The Red Herring (11 page)

‘Couldn't we at least narrow the list of suspects down a bit?' Paniatowski asked.

‘I'm not quite clear what you mean by that,' the major told her. ‘And I'm not certain I'm happy with the word “suspect” being applied to any of the men serving on this post.'

Paniatowski took a deep breath, and wondered how Woodend would have handled a situation of this kind. No, thinking like that wouldn't help at all, she decided. She already
knew
how Woodend would react, and she had neither his rank nor his physical presence to carry off that kind of eruption. Better, far better, to pretend she was the smooth-talking Detective Inspector Rutter.

‘I didn't mean to suggest that any of your men was more of a suspect than anyone else in the county,' she said. ‘But it would still help if we knew at least the name of the man who was with Miss Beale just before she died. And it shouldn't be too difficult to find out, should it? I don't imagine there are that many men here who drive big imported cars and were also off the base last night.'

Major Dole sighed. ‘I don't know if you've been watching the news, Sergeant,' he said, ‘but if you have been, you'll know that the international situation is very tense at the moment.'

‘So what?'

‘So this base is not just here for decoration. We're a vital wing of the American military strike force – and Nato's as well,' the major added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Ever since this crisis started to develop, we've been on a high level of alert, and while we hope it will never happen, we might be called into action at any moment. Given that, you can't really expect me to devote much of my time to investigating what is, after all, a purely local matter. I've seen you, I've explained the situation as I see it, and that should be good enough for you.'

And suddenly, Paniatowski thought she understood what was going on.

‘You're worried he might turn out to be important, aren't you!' she demanded, forgetting she was pretending to be Rutter and slipping into full Woodend overdrive.

The major frowned again. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘You're worried that he might be one of your leading pilots, and that when you need him to drop a couple of bombs on Russia he won't be available – because he'll be in the Whitebridge nick, answering questions about the murder of Verity Beale.'

‘That's the most outlandish statement that I've ever heard,' the major said coldly.

‘If that's true, then all I can say is that you must have led a very sheltered life,' Paniatowski countered.

The major stood up. ‘This meeting is at an end, Sergeant Paniatowski,' he said.

‘Yes, I rather thought it might be,' Paniatowski replied.

T
he Dunns' house was located a couple of streets up from the one in which Verity Beale had lodged, and had the same air of Edwardian respectability about it. As Woodend walked up the path he found himself wondering whether Helen Dunn, who had probably spent much of her life on military bases, had begun to regard the place as her home yet.

It was the squadron leader himself who answered the knock on the door. The man was in his middle-to-late thirties, Woodend estimated. He was not very tall, but he was exceptionally broad, and even though his uniform had a tailored look about it, it was still possible to detect his muscles bulging under the sleeves. An ex-rugby player, the chief inspector decided – and one who had not allowed his body to go to seed once he had given up the game.

Dunn's pale blue eyes were both emotionless and analytical, and as he ran them up and down his visitor's body, they seemed to miss nothing.

‘Yes?' the squadron leader said.

‘Chief Inspector Woodend, sir.'

‘Are you the man in charge of the search for my daughter?'

‘Yes, I am.'

‘Then why the hell aren't you back at your headquarters, directing the operation?'

‘The wheels have been set in motion, sir,' Woodend said. ‘Everything that can be done, is being done. My not being there for an hour or so isn't goin' to make any difference one way or the other.'

Dunn nodded. ‘You're quite right, of course,' he admitted. ‘Any system that depends entirely on the presence of one man can't have been much of a system in the first place.' He ran his hand over his forehead. ‘Look, I'm sorry if I seemed abrupt but I've been––'

‘That's quite all right, sir,' Woodend said. ‘Would you mind if I came in for a few minutes?'

‘Come in?' Dunn repeated, as if he were finding it difficult to follow a normal conversation. ‘I . . . yes . . . please follow me.'

