Stone Killer

by Sally Spencer

  By Sally Spencer

  The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

  THE SALTON KILLINGS

  MURDER AT SWANN’S LAKE

  DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

  THE DARK LADY

  THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

  DEAD ON CUE

  THE RED HERRING

  DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  A DEATH LEFT HANGING

  THE WITCH MAKER

  THE BUTCHER BEYOND

  DYING IN THE DARK

  STONE KILLER

  A LONG TIME DEAD

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  DEATH WATCH

  A DYING FALL

  FATAL QUEST

  The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

  THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

  THE RING OF DEATH

  ECHOES OF THE DEAD

  BACKLASH

  LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

  A WALK WITH THE DEAD

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  By Sally Spencer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  The Siege: Day One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Siege: Day Two

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Siege: Day Three

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  STONE KILLER

  Sally Spencer

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2005 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  First published in the USA 2006 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  110 East 59th Street New York, N. Y. 10022

  eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2005 by Sally Spencer.

  The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Spencer, Sally

  Stone killer

  1.Woodend, Charlie (Fictitious character) – Fiction

  2.Police – England – Fiction

  3.Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9’14 [F]

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6294-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-44830-111-9 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  Too long a sacrifice

  Can make a stone of the heart.

  W. B. Yeats

  Prologue

  The opportunity that Judith Maitland had been waiting for came early one morning in the prison kitchen, and it was presented to her by Mary Parkes, who was known to both inmates and staff alike as Mad Mary.

  It was Mary’s task, that morning, to stir the porridge which was slowly cooking in a large metal cauldron. She had not looked particularly delighted with her assignment from the start, and for the previous few minutes she had been muttering – quietly and desperately – to herself. Then, suddenly, she seemed to have reached her own personal breaking point and, stepping away from the cauldron, she began to wave her ladle wildly in the air and scream at the top of her voice.

  There were four female warders on duty in various parts of the kitchen complex, and they quickly converged on the spot where Mary had chosen to create her scene.

  The most senior of the warders, a hard-faced woman called Miss Donaldson, took a tentative step closer to the prisoner. ‘Put the implement down, Parkes,’ she said firmly.

  As if poor Mary Parkes had even the slightest idea what an ‘implement’ was, Judith thought.

  ‘I said, “Put it down”,’ Miss Donaldson repeated.

  ‘Goblins!’ Mad Mary told her. ‘Goblins with hobnailed boots on their hairy little feet!’

  ‘What?’ the warder asked.

  ‘Walkin’ around in me head!’ Mary elucidated. ‘Tramplin’ on me brain! Turnin’ it all to mush!’

  Miss Donaldson sighed. ‘I don’t care about what’s going on in your head,’ she said to the deranged woman with the ladle. ‘I have given you an order, and I expect you to obey it.’

  Mary seemed undecided about how to respond, Judith thought. On the one hand, she clearly wanted to do as she’d been instructed. On the other, she had an almost overwhelming urge to express herself in one of the few ways still left open to her.

  ‘Last chance,’ Miss Donaldson said heavily.

  Last chance for what? Judith wondered. If Mary refused to obey, what would they do? Lock her up in prison?

  Mad Mary dropped the ladle, but instead of going limp – as she had been known to do after similar outbursts in the past – she immediately swung round, and turned her attention to the shelf on her left. The shelf in question was loaded down with tins of baked beans, large jars of jam and sacks of flour. For Mary, it presented just too much of a temptation, and using both hands, she swept the entire contents on to the floor.

  The tins bounced, the bags burst open, the jars shattered – and the warders moved in. Two of the officers carried out a rapid flanking movement, and, once in position, pinned Mad Mary’s arms behind her back. Now the prisoner was helpless, Miss Donaldson stepped forward and slapped Mary hard – several times – across her face.

  She should never have done that, Judith thought sadly. Poor, demented Mary needed care and understanding, not cruelty.

  The two officers who had a grip on Mary Parkes bundled her out of the room and into the corridor. Mary started screaming again, but the further she and her escort moved away from the kitchen, the fainter those desperate screams became.

  Miss Donaldson ran her eyes quickly over the destruction. ‘Well, don’t just stand there like bloody dummies, clear up this mess!’ she said in a tone which suggested she thought the remaining prisoners were almost as responsible for it as Mary had been.

  Still in shock, none of the inmates moved.

