‘I’m still not with you.’

  ‘You’ve seen the placards that newspaper sellers have in front of them, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If the one this evening reads, “Police issue warning to single women”, we’ll probably sell a few more papers than usual, but we can’t guarantee we’ll reach all the people we’ll need to. If, on the other hand, the placard reads, “Win a fabulous two-week holiday in sunny Spain”, we’ll sell as many papers as we can print. And before the readers ever get to the bit of the paper about the holiday, they’ll see your warning on the front page. Now do you see?’

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend said. ‘The problem is, the Force is clogged with red tape, an’ to get permission to finance a holiday like that would take me two or three days at least. Even then, I can’t say for sure that I’d be successful.’

  Bryant laughed. ‘There’s red tape in the newspaper world, too, but not when the Editor’s wife owns the newspaper in question. The Courier will cover the cost of the holiday. We’re the local newspaper. It’s the least we can do for the community we serve.’

  ‘I owe you for this,’ Woodend said.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Bryant checked his watch. ‘It’s going to be a push to get it organized in time,’ he said, ‘but I think I should just about be able to manage it if I get started now.’

  Elizabeth Driver was sitting in the bar of her hotel. She didn’t particularly want to be there, but if anyone were looking for her it would be one of the first places they’d try. And after all the groundwork she’d done, somebody – a very special somebody – certainly should be looking by now.

  The door of the bar suddenly burst open, and an obviously furious Bob Rutter swept into the room.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’ he demanded.

  ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Elizabeth Driver suggested sweetly.

  Rutter treated the invitation with the contempt he felt it deserved. ‘How dare you call at my home like that?’ he asked. ‘I could probably have you prosecuted for telling my wife we’d arranged to meet there. And apart from the legal consequences, it’s a gross breach of professional ethics. It could well cost you your job on the Daily Globe.’

  Driver laughed. ‘Do you really think the Globe is as namby-pamby as that?’ she asked. ‘If you told my Editor what I’d done, he probably give me a rise for showing initiative.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘Ah, I was wondering when you’d cool down enough to start worrying about that,’ Elizabeth Driver said.

  ‘Worrying? I’m not worried.’

  ‘Well, you should be. I didn’t go to your house as a reporter, I went as a woman. It was only when I decided not to say what I’d been intending to that I put my reporter’s hat on again.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Rutter told her.

  ‘It seemed to me, as a woman, that your wife had the right to know what was going on between you and Monika Paniatowski.’

  Rutter looked pole-axed. ‘I . . . I haven’t . . .’ he spluttered, and, though he was probably not aware of doing so, he sank heavily into the seat that Elizabeth Driver had offered him earlier.

  ‘Don’t try to deny you’re having an affair,’ Elizabeth Driver said. ‘I’ve made a couple of phone calls, visited one or two discreet country hotels within easy driving distance of Whitebridge, and I’ve already dug enough to more than prove my case.’

  Rutter willed his heart to slow down. ‘So why didn’t you tell Maria?’ he forced himself to ask.

  ‘Like I said, I had second thoughts. I felt a certain duty to your wife, but I also felt a duty to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘Yes. After all, Bob, we both make our living out of crime, don’t we?’

  ‘You’re attempting to blackmail a police officer!’ Rutter said, with growing incredulity.

  ‘Of course I’m not. That wouldn’t only be wrong, it would be stupid. But if you wanted to slip me the odd tit-bit of information, as a way of showing your gratitude, then I certainly wouldn’t complain about it. And who knows, it might just tip the balance in your favour the next time I have another crisis of conscience about telling Maria the truth.’

  ‘I won’t do it,’ Rutter said.

  ‘I don’t think you quite appreciate what I’m willing to give up here,’ Elizabeth Driver told him. ‘You’re not exactly important enough to be front page news, but the fact that the person you’re committing adultery with is another police officer should be enough to persuade my Editor to run it as an inside story – especially considering your wife is blind! Human interest, you see. My readers are bound to wonder what kind of man it is who’ll betray his blind wife, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rutter agreed. ‘It’s something I’ve been wondering about myself.’

  Twenty-Nine

  During the course of the day, the autumn sun had managed to gather enough strength to temporarily vanquish the fog. Now, as darkness fell, that fog was back, more virulent – more malevolent – than ever.

  Looking out of his office window at the swirling menace below, Woodend found himself wondering if there had been a fog like this on the night of 4th November 1605.

  He pictured Guy Fawkes, hiding in the cellar beneath the Houses of Parliament.

  Had he been afraid, as he crouched there behind his barrels of gunpowder? Probably!

  But had he been beset by doubts? Definitely not!

  Fawkes had not needed to search for any justification for his actions. The king was suppressing the True Faith; therefore the king must be removed. Small wonder, then, that with right, justice and the Lord on his side, he had been willing to commit murder – even though, in the process, many innocent people would die. Small wonder that he had elected to become the enemy within, a human bomb at the heart of England’s centre of government.

  Woodend turned his mind from thoughts of the past to the enigma of the man who had so recently become the centre of his own existence. What motivated this particular killer? Did he, like Fawkes, see some justification for what he was doing? Did he, too, see the loss of innocent lives as a necessary price to be paid? And if so, as a price for what?

