of the air-force base, but before she had come to a complete halt the guard stepped out and waved her Mini through.

As she drove between the lines of Nissan huts which had been erected hastily during the war – and still survived to defend the fragile peace – she felt as if she were trapped in a tunnel she did not like, but from which there was no turning back.

When had it all started, this journey through the tunnel? she wondered.

Was it when she'd first decided that a conventional career in a City law firm was not for her? Or had it been while she'd been watching the images on television of Allied planes flying supplies into a besieged Berlin?

She supposed that it didn't really matter now. The tunnel was there, and she had to take whatever steps were necessary – however distasteful they might be – to keep on moving through it.

‘You're doing a good job,' she tried to reassure herself. ‘A worthwhile job. A job not many people could do well.'

But even in the narrow confines of the Mini, the words sounded hollow to her, and she could not help wishing that, just once in a while, she could be
herself
and say what she
really
thought.

She pulled up in front of the large hut which served as her classroom on two nights a week. Through the window she could see several rows of American airmen already sitting down and waiting for her.

Most of them were little more than children, she thought – even younger than she was herself. And yet they each had under their control a weapon of war which could have wiped out the mighty forces of Genghis Khan with the single push of a button. It was frightening – all the more so because there was a distinct possibility that one of these young men was not at all what he seemed.

As she walked into the lecture room, she was aware of heads turning and eyes following the gyrations of her body. It was not a new experience for her. She was well aware of the fact that with her flaming red hair and firm figure she was what the Americans called ‘a looker'. Indeed, if she hadn't been ‘a looker', she'd never have been assigned this particular task.

She reached the front of the hut, mounted the podium, and turned to face her audience. There were gaps tonight, she noted – gaps left by men who would already be in the air.

‘I'm flattered that so many of you tonight have decided that I'm a bigger draw than Mr Khrushchev,' she said.

They laughed, as she'd expected them to. But there was a nervousness in their laughter – and that was only to be expected, too.

She scanned the room and saw Wilbur Tooley – skinny, earnest Wilbur Tooley – sitting right at the back, trying his best to look at her as if she were his teacher and nothing more. She had arranged to meet him later and was already steeling herself to slip into the role he expected her to play.

If I'd gone into the law, as Daddy wanted me to, she thought, I'd have spent my days standing up in court and pleading the innocence of clients I knew damn well were guilty. Would that really have been any better than what I'm doing now? We're all whores – in one way or another!

She cleared her throat. ‘The British Empire,' she said, underlining her words with her tone. ‘In 1945, at the end of World War Two, there wasn't a politician in Britain who didn't believe that the Empire was as solid and durable as it had ever been . . .'