‘Fairbairn. Fairbairn Sykes.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what that is.’

  ‘When the Commandos were formed in 1940, Captains Fairbairn and Sykes were appointed as the first instructors in close-combat fighting. Nice harmless term, isn’t it? “Close-combat fighting!” But what it actually meant was dirty fighting – fighting that definitely didn’t stick to the Marquis of Queensbury Rules. Anyroad, Fairbairn and Sykes decided straight away that one thing their men really needed was a good knife. The problem was, they couldn’t find a suitable one.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Rutter said.

  ‘But true,’ Atkins told him. ‘The last big advance in knife development had been the Bowie knife in the 1830s. So, the pair of them went to the Wilkinson’s Sword factory – you may have used their razor blades – and told the managing director exactly what they wanted. And he had it made for them.’ A far-away look came into Atkins’ eyes. ‘It’s a lovely weapon. Heavy grip that sits nicely in the palm of your hand. Double-edged blade and a point that’s as sharp as buggery. Even an amateur can do a good job with a knife like that.’

  ‘How difficult would it be to get hold of one?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly call them rare.’

  ‘So what would you call them?’

  ‘Let’s just say there’s just enough of them about to make them a collector’s item – which means that if you’re prepared to pay the asking price, you could get your hands on one easy enough.’

  ‘That really wasn’t what I wanted to hear,’ Rutter told him.

  By nine thirty Elizabeth Driver had breakfasted, smoked her first three cigarettes of the day, and was placing a long-distance call to London. She was well aware, even as she dialled, that the reporter she was ringing would not welcome hearing from her at that time of the morning. Well, screw him! He owed her, and if collecting her debts caused him to lose some of his beauty sleep, she really didn’t give a damn.

  The man was as gruff and annoyed as she’d expected him to be. ‘Didn’t get to bed till two,’ he complained.

  ‘But before you went to bed, you found out what I need to know?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘Let’s have it, then.’

  ‘Wait while I go and find my notes,’ the reporter grumbled.

  He kept her on hold for a full five minutes. ‘Did you say you were going to fetch your notes, or were you carving them into stone?’ she asked, when he eventually came back on the line.

  ‘Had to go for a piss,’ he said grumpily. ‘Scotch goes straight through me these days.’

  ‘Then you should drink less,’ she said tartly. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘Dexter Percival Bryant,’ the man read. ‘Born 1915. Father was a major in the artillery and was killed in action in 1917. Dexter was educated at Westminster School, then at St John’s College, Oxford.’

  ‘What!’ Elizabeth Driver exclaimed. ‘St John’s College? He went to university?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Journalists don’t go to university.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘What did he study?’

  ‘Languages. Came away with a First Class degree, so he must be bright. No wonder he was the best crime reporter on the Street.’

  Some people started out with all the advantages, Elizabeth Driver thought bitterly. But that didn’t matter. Bryant had been the king of Fleet Street crime reporters – but he wasn’t there now, and the crown was up for grabs!

  ‘What did he do in the war?’ she asked, half-expecting to be told that the bastard had been awarded the VC.

  ‘He applied for active service, but was turned down. Flat feet, apparently. Spent his war in the pay corps at Kettering.’

  Well, that was something, at least, Driver thought. ‘Any scandal ever stick to him?’ she asked. ‘Any suggestion he might have been involved in black marketeering?’

  ‘Not a whisper. Got an honourable discharge in ’45, and went straight to Fleet Street as a junior reporter.’

  Damn! Elizabeth Driver thought. ‘What else have you got?’ she asked.

  ‘Not a great deal. He turned out to be very good at his job. Was chief crime reporter of the Standard by the time he was thirty-five. The other papers tried to poach him, but he wouldn’t go. They say he even turned down a couple of editorships.’

  This wasn’t going at all well.

  ‘He must have got his hands dirty at some time,’ Elizabeth Driver said hopefully. ‘You never get anywhere by being pure as the driven snow.’

