The Witch Maker (11 page)

‘So what
did
they do?'

‘They made it as plain as the nose on your face that if I didn't take their first “friendly” warnin', there wouldn't be another one. An' we're not talkin' about a few bruises, you know. They as good as said that if I showed my face in the village again, they'd make sure I'd lose the use of my legs. An' I believed them at the time – so I've never been there from that day to this.'

‘Probably wise,' Woodend said.

The landlord shrugged. ‘Aye. Probably.' He glanced up at the clock. ‘Supper should be ready in about half an hour. I know for a fact that the missus is makin' a Lancashire hotpot – but she can soon do you somethin' else if you think that won't suit you.'

‘Do
you
think it'll suit me?' Woodend asked.

‘Well, though I say so as shouldn't, it's the best hotpot I've ever tasted. An' it always wins first prize at the village fête.'

‘Then I'd be a fool to turn down the opportunity to try it for myself,' Woodend said.

He had picked up his bag and was heading for the stairs when the landlord's cough made him turn round again.

‘Was there somethin' else?' he said.

‘Not really,' the landlord said wistfully. ‘I was just thinkin'.'

‘About what?'

‘There were lots of other pretty girls around at the time I was after Bessie. Some were
almost
as pretty as she was, an' I married one of them.'

Woodend smiled. ‘But?'

‘But I still can't help wonderin' if my life would have been any different if I'd ignored that “friendly” warnin'.'

I
t was nice to be back in the normal world, Woodend thought. Nice to be sitting in a bar with Monika Paniatowski by his side, a pint glass in his hand and his stomach well-lined with the landlady's justly famous Lancashire hotpot.

It was only a temporary release, of course. The following morning they would return to dark, brooding Hallerton, and attempt to solve a murder that no one there seemed particularly keen to
have
solved. In fact, he couldn't even put aside thoughts of the village for even that long, because there was a phone call he needed to make.

He took a swig of his pint and stubbed out his Capstan in the already-overflowing ashtray.

‘I'd better go an' call Bob on the off chance he's come up with somethin' useful,' he said.

‘Yes, that's probably a good idea,' Monika Paniatowski said, her voice giving away nothing of the turmoil that was raging inside her.

Woodend stood up. ‘Shouldn't be long,' he said. ‘But if you start feelin' bored, you can always order another round.'

He was at the point of turning towards the door when his sergeant said, ‘Could you ask Bob ... could you ask Inspector Rutter ...'

‘Yes?'

‘I ... I miss my little car. Could you ask Inspector Rutter if it would be possible for one his lads to drive it up here in the morning?'

‘Aye, I'll do that,' Woodend said, wondered what it was she'd really been going to ask him to ask Rutter. ‘I'll tell you somethin', Monika – I've known mother hens that lavished less attention on their chicks that you devote to that car of yours,' he continued, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

Paniatowski smiled weakly. ‘You know how it is with the things that are important to you,' she said.

Yes, Woodend thought. Yes, I believe I do.

Bob Rutter had lost track of time – he always did when he immersed himself in reports – so it was not until the insistently ringing phone reminded him there was a world beyond that of cardboard folders that he even realized it had gone dark outside.

He picked up the phone. ‘DI Rutter.'

‘See if you can find out why there's no war memorial in Hallerton,' said a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

Rutter was not quite sure that he had heard correctly. ‘A war memorial?' he repeated.

‘There should be one, an' there isn't. I'd like to know why. It might not have any relevance to the case, but at least it'll put me one up on that smug bastard of a vicar.'

‘Are you feeling all right, sir?' Rutter asked worriedly.

‘No, I'm not. Nobody who knows he has to go back to Hallerton in the mornin' could be feelin' all right. It's not somethin' that I'd wish on my worst enemy.' Woodend paused. ‘So have you come up with anythin' that might help me solve the case in a hurry, an' give me the excuse to leave the bloody place behind me?'

‘I'm not sure,' Rutter admitted. ‘Aside from murder, there doesn't seem to be much crime in Hallerton.'