He led Woodend down the hallway and into the lounge. The first word which struck Woodend as he entered the room was ‘precision'. The sofa did not touch the wall, but was exactly parallel to it. The two chairs which accompanied the sofa were set at a precise ninety degrees to it, and faced each other perfectly. The pictures of vintage military aircraft on the walls hung as straight as if they were in a fastidious art gallery. There was not the slightest hint of a kink in the fireside rug. Even the ornaments on the mantelpiece and in the display cabinet seemed to have been set out according to some master plan.

It was more like a museum than a lounge, Woodend thought, except that in a museum it might be possible to find a little dust if you looked carefully, and here such a search would be futile.

‘Would you like to sit down?' Dunn offered.

‘No, I'd prefer to stand,' said Woodend, unwilling to disturb the symmetry of the furniture.

‘Why are you here?' the squadron leader asked. ‘Did you come because you felt it was your duty to offer me the conventional reassurances and platitudes? We both know that would be a waste of time. My daughter's fate is not in your hands, but in the hands of a madman. And if you find her, it won't be because you have been clever, but because he has been careless.'

‘Does that mean I shouldn't try?' Woodend asked.

Dunn bowed his head. ‘No, of course it doesn't mean that.'

‘Well then, that's why I'm here – because I'm tryin',' Woodend said.

‘I don't see how––'

‘If your daughter's been kidnapped by a stranger, then I
am
wastin' my time,' Woodend told him. ‘But if the kidnapper's someone who knew her – even slightly – then there's a chance that by bein' where she's been, and by seein' who she's seen, I might be able to get a lead on him.'

‘It seems a long shot,' Dunn said doubtfully.

‘It
is
a long shot,' Woodend agreed. ‘But I'm a sniffer-out of details, a sifter of minutiae. I do that particular trick better than most, an' I sometimes find links that everybody else has overlooked. So while there's a chance that there is a link to be found that will lead me to Helen, I'll give it all I've got. Now, if you'd allow me, I'd like to look round her room.'

‘Of course,' the squadron leader said. ‘Please follow me.'

His daughter Annie's bedroom had always been a bit of a mess, and Woodend often chuckled at the thought of what a shock to her system it must have been when she'd moved into the student nurses' hostel and had a battleaxe of a warden inspecting her living quarters every week.

Helen Dunn would have had no such problem. Her bedroom was as neat and tidy as the living room they'd just left – her books stacked perfectly on her bookshelf, her stationery all perfectly aligned on her desk.

There were no pictures of pop singers or film stars pinned to the wall, as there had been in Annie's room. The only picture of any sort was a photograph on her bedside cabinet. There were two girls in the picture. One of them was a much younger Helen, the other a slightly older girl who was obviously a relation.

‘Her sister?' Woodend guessed.

‘Yes,' the squadron leader replied, his voice totally devoid of expression. ‘That's Janice.'

‘An' is she . . .?'

‘She died. While we were posted in Germany.'

‘I'm sorry,' Woodend said. ‘Was it a
sudden
illness?'

‘It wasn't an illness at all,' Dunn told him. ‘It was an accident. She drowned.'

It almost seemed like there was a curse hanging over the family, Woodend thought.

‘Do Helen's friends come around here very often?' he asked, more to change the subject than because he was really interested in the answer.

‘Helen does not have much time for friends,' Dunn answered.

‘She doesn't?' Woodend asked, but he was thinking, ‘What kind of kid doesn't have time for
friends
?'

‘Helen wishes to study at Oxford University,' Dunn said. ‘She is well aware of just how stiff competition is for places, and is striving hard to get herself into a position in which she will be one of the front runners. In addition, her sports activities take up much of her time. She's not a natural athlete, but if she works hard at it she should be able to reach a very acceptable standard eventually.'

‘She sounds like a very serious girl,' Woodend said.

‘She is a very
determined
girl,' the squadron leader answered.

Or was it just that she'd got a very determined father pushin' her forward? Woodend wondered.

