Jamie swung round. For a moment he was disconcerted by the fact that the voice sounded old enough to be his father’s – but that wouldn’t have deterred Dexter Bryant, and he was buggered if was going to let it bother ‘Scoop’ Clegg.

  He reached into his pocket for his press card, and held it out for the other man to examine under his flashlight.

  ‘Reporter!’ he said, unnecessarily.

  ‘That’s as maybe,’ responded the constable, who didn’t like the duty he’d been assigned in the first place, and certainly didn’t like having to deal with jumped-up kids who would probably be earning more than he was in two or three years’ time. ‘Yes, you may indeed be a reporter, as it says on your card. But I’m still goin’ to have to tell you to move on.’

  ‘I work for the Courier!’ Jamie Clegg said, close to outrage.

  ‘An’ I read the Courier,’ the constable responded. ‘Have done for years an’ years – probably since long before you were born. But what’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

  Jamie Clegg swallowed hard and pulled his notepad out of his pocket. ‘If you could just answer a few questions . . .’ he began tentatively.

  The constable shook his head. ‘The only feller around here who’s entitled to answer questions about the murder is Mr Woodend . . .’

  The murder! Jamie repeated silently in his head. So there’d been a murder!

  ‘ . . . an’ it was Mr Woodend himself who told me that nobody’s allowed near the crime scene – not even a reporter from the Mid Lancs Courier. So, all things considered, you’d best get back on your bike, son.’

  Get back on your bike!

  Jamie Clegg felt a wave of humiliation wash over him. What did this bobby take him for? A paper boy? A butcher’s delivery lad?

  ‘I didn’t come by bike,’ he said. ‘I came by car! My car!’

  The constable chuckled. ‘Then climb back in it, an’ get your little legs working the pedals,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a Ford Popular, not a kiddie car!’ Jamie said, but – having suffered enough blows to his self-esteem already – he did not stay to hear the constable’s response.

  His heart was beating furiously against his ribcage, and his cheeks burned as if they were on fire. He opened the driver’s door of his Ford Pop and slid behind the wheel.’You’d best get back on your bike, son!’ he repeated bitterly.

  Well, he could certainly do that – metaphorically, if not literally.

  But should he?

  What would Dexter Bryant do if he were faced with a situation like this one, he wondered?

  Six

  It was still possible that there might be a mundane solution to this murder, Woodend thought as he gazed down at the extinguished fire which might yet turn out to be the ashes of his own career. It was still possible that, come the morning, some dishevelled man would present himself at police headquarters and confess that – in a bout of temper – he had killed his wife and stuffed her in the bonfire.

  But while it just might be possible, it was far from likely. Because Monika was right. This killer did not see death as a conclusion. For him, it was only part of a process.

  ‘DI Rutter’s just arrived, sir,’ Paniatowski said, from somewhere behind his left shoulder.

  Woodend turned around. Someone was certainly approaching, and even though the distant street lights did not provide enough illumination to see him clearly, there was no doubt that it was Bob.

  It had something to do with the way Rutter walked which made him so identifiable, Woodend decided: the broad strides which carried with them the suggestion that he was a very important business executive rushing – but with dignity – from one vital meeting to another.

  From the very start – from the time they’d worked together on the murders in Salton – Bob had always looked more like a businessman than a policeman. And that was far from a disadvantage in a force which seemed increasingly to assign more value to appearance and cost-efficiency than to good police work. In fact, if Bob could only bring himself to give up his annoying habits of honesty, loyalty and straightforwardness, Woodend thought, there was absolutely nothing to stop him going right to the top of his chosen profession.

  Rutter drew level with them, and came to a smart halt.

  ‘You took your time gettin’ here,’ Woodend said, acting instinctively on the principle that while he might love the inspector like the son he’d never had, there was never any harm in taking a high-flier like Rutter down a peg or two.

  ‘Took my time?’ Rutter repeated, unconcerned. ‘I didn’t know there was any rush. Besides, I thought it might be useful to drop in at headquarters and see if there was anything to be learned from there.’

  ‘An’ was there?’

  Rutter shook his head. ‘No one’s reported that a woman of the right age has failed to turn up at home when she was expected.’

  ‘Maybe she’s not expected – at least, until later,’ Woodend suggested. ‘She could be a factory shift-worker. Or a nurse on night duty. She might even be a barmaid or pub entertainer.’

  ‘I’d already thought that possibility through,’ Rutter told him. ‘I’ve had the lads back at the station ringing all the local hospitals, factories and pubs. If one of their employees has failed to turn up, we should hear about it within the hour.’

  ‘Anythin’ else?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘I’ve alerted all motor and foot patrols – especially in this area – to keep an eye open for any suspicious characters. There’s always the chance that the murderer’s still hanging around near the scene of the crime.’

  ‘Aye, there is always a chance,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But not much of one. Not with this feller.’

  Rutter took out his cigarettes, gave one to Paniatowski and placed a second in his own mouth. He didn’t offer the packet to Woodend. He already knew that if had have done, the offer would been refused. The Chief Inspector, though he rarely put his thoughts on the matter into words, considered cork-tipped coffin nails to be far too safe and unmanly to ever consider smoking them himself.

