Death of an Innocent

by Sally Spencer

  Twenty-Seven

  They had learned so much the previous evening that it seemed an age since he had last stood in Monika’s living room – watching the sun set and seeing his own career sinking with it. It seemed an age, but it was no more than a few hours, and soon the sun would rise again, edging the dark clouds which were now drifting across the moon with a golden edge of hope. He wished he could share that hope, but his own dark clouds of doubt made it almost impossible for him to believe that a new day really was dawning in the investigation into the murders at Dugdale’s Farm.

  Woodend turned away from the window. Monika Paniatowski was stretched out on the sofa, in a deep sleep. She was a very attractive woman, he thought. Perhaps even a beautiful one. Yet at that moment he found it hard to think of her as anything but an innocent, trusting child.

  He lit up a cigarette. Did he have the right to allow her to take the risks this operation would entail? he wondered. And why was he asking her to take them, anyway? For the sake of the dead girl they had found in the farmhouse? Or for his sake – for the sake of his precious career? He prayed he was doing it for the girl – although he knew that he would never be really sure.

  He went to the kitchen, made two cups of strong, black coffee and took them back into the lounge.

  ‘Time to wake up, Monika!’ he said, thinking that he sounded more like a jovial uncle on Christmas morning than a chief inspector who was asking one of his subordinates to put her job on the line.

  Paniatowski rolled over, groaned, then opened her eyes and saw him standing there.

  ‘Have I been asleep?’ she asked.

  ‘Just for a while,’ Woodend said softly.

  ‘And how long’s “a while”?’

  ‘Three or four hours.’

  Monika groaned again, and shook her head in an attempt to clear the sleep from it.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I meant to stay awake, to keep you company.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I managed to grab a couple of hours kip myself,’ Woodend lied.

  Monika swung her legs off the sofa and reached for the coffee. ‘I’ll just knock this back, then I’ll be ready to make that call.’

  ‘That call.’

  The words echoed around Woodend’s mind. How casual they sounded – how utterly insignificant. But they weren’t insignificant at all – the acceptance of them was the vital first step in an operation during the course of which a hundred things could go wrong.

  Paniatowski drained her cup, and lit the first cigarette of what she fully expected to be a very long morning.

  ‘Right, let’s get started,’ she said, trying to sound brisk and thoroughly businesslike.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Monika,’ Woodend cautioned her. ‘There’s still time to back out.’

  Paniatowski walked over to the small table on which her telephone sat. ‘There’s an extension phone in the bedroom,’ she said, ignoring his warning. ‘You can listen in from there, if you want to.’

  Woodend walked into the bedroom, picked up the receiver, and clamped it to his ear. Monika was already connected, and he found himself counting the rings.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .

  It was on the tenth ring that the phone was picked up, and a sleepy, irritated voice said, ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘It’s me, sir. Paniatowski.’

  ‘Do you realize what time of day it is, Sergeant Paniatowski?’ DCC Ainsworth demanded.

  ‘Yes, sir, I do. And I’m sorry to disturb you like this, but I didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘Not much choice?’

  ‘The thing is, there’s been a big break in the Dugdale’s Farm case, and I can’t seem to reach DI Harris.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the line, and Woodend could almost picture Ainsworth trying to work out the proper way to respond.

  ‘Big break? What kind of big break?’ the Deputy Chief Constable said finally.

  ‘I’ve identified the victims, sir.’

  ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’ Ainsworth said, then added – belatedly – ‘Who do you think they are?’

  ‘I don’t think, sir – I know. The man’s name was Harry Judd. He was a villain, but strictly small-time. The girl was his daughter, Enid.’

  ‘You’re sure of this?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m absolutely certain of it, sir.’

  There were another few seconds silence while Ainsworth sweated on the other end of the line, and Paniatowski – keeping her nerve admirably – sat back and let him drown in it.

  ‘This . . . this is really excellent news,’ Ainsworth said unconvincingly. ‘Well done.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘More?’ the DCC said fearfully, after perhaps as much as ten seconds had passed.

  ‘I know who killed them, as well, sir.’

  ‘I don’t see how you could possibly⎯’

  ‘It was a man called Philip Swales.’

  ‘Swales!’

  ‘You sound as if you know the man, sir.’

  ‘No, I . . . it just struck me as a rather unusual name.’

  ‘And I think we’ll have all the evidence we need if we can find the dead man’s car.’

  ‘His car?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. A yellow Austin A40. Our only problem is, I haven’t quite established where it is yet.’

  ‘What do you mean – you haven’t quite established where it is?’ Ainsworth asked.

  ‘I suppose I mean that I’ve no idea at the moment,’ Paniatowski lied. She paused, to give Ainsworth the time to develop a little false hope, then added, ‘But I do know it’s still in the area, and based on the same sources of information I used to identify the victims and the killer, I expect to be able to pinpoint its exact location sometime this afternoon.’

  ‘Be more specific,’ Ainsworth said. ‘What are these sources of information you’re talking about?’

  ‘To tell you the truth, it’s all a bit complicated to explain over the phone,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Couldn’t we meet somewhere, and talk it through?’

  Woodend counted slowly to six before the DCC spoke again.

