‘Where to?’ the sergeant asked.
‘A pub,’ Woodend gasped.
‘Which pub?’
‘Any pub – as long as it’s not one where we’re likely to run into some of Terry Taylor’s lads.’
Woodend took a long, grateful swig of the pint that Paniatowski had just brought him from the bar.
‘If I do say so myself, I handled Terry Taylor like a master,’ he said, with an uncharacteristic complacency, which had replaced the nerve-jangling tension he’d felt earlier. ‘I’m particularly proud of the show I made of insistin’ there should be black puddin’ with my mixed grill, then hardly touchin’ the food when it arrived. He really thought that showed that while I might be actin’ confidently enough on the outside, I was actually scared to death just under the surface.’
‘And weren’t you?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Wasn’t I what?’
‘Were you scared?’
Woodend grinned ruefully. ‘I was bloody terrified,’ he admitted. ‘I still am, as a matter of fact. But then, so is he.’
‘From what you’ve said so far, it doesn’t seem that way to me at all,’ Paniatowski replied sceptically. ‘Would you like my assessment?’
‘Aye, go on.’
‘I’d say he thinks he’s holding the winning cards, and all you’re sitting there with is a bust hand.’
Woodend shook his head vehemently. ‘You’re wrong about that. He knows that there are some very important cards he should have in his hand which are missin’ – but he’s tryin’ his best to prevent me from realizin’ that, too.’
‘Is that what your gut instinct’s telling you?’ Paniatowski asked dubiously.
‘Yes, but it’s more than just instinct,’ Woodend said, noticing for the first time that his sergeant was not riding the same wave of optimism as he was himself. ‘An’ it’s not blind hope born out of desperation, either – in case that’s what you’re thinkin’.’
‘I never⎯’
‘I’m no rat caught in a trap, desperately believin’ there has to be a way out, even when there isn’t one.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest you were.’
‘No, you’d never have put it so bluntly – but that’s what was on your mind, wasn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ Paniatowski confessed.
‘Listen, Monika, if he felt as secure as he’s pretendin’ to be, he’d never have come out in the open the way he did, an’ made me an offer. The fact that the offer was made tells me that he’s worried I’ll find somethin’ that will damage him – or maybe that I already have.’
‘Or perhaps you’re just a loose end that he wants to tie up for the sake of tidiness.’
‘No!’ Woodend said empathetically. ‘That’s what he wants me to think, but it’s not true. He seems so much in control that he makes the pope look insecure – but it’s all an act. His whole bloody life is an act. Taylor isn’t anybody but the person he invented for himself when he first appeared in Whitebridge.’
‘Maybe⎯’ Paniatowski said.
‘Maybe nothin’,’ Woodend cut in. ‘While I was lookin’ at him across the table, he was all self-assurance an’ mockin’ eyes. But when he thought I wasn’t lookin’ at him any more – when he thought I was on the way to the bog to spew up my ring – his face changed. I turned around suddenly at the door, an’ what I saw was a very worried man.’
‘What exactly is it that you think he’s worried about?’ Paniatowski asked, still unconvinced.
Woodend reached into his pocket and took out the plastic bag. ‘He’s worried that I might come up with somethin’ like this.’
‘A fleck of paint?’
‘Aye, the paint itself – an’, probably even more importantly, where I found it.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘While I was walkin’ round the site, I came across signs of recent excavations. Somebody had dug an oblong hole about four yards by two, an’ then filled it in again. I found the fleck of paint nearby.’
‘I’m still not on your wavelength,’ Paniatowski confessed.
‘One of the first things I asked you to do when we got to the farm last Sunday was to see to it that roadblocks were set up. Remember?’
‘Of course I remember.’
‘An’ those roadblocks were in place for most of the rest of the day, weren’t they?’
‘Yes?’
‘But with no result. Now do you see what I’m gettin’ at?’
‘The Austin A40!’ Paniatowski exclaimed.
