Death of an Innocent

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Wilfred Dugdale was in Strangeways with a man called Swales!’

  ‘The same man called Swales. I’ve checked. It’s all starting to fit together, isn’t it?’

  It was! Woodend thought. It really bloody was!

  ‘What kind of form has Swales got?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a thoroughly nasty piece of work. He’s been involved in extortion, pimping and blackmail. And he’s violent. He’s got a string of convictions going back to childhood. But he’s had no convictions for the last sixteen years. Don’t you think that’s significant, sir?’

  ‘You’re not sayin’ that he’s been clean all that time, are you?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘But you are sayin’ that a habitual criminal like him has somehow managed to stay out of trouble since shortly after Taylor moved to Whitebridge?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Paniatowski opened the envelope and passed a photograph across to him. ‘That’s Swales.’

  Woodend looked down at the face which was staring aggressively into the camera. Swales had tight, pinched features and hard eyes.

  ‘I know this bugger,’ he said.

  ‘The picture’s over twenty years old,’ Paniatowski cautioned him.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Woodend said firmly. ‘I saw him just the other night. In the Vic – my local. He was drinkin’ with Terry Taylor. He reminded me of one of those spivs we used to see just after the war – long before your time – an’ I thought then that they made an odd couple.’

  ‘What were they talking about?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but it got very heated. Terry Taylor eventually stormed out of the pub – but not before he told this Philip Swales feller that he didn’t like bein’ threatened.’

  Woodend walked over to the lounge window. With the onset of another chilling night, condensation had formed on the glass.

  ‘Here we’ve got Dugdale,’ he said, making a large ‘D’ with his finger, ‘an’ here –’ making a ‘T’ several inches away from it – ‘we’ve got Taylor. An’ right in the middle we’ve got Philip Swales, who served time inside with both of them. What we still haven’t got is any explanation of what actually went on that mornin’ at Dugdale’s Farm. An’ that’s not our only problem. We still don’t know who the victims were, either.’

  ‘Don’t we?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Are you sayin’ you do?’

  Paniatowski nodded. ‘The second set of prints you asked me to take – the ones from the corpse – have come up trumps as well. They belong to a man called Harry Judd.’

  ‘An’ he’s done time an’ all?’

  ‘Oh yes, he has.’

  ‘With Taylor, Swales or Dugdale?’

  Paniatowski shook her head regretfully. ‘He was nothing but a petty criminal – not in their class at all. He’s served several stretches over the years, but none of them in the same place or at the same time as the others.’

  Woodend looked at the initials he’d made in the condensation on the window-pane again. They were already starting to dribble away and lose their distinctiveness.

  ‘So there’s nothin’ to connect Judd with the other three?’ he said despondently.

  ‘Not a bloody thing,’ Paniatowski confirmed.

  Twenty-Four

  There had only been a light drizzle when Woodend and Paniatowski had left Whitebridge at just after six in the evening, but by the time they had reached the main road into Manchester the skies had opened, the windscreen wipers on the MGA were swishing back and forth dementedly, and the traffic had slowed down to a crawl.

  ‘I suppose it could be worse,’ the sergeant said gloomily. ‘At least it’s not snowing.’

  But the weather was the least of their problems at that moment, Woodend thought.

  He lit up a cigarette. ‘You’re absolutely sure there’s no connection between the dead man, Harry Judd, an’ the others involved in this case?’ he asked, more out of hope than expectation.

  ‘None that I could find,’ Paniatowski said, as she signalled to overtake a lorry. ‘And believe me, knowing how much we needed some sort of link, I looked hard enough.’

  ‘Harry Judd comes from Manchester, an’ so does Philip Swales,’ Woodend pointed out.

  ‘That’s true enough, sir. But, like I said, they’re different kinds of villains completely. Swales is a really vicious bastard – they used to call him “Razor” Swales in the old days.’

  ‘An’ Judd’s just a petty criminal.’

  ‘His crimes never amounted to anything more serious than cat burglary. So whatever kind of racket Terry Taylor’s involved in, I can’t see him finding a place in it for Judd.’

