Death of an Innocent (5 page)

‘He's an old man,' she pointed out. ‘Say crossing the moors in this weather was all too much of an effort for him, and he collapsed. He'll be covered with snow by now. The search parties could walk within a couple of feet of him and still not see him.'

If that was what had happened, then the old farmer would be dead by the time they
did
find him, Woodend thought. And then what conclusion would they probably be forced to draw? That Dugdale had suddenly gone berserk, killed the two guests at his farmhouse, and died trying to escape. It would certainly be a neat and tidy way to wrap things up, but Woodend had long ago come to distrust neat and tidy solutions where murder was concerned.

‘What else have you been doin' while I've been at the railway station?' he asked.

‘Following the usual procedures. Contacting all the other police stations in the immediate area to see if anybody's been reported missing. Co-ordinating with Traffic and⎯'

‘That reporter . . . what's his name . . .?'

‘Bennett.'

‘Bennett said that the man who phoned him up early this morning had a definite Manchester accent, an' since he works there, I suppose we should take his word for it. See if Manchester Police can tell us anythin' useful.'

‘Will do.'

‘What about fingerprints?'

‘According to DC Battersby, there were loads of latents. I think we might strike it lucky and get a match with our records.'

‘What makes you say that?' Woodend wondered.

‘I've just got the feeling that there are criminals involved.'

Woodend smiled. ‘Generally speaking, murder
is
regarded as a crime,' he said – but still, he knew exactly what she meant.

‘Take the male victim,' Paniatowski said earnestly. ‘He looks as if he was undernourished as a kid, but then lots of kids were undernourished thirty or forty years ago. His clothes were cheap, but again, lots of perfectly innocent people buy cheap clothes. I can't even say he's got a criminal face – because most of his face was blown away. And yet . . .'

‘An' yet?'

‘There's something about him which makes me think he's no stranger to the inside of a prison.'

‘I wouldn't dismiss that as a possibility, either.'

‘And then there's the actual murders themselves. Again, I've no grounds for saying this, but I got the impression that they were a professional job.'

‘So Dugdale's not the man we're really looking for?'

‘No. I don't think he is.'

‘You're telling me this was a contract killin'?'

‘Not even that,' Paniatowski admitted, frowning. ‘If it had been planned in advance, it probably wouldn't have been so messy, and we wouldn't have found the bodies so easily. But I still get the sense that whoever fired the shotgun had killed before.'

I know what you mean, Monika, Woodend thought. I know
exactly
what you mean.

A young uniformed constable appeared in the doorway and walked straight over to the Chief Inspector and his sergeant.

‘The DCC says he wants to see you immediately, sir,' the constable announced.

Immediately?

That was a bit strong, even coming from Dick the Prick. Being a deputy chief constable might have convinced Ainsworth, as it had convinced others before him, that he had the right to have his senior staff jump through the hoops occasionally – but it certainly wasn't the form to let the lower ranks see them doing it.

‘You sure that's what Mr Ainsworth said?' Woodend asked. ‘He wants to see me
immediately
.'

The constable blushed. ‘He . . . he . . .'

‘Spit it out, lad.'

‘Yes, sir, that's what he said. He was quite clear about it.'

Woodend and Paniatowski exchanged questioning glances.

‘Can you manage on your own for a while down here, Monika?' Woodend asked.

The sergeant nodded. ‘We're making so little progress at the moment that I could manage this operation
and
knit myself a woolly jumper at the same time.'

‘If you knew how to knit, that is,' Woodend said, forcing a smile to his face.

‘If I knew how to knit,' Paniatowski agreed, matching his smile with a forced one of her own.

‘Right,' Woodend said. ‘I suppose I'd better go and see what Mr Ainsworth wants. I shouldn't be long.'

But as he left the basement, he wondered if his last statement had been quite accurate.

DCC Ainsworth sat at his desk, the phone jammed hard against his right ear.

