Stone Killer

by Sally Spencer

  The place was in darkness, but by groping along the wall with his hand, he located the light switch. He flicked it on – and soon wished he hadn’t.

  Clive Burroughs was lying on the floor, in what looked at first to be a large puddle of red paint. It took the constable’s brain no more than a second or two to work out that the paint was, in fact, blood, and it took his body only slightly longer than that to react to the news by heaving up the contents of his stomach on to the office floor.

  ‘The moment I saw the corpse, I was almost certain it was a crime of passion,’ Chief Inspector Baxter said.

  ‘An’ why was that?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘It was so messy. Burroughs would have been down – and probably dead – after the first blow, but his assailant kept on striking the top of his skull until there was nothing left but mush and bone splinters. Whoever had hit him didn’t just want him out of action – there was real hatred behind the attack.’

  ‘It’s a tough thing, the human skull,’ Woodend mused. ‘Could a woman really have had the strength to reduce Burroughs’ skull to a pulp?’

  ‘There are cases on record of women who lifted up the front end of cars to rescue their trapped children,’ Baxter said. ‘Most women are capable of great feats of strength when they’re very worked up.’

  That was true enough, Woodend thought.

  ‘What happened next?’ he asked.

  ‘That was when the witness turned up,’ DCI Baxter said.

  The witness was the night-watchman from the garden centre opposite Burroughs’ Builders’ Merchant. He had not only seen Burroughs himself drive up, but also the arrival of a white Vauxhall van with the words ‘Élite Caterers’ painted on the side of it.

  The van had been parked in front of Burroughs’ for fifteen minutes, the watchman claimed, then a woman had rushed out of the building, climbed into it, and driven away at some speed. The next vehicle to appear on the scene had been the police patrol car, about half an hour later.

  Baxter did a quick mental calculation. Half an hour between the woman’s departure and the body being discovered, plus another forty minutes between that moment and this discussion with the night-watchman. If the woman had been in as much of a hurry as the watchman said she was, she could be as much as fifty miles away by now.

  ‘It’s probably a pointless bloody exercise, but alert all patrols to be on the lookout for this white van anyway,’ he told his bagman.

  ‘But it wasn’t a pointless exercise at all, was it?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No,’ Baxter agreed. ‘It certainly wasn’t.

  It was a police car on a routine patrol of the main Dunethorpe–Huddersfield road which spotted the van. It was parked in a lay-by, and all the lights were off. The patrolmen pulled in behind it, and approached the van with caution.

  Their caution proved unnecessary. The van contained only one person – a woman – and she was slumped over the wheel.

  One of the officers tried the driver’s door, and discovered that it wasn’t locked. When he opened it, the first thing that hit him was the overpowering smell of whisky.

  The officer prodded the woman gently on the shoulder. ‘Are you all right, love?’ he asked.

  The woman raised her head slightly. ‘He’s dead,’ she moaned. ‘He has to be dead.’

  ‘But she didn’t actually say she’d killed Clive Burroughs?’ Woodend asked.

  Baxter shook his head, then relit his pipe. ‘No, she didn’t say that. She never admitted killing him. Right up until the end of the trial, she insisted that he was already dead when she got there.’

  ‘Did she give you any reason for why she had visited Burroughs so late at night?’

  ‘She claimed it was nothing more than a business meeting.’

  ‘What kind of business meeting?’

  ‘She said Burroughs had called her, and told her he wanted her to cater his daughter’s birthday party.’

  ‘Maybe he had.’

  ‘His daughter had had a birthday only three weeks earlier. Besides, she’s only four years old, and Élite Catering is far too grand to even consider doing kids’ parties.’

  ‘Even for a friend?’

  ‘That’s just the point. Judith Maitland insisted throughout that Burroughs wasn’t a friend at all – that he really was no more than someone she did business with.’

  ‘I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the van, madam,’ the patrol-car driver said.

  ‘Go away!’ Judith Maitland said.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, madam. If you require assistance, I will willingly provide it. But with or without assistance, you’re still going to have to get out of the van.’

  Judith Maitland tried to climb out of her seat several times – and failed. In the end, it was a combination of assistance and manhandling which got her out on to the lay-by, and once she was there it was immediately apparent that she could not stand unaided.

  ‘Have you been drinking, madam?’ the constable asked.

  Judith did her best to focus her bleary eyes on him. ‘Well, of course I’ve been drinking. Wouldn’t you have had a drink, if your whole world had just fallen apart,’ she said, slurring her words.

  ‘What, exactly, is that supposed to mean, madam?’

  ‘Why did it have to happen?’ Judith asked, addressing her remark more at the dark night which surrounded them than at the constable. ‘When everything was going so well – when it was all going to work out – why did that have to happen?’

  And then she burst into tears.

  ‘Not quite the admission of guilt you would have liked, though, was it?’ Woodend said.

  ‘True,’ Baxter agreed. ‘There was no “You’ve got me bang to rights, Officer. Put the cuffs on me.” But what she did say was certainly enough to convince the jury that she was the one who did it.’

  ‘Did you find any physical evidence to tie her in with the murder?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘None.’

