The Dark Lady by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page B

ordinary.”
    He could have asked them to think in silence, but he didn’t. Instead, he studied the way they exchanged whispers. What all four tables had in common, he decided, was that each of them had a natural leader to whom the others turned for guidance.
    On the Polish table that leader was Zbigniew Rozpedek, the man who may or may not have been translating Woodend’s remarks for his cousin. The Italian table was under the control of the heavily moustached Luigi Bernadelli. A red-faced balding man, who Tony said was called Mike Partridge, ran the English table. And in charge of the Germans was a thin, intense man whose name was Kurt Müller.
    Woodend let a full five minutes elapse before saying, “All right, that should have been plenty of time for you all to remember. Is there anyone with somethin’ he’d like to tell me?”
    â€œIt was a perfectly normal night,” said Kurt Müller. “We stayed here until closing time, and then we all went home.”
    And by “we” he doesn’t mean everybody in the room, Woodend thought. The only people he’s speaking for are the Germans.
    â€œWe didn’t notice anything either,” said Mike Partridge, and Luigi Bernadelli and Zbigniew Rozpedek nodded their heads in agreement.
    Woodend sighed. This was the response he’d been expecting, but it still came as a disappointment.
    â€œYou may remember somethin’ later,” he said, “an’ if you do, don’t be shy about comin’ forward. In the meantime, as soon as my sergeant’s taken down your names and addresses, you can go.”
    Rutter took his notepad out of his pocket, and pulled up a chair at the Polish table. Woodend lit up another Capstan Full Strength, and headed for the door. A walk around the park would clear his head, he decided – not that he’d got much in his head which needed clearing yet.
    He stepped into the corridor and saw a woman standing by one of the tall windows. From her stance, it was obvious that she was waiting for someone. And in all probability, Woodend thought, that someone was him.
    He ran his eyes quickly up and down her. She was twenty-three or twenty-four and smartly dressed in a black and white check suit which played down her natural curves. Her hair was short, blonde, and tightly permed. She was wearing glasses with heavy frames, but Woodend would have put money on the lenses being nothing but plain glass. She was, he decided, a pretty girl who was doing her best to play down her prettiness.
    The girl took a step towards him, and pulled a notepad out of her bag. “Chief Inspector Woodend?” she asked.
    â€œThat’s right, lass.”
    She frowned, as if she didn’t like being called a lass. “I’m Elizabeth Driver,” she said crisply. “I represent the
Maltham Guardian
.”
    She put such stress on the words “
Maltham Guardian
” that she might have been announcing she worked for an important paper like the
Daily Mirror
. Woodend forced himself to suppress a grin.
    â€œAn’ what can I do for you, Miss Driver?” he asked.
    The girl licked the lead of her pencil. “Well, obviously, I’d like to know how your inquiries are going.”
    â€œI’ve only just started my investigation, la . . . Miss Driver,” Woodend said. “Right now, if you’ve read your own paper, you probably know more about the murder than I do.”
    Elizabeth Driver smiled, but it was such an engineered, calculated smile that Woodend could almost hear the gears clicking it into place.
    â€œYou wouldn’t by any chance be holding out on me, would you, Chief Inspector?”
    Woodend shook his head. “It’s always been my policy to co-operate with the press whenever possible.”
    â€œThe thing is, covering this murder case is a really big opportunity for me,” Elizabeth Driver told him – and the earnest, eager expression which