Death of an Innocent (18 page)

‘
Chief Inspector Woodend was pale, but steady, as he stood before the magistrates this morning to be told that there was sufficient evidence for the case of bribery against him to go ahead
,' Eccles said. ‘
Later, out on bail, he had this to say to me . . .
'

A new image filled the flickering black-and-white screen – a middle-aged man with a haunted expression on his face.

‘
Didn't you hear what I said, you stupid bastard?
' the on-screen Woodend demanded angrily. ‘
I told you I had no further comment to make – an' I bloody meant it.
'

‘You should never have said that,' Paniatowski said.

‘Aye, it wasn't too clever of me,' Woodend agreed.

But then there was very little he'd done over the previous few days that he didn't regret.

Eccles was back on the screen. ‘
Mr Woodend faces two charges of corruption at this present moment, but unofficial police sources have hinted that more may follow
,' he said.

‘Have you got that?' Paniatowski asked angrily. ‘Do you understand what it means? They not only want you buried, they want to make sure the grave's so deep there's no chance you'll ever claw your way out of it.'

‘
Deputy Chief Constable Richard Ainsworth had this to say . . .
'

Ainsworth's head filled the screen. ‘
Without wishing to prejudge Chief Inspector Woodend's case, I am prepared to promise you here and now that if there are any rotten apples in the police barrel, we will seek them out and destroy them
,' he said.

‘
You obviously believe that Mr Woodend is guilty as charged
,' the reporter persisted.

‘
That is up to a judge and jury to decide
.'

‘
But you would never have brought the case if you had not already decided there are good grounds for such a verdict
.'

There was a pause – just long enough to be called ‘significant' – then Ainsworth said, ‘
Obviously there
is
a case to answer, or Chief Inspector Woodend would not have made his court appearance this morning. Yet as his commanding officer, it is obviously my hope that Mr Woodend will, in the fullness of time, be cleared
.'

Woodend twisted the knob viciously, and turned off the set. ‘He's not leavin' much to chance, is he?'

‘He can't afford to,' Paniatowski said. ‘The way things stand now, he's either got to pull you right down – or take a fall himself. So he's no choice but to put as black an interpretation on your actions as he can.'

But he didn't have to enjoy it so much! thought Woodend, who could see right through the mask of solemnity to the glee which lurked just below the surface.

I should have left by the back door of the magistrates' court, like that constable suggested, he told himself.

But he hadn't. Instead, he'd exposed himself to the press and given that bastard Ainsworth even more ammunition to fire at him.

‘We're not dead yet,' Paniatowski said, putting a brave face on it. ‘There's always Taylor.'

Yes, there was always Taylor. In the face of all the evidence, Woodend was forced to accept that Taylor had not used his South London criminal connections to help him eliminate Clive Battersby; but he might have used them in
other
ways, and if Bob Rutter could find just one link, there might be a way to get the investigation back on track again.

As if it could read his mind, the phone chose that moment to ring, and it was Rutter on the line.

‘What have you got for me, Bob?' Woodend asked eagerly.

‘Nothing!' Rutter said despondently.

‘Nothin'!'

‘Absolutely bugger all!'

‘Are you tellin' me that Taylor was a model citizen when he lived in Southwark?'

‘No. I'm not telling you that. I'm telling you that he didn't live in Southwark
at all
.'

‘You're absolutely sure of that?'

‘I must have talked to a couple of dozen people since you called me. All kinds of people. Other builders, council officers, officials at the rates office – you name it and I've spoken to them. Nobody called Taylor was ever a jobbing builder in Southwark – nobody even matching his description was involved in the building trade.'

It was just another blow at the end of a few days which seemed to have consisted of nothing but blows. But this one fell the hardest of all. Even if Terry Taylor
was
bent, they had no way of proving it now. And without Taylor, they had no leads at all.

Woodend thanked Rutter for his efforts and hung up.

