Stone Killer

by Sally Spencer

  ‘But when you told Courtney-Jones about it, he was somewhat less than thrilled?’

  ‘He was furious. He said he didn’t know how it could have happened. He said I must have tricked him into getting me pregnant. Unless, of course, the baby wasn’t really his at all. I couldn’t believe he was saying all these things. He didn’t sound like my Sebastian at all.’

  ‘I imagine that he said he’d be willin’ to pay to get rid of it,’ Woodend guessed.

  ‘Yes, he did. He assured me it wouldn’t be dangerous or unpleasant. Nothing like a back-street abortion, no hot bath and bottle of gin or a knitting needle. The man he’d send me to would be a proper doctor, though, of course, he wasn’t allowed to practise any more.’

  ‘You turned him down?’

  ‘I had to. I knew I couldn’t keep the baby myself – I’d never have coped – but I couldn’t bring myself to have him aborted, either. I told Sebastian what I felt, and he said that if that was my attitude, then I was on my own. He wouldn’t answer my calls after that, and a couple of weeks later he got his company to transfer him down south. I didn’t know what to do.’

  And then the man rings her. He has such a pleasant, reassuring voice on the phone.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ he says, ‘but I’ve heard about your difficulties, and I think I might have a solution.’

  ‘Who told you?’ she asks.

  ‘That doesn’t really matter, now does it?’ the man answers, so softly, so kindly. ‘Would you like to hear what my solution is?’

  Yes, she desperately wants to hear – wants to be told that there is at least some possibility of a light at the end of the tunnel.

  ‘There are many wonderful couples who desperately want to have children of their own, but can’t,’ the man says. ‘Your baby would be like a gift from heaven for them.’

  ‘Why don’t they go to an adoption society?’ Judith asks suspiciously.

  ‘You’ve no idea how long their waiting lists are. And these couples don’t want to wait. They want to give the best years of their lives to some lucky child, not leave it until they’re too old to play a really important part in that child’s growing up. And think of the advantages for you.’

  ‘What advantages?’

  ‘If you give your child to an adoption society, you’ll have no idea who he’s gone to. If you work through me, I’ll allow you to meet the prospective parents, and if you don’t like them, I’ll find you another couple that you will like. Besides, these couples so desperately want to have children that they’ll be happy to pay all your expenses from now until the child is born.’

  ‘What’s in it for you?’ Judith asks.

  ‘I collect a small fee – just to cover my administrative costs – but that’s no concern of yours, because the new parents will pay it.’

  ‘I agreed to go ahead with it,’ Judith Maitland said. ‘It seemed the best thing all round.’

  ‘Did you meet the couple who were going to take your baby?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Only the man.’

  ‘My wife would love to have met you,’ Clive Burroughs says, ‘but she’s simply not feeling strong enough at the moment. She’s so very worried this will all fall through, and she’s so set her heart on having a baby.’

  And at the time, Judith believes it, because Burroughs seems so kind and so understanding. Later on, she will form a different opinion entirely. She will see how Burroughs likes to control every situation he finds himself in. She will understand that the Burroughses are not so much adopting a baby together as Clive is presenting the baby to his wife as a gift. To keep her quiet. To earn himself credit, so that when his next affair comes to light, she will forgive him again.

  But Judith sees none of this now. When Burroughs suggests that she speak to his wife over the phone, she agrees, and Mrs Burroughs sounds like a very nice woman.

  Monika Paniatowski’s mind was back in Dunethorpe Police Headquarters, looking at the pile of documents which made up Clive Burroughs’ personal papers. She’d known at the time that she was missing something important, and now she’d worked out what it was.

  ‘Was the little girl also adopted?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Judith Maitland replied. ‘They’d always been told they couldn’t have children, but then Mrs Burroughs got pregnant and had Emma. Apparently, it often happens that way.’

  Tax forms, driving licences, passports, Paniatowski thought. Fishing permits, insurance policies, club membership cards. Burroughs’ whole life had been documented on that desk. There’d been a birth certificate for Emma in that pile, too – but there hadn’t been one for Timothy.

  ‘Was it always planned that Burroughs would spend the entire last month of your pregnancy with you?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ Judith Maitland said.

  No one had even suggested it at first. But as the moment of giving birth draws closer and closer, Judith begins to have doubts about the course she has chosen – begins to think that she will keep the baby after all.

  She does the decent thing, and tells the man who first contacted her. And he tells Clive. And Clive comes to see her.

  ‘I know what the problem is,’ he says. ‘You’re so worried about having this baby on your own that you’re really not thinking straight.’

  She had not thought that was the problem, but he says it with so much conviction that she begins to believe it well might be.

  ‘You poor girl,’ Burroughs says. ‘Well, I won’t let it happen like that. You won’t be alone. When it comes close to your time, I’ll always be around. In fact, I’ll book us a couple of rooms in a nice hotel I know, so that if you need me – at whatever time of day or night – you only have to call.’

  She believes that he is doing it for her, out of kindness. Later on, of course, she will realize that he did it for himself – because he knows that as long as he is close to her, he can nip in the bud any idea of her keeping the baby.

