A Death Left Hanging (26 page)

‘I don't care how stupidly Margaret went about killing Fred,' Paniatowski continued fiercely. ‘She still did it! She was so outraged by what her husband had done to her daughter that she just couldn't stop herself.'

Woodend was starting to look at her worriedly again. ‘It's the timing that's got me bothered,' he admitted.

‘To hell with the timing!' Paniatowski said.

‘We can't just ignore it – not if we're to do our job properly,' Woodend told her gently. ‘Let's trace things backwards. Let's assume that Margaret went out for a walk, just as she claimed she did, on the night of the murder. All right?'

‘All right,' Paniatowski agreed, with some show of reluctance.

‘She gets back to the house. Fred is in the lounge, probably watching television. Now, we know from his previous history that he's a seasoned offender who's never shown any qualms of conscience. So he's not likely to confess to what he's been doing with Jane. Agreed?'

‘Agreed.'

‘Which means that she already
knows
about it. So for her to kill him at that particular time – and in such a violent manner – there has to have been something specific which sparked her off. An' I just can't think of anythin' that would have done.'

‘Can't you?' Paniatowski said. ‘Then it's a good job for the sake of this investigation that I
can
, isn't it?'

Woodend shook his head dolefully, and if Bob Rutter had not been in the room he would probably have reached across the desk and put his hand on Paniatowski's shoulder.

‘I know there's a certain way that you'd
like
things to have been, Monika,' he said softly. ‘An' I can understand
why
you'd feel like that. Honestly I can. But we're bobbies. We have to look at the facts coldly. We have to deduce what we can solely from the evidence.'

‘That's just what I'm doing,' Monika insisted. ‘I think I know what caused the spark which made Margaret kill her husband at that moment – and I also think I know how I can prove it.'

She seemed sincere, Woodend thought. She seemed convinced. There was no longer any sign of the irrationality that had threatened to take her over only a couple of minutes earlier.

‘Somethin's happened, hasn't it, Monika?' he asked.

‘Yes, it has.'

‘An' are you goin' to tell us what it is?'

Paniatowski smiled. ‘I've just remembered what question I
should
have asked the Fortesques,' she said.

‘B
ack again, are you, Sergeant?' Mrs Fortesque asked pleasantly. ‘What's the reason for your visit this time? More questions?'

‘That's right,' Paniatowski agreed.

Mrs Fortesque looked beyond the sergeant to where the big man in the hairy sports coat was standing.

‘I see you've brought one of the big guns with you this time,' she said.

Paniatowski nodded. ‘My chief inspector,' she said.

‘It's not necessary, you know,' Mrs Fortesque said to Woodend.

‘What isn't necessary, madam?'

‘Your being here at all. Probably have some doubts about this young woman's ability to do her job properly, simply because she
is
a young woman. Had the same doubts myself at first, I'm ashamed to admit. But you and I will just have to learn to change with the times, you know. Monika is a fine young officer. She'll go far.'

Paniatowski smiled, though that was the last thing she felt like doing. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mrs Fortesque,' she said, ‘but I'm afraid you're not going to like it when I tell you the reason we've come back.'

‘Won't I?' Mrs Fortesque asked, her voice remaining friendly but her body tensing – as if she'd already guessed what the sergeant was going to say next.

‘We need to talk to the Major,' Paniatowski said gently.

‘Can't allow that,' the other woman replied instantly. ‘He's not been well. Simply isn't up to being interrogated by the police.'

‘It
is
important.'

‘Can't accept that. He doesn't know anything that I don't know.'

‘We think he does. We think he – and
only
he – knows something which is of vital importance to our investigation.'

‘Maybe you're right. Still don't care. You can't see him.'

‘I was a soldier myself,' Woodend said.

Mrs Fortesque looked at him with new interest. ‘What rank?'

‘Sergeant.'

‘And did you see service in India, Sergeant?'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘But you weren't some office wallah pushing chitties around in Aldershot, were you? Don't look like the type of man who'd be happy with that sort of soldiering.'

