The Red Herring (28 page)

‘How did you feel when you saw Verity Beale in the Spinner, the other night?' Horrocks asked, abruptly changing the subject.

‘We were a little concerned,' Dove admitted.

‘A little concerned! We've got a stack of witnesses to say you were shitting yourselves,' Horrocks lied. ‘But even if you're telling the truth, and you were only a “little concerned”, why be concerned at all?'

‘Because we knew she wasn't what she seemed.'

‘So you were suspicious of her?'

‘I should have thought that was obvious.'

‘Why?'

‘I wondered why she was interested in Roger Cray in the first place,' Dove said. ‘She was a very attractive young woman, and he's just an ordinary, run-of-the-mill middle-aged man. I couldn't see the appeal.'

‘And could
he
?'

‘Not really, but like most men who find themselves in that position, he thanked his lucky stars that it had happened – and tried not to think too much about
why
.'

‘But eventually he did start to get suspicious, didn't he?'

‘Yes. Because she started asking him questions about himself and his activities – questions which simply wouldn't have come up in any normal conversation. And a couple of times she let slip that she knew things about him she couldn't possibly have known if she'd been who she really said she was.'

‘So he told her the game was up?'

‘Of course not. That would have been the same as admitting that he really did have something to hide.'

‘So what did he do instead?'

‘He just started seeing a lot less of her. And when he
did
see her, he dropped oblique hints that he'd given up any interest in politics or protest movements.'

‘Let's go back to that night in the Spinner,' Horrocks suggested. ‘You saw her there, and you panicked.'

‘I told you, we didn't panic. We were just––'

‘Mildly concerned. Yes, I know. So mildly concerned that you waited for her in the car park, and then killed her.'

‘No! It's not true! Why should we have done that?'

‘Because you were afraid she'd ruin your plans if you didn't.'

‘The difficult part was already over,' Dove babbled. ‘Roger had collected most of the information together. The only thing left to do was to hand it over. And she wasn't following us. We could see that.'

‘Could you really?'

‘Yes. For God's sake, she was out on a date! It was just coincidence that she and the Yank chose the same pub as we did. You
have
to believe that!'

‘There's one thing I still haven't been quite been able to work out,' Horrocks mused.

‘What is it?'

‘Who actually strangled her. Was it you? Or was it Cray?'

‘Unit Four, Constable Duckworth speakin',' said the voice from the radio. ‘Suspect has turned on to Jepson Avenue, an' appears to be slowin' down. He's just goin' past my house now, an'––'

‘Your house!' Woodend said. ‘You mean you live on Jepson Avenue yourself?'

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. What I meant to say was that he's just passin' Number Fifty-Six. An' he's indicatin' he's about to pull in.'

‘All units proceed towards Jepson Avenue with all possible speed,' Woodend said. ‘But slow down when you're gettin' close, and don't enter the avenue yourselves until I give the word.'

‘He's stopped in front of Number Twenty-Eight,' Duckworth said.

‘Who lives there?' Woodend asked.

‘Nobody at the moment, sir. The last people moved out over a year ago. I did hear that it was bought by a property company in London soon afterwards, but they haven't put it up for sale yet.'

Why would a property company in London want to buy a modest house in Whitebridge? Woodend wondered. And even if they did, why would they keep it empty?

‘Where are you now, Unit Four?' he asked.

‘We've pulled up a few doors beyond the target's vehicle, sir. We're in the decorator's van, an' my partner's just about to open the back doors an' take out some cans of paint so Dunn doesn't get suspicious.'

‘Good thinkin',' Woodend said. ‘What's he doin' now?'

‘He's got out of his vehicle, an' he's got his hand in his pocket. I think he's lookin' for keys. Yes, that's what he was doin'. He's pulled a set of keys out, an' he's selectin' one.'

‘Get ready to move, Duckworth!' Woodend said. ‘I don't want you more than four or five seconds behind him.'

‘We won't be, sir,' the constable promised. ‘The target's at the front door now. He's reachin' up to the lock . . . an' . . . an' somebody's openin' the door from inside.'

