A Death Left Hanging

by Sally Spencer

  Yet their relationship – if they could even be said to have one – wasn’t something that could be summed up using only cold, neutral facts. Though she was an only child herself, she felt a sort of bond with Hartley, which she could only imagine might resemble a relationship between siblings. Thus she could dislike Jane, and at the same time feel a strange sort of affection for her. She could resent the fact that Hartley was making the team jump through hoops, yet still experience a perverse, almost proprietorial, pride that the woman had the power to do so.

  It was very, very confusing – and Paniatowski wished it would all go away.

  When her bedside phone rang, Elizabeth Driver was attempting to sleep off a heavy early evening’s drinking session with her fellow hacks in the Coach and Horses, so it was scarcely surprising that her only response to the ringing was an irritated, ‘Yes?’ rasped into the mouthpiece.

  ‘That is Elizabeth Driver, isn’t it?’ asked her female caller. ‘The Elizabeth Driver? The crime reporter for the Daily Globe?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s calling?’ the journalist demanded.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met, but––’

  ‘If we’ve never met, then how the hell have you got hold of my number? The bloody thing’s unlisted!’

  ‘I have friends in some extremely influential places,’ her caller said, apparently unperturbed. ‘As I was saying before you interrupted me, I don’t think we’ve ever met, but I do know you by your reputation – as I’m sure you know me by mine.’

  The caller was either a crank or a potential goldmine of rich information – and if she’d been a crank she’d never have found where to ring. Driver’s fingers began to tingle, as they always did when she sensed a story in the making.

  ‘You still haven’t told me your name,’ the journalist said.

  ‘Haven’t I? It’s Jane Hartley.’

  ‘The QC?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Elizabeth Driver looked up towards heaven and mouthed a silent ‘thank you’. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Hartley?’ she asked aloud.

  ‘Has your paper gone to press yet?’

  Driver looked across at the bedside clock. A quarter to twelve. ‘No, as a matter of fact, it hasn’t. The first edition won’t be printed for another hour. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because if you can guarantee me front page coverage tomorrow, I’m prepared to give you an exclusive story.’

  The tingling in Driver’s fingers had become a positive electric shock. ‘Go on,’ she said, trying not to sound too eager.

  ‘I’m in Whitebridge, Lancashire,’ Jane Hartley said. ‘Do you know the place?’

  ‘Yes, I know it,’ Driver confirmed. ‘Why are you there? Why would anybody be there?’

  ‘I’m investigating what I believe to have been a miscarriage of justice in a murder case.’

  ‘Miscarriage of justice?’

  ‘I’m convinced that a woman who was hanged for murder nearly thirty years ago was innocent of the crime. I’ve handed over some fresh evidence to the police, and I’m not convinced they’re planning to take it seriously. But if you run it as a big story, they won’t have any choice, will they?’

  Elizabeth Driver felt the tingle start to drain away from her fingers.

  ‘I’m not sure I can run it as a big story,’ she said dubiously. ‘You see, to be on the front page of the Globe, it’s got to be something really special. The murder of a child, for example. Or a crime that involves somebody famous.’

  ‘Is Lord Eric Sharpe famous enough for you?’ Jane Hartley asked hopefully.

  Driver caught herself shaking her head. ‘Doubtful.’

  ‘You do know who he is?’

  ‘Yes, I know who he is. He’s the Home Office Minister in the House of Lords. The problem is, my readers won’t have heard of him. They don’t take much of an interest in politics.’

  There was silence from the other end of the line, but to Driver it was a telling silence.

  She’s not as confident as she likes to pretend she is, the reporter thought. Not even half as confident!

  ‘How about me?’ Jane Hartley asked reluctantly. ‘Will your readers know my name?’

  ‘Well, yes, you’re certainly famous enough,’ Driver said, feeling the tingle start to return. ‘We’ve done several big spreads on the trials you’ve been involved in. But in order for the story to fly at this stage of the proceedings, you’d still need to have a personal involvement with the case.’

  Another uncertain pause.

