Free Dying in the Dark by Sally Spencer Page A

explosion. The shattering glass. The flames. The smoke.
    â€˜Maria?’ he said.
    The constable coughed awkwardly. ‘One body has been recovered from the kitchen of the house, sir. It was fairly badly burned, but the general feeling is that it has to be Mrs Rutter.’
    â€˜And the baby? What’s happened to the baby, man?’
    â€˜Mrs Rutter’s child was not in the house at the time of the explosion, sir. She’s quite safe.’
    â€˜And … and Bob?’
    â€˜Are you talking about
Inspector
Rutter, sir?’
    â€˜Well of course I’m talking about
Inspector
Rutter, you bloody fool! Who else could I be talkin’ about?’
    â€˜Mr Rutter’s in a state of shock. I believe that he’s been quite heavily sedated.’
    Woodend swung his legs over towards the edge of the bed, and was surprised to discover that he seemed to have acquired a number of fairly painful aches.
    â€˜I’ll go an’ see Bob anyway,’ he told the constable. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll be wantin’ to talk to me.’
    The other man placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘It wouldn’t do any good, sir.’
    â€˜I’m your boss, you jumped-up little turd,’ Woodend said angrily. ‘So don’t go tryin’ to tell me what would an’ what wouldn’t do any good.’
    The constable’s hand continued to press down on him. ‘Mr Rutter’s probably still unconscious, sir. And even if he isn’t, he wouldn’t even recognize you, given the state he’s in.’
    â€˜If he doesn’t recognize me, then he doesn’t recognize me,’ Woodend said, wondering why he was finding it so difficult to shake off the constable’s hand. ‘But whether or not, I’m going to see him anyway.’
    â€˜Oh no, you’re not,’ said a new voice from the doorway.
    â€˜Oh no, you’re not. Oh yes, I am,’ Woodend said. ‘What is this? A rehearsal for the bloody Christmas pantomime?’
    â€˜Quite apart from the injuries you sustained in your fall, you inhaled a lot of smoke,’ the doctor said.
    â€˜After puffin’ on Capstan Full Strength for nearly thirty years, it was a doddle,’ Woodend countered.
    But even to his own ears, his words lacked conviction.
    â€˜You could have died,’ the doctor said.
    â€˜But I didn’t.’
    â€˜No, and, as it happens, apart from some heavy bruising I don’t think any serious damage has been done. But I’m still keeping you in for observation overnight.’
    â€˜In a pig’s arse you are!’ Woodend said angrily. ‘You doctors might think you can act like God Almighty, but I’m a bobby, an’ I know the law.’
    â€˜You should try to rest now,’ the doctor said soothingly.
    â€˜An’ the law says you can’t keep me here against my will,’ Woodend continued. He turned his head slightly to look at the constable again, and unleashed on himself a fresh wave of pain. ‘You heard all that, did you?’ he asked.
    The constable nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Then fetch me my clothes, and we’ll be leavin’.’
    â€˜But, sir—’
    â€˜Don’t “but sir” me. Get me my bloody clothes.’
    Perhaps the constable argued some more. Woodend wouldn’t have known if he had, because when he woke up again it was already morning.

Nine
    I t was ten o’clock by the time Woodend fully realized where he was, half past ten before he had mustered sufficient energy to demand to be released. The paperwork took another twenty minutes, and – since the formidable matron refused to give him his clothes until the process was completed – it was not until a little before eleven that he was able to leave the hospital.
    The uniformed constable waiting at the door of his room had a familiar look about him.
    â€˜Beresford, isn’t it?’ Woodend