The Dead Hand of History

THE BUTCHER BEYOND

DANGEROUS GAMES

THE DARK LADY

THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

DEAD ON CUE

DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

A DEATH LEFT HANGING

DEATH WATCH

DYING IN THE DARK

A DYING FALL

THE ENEMY WITHIN

FATAL QUEST

GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

A LONG TIME DEAD

MURDER AT SWANN'S LAKE

THE PARADISE JOB

THE RED HERRING

THE SALTON KILLINGS

SINS OF THE FATHERS

STONE KILLER

THE WITCH MAKER

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  

This first world edition published 2009

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2009 by Alan Rustage.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Spencer, Sally.

The Dead Hand of History.

1. Woodend, Charlie (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

2. Police – England – Fiction. 3. Polish people – England – Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

I. Title

823.9′14-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-032-6   (ePub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6805-3   (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-170-6   (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

PROLOGUE

S
he was in a dark, dark place.

She suspected that she was inside, rather than out, because the air was still and musty. But if she
was
inside, in some kind of room, she had no idea how large or small that room might be.

‘Concentrate!' she ordered her fuzzy brain.

The first thing to consider, she decided, was not
where
she was, but
how
she had got there.

She had been at home.

She was sure of that.

It had been the evening, and she had been at home.

Was it
still
evening?

That didn't matter! What had happened next?

She'd had a fight with her husband! It had been a God-awful one, and he'd been angrier – and
braver
– than she'd ever seen him before.

And then?

And then – nothing!

She didn't know how the fight had ended, or what had happened after it.

Focus on the present, then.

She was in this room – which might be as small as a cupboard or as large as an auditorium – and she was standing up.

But she couldn't move!
Why
couldn't she move?

She couldn't move because she was tied to something.

A workbench, perhaps?

Could be.

At any rate, whoever had tied her up had made a good job of it. Her ankles were bound together, and fastened to the leg of the bench – if that's what it was – and there were more bonds mooring her waist to the flat top.

But it was what had been done to her
hands
which was the real mystery. They had been bound in such a way that her arms were spread to their maximum, and so that the hands themselves were palm-down on a cold metal surface.

She should be more frightened, she told herself.

And perhaps, when the fuzziness had cleared from her head, she would be.

But for the moment, the important thing was to work out exactly what was going on.

Somewhere in the middle distance a door opened, allowing a chink of light to leak into the room – just enough for her to realize where she was.

But knowing where she was only raised more questions, didn't it?

She still had no idea
why
she was there, or who had brought her there.

The door closed again. The only thing she could now see was the blinding light of a powerful torch, the only thing she could hear was the soft footfalls as her captor approached her.

It was the steadiness of the light – the sure nature of the footfalls – which finally brought on the fear.

‘Who are you?' she heard herself croak. ‘What do you want?'

The light drew ever closer, and though she closed her eyes she could still feel the dazzle burning into her retinas.

‘Is it money you're after?' she asked, as a rising panic threatened to drown her. ‘Is it? Because if it is, I've got plenty.'

There was no response, though the footsteps kept on coming.

‘You'll never get away with it, you know,' she said, changing tack. ‘I've got influence in this town. I'll have you tracked down wherever you try to hide.'

Her kidnapper had walked past her, and was standing at the edge of the bench.

No, not bench – she knew
exactly
what it was now.

‘Why don't you say something?' she sobbed. ‘Why don't you tell me why I'm here?'

‘You already
know
why you're here,' said a voice.

And it wasn't just
any
voice! It was a voice she recognized – a voice she knew very well.

Oh God, no! she thought. It isn't . . . it
can't
be . . .!

She was sure the torch was still shining directly in her eyes, and that when she opened them it would hurt.

But she
had to
open them.

Because how could she make her appeal for mercy with them closed?

She forced herself to do it. At first all she could see was the blinding glare, but then, by moving her head to one side, she regained a little of her peripheral vision.

And that was when she saw the meat cleaver, raised high in the air.

‘Please, no!' she screamed.

And she was still screaming when the cleaver reached its target – slicing through flesh, crushing and splintering bone.

