A Death Left Hanging (12 page)

‘She gave up on him, didn't she?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘They was still married – still livin' in the same house – but she wanted nothin' more to do with him as a
man
. Well, that state of affairs couldn't go on for long, could it? I don't suppose that after a while it bothered Rob much that he weren't gettin' his end away, because by then he'd found out what good company a bottle can be. But she was still a young woman, an' young women need a proper seein' to every now an' again.'

‘You're sayin' that she took a lover?'

‘I don't know about that, but she certainly found herself a fancy man!'

‘An' Rob didn't like that?'

‘Even though he weren't up to doin' job himself any longer, he still took it hard that some bugger else had stepped into his clogs.'

‘Do you have any idea who this fancy man might be?'

The old man shook his head, though in disbelief rather than in denial. ‘Tha's not very bright for a boss bobby, ist tha?' he asked. ‘It should be as plain as the nose on tha face who the fancy man was.'

‘So what
was
his name?' Woodend probed stoically.

‘Well, nobody can say for sure, because she was right careful about it. But the rumour goin' round the mill was that she were seein' Fred Dodds. An' if you believe what you hear, that weren't only time she strayed, neither.'

‘You mean, there was someone
before
Dodds?'

‘Nay, lad,
after
him.'

‘After him, she was in prison.'

‘
Durin'
him, then, if that's what you prefer.'

‘Do you have any idea who this other man was?'

‘Nay, but the lad what told me said
he
knew.'

‘Then why wouldn't he tell you?'

‘Said he didn't want to cause no trouble.'

‘Maybe he was just pullin' your leg,' Woodend suggested.

The old man stiffened. ‘I were never a Todmorton goat!' he said, sounding offended.

‘A what?'

‘Tha doesn't know the term?' Clegg asked, slightly contemptuously. ‘Tha dad would've done!'

‘Explain it to me.'

‘There was always lads in the mill who'd believe whatever they were told, an' a lot of them came from Todmorton. The rest of the lads used to have a joke at their expense. When I think of the stories we'd come up with! An' them lads would take it as gospel truth. We were all laughin' at them, an' they never knew it. That's why we called them goats – because they'd swallow anythin'.'

‘I see.'

‘Tha'd never call a mate a Todmorton goat, because it was one o' the biggest insults you could come up with. An' I'm not best pleased to have a mate's son call me it, neither.'

‘I never meant to suggest––'

‘Besides, I've got more than just my mate's word for it. Did tha ever know Tommy Frisk?'

‘No, I don't think I did.'

‘Tommy couldn't do heavy work on account of his gammy leg, so he did odd jobs – window cleanin', sweepin' up, an' the like – for one of the solicitors in town. An' he heard things.'

‘What kinds of things?'

The old man seemed to have regained some of his good humour, and smiled. ‘Is tha sure I'm not treatin' thee like a Todmorton goat?' he asked.

Woodend grinned back at him. ‘I'll take that chance.'

‘One day shortly before he was murdered, Fred Dodds went to see this solicitor. He said he wanted a divorce, an' when the solicitor asked what the grounds was, he told him the grounds was adultery!'

J
ane Hartley knew that she was dreaming. Or perhaps she only
thought
she knew. Or knew for
some of the time
and not for the rest.

Whatever!

Dream or reality, there was no doubt in her mind that this was her wedding night, and she was in a gorgeous bedroom in a luxury hotel that overlooked a romantic Italian lake.

The wedding had been perfect – as smooth as the silk in the revealing nightgown she'd just slipped into. Her head of chambers had agreed to give her away, and had led her down the aisle with a confidence and assurance that had made backing out seem almost impossible. The best man, her new husband's brother, had not lost the ring (as best men always seem to do in stories) but had handed it over to Ralph at just the right time. The bridesmaids, Ralph's three sisters, had looked lovely in their lilac dresses.

His mother had cried, his sisters had cried, Jane's Aunt Helen had cried. She and Ralph had danced the first dance at their reception and she had felt like Ginger Rogers to his Fred Astaire. Everybody agreed that – as justly befitted the union of a rising young barrister and an incredibly successful young businessman – it had been the wedding of the season. She had enjoyed it all so much that if Ralph had not literally dragged her away, they would have missed their plane.

Now, with the ceremony already hours behind them, she could hear the sounds of Ralph in the bathroom. He was brushing his teeth, and though she knew him to be the most fastidious of men, there was no doubt that tonight he was rushing through the whole process of preparing for bed.

She was not surprised at his haste. All their friends assumed that he had bedded her long ago – but all their friends were wrong. She had made it clear from the start that he would have to wait until they were married, and Ralph – dear, sweet Ralph – had told her that he did not mind, even though it must have been absolute torture for him. Well, now they were married, and she was determined to make it up to him – to prove that all the waiting had been worthwhile.

The bathroom door swung open, and Ralph stepped into the room. He, too, was wearing silk – blue silk pyjama bottoms. His torso was well muscled, his arms thick and strong. And he was an extraordinarily handsome man – everybody agreed about that.

He looked down at her and smiled. ‘I've waited so long for this moment, my darling,' he said. ‘I love you. I really do.'

No longer in the Italy of her honeymoon, but now lying in her lonely Whitebridge hotel bed, Jane felt a sudden sense of dread sweep over her. For she knew – from so many previous terrible experiences – that this was always the point at which the mood of the dream changed.

She pulled the bedding more tightly around her and prayed – as much as she
could
pray in her unconscious state – that this time it would be different. But she knew deep down that it wouldn't be – that it never was.

Her picture of the honeymoon suite had been so clear and sharp before, but now it started to change.

The furniture began to sway.

