The Witch Maker Read Free Page B

over – perhaps because the drive had calmed him down, perhaps because he was starting to regret his mechanical cruelty to his faithful car engine.
    â€˜Come on, Sergeant, it’s time to spy out the land,’ he said.
    Paniatowski joined him on the edge of the slope, and together they looked down at the village.
    Not that there was a great deal to see. The hamlet was made up of perhaps a hundred and fifty dwellings. Most of them were clustered around the main street, though there were a few outlying farms. The village green stood out as a bright patch in the midst of all the mounds of grey stone, and the cars – almost like models at this distance – were distinctive enough to be clearly identified as police vehicles.
    â€˜Welcome to the seventeenth century,’ Woodend said dourly.
    If Paniatowski heard him, she gave no sign of it.
    â€˜Somethin’ on your mind, lass?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜This was the sort of place that Bob used to bring me to,’ Paniatowski said wistfully – and almost to herself.
    â€˜An’ it is
used
to, isn’t it?’ Woodend asked.
    There was an edge to his voice, because he remembered – even if she didn’t – that the affair between Detective Inspector Rutter and Detective Sergeant Paniatowski had almost been enough to ruin both their careers.
    â€˜Yes, it’s
used
to,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘We only see each other now when we have to.’
    Was that strictly true? Woodend wondered.
    Had the passion which had burned between them completely died down? Or did they perhaps still contrive official reasons – reasons that probably fooled even
themselves
– to spend time together?
    It was none of his business really, he told himself. They were both grown-ups and had the right to slash their own paths to hell if they wanted to. But Bob Rutter had been his protégé, the son he’d never had. And as for what he felt about Monika ... well, that didn’t really bear examining too closely at all.
    â€˜Look at that!’ Paniatowski said.
    â€˜Look at what?’
    â€˜That! Just beyond the village.’
    Woodend turned his gaze in the direction his sergeant was pointing. In a field close to the main road – a road, which, either by design, or accident, completely bypassed the centre of the village – there were signs of considerable activity. At one end of the field, a number of battered-looking caravans were parked almost in a circle – like a wagon train in the western films. At the other end, a couple of dozen men were busily involved in erecting temporary structures, most of them roughly round in shape, all of them painted in garish colours.
    Woodend groaned. A funfair. A bloody funfair. He should have expected this. Should have
remembered
it. There was
always
a funfair at the Witch Burnings. But it was the last thing he
needed
there to be.
    â€˜When do you think it arrived?’ he asked his sergeant.
    Paniatowski considered the question. ‘Judging by how far they’ve got already, I’d say they got here yesterday afternoon at the latest,’ she pronounced, ‘which, of course, was several hours before the murder.’
    â€˜Wonderful!’ Woodend said.
    Paniatowski looked down at the village again. On the surface, there was nothing abnormal about it, she thought. There were dozens of other villages which were almost identical. Yet even from a distance, it was starting to make her flesh creep.
    She lit up a cigarette. ‘It doesn’t really mean anything though, does it?’ she asked lightly, in an attempt to dispel her growing unease.
    â€˜
What
doesn’t really mean anything?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜The Witch Burning. I mean, it’s just a harmless tradition, isn’t it? Like dancing round the maypole, or hanging up a stocking for Santa?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Woodend said, walking back to the car.
    It was not