‘There must be another way to get at him,' said Monika Paniatowski, who had picked up enough of the conversation from Woodend's end of it to understand what was happening.

‘How
can
you get at a man who's built a wall round himself in the present and seems to have no past at all?' Woodend asked gloomily. ‘Terry Taylor arrived in Whitebridge with nothin', an' now he's one of the richest men in town. Where did he come from? We don't know. How did he get to be so successful so fast? We don't know. We don't know
anythin
', Monika.'

Paniatowski glanced down at her watch. ‘I'd better go before I'm missed back at the station,' she said. ‘Don't worry, sir. Taylor's got a weak spot – everybody has – and we'll find it in the end.'

‘Maybe you're right,' Woodend agreed half-heartedly.

The phone rang again.

‘That's probably the press,' Paniatowski said.

Woodend shook his head. ‘This number's unlisted. It'll be somebody I know.' He paused, an anguished look coming to his face. ‘It'll be Joan.'

‘I'll see myself out,' Paniatowski told him.

Woodend nodded and picked up the phone. ‘Hello? . . . I thought it would be you, love . . . Yes, I've seen the news myself. I looked a right bloody, idiot, didn't I? . . . What? . . . I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry . . . No, of course there's nothin' to worry
about
. If I didn't believe in British justice winnin' through in the end, I wouldn't be in the job I am in . . .'

Paniatowski closed the front door quietly behind her, shutting herself off from the warmth inside and feeling the outside cold immediately wrap around her. She owed Charlie Woodend, she told herself – she owed him more than she could ever hope to repay. And she desperately wanted to help him out of the mess he was in. But despite her earlier assurances to him, she had no idea what to do next.

She reviewed the case quickly in her mind. They could not find the farmer in whose home the murders had been committed. They had no idea who the victims were, or why they had been killed. Both Terry Taylor and DCC Ainsworth were deeply involved in the case in some twisted, hidden way, but she'd didn't know why – couldn't even begin to imagine what possible interest a successful local businessman and a high-ranking police officer could have in the deaths of a badly dressed middle-aged man and an expensively dressed young girl who appeared to have no reason for being in an isolated country farmhouse so early on a Sunday morning in the middle of winter.

She lit up a cigarette and gazed out at the moors again. Was Dugdale somewhere out there, buried under the snow? And if he wasn't, where the hell
had
he disappeared to?

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,' she said softly to the missing farmer.

T
he sun had only just started to rise on the day after Woodend's appearance before the magistrates' court, but the stocky, red-faced woman who was walking across the farmyard with a large zinc bucket in each hand looked as if she had been up and about for hours.

Monika Paniatowski parked her MGA, and walked over to the woman.

‘I wonder if you could help me,' she said.

‘You're not from the police, are you?'

‘That's right.'

The woman shook her head, wonderingly. ‘We've had the bobbies round here twice since the murders. I don't know what I can tell you now that I haven't told you already.'

Neither do I, Paniatowski thought.

But there seemed to be nothing else left to do but to go over old ground in the hope that she could glean something she'd missed before.

‘I was just wondering if you'd noticed anything unusual last Sunday,' she said.

The red-faced woman sighed. ‘We're four miles from Dugdale's Farm, an' half a mile from the main road. If the Martians had landed between here an' Dugdale's, we probably wouldn't have noticed it.'

The farmhouse door opened, and an old man, heavily wrapped up and carrying a walking stick, stepped into the yard.

‘You're never goin' to go out in this weather, are you, Dad?' the woman asked.

‘I won't be long,' the old man replied defensively. ‘Just want to get a breath of fresh air in me lungs.'

‘You'd be much better off stayin' inside, where it's warm.'

‘I won't be long,' the old man repeated, turning to make a slow, shaky break for freedom.

‘He won't listen to me,' the red-faced woman resignedly said to Paniatowski. ‘He never would. He's been in bed all week with a bad chest. But will he learn? Will he heck as like. I told him when he went out last Sunday that he was askin' for trouble, but he would still insist⎯'

‘Did you say last Sunday?' Paniatowski interrupted.

