Free Dying Fall by Sally Spencer Page A

‘If it’ll make you feel any better, you can buy all my ale at the victory celebration when we’ve solved this case.’
    â€˜I’ll buy all your bloody ale for a month,’ Woodend promised.
    â€˜Then you’d better think about taking out a second mortgage on your cottage,’ Rutter said, and though the smile was still in place, it was an effort of will to keep it there. He glanced down at his watch. ‘I’d better get back to work.’
    â€˜Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘We
both
need to get back to work.’
    As he was walking down the steps to the basement, Rutter found himself being assailed by a storm of mixed emotions. On the one hand, he felt guilty about lying to his boss, even if it was only a
partial
lie. On the other, he felt relief that the idea of searching for the dead tramp’s possessions had come to him as he was leaving the police morgue, because if it hadn’t – if he’d come back to headquarters empty-handed – he had no doubt in his mind that Woodend would have carried out his threat, and had him transferred.
    But would it have really mattered if that
had
happened? Though he’d rejected Liz’s idea of working for her when she’d first put it to him, it was now starting to sound more and more appealing. If he took the job, there would be no more guilt – no more attempting to perform the delicate balancing act between what he
wanted
to do and what he
should
do. He and Liz would travel the country together, covering murder cases. Instead of being harassed by the press, as he was now, he would almost be
part
of the press – and every night would be spent with Liz.
    It would mean making other arrangements for Louisa, of course, but she would benefit in all kinds of ways from the extra money his new job would be bringing in.
    And so what if taking the job meant abandoning his ideals and sinking down into the gutter? Hadn’t he
already
done enough good deeds to justify one life? And there was no doubt about it, the gutter was beginning to look like a very attractive place.
    Councillor Polly Johnson JP hadn’t had much time for the golf-club bar while her husband was alive, and was not exactly over-fond of it now. Nevertheless, she had developed the habit of dropping in for a drink on the way home from the magistrates’ court, because there were sometimes people there who she found mildly amusing – and because anything was better than going back to an empty house.
    Since she hated the idea of sitting alone at a table, she normally took a seat at the bar, despite the fact that the bar stools had been designed for tall men with long calves, not short women with stumpy little legs. Still, she had perfected the art of making the act of climbing on to the stool look easy, though she was convinced that some night, when she had had one drink too many, she would come tumbling off it with a lack of dignity totally unbecoming in a magistrate.
    She had only just completed her ascent of the seat when she felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to find Councillor Tel Lowry standing there. She was surprised, because though they were both councillors, and both sat on the Police Authority, their relationship could rarely be described as warm, and often reached the intensity of an Arctic chill.
    Lowry smiled winningly, and said, ‘Buy you a drink, Polly?’
    â€˜I’ve already got one coming,’ Councillor Johnson told him.
    â€˜Didn’t hear you order it,’ Lowry said.
    â€˜That’s because I didn’t,’ Polly replied. ‘Since Jack is a bar steward par excellence, there’s no need to. The moment I walk through the door he springs to my aid.’
    Lowry turned to look at the steward, and saw he was indeed pouring a Scotch whisky into a glass half-filled with ice cubes.
    â€˜Put it on my bill,’ Lowry called out, and the steward nodded.
    â€˜That’s very kind of