Stone Killer

by Sally Spencer

  ‘And so she’d be less likely to suddenly lose control of herself?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  You’ve no idea what it’s like to be the other woman, have you, sir? Monika Paniatowski thought. Even if that other woman goes into it with both eyes open, there are still times when she feels so much rage at the situation that she wants to kill her lover, his wife – or herself.

  She took another cigarette out of the packet, and lit it from the stub of one of those burning a new scar into her desk.

  ‘How did we ever get to this point?’ she asked.

  ‘What point?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘The point at which we’re asking ourselves whether or not she had sufficient motive to kill her lover.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘We don’t even know yet if she even had a lover. Maybe the Dunethorpe bobbies were completely wrong about that, and Judith Maitland was actually telling the truth.’

  She was right, Woodend thought. Without noticing it, he had fallen into the same trap as the Chief Constable had – the trap of assuming that everything the Dunethorpe Police said was unquestionably accurate, and that if Judith Maitland had been convicted, then she was probably guilty.

  Himself and Marlowe of one mind! Now there was a terrifying thought if ever there was one!

  ‘We need to go right back to the start of the case,’ he said. ‘We have to look at this murder as if it had just happened – as if the blood on the floor of Burroughs’ office hadn’t even dried yet. In other words, we need to approach it with open minds an’ a completely clean sheet.’

  ‘And we need to investigate the people concerned – not judge them,’ Monika Paniatowski said.

  ‘Aye, that an’ all,’ Woodend agreed, starting to feel slightly uncomfortable again.

  Five

  Like so many of the other businesses which had sprung up in Whitebridge since the end of the war, Élite Catering was situated on the industrial estate three miles from the old town centre. It was not a very prepossessing building from the outside. Indeed, there was very little – apart from the sign on the wall bearing its name – to distinguish it from the depressingly barrack-like industrial units which flanked it, one of which produced pet baskets and the other proudly proclaimed itself to be ‘surgical tape suppliers to the world’.

  Inside, the building showed a warmer, more personal self. The walls of the reception area were painted in relaxing pastel shades, and one of them was dominated by a large painting – in what Woodend considered garish colours – of two naked men, one standing behind a shower curtain and the other beside it.

  ‘That’s a David Hockney,’ said Paniatowski – who knew something about modern art.

  ‘Is it, indeed?’ asked Woodend – who didn’t.

  ‘But it’s only a copy, of course.’

  ‘An’ how can you be sure about that?’

  Paniatowski snorted at her boss’s obvious ignorance. ‘Because the original’s probably worth more than this entire building,’ she said.

  ‘I believe you,’ Woodend said. ‘It’s a funny old world we live in, when you think about it.’

  He walked over to the reception desk. The smart young woman sitting behind it seemed surprised when he produced his warrant card, and even more astonished when he asked to speak to the owner.

  ‘This isn’t about what’s happening down at the Cotton Credit Bank, is it?’ she asked, in the kind of discreet whisper that some people resort to when they think they’re about to learn something confidential.

  Jesus Christ! Woodend thought.

  He knew from experience that the Chief Constable’s lips were usually about as tightly sealed as a tap with no washer, but surely even Marlowe couldn’t have started shooting off his mouth about the case already.

  ‘The Cotton Credit Bank?’ Woodend repeated. ‘An’ why ever should you even think your boss might be involved in that?’

  The girl looked suddenly flustered.

  ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t think of a more unlikely bank robber than Mr Keene. But since the bank robbery’s all that anybody’s talking about at the moment, I naturally thought …’

  ‘This has nothing to do with the Cotton Credit Bank,’ Woodend lied. ‘But we would still like to see your boss.’

  ‘Of course,’ the girl said, reaching for the intercom button.

  Keene was a slight, dapper man, of around forty. His blond hair was wispy at best, he had almost no chin to speak of – and he looked very unhappy indeed about being unexpectedly visited by the police.