‘The yellow Austin A40 that Obediah Metcalfe spotted enterin’ Moorland Village when he was out for his Sunday mornin’ walk – an’ which hasn’t been seen since. Put that together with the fact that the old man heard the machinery bein’ started up, an’ you’re led to the inevitable conclusion that⎯’
‘That they buried the A40!’
‘Exactly.’
‘But why, in God’s name, should they want to do that?’
Woodend scratched his head. ‘I don’t know. But it has to be important, because I think it was the fact that I was nosin’ around the site – more than anythin’ else I’ve done durin’ the course of this investigation – which made Terry Taylor nervous.’
Paniatowski took a sip of her drink. ‘Perhaps there’s something in the car,’ she suggested. ‘Something they didn’t want us to find.’
‘Like what?’
‘Stolen goods?’
‘Like televisions and washin’ machines?’ Woodend asked, relieved to find that his sense of humour was returning.
Paniatowski, taking the remark at face value, shook her head. ‘No, something much smaller than that,’ she said. ‘Something that has quite a high value for its size. Antiques, perhaps. Or whisky and cigarettes.’ A new idea occurred to her. ‘Couldn’t that have been how Taylor got his start? We know he built up T. A. Taylor and Associates from virtually nothing, but he had to have got a little initial capital from somewhere, didn’t he? Couldn’t his legitimate businesses have been founded on the money he made from crime? And if that were the case,’ she continued, growing more and more enthusiastic, ‘wouldn’t a remote place like Dugdale’s Farm have been the ideal place to hide all the contraband?’
‘It’s certainly a theory. But just how do the two murder victims come into the picture?’
‘The murdered man may have been in the same sort of business himself,’ Paniatowski suggested. ‘He could even have been in partnership with Taylor and Dugdale. Then he had an argument with them over how to divide up the spoils, and he got himself killed.’
‘An’ the girl? Just how does she fit in?’
‘Perhaps she was the dead man’s bit of stuff. He took her with him because⎯’ Paniatowski came to a sudden halt, and frowned exasperatedly. ‘No, that wouldn’t work, would it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Quite apart from her age making it unlikely that she was his mistress, we know from the post-mortem examination that she died a virgin. So . . . so maybe she was the other victim’s daughter.’
‘It would be very convenient for our investigation if she was,’ Woodend agreed, ‘but how do you explain away the clothes?’
‘You mean, the fact that the girl’s clothes were expensive, whereas the man’s were cheap?’
‘An’ not only cheap, but shabby as well. Is it really likely that any feller would spend quite so much on his daughter, an’ then dress himself in little more than rags?’
‘Some men do dote on their daughters,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’m looking at one of them right now.’
But even as she spoke, she was thinking how unconvincing her argument sounded. Woodend was right. Even the most doting father would not have dressed his daughter so much better than he dressed himself. And not even the most selfish of daughters would have allowed him to.
‘So you think that there’s nothing at all to connect the two victims, sir?’ she asked.
‘If there is a connection – apart from them bein’ in the sam
e place at the same time, when somethin’ went seriously wrong – then I can’t see it,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But let’s get back to the car. We’re almost certain that it was buried, an’ we’re certain that there’s somethin’ incriminatin’ inside it. So sooner or later – probably sooner, after my visit to Moorland Village today – Terry Taylor’s goin’ to realize it’s too dangerous where it is, an’ decide to move it. That’s why I want him watched.’
Paniatowski looked dubious again. ‘If Mr Ainsworth is as involved with Taylor as you seem to think he is⎯’
‘Taylor virtually admitted to me that he was when were havin’ our cosy little lunch together in the Last Chance.’
‘– then the last thing he’s going to do is to sanction using my team to watch his mate.’
‘I know that,’ Woodend agreed. ‘That’s why you’ll only be able to use lads who are off-duty.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Paniatowski said slowly. ‘You want me to ask the lads to put their careers on the line to save your skin.’
