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clothes were cheap, but again, lots of perfectly innocent people buy cheap clothes. I can’t even say he’s got a criminal face – because most of his face was blown away. And yet . . .’
    â€˜An’ yet?’
    â€˜There’s something about him which makes me think he’s no stranger to the inside of a prison.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t dismiss that as a possibility, either.’
    â€˜And then there’s the actual murders themselves. Again, I’ve no grounds for saying this, but I got the impression that they were a professional job.’
    â€˜So Dugdale’s not the man we’re really looking for?’
    â€˜No. I don’t think he is.’
    â€˜You’re telling me this was a contract killin’?’
    â€˜Not even that,’ Paniatowski admitted, frowning. ‘If it had been planned in advance, it probably wouldn’t have been so messy, and we wouldn’t have found the bodies so easily. But I still get the sense that whoever fired the shotgun had killed before.’
    I know what you mean, Monika, Woodend thought. I know
exactly
what you mean.
    A young uniformed constable appeared in the doorway and walked straight over to the Chief Inspector and his sergeant.
    â€˜The DCC says he wants to see you immediately, sir,’ the constable announced.
    Immediately?
    That was a bit strong, even coming from Dick the Prick. Being a deputy chief constable might have convinced Ainsworth, as it had convinced others before him, that he had the right to have his senior staff jump through the hoops occasionally – but it certainly wasn’t the form to let the lower ranks see them doing it.
    â€˜You sure that’s what Mr Ainsworth said?’ Woodend asked. ‘He wants to see me
immediately
.’
    The constable blushed. ‘He . . . he . . .’
    â€˜Spit it out, lad.’
    â€˜Yes, sir, that’s what he said. He was quite clear about it.’
    Woodend and Paniatowski exchanged questioning glances.
    â€˜Can you manage on your own for a while down here, Monika?’ Woodend asked.
    The sergeant nodded. ‘We’re making so little progress at the moment that I could manage this operation
and
knit myself a woolly jumper at the same time.’
    â€˜If you knew how to knit, that is,’ Woodend said, forcing a smile to his face.
    â€˜If I knew how to knit,’ Paniatowski agreed, matching his smile with a forced one of her own.
    â€˜Right,’ Woodend said. ‘I suppose I’d better go and see what Mr Ainsworth wants. I shouldn’t be long.’
    But as he left the basement, he wondered if his last statement had been quite accurate.
    DCC Ainsworth sat at his desk, the phone jammed hard against his right ear.
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. ‘Yes, that’s exactly the situation. No, he didn’t . . . I agree with you on that . . .’
    Woodend – who had not been invited to sit down and hence was standing like an errant cadet before his boss’s desk – raised his eyes to the wall above Ainsworth’s head, and found himself examining a gallery of exhibits which portrayed the DCC’s public life. There were framed certificates from courses he’d attended, and commendations he’d been awarded. There were photographs of him with the police rugby team he’d once played in, and of tables in restaurants where he sat eating with the top brass. There were even a couple of letters from members of the general public – ‘the little people’ he claimed not to have lost touch with – praising the way he had conducted an investigation.
    All show, Woodend thought – all bloody show.
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ Ainsworth continued. ‘Yes, that’s what I think. Thank you for giving me your backing – I’ll see to it right away.’
    He slammed the receiver violently back on its cradle and glared up at