‘A man or a woman?' Woodend demanded.

‘It's a man, sir. He's about five eleven, an' he's got a bald head an' a droopy moustache.'

‘Bloody hell fire!' Woodend said.

‘They're both goin' inside, sir!' Duckworth said, almost shouting with the tension. ‘They're closin' the door. We're about to move.'

‘Stay where you are!' Woodend ordered him.

‘Sorry, sir? I don't think I heard you right.'

‘Stay exactly where you are,' Woodend repeated slowly. ‘Don't do anythin' until we get there. Over an' out.'

‘Have you lost your mind, sir?' Rutter demanded, as Woodend replaced the microphone in its holder.

‘No, I haven't,' Woodend replied, sounding much calmer than he had earlier – but very, very much angrier. ‘I just don't want Duckworth an' his partner rushin' in there – because there's no hurry any more.'

‘I don't understand,' Rutter confessed. ‘A couple of minutes ago, you were saying that every second was vital.'

‘That was before I knew the bald man with the droopy moustache was involved,' Woodend told him.

‘I don't see what difference that makes to anything,' Rutter said frantically. ‘Even if Dunn has got help – even if there are
two
of them involved in the kidnapping––'

‘Kidnappin'?' Woodend said. ‘
What
kidnappin'?'

T
he decorator's van was parked a few yards up the street from Dunn's car, and the two DCs dressed in painters' overalls were doing their best to try and look as if they were busy getting ready to start work.

Woodend climbed out of Rutter's vehicle and strode across the road towards Number 28 Jepson Avenue. Despite the fact that the house was supposed to be empty, there were still curtains up at the windows, and it was possible that someone was watching him from behind one of them. But at this stage in the investigation, he didn't really give a damn whether they could see him coming or not.

He had almost reached the front door when Bob Rutter caught up with him. ‘Don't do anything hasty, sir,' the inspector cautioned.

‘Hasty?' Woodend replied. ‘Me? I never do anythin' hasty. I think you must be confusin' me with some other DCI Woodend, Bob.'

‘Look, sir, if you're so sure that there's no immediate danger to Helen Dunn––'

‘There isn't.'

‘––then shouldn't we go back to the station and get a search warrant before we go in there?'

‘Sod that for a game of soldiers!' Woodend said angrily. ‘I'm tired of bein' given the run-around on this case. I just want to get this whole bloody business over with as soon as possible.'

‘I know you do,' Rutter agreed. ‘But without a warrant, any charges we might bring later will be thrown out of court.'

‘You don't seriously believe we're
ever
goin' to be allowed to charge somebody for any of this, do you?' Woodend asked.

Rutter shrugged, said, ‘No, we probably won't be,' then reached up to press the doorbell.

‘An' sod that for a game of soldiers as well,' Woodend told him. ‘Kick the bloody door in.'

‘Are you sure that's wise, sir?'

‘Of course it's not wise! It's probably very bloody stupid. But it's the way I feel like doin' it.'

Rutter hesitated for a second, then stepped back, raised his right leg, and hit the door just below the lock with the heel of his shoe. The door creaked in protest, but swung shakily open.

‘Nice job,' Woodend said approvingly. ‘I always knew you had the makings of a good bobby in you.'

The kitchen door was flung open, and the bald man with the drooping moustache appeared in the passage. When he saw Woodend standing in the doorway, he came to an abrupt halt and bunched his fists.

‘Well, well, if it isn't Bulldog Drummond himself,' Woodend said mockingly. ‘Fancy you lettin' us catch you on the hop. I thought your mob were supposed to be professionals.'

The bald man's face flushed bright red with rage. ‘I'll have your balls for this!' he said.

‘No, you won't,' Woodend told him. ‘These were your rules we've been playin' by – an' your rules that have made you lose. It's not my fault that you seem to be as bad at this particular game as you are at everythin' else, now is it?'

‘You've no business being here,' the bald man said. ‘I want you to leave right now.'

‘I'm sure you do,' Woodend agreed. ‘But that's not goin' to happen.' He stepped into the hallway. ‘Where are they? Upstairs?'

