A Death Left Hanging

by Sally Spencer

  Again, Paniatowski found the right words would not come. She was suddenly out of her depth, she realized. Here, in this room full of decaying memories, she was drowning.

  ‘You probably know why I’m here, Miss Hill,’ she said, desperate to buy herself a little time in which to pull herself together again.

  ‘Know why you’re here? Whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, it’s been in all the papers that––’

  ‘I don’t read the papers.’

  ‘And it’s been on the wireless.’

  ‘I don’t listen to the wireless, either. Why should I? They hold nothing of interest for me.’ Dorothy Hill paused. ‘You hold nothing of interest for me, either – but at least, like a leaking tap or a sticking window, you help to break up the monotony of the day.’

  She was so cold, Paniatowski thought. So cold – and yet so vulnerable.

  ‘We’re re-opening the investigation into the murder of Fredrick Dodds,’ the sergeant said softly. ‘We believe your brother was a friend of his. Possibly his only friend.’

  Dorothy Hill shook her head sadly. ‘Poor Sidney,’ she said. ‘Even in death, he’s still coming second to Freddie.’

  ‘You knew Fred Dodds, did you?’

  ‘Yes, I knew him.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was the Prince of Darkness. A fiend who, having no soul of his own, was driven to suck the souls out of others.’

  ‘How exactly was Fred Dodds a fiend?’ Paniatowski probed.

  ‘I won’t tell you that. I wouldn’t if you were to rip out my fingernails and thrust burning brands into my eyes.’

  ‘But surely, if you feel––’

  ‘Sidney died to purge himself of evil. It is not for me to resurrect it now. I will take his secret with me to the grave. Even before the Judgement Seat itself, I will maintain my silence.’

  She meant it, Paniatowski thought. If any more information were to be extracted from this woman who was old before her time, it would have to be done through extreme stealth.

  ‘Your brother was killed in a railway accident, wasn’t he?’ she said.

  ‘His death was no accident. And I should know. I saw him die with my own eyes.’

  ‘You saw it!’

  ‘Isn’t that what I said?’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘He was killed by a train.’

  ‘I know. But how did you come to see it?’

  ‘I caught a severe chill shortly after my ninth birthday,’ Dorothy Hill said, her voice now as flat and toneless as if she were reading aloud from a telephone directory. ‘I was in bed for over a week, and even when the doctor allowed me to get up, it was only for a few hours a day. Then, one bright sunny morning, my father announced that it was time that I started going out in the fresh air again. He would have taken me himself, he said, but he had church matters to attend to.’ She paused. ‘He always had church matters to attend to. Being a bishop meant something important in those days – much more than it does now – and my father so desperately wanted to become one himself. But you weren’t going to be elevated to a bishop’s throne if you were merely a part-time priest. You were expected to sacrifice everything to your work – and “everything” included your family.’

  Her questions were opening old wounds, Paniatowski thought, but she wasn’t sure they were the wounds she needed to open.

  ‘Your father was too busy,’ she prompted. ‘Did he suggest that Sidney should take you for your walk?’

  ‘Suggest!’ Dorothy Hill echoed. ‘Did your father ever suggest things to you?’

  ‘I never knew my father,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I was brought up by my mother.’

  ‘By your mother only?’

  ‘At first,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Later on, I had a stepfather.’

  And if I knew where he was buried, I’d go to his grave and spit on it, she added mentally.

  ‘My father spoke with the voice of God,’ Dorothy Hill said. ‘And he had the wrath of God to back up those words of his. Sidney didn’t want to take me for a walk. He didn’t want to be in my company at all. He would gladly have done almost anything else instead. But he was given no choice.’

  ‘How old was Sidney at this time?’

  ‘He was sixteen.’

  ‘And still at school?’

  ‘Yes. It was planned that he should take his school certificate, then go to university. He’d read religion once he was up, of course, and after he graduated he’d join the Anglican priesthood.’

  ‘You said, “it was planned” rather than “he planned”. Why?’