 
‘Didn’t any of you hear me?’ Miss Donaldson bellowed. ‘Did you hear me, Maitland?’

  Judith nodded her head numbly.

  ‘Then answer me, you stupid bitch!’ the warder demanded.

  ‘Yes, Miss Donaldson, I heard you,’ Judith said.

  ‘So why are you still standing there as if you’ve got a broom handle stuck up your arse? You’re supposed to know something about catering! Let’s see you prove it.’

  I do know about catering, Judith thought. In those far-off days of her other life – a life which now seemed to have belonged to someone else entirely – she had catered society weddings and municipal banquets. She had been so good at it that she’d been the most requested caterer in the whole North West. But her role had never included cleaning up a mess like the one which faced her now – a mess she would have felt diffident about asking her humblest employee to clear away.

  ‘Am I talking to myself?’ the warder asked.

  ‘No, Miss Donaldson.’

  ‘Then get on with it, Maitland. And do it quickly – before I decide to report you for insolence.’

  Maitland! No one had ever called her that name before she entered this prison. It had been ‘Judith’ or ‘Ma’am’ or even ‘Mrs Maitland’, but never just plain ‘Maitland’. Yet this was only one of the indignities – and a very minor one, at that – which she’d had to endure since those heavy steel gates had clanked irrevocably closed behind her.

  Judith reached for a brush and large dustpan, and knelt down. With a professional eye, she examined the slicks of jam which floated in a sea of flour on the kitchen floor, and noted the occasional shard of glass which glinted in the overhead lights.

  ‘Be careful,’ Miss Donaldson ordered from behind her head. ‘Don’t go deliberately cutting yourself, Maitland, just so you can have a few lazy days in the infirmary.’

  Judith began to brush the powdery-sticky mixture into the dustpan. Then, changing position slightly, so that Miss Donaldson could not see what she was doing, she picked up one of the smaller shards of glass and slipped it quickly into her overall pocket.

  It seemed to be her lucky day – if lucky was the right word for it. First she had found what she had been looking so long for, and now the woman she shared her cell with had been called to the governor’s office.

  Sitting on her narrow bed, Judith examined the tiny sliver of glass which had once been a small part of the big institutional jam jar.

  Who would ever have thought that this would be the answer to my prayers? she asked herself.

  Though she tried to do so, she could not now exactly pin down the moment when vague thoughts of killing herself had transformed themselves into a firm determination to actually perform the act.

  Perhaps it had happened in court. Standing in the dock – flanked by two mute and emotionless police officers, and listening to the judge pronounce his harsh sentence – she had certainly experienced a deep feeling of despair hitherto unknown to her.

  Perhaps though, it had been when she first stepped from the prison van into the yard, and looked up at the imposing grey walls behind which she was to be detained for the greater part of her remaining years.

  It could even have been later than that, she told herself.

  She may not have decided to take her own life until she had truly understood how the weight of the prison regime – the monotony, the indignity – was slowly crushing her will.

  Or maybe it had been her husband who, all unwittingly, had finally pushed her over the edge. Maybe it was the look in his eyes the last time he had visited her. They had been lively eyes before her arrest – sparkling eyes, eyes which showed how much he enjoyed life. But as he had gazed at her through the metal grille, she had seen only a hopelessness which had torn at her soul – and perhaps it was then she had decided to release both him and herself.

  But it didn’t really matter when it occurred, did it? The only significant thing was that it had.

  She would leave no note behind, she had already decided. Suicide notes were for those who wanted to explain why they had chosen to take their own lives. The people who still had faith in her would clearly understand her reasons. And as for the rest – the police and the jurors, the journalists and the general public – who thought she was guilty as charged, well, they wouldn’t believe her whatever words she left for them to read.

  The time had come. There was no point in putting it off any longer. Judith took a deep breath, clenched her teeth, and drew the sliver of glass across a prominent vein in her wrist.

  The Siege: Day One

  One

  For as long as anyone in the town could remember, the Friday street market had been the high point of the Whitebridge shopping week. From the moment the traders finished erecting their tubular metal stalls, to the point at which the dismantled stalls were slid back into the traders’ vans, the High Street was as loud as a carnival and as busy as a port-side brothel.