  ‘Have there been complaints?’ he asked, the moment Woodend and Paniatowski walked into his office.

  ‘Complaints?’ Woodend echoed.

  ‘The Corporation Park is a public space,’ Keene said, with a voice which sounded surprisingly firm. ‘I’ve as much right to walk around it as anyone else – at any time of day or night. And as for deliberately hanging about outside the men’s toilets, well, that’s simply not true!’

  ‘We’re not here to ask you questions about your personal life, sir,’ Woodend told him.

  For a moment, the relief was evident on Keene’s face. Then his expression became troubled again.

  ‘If it’s not about me, then it has to be about Judith,’ he said heavily.

  ‘That’s right, it is,’ Woodend agreed.

  Keene waved to them to sit down on the visitors’ chairs, and then sank back into his own as if he wished it would swallow him up.

  ‘I’ve experienced some terrible things in my life,’ he said, sounding as if he really meant it, ‘but what happened to Judith was about the worst. It was so … so … unjust.’

  ‘I take it that means you don’t think she did kill this Burroughs feller,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Of course that’s what it means. Judith wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ Keene giggled, unexpectedly. ‘Well, maybe a fly,’ he conceded. ‘She was fanatical about cleanliness in the kitchen. But kill another person? Never!’ He paused for a moment. ‘Why are you asking all these questions? Are you going to re-open the case?’

  ‘We’re thinkin’ about it,’ Woodend said guardedly.

  ‘Then there really is a God after all,’ Keene said. ‘I was beginning to have my doubts.’

  ‘How long were you and Judith Maitland partners?’ Monika Paniatowski asked.

  ‘We still are partners,’ Keene said fiercely.

  ‘But I would have thought that—’

  ‘Judith might be in gaol, but this is still just as much her business as it is mine. I’m putting half the profits aside, and when she comes out of prison – however long that may be, and hopefully it won’t be much longer now – the money will be waiting for her.’

  ‘And there’ll be plenty of it, will there?’ Woodend asked, as if he were genuinely interested.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘There’ll be plenty of money to hand over to her? The business is going well, is it?’

  ‘Even without Judith, we’re still the pre-eminent catering company in Central Lancashire, if that’s what you mean,’ Keene said, a little waspishly. ‘But that’s mainly due to the hard work she put into building up the company in the first place.’

  ‘Surely you played some part in that yourself?’ Woodend said.

  ‘Me?’ Keene asked, as if that were a novel idea he’d never even considered before. ‘I was a senior clerk at Ruddlestone’s Bakery when Judith offered me a partnership, and that’s what I’d still be today if I hadn’t had the good sense to take up her offer.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re just bein’ modest, sir,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Keene said emphatically. ‘Oh, I can keep a neat set of books, and I never make the mistake of ordering chocolate macaroons when what we really need is lady’s fingers, but I can think of half a dozen people who could do my job as well as I can. It’s Judith who was the key to our success. The girl’s a positive catering genius. She has taste. She has flair and elegance. It breaks my heart
to see her in that drab prison uniform.’

  ‘So you go and visit her in gaol, do you?’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Naturally I do.’

  ‘Often?’

  ‘Once a month. Without fail.’ Keene sighed. ‘Not that it’s easy.’

  ‘Do you find the travelling a strain?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Far from it, in fact. I quite enjoy the drive. It’s once I get there that the problems start. You see, when we were working together, we always had oodles to talk about, but the longer she’s in that dreadful place, the more strained our conversation becomes. I don’t want to tell her about the business, because that will only remind her of what she’s missing. And she certainly doesn’t want to talk about her life.’

  ‘So what do you talk about?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Anything I can think of at the time,’ Keene confessed. ‘Sometimes I tell her about my mother – they used to get on well together. Sometimes I’ll tell her about a new friend I’ve met. I’m not sure she’s even listening some of the time, but I prattle on anyway. I tell myself my presence makes her time in there a little more bearable, but I’ve no idea if it really does.’