‘You're right,' Woodend agreed. ‘I've never been much good at filin' papers.'

‘So where did you serve?'

‘North Africa an' Europe.'

‘During the war itself?'

‘Yes.'

‘Right in the thick of the action,' Mrs Fortesque said approvingly. ‘Did you win any medals?'

‘I don't really think that matters one way or the other, now the whole thing's over.'

‘Spoken like a man who doesn't need medals because he's been awarded plenty,' Mrs Fortesque said. She smiled, still not quite relaxed but certainly less tense than she had been a few moments earlier. ‘I'm well aware of what you're trying to do, you know.'

‘Are you?'

‘Of course. You're doing what we used to call “Playing the Old Comrade”. You're trying to soften me up, so I'll let you see the Major.'

‘You're half-right,' Woodend admitted. ‘But what I was also tryin' to show you is that I've had quite a lot of experience dealin' with officers, an' I think I can say that I understand them.'

‘We all know what that means,' Mrs Fortesque said. ‘Means you think that all officers are jackasses!'

‘No, it doesn't,' Woodend promised. ‘There's all kinds of officers. Good an' bad, cautious an' foolhardy, clever an' stupid – but do you know the one thing most of'em had in common?'

Mrs Fortesque thought for only the briefest of moments. ‘A sense of duty,' she said.

‘Exactly,' Woodend agreed. ‘Your husband knows that his duty is to give us the answers we need. You're not goin' to prevent him doin' that duty, are you, madam?'

Mrs Fortesque looked at him with an expression that showed both defeat and admiration.

‘You'd have made a damned good Political Officer out on the North West Frontier,' she said. ‘You'd better follow me into the lounge.'

The Major was sitting in his armchair as he had been the last time Paniatowski had seen him, but now he looked as if he wished it would swallow him up even further than it already had.

‘These two officers want to ask you a few questions, Major dear,' Mrs Fortesque said gently. ‘I promise you it won't take long.'

The Major's eyes filled with panic. ‘Send them away!' he gasped. ‘Send them away.'

‘I can't do that, Major dear,' his wife told him. ‘If I could, I'd spare you this by helping them myself. But they say it has to be you. And I believe them.'

‘Don't want . . . don't want . . .'

The old woman knelt down and took one of her husband's gnarled hands in both of hers.

‘You've always been my hero, Major dear,' she cooed softly. ‘You know that. Please don't let me down now, so close to the end. I know it will take a lot of courage, but I know my man, too, and I'm sure he'll find it from somewhere. Help them, my dear!'

‘I'll . . . try,' the Major promised feebly.

The old woman released her husband's hand and rose arthritically to her feet. ‘I'll leave you to get on with it in peace,' she said, her eyes rapidly filling with tears. ‘Call me if you need anything.'

Woodend and Paniatowski waited until Mrs Fortesque had left the room, then sat down on the sofa opposite the Major.

‘Do you remember the last time I was here?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Yes, I remember.'

‘Your wife was talking about the cars which pulled up in front of the Doddses' house on the night of the murder, and you said, “They took Jane away.” At the time I thought you were saying that, after the murder, they took Jane away to live with her aunt. But that wasn't what you meant at all, was it?'

‘No.'

‘What you really meant was that they took Jane away on
the night of the murder
. In one of the two cars that your wife heard. Isn't that right?'

‘She . . . she had been staying with her Aunt Helen,' the old man said weakly. ‘I thought she was
still
with her aunt. But . . . but when I heard the second car pull up, I was curious. I went over to the window.'

‘An' what did you see?' Woodend asked.

‘I saw Jane's mother helping her into the car.'

‘Why didn't you volunteer this information during the course of the investigation?'

‘I . . . I didn't see the point. It had nothing to do with the murder. They'd already arrested Margaret. What good would it have done to have them bothering Jane?' The old man hesitated. ‘Besides, I was afraid,' he confessed.