‘No. I’m askin’ them to do it because, if they don’t, there’s every chance that whoever killed that poor little kiddie will get away with it.’ An awkward grin came to his face. ‘Of course, there’s always the possibility that by catchin’ the murderer, my skin might be saved.’
‘It’s asking a lot,’ Paniatowski told him.
‘Yes, it is. That’s why you shouldn’t pressure anybody into it – why we’ll only use volunteers. An’ I can think of a few probables off the top of my head. There’s Hardcastle, for a start. You saw how upset he was out at the farm. He wants to catch this bastard as much as I do.’
Paniatowski nodded gravely. ‘For the sake of everybody’s daughter everywhere,’ she said.
‘Then there’s Duxbury. He should have been a sergeant by now, but thanks to Dick the Prick, he isn’t. Drop a hint to him that what you’re doin’ might help to shaft the DCC, an’ he’ll be willin’ enough to help.’
‘Got it all worked out, haven’t you, sir?’ Monika Paniatowski asked admiringly.
‘I’m glad I give you that impression, because that’s what a leader should do – but, in point of fact, I’m makin’ it up as I go along.’
‘That’s comforting to know,’ Paniatowski said, with a slight smile. ‘I assume, since you’re expecting me to organize this surveillance operation, you’re also expecting me to be one of the volunteers working on it.’
‘An’ won’t you be?’
‘Well, of course I bloody will!’
Woodend suppressed a sigh of relief. ‘There’s one more thing we need to talk through,’ he said. ‘The fingerprints.’
‘What about them?’
‘The check on the dead man’s prints didn’t lead us anywhere, but that check was carried out by DC Battersby, who we now know was in Terry Taylor’s pocket all along.’
‘So you want them checked again?’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?’
‘Technically, no. His body’s still on ice in the morgue, waiting for someone to come and claim it. But if Ainsworth and Harris find out I’ve been doing it behind their backs⎯’
‘You’re sunk,’ Woodend supplied. ‘But if they find out about any of the things you’ve been doing behind their backs the last few days, you’re probably finished anyway.’
‘So I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb?’
‘It’s your choice,’ Woodend said. ‘It’s always been your choice, right from the beginnin’.’
‘I suppose it has,’ Paniatowski agreed. She sighed. ‘All right, I’ll take the prints and send them down to the Yard.’
‘We can minimize the chances of discovery if we don’t go through the official channels,’ Woodend said. ‘I’ve still got a few mates at the Yard who’ll do a foreigner for me. I’ll give you their names. An’ one more thing.’ He reached into the pocket of his sports coat and placed a wine glass on the table. ‘Get the prints on this glass checked, too, while you’re about it.’
‘Whose are they?’
‘Terry Taylor’s. It’s the wine glass he used at lunch.’
‘Have you lost your mind, sir?’ Paniatowski demanded. ‘I know we’ll have to take some bloody big chances if we’re ever to crack the case – but this is ridiculous!’
‘Listen, Monika⎯’
‘Taylor would have to be a complete fool not to have noticed that his glass had gone missing. He’s probably on the phone to Ainsworth right now, telling him all about it. And you want to hand that same poisoned chalice to me!’
‘If Taylor noticed anythin’, it was that there was no glass where I’d been sittin’,’ Woodend said calmly.
‘You swapped them over?’
‘Aye. An’ I poured what was left of his wine into my glass.’
‘I sometimes forget just how smart you are,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Oh, I’m all there with my cough drops,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Well, when you’re hangin’ on by your fingertips, you bloody well have to be, don’t you?’
‘Shall I take you back home now?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Aye. But not to my home – to yours.’
‘Come again!’
‘Apart from everythin’ else he’s dirtied his hands with over the years, Terry Taylor’s up to his neck in two murders now. He’s not goin’ to think twice about makin’ it three.’
‘You think he’d have you killed?’
‘I don’t know. But for some strange reason, I don’t feel like takin’ the chance.’