  ‘So the baby was born, and Burroughs took him away,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ then, last year, you unexpectedly met Burroughs again, at an event which you were caterin’.’

  ‘I’d never even considered the possibility, but the moment I saw him, I recognized him,’ Judith Maitland said. ‘And I realized that if he was there, my baby couldn’t be far away.’

  ‘You asked him if you could see your son?’

  ‘Yes. I only wanted the briefest peek at him, yet I would have understood if Burroughs had said no. But he didn’t. He said his wife must never find out, because she wouldn’t agree to it, but if I was willing to keep her in the dark, he was quite prepared not only to let me see my child but to actually go out on excursions with him.’

  ‘That’s why you changed your mind about selling up your share of the business and moving around with your husband?’

  ‘Yes. I’d only just found Timothy again. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of going away from him.’

  ‘Clive Burroughs’ offer must have seemed like a dream come true,’ Woodend said.

  ‘It did.’

  ‘But it was really the start of a nightmare?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Burroughs’ business was already in trouble, an’ when he met you again – an’ realized you were a successful caterer – he saw a way out of all his difficulties. But he played it craftily. He let you see your son for almost a year before he put the squeeze on, didn’t he?’

  ‘And even then, he didn’t come out and simply demand it,’ Judith Maitland said bitterly. ‘That wasn’t his way.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘He said that if his business went bankrupt, he’d move his family to New Zealand. But I knew exactly what he meant – exactly what he was asking for.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I talked it over with my partner, Stanley.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I needed to draw a substantial amount of capital out of the business, and there was no way I could do it without his consent
.’

  ‘And did he give that consent?’

  ‘Not at first. But it wasn’t the money he was worried about.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not at all. He said that even without checking the books, he knew the business was going so well that we could easily afford it.’

  ‘Then what did he object to?’

  ‘To giving in to blackmail. He said there’d be no end to it. Burroughs might claim he’d be happy with just the one payment, but he wouldn’t be. He’d be back next year for another one. And the year after that, and the year after that. Stanley said I’d never be free of him.’

  ‘An’ Stanley was right,’ Woodend said.

  ‘I know he was. I even knew it at the time. But I was so desperate that I would have done anything. So I pleaded with Stanley. We had the first real argument we’ve ever had as partners, and it was a bloody one. But still he wouldn’t budge.’

  ‘But he did budge in the end, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what made him change his mind?’

  ‘I had a car accident. I wasn’t really harmed at all, but it could have been very serious.’

  ‘I know. I’ve heard about it.’

  ‘It shook Stanley up almost as much as it shook me up. Maybe even more. He said if I had died, my last thought would probably have been about him – and how he had refused to help me. He was in tears, even as he was telling me. Then he said that our friendship was worth more to him than all the money in the world. He still thought I was making a mistake, but if paying the blackmail was what I wanted, then he didn’t feel he could stop me.’

  ‘Did you actually get as far as paying Burroughs?’

  ‘No. The reason I went to see him on the night he died was to tell him that we’d been getting the money together, and he could have it the next day.’

  ‘Why did you keep quiet about Timothy being your child after you were arrested?’ Woodend asked. ‘You must surely have realized that if you’d told the judge that Burroughs was using your own son to blackmail you, you’d never have been given the sentence you were.’

  ‘I’m not a fool! Of course I realized that.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Because it’s bad enough that, when Timothy gets a bit older, he’ll learn that his father was murdered. Imagine how much worse for him it would be if he was also told that the person serving time for that murder was his natural mother!’

  Thirty

  ‘Do you know what’s goin’ through my head right now, Monika?’ Woodend asked, as he and Paniatowski walked across the car park towards Whitebridge Police Headquarters.

  ‘I couldn’t even begin to guess, sir,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘I’m thinkin’ that if I come out of this bloody mess in one piece – an’ it’d be a foolish man who’d be prepared to put any money on that – I just might have a bit too much to drink tonight.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘In fact, I think I might just have a lot too much to drink. I could even achieve that state which students of philosophy call “utter leglessness”, if I really put my mind to it.’

  A man was coming out of the main door. He had his head down, and was holding his attaché case tightly under his arm.

  ‘Good evenin’, Mr Slater-Burnes,’ Woodend said.

  The man from the Ministry stopped, and looked up. His face was black with rage.

  ‘The chap’s a viper!’ he said hotly.

  ‘You’ll be talkin’ about our esteemed Chief Constable, will you, sir?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘He blindsided me,’ Slater-Burnes complained. ‘Went completely behind my back. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Very easily,’ Woodend said. He turned towards Monika. ‘How about you, Sergeant? Can you believe it?’

  ‘It’s not really my place to comment on the actions of my superiors, sir,’ Monika Paniatowski said, deadpan.

  ‘I had no idea what he was doing until the very last minute,’ Slater-Burnes continued angrily. ‘Not a clue. And by the time I did get a glimpse of the way his devious, twisted mind was working, it was too late to do anything. Now he looks like the shining hero of the hour, and I look like nothing more than some kind of bumbling nincompoop.’

  ‘You have my sympathies, sir,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. But bearing in mind that I’ll be on the train for London in an hour, while you have to stay here and continue to work with the bloody bastard, I think you need my sympathies much more than I need yours,’ Slater-Burnes replied.