  ‘Seems he did.’

  ‘What about his first marriage? How did that break up?’

  ‘First marriage? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I just assumed that––’

  ‘There wasn’t a first marriage.’

  Incredible! Everybody was divorced on the Street, and the more important you were, the more divorces you were likely to have had.

  ‘All right, tell me about his one and only wife,’ she said.

  ‘They got married about two and a half years ago. She’d been a widow for nearly fifteen years. She’s got one son, in his twenties now. I think he lives with them, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why did he and his wife give up the Street and move to a dump like Whitebridge?’

  ‘They said they’d had enough of the pressure of working for the nationals. Said they wanted a quieter life.’

  ‘I know that! But what’s the real story?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, that is the real story.’

  Nobody could be quite as clean as Dexter Bryant appeared to be, Elizabeth Driver thought. It would quite destroy her faith in human nature if they were.

  ‘Keep digging,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, come on, Elizabeth! I’ve got a living of my own to make, you know.’

  ‘Keep digging!’ she repeated fiercely. ‘If you can’t find anything on Bryant himself, then expand the search. Find out if there’s anything dodgy about his brothers and sisters––’

  ‘He doesn’t have any. Like I said, his father was killed in 1917.’

  ‘His mother, then! Or his wife’s mother. Give me some dirt on the family hamster, if that’s all there is.’

  ‘Be reasonable, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I need a lever – something I can use against the smug bastard. And if you can’t find it, then I might just be tempted to drop some papers I’ve been collecting on to your Editor’s desk.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘Papers, you shouldn’t need reminding, which will prove conclusively that at the same time as you were claiming extortionate expenses for that story you were supposed to be covering in Dublin, you were, in fact, shacked up with a little typist in Chippenham.’

  ‘You’re a bitch!’ the man said. ‘A real twenty-one carat bitch.’

  ‘Oh, please! It’s far too early in the morning for compliments,’ Elizabeth Driver said, hanging up.

  Twenty-One

  The clock on the wall in the Saltney Rise Crown Green Bowling and Social Club said it was ten minutes past eleven in the morning, and the only customers were the four regulars who had already been pacing nervously up and down outside when Rodney Whitbread had opened the doors on the stroke of the hour.

  Whitbread himself leant against the bar, smoking a cigarette and musing about life in general. He liked his job as bar steward. The work wasn’t unduly heavy, and while others had to drag themselves from their beds at seven, he got to lie in for a couple more hours. Besides, there were the perks. He never had to pay for his own ale, for example. And if he kept his wits about him, there was always the chance of making a little extra money on the side.

  But it was that bit of extra money that could be the problem, wasn’t it? he reminded himself. You thought you weren’t doing no harm – that you were helping other people as well as yourself. And suddenly you found yourself in a hole so deep that you could see no way of ever climbing out.

  He looked up when he heard the door swing open, and saw the big man in the hairy sports coat.

  Trouble! There was no doubt about it.

  This man was the law. And not the friendly uniformed bobby who came round for a drink after closing time. He was the real thing.

  ‘Sorry, sir, this is a members only club,’ Whitbread said, without much conviction in his voice.

  Woodend ambled over to the bar. ‘I don’t want a drink, lad,’ he said. ‘An’ even if I did, I wouldn’t waste my time suppin’ the neck oil you sell here.’ He looked down at the pumps. ‘Baldwin’s Premium Bitter?’ he continued, pulling a face. ‘Premium! Bitter! I wouldn’t use it to drown slugs.’

  ‘Our customers seem to like it,’ the bar steward said, unease giving way to professional offence.

  ‘Aye, they would. They’re a funny lot, are crown green bowlers,’ Woodend replied. ‘Me, I think ordinary bowlin’s complicated enough, without stickin’ a bloody great hump in the middle of the pitch.’

  ‘We’ll have to agree to differ on that,’ the bar steward said huffily.

  ‘True enough,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Would you like to see my warrant card now?’

