The clock which hung over the bar – a perpetual warning to customers that even in paradise there were time limits – said that it was a quarter to nine.

  ‘I told you that I’d posted constables at all the bonfires in the Whitebridge area, didn’t I, Monika?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No, sir, you didn’t.’

  ‘Thought I had. Must just have mentioned it to Bob, shortly before you got here.’

  Monika looked from Woodend to Rutter, and then back to Woodend. What else had the boss mentioned to Bob shortly before she got there? she wondered. Had they been talking about her? And if so, what had they been saying? Had the two men, being men, decided they would cast her in the convenient role of vamp and home-breaker?

  She became aware that Woodend was looking quizzically at her – as if he expected her to ask some detective-like question.

  ‘What’s the idea behind posting guards?’ she said, when she’d worked out what he was waiting for. ‘Are you working on the assumption that the killer needs the bonfires as part of his ritual – and if he can’t get at them, he won’t bother to kill?’

  ‘More or less,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ if that it is the case, then we’re safe after tonight’s over – at least until next Bonfire Night rolls around.’

  ‘But you’re not sure they are necessary to him, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. If all he’s interested in is burnin’ his victims in some way or other, then there’s a hundred other methods he could use. Which means that the only thing that’s goin’ to stop his killin’ spree is that we catch him – an’ we’re no closer to that than we were at the start of this bloody investigation.’

  ‘We must know something,’ Rutter said. ‘It’s just that we don’t know we know it yet.’

  ‘I admire your optimism,’ Woodend said. He glanced up at the clock. ‘Another ten minutes an’ I’ll be off to make my round of the bonfires.’ He coughed, awkwardly. ‘An’ as for you two, if I was in your shoes, I think I’d call it a night an’ go your separate ways.’

  And what did he mean by that? Paniatowski wondered. It was almost as if he were suggesting that it would be wiser for them not to be seen alone together. But why should it be wiser? They were colleagues. They’d often been seen together. It would only seem significant to someone who knew of their affair, and so far, the only person who knew was Woodend himself. Or was he the only person? From the way Bob Rutter was behaving, she was beginning to have her doubts.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll come with you on your tour of inspection, sir,’ Rutter said.

  ‘I don’t mind at all,’ Woodend said. ‘Glad of the company.’

  That’s right, Paniatowski thought bitterly. You lads go off together and leave the home-breaker on her own!

  It occurred to Ernie Rowse that it must have been at least five minutes since the beam from his partner’s flashlight had disappeared behind the bonfire, and that by now he should be seeing it re-emerge on the other side of the waste land.

  He walked around to the far side of the bonfire, and scanned the distance. There was no sign of Ken’s light.

  Maybe his partner had stopped for a jimmy-riddle, he thought. That would require both hands, if Ken’s bragging were to be believed. But even Ken – as proud as he claimed to be of his equipment – wouldn’t leave his torch on while he was relieving himself, because shining a light on the goods would be a very difficult thing to explain when you came up before the magistrate on a charge of indecent exposure!

  Rowse laughed at his own whimsy. That was a good one! He’d have to remember to tell Ken when he got back. But when would he get back? Even allowing for the fact that he might have had a full bladder, his torch should still have come on again by now.

  ‘Are you all right, Ken?’ he called across the waste ground.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Come on, Ken! Stop playin’ silly buggers!’

  Again, nothing but silence greeted him.

  He wondered if he should radio in to the station, but if he did that, he would have to explain that his partner had gone missing – which would make him look foolish and might actually get Ken into trouble.

  ‘Stop pissing about, Ken!’ he shouted.

  It was then that he heard a noise from somewhere behind his left shoulder. He whirled round, shining his beam on the spot. There was no one and nothing there.

  ‘This might be your idea of joke, Ken, but it’s certainly not mine,’ he said, drawing his truncheon.

  Another noise – this time to his right. He turned to face it. It sounded like a stone landing, he thought. Then he heard the quick footsteps behind him, and realized that was exactly what it had been.

  The man and his dog turned the corner and headed towards the tannery. They had taken this same walk, at this same time, every night for nearly seven years, the man reflected. No, not every night, he corrected himself. There was one night every year – November the Fifth – when they gave it a miss.

  Once the man had tried explaining to the dog that the fireworks – the bangers and rip-raps, the rockets and Catherine wheels – presented no danger to them, but the thick bugger had refused to understand. So now they stayed in on Bonfire Night, with the telly turned up to full volume to block out the sound of the explosions.

  As they drew level with the tannery, the man sniffed, and thought he detected the scent of wood smoke in the air. But it was not until he was clear of the building and had an unimpeded view of the waste ground that he could actually see that the bloody bonfire was ablaze.

  Thirty-One

  The uniformed sergeant whose job it had been to secure the crime scene was waiting for Woodend and Rutter when they pulled up at the edge of the field.

  ‘The body’s still here, sir,’ he said. ‘We thought it would be wiser not to remove it until you’d got a look at it yourself.’

  Woodend looked across at the burned-out bonfire. Two ambulance men were standing close to it, holding a stretcher between them. The sheepskin-coated Dr Shastri was kneeling on the ground, examining what could easily have been a pile of rags – but wasn’t!

