Death of an Innocent (2 page)

‘I got here as soon as I could, sir, given the conditions,' Woodend replied evenly. ‘Have you been here long yourself?'

‘Apart from that reporter from the BBC who discovered the bodies, I was the first one on the scene.'

‘Is that right?' Woodend asked quizzically. ‘That was fortunate for us, wasn't it?'

‘As it happens, it was more by luck than judgement,' Ainsworth conceded. ‘I've a busy day ahead of me, so I got up especially early to take one of the dogs over to the kennels in Skelton. We breed and show beagles, you know. We've won prizes for it.'

‘No, oddly enough, I didn't know that.'

‘Anyway, my errand took me along the Tops Road, and I couldn't have been more than three or four miles from here when I heard about this incident on the police band. So I came straight over.'

‘An' did you find anythin' useful, sir?'

‘Nothing of note. I just established that the victims were the only people in the house, and then, since I'm not the kind of man who's constantly looking over his subordinates' shoulders, I decided to leave the rest up to you.'

‘That was very thoughtful of you, sir.'

If Ainsworth noticed the irony, he showed no sign of it. Instead, he glanced down at his watch.

‘My God, how time flies,' he said. ‘You don't mind if I go now, do you? I'm expecting some rather important people round for luncheon in just over three hours time.'

An' you wouldn't like to let a simple thing like a double murder get in the way of that, now would you? Woodend thought.

But aloud all he said was, ‘If I should happen to need to consult you about anythin', you wouldn't object to me ringin' you at home, would you, sir?'

‘Not at all,' Ainsworth said, without much conviction. ‘Carry on, Chief Inspector.'

Then he turned and walked back towards his Volvo.

Paniatowski had been tactfully hanging back during the conversation, but now she joined Woodend.

‘What did the Old Man have to say for himself?' she asked.

‘He said he's got some rather important people comin' round for “luncheon” – which, in case you don't know, is a fancy way of sayin' “Sunday dinner” – so he's had to dash off. You've not got any very important people comin' round for luncheon yourself, have you?'

‘Let me think,' Paniatowski said. ‘No, I don't think I have, sir.'

‘Well, that's a blessin',' Woodend said. ‘So, since you don't seem to have anythin' better to do with your time at the moment, let's you an' me go an' look at the scene of the crime, shall we, lass?'

It was as they approached the farmhouse that Woodend first noticed that something was not quite right about the man standing on duty by the door. DC Hardcastle was a stolid and dependable – if uninspired – officer, as well as a pillar of the police rugby team. His face normally glowed with health and vigour, but now he seemed as pale as a ghost.

‘Are you all right, Hardie?' Woodend asked solicitously.

The detective constable nodded. ‘Yes, sir.'

‘Well, I have to say that you don't look it. What's upset you, lad?' He pointed into the farmhouse. ‘Was it somethin' you saw in there?'

Hardcastle nodded again, but said nothing.

Woodend frowned. Hardcastle, he knew from experience, was not the kind of man to go into a near faint at the sight of blood.

‘Is it somethin' that I should know about before I go in there myself?' he asked.

DC Hardcastle's eyes clouded over and his lips began to tremble like a landed fish's.

‘It's . . . it's not somethin' I can tell you about, sir,' he gasped. ‘You . . . you won't know . . . you won't understand . . . until you've seen it for yourself.'

Then his broad shoulders shook, and he began to sob uncontrollably.

T
here was no entrance hall to the farmhouse, and stepping through the front door Woodend found himself in the living room. It was a large, square room, of the sort in which the moorland farmers of a previous generation – and possibly a few of those still around – would cook, eat, repair their equipment, and even tend to sick animals. But it had never been intended to be turned into the slaughterhouse it had become that cold winter morning.

The closest victim to the door – the male – was lying on his back. The front of his white shirt was shredded, revealing a chest which was pitted with scores of small wounds. The man's face was a pulp, with bits of brain, bone and muscle forming an obscene corona around the upper part of the head. The second victim – the female – was bunched up in the far corner of the room, and for the moment was partly obscured by Dr Pierson, who was bending over her body.