  ‘But surely, in a violent attack of that nature, there would have been bloodstains on her clothing?’

  ‘If they’d been the clothes she was wearing when she committed the murder, yes.’

  ‘But you don’t think they were?’

  ‘Élite Catering issues all its employees with a uniform. It consists of an overall, a pair of light, washable canvas shoes, and a plastic cap of the sort people use in the shower. Judith Maitland always carried a set of these clothes with her – nobody disagrees about that – but there was no sign of them in the van.’

  ‘So you think that was what she was wearing when she allegedly killed Clive Burroughs?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And that she dumped the uniform somewhere, shortly after leaving the scene of the crime?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘But you never found it?’

  ‘No, we did not.’

  ‘There’s something that’s rather puzzling me here,’ Monika Paniatowski said.

  ‘And what’s that?’ Baxter wondered.

  ‘I’ve only skimmed through the transcript of the trial, but I don’t remember finding any reference at all in it to her overall.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t have, because there isn’t one,’ Baxter said.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary to include it in the evidence. We had a strong enough case without it.’

  Woodend lit a cigarette and took a thoughtful drag. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you start this conversation by sayin’ that you were goin’ to put all your cards on the table?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Baxter agreed. ‘And I’ve done just that.’

  But though his voice was still steady enough, he did not look exactly comfortable with the assertion.

  ‘Now that is interestin’,’ Woodend said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘I’ve been wrackin’ my brains for some other example where the investigatin’ officers deliberately excluded some of the evidence from the prosecut
ion’s case because they’d decided it wasn’t really necessary. An’, do you know, I can’t come up with a single one. In Whitebridge, we normally throw everything but the kitchen sink into the evidence, just to make sure we’ve got as watertight a case as we possibly could have.’

  ‘Normally, we’d do that in Dunethorpe, too,’ Baxter agreed, his evident discomfort growing by the second.

  ‘So what happened in the Burroughs case?’

  Baxter took out a knife and scraped the bowl of his pipe before speaking again.

  ‘I liked Judith Maitland,’ he said. ‘I really did. I think you would have done, too, in my place.’

  ‘Go on,’ Woodend said.

  ‘And I’d done some checking on Clive Burroughs. It wasn’t a very edifying task, because Judith Maitland wasn’t the first of his little flings – not by a very long chalk.’

  ‘That may be so, but I still don’t see where you’re goin’ with this,’ Woodend admitted.

  ‘I felt sorry for the woman,’ Baxter admitted. ‘I know I shouldn’t have, but I did. So I asked the prosecutor if we could present the case as a crime of passion, and he agreed.’

  ‘I understand that, but—’

  ‘In court, the prosecutor argued that Clive Burroughs and Judith Maitland had a blazing row, and that in the midst of it she picked up a hammer and caved in his skull.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But I don’t think it happened quite like that. I’m sure the row did actually occur, but I don’t believe she was wearing the overall at the time.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because no woman ever goes to meet her lover wearing her working clothes.’

  ‘So what you’re sayin’ is that she decides to kill him, then goes out to her van, puts on her overall, and returns to Burroughs’ office?’

  ‘Essentially.’

  ‘An’ once she’s done the deed – once he’s lying there dead – she strips off the overall an’ disposes of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I still don’t see what made you exclude the overall from the evidence you presented.’

  ‘It’s difficult to explain to someone who wasn’t there,’ Baxter said awkwardly. ‘I interrogated Judith for several hours, and at the end of that process I emerged with the view that what had happened had undoubtedly been a crime of passion.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But I could well imagine the court’s reaction to hearing about the overall. They would have decided, then and there, that what they were dealing with was a stone killer.’

  ‘A what?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘A stone killer,’ Baxter repeated. ‘I was in America a couple of years ago, working with the FBI. It’s a term they use a lot over there.’

  ‘An’ what does it mean, exactly?’

  Baxter frowned. ‘It’s hard to find an exact English equivalent,’ he admitted, struggling to find the right words. ‘A “total” killer, I suppose. Someone who almost seems born to kill. Someone who’d think no more about killing than you or I would about ordering a pint of bitter just before closing time.’

  ‘In other words, a cold-blooded killer?’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘More or less,’ Baxter agreed, gratefully.

  ‘But what’s all this got to do with the way you put together your case?’ Woodend wondered. ‘Your job is just to find out who committed the murder. It’s the judge and jury who decide what kind of killin’ it was. That’s what they’re there for.’

  ‘But they didn’t know her. They hadn’t talked to her, as I had.’ Baxter paused, as if garnering his strength for what he knew he had to say next. ‘So I used my discretion,’ he continued. ‘With the agreement of the prosecution, I excluded evidence which I felt might lead the court to reach the wrong conclusion. Judith had to pay for her crime – there was no doubt in my mind about that – but I didn’t want her to serve any more time than she had to.’

  ‘She still got life, with a recommendation that she serves a minimum of twenty-five years,’ Woodend pointed out.

  ‘Yes, she did,’ Baxter agreed, sadly. ‘She was unlucky enough to come up against a judge with pure ice in his veins and, despite my best efforts, he imposed a heavy sentence anyway. But I still think I did the right thing.’

