A Death Left Hanging

by Sally Spencer

  She had been entitled to a mother who would stay with her until she was ready to fly the nest. She had been entitled to an aunt who was not driven mainly by the fear of intimacy. These things had been stolen from her!

  She wondered where the thief was now. Wondered if he had read the morning papers and finally understood that she was as determined to destroy his life as he had been to destroy hers.

  Lord Sharpe crossed the central concourse of Euston Station with a copy of that morning’s Daily Globe in his hand.

  The bitch! he thought. The bloody vindictive bitch!

  He understood revenge. He was something of an expert in it himself. But what he could not even begin to understand was the kind of revenge that would also ruin the person taking it.

  The woman must be mad. There was no other explanation for it.

  He passed the WH Smith’s newspaper stall, and saw the tall stack of Daily Globe’s waiting to be sold. He scanned the station, tried to estimate how many of his fellow passengers had already bought the filthy rag, and decided there was a depressingly large number of them.

  His thoughts travelled back to the conversation he had had with the government chief whip earlier that morning. The whip had looked across his desk with eyes that showed kindly concern. Sharpe had not been fooled. He knew the whip for what he really was – a man whose task was to clean up other people’s messes, a pest controller posing as a kindly uncle.

  ‘This really is rather unfortunate, Eric,’ the whip had said.

  ‘I know,’ Sharpe had replied, in the voice of an errant schoolboy brought up before the stern headmaster.

  ‘Your work for the party has earned you at least a minor place in the history of this century. It would be a great pity to lose that – to feature only in the gallery of infamy – would it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your conscience clear, Eric?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘None of what I’ve read in the papers is true? There is nothing reprehensible in your investigation of the Margaret Dodds case?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The whip had favoured him with a ghostly, thin smile. ‘Then go up to Whitebridge, Eric. Bury this thing before it buries you.’

  And that was what he was doing on Euston Station. Going up to bloody Whitebridge. Trying to bury this thing before it buried him.

  As he walked towards the ticket barrier, he let his mind rove over the pitfalls that might lie ahead.

  It was possible, of course, that the new investigating team would have found nothing they could use against him. More than possible – because even in his headlong rush for a seat in parliament, he had still taken the time to pause and cover his tracks.

  On the other hand, what he had learned from his contacts at the Yard about this bugger Charlie Woodend inclined him to take a more pessimistic view.

  So what was the worst Woodend and his team could come up with, and how might he deal with it?

  Witnesses like Brunskill – the toe-rag who claimed to have seen Margaret Dodds outside St Mary’s Church – might have been a problem a few years ago, but the chances were that they were all either dead or gaga now.

  The physical evidence, what little there had been, could only work in his favour.

  So, the real danger didn’t come from anything he had done, so much as from the things he had chosen not to do. And there were enough of those around to land him in a sticky situation.

  Like the dead coalman, he thought with a shudder. He hoped to Christ they hadn’t found out about the dead coalman!

  Thirteen

  Woodend stood in the toilet stall, draining his bladder and thinking about a course he had once attended in the police college at Hendon.

  He was remembering one particular lecture given by a chief superintendent who had appeared on television so many times that he could almost have been called a celebrity. In his lecture, this chief superintendent had chosen to compare the task of a senior detective involved in a major criminal investigation with that of a chef preparing a meal.

  ‘Both must deal with a number of ingredients which seem to have no value on their own,’ the man had said. ‘Both must be able to see how these ingredients can be blended together to produce the desired result – in the chef’s case a culinary masterpiece, in our case a solution to a crime.’

  Most of the audience had loved the analogy, and had applauded furiously at the end of the lecture. Woodend himself had been far from impressed, because though the concept had the advantage of appealing simplicity, that very simplicity was also, it seemed to him, a serious flaw.

