‘What else have you been doin’ while I’ve been at the railway station?’ he asked.
‘Following the usual procedures. Contacting all the other police stations in the immediate area to see if anybody’s been reported missing. Co-ordinating with Traffic and⎯’
‘That reporter . . . what’s his name . . .?’
‘Bennett.’
‘Bennett said that the man who phoned him up early this morning had a definite Manchester accent, an’ since he works there, I suppose we should take his word for it. See if Manchester Police can tell us anythin’ useful.’
‘Will do.’
‘What about fingerprints?’
‘According to DC Battersby, there were loads of latents. I think we might strike it lucky and get a match with our records.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Woodend wondered.
‘I’ve just got the feeling that there are criminals involved.’
Woodend smiled. ‘Generally speaking, murder is regarded as a crime,’ he said – but still, he knew exactly what she meant.
‘Take the male victim,’ Paniatowski said earnestly. ‘He looks as if he was undernourished as a kid, but then lots of kids were undernourished thirty or forty years ago. His clothes were cheap, but again, lots of perfectly innocent people buy cheap clothes. I can’t even say he’s got a criminal face – because most of his face was blown away. And yet . . .’
‘An’ yet?’
‘There’s something about him which makes me think he’s no stranger to the inside of a prison.’
‘I wouldn’t dismiss that as a possibility, either.’
‘And then there’s the actual murders themselves. Again, I’ve no grounds for saying this, but I got the impression that they were a professional job.’
‘So Dugdale’s not the man we’re really looking for?’
‘No. I don’t think he is.’
‘You’re telling me this was a contract killin’?’
‘Not even that,’ Paniatowski admitted, frowning. ‘If it had been planned in advance, it probably wouldn’t have been so messy, and we wouldn’t have found the bodies so easily. But I still get the sense that whoever fired the shotgun had killed before.’
I know what you mean, Monika, Woodend thought. I know exactly what you mean.
A young uniformed constable appeared in the doorway and walked straight over to the Chief Inspector and his sergeant.
‘The DCC says he wants to see you immediately, sir,’ the constable announced.
Immediately?
That was a bit strong, even coming from Dick the Prick. Being a deputy chief constable might have convinced Ainsworth, as it had convinced others before him, that he had the right to have his senior staff jump through the hoops occasionally – but it certainly wasn’t the form to let the lower ranks see them doing it.
‘You sure that’s what Mr Ainsworth said?’ Woodend asked. ‘He wants to see me immediately.’
The constable blushed. ‘He . . . he . . .’
‘Spit it out, lad.’
‘Yes, sir, that’s what he said. He was quite clear about it.’
Woodend and Paniatowski exchanged questioning glances.
‘Can you manage on your own for a while down here, Monika?’ Woodend asked.
The sergeant nodded. ‘We’re making so little progress at the moment that I could manage this operation and knit myself a woolly jumper at the same time.’
‘If you knew how to knit, that is,’ Woodend said, forcing a smile to his face.
‘If I knew how to knit,’ Paniatowski agreed, matching his smile with a forced one of her own.
‘Right,’ Woodend said. ‘I suppose I’d better go and see what Mr Ainsworth wants. I shouldn’t be long.’
But as he left the basement, he wondered if his last statement had been quite accurate.
DCC Ainsworth sat at his desk, the phone jammed hard against his right ear.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. ‘Yes, that’s exactly the situation. No, he didn’t . . . I agree with you on that . . .’
Woodend – who had not been invited to sit down and hence was standing like an errant cadet before his boss’s desk – raised his eyes to the wall above Ainsworth’s head, and found himself examining a gallery of exhibits which portrayed the DCC’s public life. There were framed certificates from courses he’d attended, and commendations he’d been awarded. There were photographs of him with the police rugby team he’d once played in, and of tables in restaurants where he sat eating with the top brass. There were even a couple of letters from members of the general public – ‘the little people’ he claimed not to have lost touch with – praising the way he had conducted an investigation.
All show, Woodend thought – all bloody show.
‘Yes, sir,’ Ainsworth continued. ‘Yes, that’s what I think. Thank you for giving me your backing – I’ll see to it right away.’
He slammed the receiver violently back on its cradle and glared up at Woodend.
‘There was a time when I thought you were only being an awkward bastard because – as an old mate of our late, lamented chief constable – you thought you could get away with it,’ Ainsworth said. ‘But the sainted Jack Dinnage is long gone now, and you’re still as obstreperous as you ever were. So I can only assume it’s part of your nature.’
‘What’s this all about, sir?’ Woodend asked levelly.
‘What’s this all about?’ Ainsworth repeated. ‘It’s about you arresting journalists – BBC journalists – when what you were supposed to be doing was chasing murderers.’
‘As far as I can recall, I’ve only actually arrested the one journalist,’ Woodend pointed out.
‘Yes, you’re quite right – it was only one. But one who was guaranteed to make waves.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Peter Bennett’s not just some hack working for the local rag. As I’ve already pointed out, he works for the BBC.’
‘I don’t see it makes any difference who he’s working for, sir,’ Woodend said stubbornly.