The colours of the room all melted into one another until she was seeing everything through a muddy red filter.

The voices were even worse.

When Ralph spoke again, his voice was deep, pained, and almost unintelligible – like the sound of a wounded beast moaning into a bucket.

When she answered her new husband, it was like the screech of a hysterical trapped bird.

His mouth began to move again, and Jane felt an overwhelming urge to damage him – to make him suffer.

She let her gaze travel slowly – contemptuously – down the length of his body, until it finally came to rest on his crotch. She did not even need to think of what words to say. They came naturally, spilling like poison from her mouth. She watched his expression move through all its inevitable stages – first shock, then disbelief, then hurt.

It was the final stage she hated the most – the one in which he began to make excuses for her.

She had been working very hard recently, he pointed out in his wounded beast roar. Besides, her last case had been so unpleasant that it must have been emotionally draining. And however much she had prepared herself for it, being married
– being part of a couple – was bound to be a shock.

She felt nothing but disgust for his delaying tactics. Yet, she let him continue because – though he did not realize it himself – all he was doing was giving her more ammunition for her next attack.

Finally he came to the end of his plea on her behalf, and it was Jane's turn to speak.

How dare he find excuses for her, she demanded. Didn't he realize just how weak – how truly pathetic – he had sounded? If he couldn't
be
a man, could he at least try to
act
like one?

Ralph made one more attempt to pull them back from the brink of a disastrous first night together, but she was having none of it. She showered him with even more venom until – finally – he saw no other choice open to him but to act like the man she had challenged him to be.

It was always after Ralph had hit her the third or fourth time that she awoke from the dream and found herself lying between crumpled sheets, her body drenched in sweat, her lip and right eye both aching without any apparent cause. For the first few moments she did not normally even know where she was, then her eyes would focus on the walls of her bedroom, or her hotel room – and she would burst into tears.

And so it was that night – the first night she had spent in Whitebridge for so many years.

She could handle the nightmares, she told herself, as she hugged her legs to her and buried her face between her knees.

She
had
to handle them! There was simply no choice!

Because it wasn't being married to Ralph that had brought nightmares into her life. They had always been there – like huge carrion crows following in her wake.

She reached up and switched on the light. She had only to turn her head to see her bedside cabinet, yet she was afraid to – afraid that while she had been suffering on her own mental rack, a dark goblin had crept into the room and stolen her one source of solace.

She did turn – and gasped with relief when she saw that the whisky bottle was just where she'd left it.

‘There should be a red cross on this bottle, you know,' she said, as if she were addressing some benevolent – though invisible – presence in the corner of room. ‘Yes, a bright red cross. Because as God is my witness, it's the best medicine I've ever had.'

It was an old joke of hers, one which she recognized had not been very funny even the first time she'd cracked it. But she laughed anyway.

She poured herself a stiff Scotch. Her friends all said that she drank too much, but she paid no attention to their warnings. Why should she? They weren't
real
friends!
Real
friends would never have turned on her like ravening wolves when she split up with Ralph.

‘He's the best thing that's ever happened to you,' she said, mimicking the mock concern in their voices. ‘He's gone out of his way to try and make things work between you – but you have to make an effort too, Jane.'

Who did they think they were? How could they possibly even begin to understand the strain she was under? Let them try having a mother hanged for a murder she didn't commit, and then see how
they
handled marriage.

She took a deep gulp of her whisky. Everything would be all right if she could just clear her mother's name, she told herself. She wouldn't have to drink so much then. She wouldn't need to bury herself in her work, taking on more cases than anyone could reasonably handle. She could learn to trust people. She might even get married again.

Yet before any of that could happen, the police must first play
their
part. And she wasn't sure that they would! True, she had told Woodend that she trusted him. And when she was speaking the words, she had believed what she was saying. But that had been in daylight, in a pub full of people. Now, sitting in a room just beyond the reach of the claws of darkness – and alone! – she was no longer so certain.

How could she be sure that Woodend would do anything more than just go through the motions? she wondered desperately. Then she picked up the phone and dialled a London number.

Monika Paniatowski paced up and down the living room of her flat, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of vodka in the other.

She had gone to bed earlier than usual that evening, but the moment her head had touched the pillow an itching had begun to develop in her right calf. She had resisted the urge to scratch it, and instead had charged her mind with the task of willing it away. It had been a battle her mind was destined to lose. The itch had quickly colonized her other leg and then launched a two-pronged attack that had swept up through her hips, past her waist and into her torso. And soon it seemed as if a thousand tiny men on delicate feather skates had turned her back into their own personal rink.

She'd got up and taken first a hot shower and then a cold one. Neither of them had helped, and nor – as yet – had the vodka. It was almost as if her body had decided to defy the laws of medicine and had caught chicken pox for a second time.

She knew where the cause of her nervousness lay – in Jane-Bloody-Hartley – but she had no idea why the woman should have had such an effect on her.

Yes, Hartley was powerful. Yes, she probably had enough influence to get the team well and truly screwed if she wasn't happy with the way they carried out the investigation. But there was nothing new in that. Working with Charlie Woodend had always been like riding shotgun on a stagecoach that perpetually travelled through hostile Indian territory. So what the hell
was
different this time?

Perhaps it was not so much Hartley herself as her own reaction to the bloody woman, Monika reasoned.

If ever two women had been poles apart on almost every count, then those two women were herself and Jane Hartley. They differed in age, income, home bases, personal histories, temperaments and tastes. Even their superficial points of contact served to do no more than widen the divide between them: though they had both built up their careers in the law, Monika's job was catching the criminals and Jane Hartley's to persuade gullible juries to set them free.