Woodend scratched his nose. ‘Aye, that’s how I’d describe a feller who’s slit three women’s throats.’

  ‘How exactly do you plan to go about the investigation of Constance Bryant’s death?’

  ‘She died sometime in the last three hours,’ Woodend countered. ‘How the bloody hell have you managed to get from London to here so fast?’

  ‘We flew.’

  ‘On a commercial flight?’

  ‘Not exactly. You still haven’t answered my question, Chief Inspector. How do you propose to investigate Constance Bryant’s death?’

  ‘If you’re a bobby, as you claim to be, you shouldn’t need to ask me that,’ Woodend pointed out.

  ‘I am a policeman. But I’m not your kind of policemen.’

  ‘Then what are you? Special Branch?’

  Perkins sighed. ‘I could have had you summoned to London easily enough, if I’d wanted to. Instead, I was courteous enough to come and see you – thus causing minimum disruption to your investigation. I think that entitles me to a little consideration.’

  ‘In other words, you’re the one who asks the questions, an’ I’m the one who answers them?’

  ‘Precisely. And now we’ve got that clear, we can start anew. Why do you think Constance Bryant was killed?’

  ‘Because the murderer, for his own peculiar reasons, has decided to target women with inoperable cancer.’

  ‘So you’ll be focusing the thrust of your investigation on the killer himself, which means that there’ll be no need to examine the backgrounds of the victims too closely, will there?’

  ‘What a load of bollocks you do talk,’ Woodend said disgustedly.

  ‘Would you care to explain that?’

  ‘We don’t know that inoperable cancer is the only common factor. Bloody hell, I haven’t seen the statistics, but it wouldn’t surprise me to find out there are hundreds of women in Mid Lancs dyin’ of the same thing. So what makes the killer choose the women he does? We know his victims probably hadn’t met each other socially. We know they didn’t go to the same schools, or belong to the same organizations. But that’s not to say there isn’t somethin’ linkin’ them other than the cancer. So in answer to your question, we’ll be lookin’ into their backgrounds very closely indeed.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s not convenient to have you look too closely at Constance’s,’ Perkins said.

  ‘An’ why’s that?’

  ‘Because she was one of us.’

  ‘A spy?’

  ‘An intelligence operative. As a journalist with a roving foreign brief, she proved very useful to us.’

  ‘Was she workin’ for you when she died?’

  ‘No, she’d retired.’

  ‘Because of her health? Or because her uncle had left her the Mid Lancs Courier in his will?’

  ‘Her health. There was no uncle.’

  ‘Then who did she inherit the paper from?’

  ‘From a man who would have gone bankrupt years ago if we hadn’t been subsidizing it. A man who agreed to be called her uncle as the price of keeping his newspaper afloat.’

  ‘So the Courier was no more than Constance Bryant’s pension plan – an’ when she found out she was ill, she decided to cash it in?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do you buy a newspaper for all your retirin’ agents?’

  ‘Of course not. Most of them wouldn’t want it.”

  ‘But Constance Bryant did?’

  ‘All our agents have different dreams – a different crock of gold they hope to eventually find at the end of the rainbow. One might want a small commercial fishing boat. Another might wish to run a quiet country pub. In Constance’s case, it was a small provincial newspaper.’

  ‘An’ you always give them what they want?’

  ‘Whenever possible. It’s the thought of their eventual reward which keeps them going under pressures which would break most people.’

  ‘I can’t help thinkin’ it was very convenient for you that Constance’s “uncle” chose to die at just the right time,’ Woodend said.

  Perkins laughed, with what sounded like genuine amusement. ‘That’s the trouble with dealing with members of the general public like you,’ he said. ‘You’ve watched too many films. You all see conspiracy and dirty operations where none exist.’

  ‘So you didn’t kill the paper’s previous owner?’

  ‘Of course not. It was convenient that he died when he did, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t. He’d long understood that when Constance wished to take over, it would be time for him to retire.’

  ‘Who knows about her background?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘One more person than knew about it half an hour ago.’

  ‘Your mates in Whitehall may consider that a clever answer,’ Woodend said, ‘but you’re in the North now – an’ we’d just call it smart-arsed.’

  Perkins sighed again. ‘Her head of section knew, naturally, as did her controller. Two or three other operatives had to be made aware, plus a couple of people in finance and accountancy. The Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary probably know – but not necessarily. It amounts to little more than a handful of people.’

  ‘Did her husband know?’

  Perkins laughed again, unmistakably contemptuously this time. ‘I knew Dexter Bryant when we were both up at Oxford. He had quite a good mind. Might have done quite well in the Foreign Office. Instead he became a crime reporter.’

  ‘Meanin’ what?’

  ‘If Constance had married someone following a gentlemanly profession, it might have been operationally convenient to make her husband aware of her position. But no one was going to risk informing a grubby little hack.’

  ‘So you’re sayin’ that he didn’t know?’

  ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’

  ‘You don’t think there’s any chance she might have told him?’

  ‘All our operatives are rigorously trained to keep their professional and private lives completely separate.’