  ‘Tell me about the man who she’s supposed to have killed,’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘There’s not much I can tell you about him. They say he was her lover, but I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Did she mention him to you?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘An’ what did she have to say about him?’

  ‘Not a great deal. Certainly no more than she’d said about any of our other clients.’

  ‘So he was a client?’

  ‘That’s right. He was impressed with the spread that she did for the Dunethorpe Chamber of Commerce, so after that he hired us whenever he needed a caterer.’

  ‘An’ how often would that have been?’

  ‘I’d have to look it up in the ledger to give you a definite answer.’

  ‘A rough estimate will do.’

  ‘I’d guess it was five or six times.’

  ‘In little more than a year?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘I know Mr Burroughs was in business, but it’s hard to imagine even a businessman needing the services of a caterer once every couple of months,’ Monika Paniatowski said.

  Keene laughed. ‘I can tell you don’t know a great deal about the social climbers of Central Lancashire, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘You’d be surprised how many of them think they can bribe their way up the ladder of acceptability with a few canapés and salmon vol-au-vents.’

  The phone rang, and Keene picked it up. He listened for a moment, then said, ‘Yes, I have heard about it … There’s no need to worry … Yes, we do use that bank, but even I wouldn’t be stupid enough to go near it until this horrible business is all over … Yes, I do promise, and I will be home at the usual time … And of course I love you.’

  Keene replaced the phone on its cradle, and looked across at Woodend. ‘It’s almost a cliché, isn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That a man like me should still be living with his mother. But she is an old dear, and she does need me.’

  ‘I’m sure she does,’ Woodend said. ‘But to get back to the point, did Judith Maitland ever discuss her private life with you, Mr Keene?’

  ‘Yes, she did,’ the caterer replied. He gave a smile which was almost a smirk. ‘I was like a big sister to her.’

  ‘So she’ll have told you about her lovers?’

  ‘Naughty!’ Keene said, wagging his finger in rebuke.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Judith hasn’t had any lovers – at least, not for as long as I’ve known her. Before she was married, there was never any time, because all her energy went into building up the business.’

  ‘An’ after she was married?’

  ‘She’d never have thought of betraying her Tom. She absolutely adored the man.’

  ‘People make mistakes, however much they love their spouses,’ Woodend said, avoiding looking at Monika Paniatowski. ‘The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is weak.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me – of all people – about that,’ Keene said, almost flirtatiously. ‘But I’m sure that if Judith had been having an affair, she wouldn’t have been able to keep it from me,’ he continued, growing serious again.

  ‘Why didn’t she live with her husband?’ Monika Paniatowski asked.

  ‘He’s in the Army.’

  ‘I understand that. But he’s an officer, isn’t he? Surely she could have moved into some quite pleasant married quarters if she’d been of a mind to?’

  ‘She did think about doing that, the last time Tom was posted back to Britain,’ Keene admitted. ‘She considered it quite seriously, as a matter of fact. She even talked about selling her half of the business. Then she suddenly changed her mind.’

  ‘An’ why do you think that was?’

  ‘She said she’d never really be happy living anywhere but Lancashire, and that Tom understood that. So they came up with a new plan between them. She’d stay where she was, and when Tom had served out his time in the Army, he’d come and join her.’

  ‘When did she have this sudden an’ unexpected change of heart of hers?’ Woodend asked.

  Keene thought about it. ‘I think it must have been about a year ago,’ he said finally.

  ‘Just around the time she met Burroughs?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it was,’ Keene said. Then the import of Woodend’s words struck home. ‘Have you talked to Judith yourself?’ he asked, sounding disappointed and possibly betrayed.

  ‘Not yet,’ Woodend confessed.

  ‘You should,’ Keene told him earnestly. ‘And if, after having talked to her, you can still believe she’s guilty of this terrible crime, then you’re simply not the judge of character I took you to be.’