  He did not recall asking himself this sort of question about any of the other cases he had investigated. But then no other case had been like this one. The killings were not random or spontaneous – they were carefully planned in advance. And though he could not produce a shred of evidence to back up his theory, Woodend was becoming convinced that the murderer was on a mission – that he saw himself as killing for something greater than himself.

  Elizabeth Driver was feeling very pleased with herself. And why shouldn’t she? It wasn’t every day that she got to put the squeeze on a police inspector, especially a police inspector who was so much in his boss’s confidence.

  Yes, Rutter was a rare prize, she thought, but life would be even better if she could also get a handle on Dexter Bryant.

  She picked up the phone and dialled her reluctant helper in London. For once, he did not seem to resent her calling. In fact, he seemed almost eager to speak to her.

  ‘I’ve found out something juicy,’ he said.

  ‘On Bryant?’

  ‘No, not on Bryant. He’s clean as a whistle. There are even some people on the Street who call him Saint Dexter.’

  ‘Then if you’ve nothing on him, I don’t see how you can say––’

  ‘It’s not him – it’s about a member of his family. And once I’ve told you, you’ll be able to make him dance to whatever tune you want to play.’

  Elizabeth Driver felt a churning in the pit of her stomach. This was going to be great!

  ‘Now I’ve taken the trouble of ringing you up, I suppose I might as well hear what you’ve got to tell me,’ she said casually.

  ‘You don’t fool me,’ her informant told her. ‘You’re excited. I can sense it, even at this distance.’

  Damn! She should have been able to hide it better than that.

  ‘So I’m interested,’ she conceded.

  ‘If I tell you, does that wipe out my debt? Does it mean I don’t owe you anything any more?’

  ‘That all depends how good it is.’

  ‘Oh, it’s good.’

  ‘Then let’s hear it.’

  He gave her all the details.

  ‘Well?’ he said when he’d finished.

  ‘You’ve cleared your debt,’ she told him, and hung up.

  What a bloody fool the man was, she thought. No wonder he’d never amounted to anything. How could he uncover such invaluable information – and still not see how to use it properly?

  She could make Dexter Bryant dance to her tune, he’d said.

  What a waste that would be! Like using a precious silver spoon to eat cabbage soup! Like squandering precious jewels in order to buy worthless trinkets!

  With what she knew now, she could gain huge influence within the police force. And not just at the level of detective inspector. Not even at the level of detective chief inspector. No, armed with the bombshell her unwilling helper had given her, she was going right to the top.

  It was as she was closing one of the Whitebridge General files and reaching across for another that Monika Paniatowski noticed the expression on Bob Rutter’s face. The anger it had been displaying when he returned to the hospital had all but gone, to be replaced by a look of anguish and hopelessness which quite shocked her.

  She wanted to comfort him, but didn’t dare. She wondered what could possibly have happened to him, but didn’t feel she had the right to ask.

  Rutter closed the file he had been attempting to study, and pushed it to one side.

  ‘What time are we meeting the boss?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight thirty.’

  ‘Do you think there’s any chance he’ll be in the Drum before that?’

  ‘He could be.’

  ‘Then I think I’ll go and see if he’s there now.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ Paniatowski wondered aloud.

  ‘There’s something I want to talk to him about.’

  ‘And does it have anything to do with us?’

  ‘No, not directly.’

  ‘But indirectly?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Paniatowski stood up. ‘In that case, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t care what you’d “rather”!’

  A freshly agonized look crossed Rutter’s face. ‘I just need half an hour in private with Charlie. It does concern you in some ways, but I promise you I won’t say anything to harm you. In fact, it’s partly for you I’m doing it.’

  ‘Then tell me what it’s about.’

  Rutter shook his head. ‘I can’t. Trust me, Monika. Just this one more time.’

  A frown of indecision appeared on Paniatowski’s brow.

  ‘Please!’ Rutter said.

  ‘Half an hour,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘You’ve got half an hour, then I’ll be joining you whether you’ve finished what you want to say or not.’

  Thirty

  Woodend looked across the table in the Drum and Monkey at the man who had once been his protégé.

  ‘So Elizabeth Driver knows all about it,’ the Chief Inspector groaned. ‘Whatever were you thinkin’ of when you started this affair?’

  ‘I’m not sure I was even thinking at all,’ Rutter confessed. ‘It was almost as if there was an evil angel deep inside me, whispering that it would be all right.’

  Woodend raised his hands to his forehead, but said nothing.

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t listen,’ Rutter continued. ‘I understood that the angel’s main aim was to destroy me – but I did what it wanted me to do anyway.’ He paused, and looked appealingly at his boss. ‘Do you know what I mean, sir?’

  Woodend maintained his silence.

  ‘Do you know?’ Rutter persisted.

  ‘Aye, I know,’ Woodend said heavily. ‘How could I not? We’ve all got our evil angel.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘It can spread like a cancer, until it’s taken over us completely.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But unlike a real cancer, there’s always somethin’ we can do about it. We can fight back – an’ if we’re strong enough, we can defeat it.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Rutter said defensively.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Woodend argued.

