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Woodend.
    â€˜There was a time when I thought you were only being an awkward bastard because – as an old mate of our late, lamented chief constable – you thought you could get away with it,’ Ainsworth said. ‘But the sainted Jack Dinnage is long gone now, and you’re still as obstreperous as you ever were. So I can only assume it’s part of your nature.’
    â€˜What’s this all about, sir?’ Woodend asked levelly.
    â€˜What’s this all about?’ Ainsworth repeated. ‘It’s about you arresting journalists –
BBC
journalists – when what you were supposed to be doing was chasing murderers.’
    â€˜As far as I can recall, I’ve only actually arrested the
one
journalist,’ Woodend pointed out.
    â€˜Yes, you’re quite right – it was only one. But one who was guaranteed to make waves.’
    â€˜I beg your pardon, sir?’
    â€˜Peter Bennett’s not just some hack working for the local rag. As I’ve already pointed out, he works for
the BBC
.’
    â€˜I don’t see it makes any difference who he’s working for, sir,’ Woodend said stubbornly.
    â€˜Don’t you?’ Ainsworth countered. ‘Well, consider this, then? As you were making your ill-considered arrest, didn’t the name “Bennett” ring any bells with you? Even
faint
bells?’
    â€˜It’s a common enough name. There’s a fair amount of Bennetts livin’ around the Whitebridge area.’
    â€˜But as far as I know, there’s only one
Harold
Bennett.’
    â€˜Are you talkin’ about
Councillor
Bennett?’
    â€˜That’s right.
Councillor
Bennett. The owner of Bennett’s Foundry, the chairman of the Whitebridge Police Watch Committee – and the father of young Peter. How do you think he’s going to feel about having his son banged up like a common criminal?’
    â€˜Not too pleased,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But that’s neither here nor there, is it? Peter Bennett got in the way of my investigation – got
seriously
in the way – an’ even if we don’t actually charge him with anythin’, it’ll do him no harm to cool his heels in the cells for a few hours.’
    Ainsworth smiled unpleasantly. ‘He isn’t in the cells, Chief Inspector. I’ve let him go.’
    â€˜You’ve done
what
?’
    â€˜You heard me. I’ve let him go.’
    â€˜That’s the second time you’ve screwed up my investigation in one mornin’,’ Woodend said hotly.
    â€˜And what exactly do you mean by that?’
    â€˜First you drive that bloody big Volvo of yours over the tyre tracks in the snow at the farm⎯’
    â€˜Do you take me for a complete bloody fool, Chief Inspector?’ Ainsworth interrupted.
    Yes, I certainly bloody do, Woodend thought.
    â€˜Of course not, sir,’ he said aloud.
    â€˜If there had
been
tyre tracks in the snow, I’d have parked on the road and walked the rest of the way, but since it was quite evident that there weren’t any, I saw no harm in driving right up to the farmhouse. I’m sure that, in the interest of speed, you’ve have done the same thing.’
    He might be telling the truth, Woodend thought. Then again – and not for the first time – he might be lying through his teeth. But whichever was the case, what was done was done, and there was no point in having a shouting match about what
could have
been.
    â€˜I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest that⎯’
    â€˜You did more than simply suggest! You accused me outright of incompetence. Your insubordination has been noted, and will go down on your record in good time, but for the moment I’m more concerned with the case of this journalist. I consider your actions in regard to him to be hasty and ill judged – and the Chief Constable agrees with me