Dying Fall by Sally Spencer Page B

and took a deep breath. ‘Look, I know it’s a shitty job, and normally I wouldn’t ask you to do it,’ he said. ‘But what choice do I have?’
    â€˜You could put Bob on it,’ Paniatowski replied.
    â€˜Could I?’ Woodend wondered. ‘Could I really? So tell me, if you were in my shoes, would you put Bob Rutter in charge of it?’
    â€˜I’m
not
in your shoes,’ Paniatowski replied defensively.
    â€˜Which is as good a way of not answerin’ the question as any, I suppose,’ Woodend said. ‘But let’s be honest, Monika – at least with each other. Given the way Bob’s behavin’ at the moment, neither of us would put him in charge of a chip shop.’

Seven
    M odern wardrobes were constructed of crisp, light, white wood, but the one in Beresford’s bedroom was heavy, clumsy and coffin-brown coloured. It had been bought in the early years of his parents’ marriage, and, for that reason, he sometimes viewed it as a time machine which transported him back to a happier time, when his father was still alive and his mother still had her mind. But no such thoughts were entering his head at the moment. In fact, most of his thoughts were concentrated
on
his head – or, to be more accurate, on that portion of his head which had once had hair.
    Staring at himself in the wardrobe’s full-length mirror, he could not quite get used to the change that the close-cropped haircut had brought about in his appearance. He no longer looked like the rising young detective constable he had come – with Woodend’s encouragement – to think of himself as. Instead, he was looking at the face of the sort of young thug who shouts insults at ordinary people as they walk through the shopping centre.
    He stepped back, to take a look at the rest of his disguise, which consisted of a buttoned-up flannel shirt, straight-legged jeans, and heavy boots with steel toecaps. He was also wearing braces, which made his shoulders itch and – since the jeans were perfectly capable of staying up without any help – served no useful purpose. Still, he couldn’t remove them even though he wanted to, he told himself. The braces
had to
stay – because they were part of the uniform.
    As he continued to stand there, wondering if he could really pull the deception off, he became aware that he was not alone, and turning around, found his mother was standing in the doorway.
    Mrs Beresford was watching him with a strange, puzzled expression on her face – but that was no more than par for the course, Beresford reminded himself.
    â€˜I … don’t remember seeing those clothes before,’ his mother said. ‘Did I buy them for you …’ She paused, as if trying to grasp one of those pieces of information that were constantly slipping from her mind. ‘Did I buy them for you,
Colin
,’ she continued triumphantly.
    â€˜No, Mum, you didn’t,’ Beresford said gently.
    â€˜And didn’t you …’ his mother asked, grappling for more lost information, ‘… didn’t you used to be a policeman?’
    â€˜I still am a policeman, Mum.’
    â€˜I don’t remember policemen dressing like that when I was younger,’ Mrs Beresford said.
    Her son sighed. He could explain to her that he was going under cover, he supposed, but he doubted if she would be able to grasp the concept.
    â€˜Times change, Mum,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes, they do,’ Mrs Beresford agreed, sighing in turn. ‘And never for the better.’
    Some of the tramps had been questioned and released, but, Woodend noted, there was still a group of around a dozen of them sitting in the basement of police headquarters and waiting for their turn to come.
    â€˜A
group
?’ he repeated to himself.
    Yes, that was what he’d just labelled them – but he’d been wrong to.
    Take most bodies of people waiting for something