Death of an Innocent

by Sally Spencer

  ‘So let me see if I’ve got this straight,’ Woodend said sceptically. ‘It’s early on Sunday mornin’, an’ you get this phone call which, for all you know, could be from a complete bloody nutter. Yet you still jump out of your bed an’ drive twenty-odd miles to see if there’s anythin’ to the story.’

  ‘I was already up – I like to rise early. And I didn’t have to drive twenty-odd miles, as you put it, because I live locally. Not more than five miles from here, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Alone?’

  Bennett shrugged awkwardly. ‘With my parents, actually,’ he confessed. ‘But that’s only a temporary measure – until the house I’ve bought in Moorland Village is finished.’

  The BBC did pay well, Woodend thought. ‘Tell me about the man who called you,’ he said. ‘It was a man, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was a man. I’d guess from his voice that he was middle-aged. And from his accent,’ Bennett continued, with all the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat, ‘I’d say he was from Manchester rather than Whitebridge – and not particularly well-educated, either.’

  Woodend took out his Capstan Full Strengths and offered the packet to the reporter. Bennett shook his head and produced a packet of thin, black cigarettes with a gold band round each one.

  ‘So you decided to follow the lead, an’ drove up here,’ Woodend said. ‘Did you see much traffic on the way?’

  ‘There was some in Whitebridge – the normal Sunday morning stuff – but it wasn’t until I was up here on the moors that I saw any vehicle which I would have described as suspicious.’

  The bugger was milking his story for all it was worth, Woodend thought. Maybe he always behaved as if the television cameras were on him. Still, in the long run the quickest thing would probably be to play along with him.

  ‘A vehicle which you would have described as suspicious?’ the Chief Inspector said.

  ‘That’s right. It was a rather beaten-up yellow Austin A40, and it was going hell-for-leather towards Whitebridge.’ Bennett paused, and gave Woodend a Spitfire-owner’s superior smile. ‘When I say hell-for-leather, of course, I mean it was going as fast as a wreck like that possibly could.’

  ‘So, as you say, it aroused your suspicions?’

  ‘Yes, in my business you soon learn to⎯’

  ‘An’ naturally, you made a note of the number plate.’

  ‘Well . . . not exactly,’ Bennett confessed.

  ‘Meanin’?’

  ‘Meaning, I suppose, that I didn’t get the number. As I mentioned, it was travellin’ rather quickly⎯’

  ‘For a wreck.’

  ‘– and by the time I’d realized there was something not quite right about it, it was gone.’

  ‘Did you happen to notice who was inside this suspicious vehicle?’

  ‘Two men. Both in the front.’

  ‘An’ did either of these men have white hair?’

  ‘The driver was wearing a trilby, and the passenger had a flat cap on. I suppose one of them might have had white hair, but I certainly couldn’t see it.’

  Woodend shook his head despairingly. ‘The reporter’s trained eye,’ he said. ‘There’s nothin’ like it, is there?’

  ‘Now, hold on a minute,’ Bennett protested. ‘It was snowing rather heavily and I⎯’

  ‘What time did you finally get to the farm?’ Woodend interrupted.

  ‘I think it must have been at about five minutes to eight.’

  ‘An’ what did you do once you’d parked?’

  ‘I couldn’t see anybody around, so I knocked on the front door. When there was no answer, I tried the latch. The door wasn’t locked, so I pushed it open and stepped inside. That’s when I saw the bodies. I’m not a man who’s easily shocked, but I have to admit I was definitely shaken at that particular moment.’

  ‘You didn’t go into the farmhouse, did you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the reporter said, rather too quickly.

  ‘You’re lyin’!’ Woodend told him.

  ‘How dare you suggest⎯?’

  ‘An’ I’ll tell you how I know you’re lyin’. Standin’ in the doorway, you could have seen both the bodies – you’d probably have seen the blood – but you’d have to have got close to the victims to establish the exact cause of death.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but I was still close enough to see they were dead, so I phoned the police,’ Bennett said defensively.