  The steward’s stomach did a somersault. ‘You’re police?’ he asked.

  ‘I am. But I’m not tellin’ you anythin’ you didn’t know already. You had me spotted the moment I walked in.’

  ‘We stick to the law in this club,’ the steward said. ‘Never open before eleven, always close on the stroke of three.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Woodend said, good-naturedly. ‘There’s no point in belongin’ to a private club if you can’t squeeze in a few extra drinks after closin’ time, now is there? Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. You’ll have heard about what happened to Betty Stubbs, will you?’

  The steward shrugged. ‘Somebody might have mentioned it to me.’

  ‘So you knew her, did you?’

  ‘She used to come in a lot when her husband was alive. Ted was a fair bowler.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen her since?’

  ‘She . . . she may have dropped in a couple of times since the funeral.’

  ‘That’s it? Just a couple of times?’

  ‘Possibly a bit more than that,’ the steward admitted.

  ‘Meanin’ what, exactly?’

  ‘I suppose you might have called her a regular.’

  Woodend ran his hand thoughtfully along his chin. ‘Do you know, I think I might risk a pint of Baldwin’s Best Horse Piss after all.’

  ‘We’re not allowed to serve non-members.’

  ‘In that case, I shall be forced to arrest myself. But I can’t do that before I’ve actually committed the crime, now can I?’

  When the pint had been pulled, Woodend slid a two-shilling piece across the bar.

  ‘Have that on me,’ the steward suggested.

  ‘Not a chance, lad,’ Woodend replied. He took a sip of the beer. ‘God, it’s even worse than I remembered. Where’s it from? London?’

  ‘Yorkshire!’ the steward said, outraged.

  ‘Funny, I could have sworn it had a southern taste about it,’ Woodend told him. He took another swallow. ‘Still, maybe I’ll get used to it.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I go an’ check on the stock, do you?’ Rodney Whitbread asked hopefully.

  ‘That can wait for a few minutes,’ Woodend replied, in a voice which was not quite commanding. ‘How did Betty Stubbs get by after her husband died, do you know?’

  ‘I expect she had a widow’s pension.’

  ‘She did – but she had a lot of debts, as well. Or hadn’t you heard about them?’

  ‘I may have heard somethin’.’

  Woodend took another sip of his pint. ‘You see, this isn’t a big city, like Manchester,’ he said. ‘We’re simply not geared up to runnin’ vice operations in the same way that they are.’

  ‘I’m not followin’ you.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are. When I learned that Betty Stubbs was on the game . . . I’m sorry, I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. You did know she was on the game, didn’t you?’

  ‘I . . . uh. . .’

  ‘Anyway, I began to wonder how she got started. Where would you go if you wanted to get your end away?’

  ‘I’m a married man!’

  ‘Then you’ll have a lot in common with most of the fellers who visit prostitutes.’ Woodend lit up a cigarette. ‘Anyway, I’d already come to the conclusion that she’d most likely want to start out in some surroundin’s where she was known an’ felt comfortable. Then my inspector came up with the interestin’ fact that most of her punters met her here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that. I just serve the drinks.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Woodend continued, as if the barman had never spoken, ‘she’d have needed someone to help her out – to recommend her to those fellers who were feelin’ randy but didn’t know where to go to get satisfaction. See what I’m sayin’?’

  The bar steward looked down at the counter, and said nothing.

  ‘Now in a lot of trades, you can rely on word of mouth,’ Woodend continued. ‘You get a good plumber – if such a thing really exists outside the realms of fiction – an’ you have no hesitation about recommendin’ him to your friends. But while nobody’s ashamed to say they’ve used a plumber, there’s a lot of men who’d think twice before admittin’ to havin’ gone to a prostitute. So what she will have needed is somebody who not only knew what she did, but had the opportunity to talk to all the customers. He’d probably be the sort of feller that customers would tell their troubles an’ frustrations to anyway. A bar steward, for example.’

