The Witch Maker by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page A

Thwaites.
    â€˜I’m in uniform, sir,’ the constable pointed out.
    The Chief Inspector ran his eyes quickly up and down the other man’s blue serge uniform, and grinned.
    â€˜So you are,’ he said, as if he’d only just noticed the fact. ‘Still, thirst can do strange things to a man. In my case, it’s makin’ me think I see you wearin’ a brown suit.’
    â€˜I don’t understand, sir.’
    â€˜Don’t be thick, Constable. I’m sayin’ it won’t bother anybody – least of all me – if you come an’ have a pint.’
    â€˜I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, sir,’ Thwaites said, shaking his head. ‘I’d be much happier gettin’ myself off home.’
    â€˜An’ I’d much rather you had a drink, so I can pick your brains,’ Woodend told him. ‘So you’d better follow me.’
    Then he pushed open the pub door and stepped inside.
    Some changes had obviously been made to the Black Bull since it had evolved from being a simple village ale shop – but not a great many. Its exposed beams were low enough for the unwary to bang their heads on. Its flag floor was uncarpeted, and the bottle-glass windows gave only a hazy, distorted view of the world outside. It was, in other words, the sort of pub that Woodend couldn’t normally praise too highly. So why, he wondered, did this particular boozer make him feel so ill at ease?
    He walked over to the bar. ‘You take a seat while I get them in,’ he told the sergeant and the constable. ‘Bitter, is it, Thwaites?’
    â€˜I don’t want anythin’, sir,’ the constable said firmly.
    â€˜Please yourself,’ Woodend told him.
    He turned his attention to the landlord, a stocky middle-aged man with a publican’s typically red face. He smiled, and was rewarded with an unwelcoming glare in return.
    â€˜Pint of best bitter an’ a double vodka, please,’ he said.
    â€˜The bitter, I can manage,’ the landlord said, with some show of reluctance. ‘But there’s no call for that other stuff round here.’
    â€˜No, I don’t suppose there is,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Make it a gin and tonic instead, then.’
    The landlord reached for a pint glass, slipped it under the tap, and pulled back the pump as if it were the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.
    â€˜Wilf Dimdyke says he was in here last night,’ Woodend said conversationally.
    â€˜An’ so he was,’ the landlord agreed.
    â€˜Thing is, he says he didn’t get here until half past eleven.’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜Which is an hour after you should have been closed.’
    The landlord shrugged, as if it really didn’t matter. ‘So summons me,’ he suggested.
    Woodend paid for the drinks and took them over to the table where Paniatowski and Thwaites were sitting.
    The Chief Inspector handed his sergeant her drink, then turned to the constable and said, ‘Yon Tom Dimdyke seems to think the killer came from outside the village. What’s your opinion on the matter, Constable?’
    â€˜He’s right,’ Thwaites said firmly.
    â€˜So Harry Dimdyke was killed by one of the folk from the fairground, was he?’
    â€˜He’d have to have been.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Why what?’
    â€˜Why would any of the fairground people have wanted to kill him?’ Woodend said, speaking slowly and carefully, as if he were explaining matters to a particularly slow child. ‘We can rule out robbery, both on the grounds that there was absolutely nothin’ worth stealin’ in the barn—’
    â€˜We don’t know that for sure,’ Thwaites interrupted. ‘Harry could have had somethin’ valuable on him.’
    â€˜... an’ because I’ve never heard of a case of robbery yet in which the robber took his victim somewhere well away from the