  ‘I’ll meet you down at headquarters, Sergeant Paniatowski,’ Ainsworth said. ‘Shall we say around half past nine?’

  ‘That would be fine, sir.’

  ‘Don’t try to ring DI Harris again before you talk to me. I want to evaluate the evidence myself before I decide whether to present it to him.’

  ‘Understood, sir.

  ‘And Sergeant . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘After waking me up at this godawful time of the morning, you’d better make damn sure you’ve got solid evidence to back up your claims – or I’ll make you pay for it in ways you wouldn’t believe.’

  ‘I’ve no worries there, sir,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘My evidence is as solid as a rock, sir.’

  The line went dead. Woodend checked his watch. It was just after half past six.

  They had another cup of coffee, and two more cigarettes. Both of them looked longingly at the whisky bottle that was standing invitingly on the table, but neither made a move for it.

  At a quarter to seven, Woodend said, ‘You’d better go and get the search warrant sworn out by the magistrate, Monika. I’m sorry it has to be you. I’d do it myself if I could.’

  ‘I’ve no objection to doing it,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘I’m just not sure we’re taking it to the right person.’

  ‘Have you got somethin’ against Polly Johnson?’

  Paniatowski looked embarrassed. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘It’s just that she’s a woman.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Given that we’re on such shaky legal ground to start with, I think I’d rather deal with a man.’

  Woodend heard himself chuckle – and was surprised that he still could. ‘What you’re really sayin’ is that with a man you can use your feminine wiles to wrap him round your little finger, but you’re not so confident yo
u can get a woman to co-operate.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ Paniatowski said uncomfortably.

  ‘But it’s what you meant.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Let me tell you a little story,’ Woodend said. ‘They put up a council estate next to Polly Johnson’s house last year. Some of her neighbours objected, claimin’ it would bring down the tone of the area. Polly herself didn’t really mind. In fact, she thought it might do those same neighbours good to see how the other half lives at close quarters. What she did object to was them loppin’ off half her beloved garden for the project, when they could just as easily have expanded in the other direction instead. She tried to fight it, but the builder said that was the way that it had to be done, an’ the council backed him. An’ the builder was . . .?’

  ‘T. A. Taylor and Associates!’

  ‘That’s right,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ that’s why you should have no difficulty gettin’ your search warrant from Polly Johnson.’

  It was ten minutes since Monika Paniatowski had returned, brandishing the warrant Polly Johnson JP had been more than willing to sign. Now the hands of the lounge clock pointed to a quarter to eight.

  Woodend lit a cigarette, then realized he already had two more burning in the ashtray.

  ‘It’s not goin’ to happen, Monika,’ he said despondently. ‘We gave it our best shot, but it’s simply not goin’ to happen.’

  ‘It’ll happen. I know it will,’ Paniatowski replied in a tone of voice that fell short of matching the confidence of her words.

  ‘If Ainsworth an’ Taylor were goin’ to do what we need them to do, they’d have already started.’

  ‘I’m not due to meet Mr Ainsworth for another hour and three-quarters,’ Paniatowski said, half-heartedly. ‘There’s plenty of time yet.’

  No, there wasn’t, Woodend thought.

  They’d called his bluff, and even though he could reconstruct what had happened out at Dugdale’s Farm almost minute by minute, there was no way he’d ever be able to bring the guilty parties to book for it.

  The phone rang, and Paniatowski sprang out of her chair in her eagerness to answer it.

  ‘Yes it’s me,’ she said. ‘Yes . . . He has? . . . I see. Keep in touch.’

  She replaced the phone on its cradle.

  ‘Who was that?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘DC Hardcastle. He says that Terry Taylor has just left his house.’

  The news should have cheered Woodend up – but it didn’t.

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘He’s just left his house!’

  ‘The fact he’s gone out doesn’t mean a thing,’ Woodend replied. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock now. Lots of folk are leavin’ their houses by eight o’clock. Taylor might be just settin’ off for an early mornin’ round of golf.’

  ‘In this weather? That doesn’t seem likely.’

  ‘You don’t know golfers, Sergeant. They’ll play through fire an’ brimstone if there’s no other choice.’

  ‘But they always like to dress appropriately, whatever the weather, don’t they?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘If Terry Taylor had been meaning to play a round of golf, wouldn’t he have been wearing his golfing tweeds?’

  ‘I suppose so. Wasn’t he?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  She was teasing him, Woodend realized. She was happy enough – confident enough – to be bloody teasing him!

  ‘So what was Taylor wearin’?’ he asked.

  Paniatowski grinned. ‘He was wearing overalls,’ she said.

  Twenty-Eight

  They’d argued about how many officers to use in the operation. Woodend had said four, Paniatowski had insisted on eight. And Paniatowski had been right, Woodend thought, as the convoy of cars made its way across the bleak moors towards the Moorland Village. When dealing with a violent criminal like Philip Swales, it would have been foolish to go in anything less than mob-handed. And yet . . . and yet he wished that he could have found a way to keep all the others out of it, so that if the swoop came up with nothing, he – and only he – would have to face the consequences of that failure.

