The Dark Lady Read Online Free

Woodend interrupted. “Next time you drive me, that’s the way we’ll go.”
    They turned off the main road, and travelled down a country lane which was lined with mature horse-chestnut trees, looking their best in their summer green. Ahead of them was the entrance to the park – two gateposts made of dressed white stone from which elaborate iron gates must once have hung.
    As they passed between the posts, Woodend got his first sight of Westbury Hall. It was an impressive building, with tall chimneys, gable windows in the roof, and a dome over the central balcony. Probably late eighteenth century, the chief inspector thought. It must have taken an army of servants to run it when it was inhabited by the landed gentry, and even with all the modern electrical appliances, it must still present a formidable task.
    â€œSo this is the social club, is it?” Woodend asked Chatterton.
    â€œThat’s right, sir.”
    â€œAn’ who exactly is it a social club for?”
    â€œIt’s for the people who live on the camp . . . I mean, the people who live in the park.”
    Woodend could see what had caused Chatterton’s slip. All the houses which made up Westbury Park were single-storied, long and thin, bringing back memories of countless army camps he’d been through in the war.
    The car pulled up in front of the club, and Woodend got out and stretched his legs. He looked up at the almost cloudless sky, and at the swallows that were swirling on the air currents. He took in a deep breath of air, and suspected he would have relished it more if he didn’t smoke so much – but even as the thought passed through his mind, he was reaching into the pocket of his hairy sports jacket for his packet of Capstan Full Strength.
    Chatterton had got out of the car, and was standing next to him. “Shall we go and see where they found the body, sir?” he suggested,
    â€œAye, an’ while we’re gettin’ there, you can tell me a little about the history of the place.”
    â€œThe hall? Or the park?”
    â€œBoth of ’em.”
    â€œThe hall belonged to the Sutton family from the late eighteenth century until the 1930s,” Chatterton said, leading him between two rows of the brick dwellings. “Then BCI bought it.”
    â€œSeems to me like British Chemical Industries own pretty much everythin’ around here,” Woodend said.
    â€œThey’re probably one of the biggest landowners in the area,” Chatterton admitted. “And they’re definitely the town’s biggest employer – there’s not a family in Maltham which doesn’t have at least one member working for BCI, and it’s usually more. That’s why the chief constable, Mr Blake, is particularly keen to get a result on this case.”
    Woodend sniffed. “Chief constables are always keen to get a result,” he said. “An’ they always want it yesterday.”
    He looked around him. The asphalted street was as quiet as one in an American frontier town which is waiting for Gary Cooper to stride down it, on his way to meet the men with black hats and a three-day growth of stubble. But just as in the films, the appearance was deceptive; as the three policemen made their way towards the wood, the chief inspector noticed that the curtains on several windows twitched.
    It came as no surprise to Woodend that he was being watched. In fact, the surprise would have come only if he hadn’t been. People needed the police to clean up their mess for them, but they wanted nothing to do with the inquiry themselves. That was why he liked working from pubs. Folk enjoyed going into their locals, and if the price of getting a couple of pints down them was a few minutes’ conversation with a detective from London, then it was a price they were usually prepared to pay.
    â€œWhen was the camp built?” Woodend asked Chatterton.
    â€œEarly in 1942. The Americans