The Dark Lady by Sally Spencer Page A

this whole case in the lap of the Poles. An’ I’ve got a suspicion that he might have known Schultz durin’ the war – though I may be wrong on that. So just to get things clear in my own mind, I really would be grateful if you’d do what I asked.”
    â€œAll right, I’ll do my best,” Chatterton said dubiously.
    â€œGood lad! I knew I could depend on you.”
    â€œI really would tread softly with BCI, sir,” Chatterton warned. “The company has powerful friends in high places.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Tim, I always tread softly,” Woodend said, “but I usually carry a big stick, an’ all.”

Seven
    T he senior staff canteen in British Chemical Industries’ Hereford plant seemed to be constructed entirely of tinted glass and polished steel. As Bob Rutter ran his eyes along the metal counter and up the round metallic pillars, he felt as if he were in a spaceship – and then he realised, with considerable chagrin, that that was a very Woodendish sort of thing to think.
    â€œWe deliberately made the place very modern, you see,” said the enthusiastic man who was sitting at the opposite side of the black glass table. “A thoroughly modern image for a thoroughly modern company – that was the thinking behind it. Certainly impresses our visitors from overseas, I can tell you that.”
    Robin Quist, the head of the personnel department in Hereford, had wispy brown hair and cheeks which just avoided being plump. He was younger than the sergeant had expected him to be, and considerably less self-important than his opposite number at BCI’s Maltham plant. In fact, he seemed remarkably open and honest for someone in his job – though Rutter hadn’t yet dismissed the idea that it could all be a front.
    â€œThe nosh isn’t at all bad in here,” Quist said, “and it’s certainly cheap enough. BCI knows how to look after its workforce. Treat ’em well and you’ll get the best out of them, that’s our motto.” He waved at a young blonde waitress who had just finished taking an order at one of the other tables. “Over here as soon as you like, Mavis my sweet.”
    The girl came immediately, and from the smile on her face it was evident to Rutter that Quist was one of her favourite customers.
    â€œWhat do you fancy?” the personnel manager asked the sergeant.
    â€œWhatever you recommend,” Rutter replied.
    â€œIn that case we’ll both have the soup du jour, and lamb chops with all the trimmings, Mavis my little love,” Quist said. He turned back to Rutter. “Now we’ve got that little matter out of the way, how can I help you, Sergeant?”
    â€œI suppose my first question should be: Did you know Gerhard Schultz for long?”
    â€œI knew him for fifteen years, if you call that a long time. I was already here when he joined BCI.”
    â€œWhat was he like to work with?”
    A frown came to Quist’s face. It didn’t look very much at home there. “Gerhard was very efficient,” he said finally, “but . . .”
    â€œBut?”
    â€œBut perhaps a little abrasive,” the personnel manager said reluctantly. “Still,” he continued, brightening, “you have to remember it was just after the war when Gerhard joined the company, and men like him had been used to being in life-and-death situations where they expected their orders to be obeyed without question. My old boss, Arthur Fanshaw, was pretty much in the same mould. I just missed the war myself – that bit too young.”
    â€œFanshaw was in the RAF, wasn’t he?” Rutter asked.
    â€œHow the devil did you know that?”
    â€œThe personnel officer in Maltham said something about
    Schultz probably getting the job because he’d been a flyer. ‘They shared the comradeship of the skies’ were, I think, his exact words.”
    The soup arrived.