  She was probably right, Woodend thought. But something had to explain Judd’s presence at Dugdale’s Farm.

  And something had to explain his phone call which had promised that reporter, Bennett, the biggest story of his life – because from what BBC man had said of his caller’s voice, that had almost certainly been Judd, too.

  They turned off the arterial road and plunged deep into the suburbs. On either side of them were well-maintained semi-detached homes.

  ‘How much further?’ Woodend asked impatiently.

  ‘It’ll be a while yet.’

  ‘You said Judd lived with his sister?’

  ‘Not exactly. For most of the time over the last twenty years, his address has been some jail or another. But for the brief periods he’s been on the outside, he’s stayed with his sister, Mrs Doris Hargreaves.’

  ‘Has she got any form?’

  ‘Yes, but just like her brother, it’s only for small-time stuff. Petty crime seems to be the family speciality.’

  ‘So what’s she been nicked for? Shop-liftin’?’

  ‘And street-walking – though that was a number of years ago, when she was much younger.’

  ‘So she was on the game, was she?’ Woodend said – and wondered, though he couldn’t quite say why, if that could possibly have any significance.

  They had left the suburban roads behind them. The streets were narrower now, and the neat semis had been replaced by row upon row of crumbling terraced houses. Few of the street lamps in this area seemed to work, and the pavements were deserted. It was only in the obviously run-down pubs – of which there appeared to be one on every corner – that there were any signs of life.

  This was not a district to be out alone in after dark, Woodend thought. If Moorland Village was some people’s idea of heaven, then this could only be an image of the other place.

  Paniatowski pulled the MGA up to the kerb. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Number Thirty-six, Tufton Road.’

  They got out of the car, and walked up to the house. The dark-brown paint on the front door was peeling. The window to the left of it was covered with ragged net curtains, and the light inside shone only dimly through the thick layers of dirt that clung to the glass.

  ‘Given the choice of stayin’ in prison or comin’ home to this, I think I’d have stayed banged up,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Perhaps it might be better if you didn’t come in with me, sir,’ Monika Paniatowski suggested.

  ‘Not come in with you? Why?’

  ‘Because this isn’t our patch, and while my right to be conducting an investigation in Manchester’s jurisdiction is questionable at best, you shouldn’t be here at all. If it ever got back to the brass in Whitebridge that⎯’

  ‘It won’t. I’ve never met this Mrs Hargreaves, but I can tell just from the state of the place she calls home that she’s not one to say anythin’ to any bobby when she doesn’t absolutely have to.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But at least leave the talking up to me.’

  ‘I’ll do my best to,’ Woodend promised.

  Paniatowski rapped on the front door with her knuckles. From the corner of his eye Woodend saw the shabby net curtains flicker for a second, but no one came to answer the knock.

  The sergeant knocked again –
even more insistently this time. There was the sound of shuffling feet in the hallway, then the letter-box opened and someone called through it, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Police,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Have you got any sort of identification on yer?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got identification,’ Paniatowski answered. ‘If you’ll just open the door, I’ll show it to you.’

  There was a longish pause, then the woman said, ‘Shove it through the letter-box.’

  Paniatowski looked at Woodend for guidance, and when the Chief Inspector nodded, she slid her warrant card through the box.

  Another pause. ‘It says here you’re from Whitebridge,’ Mrs Hargreaves shouted through the door.

  ‘So we are,’ Monika Paniatowski replied. ‘But we’re working with the local bobbies.’

  ‘Why haven’t they come round themselves?’

  Paniatowski gave the kind of heavy theatrical sigh that would have made even a bad ham actor blush. ‘I suppose I could go back to the station and pick up a couple of the local lads, if that would make you any happier . . .’

  ‘Yeah, do that.’

