Stone Killer

by Sally Spencer

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘A couple of months before she was arrested, Courtney-Jones turned up here. Said that he wanted to speak to Judy. You see what that means, don’t you? The bastard had shown so little interest in her since he jilted her that he didn’t even know she didn’t work for me any more.’

  ‘So you told him to sod off, did you?’

  ‘Yes, but he wouldn’t go. He said that it had taken him a while to realize it, but he’d finally come to understand that Judy was the only woman he’d ever loved. He told me he’d divorced his wife as soon as the kids had grown up, and now he wanted to start again where he’d left off – only this time he would marry her.’

  ‘An’ you told him he was too late?’

  ‘And I told him he was too late,’ Thompson agreed. ‘She was married herself now, I said, and she wouldn’t want any more to do with him. But still he wouldn’t go. He pleaded – and I mean pleaded – for her address. He said he just wanted to talk to her – to ask for her forgiveness.’

  ‘An’ you gave him the address, did you?’

  ‘Not at first. I asked him to wait, and I phoned Judy. I told her that he was here, and that if I didn’t tell him where she lived, he’d find out from somebody else soon enough. She said not to worry. She could handle him, no problem at all. So I gave him the address.’

  ‘An’ do you know if he actually went an’ saw her?’

  ‘Oh, he went and saw her, all right. She rang me up straight after he’d been, and told me all about it.’

  ‘How did the meeting go? Did he ask for her forgiveness?’

  ‘He did not! That was just a line he’d fed to me. He told her that he really did want to marry her – but if that wasn’t on the cards, he’d settle for an extramarital affair. Judy sent him packing, as I’d known she would. But I will say one thing for him – I think he was being sincere when he told me she was the only woman he’d ever really loved.’

  ‘An’ what makes you think that?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Judy said that when he left her house, he was in tears. If I hadn’t heard it from her, I’d never have believed that a man like him could actually break down and cry.’

  ‘Did he strike you as the kind of man who’d do whatever it took to get what he wanted?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Definitely,’ Thompson said. ‘He’d absolutely no consideration for anybody but himself.’

  ‘And he wanted Judith?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man want anything more.’

  Nineteen

  The business trading on the opposite side of the road from Burroughs’ Builders’ Merchant had a large billboard in front of it which proudly announced it as:

  Paradise Garden Features

  It was a large site, surrounded by a high wire-netting fence, and within it lay all those articles which the billboard further promised would enable Paradise’s customers to give their ‘little palace’ the garden it ‘truly deserves’.

  Peering through the wire-meshing, Paniatowski could see most of what the place had to offer. There were fountains and fibreglass paddling pools; children’s slides and climbing frames; sheds, gazeboes and conservatories. In the middle of it all stood a wooden building indistinguishable from most of the sheds, save that it had a sign on it which identified it as the office and salesroom.

  Paniatowski heard a car approaching, and turned to look at it. It was an ancient Austin A40, but even from a distance it was possible to see that it had been lovingly maintained.

  The car came to a halt by the gate, and a man, wearing a blue serge security guard’s uniform, climbed out of it. He was in his middle-to-late fifties, Paniatowski guessed. His grey hair was extremely short – almost to the point of being shaved – and he sported a pencil-thin moustache.

  Paniatowski took a step towards him. ‘Mr Goodrich?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ the man replied.

  ‘You needn’t have bothered to wear your uniform,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘Not when you’re off-duty.’

  Goodrich gave her a hard stare. ‘This being in the nature of a semi-official interview, I deemed it appropriate,’ he said. ‘You are Detective Sergeant Paniatowski, I take it.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And can I also take it that you have some sort of official identification on your person to prove that?’

  Monika produced her warrant card. ‘Will this do?’ she asked, flicking it closed again.

  ‘I’d like to have a much closer look at that, if you don’t mind,’ Goodrich told her.

  Paniatowski handed him the card, and he studied it for perhaps half a minute before handing it back.

  ‘Yes, that seems to be in order,’ he conceded. ‘So how may I help you, Sergeant Paniatowski?’

  ‘I’d like to retrace your movements on the night of the murder,’ Paniatowski told him.

  ‘Is that strictly necessary, Sergeant? It’s all down in black and white, in the statement I gave to the local constabulary at the time.’

  ‘True, but I’d like to physically retrace your steps, rather than just follow them on paper,’ Paniatowski said.

  Goodrich considered the idea for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t see there can be any harm in that,’ he said finally. ‘If you’d care to follow me.’

  He led Paniatowski through the main gate.

  ‘Look at this fence,’ he said, pointing in disgust at the chain-link. ‘Any villain worth his salt could cut his way through it in a few seconds, providing he had a decent pair of wire-clippers.’

  ‘True,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘Electrification! That’s the answer!’ Goodrich told her, with sudden, unexpected enthusiasm. ‘I said as much to the boss of this place myself. Put a few thousand volts through that fence, I advised him, and you’d soon deter any would-be thief.’

  ‘And what did he say to that?’

