A Death Left Hanging (15 page)

Any minute now, one of two things were going to happen, Woodend thought. Either Rutter would say something he'd really regret later – or Paniatowski would decide to find out just how easy it was to choke the life from a man who had considerable height and weight advantage over her.

‘I think we're goin' a bit off track here,' the Chief Inspector said. ‘Let's assume for the moment that this second lover does, in fact, exist. What are the chances that he was the one who topped Fred Dodds?'

‘It's a possibility,' Rutter conceded. ‘Perhaps the lover came around to the house and asked Dodds to set Margaret free. They had an argument and the lover, in a rage, killed Dodds with his own hammer.'

‘And Margaret – the nymphomaniac – just stood there and watched it, I suppose,' Paniatowski said.

‘Perhaps she
wasn't
there,' Rutter replied. ‘Perhaps at least that part of her story was true, and she really did go out for a walk.'

‘So she comes back to the house either in the middle of the attack, or just at the end of it?' Woodend asked.

‘That's right. And the reason she waits before calling the police is to give her lover time to get away.'

‘The lover – if he existed – had no need to ask for Margaret's freedom,' Paniatowski said. ‘Fred had already told his friends that he was thinking of divorcing her.'

‘But if he did that, she wouldn't get the money,' Rutter countered.

‘Money's no good to a dead woman,' Paniatowski said.

‘Maybe she thought she could get away with it.'

‘As Jane Hartley herself pointed out, her mother wasn't a stupid woman,' Woodend said. ‘She'd have known it was too big a risk.'

‘Then maybe she wasn't the one who made the decision to run it,' argued Rutter, unwilling to give up the theory without a struggle. ‘Maybe the lover
did
kill Fred for the money, but without consulting Margaret first. That would explain why the only thing she would say in her statement was, “I didn't kill him.” She didn't! The lover did!'

‘She didn't kill Fred, but she took the blame for his death?' Paniatowski asked sceptically.

‘Yes! Because she loved the man too much to give him up to the police.'

‘Five minutes ago you were saying the only thing she was interested in was sex, now you're saying she was willing to die for love! I wish you'd make your mind up.'

‘What about other suspects?' Woodend asked.

‘You mean Cuthburtson and Bithwaite?' Rutter said.

‘Aye, they'll do for a start,' Woodend agreed. ‘Cuthburtson may have had a grudge against Dodds for kickin' him out of the business, an' Bithwaite certainly benefited from his death.'

‘But in 1934 Bithwaite was only the chief clerk,' Monika Paniatowski said. ‘Would he have been able to run a car on his salary?'

‘You're thinkin' about the two cars that your mate Mrs Fortesque says stopped in front of the house on the night of the murder?'

‘That's right.'

‘It might be a lead, but it might just as easily be a red herrin',' Woodend said. ‘Maybe Mrs Fortesque was wrong about the time when the cars stopped. Maybe she was wrong about the day. An' even if she got the day an' the time right, perhaps they didn't stop in front of the Doddses' house at all, but another house a little further down the road.'

‘Even so, there should be a record of them,' Rutter said, giving his reluctant backing to Paniatowski.

‘An' there isn't?'

‘I've only had time to skim through the documentation so far, but I think that if there'd have been any report on a couple of cars, I'd have noticed it.'

‘There certainly
should
be a report,' Woodend mused, ‘because Mrs Fortesque is quite adamant that she told the police, isn't she, Monika?'

But Paniatowski was staring at the wall, and if she heard what he said she gave no indication of it.

‘Are you with us, Monika?' Woodend asked.

‘I . . . uh . . . what?'

‘You want to tell us what's on your mind?'

‘I was thinking over my interview with Mrs Fortesque. I've got this uneasy feeling that there's something important I missed out on – something about the cars. The problem is, I can't quite pin it down.'

‘You've got your notes, haven't you?'

‘Yes, but I didn't make them during the interview, because I thought that would put Mrs Fortesque off.'

‘So when did you make them?'

