‘With the assumption that Margaret Dodds was telling the truth,’ Paniatowski said. ‘That she was out of the house, taking a walk, when her husband was murdered.’
‘Was the murderer hopin’ that she’d take the blame?’ Woodend asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Rutter said. ‘Then again, it might never have entered his head that she would be arrested – but once she was arrested, he certainly wasn’t going to stick his own neck in the noose just to keep hers out of it.’
‘He?’ Woodend said. ‘What makes you think it was a man?’
Rutter picked up his leather briefcase, and flicked open the catch. ‘These are what made me think it,’ he said, laying a number of photographs out on the table. ‘I found them in the investigation file.’
Woodend looked down at the pictures of the dead man and then whistled softly. ‘Bloody hell fire, Bob!’ he said. ‘Fred Dodds wasn’t so much attacked as mashed!’
It was hardly an exaggeration. What they were looking at was only identifiable as a face by the fact that it had hair on top and was attached to the rest of the body by a neck. Though it was impossible to say exactly how many blows had been struck with the hammer, the assault appeared to have been both sustained and relentless.
‘So the reason you assume the attacker must have been a man is that you don’t think a woman would have had the strength?’ Woodend asked Rutter. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I disagree,’ Paniatowski said.
Rutter shot her a look that carried with it not only his customary dislike of her but also the implication that the only reason she disagreed was because the suggestion had come from him.
Woodend sighed. He still harboured some small hope that Rutter and Paniatowski would eventually learn to get on, but the longer they worked together, the less likely that seemed. Rutter saw Paniatowski’s approach to policing as slapdash and buccaneer, Paniatowski saw Rutter’s as clerical and bureaucratic. Neither was fair to the other – though there was a grain of truth in both their criticisms – and neither seemed willing to grasp the point that it was the very diversity of the team which made it so effective. They disliked each other, and that was that. And they would all have to learn to live with it as best they could.
‘What makes you think it could have been a woman, Monika?’ Woodend asked, returning to the immediate problem.
‘Dodds must have been dead long before he ended up in that state,’ Paniatowski said. ‘And even the murderer – if he or she had stopped to think about it – should have realized that.’
‘So?’
‘The fact that the murderer didn’t stop to think shows it was a frenzied attack. And when people lose control like this killer obviously did, they can summon up reserves of strength they didn’t even know they had.’
‘Bob?’ Woodend asked.
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Rutter conceded.
‘So we’re lookin’ for a man or a woman who really hated Dodds,’ Woodend said. ‘Of course, that could point the finger straight back at his missus.’
‘But it doesn’t have to,’ Paniatowski countered.
‘No,’ Woodend agreed. ‘It doesn’t have to. Did you find anythin’ besides the photographs in the investigation file, Bob?’
‘A surprising amount,’ Rutter said. ‘I’ve not had time to go through the whole thing yet, but I thought you might find this interesting.’
The ‘this’ he referred to was a transcript of Margaret Dodds’ interview with Chief Inspector Eric Sharpe. Holding it so Paniatowski could read it as well, Woodend ran his eyes over the sheet of typewritten paper.
DCI Sharpe: Before we begin, can you confirm that you’ve been cautioned and advised that you have the right to have a lawyer present?
Margaret Dodds: Yes, I can confirm that.
DCI: Would you please tell me where you were between the hours of seven thirty and nine o’clock this evening.
MD: I went for a walk.
DCI: Where did you go?
MD: I don’t know. I was deep in thought. I didn’t notice where I was going.
DCI: What were you thinking about?
MD: Personal matters.
DCI: What personal matters?
MD: I’d prefer not to say.
DCI: You do realize you’ve been charged with murder, don’t you?
MD: Yes, I do. But I’d still prefer not to say.
DCI: Did anybody see you on this ‘walk’ of yours?
MD: I have no idea.
DCI: What happened when you got home?
MD: I found my husband dead on the lounge floor.