ONE

T
he River Darne was too shallow for any but the smallest craft to navigate, and too narrow to require one of those mighty arched stone bridges which spanned more substantial rivers. But that said, it was pleasant enough, in its own quiet way. Swans glided majestically along its course, and bulrushes grew in abundance along its banks. Weeping willows overhung – and were reflected in – its water, and on warm summer days the path that ran alongside it was popular with both strollers and picnickers. But there were no strollers or picnickers on the river bank that early June morning in 1973. Instead, it had been invaded – and then occupied – by a dozen men with an official purpose.

Ten of the men were uniformed, had established themselves in fixed positions and now stood scanning the near distance for any sign of the sensation-seekers who always appeared – almost by magic – whenever a grisly incident like this one occurred. The men in plain clothes, on the other hand, strode back and forth along the path, as if by this action alone they were achieving something of significance.

‘Not that we can do much of anything until
she
gets here,' Detective Sergeant Walker complained. ‘After all, we don't want to go treading on her toes on her first day in her shiny new job, now do we?'

‘You sound a bit pissed off to me, Sarge,' DC Crane said.

‘Do I, indeed?' Walker said reflectively. ‘Now I wonder why that could possibly be?'

‘Don't know, Sarge.'

‘How old would you say I am, Jack?'

DC Crane examined the other man. Walker was square-bodied. His hair was just starting to show signs of greying at the temples, and while the bags under his eyes were not yet quite coal sacks, they were certainly noticeable.

‘I'd guess you were thirty-five,' the detective constable said, deciding his wisest course would be to err on the flattering side.

‘I'm thirty-bloody-nine,' the sergeant growled. ‘Which – if you can do the sums – makes me around the same age as our new bloody boss. So there you have it – born a few months apart, but already separated by two steps in rank. Of course, there's a perfectly understandable reason for that, isn't there?'

‘Is there? And what is it?'

‘
I
haven't got tits, have I?'

I should have known, Crane thought. I shouldn't have even bothered to ask.

But he was only three years out of university – where everyone was terribly earnest and terribly enlightened – and he was still finding it hard to adjust to the fact that beyond the cosy confines of the campus lurked a tribe of snarling Neanderthals.

‘Got a good record, though, hasn't she?' he said, knowing he shouldn't, but somehow unable to stop himself.

‘A good record?' Walker repeated incredulously. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?'

‘Well, I know I've not been around here long . . .'

‘You can say that again, young Crane. As far as I'm concerned, you're still wet behind the ears.'

‘. . . but I did hear that when the DCI was working with Mr Woodend, the two of them were a really excellent—'

‘Not working
with
Mr Woodend, working
for
Mr Woodend,' DS Walker corrected him. ‘In fact, if the rumours I've heard are true – and I've no reason to doubt them – she was working
under
him.'

Crane didn't believe that for a minute. As an officer low down in the pecking order, he'd only known Charlie Woodend from a distance, but even so, the chief inspector hadn't looked like a man who'd cheat on his wife, especially with a member of his own team.

‘Yes, working
under
him,' Walker repeated, with some relish. ‘And in my opinion, that's a woman's proper place – under a man, with her legs spread so far apart they're hanging over the sides of the bed.'

Neanderthal wasn't in it, Crane thought. There must once have been primitive slime, still crawling out of the swamp, with more developed sensibilities than Detective Sergeant Walker had now.

The sound of an engine being driven at high revs made Crane turn. Raising his head, he let his eyes climb the sharp grassy incline to the minor road at the top of it, which had once been a donkey track. It was then that he saw the car, a bright red MGA, pulling up.

‘She's here!' he said.

‘So she is,' Walker agreed. ‘Well, I suppose all we have to do now is stand back admiringly, as we watch a brilliant mind at work.'

The paved steps down the river bank were some distance away, but Monika Paniatowski showed no interest in taking them. Instead, she chose to descend the grassy slope at an angle.

‘It'd really make my day if she lost her footing, and went arse over tit,' Walker said.

Yes, it probably would, Crane thought, but it looked as if the sergeant was due for a big disappointment, because despite the fact that the grass was still slippery with the morning dew, the new chief inspector certainly seemed to be sure-footed enough.