‘As soon as I'd left the Fortesques' house, I sat in the car and wrote down everything I could remember. But even at that time, I got the feeling that there was something else I should have been including.'

‘You best plan is just to forget about it for the moment,' Woodend advised. ‘Give your brain some quiet time, an' it'll probably work it out on its own.' He lit up a cigarette. ‘Now where was I?'

‘You were talking about the cars,' Rutter prompted.

‘Aye, the cars. We still don't know how much – or how
little
– faith we can put in Eric Sharpe's records. But if there really is no mention of the two vehicles in any of his reports, then it'd probably be best to take
everythin'
he says with a very large pinch of salt.' He paused to take a drag on his Capstan. ‘But enough of that for the moment,' he continued. ‘Have either of you got any plans for this afternoon? A game of tennis, perhaps? Or maybe just a quiet ramble in the countryside?'

Rutter and Paniatowski grinned, as he'd intended them to.

‘I thought I'd drive over to Simcaster,' Rutter said.

‘Oh aye? An' what's brought on this sudden yearnin' for an expedition into foreign parts?'

‘It's where Fred Dodds was brought up. I might be able to fill in a few of the gaps we have in his background.'

‘Good plan,' Woodend agreed. ‘What about you, Monika?'

‘I'll be doing my background check on
Margaret
Dodds.'

‘An' where will that take you?'

‘To Blakebrook. Her father was the vicar there.'

‘Join the modern police force an' see the world,' Woodend said. ‘Right, you'd better get on with it then.'

Rutter and Paniatowski rose to their feet and were almost at the door when Woodend said, ‘Actually, Monika, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me just a couple of minutes more of your time.'

Rutter stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him, and Paniatowski returned to her seat.

‘Yes, sir?' the sergeant said.

‘What was that all about?' Woodend asked.

‘What was what all about?'

‘You know very well,' Woodend told her. ‘What made you have a go at Inspector Rutter?'

‘You've always told us we should speak our minds on this team,' Paniatowski reminded him. ‘You said that the fact we could have a proper argument with the gloves off was what made us good.'

‘A proper argument
about the case
, Monika,' Woodend said softly. ‘But that wasn't what you were doin'. You were takin' ever opportunity you could to have a pop at Bob.'

‘He makes me sick!'

‘A lot of people make
me
sick, but when they outrank me, I have enough common sense to hold my tongue.' He paused. ‘Well, usually I have, anyway,' he added honestly.

‘So when it comes down to it, you're just like all the others,' Paniatowski said bitterly. ‘An inspector's worth more than a sergeant simply
because
he's an inspector.'

‘An'
now
you're takin' a pop at me,' Woodend said. ‘Would you like me to tell you what I think the real problem is?'

‘Why ask my permission? You're the boss. If you want to talk, then I have to listen.'

‘Maybe I'd better start by tellin' you what the problem
isn't
,' Woodend said, ignoring the insubordination. ‘It isn't Inspector Rutter. Bob may be a bit conservative for your taste – sometimes he's a bit conservative for mine – but he's a good bobby, an' you bloody know it. It isn't your workin' relationship with him, either. You're not a match made in heaven, but you've cracked enough cases together to know that you can be a good team when you want to be. So what
is
the problem?'

‘I thought you were about to tell me. That's why I'm sitting here with bated breath and my tongue hanging out.'

‘The problem is this case. Or rather, the way you're approachin' this case. You're gettin' far too involved.'

‘You used to say that a good bobby always gets involved.'

‘I still say it. A good bobby always wants to see justice done, but it shouldn't be cold, blind justice. He should always hold on to his humanity. That's not what's happenin' here, Monika. You've stopped bein' the sympathetic outsider who's just lookin' in – the audience of one who's tryin' to make sense of the plot. You've stepped on to the stage, an' you're startin' to behave like one of the actors.'

‘Now that is clever,' Paniatowski said in mock admiration. ‘No wonder you're a chief inspector.'