DCI: Found him dead? You didn’t kill him yourself?
MD: No.
DCI: You didn’t pick up the hammer and smash his skull in?
MD: I’ve already said I didn’t kill him.
DCI: There was blood all over your dress. We found your prints on the hammer!
MD: I didn’t kill him. And it doesn’t matter how many questions you ask me, or how often you ask them, that’s the only answer you’ll get from me. I didn’t kill him.
‘What do you make of that, Monika?’ Woodend asked.
‘I think DCI Sharpe certainly wasn’t doing his job as it should have been done.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘He was far too blunt. Far too direct. He was supposed to be building a case. He should have been trying to make his suspect open up to him – getting her to give him all the information she could, so he could tie up the loose ends. And he simply wasn’t doing that.’
‘The printed word always looks cold and heartless,’ Woodend pointed out. ‘Maybe if you’d been there yourself – heard the tone of his voice – seen the look on his face––’
‘No interrogation that you’ve ever conducted would read anything like that,’ Paniatowski interrupted.
‘The sergeant’s right,’ Rutter agreed reluctantly. ‘Based on the evidence of this transcript, I’d have to say that Sharpe wasn’t looking for answers.’
‘Then what was he doin’?’
‘The very opposite. He was trying to make Margaret Dodds retreat into herself.’
‘An’ why would he want to do that?’
‘Because he didn’t want his nice neat case spoiled by the accused opening her mouth too much and starting to sound innocent?’
Woodend nodded gloomily.
‘It’s looking less and less likely that we’re goin’ to find the convenient solution to this case, isn’t it, sir?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘What’s lookin’ most likely is that we’ll end up with the worst of both worlds – provin’ that Sharpe didn’t do his job, but not havin’ a clue as to what really did happen that night.’ He took a long swig of his pint. ‘Still, we’ll have to soldier on as best we can,’ he continued stoically.
‘And how big is our army?’ Rutter asked.
Woodend grinned, slightly awkwardly. ‘You’re lookin’ at it, lad.’
‘Just us!’
‘That’s right.’
‘But this is a murder inquiry!’ Rutter protested.
‘So they tell me. But we’ve cracked murders before usin’ just the three of us.’
‘Yes, but they’ve been recent murders. This one’s thirty years old. The trail’s so cold that––’
‘That you could use it to chill Monika’s vodka,’ Woodend interrupted. ‘I know. An’ believe me, if I thought they’d give me any more men, I’d ask for them. But Mr Marlowe’s as likely to give me a bigger team as he is to nominate me for Pope. So you’ll just have to double up – take on two or three jobs each.’
Paniatowski and Rutter exchanged glances that could almost have been called mutually sympathetic, but Woodend had no illusions that common adversity would keep them united for long.
‘The main thrust of all our investigations will be into Fred Dodds’ background,’ the Chief Inspector continued. ‘If there’s anybody out there who would have taken a special pleasure in his dea
th, we need to know about them. Now the additional tasks. Bob, I want you to go through the records of the police investigation an’ the trial with a fine-toothed comb. I want to know which of the witnesses we should be questionin’ again . . .’
‘If they’re still alive,’ Rutter said.
‘Well, there won’t be much use talking to them if they’re dead,’ Woodend said dryly. ‘In addition, we need to know which of DCI Sharpe’s conclusions are worth a second examination. Got that?’
Rutter nodded. It was the kind of painstaking work he was good at, and – though he would never have admitted it – rather enjoyed.
‘Monika, I want you to come up with as much of the background as you can on Margaret Dodds an’ her two husbands. An’ while you’re at it, see what you can discover about Jane Hartley QC.’
‘Why her?’ Monika Paniatowski asked. ‘She was only a kid at the time of Dodds’ death.’
‘But she’s not a kid now,’ Woodend pointed out. ‘She’s a powerful woman with a lot of clout in all the right places. Whether we like it or not, she’s the one we’re actually workin’ for – an’ I always think it’s a good idea to find out as much as I can about my boss.’
