Death of an Innocent (7 page)

‘Have you ever been to Chief Inspector Woodend's house?' Evans interrupted her.

‘Yes,' Paniatowski replied, puzzled.

‘Socially?'

‘
Mrs
Woodend has invited me round for a meal a few times.'

‘And were you the only guest?'

‘No, I⎯'

‘Who else was there?'

‘What has this got to do with⎯?'

‘
Who else was there?
'

‘The first time there was Detective Inspector Rutter and his wife. I think Mr Woodend was hoping that if DI Rutter and I got to know each other better outside work, we might⎯'

‘And the second time?'

‘A couple called Jackson. Mr Jackson's an old friend of Mr Woodend's. They've known each other since elementary school.'

‘That would Mortimor Jackson? Of Jackson's Transport?'

‘I believe Mr Jackson does own some lorries.'

‘A large number of lorries,' Evans said ominously. ‘But to get back to Mr Woodend. He lives in an old hand-loom weaver's cottage, just outside Whitebridge, doesn't he?'

‘That's right.'

‘Well, that certainly seems modest enough.' Evans took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote something down. ‘What did you have to eat when you went to Mr Woodend's house?'

‘I don't see how this⎯'

‘Just answer the question, Sergeant!'

‘On one occasion, we had roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Another time, I think it was Lancashire hot-pot.'

‘Again, modest enough,' Evans mused. ‘But then a clever man knows better than to be ostentatious. Was there wine with the meal?'

‘Mr Woodend doesn't drink wine. He's strictly a pint of best bitter man, and⎯'

‘That wasn't what I asked.'

‘Yes, there was wine for those who wanted it,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘What kind of wine? Cheap Portuguese muck? Or was it something more expensive? French, perhaps?'

‘I'm no expert on the subject, but I believe it was French.'

‘I see,' Evans said, making another note in his book. ‘Do you happen to know where Mr Woodend goes for his holidays?'

‘With respect, sir, could I know what this has to do with the investigation in hand?'

‘You're here to answer my questions, not to put forward any of your own,' Evans said firmly. ‘Where does Mr Woodend go for his holidays?'

‘He doesn't take many holidays. There isn't time.'

‘But he does take
some
?'

‘Yes.'

‘And where does he go, when he
does
find the time?'

‘Mr Woodend likes to visit the Lake District. He's a great walker, and he says the Lakes are just the place to⎯'

‘And does he have what I suppose you might call “a little place” up in the Lakes.'

‘I beg your pardon, sir?'

‘Does Mr Woodend own any property up in the Lakes?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

Evans nodded. ‘Not as far as you
know
. That's significant.'

‘Mr Woodend and I work together, but we don't live in each other's pockets,' Paniatowski said. ‘I don't think he has a house in the Lakes, but I couldn't say for sure.'

Evans nodded again. ‘I think you're being wise.'

‘I'm sorry, sir?'

‘In any investigation, there's always a danger that the people close to the subject of it will be suspected of guilt by association. You're wise to start distancing yourself now.'

‘I wasn't aware that I was distancing myself.'

‘That's exactly the line to take,' Evans said, as if he were agreeing with something Paniatowski was sure she'd never said. ‘Circumstances forced you into the company of Mr Woodend, but that was as far as it went.' He paused. ‘If you play your cards right, Sergeant, you could walk away from this whole affair with a completely unblemished record.'

‘What whole affair?'

‘There's nothing else you'd care to tell me about Mr Woodend's private life, is there?' Evans said, as if she hadn't spoken. ‘Nothing you might have heard? Nothing he could have let slip at an unguarded moment?'

‘Mr Woodend is the best boss I've ever worked for,' Paniatowski said passionately. ‘He's very good at his job, is straight with the team working under him, and is as honest as they come.'

‘As far as you know.'

‘As far as anyone can ever really know anything.'

‘But everyone is capable of making a mistake about the people they work with. And if I were you, Sergeant, I really would keep that in mind from now on. In other words, what I'm saying is that there's a distinction between being
wrong
and being
rotten
, and if you have to choose between them, it's always better to be seen as wrong. Do you understand what I'm telling you here, Sergeant?'