  ‘But if you think they’re going to feel exactly chuffed about being dragged out of their nice warm canteen on a filthy night like this, then you’ve got another thing coming. If they haven’t got anything against you when they arrive, I expect they’ll manage to think of some sort of charge while they’re here.’ She paused, to let the idea sink in. ‘So why not be sensible and open the door, Mrs Hargreaves?’ she continued. ‘We won’t keep you for more than a few minutes.’

  There was the sound of the latch being reluctantly drawn back, then the door swung open and they got their first look at Mrs Hargreaves. The police record Paniatowski had read said the woman was forty-two, but she could have passed for at least twenty years older. She was around five foot one, with frizzy, bleached hair, bloodshot eyes and a slack mouth. The skin on her cheeks and above her lip was faintly discoloured.

  Bruising, Woodend thought. Not too recent, but definitely bruising.

  Paniatowski held out her hand. ‘Could I have my warrant card back, please?’

  Mrs Hargreaves gave it to her, then placed her hands aggressively on her hips. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

  ‘Just a little chat,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘Do you mind if we come inside, out of the cold and wet?’

  And in her best police-officer manner, she was moving into the passageway even as she spoke.

  ‘I haven’t done nothin’,’ Mrs Hargreaves protested.

  ‘Of course you haven’t, luv,’ Paniatowski said reassuringly. ‘That’s the door to the lounge, is it? We’ll go in there, shall we?’

  She opened the living-room door at the same moment as Woodend closed the front door behind him. Though they had no right to be there, they were now firmly inside the house.

  The ‘lounge’ looked as if it belonged on a council rubbish tip. The furniture was old and neglected, the carpet was stained and littered with greasy pieces of newspaper which had once contained fish and chips. The air stank of cigarettes and unwashed clothes. Only the large television, which dominated one corner of the room, looked new and cared for.

  Without waiting to be invited, Paniatowski sat down on the threadbare sofa. ‘Why don’t you take a seat yourself, Mrs Hargreaves?’ she suggested.

  The frizzy-haired woman looked confusedly from Paniatowski to Woodend, and then back again. ‘Just who’s in charge here?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll be conducting the interview,’ Paniatowski said firmly. ‘Do sit down, Mrs Hargreaves. You’re making me tired, just looking at you standing there.’

  The woman sank reluctantly into a rickety armchair. ‘You said this wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘It won’t,’ Paniatowski promised. ‘Now then, Mrs Hargreaves, what we’re here to talk about is your brother, Harry.’

  The frizzy-haired woman snorted contemptuously. ‘Oh, him! Waste of time, he is. Mam always said he would never amount to anythin’.’

  Whereas you have really come up in the world, Paniatowski thought.

  But aloud, all she said was: ‘When was the last time that you saw your brother?’

  ‘Last Saturday, it was. The day they let him out of the nick.’

  And the day before he was found at Dugdale’s Farm with his face blown away!

  ‘Was there any particular reason for his visit?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Was he planning to stay with you?’

  ‘He was not! I told him after the last time they released him that I was tired of him spongin’ off me. So he already knew, when he came out this time, that he wouldn’t be welcome.’

  ‘So why did he come? Was it to pick something up from here? A suitcase, perhaps?’

  ‘He came to pick Enid up.’

  ‘And Enid would be . . .?’

  ‘Don’t you know nothin’? Enid’s his daughter.’

  The idea that Judd even had a daughter came as a complete surprise to Woodend, but then, unlike Paniatowski, he hadn’t had the luxury of studying the man’s file.

  ‘I thought his daughter had lived with her mother ever since her parents separated,’ the sergeant said.

  Mrs Hargreaves shook her head disdainfully. ‘You really should keep your records up to date,’ she said. ‘Enid’s mother – like the slag that she is – buggered off with the rent man years ago.’

  ‘And so Harry’s been bringing her up himself?’

  ‘He does when he can – which isn’t very often. Thinks the world of her, he does. Our Enid can’t do nothin’ wrong as far as he’s concerned. An’ whatever happens, he’ll always take care of her. Except that he can’t take care of her when he’s doin’ time, can he? So who do you think’s landed with the job? Her soft Auntie Doris, of course!’