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘Easy!’ Woodend repeated. ‘Don’t you think I’ve ever been tempted? Have you forgotten Liz Poole?’

  She’d been involved in the first case they’d ever worked on together, Rutter reminded himself – and she’d made it plain to Woodend that if he wanted her, he only had to ask.

  ‘No, I’ve not forgotten her,’ the inspector said.

  ‘An’ neither have I,’ Woodend said. ‘I don’t think I ever will. But if I’ve got regrets, then they’re regrets I can live with.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ Rutter asked snappishly.

  ‘You think it’s Elizabeth Driver whose holdin’ a gun against your head, but you’re wrong.’

  ‘I never said––’

  ‘She may actually have it in her hand, but you’re the one who put it there in the first place.’

  The few creaking props by which Rutter had been holding up his sense of self-justification finally buckled and collapsed, almost burying him in the process.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he confessed. ‘I’m the one who put it there.’

  ‘An’ how are you goin’ to deal with the situation?’

  ‘Not in the way Elizabeth Driver wants me to!’

  ‘Aye, I gathered that, or we wouldn’t be sittin’ here talkin’ about it now,’ Woodend said. ‘So what are you goin’ to do?’

  ‘As soon as this case is over, I’m going to tell Maria about the affair. What she does then is up to her. I wouldn’t blame her if she kicked me out.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But that’s only one part of your problem, isn’t it?’

  Rutter nodded. ‘When Driver realizes I’m not going to co-operate with her, her first thought will be to run the story of Monika and me as a sort of consolation prize for herself. I’m going to try and pre-empt that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By resigning. The story will lose most of its appeal if one of us is no longer on the Force – so maybe it won’t be worth printing after all.’

  ‘I hope you’re not expectin’ me to try an’ talk you out of handin’ in your resignation,’ Woodend said.

  ‘No, I’m not. But even if you did try, it wouldn’t do any good. Now that Driver’s got the story, I’m finished whatever happens. Even if they don’t dismiss me, they’ll shunt me into some kind of job in which I’ll never see real policing again. But if I go now – and go voluntarily – there’s just a chance I’ll be able to save Monika’s career.’

  A half-wistful smile came to Woodend’s face. ‘I used to take pride in you, Bob,’ he said. ‘Then all I felt was disappointment.’ He held his hand out across the table. ‘After what you’ve just told me, I think I may be able to start admirin’ you again.’

  Rutter shook the hand. ‘Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.’

  ‘I’m goin’ to miss you when you’ve gone, lad,’ Woodend said.

  ‘I’m going to miss you, too, sir,’ Rutter told him.

  No one had bothered to give a name to the piece of wasteland, though in shape, isolation and origin, it could have been a close relative of Mad Jack’s Field. It was located about a mile and a half from the town centre. Minor roads bounded its north and south borders. Its east and west edges were marked by a row of houses and an old tannery respectively. In the centre stood one of the biggest bonfires in Whitebridge.

  Constable Ernie Rowse looked longingly up at the stack of branches and timber, then blew into his hands for warmth.

  ‘How long are we goin’ to be stood here?’ he asked his partner, PC Ken Blake.

  ‘We get relieved at two in the mornin’.’

  ‘We could freeze our balls off by then. I’ll tell you what! Why don’t I light this bloody bonfire?’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘No, listen, it’s a brilliant idea. As long as it’s burnin’ we’ll keep warm. An’ when it’s finished burnin’, there’ll be nothin’ left to guard any more.’

  ‘An’ we’ll not lack for company, either.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that before it had even got properly goin’, we’d have a couple of fire engines, half a dozen squad cars, an’ an ambulance down here. Still, you wouldn’t have to worry about your balls freezin’ off any more – you wouldn’t have any balls by the time Cloggin’-it Charlie had finished with you.’

  ‘So maybe it was a daft idea, now I think about it,’ Rowse admitted grumpily, ‘but I still think it’s a waste of time us bein’ here.’

  Blake switched on his flashlight. ‘I shouldn’t be away for more than about ten minutes,’ he said.

  ‘What are you talkin’ about? Are you goin’ off somewhere?’

  Blake sighed. ‘Don’t you ever listen to orders? One of us is supposed to patrol the perimeter of the site once every half hour.’

  ‘That’s another daft idea,’ Rowse said dismissively.

  ‘Maybe it is,’ Blake agreed. ‘But if I’m questioned by the sergeant later on, I want to be able to say, hand on heart, that I did what I was supposed to do.’

  Rowse watched the bobbing light in Blake’s hand travel across the field to the boundary, and turn and continue along it parallel to the road. Eventually, as was bound to happen, Blake’s light disappeared, hidden by the bonfire.

  If he’d wanted to, Rowse could have walked around to the other side of the bonfire, and continued to follow Blake’s progress with his eyes. But he didn’t want to! That was the difference between him and his partner, he thought – he took a sensible approach to the job and Blakey was too keen by half!