  They were half a mile from the Village when they heard the whine of heavy machinery drifting across the moorland.

  ‘That’s one worry out of the way,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘What?’ Woodend said, startled out of his musings.

  ‘With all that racket going on, they’ll never hear us coming.’

  She sounds bright and hopeful, Woodend thought. He wished he could share in her optimism, but the cloud of impending doom that had been hanging over him since before Paniatowski woke up was refusing to drift away.

  They had reached the site. The lead vehicle, driven by Hardcastle, parked near to the big double gates. The second car fanned out to the right, and the third to the left.

  ‘Do they all know what they’ve got to do?’ Woodend asked, as Paniatowski brought her MGA to a halt.

  The sergeant nodded. ‘We go in first, and Hardcastle and Duxbury follow us.’

  ‘An’ the other units?’

  ‘As we agreed, one stays where it is, and the other goes around the back of the site, in case the targets try to get out that way.’

  It was a good plan, Woodend thought – a good plan being executed by good men. But he was still not happy.

  ‘It’s not too late to call it off,’ he said.

  ‘Call it off? Now?’ Paniatowski exclaimed. ‘Just when we’ve got them exactly where we want them?’

  ‘Just when we think – when we hope – we’ve got them exactly where we want them,’ Woodend corrected her. ‘But what if we haven’t? I’m not sure I’m willing to risk sacrificing you an’ the rest of the team.’

  ‘You won’t be. It’ll only be me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve told the lads the plan has the full backing of DCC Ainsworth.’

  ‘An’ did they believe you?’

  ‘Of course not. But they can say they did – and that’s enough to put them in the clear.’

  Woodend felt a lump come to his throat. ‘I really appreciate this, Monika,’ he said.

  ‘Bollocks to that! You’d have done the same for me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’

  Hardcastle and Duxbury got out of their vehicle and walked over to the gates. Hardcastle grasped hold of the left one, and pulled. It shook – but did not open. He ran his eyes quickly up and down the gate, then turned towards the MGA and mouthed the word, ‘Padlock’.

  Paniatowski made a snipping gesture with her fingers, and Hardcastle nodded that he understood.

  The big detective constable walked back to his car, and took a pair of wire-cutters out of the boot. He returned to the gates, sized up the job in hand, then began cutting a hole in the chain-link fence. From inside the building site, the mechanical digger gave one last howl, and then fell silent.

  Get on with it, man! Woodend urged silently from the passenger seat of the MGA. Bloody-well get on with it!

  Hardcastle pulled a rough oblong of wire mesh free from the fence, leant through the gap he’d cut, and fixed his cutters on the padlock on the other side of the gate.

  There was the sound of another heavy vehicle – possibly a crane – starting up inside the building site.

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ Paniatowski said.

  No, Woodend thought, it wouldn’t. It shouldn’t take more than another three or four minutes – at the most – to find out if he really was as good a detective as he thought he was.

  Hardcastle’s arm emerged from the gap in the wire, then he and Duxbury took hold of one gate each, and swung them open.

  ‘Ready, sir?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ Woodend replied.

  Paniatowski slammed the MGA into gear, and the car shot forward towards the open gateway. Hardcast
le’s vehicle fell in behind it. The operation – for better or worse – was entering its final phase.

  Once through the gates, the MGA made a sharp turn, its tyres screeching as it skidded past the site office – and past the four furious Dobermanns which were chained to the rail in front of it.

  Bouncing up and down on the rough track, the MGA roared past the show house with its genuine hardwood doors and real brass fittings. Buckets of slush were being thrown up, and the windscreen wipers gave a dull rubber moan as they did their best to combat them.

  Paniatowski kept her foot down on the pedal as they passed the completed shells of the first row of houses, then wrenched the steering wheel to make a sharp right turn. The virgin section of the building site was now ahead of them – the couple of acres of muddied grass that lay between the last building and the fence. And right in the middle of it – at roughly the point where he had found the sliver of yellow paint – was just the tableau that Woodend had been praying he would see.

  The mechanical digger was closest to them, with a large mound of earth piled up next it. Beyond that there was a heavy crane. Three cars were parked near to the crane – Taylor’s Jaguar, Ainsworth’s Volvo, and the garishly red Mercedes Benz which Woodend had seen parked outside the Victoria Hotel on the night Taylor had had the heated argument with Philip Swales.

  But it was the lorry he was most relieved to see – the lorry with a battered, yellow Austin A40 sitting on the back!

  They were less than twenty yards from the large hole in the ground now – close enough for Woodend to see Taylor was sitting in the cab of the crane, and that Ainsworth and another man were standing by the cars.

  Paniatowski slammed on the MGA’s brakes, and skidded to a halt near the Jaguar so suddenly that DC Hardcastle, who had been right behind, had to swerve to avoid tail-ending her.

  The sergeant looked at the yellow A40, and allowed a broad grin to spread across her face. ‘Caught the bastards with their pants right down around their ankles, haven’t we!’ she said gleefully.

  But as Woodend climbed out of the passenger seat he saw the Deputy Chief Constable striding furiously and confidently towards the MGA – and realized that it was going to be nothing like as easy as Monika seemed to think.