‘Yes, sir,' he said to whoever was on the other end of the line. ‘Yes, that's exactly the situation. No, he didn't . . . I agree with you on that . . .'

Woodend – who had not been invited to sit down and hence was standing like an errant cadet before his boss's desk – raised his eyes to the wall above Ainsworth's head, and found himself examining a gallery of exhibits which portrayed the DCC's public life. There were framed certificates from courses he'd attended, and commendations he'd been awarded. There were photographs of him with the police rugby team he'd once played in, and of tables in restaurants where he sat eating with the top brass. There were even a couple of letters from members of the general public – ‘the little people' he claimed not to have lost touch with – praising the way he had conducted an investigation.

All show, Woodend thought – all bloody show.

‘Yes, sir,' Ainsworth continued. ‘Yes, that's what I think. Thank you for giving me your backing – I'll see to it right away.'

He slammed the receiver violently back on its cradle and glared up at Woodend.

‘There was a time when I thought you were only being an awkward bastard because – as an old mate of our late, lamented chief constable – you thought you could get away with it,' Ainsworth said. ‘But the sainted Jack Dinnage is long gone now, and you're still as obstreperous as you ever were. So I can only assume it's part of your nature.'

‘What's this all about, sir?' Woodend asked levelly.

‘What's this all about?' Ainsworth repeated. ‘It's about you arresting journalists –
BBC
journalists – when what you were supposed to be doing was chasing murderers.'

‘As far as I can recall, I've only actually arrested the
one
journalist,' Woodend pointed out.

‘Yes, you're quite right – it was only one. But one who was guaranteed to make waves.'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘Peter Bennett's not just some hack working for the local rag. As I've already pointed out, he works for
the BBC
.'

‘I don't see it makes any difference who he's working for, sir,' Woodend said stubbornly.

‘Don't you?' Ainsworth countered. ‘Well, consider this, then? As you were making your ill-considered arrest, didn't the name “Bennett” ring any bells with you? Even
faint
bells?'

‘It's a common enough name. There's a fair amount of Bennetts livin' around the Whitebridge area.'

‘But as far as I know, there's only one
Harold
Bennett.'

‘Are you talkin' about
Councillor
Bennett?'

‘That's right.
Councillor
Bennett. The owner of Bennett's Foundry, the chairman of the Whitebridge Police Watch Committee – and the father of young Peter. How do you think he's going to feel about having his son banged up like a common criminal?'

‘Not too pleased,' Woodend admitted. ‘But that's neither here nor there, is it? Peter Bennett got in the way of my investigation – got
seriously
in the way – an' even if we don't actually charge him with anythin', it'll do him no harm to cool his heels in the cells for a few hours.'

Ainsworth smiled unpleasantly. ‘He isn't in the cells, Chief Inspector. I've let him go.'

‘You've done
what
?'

‘You heard me. I've let him go.'

‘That's the second time you've screwed up my investigation in one mornin',' Woodend said hotly.

‘And what exactly do you mean by that?'

‘First you drive that bloody big Volvo of yours over the tyre tracks in the snow at the farm⎯'

‘Do you take me for a complete bloody fool, Chief Inspector?' Ainsworth interrupted.

Yes, I certainly bloody do, Woodend thought.

‘Of course not, sir,' he said aloud.

‘If there had
been
tyre tracks in the snow, I'd have parked on the road and walked the rest of the way, but since it was quite evident that there weren't any, I saw no harm in driving right up to the farmhouse. I'm sure that, in the interest of speed, you've have done the same thing.'

He might be telling the truth, Woodend thought. Then again – and not for the first time – he might be lying through his teeth. But whichever was the case, what was done was done, and there was no point in having a shouting match about what
could have
been.

‘I'm sorry, sir,' he said. ‘I didn't mean to suggest that⎯'

‘You did more than simply suggest! You accused me outright of incompetence. Your insubordination has been noted, and will go down on your record in good time, but for the moment I'm more concerned with the case of this journalist. I consider your actions in regard to him to be hasty and ill judged – and the Chief Constable agrees with me wholeheartedly.'