  For a start, he had argued later with his colleagues in the pub, the chef not only knew exactly what it was he wished to make, but also which ingredients would be required for the task. The bobby, on the other hand, was aware that some kind of dish would ultimately have to be produced, but he had no idea what it would look or smell like – or even which of the many ingredients he had been given he would eventually use.

  This current case – the Fred Dodds murder – was a good example of what he’d been saying back then, he thought as he washed his hands vigorously in the sink. Was the stuff that the team had already gathered up going to be of any use – or were they still at the stage of starting to cook their omelette without having any eggs?

  He walked back down the corridor to his office. Paniatowski and Rutter were sitting just where he had left them, as silent as two people who didn’t speak each other’s languages and were waiting for the interpreter to arrive.

  Woodend slid behind his desk. ‘Well, based on what I was told in the pub last night, do we now have a clearer picture of Margaret Dodds than we had yesterday?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Rutter said.

  ‘Then tell us what your impression is.’

  Rutter nodded. ‘I think the best way to express it is to say that if Margaret Dodds had been a man, she’d have been the kind of man who didn’t know how to keep his trousers buttoned.’

  ‘If she had been a man, you’d never have made that comment,’ Paniatowski said sharply. ‘Either you wouldn’t have cared how she behaved, or you’d have admired her for it. It’s only because she was a woman that you object to her having a lover.’

  ‘A lover!’ Rutter repeated, clearly stung by her comments. ‘We’re not talking about a lover here, Sergeant Paniatowski. From what the boss has told us, it appears to have been common knowledge around Whitebridge that she was having an affair with Fred Dodds while she was still married to Robert Hartley––’

  ‘Truly a scarlet woman!’ Paniatowski said. ‘Seems to me that hanging was too good for her!’

  ‘And that the ink on her second wedding certificate was barely dry before she was betraying Dodds with someone else,’ Rutter said, ignoring the interruption. ‘That’s two lovers we’re pretty sure of already, and I’d be willing to bet that we’ll uncover a few more during the course of the investigation. The woman just couldn’t seem to get enough of it.’

  ‘Are you really as obsessed with sex as you sound?’ Paniatowski asked, an angry edge to her voice.

  ‘Monika!’ Woodend cautioned.

  ‘Well, is he?’ Paniatowski demanded. ‘Are you, Inspector?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Rutter said. ‘But your friend Margaret Dodds certainly seems to have been.’

  Paniatowski shook her head in exasperation.

  ‘That’s complete bollocks!’ she said. ‘And I’ll tell you why. Firstly, it’s bollocks because, despite what you’ve just said, we have no actual proof that Margaret had any affairs. Secondly, it’s bollocks because even if you are right about what she did, you may well be wrong about why she did it. Lust isn’t the only thing that can drive a woman into a man’s arms, you know.’

  A slight, uncharacteristic sneer played on Rutter’s lips. ‘You’re surely not suggesting she did it for money, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m bloody not!’ Paniatowski retorted. ‘I’m suggesting that in a lot of affairs there
’s an element of comfort – at least on the woman’s part. If Margaret was seeing another man just before Fred was murdered, then perhaps it was because she was finding life with her husband unbearable.’

  ‘And what about Robert? Did she find life with him unbearable, too? If she did, it doesn’t say much for her choice in husbands.’

  ‘Some women do make bad choices,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘That doesn’t mean they have to be either nymphomaniacs or prostitutes.’

  ‘But it doesn’t exclude them from those categories, either,’ Rutter pointed out.

  ‘I’m glad I don’t see life through your eyes,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘I really am!’

  Any minute now, one of two things were going to happen, Woodend thought. Either Rutter would say something he’d really regret later – or Paniatowski would decide to find out just how easy it was to choke the life from a man who had considerable height and weight advantage over her.

  ‘I think we’re goin’ a bit off track here,’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘Let’s assume for the moment that this second lover does, in fact, exist. What are the chances that he was the one who topped Fred Dodds?’

