The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer Page B

her as smiling, sometimes as angry. She was not blind except – on occasion – to the consequences of her actions. Nor was she exactly beautiful. But he loved
her
too.
    The phone rang, cutting through his introspection, and he reached for it gratefully.
    â€˜You busy?’ asked the voice on the other end of the line.
    â€˜I’ve not got anything on that I can’t shelve for a while, sir,’ Rutter said. ‘Why? What do you want? Something to do with this new murder you’re investigating?’
    â€˜Aye, that’s right. I’d like you to spend a bit of time in that dusty basement that our beloved Chief Constable has the nerve to call the “Criminal Records Resources Centre”.’
    â€˜And what should I be looking for in the CRRC?’
    â€˜I’m not entirely sure,’ Woodend admitted. ‘Anythin’ relatin’ to criminal activity in the village of Hallerton, I suppose.’
    â€˜That’s a bit vague.’
    â€˜I know it is, but I don’t really
have
anythin’ more specific to give you. I’m tryin’ to build up a picture of the place, you see, an’ the locals are bein’ rather less than helpful.’
    â€˜Monika’s with you in Hallerton, is she?’ Rutter asked, before he could stop himself.
    â€˜Yes, she is. Why wouldn’t she be?’
    â€˜No reason,’ Rutter said, then added hastily, ‘How far back would you like me to go with my search?’
    â€˜Ideally, to 1604.’
    â€˜What?!’
    â€˜That’s just a bit of gallows humour,’ Woodend explained, ‘but I suppose you have to be here in this village to really appreciate it.’
    â€˜Probably,’ Rutter agreed, having no real idea of what his boss was talking about. ‘So how far would you
really
like me to go back?’
    â€˜Fifty or sixty years. An’ I want you to give me
everythin
’ you turn up – however trivial or inconsequential it might seem to you.’
    â€˜Understood,’ Rutter said.
    He replaced the receiver and glanced at the picture of his wife. It was only by an effort of will that he didn’t turn in the other direction and look at the picture which wasn’t really there.
    Woodend returned to the table. Paniatowski hadn’t ordered another drink. In fact, she seemed to feel no great urge to finish the one she still had in front of her.
    â€˜We’ll be needin’ somewhere to stay for the night, an’ this seems as good a place as any,’ the Chief Inspector said, thinking, even as he spoke, that the words sounded strained – that it was as if, in order to reach Monika, they’d have to climb over a huge barrier first.
    â€˜Shall I have a word with the landlord when he gets back?’ Paniatowski asked, her voice neutral, almost machine-like.
    â€˜Gets back?’
    â€˜Well, he’s not here now.’
    Woodend glanced across at the bar, and saw that his sergeant was right. There was absolutely no sign of Zeb, the under-friendly mine host of the Black Bull. He had probably slipped into his own quarters for a few minutes.
    And why shouldn’t he have? Though the pub had been quite full when the two detectives arrived, they were now the only customers.
    â€˜Not exactly popular, are we?’ he asked his sergeant.
    â€˜Not exactly,’ Paniatowski agreed, in the same dull tone she had employed earlier.
    Something was going to have to be done, Woodend thought.
    â€˜I’m sorry about what I said earlier, lass,’ he told Paniatowski.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ the sergeant replied, but without much conviction.
    â€˜It’s not all right – an’ we both know that. If I’ve learned one thing in my years on the Force, it’s that it’s very easy to pass judgement on other people, but unless you’ve walked around in their shoes for a while, you probably don’t know what you’re talkin’