  Six

  Dunethorpe, where the Burroughs murder had taken place, lay just the other side of the Lancashire–Yorkshire border, in a lush rolling dale. The town itself was pleasant enough, too, with an old, stone-built centre ringed by new brick-built housing estates, but Woodend began to scowl immediately he had driven past the town’s welcome sign.

  ‘Something the matter, sir?’ Monika Paniatowski asked.

  ‘It’s all a bit too pretty-pretty for my likin’,’ Woodend grumbled. ‘Where are all the dark satanic cotton mills an’ decayin’ canals?’

  ‘True,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘Yorkshire really does seem to have missed out when it comes to blots on the landscape, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Besides,’ Woodend continued, ‘you should know by now that I never feel happy on enemy territory.’

  Paniatowski grinned to herself. She was all too well aware of her boss’s half-mock, half-serious antipathy to Yorkshire.

  It wasn’t the Wars of the Roses – when the House of Lancaster had battled with the House of York for the English crown – that made him suspicious of tykes, he had once explained to her. It wasn’t even that Yorkshire would selfishly insist on winning the County Cricket Championship every year – which meant her neighbours never even got a look-in. It was the Yorkshiremen themselves. They were dour, they were tight with their money – and if they did have a sense of humour, then it was certainly not one which would be recognized as such anywhere else in the civilized world.

  Paniatowski took it all with a pinch of salt, having heard Yorkshiremen make pretty much the same complaints about Lancastrians.

  Anyway, she told herself, if there was one thing that you had to say about Charlie Woodend, it was that he always took people as he found them, and that their accident of birth, position in society or previous history was of no interest to him. He was, in other words, the most tolerant and open of men – whether he was willing to admit it or not.

  Except in the case of adulterers, she thought, as they pulled up on the forecourt of Dunethorpe Central Police Station. She wasn’t sure that he was so tolerant of adulterers any more.
/>   The policeman who’d been in charge of the Clive Burroughs murder case was Chief Inspector Baxter. He was a big, pipe-smoking man with wild grey hair, and his office looked just as chaotic as Woodend’s own.

  ‘Cards on the table?’ he asked, the moment that his two visitors had sat down.

  Woodend nodded. ‘Cards on the table.’

  ‘There’s a lot of bobbies who’d really resent some bugger coming in from the outside with the sole purpose of worrying over the bones of one of their old investigations,’ Baxter said.

  ‘True,’ Woodend agreed, guardedly.

  ‘But I’m not one of them,’ Baxter continued. ‘If I’ve made a mistake, I want it uncovered.’ He paused to light his pipe, and the room was suddenly filled with wispy blue smoke. ‘Of course, if you do happen to prove me wrong in this particular case,’ he added, ‘then it certainly won’t do my prospects of promotion any bloody good.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ Woodend confirmed.

  ‘But I’m not sure I’m interested in promotion any more,’ Baxter said. ‘After twenty long hard years of studying superintendents as a breed, I think, on the whole, that I’d rather not become one of them.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Woodend replied, with feeling.

  ‘Having said that – and bearing in mind how important it is for the situation in Whitebridge that you do prove me wrong – I have to admit that I’m not over-optimistic about your chances of success.’

  ‘That’s Yorkshire for, “You’ve no chance at all,”’ Woodend explained to Paniatowski.

  Baxter smiled. ‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that,’ he said. ‘But I do have to tell you that this was not one of those cases I ever lost sleep over. Judith Maitland may not have deserved twenty years for something she did in the heat of the moment, but there’s no doubt in my mind that she actually did do it.’

  ‘Can you fill us in on the details?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Be glad to,’ Baxter replied.

  It was just after midnight when the young constable on the night-shift patrol noticed that the gate to the builders’ merchant’s yard was slightly open. Looking beyond it, he saw the office door was also a little ajar, and his first thought was that he’d come across a burglary in progress. He resisted the impulse to call for back-up – why share the credit when you don’t have to? – and instead he unsheathed his truncheon and strode, with all the confidence of youth and inexperience, towards the office door.