  ‘The woman who was hanged was my mother,’ Jane Hartley said tightly, as if she were forcing the words out of her mouth.

  Bloody hell fire! Elizabeth Driver thought. Bloody buggering hell fire! The story would certainly be a big one. It could even be huge.

  ‘You’d better give me some more details,’ she said, crisply. ‘What’s the name of the cop who’s supposed to be re-opening the case?’

  ‘His name is Chief Inspector Woodend.’

  ‘Cloggin’-it Charlie Woodend?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  Did she know Charlie Woodend? The man who had lost her her job at the Maltham Chronicle just because she’d muddied the waters of his investigation a little with her publicity stunt! The man who could have given her an exclusive on the Maddox Row case, but instead had chosen to treat her as if she were just another reporter.

  ‘Oh yes, I know him,’ she said. ‘Charlie and I have crossed swords any number of times.’

  ‘So you won’t mind if this story causes some unpleasantness between you and him?’

  Elizabeth Driver did not have to look in the mirror to know that she was smiling as broadly as the proverbial village idiot.

  ‘Mind?’ she said. ‘No, I won’t mind. Getting up Woodend’s nose will be the icing on the cake.’

  Eleven

  ‘Have either of you two seen this mornin’s Daily Globe?’ Woodend asked, shaking a copy of the offending paper at the other members of his team the moment they walked through his office door.

  Rutter shook his head, and Paniatowski said, ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Then sit down an’ be instructed,’ Woodend told them. He smoothed the crumpled paper out on the desk in front of him. ‘It starts with the headline, “QC DEMANDS JUSTICE FOR HER DEAD MOTHER!” an’ there’s a picture of Jane Hartley – complete with wig an’ gown – standin’ outside the Old Bailey.’

  He turned the paper around so that Rutter and Paniatowski could both look at it.

  ‘They’ll have pulled the photograph from their files,’ Rutter said. ‘It’s nothing to do with this story.’

  ‘No, but given how determined an’ serious she’s lookin’, it’s a perfect match for Elizabeth Driver’s purple prose,’ Woodend said. ‘Listen to this. “Bravely fightin’ back her tears, the normally fierce and formidable Jane Hartley, Britain’s battlin’ woman QC, told me last night of her struggle to finally set the record straight on her own mother’s execution. ‘The police failed to consider all the facts properly durin’ their first investigation, and I do not believe they are doin’ any better now,’ Miss Hartley said, with a catch in her throat’.” Got that! With a catch in her throat!’

  Rutter and Paniatowski nodded.

  ‘“I took her hand to comfort her”,’ Woodend continued, ‘“an’ felt the sorrow which she had kept imprisoned for so long flow from her body to mine.” Took her hand to comfort her!’ He swept the newspaper off his desk in disgust. ‘There’s several more paragraphs along the same lines, but you get the general idea.’

  ‘It didn’t happen quite like that, did it?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘No, it didn’t. Elizabeth Driver’s in London an’ Jane Hartley’s still in Whitebridge – so if there was any handholdin’ goin’ on, they must both have bloody long arms. But that’s not to say they haven’t spoken over the phone.’

  ‘It certainly reads as if it came straight from the horse’s mouth,’ Rutter said.

  ‘Aye, an’ it’s landed us st
raight in stuff that comes out of the other end of the horse,’ Woodend said. ‘Doesn’t Jane Hartley realize that in gettin’ this story printed she’s made our job – the job she wants done – all that much more difficult?’

  ‘And even more importantly – at least from a personal point of view – doesn’t she realize what the story will do to her own reputation?’ asked Rutter, who always tried to keep half an eye on his own career prospects, even as he willingly flew off on one of Woodend’s kamikaze missions.

  ‘Aye, this certainly could harm her,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘Harm her!’ Rutter said. ‘Harm her? It could ruin her! How many top solicitors will want to brief her as their barrister, knowing that her mother was hanged for murder? And how do you think the other members of her chambers will react? They’ll hate the publicity. They’ll probably vote to kick her out of the practice. What’s the matter with her? Doesn’t she care?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t care,’ Monika Paniatowski said, with an absolute certainty which took both Rutter and Woodend by surprise.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Monika?’ the Chief Inspector asked.