‘Fair point,’ Paniatowski agreed.
‘What about you, sir?’ Rutter asked, doing his best to keep a slight smile of anticipation from creeping to his lips.
‘What about me?’ Woodend countered.
‘Will you be doubling up on anything?’
‘As a matter of fact, I will. I was brought up on gramophone records as big as hubcaps, an’ tea that was so strong you could stand your spoon up in it. You two young sprogs, on the other hand, are more used to 45 rpm discs an’ your frothy coffee. The world in which this case occurred is so alien to you that it’s no more than a blank canvas at the moment. The deeper you get into the investigation, of course, the clearer the picture you’ll have of how the central characters thought an’ acted. But the background will still be empty. It’ll be my job to fill that background in. Only I can’t do that for the pair of you until I’ve regained some of my own feelin’ for the time, now can I?’
‘I suppose not,’ Rutter agreed.
‘So that’s what I’ll be doin’ in my spare time – attemptin’ to regain a feelin’ for the time.’
Rutter gave up the battle to hide his smile. ‘In other words, what you’ll be doing is “cloggin’-it” around Whitebridge, trying your best to remember just what life was like here before the war?’ he suggested.
‘Exactly!’ Woodend agreed.
Five
The brass plate next to the front door read:
Peninsula Trading Company Ltd
Founded 1923
Branches in Whitebridge, London
Penang and Kuala Lumpur
Woodend chuckled. Whitebridge, then London, he noted. That was typical of the businessmen he remembered from his childhood. It wasn’t that they had thought their home town to be the centre of the universe – it was that they had known it was.
Woodend turned to his sergeant. ‘I suppose we’d better see if anybody’s in, Monika,’ he said.
Paniatowski nodded. She pressed the doorbell, and listened for a ringing from inside. When it was plain there wasn’t going to be one, she lifted the knocker and rapped on the door. This time she was rewarded with the sound of slightly hesitant footfalls in the corridor.
The door was opened by a man in his late sixties. He might once have had the lean and hungry face of a hard-bitten entrepreneur, but age had given him both the shape and expression of a rather absent-minded Santa Claus.
‘Yes?’ the old man asked, as if he were slightly surprised to find them standing there.
‘We’re here to see Mr Bithwaite,’ Paniatowski said.
‘That’s me.’
‘If it’s not convenient at the moment, then we can––’ Paniatowski began.
‘But of course it’s convenient,’ the old man said enthusiastically. ‘More than convenient. Do come in.’
‘Don’t you want to know who we are, or why we’re here?’ Woodend wondered.
‘I suppose so,’ Bithwaite said, and then – as if he were worried such an answer may have offended them – he quickly added, ‘at least, I want to know if you want to tell me.’
‘We’re from the police,’ Woodend said. ‘We’d like to talk to you about Fred Dodds.’
A puzzled look crossed Bithwaite’s rosy face. ‘Fred Dodds?’ he repeated. ‘But he’s been dead for years.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, why not talk about old Fred? It will certainly help to pass the time.’
He led them into an office just to the left of the front door. A big, old-fashioned mahogany desk – badly in need of polishing – dominated much of the room. On the wall behind it hung a map of the world that showed boundaries long since redrawn and empires that had faded away. The air smelled slightly of must, and the sun, which streamed in through the window, was muted somewhat by the thin layer of grime on the window.
Two small leather armchairs, both of them losing a little of their horsehair stuffing, were positioned in front of the desk, and it was on these that Bithwaite bade his guests to sit.
‘I’d order up some coffee for you, but I’m afraid my girl Friday only comes in two days a week – and this doesn’t happen to be one of those days,’ he said apologetically.
‘I take it business isn’t doin’ too well,’ said Woodend sympathetically.
