been on the game. In fact, it was quite a tasteful â almost restrained â outfit.
You couldnât tell
everything
from clothes, but Woodend was prepared to bet that when they did eventually learn the womanâs identity, she would turn out to be a secretary or a clerk in a local government office.
âDo you think sheâs been raped, sir?â Beresford asked.
âWell, he didnât drag her knickers down so he could wipe his nose on them,â Woodend snapped.
And almost immediately he felt ashamed of himself, because this constable was a good lad, eager to learn his trade, and didnât deserve to be spoken to in that manner.
âIâd guess sheâs been raped, but you can never tell,â he said. âWeâll have to wait until the medical examinerâs had a look at her.â
But raped or not, what had she been doing walking along a deserted towpath on a cold autumn evening? And if her attacker had been no more than a rapist, why had he reduced her face to a pulp after he had got what he wanted?
The last thing Whitebridge needed, the Chief Inspector thought, was a nutter on the loose.
He stood up again. âLet me have another look at her face.â
Beresford shone his torch on the mess of blood, shattered bone and ripped flesh. âIt is a terrible sight, though, sir, isnât it?â he said.
âYes, it is,â Woodend agreed.
Heâd seen worse â much worse â but that still didnât make looking at this particular poor bloody woman any easier.
No one had been reported missing, Bob Rutter told Monika Paniatowski when she radioed through to headquarters. There had been the usual number of concerned citizens calling in, of course â the woman who claimed that her neighbours were sheltering Adolf Hitler, the man who swore blind that he had seen a flying saucer land behind the gas works â but none who claimed to have heard a scream coming from the direction of the canal, or who had seen a wild-looking feller carrying a blood-stained instrument.
It had, in other words, been a complete waste of time even going through the motions.
But then most police-work was a complete waste of time, Paniatowski thought â and any bobby not prepared to sift through one hell of a lot of chaff in the hope of finding one grain of wheat would be well advised to seek some other line of work.
From her vantage point on the bridge, she could just make out the shapes of the three men standing by the body. Even if the other two had not been wearing their pointed helmets, it would have been easy to pick out Woodend, because â as other officers, who were no midgets themselves, would tell you â the man was built like a brick shit-house.
Paniatowski watched Woodend lean down over the corpse. She should go and join him, she thought, but first she would have a cigarette.
As the smoke curled its way around her lungs, she found her mind returning to Bob Rutterâs problems.
She should be happy about what was happening in Bobâs marriage, she told herself. So why wasnât she?
Partly, she supposed, it was due to guilt. She liked Maria. She admired Maria. And what had she done? She had deliberately embarked on an affair with the womanâs husband.
Which made her what?
A scarlet woman!
A home-breaker.
A callous bitch who was bringing further pain to a woman who had had more than her fair share of suffering.
Yet she was honest enough with herself to admit she could have ridden that out if sheâd had to. Of course, the guilt â the deep shame â would go with her to her grave, but if sheâd had Bob for herself, she would probably have been able to live with it.
But she wouldnât get Bob, would she? Not if Maria succeeded in taking his only child off him!
Oh, she could imagine what heâd say â âIt really isnât your fault Iâve lost the baby, Monika. I donât blame you at all.â
But
Stephen King, Stewart O'Nan