There were two other men in the room, one dusting the sideboard with powder, the other standing self-importantly next to the large stone fireplace.

‘Found anythin' useful yet, Battersby?' Woodend asked the man by the sideboard.

Constable Clive Battersby turned round to face his boss. ‘It's a bit early to say, sir. But there's certainly plenty of prints.'

Woodend nodded. Battersby didn't impress most people at first sight, he thought – and there was good reason for it. The detective constable was rapidly running to fat, and the shiny blue suit he was wearing should have been thrown out long ago. Yet there was no doubt that he'd performed very well on the Home Office courses he'd attended, and when DCC Ainsworth had once referred to him at a press conference as ‘one of our highly trained team of site-evaluation experts', he'd probably come closer to the truth than he usually did when he opened his mouth.

The Chief Inspector turned his attention to the other man. Like Battersby, he was in his early thirties, but showed none of the constable's inclination to put on weight. His body was lean, and his face bore those signs of insecurity which can sometimes manifest themselves equally as arrogance and extreme sensitivity. There were those who said that DI Harris had been promoted too soon – and those who said that he should not have been promoted at all, Woodend reminded himself. Looking at Harris now, he could not help wishing that, for a case as serious this one, he had had Bob Rutter, his old bagman, as his Number Two. But that was not to be. Rutter was down at the police college in Hendon, on a course which had been specially designed for highflying young detective inspectors like him.

‘Any leads, Vic?' Woodend asked Harris.

‘The farm's owned by a man called Wilfred Dugdale,' the DI replied.

‘That's probably why it says Dugdale's Farm on the gate,' Woodend said dryly. He pointed to the male corpse. ‘Is that him?'

Harris shook his head. ‘Dugdale's got white hair and is in his early sixties. It's hard to be completely accurate about the victim's age, what with half his face being blown away, but I wouldn't put him at any more than late forties. And
his
hair is mousy brown.'

‘So if this isn't Mr Dugdale, where is he?'

‘We've no idea. We've searched all the outbuildings, and there's no sign of him.'

‘Is there any indication that he was here at the time of the murders?'

‘Nothing conclusive, one way or the other.'

Woodend sighed, and wished he didn't have to drag every last piece of information out of this bugger.

‘Assumin', for the moment, that he was here at the time of the murders, how would he have left? Do you think he could have
driven
away?' he asked.

‘There's a Land Rover parked in one of the outhouses.'

It was like pulling teeth. ‘And does Mr Dugdale own any other vehicle?'

‘We'll have to check on that.'

You should
already
have checked on it, Woodend thought.

Of course, life would have been a lot easier but for bloody DCC Ainsworth. If Dick the Prick hadn't driven straight up to the farm, none of the other vehicles would have followed him, and it might have been possible to find some tyre tracks in the snow leading away from it. But there was no chance of that now.

If anybody else had made a cock-up like that, I'd have had his balls on a platter, Woodend thought. But Ainsworth wasn't anybody else – and officers of his rank didn't make cock-ups, they were just prone to errors of judgement.

‘What else have you got?' Woodend asked Harris.

‘We're almost certain that the murder weapon was Dugdale's personal property.'

‘Oh aye? An' why's that?'

‘We found a shotgun lying on the floor. It had recently been fired. It was registered to Wilfred Dugdale.'

‘So you've already put out the word that you want him picked up, have you?'

‘No, I . . . should I have done?'

‘It might have been an idea.' Woodend turned to Paniatowski. ‘Radio the station. I want roadblocks in place everywhere within a twenty-mile radius of the farm. Anybody with white hair is to be stopped an' questioned. An' if we find out that Dugdale
does
have a second vehicle, I want all cars of a similar make an' model stopped as well.'

‘Got it,' the sergeant said.