‘Well, that's a comfort,' Woodend said sourly.

‘I'm been comparing the crime sheets from Hallerton with those of the other villages round it,' Rutter continued. ‘The rest of the villages record a marked increase in petty theft and burglary since the war. Nothing really significant, you understand – bicycles taken, a few pounds stolen – but in Hallerton there isn't even that. I don't know why that should be. Perhaps the local constable keeps a tighter grip on things than the constables in the other villages do.'

‘Or
somebody
keeps a tighter grip,' Woodend said.

‘I beg your pardon, sir.'

‘Nothin'. Just thinkin' aloud. Have you got anythin' else for me?'

‘There've been four suicides the last fifty years, two of them in the last ten. Isn't that rather high for a small place like Hallerton?'

‘I haven't got the statistics, but it
is
quite common for small farmers to take their shotguns an' blow off their own heads. An' in a way, who can blame them? They work their bollocks off, year an' year out, an' it only takes one particularly bad run of weather to ruin them. The banks won't help – there's no real money in it for them – and the poor bloody farmer's got nobody else to turn to. If the government cared about the land as much as it says it does, it would never allow ...' Woodend paused again. ‘Sorry, lad, I was off ridin' my hobby horse for a second, wasn't I? Tell me about these farmers.'

‘They
weren't
farmers,' Rutter said.

‘Weren't they? I'd just assumed they'd—'

‘They were all women, and none of them was even a farmer's
wife
.'

Woodend whistled softly. ‘Is there any common thread runnin' through these suicides?'

‘Well, there's their age,' Rutter said.

‘Oh aye? How old were they?'

‘They were all in their middle-to-late twenties.'

‘An' do we have any clue as to their motives?'

‘None. According to the reports, they were all healthy and had everything to live for.'

‘If you can call spendin' most of your time in Hallerton
livin
',' Woodend said. ‘Did they have anythin' in common
apart
from their age? Were they all from the same family, for example?'

‘The records seem to suggest that everybody in the village is related – through some obscure link in the past – to everybody else.'

‘But no
close
relationship? What about the most recent two? They weren't first cousins or anythin', were they?'

‘No. Absolutely not.'

‘So what else might have connected them?'

‘Nothing comes immediately to mind. One ran the village store with her husband, and the other was the postman's wife.'

‘So they were both married,' Woodend said, pouncing on the detail.

‘Most women are married by the time they reach their late twenties,' Rutter pointed out.

And thoughts of Monika Paniatowski flashed through both their minds.

‘Since you haven't asked, I assume you've already got all the details you need on the murder,' Rutter said.

‘Far from it,' Woodend told him. ‘But bein' at the scene, I probably know more about the death of Harry Dimdyke than you do, sittin' on your arse in Whitebridge.'

‘Harry Dimdyke?' Rutter repeated, puzzled.

‘Yes. That's the victim's name, lad.'

‘I wasn't talking about the most
recent
victim.'

‘What?!' Woodend exploded.

‘I'm sorry, sir, but since you
are
already at the scene, I assumed somebody would already have briefed you on the Stan Dawkins case.'

Woodend gripped the phone receiver so tightly it was a wonder it didn't shatter.

‘They're buggerin' me about, aren't they?' he said furiously.

‘Well, it does seem strange that you haven't been told,' Rutter admitted.

‘
You
tell me, lad,' Woodend said. ‘You give me all the details that I should, by rights, have had since this mornin'.'

I
t had been a long night for Constable Thwaites – long
and
troubled. He had tossed and turned. Several times a raging thirst had forced him from his bed. He had knocked back a pint of water each time, but it had done no good. Sleep would not come, and the thirst would not go away.

Finally, when dawn had broken, he'd got dressed in his uniform and gone downstairs to his office. And there he sat, waiting for he knew not what, but knowing that he was waiting for
something
.

When he saw the Wolseley draw up outside, he finally understood what his vigil had been about – realized that he had cast himself in the role of sacrificial lamb, and had been preparing himself for the arrival of the high priest without whom the sacrifice could not be made.

