Death of an Innocent

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Could it be that he thinks that if you did solve the case, your position would be unassailable?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘Now there’s a possibility I hadn’t considered,’ Woodend conceded. He stubbed his cigarette out forcefully in the ashtray. ‘But I’m not the main issue here, anyway. What’s really got me worried is that whoever murdered that poor bloody kiddie might just get away with it.’

  Paniatowski took a sip of her vodka. ‘There’s nothing you can do about that now,’ she said, with a warning edge to her voice.

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  Paniatowski sighed heavily. ‘I really hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.’

  ‘On the one hand you’ve got you an’ me – a good team. An’ on the other hand, you’ve got DI Harris – an idiot. Who do you think is more likely to solve the case?’ Woodend asked – trying not to sound desperate, and knowing he wasn’t quite making it. ‘We can crack this together, Monika.’

  ‘Or we could give Mr Ainsworth a real reason to bury you,’ Paniatowski pointed out. ‘And me along with you.’

  ‘Nobody need ever know.’

  ‘They’ll find out. They always do.’

  ‘You’re probably right, lass,’ Woodend agreed. ‘No, I’m sure you’re right. An’ you’ve worked far too hard – put too much of yourself into the job – to be dragged down with me.’ He rose heavily to his feet. ‘Best of luck with the case, lass. I’ll see you around.’

  He walked over to the door. The argumentative courting couple had left. The boy who’d been gambling fruitlessly on the one-armed bandit had gone, too. And a few new customers – eager to get a last drink before closing time was called – had taken their place. That was how things went.

  Times changed. Situations changed. The formidable sergeant who he’d lived in terror of when he’d first joined the force was probably now nothing more than a doddering old man who didn’t even scare the little kids rampaging over his allotment. So why should he ever have imagined that he was any different? Why shouldn’t he accept that his time had come, just as it came for everybody?

  ‘Because I can still do the job!’ he told himself angrily, as he stepped out on to the street.

  He was not fooling himself – not overlooking weaknesses and failings which had sneaked up on him unawares. He was still the best senior detective in Central Lancashire, and if anybody could get to the bottom of the murders at Dugdale’s Farm, it was him.

  He turned the corner on to the Boulevard. The bus queues were longer than usual, not – he suspected – because more people were travelling on this particular Sunday, but because with the snow, the buses were finding it impossible to keep to their schedule.

  Where the bloody hell was Dugdale? he asked himself.

  Had an old farmer, who’d known the moors like the back of his hand for most of his life, really thought that he could cross them under these conditions? It didn’t seem at all likely.

  He heard a click-click of hurrying high-heeled shoes behind him, and wondered why – when there were no buses leaving the station at that moment – the woman should be in such a rush to get there.

  ‘Sir!’ said a voice.

  He stopped, and turned round. ‘Did I forget somethin’ in the pub, Monika?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I forgot something,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘I forgot how much I owe you. And I forgot why I joined the force in the first place. You’re right about DI Harris. And you’re right about us! You’re needed on this case, and if the only information you get is the second-hand stuff that I can feed you, well, I suppose that’s better than nothing.’

  Woodend had not expected that if his persuasion worked, he would feel guilty – but he did.

  ‘You’re takin’ a big chance,’ he warned his sergeant.

  ‘As long as we’re careful, it won’t be that big a chance,’ Paniatowski replied, unconvincingly.

  ‘So how do we handle it?’

  Monika Paniatowski glanced nervously around her, as if she suspected informers lurking behind every lamppost.

  ‘Don’t phone me – ever,’ she said. ‘Not even at home.’

  ‘Then how will we⎯?’

  ‘We’ll arrange in advance where we’re to meet. And it had better not be a place anywhere near as public as the Boulevard.’

  Woodend nodded. ‘So where will our next meetin’ be?’

  Paniatowski thought for a moment. ‘You know that building site – the one on the way out to Dugdale’s Farm?’

  ‘The new estate Taylor’s are buildin’?’

  ‘That’s right. Be there at noon tomorrow.’

  ‘You want to leave it that long?’ Woodend asked disappointedly.

  ‘Of course I don’t. I’d like you to be with me every inch of the way. But we’ve got to be practical. I want your help, but I can’t be consulting you every five minutes. As little as we may like it, we’ve got to keep some distance between you and the investigation.’

  Yes, Woodend thought gloomily. Yes, he supposed they had.

  Six

  Investigations had moods, just like people did. They could be up on top of the world, buoyed by the feeling that even if things hadn’t quite gone right yet, they would soon start to. Or they could be down – wallowing in a swamp of lethargy – going through the motions, but with very little expectation that it would ever lead anywhere. As DS Monika Paniatowski entered the basement the next morning, after snatching a few hours’ sleep, she immediately sensed that the mood of this investigation was far closer to down than it was to up.

  She stopped and looked around her. The phones were being manned, statements were being re-checked, just as they should have been. Yet already, just over twenty-four hours after the bodies had been discovered, the atmosphere was thick with failure.

  Charlie Woodend would never have allowed this, she thought. Charlie Woodend, unlike DI Harris, understood that getting control into his own hands wasn’t important – that it was only how he used that control which mattered.