  ‘You go an’ look at the corpse, will you, Bob?’ he said to Rutter. He turned to the sergeant. ‘I think the first thing I’d better do is see the lads.’

  ‘The lads?’ the sergeant repeated.

  ‘The two young bobbies who got hurt.’

  ‘Oh, the lads!’ the sergeant said. ‘If you’d care to follow me, sir.’

  He led Woodend around the edge of the waste ground to a police Black Maria. Constables Rowse and Blake, both with their heads heavily bandaged, were sitting in the back of it, drinking large mugs of heavily sugared tea. To Woodend’s immense relief, they didn’t seem to have come out of the experience too badly.

  ‘How are you doin’, boys?’ he asked.

  Blake smiled, and then winced. ‘It’s all right as long as I don’t move at all, sir.’

  ‘Are you up to tellin’ me about it?’

  Blake started to nod, then thought better of it. ‘I was patrollin’ the perimeter in accordance with instructions––’ he began.

  ‘You’re not in court, so you can forget all the crap!’ Woodend said. ‘Just tell me what happened in your own words.’

  ‘I was walkin’ along the edge of the road. I heard a noise, like somebody was followin’ me, but bein’ very quiet about it. I turned round an’ saw the man. Then he hit me.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Not a good look.’

  ‘But somethin’?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘He was around six foot tall, with a strong build. He was wearin’ one of them thick pullovers you can buy at the Army an’ Navy Stores, an’ a woollen Balaclava helmet.’

  ‘What about his face?’

  ‘It was all blacked up, sir, like the commandos in the war films.’

  ‘So you couldn’t say whether he was young or old?’

  ‘He didn’t move like an old feller, but I couldn’t give you any idea of his age.’

  Rowse had even less to say than his partner. He hadn’t so much as caught a glance of the man who’d hit him.

  ‘You’ll be taken to the hospital for a thorough check-up,’ Woodend told the constables. ‘After that, I suggest you go home an’ get a good night’s kip. An’ don’t have a drink, however much you feel like it, because that’ll play merry hell with your heads in the mornin’.’

  ‘Sorry we messed up, sir,’ Blake said.

  ‘You didn’t mess up,’ Woodend told him. ‘We’re dealin’ with a professional here. There’s not a man on the Force who would have spotted him until it was far too late.’

  ‘Would you like to see the body now, sir?’ asked the sergeant who had accompanied him to the Black Maria.

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed heavily. ‘I suppose I’d better.’

  The two men stepped out of the van and began to walk towards the bonfire. Monika Paniatowski’s bright-red MGA had just pulled up at the edge of the field, Woodend noted.

  It was a pleasure to work with her, he thought. She represented the future of decent, humane policing, and he would do all he could to protect her. But he was not sure how effective that protection would be. Elizabeth Driver would be furious that Rutter had chosen resignation over blackmail and, in a fit of pique, might choose to run the story of the affair anyway. And if she did, there was very little doubt about how the Chief Constable would react to it.

  Monika would be joining Bob on the unemployment line. Two fine careers would be sacrificed in the interests of developing one sordid one.

  ‘Shit!’ Woodend said.

  ‘What was that, sir?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Nothin’. Thinkin’ about somethin’ else entirely. Tell me about the latest body.’

  ‘The woman was in her late forties or early fifties, I’d say. She had her throat cut just like the other two.’

  ‘What position was she in?’

  ‘Close to the bonfire, but at right angles to it. Her feet were badly burned, her lower legs somewhat burned. Her skirt had started to smoulder, but we were there quick enough to stop it combusting.’

  ‘Any identification?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A handbag. We’ve sent a man round to her house to pick up her husband an’ take him to the morgue.’

  ‘So this one had a husband, did she?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The other two didn’t.’

  They were close enough to the bonfire now to see the drama which was being played out in front of it. A civilian stood between two uniformed constables. The man was struggling, and the officers were attempting to restrain him without having to resort to too much force.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Probably the husband. The constable won’t have told him where the body was found, but if he listens to the news––’

  The man broke away from his escort – and Woodend saw that he was Dexter Bryant.

  ‘The victim?’ the Chief Inspector said.

  ‘Yes, sir. What about her?’

  ‘She wasn’t called Constance Bryant, was she?’

  ‘That’s right. But how did you –?’

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Woodend groaned.

  The constables grabbed hold of Bryant again, but not before he had managed to move far enough forward to get a look at the body. By now, Woodend was close enough to observe the look of agony on the other man’s face.

  Bryant noticed him. ‘You told me my wife was safe!’ he screamed ‘You told me she was safe!’

  ‘You’re wrong, Mr Bryant,’ Woodend replied, puzzled. ‘We never even mentioned your wife.’

  ‘I asked you if all cancer victims were at risk, and you said they weren’t. You said only the ones who’d attended Whitebridge General were in any danger. But my wife didn’t go there. She went to Manchester! To Christie’s Hospital!’

  ‘Your wife had cancer?’ Woodend said.

  But of course she did. She’d never have been lying where she was now if she hadn’t.