  ‘What do you think he said? He said the namby-pamby bureaucrats down at the town hall wouldn’t stand for it. According to them, it goes against health and safety regulations. Well, I say that any robber who gets himself burned to a frazzle only has himself to blame.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re easily as much a deterrent as any electric fence ever could be,’ Paniatowski said ingratiatingly.

  ‘You’re right about that,’ Goodrich agreed. ‘Since me and my dog have been on patrol, nobody’s pinched a thing.’

  The detective sergeant and the security man negotiated their way through a clump of grinning garden gnomes and came to a halt next to some large ornamental flowerpots.

  ‘This is just where I was standing when I heard the first vehicle,’ Goodrich said.

  ‘That would be Clive Burroughs’ car?’

  ‘Correct. He parked it over there, then went through the side gate to his office.’

  ‘You’re sure that’s where he went?’

  ‘Definitely. The proof is that once he was inside the building, he turned the light on.’

  ‘Did Burroughs often return to his premises at that time of night?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. In fact, it was the first and only time I remember him doing it.’

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘I carried on with my rounds. But I hadn’t even reached the far end of the perimeter fence when I heard another vehicle. I thought it was strange there’d be two cars here at that time of night, so I turned around to have a look. It was that Mrs Maitland, in her van.’

  ‘You’re sure it was her van?’

  ‘I most certainly am.’

  ‘Describe it to me.’

  ‘It was a white Vauxhall six hundredweight, and it had a sign on the side which said Élite Caterers.’

  Paniatowski peered through the fence at the building across the road. ‘It was dark at the time, wasn’t it?’ she asked.

  ‘It was just going dark.’

  ‘But yet you still managed to read the sign on the side of the van?’

  ‘There’s a street lamp just there on th
e corner,’ Goodrich said, pointing it out for her. ‘When it’s on, it lights up the whole area as bright as day. And – before you ask – I have excellent vision.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘I always carry my optician’s report with me, in case my competence is called into question. You may examine it, if that is your wish.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Paniatowski assured him, ‘So Mrs Maitland pulled up outside the builders’ merchant’s, did she?’

  ‘Yes, she most certainly did.’

  ‘And how long was she there?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘She said in her statement that she was there a much shorter time – only a minute or two.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. But she was lying, wasn’t she?’

  ‘You’re sure it was a full fifteen minutes?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Did you time her?’

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ Goodrich said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it was right after she arrived that I took my break.’

  ‘And where, exactly, did you take it?’

  ‘Just follow me, and I’ll show you,’ Goodrich offered.

  He led Paniatowski through a maze of gazeboes and summer houses to an unassuming garden shed which was all but hidden from sight.

  ‘My office,’ Goodrich said, without a hint of irony in his voice.

  He swung the door open and invited Paniatowski to step inside. There was a battered armchair in one corner of the shed, and a small table at the other. On the table were a kettle, a large mug, a sugar bowl, a bottle of sterilized milk, a spirit stove, and a transistor radio.

  ‘All the comforts of home,’ Goodrich said. ‘This is where the dog and I take our break every two hours. I give the dog a couple of biscuits, boil up the kettle, make myself a brew, drink it, and then we’re out on patrol again. It takes us fifteen minutes. Not a minute more – and not a minute less. And even if I had taken more, all that would prove was that Mrs Maitland stayed even longer than she claimed, now wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That’s true,’ Paniatowski said gloomily. ‘Let’s assume the fifteen minutes are up. What do we do next?’

  ‘We head back to the main gate, to make sure nobody’s been tampering with the lock while we’ve been away.’

  ‘Then let’s do that now.’

  Goodrich led the sergeant back through the maze of garden buildings again. When they reached the gate, he mimed checking the lock, even though the gate itself was wide open.

  ‘The van was still there at this point?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘The van was still there,’ Goodrich confirmed. ‘And it was just after I’d finished examining the lock that Mrs Maitland appeared.’

  ‘She came out of the office?’

  ‘She did indeed. She was running as if she had the Devil himself on her tail. She got straight into her van, and drove away.’

  ‘You’re sure it was her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been some other woman of roughly the same height and build?’

  Like Mrs Burroughs, for example? Paniatowski thought to herself.

  ‘It was Mrs Maitland,’ Goodrich said. ‘I picked her out of the police line-up without a moment’s hesitation.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘A black-and-white check business suit, a pale blouse, and a pair of flat-heeled shoes.’

  ‘You’re very observant,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Yes, it’s something I pride myself on,’ Goodrich agreed.

  ‘Most men might have remembered the suit, but they wouldn’t have noticed the shoes at all.’

  ‘Maybe they wouldn’t. But I was surprised she was moving so fast, so I checked to see what she had on her feet.’

  ‘What about her overall?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Overall?’

  ‘The Dunethorpe Police think that when she killed Burroughs she was wearing her catering overall. That’s why there were no traces of blood on her other clothes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Goodrich said.

  ‘But she definitely wasn’t wearing the overall?’

  ‘She was not!’

  ‘Nor carrying it in her arms?’

