Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer Page A

crime,” he said.
    â€œMeaning what, exactly?” Hopgood asked.
    â€œMeaning he doesn’t have much use for police stations.”
    Doesn’t have much use for police stations? The idea of not basing things at the local nick was inconceivable to Hopgood.
    â€œSo where exactly
will
he be conducting his investigation from?” the inspector asked.
    Rutter looked across at Woodend questioningly.
    â€œWhere would
you
guess I’ll be conductin’ my investigations from, Bob?” the chief inspector asked.
    It wasn’t very hard to work out the answer, Rutter thought – not when you knew Woodend as well as he did.
    â€œYou’ll probably be running it from inside the club itself, won’t you, sir?” he asked.
    â€œSpot on,” Woodend agreed.
    â€œBut . . . but at midday and during the evening, it’s full of teenagers,” Hopgood pointed out.
    Woodend grinned. “Quite right. An’ by some happy coincidence, those are just the times that this hostelry – which you can see for yourself is so convenient for the crime scene – is open.”
    â€œYou can’t run an murder investigation from a pub,” Hopgood said, clearly outraged.
    â€œNot only could I, but I have done on a number of occasions, Inspector,” Woodend replied mildly. “You can learn a hell of a sight more sittin’ in a pub – right in the middle of things – than you ever would behind the closed doors of the local cop shop.”
    â€œBut that’s just not the way things are done in Liverpool, sir,” Hopgood protested.
    â€œMaybe it isn’t – but it’s the way I do ’em.”
    Hopgood took a deep breath. “You’re here as guests of the Liverpool Police,” he said, “and I’m afraid that my superiors are going to insist that you observe the proper form.”
    Woodend sighed, not softly as his sergeant had earlier, but with all the exasperation of a man who has obviously played this same scene through dozens of times before.
    â€œHow many murders do you reckon we’ve worked on together, Bob?” he asked Rutter.
    â€œSix,” the sergeant replied. “Starting with the case of that young girl in Salton and—”
    â€œForget the details,” Woodend said airily. “An’ of those six, how many times have we caught the killer?”
    â€œSix,” Rutter said, doing his best to hide his smile.
    â€œSix out of six,” Woodend said musingly. “Not a bad record, all in all.” He took another sip of his pint of bitter. “Am I makin’ my point clearly enough for you, Inspector?”
    Hopgood flushed. “Your methods are unorthodox, but you usually get results?”
    â€œNearly right,” Woodend agreed. “My methods are unorthodox, and since I’ve had this bright grammar-school lad workin’ with me, I’ve
always
got results. So you can just relax, Inspector. Leave us to do things our way, an’ we’ll find your killer for you.”
    Hopgood stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to go and make a phone call,” he said.
    â€œI’m sure you do,” Woodend agreed. “An’ while you’re talkin’ to your boss, tell him that if he’s not happy with the way I’m conductin’ my inquiries, I’m more than willin’ to catch the next train back to London. My roses’ll appreciate me gettin’ back, even if no bugger else does.”
    Rutter grinned as he watched the inspector make his way hurriedly towards the pay phone in the corridor next to the toilets.
    â€œYou don’t have any roses, sir,” he pointed out.
    â€œNo, I don’t. But then again, they’re not goin’ to send us back to London, either.”
    â€œYou’re sure of that?”
    â€œOh yes. They need somebody to take the blame for not comin’ up with a murderer, an’ we’re the lucky