‘Don’t you?’ Ainsworth countered. ‘Well, consider this, then? As you were making your ill-considered arrest, didn’t the name “Bennett” ring any bells with you? Even faint bells?’
‘It’s a common enough name. There’s a fair amount of Bennetts livin’ around the Whitebridge area.’
‘But as far as I know, there’s only one Harold Bennett.’
‘Are you talkin’ about Councillor Bennett?’
‘That’s right. Councillor Bennett. The owner of Bennett’s Foundry, the chairman of the Whitebridge Police Watch Committee – and the father of young Peter. How do you think he’s going to feel about having his son banged up like a common criminal?’
‘Not too pleased,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But that’s neither here nor there, is it? Peter Bennett got in the way of my investigation – got seriously in the way – an’ even if we don’t actually charge him with anythin’, it’ll do him no harm to cool his heels in the cells for a few hours.’
Ainsworth smiled unpleasantly. ‘He isn’t in the cells, Chief Inspector. I’ve let him go.’
‘You’ve done what?’
‘You heard me. I’ve let him go.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve screwed up my investigation in one mornin’,’ Woodend said hotly.
‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’
‘First you drive that bloody big Volvo of yours over the tyre tracks in the snow at the farm⎯’
‘Do you take me for a complete bloody fool, Chief Inspector?’ Ainsworth interrupted.
Yes, I certainly bloody do, Woodend thought.
‘Of course not, sir,’ he said aloud.
‘If there had been tyre tracks in the snow, I’d have parked on the road and walked the rest of the way, but since it was quite evident that there weren’t any, I saw no harm in driving right up to the farmhouse. I’m sure that, in the interest of speed, you’ve hav
e done the same thing.’
He might be telling the truth, Woodend thought. Then again – and not for the first time – he might be lying through his teeth. But whichever was the case, what was done was done, and there was no point in having a shouting match about what could have been.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest that⎯’
‘You did more than simply suggest! You accused me outright of incompetence. Your insubordination has been noted, and will go down on your record in good time, but for the moment I’m more concerned with the case of this journalist. I consider your actions in regard to him to be hasty and ill judged – and the Chief Constable agrees with me wholeheartedly.’
That came as no surprise at all, Woodend told himself, not when you knew the Chief Constable as well as he did.
‘Excuse me, sir, but if I’m to get a bollockin’ for this, wouldn’t it be more appropriate comin’ from my immediate superior, DCS Whittle?’ he asked.
‘If a reprimand were all you were getting, it would indeed be coming from DCS Whittle. But this particular incident is serious enough to have gone beyond a simple reprimand, and I have to inform you, here and now, that you are being suspended on full pay, pending a full investigation into your conduct.’
‘What!’ Woodend said.
‘I think you heard me the first time.’
This couldn’t be happening, Woodend told himself. At the start of an important murder hunt, it simply couldn’t be happening!
‘Even if I have made an error of judgement, it doesn’t merit a suspension,’ he said.
‘That is my decision to make, not yours.’
‘Couldn’t you defer the suspension until the case is closed?’
‘No, I couldn’t. And I must warn you that you’re bordering on insubordination again.’
Woodend took a deep breath. His own situation could be dealt with later – what mattered at the moment was that there was a proper investigation of the case of the poor bloody girl who’d been murdered out at Dugdale’s Farm.
‘Will Mr Whittle be bringin’ someone in from outside the area to take over from me, sir?’ he asked, knowing full well that the decision would not rest with Whittle himself, but the man who pulled Whittle’s strings and was sitting opposite him now. ‘Because if we are gettin’ outside help, could you suggest to him that he tries to get⎯?’
‘He won’t be bringing anyone in from outside.’
‘Then he’s goin’ to be handlin’ it himself?’
‘No, although both DCS Whittle and I will, of course, take a close personal interest in the case.’
‘So who’s⎯?’
‘DI Harris will be taking over the investigation.’
DI Harris! Sweet Jesus!
‘With respect, sir, DI Harris couldn’t find his own arsehole if he used both hands,’ Woodend said.
Ainsworth frowned his heavy disapproval. ‘No doubt using that kind of language makes you feel like you’re still one of the boys, but while the members of your team may have to tolerate your coarseness, I certainly do not, and will not,’ he said.
‘If you’re goin’ to take me off the case, at least make sure I’m replaced by somebody who can⎯’
‘I have always found your arrogance one of the least attractive of your many unattractive characteristics,’ Ainsworth said. ‘We work as a team here in Whitebridge, and DI Harris is an effective and efficient part of that team. You will not question my judgement – DCS Whittle’s judgement, I should say – in assigning the case to Harris. Is that clearly understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ainsworth held out his hand. ‘You will give me your warrant card now, and then I will arrange for you to be accompanied to your office, from where you will be allowed to remove any articles of a purely personal nature.’
‘I’d like to ask you to reconsider your decision,’ Woodend said. ‘If not for my benefit, then at least for the good of the force.’