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ Rutter conceded. ‘Perhaps the lover came around to the house and asked Dodds to set Margaret free. They had an argument and the lover, in a rage, killed Dodds with his own hammer.’

  ‘And Margaret – the nymphomaniac – just stood there and watched it, I suppose,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Perhaps she wasn’t there,’ Rutter replied. ‘Perhaps at least that part of her story was true, and she really did go out for a walk.’

  ‘So she comes back to the house either in the middle of the attack, or just at the end of it?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘That’s right. And the reason she waits before calling the police is to give her lover time to get away.’

  ‘The lover – if he existed – had no need to ask for Margaret’s freedom,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Fred had already told his friends that he was thinking of divorcing her.’

  ‘But if he did that, she wouldn’t get the money,’ Rutter countered.

  ‘Money’s no good to a dead woman,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Maybe she thought she could get away with it.’

  ‘As Jane Hartley herself pointed out, her mother wasn’t a stupid woman,’ Woodend said. ‘She’d have known it was too big a risk.’

  ‘Then maybe she wasn’t the one who made the decision to run it,’ argued Rutter, unwilling to give up the theory without a struggle. ‘Maybe the lover did kill Fred for the money, but without consulting Margaret first. That would explain why the only thing she would say in her statement was, “I didn’t kill him.” She didn’t! The lover did!’

  ‘She didn’t kill Fred, but she took the blame for his death?’ Paniatowski asked sceptically.

  ‘Yes! Because she loved the man too much to give him up to the police.’

  ‘Five minutes ago you were saying the only thing she was interested in was sex, now you’re saying she was willing to die for love! I wish you’d make your mind up.’

  ‘What about other suspects?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘You mean Cuthburtson and Bithwaite?’ Rutter said.

  ‘Aye, they’ll do for a start,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Cuthburtson may have had a grudge against Dodds for kickin’ him out of the business, an’ Bithwaite certainly benefited from his death.’

  ‘But in 1934 Bithwaite was only the chief clerk,’ Monika Paniatowski said. ‘Would he have been able to run a car on his salary?’

  ‘You’re thinkin’ about the two cars that your mate Mrs Fortesque says stopped in front of the house on the night of the murder?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It might be a lead, but it might just as easily be a red herrin’,’ Woodend said. ‘Maybe Mrs Fortesque was wrong about the time when the cars stopped. Maybe she was wrong about the day. An’ even if she got the day an’ the time right, perhaps they didn’t stop in front of the Doddses’ house at all, but another house a little further down the road.’

  ‘Even so, there should be a record of them,’ Rutter said, giving his reluctant backing to Paniatowski.

  ‘An’ there isn’t?’

  ‘I’ve only had time to skim through the documentation so far, but I think that if there’d have been any report on a couple of cars, I’d have noticed it.’

  ‘There certainly should be a report,’ Woodend mused, ‘because Mrs Fortesque is quite adamant that she told the police, isn’t she, Monika?’

  But Paniatowski was staring at the wall, and if she heard what he said she gave no indication of it.

  ‘Are you with us, Monika?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘I . . . uh . . . what?’

  ‘You want to tell us what’s on your mind?’

  ‘I was thinking over my interview with Mrs Fortesque. I’ve got this uneasy feeling that there’s something important I missed out on – something about the cars. The problem is, I can’t quite pin it down.’

  ‘You’ve got your notes, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t make them during the interview, because I thought that would put Mrs Fortesque off.’

  ‘So when did you make them?’

  ‘As soon as I’d left the Fortesques’ house, I sat in the car and wrote down everything I could remember. But even at that time, I got the feeling that there was something else I should have been including.’

  ‘You best plan is just to forget about it for the moment,’ Woodend advised. ‘Give your brain some quiet time, an’ it’ll probably work it out on its own.’ He lit up a cigarette. ‘Now where was I?’

  ‘You were talking about the cars,’ Rutter prompted.