‘Afraid?'

‘I . . . I'd lost my nerve by then. I'd stayed in India too long, you see. It's a country that can destroy a man. Or . . . or at least, it destroyed me.' A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘I'm s-so sorry.'

‘Don't upset yourself, Major. It probably wouldn't have made any difference if you had come forward,' Woodend lied. ‘But there is one more way you can help us.'

‘What . . . what do you want to know?'

‘When you went to the window an' saw the car which took Jane away, you didn't happen to notice what make it was, did you?'

‘I had a car in India,' the Major said nostalgically. ‘And a driver. I would have liked to have one when we came back to England, but we couldn't afford it. Still, I took an interest in the latest developments, and this car was a beauty.'

‘Do you mean that you
did
notice the make?'

‘Of course,' the Major said, as if surprised that he even needed to ask. ‘It was a Morris Isis.'

‘Well, that's it then,' Paniatowski said, looking at Woodend across the table in the Drum and Monkey.

‘Is it?' Woodend asked.

‘Of course. Margaret Dodds comes home and finds her husband sexually assaulting her daughter. She flies into a rage – as any mother would – and kills him with the hammer. We don't need to know any more.'

‘What about the two cars – the one which stopped there earlier and the Morris Isis which took Jane away?'

‘
What
about them?'

‘Who was driving them?'

‘That's a detail. It doesn't really matter.'

Woodend placed his hands on top of Paniatowski's. ‘You want it to be the mother who killed him, don't you?' he said.

‘It
is
the mother.'

‘You can't bear the thought that she might have known that Fred was assaulting Jane, and still did nothing about it.'

‘She
did
do something about it. She crushed his skull to a pulp.'

‘An' because you're so set on believin' what you want to believe, you won't admit there's even the slightest possibility that whoever was in the first car which stopped outside the house could be the murderer. That by the time Margaret got home, Fred was already dead.'

‘It didn't happen like that.'

‘It might have, Monika.'

‘We have to work with probabilities. Margaret Dodds had the means, the motive and the opportunity. What possible grounds can you have for doubting that she was the killer?'

‘She said she didn't do it.'

‘What?'

‘You've forgotten that, Monika. You've forgotten it because you wanted to. When Margaret Dodds was being interviewed by DCI Sharpe, she said, “I didn't kill my husband.”'

‘She was lying!'

‘Why should she have lied?'

‘To protect Jane from gossip! To prevent what Dodds had done to her daughter from becoming public knowledge. I know that's what my moth–– . . . what I would have done in the same circumstances.'

‘She could have come up with another reason for killing Dodds. She could have said she'd done it for the money.'

‘You don't understand!' Paniatowski said exasperatedly.

‘An' you don't
want
to understand,' Woodend said softly. ‘Look, Monika, you may well be right. Perhaps Margaret Dodds did kill her husband. But until we've tied up all the loose ends that are hangin' over this case, we won't know for sure.'

Paniatowski took a slug of her vodka. ‘That's the second time in this investigation I've stopped thinking like a bobby, isn't it?' she asked ruefully.

‘I haven't been countin',' Woodend said. ‘An' even if I had, I've got a terrible memory for cases once they're over an' done with.'

Paniatowski gave him a weak smile. ‘I don't deserve a boss like you,' she said.

‘Bollocks!' Woodend said. ‘Everybody's got to take the rough with the smooth, an' you've just been landed with the rough for a while.'

‘These loose ends?' Paniatowski said. ‘Which one do you think we should start with?'

‘Well, we could do worse than find out who in Whitebridge owned a Morris Isis in 1934,' Woodend told her.

T
he big house had an elevated position that overlooked the Corporation Park. It had once stood in splendid isolation, but the grounds had long since been sold off to speculative builders. Now it was surrounded by other detached houses that would have looked impressive in their own right, had they been elsewhere, but in this location seemed no more than dwarfish intruders hunkering down in the mansion's shadow.