Murder at Swann's Lake (7 page)

“They won't accept it!” someone called angrily from the crowd.

“If they refuse to accept it, I shall offer it a second time,” the organiser said with dignity.

“And if they
ignore
you a second time?” the same heckler called back.

“Even if they use refuse to acknowledge it, we will still have made our point. I will step back into the ranks, and together we will march away up Chapel Street.”

“Let us act like men!” the heckler bellowed. “Let us fight fire with fire.”

The organiser shook his head. “We will not stoop to their level,” he said. “We will show them the true meaning of dignity. Brothers and sisters, it is time to go and face the enemy.”

Perhaps the heckler said more, but if he did, his words were lost in the general groundswell of noise as the demonstrators formed a column. Maria, finding herself at the front of the column, felt a sudden burst of exhilaration. It was true what they said, she thought – strength did come from unity. She lifted her placard high in the air, and when the whistle blew she took a decisive step forward.

There were only a few policemen in evidence as they marched down Whitehall, but by the time they had reached Victoria Street there was one every fifty yards, and the closer they got to Belgrave Square, the more the officers there seemed to be. Standing silently. Watching them.

“They must have cancelled all leave today,” Maria said to the girl who was marching next to her.

“Do you think there'll be policemen in front of the embassy?” the girl asked nervously.

“There's bound to be,” Maria said. “But don't worry, as long as we behave in a civilised manner, there'll be no trouble.”

But she couldn't help remembering that Bob had been worried – and Bob
knew
about these things!

They entered the square from Belgrave Place, and Maria let out an involuntary gasp as she saw the embassy. Yes, she been expecting a police presence – but not like this! Not this wall of blue serge which hid the embassy railings from view. Not so many badges on pointed helmets reflecting the rays of the afternoon sun at the oncoming marchers. And even more threatening, six policemen on horses towered over their colleagues at each end of the cordon. Though she tried to tell herself she was a fool to be concerned, Maria could feel a tiny knot of fear start to form itself in the pit of her stomach.

There was a low, angry murmuring from further back in the column. This is how the British authorities treat us, the murmur seemed to saying. We are not even to be allowed to get near our own embassy.

“Fan out,” one of the organisers was shouting through his megaphone. “Form a line to face the police. But make sure you are at least ten feet away from them.”

Ten feet! Maria thought. That was no distance at all! But if that was what was necessary, then that was what they would have to do.

The protestors' line, though more ragged than the one maintained by the police, was soon in place. Maria ran her eyes over the policemen's faces. Some of the officers had their expressions set in grim concentration, others – mostly the younger ones – seemed a little frightened.

‘We're not used to protests in London,'
Bob had said.
‘We're not trained to handle them. And that could spell trouble.'

She could feel the people behind pressing against her – not aggressively, but relentlessly – and it took all her effort to hold her position. It had been agreed they would stand in silence, but from further back she could hear ugly taunts being shouted. She wished the organisers would get it over with quickly. Wished they would try to deliver their letter, then everyone could go home.

One of the policemen suddenly lifted his hands in front of his face. At first, Maria couldn't understand why. And then – with sudden horrified realisation – she did. A brick! Someone in the crowd had had the criminal stupidity to throw a brick!

As if it had been the signal for a general outbreak, bricks and bottles were suddenly raining down on the police line from all directions.

“No!” Maria shouted. “No! It wasn't meant to be like this!”

The policemen had had their arms linked, but now they broke free of each other. Some held their hands up to protect themselves – others were already drawing their truncheons.

It was the clatter of the horses' hooves which started the panic. The huge animals edged their way into the crowd, and immediately people began to scream, to push – to lose all control. Some of the demonstrators stumbled and fell. Then others tripped over them, landing in a heap of struggling arms and legs which didn't look like people at all.

Maria no longer had her placard, though she'd no idea where she'd lost it. She heard the girl next to her call out to God for help, and knew that would do no good – they could only help themselves. She saw a young policeman, his truncheon drawn and his face ablaze with hatred, heading towards her particular section of the chaos. She somehow managed to pull herself free, so that she was standing right in front of him.

“Leave us alone!” she begged. “Please!”

With one hand the constable grabbed her roughly by the hair. With the other, he swung his truncheon. Maria had a split second of absolute terror – and then everything went black.

Sid Dowd was sitting at a table in the members' bar of a golf club which wouldn't even have taken him on as a caddy twenty years earlier. A newspaper was spread out in front of him, and he didn't look pleased.

“There's not as much about Robbie's murder in today's paper as there was in yesterday's, Phil,” he said to the hard young man in the smart blue suit who had been waiting patiently to be addressed, “but it's still not good.”

“No, Mr Dowd,” the young man admitted. “It's still not good.”

“I made a mistake sendin' you up to the club on Saturday night,” Dowd said. “I should have been playin' things much more cautiously. But how was I to know the way things would turn out?”

“No way in the world, Mr Dowd,” Phil assured him.

“Do you think many people will have noticed you?”

“Most of the club,” Phil confessed. “You see, the steward didn't want to let me in without a membership card, then Robbie Peterson – who was on the stage at the time – told him to buy me a drink. Well, he was speakin' into the microphone, so most of the punters turned round to see who he was talkin' to.”

“Not good,” Dowd repeated, signalling the steward for another round of drinks. “I've come too far and taken too many risks to have this sort of cloud hangin' over me.”

Phil nodded. “So what do you intend to do about it, Mr Dowd?”

Dowd thought for a moment. “Get onto one of the coppers who belong to my lodge,” he said finally. “DI Roberts is probably your best bet. Ask him to find out what he can about this Chief Inspector Woodend feller.”