  ‘So what do we do next?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘There’s not much we can do,’ Woodend replied. ‘This area needs searchin’ – there may still be some clues that haven’t quite been destroyed by the Mongol hordes who were here earlier – but it’d be stupid to attempt a job like that until it’s light again. So, all in all, I think we could do worse than adjourn to the nearest pub an’ await further developments.’

  ‘Can we clear up one point before we go?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘Course we can, lad.’

  ‘You said it was highly unlikely the killer was still in the immediate area. Why is that?’

  ‘Monika an’ me think he’s too clever to do anythin’ so obvious.’

  ‘Do you?’ Rutter asked, sounding unconvinced. ‘Based on what?’

  Woodend grinned. ‘Based on the fact that we’re both highly trained professionals who’ve been proved to be right almost as many times as we’ve been proved to be wrong. Isn’t that true, Monika?’

  Paniatowski said nothing.

  ‘Are you with us, lass?’ Woodend asked.

  Still no reply. Woodend turned to look at his sergeant, and was surprised to see that she had slipped out of her high-heeled shoes and was beginning to edge away from the remains of the bonfire.

  ‘Is something the matter, Monika?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘Shut up and keep talking!’ Paniatowski whispered.

  It was a confusingly worded request, but both Woodend and Rutter knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘Don’t suppose it matters what we actually say, as long we keep our voices at just about the same tone an’ level,’ Woodend guessed.

  ‘She’s seen something, hasn’t she?’ Rutter replied conversationally.

  ‘That’s the only explanation I can think of.’

  Suddenly Paniatowski was gone – sprinting towards the edge of the field, chasing a dark figure who had risen from the ground like a zombie rising from its grave.

  ‘Shall I––?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘Monika can look after herself,’ Woodend told him. ‘Anyway, as fit as you think you are, you’d never catch up with her now.’

  Paniatowski’s quarry was running awkwardly towards the boundary of the field. It was the petrol can he was carrying which was causing him problems, Woodend thought. It wasn’t particularly large or heavy, but it still had the effect of throwing him off balance and slowing him down. Paniatowski, without his disadvantages, was closing the gap between them. Barring mishaps, she would catch up with him before he even had time to reach the road.

  A mishap occurred!

  Something – a tin or a brick, or maybe a root – caused Paniatowski to lose her footing, and she flew through the air like an acrobat stretching out for an invisible trapeze. The man whom she was chasing stopped for a moment – perhaps to catch his breath, perhaps to assure himself that Paniatowski no longer presented a threat – then belatedly dropped the petrol can and, with a fresh burst of energy, sprinted towards the road.

  One of the constables patrolling the perimeter had seen what was happening, but though he set off in pursuit, it must already have been clear to him that he had started from too far away to have any real hope of catching his man.

  The fugitive crossed the road and disappeared down a back alley which led to a maze of other back alleys. Though the constable continued to follow, he knew his man was lost.

  By the time Woodend and Rutter had reached her, Paniatowski had rolled herself over into a sitting position, and was massaging her left knee.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Woodend asked worriedly.

  ‘Laddered my bloody nylons,’ the sergeant said through gritted teeth. ‘And they were fresh on today.’

  Woodend found himself examining the ladder. It was a cracker – a champion among ladders – running all the way from her calf to the middle of her thigh. Then he felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. Though his interest in Monika had been concern rather than prurience, he could see how it might be misinterpreted. He quickly turned away, expecting Rutter to do the same automatically.

  But Rutter didn’t!

  Worse yet, there was nothing at all self-conscious in the way the inspector was looking at Paniatowski. This was no explorer getting his first exciting glimpse of a hitherto unknown territory. Rather there was an ease about the whole encounter which suggested that Paniatowski’s body was as familiar to him as his own back yard.

  Which was not good! Woodend thought. Not good at all!

  ‘If I give you some support, do you think you’ll be able to stand up?’ Rutter asked Paniatowski.

  ‘I’ll give it a try,’ the sergeant answered.

  Rutter bent down and grabbed Paniatowski under the armpits. It was a perfectly normal, natural thing to do. It was not even slightly sexual. But watching the scene, Woodend couldn’t help wishing that the inspector had taken hold of the sergeant a little more gingerly, and could have seemed at least a mite uncomfortable with the contact.

  ‘You want to tell us what’s just happened, Monika?’ Woodend asked, the words coming out more gruffly than he’d intended.

  Paniatowski, now upright and still being supported by Rutter, pressed her left foot tentatively on the ground. It caused some pain, but she looked as if she could live with it.

  ‘I heard a noise,’ she said. ‘I was convinced that someone was watching us. Then I spotted him. And that’s about all there is to it.’

  ‘So perhaps the killer did return to the scene of his crime, after all,’ Rutter suggested.

  ‘Not a chance!’ Woodend told him.

  ‘How can you be so sure of that?’

  ‘Because of what the man tried to take away with him.’

  ‘The petrol can?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m following you,’ Rutter admitted.