  ‘I mean exactly what I said. Jane Hartley doesn’t care if she loses her reputation. She doesn’t care if she loses her job. There’s something much more fundamental at stake for her here. She’s fighting a battle for her very survival – and the cornerstone of that battle is the investigation into her mother’s trial and execution. Whatever else she has to sacrifice, that investigation must go ahead.’

  A troubled frown came to Woodend’s brow.

  ‘Was there somethin’ significant that I missed durin’ our meetin’ with Miss Hartley?’ he asked. ‘Somethin’ you’ve been keepin’ back from me?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘An’ have you seen her again, on your own, since the three of us had that meetin’ the day before yesterday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why is that while I’m still at the stage of tryin’ to work out exactly what it is that makes her tick, you seem to think you’ve got right inside her head? Because you do think that, don’t you, Monika?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ said Paniatowski, looking as puzzled as a second-string runner who unexpectedly finds herself at the head of the pack.

  ‘An’ why is that? Because you’re both women?’

  Paniatowski shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think that’s the explanation.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paniatowski confessed. ‘I’d tell you if I did – but I really don’t.’ She thought for a second – searching the corners of her brain for some answer that would satisfy her boss. ‘Maybe it’s because we both lost our fathers when we were very young.’

  Woodend nodded, as if he was assured. But he wasn’t. Something very strange was going on with Monika – and he wished he knew what it was.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ he suggested. ‘Why did Jane Hartley choose this particular moment to go off on this crusade of hers, Monika?’

  Paniatowski consulted her notebook. ‘Strictly speaking, she didn’t. This is her second attempt to have the case re-opened. The first was when she’d just been admitted to the bar.’

  Woodend did a quick mental calculation. ‘But that was nearly twenty years ago. Why such a long gap between that first attempt an’ her second?’

  Paniatowski shrugged. ‘The first time she was a nobody, and so she got nowhere. Perhaps she learned a lesson from that, and didn’t try again until she was sure she had plenty of clout.’

  ‘But she’s had clout for years,’ Woodend said, unconvinced. ‘Remember how she got that French count acquitted of murderin’ his wife, even though there were his fingerprints on the gun and her blood on his clothes? What year would that be, Bob?’

  ‘’57, I think,’ Rutter supplied.

  ‘Right, well ever since 1957, everythin’ the woman’s done has been headline news. An’ that’s all the clout anybody needs.’ He lit up a cigarette and took a thoughtful drag. ‘There has to be somethin’ else that’s acted as a trigger to make her move on it now. Has anythin’ significant happened recently in her personal life, Monika?’

  Paniatowski consulted her notebook again. ‘Helen Hartley, the aunt who brought her up, died about six months ago.’

  ‘That’d be her father’s sister, would it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So bein’ Robert Hartley’s sister, she presumably lived locally?’

  Paniatowski shook her head. ‘She was living in Whitebridge at the time Fred Dodds was murdered. After Margaret Dodds’ death, she sold up and moved down south. To Hastings. I expect she wanted to take Jane as far away from the tragedy as possible.’

  ‘I expect she did,’ Woodend agreed. He turned to Rutter. ‘Have you got anythin’ interestin’ to report on the way Eric Sharpe carried out his investigation, Bob?’

  ‘Nothing that’s likely to please Jane Hartley,’ Rutter said.

  ‘By which you mean that you’ve not found any evidence which suggests that there might have been a cover-up?’

  ‘By which I mean just that,’ Rutter agreed. ‘The records of the investigation are not the most professional job I’ve ever seen, but they’re certainly one of the most comprehensive.’ He reached into his briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers, and laid them on the desk in front of Woodend. ‘Look at this.’

  It was an inventory of the contents of the living room of the house on Hebden Brow. Woodend quickly ran his eyes down the list.