  ‘Do I really need to tell you that?’ Dorothy Hill asked disdainfully. ‘If you truly are so dull and insensitive that you can’t keep track of the story even at this point, then I don’t think I will waste my time by telling you any more of it.’

  I’m losing her! Paniatowski thought. I’m bloody losing her!

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said aloud. ‘I do know. I do see what you mean.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘It’s my police training,’ Paniatowski confessed, because though opting for the truth was a dangerous tactic, there were even more pitfalls in risking an unconvincing lie.

  ‘Your police training?’ Miss Hill repeated.

  ‘We make inferences if we’re forced to, but it’s always better to get a direct statement if we possibly can.’

  From the expression on the other woman’s face, she saw that she had chosen the right course – understood that if she had tried to lie, she would now be being shown the door. But she was still not out of the woods.

  ‘I will not be interrogated,’ Dorothy Hill said. ‘Do you understand? You may listen to what I have to say, and draw from it whatever conclusions you choose – but I will not be interrogated!’

  ‘I understand,’ Paniatowski said contritely.

  ‘The vicarage was half a mile from the nearest village. To get to the village, we had to cross a bridge over the railway line. That was the direction we set out in. I said it was a lovely day, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  The birds are singing prettily, and Dorothy can hear tiny insects buzzing busily in the grass. Sidney is quiet and moody, but Dorothy has got used to that over the previous few months. When they are halfway across the bridge, Sidney stops. And so, a moment later, does Dorothy.

  Sidney squats down so that his eyes are on a level with his sister’s. His mouth starts to move as if there is something he desperately wants to say. But no words come out.

  Somewhere in the distance, they hear a sound. It is only the commonplace whistle of a train, but from the expression on Sidney’s face, it is almost as if he’s heard heavenly trumpets. He has been avoiding touching his sister – even accidentally – for quite some time, but now he reaches out and takes hold of her hand. He squeezes it – very hard. Dorothy wants to cry out in pain, but she doesn’t, because she knows that he hasn’t meant to hurt her.

  ‘I want you to stay here, Dorothy,’ he says. ‘Whatever happens, I want you to promise me you’ll stay here.’

  ‘All right.’

  He releases her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Dorothy,’ he says. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’

  He walks to the end of the bridge, and disappears down the steep embankment. Dorothy goes over to the parapet. It is not a high wall, but she is very small, and when she stands on tiptoes to look over the top, she can feel her nose rubbing against the rough brickwork.

  Behind her, she can hear the sound of the approaching train. Ahead of her, she can see Sidney standing by the track.

  ‘Come away, come away!’ she shouts, because she knows it is dangerous to be so close to speeding locomotives.

  Sidney cannot hear her over the roar of the train, but even if he could, she senses that he wouldn’t take any notice. He knows what it is he wants to do. He has made up his mind, and nothing will change it now.

  He waits until the engine is under the bridge, then steps ou
t into the middle of the track. Even if the engine driver spots him, there is nothing he can do to stop the inevitable carnage.

  Sidney has been staring straight ahead of him, but now – moments before the train will strike him and pulverize every bone in his body – he raises his head. Raises it and – for the first time in an age – looks his little sister squarely in the eyes.

  ‘I thought he’d look frightened,’ Dorothy Hill told Paniatowski. ‘But he didn’t. Not at all. In some ways, I wish he had, because the expression that filled his face was far more terrible and terrifying than simple fear could ever be. It burned itself into my brain. And it will stay with me until the day I die.’

  ‘How did he look?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Relieved,’ Dorothy Hill replied simply. ‘He looked relieved.’

  Twenty-Two

  ‘You did a good job with that old coalman, Clem

  Hodnut,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Bob Rutter replied.

  Woodend glanced up at the clock. It was nearly noon. He wondered how close Marlowe was to getting his board of inquiry together.

  ‘The problem is, I’m not sure how much further down the line it takes us,’ the Chief Inspector continued. ‘In this bloody case, we never seem to be able to find an answer without it leadin’ on to half a dozen new questions.’