  ‘So, cuttin’ through all the niceties an’ the clever talk, what you’re actually sayin’ is that you deliberately doctored the evidence?’ Woodend asked.

  Baxter smiled. ‘I’d prefer to stick to the niceties and say that I merely re-aligned it,’ he told Woodend. ‘And just between you, me and the bedpost, Chief Inspector, haven’t you done something similar yourself, once or twice?’

  Woodend returned his smile. ‘I’d never have been able to hold my head up again if I hadn’t,’ he confessed.

  Seven

  ‘Very nice,’ Woodend said. ‘Very nice indeed, if you can afford it – which, bein’ a humble bobby, I couldn’t.’

  The object of his admiration was a large detached house with a double frontage and an integrated double garage. It was located in one of the best areas of Dunethorpe, and it had once been the home of a murder victim called Clive Burroughs.

  Woodend took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one up. ‘Well, now we’re here, I suppose we might as well go an’ have a word with the grievin’ widow,’ he said.

  ‘You sound as if you think it’ll just be a waste of time,’ Monika Paniatowski commented.

  ‘An’ it probably will be,’ Woodend told her. ‘Wives are always the last to know what their husbands are gettin’ up to.’

  Images of Maria Rutter flashed across both their minds, and as Monika Paniatowski quickly lit up a cigarette of her own, she noticed that her hand was shaking. She wondered if she’d ever be able to put the past behind her, and immediately decided that she probably wouldn’t.

  The two officers walked up the path, which was flanked on either side by an almost obsessively geometric front garden. When Woodend rang the bell, they both heard a woman’s voice say, ‘For God’s sake, be quiet for once, Timothy. Can’t you hear there’s somebody at the door?’

  There was a sound of footsteps in the hallway, then the front door opened. The woman who appeared in the doorway was probably in her early thirties, Paniatowski guessed. She had undoubtedly been pretty a few years earlier, but now she looked completely washed-out and very, very tired.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘We’re police officers from Whitebridge,’ Woodend explained, showing her his warrant card. ‘We’re sorry to trouble you, Mrs Burroughs, but, if we may, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband’s murder.’

  ‘Ask me a few questions?’ the woman repeated. ‘I thought that was all over and done with.’

  ‘There are still a few loose ends to tie up,’ Woodend told her. ‘I know it can’t be easy for you, but—’

  ‘Easy!’ the woman echoed, as if she’d caught him using an obscenity. ‘Easy? Of course it won’t be easy!’

  ‘I appreciate that, but—’

  ‘It wasn’t easy living with Clive while he was alive, and it’s not easy living without him now that he’s dead.’ Mrs Burroughs raised her right hand, made a fist with it, and pressed that fist against her forehead. ‘If you want to know the truth, it’s bloody hard. Everything’s … so … bloody … hard.’

  Paniatowski tapped Woodend’s arm lightly. ‘I don’t think we’ll be needing you, sir,’ she said softly.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, I don’t think we’ll be needing you here. You’ve a lot of interviews to get through today, so why don’t you go off and see someone else on your list, while I talk to Mrs Burroughs. I think that would be simpler all round.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Woodend, who had no such list. ‘We’ll … er … meet up again in the pub next to the police station, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we’ll meet up again in the pub,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  She waited until Woodend had almost reached his car, then turned to Mr
s Burroughs and said, ‘Well, at least now we can have a chat without me constantly wondering where his hands are going to wander next.’

  ‘Oh, he’s like that, is he?’ Mrs Burroughs asked.

  ‘He’s so well known for it back in Whitebridge that all the women officers call him the Octopus-Man,’ Paniatowski lied. ‘Men can be such right proper bastards, can’t they?’

  ‘You’re telling me,’ Mrs Burroughs agreed, with a kind of bitter enthusiasm. ‘Would you like to come inside?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Paniatowski replied.

  There were two children in the living room. The elder, a boy, was sitting at the table, working on a jigsaw puzzle. The younger, a girl, was sitting on the hearthrug and attacking her colouring book with a dogged determination.

  ‘Why don’t you two kids go upstairs for a few minutes?’ the mother suggested.

  ‘Don’t want to,’ the boy said, not even bothering to look up from his self-imposed struggle.

  ‘Maybe you don’t. But then we can’t always have what we want in this life, can we?’ Mrs Burroughs asked.

  ‘Why can’t we?’ the boy wondered aloud.

  Mrs Burroughs sighed. ‘If you go upstairs like I’ve asked you to, and if you can keep your sister quiet for half an hour or so, there’ll be a nice surprise waiting for you down here when this lady’s gone,’ she said coaxingly.

  ‘What kind of surprise?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Well, if you don’t do as I say, you’ll never find out, will you?’ the mother replied.

  The boy thought about it for a moment, then slid off the chair and said, ‘Come on, Emma!’

  The girl climbed to her feet without any hesitation, and obediently followed her brother out of the room.

  ‘He’s always been a bit of a handful, but he’s got even worse since his father was killed,’ Mrs Burroughs said, half-apologetically. ‘Still, I don’t suppose I can blame him.’