  Packet of Embassy Cigarettes (three smoked, stubs in the ashtray – see below)

  Box of England’s Glory matches

  Ashtray (souvenir of Fleetwood)

  Ball of wool (light blue)

  Knitting needle

  Magazine (Woman,16th June)

  Daily Herald (1516th June), corner of page containing crossword ripped out

  Pair of pinking scissors

  One shilling and threepence (1/3d) recovered from back of sofa (sixpenny piece, threepenny piece, four pennies, four ha’pennies) . . .

  ‘The list goes on for another six pages,’ Rutter said. ‘It must have taken someone hours to compile.’

  ‘Aye, it must,’ Woodend replied. ‘An’ it’s just the sort of list I’d have compiled.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Definitely. Especially if I wanted to convince any future auditors that I’d been completely open – while at the same time I was tryin’ to hide a vital piece of evidence.’

  ‘The old needle in the haystack?’ Paniatowski suggested.

  ‘Aye, that’s it,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ the trick is to make sure your haystack is so bloody big that, rather than sift through it, the searcher’s likely to persuade himself the needle must be somewhere else.’

  ‘Is that meant to be a dig at me, sir?’ Rutter asked, sounding just a little offended.

  ‘Nay, lad,’ Woodend assured him. ‘I was speakin’ in general terms – of ordinary mortals. I’ve worked with you long enough to know that even if it looks like hay and feels like hay, you still won’t be convinced it is hay until you’ve found some horse that’s willin’ to eat it.’ He paused for a second. ‘Movin’ on again, I think it’s about time I told you about an old whippet fancier I talked to last night in the Red Lion.’

  Twelve

  Jane Hartley had awoken that morning with an Olympic-class hangover, but in the time it had taken her to read the career-suicide note she had dictated over the phone to Elizabeth Driver – and was now writ large on the front page of the Daily Globe – the waves of pain had already begun to ebb away.

  She glanced at the whisky bottle, still sitting comfortingly on her bedside table. It was tempting to speed up the process of her recovery by having just one drink – a hair of the dog that had bitten her – but she knew that once she started she wouldn’t be able to stop.

  She lit a cigarette and wondered how she would fill the time until the hour when it would be possible to persu
ade herself that it would be all right to have just one small Scotch. She could work, she supposed – she had a case bulging with briefs – but she was not sure whether her clients, having read the papers, would still want her to represent them. Besides, for the first time in twenty years she did not feel like doing any work. The problem was, though, that she didn’t feel like doing anything else, either.

  She found herself thinking about Aunt Helen. She had really loved that woman. It had been Helen who had comforted her when she’d fallen down and grazed her knee, Helen who had encouraged her to apply for Oxford, Helen who had shared her joy when Ralph had proposed – and the heartbreak when the marriage collapsed. In so many ways, her aunt had been as much of a mother as any little girl had the right to expect.

  Yet . . . yet there had somehow always been a wall between them. It hadn’t been a wall of her making – Jane was sure of that. No, it was Aunt Helen who had – carefully and deliberately – built the wall herself.

  And why? For what purpose?

  Because Helen had not dared to let her niece see her as she really was?

  Because somewhere beneath that soft, gentle exterior a monster had been hunkering down?

  Jane had tried so many ways to breech that wall. And when that had failed, she had attempted – with her questions – to at least see over the top of it.

  ‘Are you glad I came to live with you, Auntie Helen?’

  ‘Of course I am, my little pet.’

  ‘Then why do you look so sad?’

  ‘I’m thinking of your mummy, I suppose. Thinking what a pity it is that she should never have had the joy of seeing you grow up.’

  ‘Was my mummy a bad person?’

  ‘No, of course she wasn’t.’

  ‘Then why did she have to die?’

  ‘You shouldn’t think about it, Jane. It will drive you mad if you think about it. It will drive us both mad!’

  The more she had questioned, the higher and thicker the wall had seemed to grow. And so Helen had died with the mystery still unsolved – the barrier still in place.

  Jane remembered the sense of grief that had overwhelmed her as she stood by her aunt’s grave. She had mourned not just for what she had lost, but for what had never really been hers to lose – what had been denied to her even before she could take full possession of it.