J
enny Clough sat with her hands folded demurely on top of her pinafore, almost like a nun in quiet contemplation. She was a pretty woman, Woodend thought. Not pretty like her sister was pretty. Not pretty so she'd turn every head in the street. Hers was a prettiness it would be good to come home to after a hard day at work – a prettiness that offered a great deal of consolation for the right man.

“I expect you've heard some quite horrible things about my dad,” she said across the desk.

“Now why would you think that?” Woodend asked.

Jenny laughed bitterly. “Because you've already spoken to my mum and sister. Why else?”

“Why don't you tell me how you saw him?” Woodend suggested.

“He wasn't perfect – nobody ever is – but he always tried to do his best for his family.”

“Like sendin' your sister Annabel to an expensive boardin' school?”

Jenny nodded. “That's right. He wanted her to get the best education money could buy.”

That was not how Annie Peterson saw it, Woodend thought. As far as she was concerned, Robbie had merely been using her as a ladder to climb out of the gutter. “Why didn't he send you to private school as well?” he asked.

“He told me recently that he would have done if he'd had the money at the time.”

There was something evasive in her answer, Woodend thought – something which didn't ring quite true in her words.

“Did you believe him?” he asked.

Jenny Clough shook her head again. “No.”

“So what was the real reason?”

“He couldn't bear the thought of me being away from home.”

“But he didn't mind Annabel goin'?”

“All parents have their favourites among their children,” Jenny said, adopting a fiercely defensive tone. “They shouldn't – but they do. Annie's always been Mum's favourite. I was always Dad's. But that doesn't mean that he didn't treat her right. She could have had anythin' she wanted. She could have gone to university. And what did she do instead?”

“I don't know,” Woodend said. “You tell me.”

“She did everythin' she could to humiliate him and embarrass him. How could he ever expect to get on in Swann's Lake when his own daughter behaves like a common tart?”

“Behaves? Or merely dresses?” Woodend asked.

“Behaves!” Jenny answered emphatically. “The men she knocks around with might drive sports cars and wear expensive clothes, but they're all still only after one thing – and she gives it to them. I've seen her.”

“Where?”

“There's a copse of trees just beyond the caravan site,” Jenny said. “Sutton's Copse, they call it round here. I don't know why. Anyway, a lot of courtin' couples go there. An' couples that are . . . well, you know.”

“Havin' a bit on the side?”

“That's right. Well, after Annabel an' her latest feller had finished laughin' at Dad, that's where they usually went. They didn't have to, of course. Her men always had enough money to pay for a nice hotel somewhere. But she liked doin' it there – because it was just another way of rubbin' Dad's nose in it.”

She stopped speaking, flushed and exhausted by her outburst.

“You don't like your sister very much, do you?” Woodend asked quietly.

“I love her,” Jenny said. “But that doesn't mean that I'm blind to how she's been carryin' on, and what an effect it's had on Dad.”

“If it's not too painful, I'd like you to tell me about the night your dad died,” Woodend said. “You were all in the club, weren't you? The whole family?”

“That's right.”

“Is that normal?”

“Well, Terry's always there. He's the sort of assistant manager. Mum and Dad usually looked in at the weekends. Dad liked to do a bit of entertainin', and Mum likes a natter with her friends. You never know when Annabel's goin' to turn up. It's just as the mood takes her.”

“What about your brother-in-law, Michael?”

“He doesn't come very often.”

“So it was just a coincidence he and Annabel were there on the same night?”

“I suppose so.”

“Your husband and Michael got into a bit of an argument, didn't they?” Woodend asked.

“I saw them talkin' by the door,” Jenny admitted, “but I wouldn't say they were arguin'.”

“Oh, so you were close enough to hear what they sayin'?”

“No,” Jenny confessed. “It just didn't
look
serious, that's all.”

“Do they often spend a lot of time talkin'?”

Jenny twisted the hem of her pinafore. “You've got to understand, Michael's very different from the rest of us,” she said. “He's educated. Been to teacher trainin' college. Him and Terry don't have much in common any more.”

“They had enough in common to carry on their conversation outside,” Woodend said.

“Annabel!” Jenny hissed. “She's the one who told you that!”

“Well, it's the truth, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's the truth. But they weren't gone long.”

“Accordin' to your sister – and I'm sure I can get other witnesses to confirm it if I really try – they left while your dad was still on stage, an' they didn't come back until about the time the body was found.”

The implications of where this line of questioning was leading finally hit her. “You're . . . you're not sayin' that you think Terry an' Michael killed Dad, are you?” she gasped.

“I'm investigatin' every possibility,” Woodend said evenly.

“But they couldn't. They just couldn't. I mean, Terry's a bit of a rough diamond, but he got on really well with Dad. An' as for Michael, if you'd met him—”

“Which I intend to do very shortly.”

“. . . you'd know there's not a violent bone in his body.”

“All right, let's assume for the time bein' that they didn't kill your dad,” Woodend said. “We're still left with an interestin' question, aren't we? Just what were two brothers – who you've admitted have absolutely nothin' in common – doin' outside all that time?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Jenny said – and Woodend knew for sure that she was lying.

Maria groaned and opened her eyes. A series of pink blobs were floating around in front of her, blobs which gradually solidified and became faces.

“Are you all right?” asked a voice which she recognised as belonging to Javier, one of her friends from the university.

“I've got a splitting headache,” Maria said. “What happened?”

“You were knocked unconscious,” Javier said. “I dragged you away from all the trouble. I know you're not supposed to do that when a person's been injured, but you'd have been trampled if I'd left you where you were.”

Away from all
what
trouble? Maria asked herself. And then it all came back to her – the demonstration, the bricks and bottles, the policeman with his truncheon – and she felt such a fool for not remembering it earlier.