  ‘You didn’t just say they were dead when you phoned – you said they’d been shot.’

  ‘Then perhaps I did go a little way into the farmhouse,’ Bennett agreed reluctantly. ‘That’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘It might be,’ Woodend said, noncommittally. ‘It very well might be. So, once you’d established that they’d been murdered, did you phone Whitebridge police station immediately?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Did you use the phone in the house?’

  Bennett gave him a superior chuckle. ‘No, of course I didn’t use the phone in the house. I told you, I’m an experienced reporter. I know enough not to mess up the scene of the crime by doing that.’

  But not enough to stop you from trailin’ all over the bloody living room, Woodend thought.

  ‘So where did you ring from?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a phone box just about a mile back down the road. I called from there.’

  The farmhouse door burst open, and Monika Paniatowski strode angrily out into the farmyard.

  ‘Is there a problem, Sergeant?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘You could say that, sir. I’ve just had Whitebridge HQ on the radio. The duty sergeant had his wireless tuned into the BBC Home Service. There was a newsflash he thought we might like to know about.’

  ‘What kind of newsflash?’

  ‘What kind do you think, sir? A report on the double murder at Dugdale’s Farm. It gave all the details! Cause of death! Ages of the victims! Every-bloody-thing! It even mentioned that a yellow Austin A40 had been spotted close to the farm. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘I’ve just been told,’ Woodend said. With rising fury, he swung back towards Bennett. ‘You didn’t just ring the police, did you? You also rang the BBC.’

  ‘I’m a reporter,’ Bennett said, unconcerned. ‘If I come across a good story, I phone it in.’

  ‘Don’t you know that you’re supposed to get clearance from us before you release any details of a crime?’

  ‘If there’d been any of you people around, that’s exactly what I would have done. But you weren’t around, and if I’d waited until later I would have lost my exclusive. Anyway, it seemed to me that since I discovered the bodies – and saved you hours, or even days – an exclusive was what I was entitled to.’

  Woodend threw his cigarette butt on to the ground and stamped on it viciously. ‘Get one of the lads to drive Mr Bennett down to headquarters, Monika,’ he told Paniatowski.

  ‘Drive me?’ Bennett repeated, mystified. ‘I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.’

  ‘Do it, Sergeant,’ Woodend said, ignoring the reporter.

  Paniatowski nodded, and walked back towards the farmhouse.

  The implications of what the policeman had said were just starting to hit the reporter, and his mouth dropped open in amazement.

  ‘You’re not suggesting that I’m under arrest, are you, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m doin’ more than suggest it. I’m tellin’ you that you’re bloody-well nicked.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘I’m so spoiled for choice that I haven’t quite decided on that yet. Let’s start with obstructin’ a police investigation, an’ conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, shall we?’

  Not to mention wearing a poncy suede jacket better suited to swinging London than the middle of sensible Lancashire, he added mentally. That isn’t actually a crime – but it certainly should be!

  ‘Do you have any idea at all who you’re dealing with here?’ Bennett demande
d.

  ‘Aye. I’m dealin’ with just the kind of bloody nuisance we don’t need on a case like this.’

  Paniatowski emerged from the farmhouse again with Duxbury at her side. As the DC approached Bennett, the reporter gestured angrily with his arm that Duxbury should not come any closer.

  ‘Oh, do resist arrest, Mr Bennett,’ Woodend cajoled. ‘I really would like that.’

  For a moment it seemed as if resist was just what the journalist was intending to do, then he shrugged again and said, ‘You’re making a big mistake, you know, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Maybe I am, at that,’ Woodend agreed, ‘but I don’t half feel better for makin’ it.’

  Duxbury came to a halt several feet away from the journalist. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir,’ he said.

  With a show of reluctance, Bennett did as he’d been instructed. Woodend turned back towards the moors. It had started to snow again – a light, fluffy snow which would probably not have stuck as a first fall, but would have no trouble adhering to what was already on the ground.