  She was walking over to her desk when a voice said, ‘DS Monika Paniatowski, is it?’

  She stopped and turned. The man who’d addressed her was around forty-five, she guessed. He had a bullet-shaped head, and quick, darting eyes. Between his large nose and thin-lipped mouth, he had a well-clipped moustache. Even in a crowd, Monika would have picked him out as some kind of hatchet man.

  ‘Yes, I’m Paniatowski,’ she said.

  The man held out his hand to her. ‘DCI Evans. I’ve been seconded from Preston.’

  So Ainsworth had come to his senses, Paniatowski thought. After wasting the first day of the investigation, he had realized that Harris couldn’t cope, and had brought in somebody from outside. She could only hope that Evans would move quickly to undo the damage which had already been done.

  ‘Have you officially taken charge yet, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘Taken charge?’ Evans repeated, mystified.

  ‘Of the case?’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re labouring under some misapprehension, Sergeant. I’m not here to assist with your murder investigation.’

  ‘You’re not?’

  ‘No. My brief is to investigate the charges which have been brought against DCI Woodend.’

  This was bloody unbelievable, Paniatowski thought. It was bad enough that they were trying to shaft Cloggin’-it Charlie at all – it was insane that they should have chosen to do it at this crucial stage in the investigation.

  ‘I don’t really see how I can assist you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Evans asked. ‘Well, from your perspective, you probably don’t. But it’s my perspective which matters here, and I think we need to have a serious talk.’

  Phones were ringing all around them. Fresh information was being chalked up on the blackboard.

  ‘I can probably squeeze a few minutes for you round about lunchtime,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘You’ll give me as much time as I need,’ Evans said coldly. ‘And y
ou’ll give it to me now!’

  ‘But, sir⎯’ Paniatowski protested.

  ‘It’s not a request,’ Evans told her. ‘It’s an order. Is there a room we could use where we might have a bit more privacy?’

  ‘There’s probably an office free upstairs.’

  ‘Then take me to it.’

  Paniatowski led Evans up the basement stairs to the ground floor. The second office she tried was free. Evans walked round the desk, sat down behind it as if it were his own, and signalled the sergeant to take one of the visitors’ chairs.

  ‘A suspension is a very serious matter,’ he said heavily. ‘As Mr Woodend’s sergeant, I would expect your natural inclination to be one of loyalty, but I must ask you to clear such tendencies from your mind, and do all you can to help me to establish the facts.’

  ‘The reporter from the BBC was completely in the wrong,’ Paniatowski said. ‘You know yourself that the facts we choose to hold back from the general public can be as important as the ones we reveal, especially in the early stages of an investigation, and besides⎯’

  ‘Have you ever been to Chief Inspector Woodend’s house?’ Evans interrupted her.

  ‘Yes,’ Paniatowski replied, puzzled.

  ‘Socially?’

  ‘Mrs Woodend has invited me round for a meal a few times.’

  ‘And were you the only guest?’

  ‘No, I⎯’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘What has this got to do with⎯?’

  ‘Who else was there?’

  ‘The first time there was Detective Inspector Rutter and his wife. I think Mr Woodend was hoping that if DI Rutter and I got to know each other better outside work, we might⎯’

  ‘And the second time?’

  ‘A couple called Jackson. Mr Jackson’s an old friend of Mr Woodend’s. They’ve known each other since elementary school.’

  ‘That would Mortimor Jackson? Of Jackson’s Transport?’

  ‘I believe Mr Jackson does own some lorries.’

  ‘A large number of lorries,’ Evans said ominously. ‘But to get back to Mr Woodend. He lives in an old hand-loom weaver’s cottage, just outside Whitebridge, doesn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, that certainly seems modest enough.’ Evans took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote something down. ‘What did you have to eat when you went to Mr Woodend’s house?’

  ‘I don’t see how this⎯’

  ‘Just answer the question, Sergeant!’

  ‘On one occasion, we had roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Another time, I think it was Lancashire hot-pot.’

  ‘Again, modest enough,’ Evans mused. ‘But then a clever man knows better than to be ostentatious. Was there wine with the meal?’

  ‘Mr Woodend doesn’t drink wine. He’s strictly a pint of best bitter man, and⎯’

  ‘That wasn’t what I asked.’

  ‘Yes, there was wine for those who wanted it,’ Paniatowski admitted.

  ‘What kind of wine? Cheap Portuguese muck? Or was it something more expensive? French, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m no expert on the subject, but I believe it was French.’

  ‘I see,’ Evans said, making another note in his book. ‘Do you happen to know where Mr Woodend goes for his holidays?’

  ‘With respect, sir, could I know what this has to do with the investigation in hand?’

  ‘You’re here to answer my questions, not to put forward any of your own,’ Evans said firmly. ‘Where does Mr Woodend go for his holidays?’

  ‘He doesn’t take many holidays. There isn’t time.’

  ‘But he does take some?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where does he go, when he does find the time?’