  ‘How old is Enid?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘She’s fifteen.’

  ‘Does she have blonde hair?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘An’ how tall is she? About five feet?’

  ‘Why are you askin’ all these questions about Enid?’ Mrs Hargreaves said. ‘I thought you’d come to talk about Harry.’

  ‘About five feet tall?’ Woodend repeated, commandingly. ‘Slim figure, but not too slim?’

  ‘Yeah, that’d about fit her,’ Mrs Hargreaves agreed sullenly.

  ‘So Harry took her away with him, did he?’

  ‘Er . . . yes . . . that’s right.’

  ‘Where did she get the clothes from?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘What clothes?’ Mrs Hargreaves countered.

  ‘The silk blouse, the skirt with the Italian label and the hand-stitched shoes. Did you buy them for her?’

  ‘Do I look cracked in the head?’

  ‘So where did they come from?’

  ‘H . . . Harry must have bought ’em for her.’

  ‘They were this year’s fashions,’ Paniatowski said, all the understanding and reassurance she’d shown earlier now completely absent from her tone.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Your brother was inside at the start of the season. And even if he hadn’t been, where would a loser like him have found the money?’ She paused again. ‘Or have I missed something? Have they suddenly started paying out a small fortune for stitching mailbags in prison?’

  Mrs Hargreaves’ eyes narrowed with ever-increasing suspicion. ‘What’s this about? Has Enid been arrested?’

  ‘Now why would you even begin to think a thing like that?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘Well, what with the questions you keep askin’⎯’

  ‘The clothes, Doris!’ Paniatowski shouted. ‘Where the bloody hell did she get the clothes from?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I have enough of this,’ Woodend said, his exasperation only half faked. ‘Arrest her, Sergeant. She’ll talk soon enough, after she’s been in the cells for a few hours.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, sir,’ Paniatowski told him, slipping back effortlessly into her gentle earl
ier approach. ‘You’ll tell us what we want to know, won’t you, Doris?’

  ‘Yer’ll . . . if I tell you truth, yer’ll only get the wrong idea,’ Mrs Hargreaves said weakly.

  ‘It’s here – or at the station,’ Woodend threatened.

  Doris Hargreaves sighed. ‘How do you think kids who live in places like this get the money to buy fancy clothes?’

  ‘Doing something bent,’ Paniatowski guessed.

  ‘I tried to control her,’ Mrs Hargreaves whined, ‘but yer know what kids are like these days.’

  ‘What was she doing?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Shop-lifting?’

  ‘You’re a bit of dab hand at that yourself, aren’t you, Doris?’ Woodend demanded. ‘What did you do – spend a few hours teachin’ her all the tricks of the trade?’

  ‘No, I . . . she didn’t steal nothin’.’

  ‘So where did she get the money from?’

  ‘She was . . . you know . . . she was doin’ the . . . well, the other thing I got nicked for.’

  ‘She was on the game?’ Paniatowski asked, her voice filled with incredulity. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mrs Hargreaves agreed. ‘She was on the game.’

  Twenty-Five

  Only a minute had passed since Mrs Hargeaves’ revelation that her niece had practised prostitution. Yet in that brief sixty seconds, Woodend’s mind had performed mental gymnastics – swinging on ropes of speculation across a whole panorama, vaulting over wooden horses of theory – only to end up slamming into a brick wall of facts which seemed to contradict everything his instincts told him.

  He’d had no idea who the dead girl found at Dugdale’s farm was when he’d first entered the room, but within a few minutes he’d convinced himself that she simply had to be Enid Judd. And now that no longer seemed possible. The girl at the farm had died a virgin, and Enid – if her aunt was to be believed – had been far from that. But perhaps – just perhaps – the aunt was wrong about the girl.

  ‘You’re sure she was on the game?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly on it.’

  ‘An’ what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t what you’d call a “professional”. She didn’t do it all the time – only when she wanted a few bob. An’ she didn’t charge half as much as she could have got if she’d wanted to.’