  Housewives – having confiscated most of their husbands’ pay-packets the previous evening – could be seen flitting from stall to stall, the brown envelopes which contained the week’s wages nestling in the tight security of their firmly held plastic handbags. Market traders – who worked six days a week, but never as profitably as on this day – could be heard screaming out the virtues of their sometimes-dubious wares. Gnarled hill-farmers – free for one morning from scratching out a living on the cruel and unrelenting moors – ambled up and down the road, and wondered if it wasn’t perhaps time to pay a visit to the nearest pub. That was how it was, and how it had always been.

  But not on this particular Friday in December 1964 – a Friday so close to Christmas that everyone should have been doing record business. On this Friday, the stalls, though weighed down with their merchandise, stood unattended and unscrutinized, and the only people who seemed to have any use for them at all were the dozen or so police officers who had their eyes firmly fixed on the Lancaster Cotton Credit Bank and were using them for protection.

  Heavy iron police barriers had been hastily placed at both ends of the High Street half an hour earlier. Behind them – and straining against them – stood the crowd of people who were somewhat aggrieved that their normal daily business had been disrupted, yet were also bubbling with anticipation over the sudden and unexpectedly dramatic turn of events.

  The arrival at the police barrier of a Wolseley, with its best years of service already far behind it, excited little interest at first. Then the crowd noticed that it was being driven by a big man in a scruffy tweed jacket – a man whose photograph appeared in the papers far more regularly than he would have liked – and a collective sigh of expectation ran through the throng.

  Chief Inspector Woodend had arrived, people told each other. Now there would be fireworks.

  Woodend stepped out from the driver’s side of the car. His assistant, Sergeant Monika Paniatowski – blonde hair, intelligent blue eyes and an Eastern European nose which some of the onlookers considered a little too large for their own snub-nosed taste – emerged from the passenger side. The spectators attempted to surge forward, but the line of constables, their arms linked, held firm.

  A uniformed sergeant approached the two detectives. ‘Would you like me to remove the barrier, sir?’ he asked Woodend.

  The Chief Inspector looked mystified. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘So you can drive closer to the crime scene, sir. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze, what with the stalls an’ everythin’ in the middle of the road, but you should be all right if you’re careful.’

  Woodend looked first at the crowd pressing against the barrier, and then up the High Street towards the bank.

  ‘Just how far would you estimate it is to the Cotton Credit, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  ‘About a hundred yards, sir.’

  ‘So you’d go to all the trouble of removin’ the barrier just to save me walkin’ a hundred yards, would you?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir.’

  Woodend shook his head. ‘It’s a very
kind thought, lad, but me an’ Detective Sergeant Paniatowski here have both been blessed with legs, so we might as well use them.’

  The Chief Inspector stepped around the barrier, and his assistant followed him. They walked up the street, passing Williams’ High Class Furniture Emporium, Clark’s Chemist’s, and Deyton’s Family Butcher’s – all of them festooned with coloured lights to celebrate the coming holiday.

  Some of these businesses had been there since he was a boy, Woodend thought. Some even before that. But though they all still looked out on to the same street, they now looked out on to a very different world – a world in which strange and violent things were happening which they’d never have dreamed of thirty or forty years earlier.

  ‘What I don’t understand, Monika, is why we’re here at all,’ Woodend said to his sergeant. ‘It’s always been our job to catch murderers – an’ I like to think we’re rather good at it.’

  ‘We’re very good at it,’ Monika Paniatowski said.

  ‘Aye, you’re right, this is no time for false modesty,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But if we are so good at it, why are we gettin’ mixed up in an armed bank robbery? I admit – given that such things are almost as rare as a sunny day in Whitebridge – that nobody on the force has got a great deal of experience with them, but even so, I’d have thought there were half a dozen fellers better equipped to handle it than I am.’

  They were thirty yards from the bank when the uniformed superintendent came up to them.

  ‘According to the witnesses we’ve spoken to so far, there are three of them in there, Charlie,’ he said, without preamble. ‘They came out of that van.’ He pointed to a dilapidated blue vehicle which looked very like the dozen or so market-traders’ vans parked close by it. ‘They’re dressed in army fatigues and ski masks. They’re heavily armed, and they’re carrying huge rucksacks containing God-alone-knows what. The whole thing’s a complete bloody mess.’

  ‘I can see that, sir, but—’ Woodend began.

  ‘Do you know how few officers there are in Central Lancashire who are licensed to carry firearms, and trained to handle this kind of thing?’ the superintendent ploughed on. ‘I’ve been drafting men in from all over the place – Bolton, Bury, Preston—’