The fingers of Ainsworth’s outstretched waiting hand twitched impatiently. ‘I am thinking of the good of the force,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want you out of the building as soon as possible.’
Five
The White Swan – known locally as the Dirty Duck – was situated on the corner of Prince Albert Street and the Boulevard. It had once been a lively pub, then some bright young spark at the brewery had come up with the idea of tearing out its organically developed heart and replacing it with one made of chrome and smoked glass. Now, Woodend thought – as he sat in the corner of what had been the public bar in the days before all the internal walls had been knocked down – it was less a pub than a drinking shop, dispensing alcohol much as the grocer’s dispensed pounds of cheese.
The Chief Inspector glanced idly around the barn of a room. A young couple sat by the window, having the kind of whispered conversation that people indulge in when they’re arguing in a public place. At the bar, a group of men in chunky sweaters were talking loudly about millions of pounds and buying each other halves of bitter. A pensioner dozed fitfully over his bottle of Guinness. And a youth who probably couldn’t afford it was feeding sixpenny piece after sixpenny piece into the one-armed bandit.
Everything looked so normal, Woodend thought – and wondered how that could possibly be, when his own world was crumbling in front of his eyes. He’d given nearly twenty years of his life to the police force. It was almost inconceivable to him that he should have been suspended. Yet unless he was losing his mind, that was exactly what had happened. And there might be worse to come. Though he personally didn’t take the charge levelled against him seriously, it was always possible that the disciplinary board just might. And then what would happen? The force was his anchor – he knew no other kind of work, nor did he have the desire to learn any. If he lost his job, it would be like losing a major part of himself.
He checked his watch. Monika Paniatowski had promised that she’d be there by half past one at the latest. And now it was nearly a quarter to two. Where the hell was she?
The young couple seemed to have settled their argument, the men in chunky sweaters were still talking loudly about high finance, the pensioner had woken up and the young gambler had finally run out of funds. Woodend resisted the temptation to look at his watch again, and lit another cigarette instead.
It was five minutes to two – almost afternoon closing time – when Monika Paniatowski finally entered the Dirty Duck, brushing snow from her shoulders as she stepped through the door. The sergeant went over to the bar and ordered a vodka from the bottle which the landlord kept especially for her use. Then, instead of going straight over to where her boss was sitting – as he’d expected her to – she glanced around the pub.
She’s checkin’ to see if there’s anybody she knows in here, Woodend thought – anybody she might not want to see her talkin’ to me.
And suddenly he felt very alone.
Apparently satisfied that it was safe to do so, Monika walked over to the table and sat down.
‘Sorry I took so long,’ she said, ‘but with DI Harris strutting around the basement like the cock of the walk, it was difficult for me to get away from there at all.’
‘What developments have there been in the case, Monika?’ Woodend asked anxiously.
‘None. We still haven’t found Wilfred Dugdale, and there’s no match on our records from any of the fingerprints that DC Battersby lifted from the surfaces at the farmhouse.’
‘No match at all?’
‘That’s what I’ve been told.’
‘Not even the dead man’s?’
‘Not even his.’
But both he and Paniatowski had been so sure there’d be at least one match, Woodend thought. And they weren’t amateurs – they knew when their instincts were on track!
‘What about the yellow Austin A40 that Bennett claims to have seen comin’ from the direction of the farmhouse?’ Woodend asked.
‘Four A40s have been stopped at the roadblocks. One was being driven
by an old vicar on his way to church, another belonged to a mill worker who had his wife and four kids with him. I can’t remember the exact details of the other two, but they didn’t look very promising, either. Of course, we’ll do follow-up investigations on all of them, but I’m not really expecting it to lead anywhere.’
‘Aren’t there any other leads?’
Paniatowski shook her head. ‘Nobody’s been reported missing, and nobody in the immediate neighbourhood – if that’s what you want to call a big stretch of open moors – saw anything that could be of the slightest use to us.’ She looked deep into Woodend’s eyes. ‘Let’s forget the investigation for a minute, shall we? How are you feeling, sir?’
‘How do you think I’m feelin’? How would you feel if you’d been suspended on some trumped-up excuse?’
‘I’d feel like hell,’ Paniatowski admitted.
‘What I don’t understand – really don’t understand – is why I’ve been fitted up.’
‘Mr Ainsworth’s not exactly the biggest fan you’ve got in Whitebridge, you know, sir.’
‘Mr Ainsworth hates my guts with a passion – he has done from the very first moment I walked into the station. But even if he wanted to shaft me good and proper, why do it now?’
‘Maybe he just saw his opportunity and⎯’
‘Look, this murder case is the most important one to break in Whitebridge since the war. Maybe even before that. The pressure will be on the force for a quick result, an’ I’m the best person to deliver that result, aren’t I?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘An’ Ainsworth knows that as well as you do. Besides, if the case isn’t solved, the press will be lookin’ for somebody to crucify. Up until a couple of hours ago, that person was me. But by suspendin’ me, Ainsworth’s put himself straight into the hot seat. An’ that’s not like him at all. So I say again, Monika, why try to shaft me now?’
Death of an Innocent Page 4