  The Chief Inspector wondered if Dugdale was out there, somewhere – up to his knees in drifting snow, yet still struggling to put as many miles between himself and the farmhouse as possible.

  Common sense said that he was the murderer. It was, after all, his house in which the crime had been committed, and his gun which had done the deed. Yet the common-sense answer just didn’t seem to be the right one this time. It was true that some of these old moorland farmers could be a bit trigger-happy – Woodend had dealt with complaints about them before – but there was a big difference between loosing off the odd barrel at a trespasser somewhere in the distance and deliberately shooting two people – one of them a kid – full in the face at close range.

  Still, if Wilfred Dugdale wasn’t the killer, why had he gone and done a runner?

  Four

  Driving Joan to the railway station should have been no more than a brief interlude away from the case. But the weather conditions had worsened, adding time to the journey and delaying the train, so it was a fretful Charlie Woodend who found himself standing on the platform and looking hopefully up the track.

  ‘I’ll be all right now,’ Joan assured him, seeing through the veneer of patience he had clumsily attempted to wrap himself in. ‘You can go back to the station, if you want to.’

  ‘No need,’ Woodend said – sounding slightly guilty because that was exactly what he did want to do. ‘Monika can handle the preliminaries.’

  It was true, he told himself. Paniatowski was shaping up very well, and the experience would be good for her. Besides, leaving a woman standing alone at a railway station was not something he’d find easy to do, given the way he’d been brought up.

  ‘You won’t work too hard while I’m away, will you?’ Joan asked. ‘You’ll make sure you get regular meals?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And cut down a bit on the beer and cigarettes – like the doctor’s told you to?’

  Woodend grinned. Northern wives – at least northern wives of Joan’s generation, saw it as their duty to mither their husbands to death. And husbands of his generation accepted it without protest. It seemed to be the natural order of things in Lancashire that no sooner had you escaped from your own mother than you’d find yourself falling into the arms of another woman who’d treat you just as if you were a little kid again.

  ‘Are you listenin’ to me, Charlie?’ Joan asked sharply.

  ‘I’ll take it easy,’ Woodend said, knowing as he spoke the words that he was making a promise he would never keep.

  The train – one of those blasted soulless diesels which seemed to be taking over from steam everywhere – rattled into the station. Woodend hefted Joan’s heavy case into the air, placed it in the nearest carriage, and pecked his wife on the cheek. Joan climbed on to the train, and Woodend forced himself to remain on the platform as it chugged out of the station. The moment it had rounded the bend, however, he made his way hurriedly back to the car park.

  It was a short drive to police headquarters, and soon he could see the red sandstone edifice in front of him. He felt great affection for the old place. The headquarters had been built when Whitebridge was still a thriving cotton mill town, and during his childhood its classical frontage had blended in perfectly with the grave civic buildings which surrounded it.

  The whole town centre, back then, had reflected both the affluence and the pomposity of the cotton millionaires who had effectively run Whitebridge. But times had changed, as they always did. Cotton was no longer king, and urban redevelopment was in vogue. The city fathers had thrown Whitebridge to the planners with as little thought as if they were throwing a dead deer to a pack of starving dogs. And the planners, just like starving dogs, had acted on blind instinct. The historic market hall had been demolished without a second thought. The buildings between Prince Albert Road and Blackberry Lane had been bulldozed, so that instead of there being two narrow streets down which shoppers could take a leisurely stroll, there was a dual carriageway which cut the town effectively in two. The town hall had soon gone the same way as the market, and in place of granite and dignity these new developers had constructed a concrete and glass monstrosity which towered malevolently over the surrounding area.

  Whitebridge had never been a pretty place, Woodend accepted that, but it had had a certain anarchic charm which was all its own. Now, with the new shopping precinct lined with national chain stores, it had become a place without a history, indistinguishable from hundreds of other small towns up and down the country, and only the police station, which had somehow escaped the developers’ demolition hammers, stood as a reminder of the past.