The high priest was wearing his customary hairy sports jacket. He looked very angry as he climbed out of his car, and seemed even more enraged to see the gate barring his path to the police house office. He wrenched at the latch, swung the gate open, and marched up the path with furious – almost giant – strides.

Watching his progress through the window, Thwaites shuddered. He had known it was going to be bad – but he'd never imagined it would be anything like as bad as this.

When Woodend opened the door, Thwaites jumped to his feet and gave a clumsy salute. If he had hoped that would serve to propitiate the angry gods, the look in Woodend's eyes quickly assured him that it wouldn't.

‘I thought I might just calm down overnight, but when I woke up this mornin' I was as angry as I'd been when I went to bed,' the Chief Inspector said. ‘Now why do you think that is?'

‘I ... I don't know, sir,' Thwaites said.

‘You're either a bloody liar or a bloody fool,' Woodend told him. ‘An' I'm beginnin' to suspect you might be both. Am I hurtin' your feelin's, Constable Thwaites?'

‘Well, sir—'

‘Because this is nothin'! Nothin' at all! I haven't even got in my stride yet!' Woodend glanced down at the chair the constable was standing next to. ‘I'd take the weight off my feet if I was you,' he advised. ‘Because for the kind of bollockin' you're goin' to get, you'll need to be sittin' down.'

Thwaites sank heavily into the chair. ‘What have I done wrong, sir?' he asked.

‘What have you done wrong?' Woodend replied, sitting down opposite him. ‘You've been holdin' back information that just could be vital to my investigation into the murder of Harry Dimdyke.'

‘I never—'

‘You remember that theory of yours – the one that the fairground people might have had a grudge against this village?'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Can you think of any reason
why
they might have had a grudge?'

Thwaites shrugged. ‘They're funny folk, fairground workers. You never know what's goin' to upset them.'

‘Tell me, Constable Thwaites, does the name “Stan Dawkins” mean anythin' to you?'

‘It's got a familiar ring to it,' Thwaites said.

‘Stan Dawkins was one of the workers on the fairground that visited this crappy little village for the last Witch Burnin'. An' do you know what happened to him?'

‘He got killed?'

‘He got killed,' Woodend agreed. ‘The mornin' after the Witch Burnin', he was discovered on the edge of the village. He'd been beaten to death.'

‘I remember now,' Thwaites admitted.

‘It took you long enough,' Woodend said. ‘Now let me ask you this, Constable – don't you think it's just possible that Stan Dawkins' death could have been connected with Harry Dimdyke's death?'

‘How, sir?'

Woodend slammed his fist down on the desk, and the whole room seemed to shake.

‘For God's sake, Thwaites, isn't it obvious?' he demanded. ‘Harry Dimdyke could have been killed in revenge for what somebody in this village did to Stan Dawkins twenty years ago!'

‘But the village had nothin' to do with this feller Dawkins' death,' Thwaites protested. ‘It was one of the other carnival workers who killed him. The inspector in charge of the case said so.'

‘Accordin' to the research
my
inspector's just done, the officer in charge of the investigation had
no idea
who'd killed Dawkins. Yes, it could have been one of the carnival workers. But I don't think it was. An' can you guess
why
I don't think it was?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Because
you
don't think it was.'

‘Have you started readin' minds now, sir?' Thwaites asked, in a sudden burst of defiance.

‘I've
always
read minds,' Woodend told him. ‘It's part of my job. An' would you like to know what I've read in that slim, badly printed volume that makes up
your
mind?'

‘You'll tell me, won't you, whether I want to hear it or not,' Constable Thwaites said.

‘Bloody right, I will,' Woodend agreed. ‘If you'd thought one of the carnival workers had killed Stan Dawkins, you'd have mentioned it right from the start. “They're animals, sir,” you would have said. “They killed one of their own the last time the funfair was here. Why wouldn't they have killed one of ours this time?” But you didn't say that – an' the
reason
you didn't is because you don't want the Dawkins investigation reopenin', in case I blunder across some evidence which points me to the killer.'