Free Murder at Swann's Lake by Sally Spencer Page A

lookin’ at it from,” Roberts said. “I know a few fellers in the force who’d love to have him cleaning up some of the messes we’ve got on our hands at the moment. But if you’re a bobby like me, who wants to put a little bit aside for his retirement, then Chief Inspector Charlie-Bloody-Woodend is definitely bad news.”
    â€œSuppose somebody I knew was havin’ a little trouble—” Phil said.
    â€œWhat’s this ‘somebody’ business,” Roberts interrupted. “We both known you’re talkin’ about Sid Dowd.”
    â€œ
Somebody
,” Phil repeated firmly. “It has to be
somebody
, because at the moment we’re skatin’ on very thin ice.”
    â€œUnderstood,” Roberts said.
    â€œLet’s suppose this somebody was on the fringe of an investigation that this Woodend bloke was lookin’ into. What would you advise him to do?”
    â€œYou can warn Sid – sorry, this ‘somebody’ you’re workin’ for – that there are only two ways to handle Charlie Woodend,” Roberts said. “Either you tell him everythin’ he wants to know, or you stand clear of him – an’ I mean
well
clear.”
    Phil slipped the brown envelope into Roberts’ pocket so skilfully that even the Detective Inspector didn’t realise it was happening. “Thanks for your time, Mr Roberts,” he said. “It’s been very interestin’ talkin’ to you.”
    Woodend had not expected to see Jenny Clough again so soon, nor had he expected the two plates of beans on toast which she laid on the desk in front of him. “This is a nice surprise,” he told her.
    Jenny shrugged. “I just thought the two of you might fancy a bite to eat,” she said.
    â€œAn” you weren’t wrong,” Woodend replied. “Thank you, lass.”
    â€œIf there’s anythin’ else you want, I’ll be in the kitchen.” Jenny smoothed down her dark hair with her left hand. “I’m doin’ a bit of cleanin’, you see.”
    Woodend gave her a friendly smile. “Yes,” he said sympathetically. “I think I do.”
    â€œWell, I’ll be off then,” Jenny said, stepping into the yard and closing the door behind her.
    Woodend picked up his knife and fork and cut into the thick sliced toasted bread on which the beans tantalisingly rested. “Aren’t you goin’ to have yours before it goes cold, Bob?” he asked.
    Rutter, who was working his way through the contents of the top drawer of Robbie Peterson’s filing cabinet, shook his head. “I’d rather get this job done now I’ve started it,” he said.
    â€œPlease yourself. I’ll see your share doesn’t go to waste,” Woodend told him, then added, almost under his breath, “Keen young bugger.”
    The beans were probably the same brand as he could have bought in London, yet they seemed to taste better up north. Must be something to do with the air, Woodend decided. Either that or he was prejudiced – and he knew that couldn’t possibly be the case.
    He turned his mind to Jenny Clough. She was a nice lass. There weren’t many women who would have thought to make a snack for a man who’d as near as dammit accused her husband of killing her dad. Yes, she was a
really
nice lass. But that didn’t mean he’d forgotten that she’d lied to him when she’d said she didn’t know what the Clough brothers were doing outside the club the previous Friday.
    â€œFound anythin’ interestin’ yet?” he asked Rutter.
    â€œJust invoices and bills.”
    Woodend pushed one plate aside and attacked the second. “Well, if you come up with anythin’ unsavoury, like say, a used french letter, don’t feel under any obligation to tell me about it till I’ve finished eatin’,” he said.
    Rutter grinned.