Bithwaite smiled. ‘If business was going any slower, it would be moving in reverse. The sort of work we used to do before the war has been gradually taken over by the big corporations. There’s no room in this world of ours for a Merchant Prince any more. You’d have to be a Merchant Emperor to survive now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Woodend said.
‘Don’t be,’ the older man told him. ‘I did well enough before the war. Even up to the middle fifties I was making a comfortable living. And I have a very nice little nest-egg tucked away for when I do eventually retire.’
‘Then why are you . . .?’
‘Why am I still working?’
‘Well . . . yes.’
‘Because I still enjoy it, I suppose. This place may not look like much now, but it’s a monument to my working life and, sitting here behind my desk, I can remember how things used to be. And that is what you wish to talk about, isn’t it? How things used to be?’
Woodend grinned good-naturedly. ‘That’s right, sir. What can you tell us about Fred Dodds?’
‘Oh, I could tell you many things,’ Bithwaite said. ‘Where would you like me to start?’
‘How about when you first met him?’
‘That would be when he and his partner interviewed me for the post of Chief Clerk, towards the end of 1923.’
‘His partner?’ Woodend said. ‘I don’t remember readin’ anythin’ about a partner in the papers.’
‘That’s because, by the time Mr Dodds died, the partnership between him and Mr Cuthburtson had been dissolved for over three years.’
‘Is that so?’ Woodend asked pensively.
‘It is indeed. The break-up came as quite a surprise – at least, it did to me.’
‘An’ why was that?’
‘They’d seemed ideally matched, you see. Mr Cuthburtson was a staid, unimaginative sort of man, with both feet firmly on the ground. Mr Dodds, on the other hand, had a certain flair – a certain cavalier attitude – about him.’
‘Wasn’t that a problem?’
‘No, not at all. In fact, it was a positive advantage. You needed both kinds of men in the sort of business this was back then.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Well, for example, Mr Cuthburtson hated the idea of travel. He had a young family, which he wanted to get home to every night. Besides, he was always at his happiest dealing with the detailed paperwork – he loved reading all those columns of figures. Mr Dodds was just the reverse – hated figures, was prepared to pack a suitcase at the drop of a hat. A perfect partnership in many way
s. And what made the eventual break-up even more surprising was that they weren’t just partners – they were great friends as well.’
‘Great friends?’
‘Absolutely. Of course, they both had their own lives to lead, but that didn’t preclude them socializing with each other. Mr Dodds was living on his own at the time, and so Mr Cuthburtson used to invite him round to his house every Sunday for luncheon. And in return, Mr Dodds would take the entire Cuthburtson family out on occasional expeditions to the seaside or the Lake District.’
‘So if everythin’ was so tickety-boo, why did the partnership break up?’ Woodend asked.
‘I never found out,’ Bithwaite confessed. ‘As I said, it was all very sudden. One moment everything was going along swimmingly. The next they were not only dissolving their agreement – they couldn’t even stand the sight of one another. They even went so far as to refuse to be in the same room when the final papers were signed.’
‘You must have some suspicions about what went wrong,’ Woodend persisted.
‘Not really,’ Bithwaite replied. ‘The best theory I could come up with was that Mr Cuthburtson was fiddling the books in some way, and Mr Dodds found out about it. But since Mr Dodds never took any interest in the accounts himself, it’s hard to see how he could have found out.’
‘Still, from what you say, if anybody did force anybody else out of the business, it was Dodds forcin’ out Cuthburtson,’ Woodend said.
‘Yes, I think I’d have to agree with you there.’
So Cuthburtson loses the business he’s helped to establish, and a couple of years later Fred Dodds is found beaten to death by somebody who obviously hated his guts, Woodend thought. He wondered if there was anything in DCI Sharpe’s records about that.
‘Do you happen to know where Cuthburtson lives now?’ asked Paniatowski, whose mind seemed to be running along roughly the same lines.
A Death Left Hanging Page 5