  ‘She could have beaten it!’ Bryant shrieked. ‘We could have beaten it together. But you can’t beat a slashed throat, can you? There’s nothing you can do about that.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Woodend said. ‘I didn’t know . . . I never thought . . .’

  ‘I’ll see you crucified for this,’ Bryant promised, still struggling against the officers who were holding him. ‘It won’t be just the Courier that goes after you. I’ve still got friends on Fleet Street. Lots of friends. Lots . . . lots of . . . of . . .’

  And then he stopped struggling – and started to cry.

  There was an air of unease in the pub about the presence of the three police officers who were sitting at their usual table. All sense of pride – all sense of proprietorship – was gone. This wasn’t the crack team which quickly resolved difficult cases. This was the bunch of incompetents who had simply stood by while two innocent women were brutally murdered.

  ‘Bryant was right about one thing,’ Woodend told the others, after gulping down a full half pint of best bitter with no obvious sign of enjoyment. ‘I should be bloody crucified.’

  ‘You couldn’t have foreseen the way things would turn out,’ Paniatowski said. ‘All the evidence pointed towards Whitebridge General being a common factor. Even if you’d known it wasn’t, there isn’t any way you could have predicted Mrs Bryant would be next on the murderer’s list.’

  It wouldn’t be long before she reached across and stroked his arm as if he were an injured child, Woodend thought.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Right, that’s enough of me wallowin’ in self-pity for one night,’ he said firmly. ‘What has this latest killin’ taught us?’

  ‘That the killer’s not just after lonely women any more,’ Rutter said.

  ‘But he must have had some sort of relationship with Mrs Bryant,’ Paniatowski added. ‘Otherwise she’d never have been persuaded to leave the house.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she?’ Woodend asked. ‘Not even after her husband had assured her that she was perfectly safe?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that he did do that,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Besides, that’s not really the point. There must have been a reason why she went out – and the chances are that the reason was provided by the killer. What could it have been? What was her relationship with her murderer?’

  ‘The killer didn’t really harm the constables!’ Rutter said suddenly, as if his mind had been working on some other track entirely.

  ‘What was that?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘He’s never shown any compunction about killing his female victims, but he didn’t kill the officers. And why not? It would have been as easy to slit their throats as to club them. Safer, too. Blake would never have been able to give a description if he’d been dead. So it’s not just that he’s only killed women so far, it’s that he’s only interested in killing women.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ that he’s got some twisted code of behaviour? That he thinks it’s wrong to kill men, whereas it’s almost his duty to kill women?’

  ‘That’s what the facts would seem to indicate.’

  ‘The facts have pointed us in the wrong direction before,’ Woodend said gloomily. ‘An’ even if they’re right this time, where does it bloody get us?’

  ‘I’ve thought of another connecting factor,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Widows!’

  ‘The only widow was Betty Stubbs,’ Rutter said.

  ‘No, she wasn’t,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘Before she married again, Constance Bryant was a widow.’

  ‘An’ Lucy Tonge?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘She called herself Mrs Tonge. We know she only did it because she wanted to make herself seem less pathetic, but perhaps the killer didn’t. Perhaps he believed she really had been married.’

  Maybe Monika was on to something, Woodend thought. But the brief flare of hope she had fired quickly died away, and he was once again surrounded by the darkness of confusion and incomprehension.

  Thirty-Two

  It was not until he had almost reached his Wolseley that Woodend noticed the two men standing beside it. They were both wearing camel-hair coats and bowler hats – articles of dress as alien to Whitebridge as an aborigine’s loincloth. One of the men was very tall, and built like a brick outhouse. The other was a dapper little man with a neat silver moustache. They were the kind of fellers who would hand an anvil to a man already sinking in a swamp – and Woodend was in no doubt who they had brought the anvil for this time.

  ‘Chief Inspector Woodend?’ asked the man with the silver moustache.

  ‘Depends,’ Woodend replied. ‘Who’s askin’?’

  ‘My name’s Perkins, Superintendent Perkins.’

  ‘You look a bit of a short-arse to be a bobby,’ Woodend said.

  The other man should have taken offence, but didn’t – which was very worrying indeed.

  ‘Have you got some identification on you?’ the Chief Inspector continued.

  Perkins – if that really was his name – reached into the pocket of his overcoat, produced a warrant card, and held it in front of Woodend for a couple of seconds at the most.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Woodend said. ‘But you’re not goin’ to let me take a closer look at it, are you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that would serve either of our interests,’ Perkins said, returning the card to his pocket. ‘Shall we get into your car, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Woodend looked across at Perkins’ companion. ‘What about King Kong here?’

  ‘Rodney is perfectly content to stay where he is.’

  ‘Good for Rodney,’ Woodend said, opening the door of the Wolseley and climbing into the driver’s seat.

  Perkins slid in from the passenger side. ‘Sorry for the melodrama,’ he said, ‘but we really do need to have a little chat.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Woodend replied, noncommittally.

  ‘It is indeed. You are currently involved in investigating a series of murder cases. Would I be right in assuming that you consider the man you’re looking for to be a maniac?’