  ‘The petrol can didn’t appear on the scene until those kids brought it, long after the body had been dumped,’ Woodend explained. ‘The killer would have known that – or at least would have known it had nothing to do with the murder. On the other hand, the man who tried to take it away didn’t know. He thought it might be a clue. Hence, he couldn’t have anything to do with the crime.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Rutter conceded.

  ‘I am right,’ Woodend said. He turned to Paniatowski. ‘Think you can walk to the car?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Then we’d better get that knee of yours some medical attention.’

  ‘I don’t need it,’ Paniatowski protested. ‘The knee’s all right.’

  ‘It’ll be even better after the application of a little embrocation,’ Woodend insisted.

  ‘I’m not having horse liniment rubbed into my knee,’ Paniatowski said firmly.

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ Woodend agreed. ‘We’ll use vodka embrocation – an’ we’ll apply it from the inside.’

  Seven

  He knew he was in his bedroom. His mind and his memory both told him that it was so, and his fingers – running along the edge of the familiar mattress – only reinforced the belief. Had he opened his eyes – which he wouldn’t, because he didn’t choose to – he would have seen the bedside light he had not bothered to turn off, and the ticking alarm clock which was standing next to it. Yes, there was no doubt at all about where he was.

  Why then, did his sense of smell keep telling him he was somewhere else entirely? Why, even though such a thing was impossible, did his nose insist that that it was inhaling the sticky cloying smell of decaying vegetation which belonged to a place thousands of miles away from Whitebridge?

  There had been four them in the jungle that day – himself (LH), Jacko, Socks and the new sergeant. It had been meant to be no more than a routine patrol. Out just before dawn, back in time for tea. In theory they were looking for communists, but they did not expect to find any, because everybody knew there were no commies in this particular sector.

  Like hell, there weren’t!

  Right from the start, the sergeant had tried to stamp his authority on the patrol. He had seen more active service than they could ever imagine, he’d told them. Had any of them ever killed a man? No? Well, he bloody had. And not just the one man, either.

  ‘Ever been in the jungle, though, Sarge?’ Jacko had asked.

  What was that supposed to mean, the sergeant demanded.

  Nothing, Jacko replied. No offence meant. He just wondered if the sarge had ever been in the jungle, that was all.

  ‘I’ve fought on the burning sands, and up to my waist in water,’ the sergeant replied. ‘I shouldn’t think a few trees will bother me.’

  But the jungle was not ‘a few trees’. The jungle was a tangled mass of roots, branches and creepers. It sweated and it groaned. It drained the strength out of a man after only a few minutes. It was deceptive – creating false trails which seemed to lead the walker in the direction he wished to go, yet in reality doing no more than lead him round in circles.

  Spend more than an hour under its sweltering canopy and it was no longer possible to believe that any other world existed. Memories became dreams, the jungle was the only reality. The three young commandos already knew this. They could only hope and pray that their new sergeant would soon come to realize it too.

  Despite his men’s protest that they should stick to familiar trails, the new sergeant led them further into the jungle than they had ever ventured before. By noon – though the sergeant would not admit it, even to himself – they were lost. Prickly heat made their backs itch unbearably. Countless insects, ignoring the creams the men had applied to their whole bodies, were slowly and patiently devouring their legs and arms. Their tongues were swelling with thirst, but they had drunk too much of their valuable water already, and so forced themselves to conserve what little was left. When they finally managed to persuade the sergeant to call base camp for assistance, they discovered that their radio had stopped working.

  It was perhaps half an hour before dusk when, still wandering aimlessly, they heard the sound of machetes cutting their way through the vines, and the tramp of heavy boots on the ground. As quietly as was possible, they retreated into the undergrowth and crouched down. A minute or so later they saw what had been making the noise – a column of perhaps twenty-five heavily armed members of the Malayan Communist Party.

  There was a clearing no more than a hundred yards past their hiding place, and when the enemy reached it, their leader called a halt. The communists set about making camp for the night. A fire was lit, and pots were brought out. Soon, despite the almost overpowering stink of the jungle, the four British soldiers were treated to the tantalizing smell of food being cooked.

  The sergeant’s bold, early-morning front had been gradually deteriorating over the course of the day and now, when he spoke, it was with the voice of desperation rather than command.

  ‘We’ll wait until they’ve gone to sleep, then we’ll slip away,’ he croaked.

  The other two young privates looked to Jacko for leadership.

  ‘Slip away?’ Jacko whispered. ‘If we can’t find our way back to base in the daylight, what chance will we have in the dark? Besides, we’ve used up most of the water. Even if we did know our way out, we’d die of thirst before we were halfway home.’

  The sergeant bowed his head. ‘Then we have no choice but to surrender,’ he said.

  Jacko did not even try to hide his contempt at this. ‘If we surrender, we lose face,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care,’ the sergeant mumbled.

  ‘Well, you should. It would make us less than human in their eyes. There’s no telling what they might do to us then.’

  ‘We’ll be prisoners of war,’ the sergeant whined.

  ‘You’re not listening,’ Jacko hissed angrily. ‘We’re the white man, and we’ll have lost. They’ll use us an example to frighten the coolies.’

  ‘How?’