Paniatowski thought for a moment. ‘What if Ainsworth suspects you’re staying with me?’ she asked.
‘Even Dick the Prick would never think you’d be quite so bloody stupid as to hide me.’
‘And if any of my nosy neighbours find out I’ve got a man staying with me?’
‘They’ll probably just think I’m your bit of rough trade.’
‘That wouldn’t do much for my reputation, would it?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Woodend agreed, grinning. ‘But it would certainly do a hell of a lot for mine.’
Twenty-Three
He’d been a self-imposed prisoner in Paniatowski’s flat near the top of Whitebridge’s only tower block for less than forty-eight hours, yet the boredom was so crippling that Woodend felt as if he’d already served a long sentence with no time off for good behaviour.
He’d glanced through Paniatowski’s slim library, but there was nothing there to interest him. Her record collection included none of the traditional jazz he liked to listen to. He’d tried watching television, and had found his mind wandering back to a case he could only control – completely unsatisfactorily – from a distance. And though Monika had been thoughtful enough to see the fridge was well stocked with bottles of beer, it just wasn’t the same as a pint drawn straight from the wood.
Woodend walked over to the lounge window, drew back the flowery curtains, and looked down on the town spread out before him. He stood in silence as the dark clouds began to lose their blood-red edge, and the streets beneath them slowly sank into the darkness of a winter early night.
He had grown up in this town, he reminded himself. No, that wasn’t strictly accurate. Better to say he’d been brought up in the same space as this town now occupied. Because the Whitebridge of his boyhood was no more. Many of the streets he’d played in had gone forever – victims of the bulldozer and the demolition ball. The old covered market, where his grandmother had taken him every Friday as regular as clockwork, had been replaced by a concrete monstrosity which was some bright spark’s idea of the future. Even the buildings which had survived the relentless march of progress now seemed so oddly out of place that they could almost have been mistaken for intruders.
The abandoned mills stood forlornly against the skyline – as if harbouring the faint hope that they would eventually hear the sound of clogs again on the cobbled streets which led to them. The railway station, a confident, bustling place in the eyes
of the young Charlie Woodend, had somehow acquired the same quaintness as the little old lady in whose reign it had been built.
Woodend turned around and faced the thoroughly modern room he found himself in. G-Plan furniture. The latest radiogram – which hardly looked used at all. Light wood and soft furnishings everywhere. If his granny were still alive to see this, she’d have thought she’d landed on a different planet.
He heard the key turn in the lock, and swung round expectantly – though not without a little dread.
Paniatowski entered the lounge, a thick brown envelope under her arm. ‘You’re absolutely sure that the prints on that glass you gave me were Taylor’s, are you?’ she asked brusquely.
What did that mean? Woodend wondered.
That his mates at the Yard hadn’t been able to find a match?
‘Well?’ Paniatowski demanded.
‘Taylor was drinkin’ out of it,’ Woodend said. ‘There may be other prints on it, but some of them had to be his.’
‘In that case, it’s just remotely possible that we may still be able to pull you out of the shit,’ Paniatowski told him.
Woodend felt his heart start to beat a little faster. ‘What have you come up with?’
Paniatowski sat down on the sofa, then stood up again almost immediately, as if she were too tense to remain still for long.
‘The Yard has identified the prints on the prints on the wine glass as belonging to Thomas Arthur Tasker.’
T. A .T. – as in T. A. Taylor and Bloody-Associates!
‘What kind of form has Mr Tasker got?’ Woodend asked.
‘He was born and brought up in Hove. He was a jobbing builder for a while – though not a very successful one. He turned to fraud – and he wasn’t too good at that either. The first time he was caught, he was put on probation. The second time he served two years.’ Paniatowski paused. ‘For his third offence, he was given a six stretch. He served his time in Durham Jail.’
Woodend was already ahead of her. ‘Who were his known associates?’ he demanded.
‘He shared a cell with a man called Philip Swales. Does that name ring any bells with you?’
Death of an Innocent Page 17