  ‘Aye, the cars. We still don’t know how much – or how little – faith we can put in Eric Sharpe’s records. But if there really is no mention of the two vehicles in any of his reports, then it’d probably be best to take everythin’ he says with a very large pinch of salt.’ He paused to take a drag on his Capstan. ‘But enough of that for the moment,’ he continued. ‘Have either of you got any plans for this afternoon? A game of tennis, perhaps? Or maybe just a quiet ramble in the countryside?’

  Rutter and Paniatowski grinned, as he’d intended them to.

  ‘I thought I’d drive over to Simcaster,’ Rutter said.

  ‘Oh aye? An’ what’s brought on this sudden yearnin’ for an expedition into foreign parts?’

  ‘It’s where Fred Dodds was brought up. I might be able to fill in a few of the gaps we have in his background.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Woodend agreed. ‘What about you, Monika?’

  ‘I’ll be doing my background check on Margaret Dodds.’

  ‘An’ where will that take you?’

  ‘To Blakebrook. Her father was the vicar there.’

  ‘Join the modern police force an’ see the world,’ Woodend said. ‘Right, you’d better get on with it then.’

  Rutter and Paniatowski rose to their feet and were almost at the door when Woodend said, ‘Actually, Monika, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me just a couple of minutes more of your time.’

  Rutter stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him, and Paniatowski returned to her seat.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ the sergeant said.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘What was what all about?’

  ‘You know very well,’ Woodend told her. ‘What made you have a go at Inspector Rutter?’

  ‘You’ve always told us we should speak our minds on this team,’ Paniatowski reminded him. ‘You said that the fact we could have a proper argument with the gloves off was what made us good.’

  ‘A proper argument about the case, Monika,’ Woodend said softly. ‘But that wasn’t what you were doin’. You were takin’ ever opportunity you could to have a pop at Bob.’

  ‘He makes me sick!’

  ‘A lot of people make me sick, but when they outrank me, I have enough common sense to hold my tongue.’ He paused
. ‘Well, usually I have, anyway,’ he added honestly.

  ‘So when it comes down to it, you’re just like all the others,’ Paniatowski said bitterly. ‘An inspector’s worth more than a sergeant simply because he’s an inspector.’

  ‘An’ now you’re takin’ a pop at me,’ Woodend said. ‘Would you like me to tell you what I think the real problem is?’

  ‘Why ask my permission? You’re the boss. If you want to talk, then I have to listen.’

  ‘Maybe I’d better start by tellin’ you what the problem isn’t,’ Woodend said, ignoring the insubordination. ‘It isn’t Inspector Rutter. Bob may be a bit conservative for your taste – sometimes he’s a bit conservative for mine – but he’s a good bobby, an’ you bloody know it. It isn’t your workin’ relationship with him, either. You’re not a match made in heaven, but you’ve cracked enough cases together to know that you can be a good team when you want to be. So what is the problem?’

  ‘I thought you were about to tell me. That’s why I’m sitting here with bated breath and my tongue hanging out.’

  ‘The problem is this case. Or rather, the way you’re approachin’ this case. You’re gettin’ far too involved.’

  ‘You used to say that a good bobby always gets involved.’

  ‘I still say it. A good bobby always wants to see justice done, but it shouldn’t be cold, blind justice. He should always hold on to his humanity. That’s not what’s happenin’ here, Monika. You’ve stopped bein’ the sympathetic outsider who’s just lookin’ in – the audience of one who’s tryin’ to make sense of the plot. You’ve stepped on to the stage, an’ you’re startin’ to behave like one of the actors.’

  ‘Now that is clever,’ Paniatowski said in mock admiration. ‘No wonder you’re a chief inspector.’

  ‘If you carry on like this, you’re headin’ for a fall,’ Woodend said. ‘I’ll protect you for as long as I can, but there’s only so much that even I can do. Do you understand what I’m sayin’, Monika? Try to take a step back from this case. An’ when you start walkin’ again, for God’s sake tread carefully.’