Free Murder at Swann's Lake by Sally Spencer

university.
    â€œI’ve got a splitting headache,” Maria said. “What happened?”
    â€œYou were knocked unconscious,” Javier said. “I dragged you away from all the trouble. I know you’re not supposed to do that when a person’s been injured, but you’d have been trampled if I’d left you where you were.”
    Away from all
what
trouble? Maria asked herself. And then it all came back to her – the demonstration, the bricks and bottles, the policeman with his truncheon – and she felt such a fool for not remembering it earlier.
    â€œIs it . . . ? Is there . . . ?” she asked, wishing she could think clearly enough to frame her questions properly.
    â€œIt’s calmed down again,” Javier said, anticipating what she’d wanted to know. “The police have let us pull back to other end of the square. Nobody’s been seriously hurt unless . . . unless you—”
    â€œI’m fine,” Maria told him. “If you could just help me get up.”
    Two willing pairs of hands lifted her to her feet. It felt funny at first, almost if she were standing on top of a large rubber ball, but she soon got used to it.
    â€œI think we should call you an ambulance,” Javier said.
    â€œI’m all right now,” Maria insisted.
    â€œYou don’t look all right.”
    â€œIt’s just this headache.”
    â€œI could ring your parents,” Javier suggested.
    Maria shook her head. It hurt. “They’re away,” she said. “In South America. Raising money for Spanish refugees. Just get me a taxi. I’ll go straight home, have a warm bath and tomorrow it’ll be like this never happened.”
    â€œIf you’re sure,” Javier said, dubiously.
    â€œI’m sure,” Maria replied
    The man standing at the bar of The Green Dragon, a pub just off Lime Street, was around forty-five years old and carried a warrant card in his pocket which proved he was a detective inspector in the Liverpool police force. The man who sidled up to him and ordered a tonic water was considerably younger, and obtained his power not from any document but simply by virtue of who he worked for.
    â€œEvenin’ Mr Roberts,” said the younger man.
    â€œEvenin’ Phil,” the policeman replied. “I heard through the grapevine that you’re lookin’ for a favour.”
    Phil smiled. “Not exactly a favour. More in the line of a bit of information.”
    â€œInformation can be expensive, too,” DI Roberts pointed out, taking a sip of whisky. “Especially given the shockin’ price of good Scotch these days.”
    â€œWe’ll see you all right,” Phil told him. “We always have before, haven’t we?”
    â€œTrue,” Roberts agreed. “So what do you need to know?”
    â€œTell me about Chief Inspector Woodend.”
    The Inspector almost choked. “Charlie Woodend?” he gasped “‘Cloggin’ it Charlie’? From the Yard?”
    â€œThat’s the man,” Phil agreed.
    Roberts whistled softly. “Don’t mess with him.”
    â€œYou know him, do you? Done a bit of work with him?”
    â€œLet’s just say I’ve come into contact with him – a murder case in Grange-over-Sands a couple of years ago.”
    â€œAnd . . . ?”
    â€œHe’s got the dedication of a missionary, the obstinacy of a mule and the balls of a bull. He can’t be bought, an’ he can’t be threatened. An’ if he was workin’ in Liverpool, I’d be a very different bobby to what I am today.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?” Phil asked.
    Roberts took another sip of his whisky. “Well, for a start, if he was here, I’d have more sense than to be seen talkin’ to you right now,” he said.
    â€œThat bad?” Phil said.
    â€œOr that good, dependin’ on which side of the fence you’re