  The Chief Constable was sitting at his desk. Behind him, on the wall, were framed photographs of him shaking hands with important people, and certificates he had collected by attending courses at institutions located conveniently close to good golf courses.

  The look on his face suggested that he thought the world was a very benevolent place to live in if your name happened to be Henry Marlowe – and that he had been waiting patiently to explain, to his least-favourite chief inspector, just why that should be.

  ‘Ah, Mr Woodend, I’m glad you’re here,’ he said expansively, ‘because I’ve got a little job I want you to do for me.’

  ‘Have you, sir?’ Woodend asked. ‘An’ what might that be?’

  ‘Nothing much. Nothing that should stretch even your capabilities. I’d simply like you to go down to the Cotton Credit Bank on the High Street, and bring the siege to an end.’

  ‘I’m sure we’d all like that, sir,’ Woodend said. ‘But I’m not entirely sure how I should go about it.’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ Marlowe said. ‘But, you see, I am.’ He picked up an impressive piece of paper which had been lying conveniently to hand on his desk, and held it out for the Chief Inspector to examine. ‘All you have to do is show this to Major Maitland.’

  ‘It’s a Royal Pardon,’ Woodend said, scanning it. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’

  ‘Few people have. It’s not the kind of document you can get your hands on by merely collecting cigarette coupons.’

  ‘An’ it’s for Judith Maitland.’

  ‘It is, indeed, for Judith Maitland,’ the Chief Constable agreed. ‘The Home Secretary took a lot of persuading, but I did finally talk him into using his influence to get it issued.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about the precedent it might set, sir?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Precedent? I don’t know what you mean?’ Marlowe said.

  Of course he did, Woodend thought. He knew perfectly well. But he was playing out the game to its full extent – stretching his moment of triumph as far as he possibly could.

  ‘It just might send out the message that if you have a relative in gaol, all you need to do to get him pardoned is take a few hostages,’ Woodend said, playing a game of his own.

  ‘That certainly would be the case if Mrs Maitland were to be allowed to get away with it scot free,’ the Chief Constable said.

  ‘But she won’t be?’

  ‘No, she most certainly won’t.’

  ‘Then what will happen to her?’

  ‘The moment the hostages are freed, she’ll be re-arrested. This time she won’t be charged with killing Clive Burroughs, but only with causing him grievous bodily harm. Of course, she can’t be given as long a sentence for GBH as she was for murder, but most of the public seem to think her current sentence was too harsh anyway. And so do the newspapers.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the newspapers,’ Woodend said.

  The papers were Marlowe’s Bible, he’d long ago realized, and if one of the popular ones suggested that it would be a good thing if all chief constables painted their backsides bright yellow, Henry Marlowe’s hand would reach straight for the paint brush.

  ‘So Judith Maitland ends up serving a stiff – but not excessive – sentence, and everybody’s happy,’ the Chief Constable concluded.

  ‘Very clever,’ Woodend said.

  ‘I think so, too,’ Marlowe said complacently.

  ‘But I’m
afraid that I can see just two little flaws to the plan,’ Woodend added.

  ‘And what might they be?’

  ‘Well, the first is that you’ll be trying her for the same crime twice. An’ you can’t do that under the rule of double jeopardy.’

  ‘Haven’t you been listening?’ Marlowe demanded, irritably. ‘It’s the same crime, but a different charge.’

  ‘Even so, it’s splittin’ hairs a bit, isn’t it?’ Woodend said dubiously. ‘I’m almost sure that Judith Maitland’s lawyers will find some grounds on which to object.’

  ‘Well, of course her lawyers will find grounds on which to object, you bloody idiot. They’ll be submitting motions to the Court of Appeal as soon as they learn what we’re doing. And they won’t stop there. They’ll take it as high as the House of Lords, if they have to. And they might even win in the end.’

  ‘Then I don’t see—’

  ‘But that will take years. We’ll have all moved on by then – or, at least, I will. And do you think the general public will still care by that point? Of course not! They’ll have completely forgotten about it.’

  ‘But they’ll still remember you as the man who found a way to end the siege of the Cotton Credit Bank,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Well, exactly!’ Marlowe replied, pleased that the Chief Inspector had finally got the point.

  ‘It’s certainly very ingenious,’ Woodend admitted. ‘I don’t think I would ever have come up with anythin’ like that myself, even if I’d thought about it for a thousand years.’

  ‘Quite,’ Marlowe agreed. ‘And that, Chief Inspector, is why I’m sitting in this chair, and you are not.’

  ‘Yes, that must be the explanation,’ Woodend agreed.

  The taste of triumph in Henry Marlowe’s mouth was acquiring a slightly sour edge to it. For a moment, he wondered why that might be. And then he thought he knew.

  It was not at all like Woodend to give in so easily and – for him – so gracefully, he told himself. The obnoxious Chief Inspector had to at least believe he had one more card left to play.

  ‘Let’s have it!’ the Chief Constable said.

  ‘Have what, sir?’

  ‘You said that there were two flaws to what is – as you’ve admitted yourself – my very clever plan.’