  ‘Nor carrying it in her arms. Her arms were swinging. They do when you’re running.’

  Besides, Paniatowski thought, if she had been holding the overall, then some of the blood on it would have been almost bound to rub off on to her smart business suit.

  ‘Did you tell the Dunethorpe Police that Mrs Maitland had nothing in her hands?’ she asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And what did they say to that?’

  ‘They said I must have been mistaken. But I wasn’t! I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I wasn’t!’

  Twenty

  Someone had finally decided to switch off the bloody twinkling fairy lights in the shop windows, but other than that, the drama being played out on Whitebridge High Street had become as much a frozen tableau as the nativity scene which was annually put on display outside the Catholic Church.

  What had changed from the previous evening, Woodend decided, was the atmosphere. Then, there had been a tense expectation emanating from the armed officers crouched behind their cars, and the sharpshooters on the roofs. Now – as the siege entered its second day – there was only a feeling of listlessness.

  ‘It was a bit like this durin’ the war, wasn’t it?’ Woodend asked the man walking beside him.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Stanley Keene said.

  ‘You didn’t want to fight, did you? Far from it! But you got so all-pumped-up for action that if the fightin’ didn’t start when it was supposed to, you began to feel mildly depressed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ Keene said. ‘I wanted to join up, but the Army turned me down flat.’

  ‘On medical grounds?’

  ‘That’s what they said. But we all know the real reason they turned me down, don’t we? They didn’t want a camp old queen in their man’s army. So, since they wouldn’t let me fight for my country, I spent my war as a barman at the Windmill Theatre in London. It wasn’t much of a contribution to the war effort, but at least it gave me a chance to help make life a little pleasanter for the men who were risking their lives.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down so much, Mr Keene,’ Woodend said. ‘You did at least try to join up, when a lot of other fellers were doin’ their level best to get out of it. An’ livin’ in London, with all them German bombers comin’ over every night, can’t have been any picnic.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Stanley Keene agreed, with a shudder. ‘Some nights I thought the bombing would just never stop. I still jump whenever I hear a loud explosion.’ He giggled, nervously. ‘I certainly hope we’re not going to hear any explosions today.’

  They had almost drawn level with the bank door, and Woodend came to a halt. ‘You wait here,’ he told Stanley Keene.

  ‘But I thought you said I’d be going in with you,’ Keene protested.

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Woodend contradicted him. ‘I said once I was inside, I’d decide whether or not it was a good idea.’

  The Chief Inspector stepped inside the bank, and closed the door firmly behind him. ‘Shop!’ he called loudly.

  The door behind the counter slowly opened, and Maitland emerged, his submachine gun held at shoulder level, sweeping the room as he moved.

  ‘What have you got for me so far?’ the Major demanded, when he’d satisfied himself that the camera hadn’t lied, and Woodend had come alone.

  The Chief Inspector looked down at the cuffs of his trousers. ‘I don’t see any cycle clips,’ he said, seemingly mystified.

  ‘Cycle clips?’ Maitland repeated.

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I thought I must be wearin’ a set. I certainly couldn’t think of any other reason why you might mistake me for a grocer’s delivery boy.’

  ‘Look here—’ Maitland began.

  ‘No, you
look here,’ Woodend interrupted. ‘You can’t just order up a pound of justice an’ expect me to deliver it the next mornin’. I’m doin’ the best I can for you, but I can’t perform miracles.’

  Maitland nodded, accepting that Woodend had a point. ‘But you do believe that my wife is innocent, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe there’s a strong possibility that she might be,’ Woodend said carefully.

  ‘I want more than that,’ Maitland snapped.

  ‘Well, you can’t bloody have it,’ Woodend told him.

  Maitland seemed to experience a sudden mood change, and laughed. ‘Isn’t it your job to reassure me?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Woodend countered. ‘It’s my job to get you to trust me – an’ I can only do that by bein’ completely honest with you.’

  ‘Suppose I gave you an incentive to work harder?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like killing one of my hostages.’

  Woodend felt a cold shiver run through his entire body.

  ‘I told you yesterday that if you harmed a single hostage, I’d have nothin’ more to do with any of this,’ he said.

  ‘So you did,’ Major Maitland agreed. ‘But I’ve been thinking about that, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Certainly it is. I think that as long as there’s even one hostage alive, you’ll do your damnedest to get me what I want. Your conscience wouldn’t let you do otherwise.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right about me,’ Woodend agreed. ‘But what I think, or what I might do, wouldn’t matter any more – because as far as the people outside are concerned, you’d have put yourself beyond the pale.’

  ‘The people outside,’ Maitland mused. ‘What a pleasant – if rather vague – euphemism. And who exactly are “the people outside”? The police? The Army? The politicians?’

  Woodend sighed. ‘All of the above. I’ve spoken to them. They all think like civilians – even the ones wearin’ uniforms – an’ they’d be so outraged at the death of even one hostage that they’d storm the place however many more lives it cost them.’

  ‘Ah, I wondered when you’d start trying to create a bond between us,’ Maitland said. ‘And now you have.’