The Dark Lady by Sally Spencer

bar. The local man looked both harassed and frustrated.
    â€œCaught Fred Foley yet, have you?” Woodend asked, although he already knew what the answer would be.
    Chatterton shook his head. “It’s like he’s just vanished into thin air,” he admitted.
    â€œHim an’ his mangy old dog,” Woodend pointed out. “Anyroad, I’m glad you’ve turned up now, Tim, because I’ve got a couple of little jobs I’d like you to do for me.”
    The look of surprise on Chatterton’s face spoke volumes. This was not like Woodend at all. He didn’t ask for help – if anything, he devoted his energy to fending it off.
    â€œIt’s not much I want doin’,” the chief inspector continued. “Just a few inquiries. Normally, I’d leave it up to my keen young sergeant, but he’s gone off to Hereford.”
    Chatterton did not seem to welcome the news. “BCI’s got a plant in Hereford,” he said, frowning.
    â€œAye, I know,” Woodend replied.
    Chatterton’s frown deepened. “The company’s very influential in these parts, sir.”
    â€œYes, I’ve already gathered that.”
    â€œSo you won’t do anything which might offend the people in charge of it, will you, sir?”
    Woodend sighed. “Look, I know it would be convenient for everybody round here if Schultz had been killed by poor old Fred Foley,” he said, “but I don’t happen to think that he was.”
    â€œStill, BCI is very conscious of its public image, you know, sir,” Chatterton said.
    â€œIt must be,” Woodend agreed, “or it’d never go around poisonin’ half the countryside.” He was getting bored with the way the conversation was going. “Let’s get back to my little jobs,” he suggested. “The first thing I want you to do for me is find out what you can locally about Mike Partridge.”
    â€œShouldn’t be any problem,” Chatterton said, relaxing a little. “What was the second thing, sir?”
    â€œWhat do you make of Simon Hailsham?”
    â€œSolid enough sort of chap,” Chatterton said. “Meet him sometimes at the Lodge.”
    â€œOh, so the pair of you are members of the funny-handshakes brigade, are you?”
    â€œAren’t you?” Chatterton asked, sounding surprised.
    â€œNay, lad. The last time I checked up on it, it still wasn’t compulsory for a servin’ bobby to belong to the Freemasons. Anyroad, I’d look bloody silly in an apron – an’ I’m not exposin’ my right bollock for anybody,” Woodend said. “But about this ‘solid enough sort of chap’ of yours. If it doesn’t offend your fraternal feelin’s too much, I’d like you to do a thorough background check on him an’ all. Not his war record, I’ll put young Bob on to that – but anythin’ you can come up with that he’s done since 1945.”
    The frown on Tim Chatterton’s face had returned, and was now beginning to display ulcer-inducing worry. “Is there any particular reason for this check, sir?” he asked.
    â€œIs there any particular reason I should tell you if there was?” Woodend retorted, with a harsh edge creeping into his voice. “You didn’t ask me why I wanted a check on Partridge, now did you? An’ far as I understand it, it’s the role of local police forces to assist the Scotland Yard men workin’ on their patch in any possible way they can.”
    Chatterton gulped. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
    â€œLook, Tim, I don’t want you to check on him for any specific reason,” Woodend said, relenting his previous tone a little. “Half the time I do things, it’s on a gut instinct. An’ there’s somethin’ about Hailsham that just doesn’t feel right to me. For a start, I don’t like the way he’s tryin’ to drop