  ‘At least half a dozen,’ Rutter agreed gloomily.

  ‘We now know when Marcus Dodds was killed,’ Woodend said. ‘What we don’t know is what he was arguin’ with his son about. Why did Marcus say Fred could go to prison? Why did Fred say his father should be the one in jail? What was it that Marcus had done which he thought made him safe? That’s three questions so far, an’ I’ve only begun to scratch the soddin’ surface.’

  ‘So what?’ Paniatowski said. ‘I don’t see why we’re even wasting our time considering it at all.’

  What was coming next? Woodend wondered, alarmed. Had Monika cranked up her instability to the point at which it was not enough for her just to attack Rutter? Did she now feel the need to have a go at her boss as well?

  ‘Why do you think it’s a waste of our time?’ he asked, preparing himself for the worst.

  ‘If Fred did kill Marcus, then it’s of no interest what they said to each other, because they’re both dead,’ Paniatowski said, keeping her voice level and her tone more reasonable than Woodend had feared might be the case. ‘And if Fred didn’t kill Marcus – and I, for one, don’t think he did – then the only conversations we need to be interested in are ones between Marcus and whoever murdered him. Unfortunately, we don’t know who this other person is.’

  ‘What makes you think Fred didn’t kill his father?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘There are two reasons. The first is that it only took Sergeant Parker a couple of hours to decide that Fred wasn’t guilty.’

  ‘An’ the second?’

  ‘The second is exactly the same as the one we used for arguing that Margaret wasn’t guilty of killing Fred.’

  ‘You mean, if he was going to kill his father, why do it in a way that was bound to draw attention to him?’

  ‘Exactly. The two cases are identical – except for the fact that Margaret was hanged and he wasn’t.’

  ‘So, correct me if I’m wrong, you’re puttin’ forward the theory that there was only one killer, an’ that he tried to frame Fred for one of his murders an’ succeeded in framin’ Margaret for the other.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it?’

  Woodend lit up a Capstan Full Strength. ‘Anythin’s a possibility,’ he conceded. ‘But not only do we not have a suspect who fits in with that particular theory, we don’t even have a motive. Unless, of course, you’re suggestin’ that Bithwaite killed Marcus Dodds – in the hope that Fred Dodds would sell up, buy an import-export business and then take him on as the chief clerk.’

  ‘Cuthburtson could have committed both crimes,’ Paniatowski argued.

  ‘What makes you think that, lass?’

  ‘Cuthburtson wants to go into business with Fred Dodds, but Fred hasn’t got any money for his half of the investment. So Cuthburtson kills Marcus Dodds, and Fred inherits. Later on, after Fred and Cuthburtson have their big row – which is probably about money again – Cuthburtson kills Fred, too.’

  ‘Very neat,’ Woodend said. ‘Except that if Cuthburtson wanted Fred to inherit, he wouldn’t have committed the murder in a way which was bound to throw suspicion on his future partner.’

  ‘Shit!’ Paniatowski said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that!’

  ‘Even so, the Cuthburtson connection is not one that we should ignore,’ Woodend said. ‘You didn’t find the cable we got from Canada very helpful, did you, Bob?’

  ‘Not helpful at all,’ Rutter replied. ‘As far as I can tell, the Mounties went to the Cuthburtson house, the Cuthburtsons told them they had nothing to say, and the Mounties left it at that.’

  ‘I’ll ring the family myself an’ see if I can get a bit more information out of them,’ Woodend said.

  He looked from Rutter to Paniatowski, then back to Rutter again, hoping to see a look of sudden inspiration light up on one of their faces. Nothing! Still, there was no harm in asking.

  ‘Any more theories?’ he said. ‘Any suggestions? Any possible connections?’

  ‘I’ve got one possible connection, but it’s pretty weak,’ Rutter said.

  ‘Let’s hear it anyway.’