The bald man took two steps forward, blocking off Woodend's access to the stairs.

‘I'm trained to look after myself – and you're not,' he warned. ‘Don't make me hurt you.'

‘Oh, piss off!' Woodend said contemptuously.

He took another step forward. The bald man transferred his weight to the balls of his feet. His arm cut through the air, the open palm at an angle to the floor, the heel aimed at the chief inspector's throat. Woodend swung his left arm, deflecting the blow, while at the same time his fist made contact with his opponent's jaw. The bald man's head snapped back, and he would probably have toppled over if Woodend hadn't followed through the punch with another one to his stomach. The bald man made a whooshing sound and bent forward, his nose connecting with Woodend's knee as he did so. The bald man's body swayed, as if undecided which of the blows to react to. Then his knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor.

Woodend rubbed his bruised knuckles, and turned to Rutter. ‘I'm not generally in favour of settlin' a dispute with physical violence,' he said, ‘but I have to admit I really did enjoy that.'

Squadron Leader Dunn was already standing on the upstairs landing by the time Woodend reached the top of the stairs. His normally decisive air had deserted him, and he seemed like a man with no idea what to do next.

‘Is Helen in there?' Woodend asked, pointing to the bedroom behind Dunn's shoulder.

‘Yes, she is,' the squadron leader admitted.

‘Then you bugger off, so that I can have a quiet little chat with her,' Woodend said.

Reginald Dunn shook his head. ‘I'm staying. I want to be there when you talk to her.'

‘No chance,' Woodend said.

‘I'm her father. I have the right––'

‘You forfeited any rights you might have had when you agreed to let her be used as a pawn in somebody else's game,' Woodend cut in.

‘Possibly you're right,' Dunn agreed. ‘Yes, perhaps you are. But I only did it for the good of––'

‘I know! You only did it for the good of your country,' Woodend said contemptuously.

‘I realise that might not mean much to you––'

‘It means
a lot
to me, you bastard!' Woodend said hotly. ‘But unlike you, I don't believe in abstractions.
My
country's made up of individuals – people like your daughter – an' the problem with sacrificin' a few of them for the greater good of the rest is that once you get started, it's difficult to know where to draw the line. Now bugger off before I do somethin' we both might regret.'

Dunn nodded, then, head bowed, edged past Woodend and made his way down the stairs.

The chief inspector knocked on the bedroom door, turned the handle, and stepped inside. Helen Dunn, still dressed in her school uniform, was sitting on the bed, her head buried in her hands.

‘It's all right, love,' Woodend said softly. ‘There's absolutely nothin' to be afraid of.'

Helen dropped her arms, and looked at him with deep, worried eyes. ‘Are you a policeman?' she asked.

‘That's right, I am. But I wouldn't let the fact bother me at all, if I was in your shoes.'

‘Will I . . . will I get into trouble?'

‘Of course you won't, lass,' Woodend said, sitting down on the bed next to her.

‘Will my
dad
get into trouble?'

‘No,' Woodend said. ‘I believe he should, but I don't think he's goin' to. Do you want to tell me what happened?'

‘I don't . . . I'm not quite sure.'

‘Then let's talk about somethin' else,' Woodend suggested.

‘Like what?'

‘Anythin' you like. Why don't you play at bein' the bobby for a while, an' ask
me
the questions.'

A slight, uncertain smile came to Helen's lips. ‘Where do you live?' she asked, testing the waters.

‘Me an' the missus have got this little stone cottage out on the edge of the moors.'

‘So you live in the countryside?'

‘Yes.'

‘That must be wonderful. Do you have any children?'

‘Aye. I've got a daughter. Annie, her name is. She's trainin' to be a nurse in Manchester.'

‘And does that make you proud of her? That she's going to be a nurse?'

‘Yes, it does,' Woodend said. ‘But I've have been proud of her whatever she'd chosen to do.'

‘Really?'

‘Really! She's a lovin' sweet girl, an' that's more than any parent has the right to expect.'