  The lines which marked out the parking places in the police station yard were buried under a layer of snow, and Woodend was forced to make a rough guess at where his own spot was. He ran his eyes over the cars already parked there . . . an Austin 1100, one of the new Mini Minors, Monika Paniatowski’s MGA, Ainsworth’s Volvo . . .

  Ainsworth’s Volvo!

  Again!

  First the DCC had turned up – totally uncharacteristically – at Dugdale’s Farm, and now, even though he’d clearly said he was having some very important people round to luncheon, he was at the station.

  Woodend entered the building through the back door, and made his way along the wide corridor which lead to the basement where the Major Incident Room was being set up.

  On the whole, Woodend didn’t like working out of what Ainsworth relished calling the ‘M.I.R.’ In his opinion, a crime should be investigated from close to where it happened, and his habit of running his investigation from a pub, club or school had irritated any number of his bosses, long before Dick the Prick had ever appeared on the scene. This time, however, it was different. There was little point in setting up shop in a farmhouse stuck in the middle of nowhere, so, for once, he could both do the job as he thought it should be done and please his superiors.

  As he reached the basement, he saw that Monika Paniatowski had, as he’d expected she would, got things pretty well under control.

  A large blackboard had been erected at the front of the room. Desks had been placed in a horseshoe formation for easy communication during barnstorming sessions. A couple of post office engineers were busy installing extra phone lines and several detective constables were using the lines which were already working. Paniatowski herself was standing in front of a large-scale Ordnance Survey map which had been pinned to the wall.

  ‘Found Dugdale yet?’ Woodend asked her.

  Paniatowski shook her head. ‘He has to be somewhere within that area,’ she said, running her index finger across the map and tracing a circle which was centred on the farm. ‘There’s really nowhere else he could be – so that’s where we’re concentrating the search.’

  Woodend’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do I get the distinct impression that you’re not happy with the way things are goin’?’

  ‘Maybe because I’m not. The area should be
easy to search because it’s all open moorland. If the snow does anything at all, it helps rather than hinders us. So it ought to be a doddle to spot Dugdale, and if we haven’t done it by now – which we haven’t – then I don’t think we ever will.’

  ‘Of course, we don’t actually know he was at the farm at the time of the murders,’ Woodend pointed out.

  ‘But we do know he was there just a few hours before,’ his sergeant countered.

  ‘Do we? How?’

  ‘While you were seeing Joan off, one of the lads found a witness who saw him last night.’

  ‘Go on,’ Woodend said.

  ‘It was a neighbour of his – or at least, what passes for a neighbour out on the moors. He was driving back from Whitebridge at about eight o’clock last night when he saw Dugdale’s Land Rover broken down by the side of the road. He pulled over and helped Dugdale to get it started again. But it still wasn’t running very well, so he followed it all the way back to the farm, just to make sure that it didn’t break down a second time.’

  So Wilfred Dugdale had been at the farm somewhere between six and eleven hours before the murders, depending on whether they accepted Doc Pierson’s estimate of the time of death or relied on the evidence of the smashed watch on the dead man’s wrist.

  Woodend lit up a cigarette. He was starting to share his sergeant’s unease about the search.

  ‘You’re sure Dugdale didn’t have another vehicle?’ he asked.

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Then he just has to be somewhere out there.’

  Paniatowski glanced up at the window which was set high in the basement wall. The pavement it looked out on to was already covered with a good three inches of snow.

  ‘He’s an old man,’ she pointed out. ‘Say crossing the moors in this weather was all too much of an effort for him, and he collapsed. He’ll be covered with snow by now. The search parties could walk within a couple of feet of him and still not see him.’

  If that was what had happened, then the old farmer would be dead by the time they did find him, Woodend thought. And then what conclusion would they probably be forced to draw? That Dugdale had suddenly gone berserk, killed the two guests at his farmhouse, and died trying to escape. It would certainly be a neat and tidy way to wrap things up, but Woodend had long ago come to distrust neat and tidy solutions where murder was concerned.