Monika Paniatowski stood on railway station platform and watched the London train – which was bringing the chief inspector from Scotland Yard to Whitebridge – slow to a halt. She found herself wondering what he would be like, and decided that, since the Yard and Charlie Woodend had never got on, the new man would be everything that Woodend was not. The idea did not please her.

As soon as the train had finally stopped moving, the door opened and a man stepped out. He was tall, wore a black, almost funereal suit, and had a hawk-like face with piercing, intolerant eyes. She could not have pictured the man from the Yard better if she'd tried.

Paniatowski walked over to the new arrival and held out her hand. ‘I'm Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, sir,' she said. ‘I'm here to brief you and generally show you around.'

‘Brief me?' the hawk-faced man repeated. ‘I'm not sure I know what you mean.'

‘You are Chief Inspector Horrocks of Scotland Yard, aren't you, sir?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Certainly not!' the man replied. ‘My name's Porritt. I'm in haemorrhoid creams and tablets.'

‘I think it's me you're looking for,' said a voice with a slight Scottish burr just behind her.

Paniatowski turned around. The man who had spoken was younger than she'd expected – not more than a few years older than she was. He was tall, broad, and had the kind of film-star good looks which would always have ensured that he played the town marshal in a white hat, rather than one of the unshaven gunslingers wearing black ones.

‘Jack Horrocks,' he said, holding out a strong right hand. ‘You're Sergeant Paniatowski, are you? Mind if I call you Monika?'

‘No, sir, I . . .'

The Yard man smiled, revealing a set of perfectly even white teeth. ‘I've never been much of a one for formality,' he said. ‘Call me Jack. I could use a drink,' he glanced down at his expensive watch, ‘but I don't suppose there's much chance of that at this time of day – in this kind of town. Is there anywhere we could get a cup of tea?'

‘Yes . . . I . . .'

Horrocks smiled again. ‘Then we'll settle for that, shall we?'

Paniatowski was feeling slightly bemused as she led the man from the Yard to the station buffet. He hadn't been what she'd been expecting at all, she thought. In fact, if she'd sat down and produced ten thumbnail sketches of Jack Horrocks, none of them would have come even close.

When they reached the buffet, Horrocks gestured that she should sit down. Monika took a seat, and watched the graceful, athletic way that the man moved across to the bar. And she was not alone, she noted – men who looked like Jack Horrocks were few and far between in Whitebridge.

‘Paniatowski?' the chief inspector said reflectively, when he'd taken the seat opposite Monika. ‘That's a Russian name, isn't it?'

The sergeant tried not to bridle, as she usually did when such a suggestion was made to her.

‘The family probably did come from Russia originally,' she admitted grudgingly, ‘but I was born in Warsaw. I consider myself a Pole – and a Lancastrian, of course.'

‘Of course,' Horrocks agreed, with yet another smile. ‘Chief Inspector Woodend's been in charge of this case so far, hasn't he?'

‘That's right, he has,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘You probably know him, don't you?'

Horrocks shook his head. ‘No, I don't think so.'

‘But Mr Woodend was serving at the Yard himself until a little over a year ago.'

‘And I'm just coming up for the end of my first year, so we must have just missed each other,' Horrocks said. ‘I understand from the minimal briefing I was given before they shoved me on the train at Euston that you've got another flap on here, apart from the murder. What is it, exactly?'

‘A schoolgirl went missing at lunchtime.'

A cloud passed over the chief inspector's face. ‘How old is she?'

‘Thirteen.'

‘You think we're finally starting to get civilised, then something like that happens to remind you that there are men walking round who are worse than animals!' Horrocks said, more to himself than to Paniatowski. ‘Bastards! Hanging's too good for them. I'd roast them over a slow spit if I had my way.' He paused. ‘Sorry about that little outburst, Sergeant. I've got daughters of my own, you see.'

‘Understood, sir,' Paniatowski said.

Horrocks sighed. ‘Well, I suppose that means we can't expect much help from the local force on our case, doesn't it?'

‘I'm sure they'll do what they can for us,' Paniatowski said.