  ‘Mr Woodend likes to visit the Lake District. He’s a great walker, and he says the Lakes are just the place to⎯’

  ‘And does he have what I suppose you might call “a little place” up in the Lakes.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Does Mr Woodend own any property up in the Lakes?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Evans nodded. ‘Not as far as you know. That’s significant.’

  ‘Mr Woodend and I work together, but we don’t live in each other’s pockets,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I don’t think he has a house in the Lakes, but I couldn’t say for sure.’

  Evans nodded again. ‘I think you’re being wise.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘In any investigation, there’s always a danger that the people close to the subject of it will be suspected of guilt by association. You’re wise to start distancing yourself now.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I was distancing myself.’

  ‘That’s exactly the line to take,’ Evans said, as if he were agreeing with something Paniatowski was sure she’d never said. ‘Circumstances forced you into the company of Mr Woodend, but that was as far as it went.’ He paused. ‘If you play your cards right, Sergeant, you could walk away from this whole affair with a completely unblemished record.’

  ‘What whole affair?’

  ‘There’s nothing else you’d care to tell me about Mr Woodend’s private life, is there?’ Evans said, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Nothing you might have heard? Nothing he could have let slip at an unguarded moment?’

  ‘Mr Woodend is the best boss I’ve ever worked for,’ Paniatowski said passionately. ‘He’s very good at his job, is straight with the team working under him, and is as honest as they come.’

  ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘As far as anyone can ever really know anything.’

  ‘But everyone is capable of making a mistake about the people they work with. And if I were you, Sergeant, I really would keep that in mind from now on. In other words, what I’m saying is that there’s a distinction between being wrong and being rotten, and if you have to choose between them, it’s always better to be seen as wrong. Do you understand what I’m telling you here, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Paniatowski said. ‘No, I’m not sure that I do.’

  Evans’ sigh had just a hint of exasperation in it. ‘Give it a little time to settle, and I’m sure you’ll get the point, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘All right, you can go now.’

  Monika stood and walked towards the door. It was only as she reaching for the handle that she realized she was trembling.

  Seven

  The barking of the dogs cut through the empty moorland air like the wail of a demented banshee. There was nothing warm or welcoming about it. It was not even a fair warning that the animals would defend their territory if they were forced to. It was, instead, a declaration of war – a solemn promise that if they once escaped from behind the high chain-linked fence, they would wreak a terrible destruction on any living thing they could find.

  As Woodend parked his ten-year-old Wolseley in the shadow of the Moorland Village, the dogs came loping purposefully toward the fence. There were four of them. All Dobermanns. All with powerful shoulders and thin, half-starved bodies. As he stepped out of his car, the Chief Inspector was more than conscious of the fact that their wild eyes were fixed so intently on him that they almost seemed to be burning their way into his skin.

  Woodend lit up a cigarette, and returned their gaze. The dogs had come to a halt a few feet from the fence, and their lips were curled back to reveal their razor-sharp teeth. The leader of the pack tensed, then took a flying leap at the wire. Several feet away – and knowing logically that he was perfectly safe – Woodend felt himself flinch and take a sudden step backwards.

  The dog hit the wire with a force which would have knocked even a heavy man like him to the ground. The wire bulged dangerously outwards for a split second, then sprang back, catapulting the dog to the ground. A second dog, undeterred by his leader’s failure, flung himself at the wire with the same determination, and with the same result. The remaining two, seeing the pointlessness of their repeating the attack, contented themselves with ad
opting a menacing crouch from which it would be possible to spring should the fence miraculously disappear.

  The barking all but stopped, and was replaced now by low growls, primeval enough to turn the blood cold. Woodend took a drag on his cigarette. The Dobermanns were not so much animals as trained killing-machines, he decided, and, given the opportunity, they would rip out his throat – or anybody else’s – without a second’s hesitation.

  He turned to look at the scene behind him. The council snowploughs had been out working since first light, and now the snow itself was banked up at the sides of the road, forming a cold, glistening palisade which separated the civilized man-made world of the asphalt from the savage beauty of the moors.

  The dogs were still emitting their low growl, but there was no accompanying noise of machinery. The weather had put a temporary stop to work on ‘the excitingly original concept in rural living from T. A. Taylor and Associates’.

  And a good thing, too! the Chief Inspector thought. The countryside was not meant to be tamed, and true country-dwellers knew it. They understood that it didn’t bend to you. No, you bent to it – accepting it for the way it was and building your life around its natural rhythms. Then people like T. A. Taylor and Associates came along – churning up a landscape which had taken thousands of years to evolve, and putting in its place a safe, sanitized community which gave people who were brought up as townees the illusion of living a rural existence. It should never have been allowed. In fact, now he came to think about it, he wondered how, given the existing planning regulations, it ever had been allowed.

  There was a low rumble in the distance which heralded the imminent arrival of another car. Woodend looked up and saw Monika Paniatowski’s MGA. The dogs, poised only a few feet from him, heard it too, and their snarls deepened as they expressed their anger at the approach of yet another enemy.

  Paniatowski pulled her MGA up next to Woodend’s Wolseley and climbed out. She looked grim.

  ‘What’s the matter, lass?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘There’s something I need to know,’ the sergeant said. ‘A question I need an answer to right now.’