‘That's right. That's when he caught the cold.'

‘The day of the murders?'

‘I suppose it was, now I think about it.'

‘And what time did he take this walk of his last Sunday?'

‘Round about the same time as now.'

‘Thanks for your help,' Paniatowski said, turning away and setting off after the old man.

She caught up with him just as he reached the track that led to the main road. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?' she asked.

‘Talk as long as you like,' the old man said. ‘I've got plenty of time on me hands.'

‘Your daughter was just telling me that you went for a walk last Sunday morning.'

‘And so I did. What's that got to do with the price of fish?'

‘I was wondering if, while you were out on your walk, you happened to see anything unusual.'

‘Anythin' to do with them murders, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

The old man shook his head. ‘Much as I'd like to, I'm afraid I can't help you there, lass.'

They had continued walking slowly onwards as they talked. The farm track was on a slight incline, and when they reached the top of it, they could see the Moorland Village spread out before them.

‘They should never have allowed that soddin' abomination to be built,' the old man grumbled. ‘It's not natural, is it?'

Paniatowski smiled. ‘That's just what my boss says.'

‘Then he must be a very wise man. An' he must like this bloody awful weather as much as I do – because at least it seems to be holdin' the destructive buggers up for a bit.'

‘Yes, they can't have been doing much for the last fortnight,' Paniatowski agreed.

‘Now, you're wrong there.'

‘Am I?'

‘Aye, you certainly are. They were workin' on the bloody place last Sunday mornin'.'

Woodend was surprised to see Paniatowski again so soon, and even more surprised that she seemed to be so much more animated than she'd been the last time they'd spoken.

‘I've been talking to an old farmer by the name of Obediah Metcalfe,' she said, as she warmed her hands in front of the fire. ‘He's retired now, but he lives with his daughter and her husband at Pickup Farm, and he likes to go for walks early in the morning.'

‘So what?' Woodend said. ‘Pickup Farm must be at least four miles away from Dugdale's.'

‘It is,' Paniatowski agreed, ‘but it's less than
half
a mile from the Moorland Village, and when he was out on his walk last Sunday, he heard the sound of heavy plant being moved behind the fence. What do you think of that?'

I think you're clutchin' at even wispier straws than I've been grabbin' for, Woodend thought.

But aloud he said, ‘So they were workin' on Sunday morning. What does that prove? Maybe they're behind schedule, an' they were puttin' in a bit of overtime to try to catch up.'

Paniatowski shook her head firmly. ‘They weren't putting in any overtime. I talked to the site foreman myself, not more than half an hour ago, and according to him, none of his workers have been up at the site since the bad weather brought work to a halt.'

‘Nobody at all? Not even his night watchman?'

Paniatowski grinned. ‘Think back to when we met out there. Did you notice anything in particular?'

‘Dogs!' Woodend exclaimed. ‘Four bloody big, slaverin' Dobermanns with teeth like razors.'

‘Exactly! You don't need a night watchman when you've got beasts like those on the loose.'

‘I still don't see where you're goin' with any of this,' Woodend confessed.

‘That's because you haven't heard the rest yet. Before the machinery started up, our Mr Metcalfe saw what he considered to be quite an unusual amount of traffic for a Sunday morning⎯'

‘Well, he would have done, wouldn't he?' Woodend interrupted. ‘There'd been a double murder just up the road.'

‘But what struck him particularly was that there were three cars which didn't just go by, but actually drove on to the building site itself. The first one he saw was a Jag⎯'

‘That'd be Terry Taylor.'

‘Exactly!'

‘Well, when all's said an' done, it
is
his site, an' he's got the right to do what he wants on it.'

‘Terry Taylor doesn't normally drive heavy machinery. He's too important for that. He pays other people to do his dirty work.'