  ‘Margaret Dodds’ father was a vicar, and so was the father of Fred Dodds’ friend Sidney Hill.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Paniatowski exploded.

  Rutter shot her an angry look. ‘Your helpful comments are always appreciated,’ he said.

  ‘Well, really! Talk about tenuous! What’s your theory? That there’s a curse on the children of Church of England clergymen? That the whole thing’s the work of a group of Satanists?’

  ‘Monika . . .’ Woodend said.

  Paniatowski ignored him. She knew she was losing control of herself again – and she didn’t give a damn!

  ‘Maybe that’s how all the young women fit into this case!’ she continued. ‘Maybe Margaret Dodds, Dorothy Hill and Louise Cuthburtson were all sacrificial virgins. Yes, and maybe Fred Dodds is really Satan, and all his friends are fallen angels. That would make sense – or at least it would make more sense than Rutter’s grubby little idea that Margaret was some kind of nymphomaniac and––’

  ‘That’s enough, Sergeant,’ Woodend said, more sharply this time.

  ‘But, sir . . .!’

  ‘Don’t make me have to send you out of the room, Monika,’ Woodend threatened.

  The words hit Paniatowski like a bucketful of iced water. Sent out of the room! Exiled from the case! She couldn’t bear that.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector Rutter. I know it’s no excuse, but this case has got right under my skin.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s makin’ any of us exactly happy,’ Woodend conceded. ‘Do you want to go back to what you were saying, Bob?’

  Rutter cleared his throat. ‘All I was attempting to suggest was that the two people Fred Dodds got closest to – his best friend and his wife – both had fathers in the Church. I was wondering if it was this connection that made them both appeal to Dodds.’

  Woodend nodded thoughtfully. ‘Monika?’

  ‘I’m sure Inspector Rutter has a point,’ Paniatowski said.

  Woodend sighed. ‘You’re of no more use to me when you’re sayin’ nowt than you are when you’re flyin’ off the handle,’ he told his sergeant. ‘What do you really think, Monika?’

  ‘I can understand why Inspector Rutter brought the point up,’ Paniatowski forced herself to say. ‘Superficially it’s an attractive connection, but ultimately I think it’s a red herring.’

  ‘Would you care to expand on that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I will. Both fathers were clergymen, but they had very little else in common. All Margaret’
s father wanted was the life of a country priest. Sidney’s, on the other hand, was determined to rise to the top of the ladder. Margaret was an only child; Sidney had a sister. Margaret grew up and went off to university; Sidney killed himself before he’d even left school. If there’s a common factor between the two households, then I’ve no idea what it might be. Is that what you wanted to say, Monika?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  She shouldn’t speak – she knew she shouldn’t – but the goblin that seemed to have taken control of her would not let her be silent.

  ‘I let you say it rather than me because, if you say it, it’s good detective work,’ Paniatowski told Woodend.

  ‘An’ if you say it?’

  ‘If I say it, it’s nothing but an irrational, hysterical, vindictive attack on Inspector Rutter’s latest theory.’

  Woodend turned to Rutter. ‘Could you give us a few minutes, Bob?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rutter replied.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Paniatowski said, when Rutter had closed the door behind him.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Woodend contradicted her. ‘You’re strung tighter than I’ve ever seen you, and if you’re not careful, you’ll snap.’

  ‘It’s Inspector Rutter’s fault. He––’

  ‘You get up his nose just as much as he gets up yours. It’s been that way ever since fate an’ the Mid Lancs Constabulary threw you together. You both used to be able to control it. He still can.’

  ‘One slip!’ Paniatowski said angrily. ‘One slip and I have to listen to all this crap.’

  ‘It’s more than one slip, Monika. It’s been building up since this case started. That’s why I want you to take some time off.’

  ‘You mean I’m being suspended?’ Paniatowski asked disbelievingly.

  Woodend shook his head. ‘The very fact that you could even think I’d suspend you proves your judgement’s been shot to hell. Of course you’re not suspended. You won’t even be on leave – officially.’