That came as no surprise at all, Woodend told himself, not when you knew the Chief Constable as well as he did.

‘Excuse me, sir, but if I'm to get a bollockin' for this, wouldn't it be more appropriate comin' from my immediate superior, DCS Whittle?' he asked.

‘If a reprimand were
all
you were getting, it would indeed be coming from DCS Whittle. But this particular incident is serious enough to have gone beyond a simple reprimand, and I have to inform you, here and now, that you are being suspended on full pay, pending a full investigation into your conduct.'

‘What!' Woodend said.

‘I think you heard me the first time.'

This couldn't be happening, Woodend told himself. At the start of an important murder hunt, it simply
couldn't
be happening!

‘Even if I have made an error of judgement, it doesn't merit a suspension,' he said.

‘That is my decision to make, not yours.'

‘Couldn't you defer the suspension until the case is closed?'

‘No, I couldn't. And I must warn you that you're bordering on insubordination again.'

Woodend took a deep breath. His own situation could be dealt with later – what mattered at the moment was that there was a proper investigation of the case of the poor bloody girl who'd been murdered out at Dugdale's Farm.

‘Will Mr Whittle be bringin' someone in from outside the area to take over from me, sir?' he asked, knowing full well that the decision would not rest with Whittle himself, but the man who pulled Whittle's strings and was sitting opposite him now. ‘Because if we are gettin' outside help, could you suggest to him that he tries to get⎯?'

‘He won't be bringing anyone in from outside.'

‘Then he's goin' to be handlin' it himself?'

‘No, although both DCS Whittle and I will, of course, take a close personal interest in the case.'

‘So who's⎯?'

‘DI Harris will be taking over the investigation.'

DI Harris! Sweet Jesus!

‘With respect, sir, DI Harris couldn't find his own arsehole if he used both hands,' Woodend said.

Ainsworth frowned his heavy disapproval. ‘No doubt using that kind of language makes you feel like you're still one of the boys, but while the members of your team may have to tolerate your coarseness, I certainly do not, and will not,' he said.

‘If you're goin' to take me off the case, at least make sure I'm replaced by somebody who can⎯'

‘I have always found your arrogance one of the least attractive of your many unattractive characteristics,' Ainsworth said. ‘We work as a team here in Whitebridge, and DI Harris is an effective and efficient part of that team. You will not question my judgement – DCS Whittle's judgement, I should say – in assigning the case to Harris. Is that clearly understood?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Ainsworth held out his hand. ‘You will give me your warrant card now, and then I will arrange for you to be accompanied to your office, from where you will be allowed to remove any articles of a purely personal nature.'

‘I'd like to ask you to reconsider your decision,' Woodend said. ‘If not for my benefit, then at least for the good of the force.'

The fingers of Ainsworth's outstretched waiting hand twitched impatiently. ‘I
am
thinking of the good of the force,' he said. ‘That's why I want you out of the building as soon as possible.'

T
he White Swan – known locally as the Dirty Duck – was situated on the corner of Prince Albert Street and the Boulevard. It had once been a lively pub, then some bright young spark at the brewery had come up with the idea of tearing out its organically developed heart and replacing it with one made of chrome and smoked glass. Now, Woodend thought – as he sat in the corner of what had been the public bar in the days before all the internal walls had been knocked down – it was less a pub than a drinking shop, dispensing alcohol much as the grocer's dispensed pounds of cheese.

The Chief Inspector glanced idly around the barn of a room. A young couple sat by the window, having the kind of whispered conversation that people indulge in when they're arguing in a public place. At the bar, a group of men in chunky sweaters were talking loudly about millions of pounds and buying each other halves of bitter. A pensioner dozed fitfully over his bottle of Guinness. And a youth who probably couldn't afford it was feeding sixpenny piece after sixpenny piece into the one-armed bandit.