  ‘If you think that I––’

  ‘Oh, I do, lad,’ Woodend interrupted. ‘I thought it even before I came in here. Now that I can see the look on your face, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I don’t want to say any more.’

  ‘An’ I don’t want Whitebridge Rovers relegated to the Second Division at the end of the season. But I’ve got to be realistic – and so have you.’ Woodend took another drag on his Capstan. ‘Look, son, I’m investigatin’ a murder here. That’s all that matters to me at the moment. If you’re fiddlin’ the books or sellin’ off some of the stock when the committee’s not lookin’, I don’t care. An’ I don’t care if you were pimpin’ for Betty Stubbs. But if you hold out on me, I’ll have your guts for garters. So let’s hear what you’ve got to say.’

  ‘I wasn’t pimpin’ for her,’ Rodney Whitbread muttered. ‘Not exactly, anyway.’

  ‘So what, exactly anyway, were you doin’ for her?’

  ‘Sometimes I’d point a bit of business her way.’

  ‘An’ what was your cut of the deal? Half of what she made?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. She’d slip me a couple of quid now an’ again, but I never asked her to. I only helped because I felt sorry for her. She needed the money, and she told me that goin’ on the game was the only way she knew to get it. Am I in trouble now?’

  ‘Not as long as you keep tellin’ me the truth,’ Woodend assured him. ‘I’ll need a list of her punters’ names. An’ you’d better not try to hold out on me, because we already know who some of them are, an’ if those names don’t appear on your list––’

  ‘I couldn’t do that! You can’t ask me to!’

  ‘It’s more in the nature of tellin’, rather than askin’,’ Woodend said. ‘But don’t worry, nobody need know that they came from you. In fact, I’ll go out of my way to suggest I got the list from somewhere else entirely. But I have to have it. Understand?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Rodney Whitbread said, defeatedly.

  ‘An’ I’ll especially need to know if she had any favourite punters.’

  ‘I couldn’t say about that.’

  ‘You’re feedin’ me a line again,’ Woodend growled.

  ‘No, honestly, I’m not,’ Whitbread protested. ‘She saw her customers at home. I’ve no idea whether any of the fellers I recommended her to saw her just the once, or whether they saw her a dozen times. That’s the truth. I swear it is!’

  ‘What about her most recent punters?’ Woodend asked. ‘The newest ones? Can you tell me anythin’ about them?’

  ‘She’s . . . she’s not really been on the lookout for new business recently. She hasn’t been feelin’ too well.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘No buts.’

  Woodend sighed. ‘Do you think you’re the first one who’s ever found himself in this position, lad? Because if you do, you couldn’t be wronger.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. What position?’

  ‘When you heard Betty Stubbs had been murdered, your first thought was to go down to the station. Then you started worryin’ about how it would make you look. An’ you’re still worryin’ – because though you’ve told me some of it, you’re still holdin’ part of it back.’

  ‘She told me about this new feller she was seein’,’ Rodney Whitbread admitted. ‘She said he was different to the others.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Even though she couldn’t do . . . couldn’t do what she used to do to him . . . he still wanted to see her. An’ he paid her the same amount of money, even if all she could manage was to toss him off.’

  ‘What else did she say about him?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Age? Description? Background? Where she met him? Where they went together? Did she go to his house or did she go to his?’

  ‘I swear that’s all she said. That he wasn’t like the others. That he promised he’d never abandon her.’

  ‘There must be somethin’ you’ve forgotten – or are holdin’ back!’

  ‘I got the impression that he was younger than she was. But that was only an impression.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘The night before last. About seven o’clock.’

  ‘Not long before she was killed?’

  ‘I suppose it must have been.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘She dropped in shortly after we’d opened. There weren’t any other customers. She didn’t want a drink, or anythin’. She just wanted to talk. To tell you the truth, I don’t think there were many people, apart from me, who she felt she could talk to.’

  ‘An’ what did she have to say for herself.’