‘If you carry on like this, you're headin' for a fall,' Woodend said. ‘I'll protect you for as long as I can, but there's only so much that even I can do. Do you understand what I'm sayin', Monika? Try to take a step back from this case. An' when you start walkin' again, for God's sake tread carefully.'

Paniatowski's face had grown gradually more impassive, and it was becoming plain to Woodend that if he'd been expecting a response, he was going to be disappointed.

‘Have you finished, sir?' the sergeant asked. ‘Can I go now?'

Woodend sighed heavily. ‘Yes, Monika, you can go now,' he said.

T
he visitor – who was not entirely unexpected – arrived at Woodend's office door a few minutes after Paniatowski had made her graceless exit. The man was in his mid-sixties, Woodend estimated. He must once have had an athletic build, but now his good appearance owed more to the skilful cut of his expensive suit than it did to rigorous physical exercise. His skin shone, his white hair flowed over his collar in a patrician mane, and he had dark brown eyes that were quick, rather than intelligent. If Hollywood had been looking for someone to cast in the role of the noble lord, he would have been its man.

Eric Sharpe glanced quickly round the office, then held his hand out to Woodend. ‘Well, that is a relief,' he said.

‘What is?' the Chief Inspector asked.

‘You are! I was dreadin' havin' to waste my time talkin' to some snotty-nosed little university graduate who'd learned all his policin' from books, but I can tell just by the cut of your jib that you're exactly the kind of old-fashioned bobby I used to be.'

Woodend favoured him with a ghost of a smile, invited him to sit down, and offered him a Capstan Full Strength.

Lord Sharpe accepted the cigarette, took a deep drag on it, then settled back comfortably in his chair.

‘I expect you're wonderin' why I'm here,' he said.

‘I assume that it's got somethin' to do with the Margaret Dodds case,' Woodend said.

‘You've hit the nail right on the head there, Charlie,' Sharpe said. He paused for a second. ‘You don't
mind
if I call you Charlie, do you?'

‘No, I don't mind, Lord Sharpe,' Woodend assured him.

‘An' please, if I'm to call you Charlie, then you must call me Eric. Bein' ennobled can be quite useful in some social situations – I never have to queue for theatre tickets these days, for instance – but even though I've been “lordin' it” for years now, the title still doesn't always sit too comfortably on the shoulders of a lad whose dad was nowt but a mill worker.'

Woodend looked puzzled. ‘Now that is strange,' he said.

‘What is?'

‘Your dad
wasn't
a mill worker. He was the station master at Whitebridge railway station. He had his own office, an' a lass whose job it was to brew up for him.'

Sharpe's crafty eyes suddenly hardened. ‘You've been checking up on me,' he said accusingly.

‘Aye, I have,' Woodend agreed. ‘An' you've been checkin' up on me. That's how you know my dad
did
work in the mills.'

For a moment it looked as if Sharpe was unsure exactly how to react. Then he threw back his head and laughed as if he were genuinely amused.

‘You've caught me out, fair an' square,' he said. ‘It's an old politician's trick, is that.'

‘What? Pretendin' to come from the same background as the person you're talkin' to?'

‘That's right. There's no harm in it, you know.'

‘Isn't there?'

‘Of course not. To tell you the truth, I do it more for the sake of the fellers I'm talkin' to than for my own. People get a bit tongue-tied when they're dealin' with a lord, an' it puts them more at their ease to realize I'm an ordinary chap, much like themselves.'

‘I see,' Woodend said, noncommittally.

Sharpe grinned ruefully. ‘Still an' all, I should never have tried that trick on with a smart bobby like you – a man who, but for a few years difference in our ages, could have been one of my colleagues. I'm sorry, Charlie!'

‘We all make mistakes. Think nothin' of it,' Woodend said. ‘Now, just what can I do for you, Lord––'

‘Eric!'

‘What can I do for you, Eric?'

‘It's more a question of what
I
can do for
you
,' Sharpe said. ‘I was in on the Dodds case from the very start. In fact, I was the first officer to reach the crime scene. So I thought I might be able to fill you in on some of the background – an' perhaps point you in the right direction.'