  ‘He’s an intelligent man. He might have guessed.’

  ‘He may well be intelligent – if all those years on Fleet Street haven’t rotted his brain. But we are very, very good at providing cover stories for our operatives. I can assure you, Chief Inspector, that Mr Bryant won’t have had a clue what was really going on.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he be told now?’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Did Constance run any risk when she was workin’ for you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I mean real risk?’

  ‘If she’d been arrested – and there was always a fair chance she would be – the Russians could have put her on trial and sentenced her to twenty or thirty years in prison. But that’s by no means the worst thing that could have happened to her. Over the years, several of our operatives have simply disappeared. They’ll be dead now, of course, but God alone knows what happened to them before they were executed.’

  ‘So she was a heroine?’

  ‘We tend not to use emotive terms of that nature ourselves, but I suppose I have no objection to you employing it.’

  ‘An’ you don’t think it might be some consolation to the man who’s just lost her to know that?’

  ‘I think it might be of some consolation to you to know that it is of some consolation to him.’

  ‘I’m not followin’ you.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are. You feel guilty about not being able to prevent Constance’s death. You think if you can bring a little comfort to her husband, it might help to assuage some of that guilt.’

  The bastard was spot on, Woodend thought. But the fact that he’d hit the nail on the head didn’t alter the fact that telling Dexter Bryant about his wife’s heroism was still the right thing to do!

  ‘Espionage is a complex business,’ Perkins continued. ‘If we expose Constance as one of our agents, we will be putting at risk other agents who had contact with her. We simply couldn’t allow that to happen.’

  ‘You can’t stop it happenin’!’ Woodend retorted. ‘You may have signed the Official Secrets Act, but I certainly bloody haven’t.’

  ‘True,’ Perkins agreed. ‘But could you actually reveal the secret, knowing it might lead to further loss of life? Could you really stand to have more deaths on your conscience?’

  ‘You’re enjoyin’ this, aren’t you?’ Woodend demanded.

  ‘I’m merely doing what needs to be done. And so must you. You will not tell Mr Bryant that his wife was ever an agent of ours. And as for the officers under your command – that’s Detective Inspector Rutter and Detective Sergeant Paniatowski, is it not––?’

  ‘You know bloody well it is!’

  ‘––you will instruct them not to investigate Constance Bryant’s background any further. You may give them any reason you wish for this, except, of course, the correct one. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ll do as I’ve instructed?’

  ‘I don’t have much bloody choice, do I?’

  ‘You have no choice at all,’ Perkins said. He reached into his pocket and handed Woodend a card. ‘You can contact me at this number, should the need arise. Just give your name and you’ll be put straight through.’

  Woodend examined the card. ‘This is a London number,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Perkins agreed.

  ‘But you won’t be in London, will you? You’ll be right here until this whole mess is cleared up.’

  ‘My exact whereabouts should be no concern of yours,’ Perkins said smoothly. He opened the car door and stepped out on to the pavement. ‘Well, since that seems to be all, I’ll wish you a pleasant good night, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘An’ I’ll wish you a bloody long walk on a bloody short pier!’ Woodend said morosely.

  November the Fifth

  Each soul has a cellar

  Of deepest dark sin

  And there may be found

  The enemy within.

  Thirty-Three

  ‘It’s not often we get children listening to the morning weather forecast, but I’m willing to bet there’s a goodish number of you tuning in today,’ said the cheery voice over the car radio. ‘So here it is, kids. There’s a fair amount of cloud about, and it may rain a little round about lunchtime, but if you keep your fingers crossed and wish very hard, we just might have a dry Bonfire Night after all.’

  Woodend switched the radio off. Wet or dry, how many parents in the Whitebridge area would let their kids out when there was still a triple-killer on the loose? he wondered.

  He had just entered Hill Rise. It was one of those prosperous estates which had sprung up as soon as the post-war period of austerity was over. Well-heeled solicitors lived on Hill Rise, as did successful businessmen. And until the previous evening it had been the home of Constance Bryant, newspaper proprietor and retired spy.

  The Bryant house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a handsome building – though, like the man whose home it was, not ostentatious. As Woodend walked up the path, he found himself wondering what kind of reception he would receive.

  It was Bryant himself who answered the door. He looked as drawn and haggard as might have been expected in the circumstances, but at least he was in control of himself enough to have shaved and put on fresh clothes.

  ‘If it’s inconvenient––’ Woodend began.

  ‘It’s never going to be easy, but it has to be done, so we might as well get it over now,’ the Editor interrupted. ‘If you’d care to follow me, Chief Inspector.’

  Bryant led Woodend down a wide hallway into a large, open-plan living room. There was a picture window at one end of the room, overlooking an immaculately laid-out garden. A staircase connected the living room to the house’s upper floor.

  ‘Please sit down,’ Bryant said dully, indicating a cream-coloured leather sofa.