Woodend looked down at the male corpse again. Harris was probably right about his age – well, Harris had to be right about
something.
The victim was wearing a suit which had seen better days, and had hardly been impressive when new. It was obvious from the position in which the dead man was lying that he'd been standing up when he was shot in the chest, which meant that the second cartridge had been emptied into his face when he was already on the ground.

Now why had the killer done that? Woodend wondered. Because he was so panicked that he hadn't realized his victim was already dead? Or because, on the contrary, he'd remained cool enough after the first discharge to decide it would be to his advantage to make identifying the victim difficult.

Or was there even a third possibility? Could he have hated the other man so much that even killing him was not enough – he'd felt the urge to mutilate him as well?

Doc Pierson had finished examining the female victim, and walked across the room to join Woodend. The doctor was in his late forties, and had distinguished grey hair. He usually moved with the grace of a natural sportsman, but there was none of the normal spring to his step now. Not only that, but his eyes were red, and his face was drawn.

‘Rough night?' Woodend asked.

The doctor looked as if he were about to nod his head, then thought better of doing anything so vigorous.

‘If I'd known I was going to be here at this godawful hour of the morning, I'd never have had those last two whiskies,' he said.

‘So what can you tell me about the stiffs?'

‘Cause of death is self-evident, I'd have thought. Shotgun wounds at close range.'

‘Did they die at the same time?'

‘Pretty much.'

‘And when would that be?'

‘Going by the extent of the rigor mortis, I'd say they died somewhere between three o'clock and five o'clock this morning.'

Woodend looked down at the male victim. He was wearing a cheap Timex watch, and the glass had been smashed, probably when he put his hand across his chest in a futile attempt to protect himself.

The Chief Inspector crouched down to take a closer look. The watch face was dented, and the hands twisted, but the small hand was clearly very close to eight and the big one on nine.

‘The watch seems to have stopped at a quarter to eight,' he said. ‘Which would indicate that's when the gun was fired. Unless, of course, the pellet knocked the hands out of place. Or the man was in the habit of always keeping his watch a couple of hours fast.'

He stood up again and waited for the doctor to comment, but Pierson appeared to be too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

‘So what do you think?' Woodend asked.

Pierson shrugged, and then winced at the effect that even such a mild action was having on his body.

‘It's possible they were killed later than I said,' he admitted. ‘I haven't taken the temperature in here, and I've no idea how long it is since the fire went out.' He paused. ‘And to be honest with you, Charlie, my own judgement's not all it might be right now. It's taking me all my effort to even see straight, but give me a couple of hours to get over this hangover and I'll be able to give you a much more accurate assessment.'

Woodend nodded, understandingly. Though he himself could knock back ten pints of best bitter during an evening and wake up fresh as a lark the following morning, he'd long ago accepted the fact that drink could take other men in other ways.

‘Do you feel up to talkin' me through the second stiff?' he asked.

‘Just about, I suppose,' the doctor said grudgingly.

They walked over to the corner of the room. The victim looked almost too small to be a full-grown woman, Woodend thought, though perhaps, cramped up as she was, that was merely a trick of perspective.

It was possible, even with part of her skull missing, to see that she had long blonde hair. She was wearing a blouse, and a skirt that came to just below her knees. Woodend did not know a great deal about clothes, but he was prepared to bet that the skirt alone had cost considerably more than the dead man's entire outfit.

He let his eyes travel below the skirt. Her legs were slim, and her feet were so small they were almost tiny. The shoes, as with the rest of the outfit, looked expensive.

‘Just one wound,' Dr Pierson said, ‘though it was probably from both barrels.' His voice cracked. ‘It should never have happened, Charlie. It should simply never have happened.'

Woodend shifted to one side, to examine the corpse from another angle. It didn't make any difference. He understood now why DC Hardcastle, who had three daughters of his own, had broken down in tears. He almost felt like following suit himself. He'd been thinking of her up to that point merely as a female corpse – as a dead
woman
. But she wasn't a woman at all – she was no more than a
girl
.