  Woodend hesitated. ‘Really, Mr Bryant, if you’d rather that I came back later––’

  ‘Sit!’ Bryant ordered, taking a seat himself. ‘I want to apologize for my outburst by the bonfire last night, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘It was quite understandable.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. However much distress I may have been suffering, it was totally inexcusable of me to try to lay the blame for the tragedy at your door. You could not possibly have guessed that Constance would be the killer’s third victim. If anyone should take the blame, that person should be me. I should not have been at the office last night. Whatever reassurances you might have given me about her safety, I should have been at home protecting my wife.’

  You might say you don’t hold me accountable, Woodend thought, but there’s a large part of you that still does. A large part of me, too.

  He wondered if there was something he could do to ease Bryant’s obvious suffering, and thought back to his conversation with Perkins the previous evening. The man with the silver moustache hadn’t quite said that he’d be in deep trouble if he revealed any of the contents of that conversation, but the threat had been clear enough. Well, screw him!

  ‘Did you know your wife worked for the security services?’ he asked.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘She was a spy.’

  Bryant laughed uneasily. ‘That’s impossible,’ he said. ‘We had no secrets from each other. If she’d been involved in that kind of work, I would certainly have known.’

  ‘There are some things you can’t tell even those you trust and love,’ Woodend said. ‘There are very strict rules about it.’

  ‘It’s totally impossible!’ Bryant protested.

  ‘You have every reason to be proud of her,’ Woodend told him. ‘She fought for her country as bravely as any soldier. If she’d lived,’ he continued, calculating that he could get away with at least one lie, ‘she’d have been awarded a medal for her work – though, of course, the Queen would have given it to her in closed session.’

  For a moment, Bryant looked as if he had no idea of how to answer. Then he said, ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘Kind?’

  ‘To pretend that Constance had been involved in some work of national importance. But you really don’t have to pretend at all, you know. My wife didn’t have to do anything special – she was special!’

  And she’d done a brilliant job of fooling her husband, Woodend thought. Still, he was glad he’d spoken out. Bryant didn’t believe what he’d said now, but later, when he came to appreciate what a gaping void his wife’s death had left in his life, he might come to accept the truth and draw some comfort from it.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I have to ask you about the circumstances surrounding your wife’s death,’ he said regretfully.

  ‘Of course,’ Bryant agreed.

  ‘You said you weren’t here when she left the house?’

  ‘That’s right. I was down at the paper.’

  ‘We think she may have gone out to meet someone. Do you have any idea who that might have been?’

  Bryant shook his head. ‘None. Constance tired very easily and spent a good deal of the day resting. As a result, she didn’t have much of a social life, and even what little there was came through me. I can think of no one she might have wanted to see on her own.’

  ‘Where was your stepson last night?’

  A look which was a mixture of wariness and anger appeared in Bryant’s eyes. ‘Why do you ask that?’ he demanded.

  ‘He’s the son of a murder victim,’ Woodend said gently. ‘I have to know.’

  A little of the tension drained out of Bryant’s body. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Pardon me for being brusque. LH was probably here. He rarely leaves the house.’

  ‘So he might know if––’

  ‘I doubt if he’d have noticed Constance going out, if that’s what you were going to ask. Sometimes he’s in such a trance-like state that he wouldn’t even notice if the house fell down around him.’

  ‘Why do you call him LH?’ Woodend asked. ‘I thought his name was Richard.’

  Bryant laughed weakly. ‘It’s a nickname my wife gave him. He was quite small when his father died in India, but he was very brave about it. Hence the name Lionheart, you see.’

  ‘Richard the Lionheart. Like the king.’

  ‘Exactly. He’s always been brave.’ Bryant paused for a second. ‘Did you see any action in the last war, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A lot?’

  ‘More than enough.’

  ‘I never got to do my share of the fighting. I volunteered, but I was turned down on medical grounds. I don’t think I’ve ever quite learned to accept that rejection. Richard, on the other hand, did fight for his country. He was a hero, and any personal problems he’s having now are as a direct result of that heroism.’

  ‘Personal problems?’

  ‘He has a nervous disposition as a result of his experiences. He doesn’t relate well to people, even the ones who want to be close to him. He made his mother suffer sometimes, but I – as the man who dared to replace his real father – bore the brunt of the attacks. I’ve never minded that. However unfair and unreasonable he is, I’ll keep on trying to get through to him, because though we all owe him a debt for what he had to endure in Malaya, those of us who have never endured war ourselves owe it most of all. I feel responsible for him. Does that sound foolish?’

  ‘No,’ Woodend said sympathetically. ‘It doesn’t sound foolish at all.’

  There was a sudden loud thud from upstairs.

  ‘Is Richard at home now?’ Woodend asked urgently.

  ‘Yes, he––’

  ‘Which is his room?’

  ‘Second to the left at the top of the stairs,’ Bryant said.

  But he was talking to empty space, because Woodend had jumped up from his seat and was already dashing towards the staircase.

  The bedside cabinet lay on the floor, where Richard Quinn had kicked it. Quinn himself hung from the high-ceilinged light fitment by a pillowcase which he had twisted to form a rough cord. He could not have been hanging there for long – only since Woodend had heard the thumping sound from downstairs – but he had already started to change colour.