‘No, sir,' Paniatowski said. ‘No, I'm not sure that I do.'

Evans' sigh had just a hint of exasperation in it. ‘Give it a little time to settle, and I'm sure you'll get the point, Sergeant,' he said. ‘All right, you can go now.'

Monika stood and walked towards the door. It was only as she reaching for the handle that she realized she was trembling.

T
he barking of the dogs cut through the empty moorland air like the wail of a demented banshee. There was nothing warm or welcoming about it. It was not even a fair warning that the animals would defend their territory if they were forced to. It was, instead, a declaration of war – a solemn promise that if they once escaped from behind the high chain-linked fence, they would wreak a terrible destruction on any living thing they could find.

As Woodend parked his ten-year-old Wolseley in the shadow of the Moorland Village, the dogs came loping purposefully toward the fence. There were four of them. All Dobermanns. All with powerful shoulders and thin, half-starved bodies. As he stepped out of his car, the Chief Inspector was more than conscious of the fact that their wild eyes were fixed so intently on him that they almost seemed to be burning their way into his skin.

Woodend lit up a cigarette, and returned their gaze. The dogs had come to a halt a few feet from the fence, and their lips were curled back to reveal their razor-sharp teeth. The leader of the pack tensed, then took a flying leap at the wire. Several feet away – and knowing logically that he was perfectly safe – Woodend felt himself flinch and take a sudden step backwards.

The dog hit the wire with a force which would have knocked even a heavy man like him to the ground. The wire bulged dangerously outwards for a split second, then sprang back, catapulting the dog to the ground. A second dog, undeterred by his leader's failure, flung himself at the wire with the same determination, and with the same result. The remaining two, seeing the pointlessness of their repeating the attack, contented themselves with adopting a menacing crouch from which it would be possible to spring should the fence miraculously disappear.

The barking all but stopped, and was replaced now by low growls, primeval enough to turn the blood cold. Woodend took a drag on his cigarette. The Dobermanns were not so much animals as trained killing-machines, he decided, and, given the opportunity, they would rip out his throat – or anybody else's – without a second's hesitation.

He turned to look at the scene behind him. The council snowploughs had been out working since first light, and now the snow itself was banked up at the sides of the road, forming a cold, glistening palisade which separated the civilized man-made world of the asphalt from the savage beauty of the moors.

The dogs were still emitting their low growl, but there was no accompanying noise of machinery. The weather had put a temporary stop to work on ‘the excitingly original concept in rural living from T. A. Taylor and Associates'.

And a good thing, too! the Chief Inspector thought. The countryside was not meant to be tamed, and true country-dwellers knew it. They understood that
it
didn't bend to
you
. No,
you
bent to
it
– accepting it for the way it was and building your life around its natural rhythms. Then people like T. A. Taylor and Associates came along – churning up a landscape which had taken thousands of years to evolve, and putting in its place a safe, sanitized community which gave people who were brought up as townees the illusion of living a rural existence. It should never have been allowed. In fact, now he came to think about it, he wondered how, given the existing planning regulations, it ever
had
been allowed.

There was a low rumble in the distance which heralded the imminent arrival of another car. Woodend looked up and saw Monika Paniatowski's MGA. The dogs, poised only a few feet from him, heard it too, and their snarls deepened as they expressed their anger at the approach of yet another enemy.

Paniatowski pulled her MGA up next to Woodend's Wolseley and climbed out. She looked grim.

‘What's the matter, lass?' Woodend asked.

‘There's something I need to know,' the sergeant said. ‘A question I need an answer to right now.'

‘An' what question might that be?'

Paniatowski took a deep breath. ‘Have you ever done anybody a favour in return for them doing one for you? Have you ever taken a bribe – or accepted a present which might possibly be construed as a bribe?'

Woodend felt as if he had suddenly been doused in icy water. ‘You shouldn't even need to ask that,' he said bitterly.

‘I know I bloody shouldn't. But when things happen which start to make you question your own judgement, you
have
to ask. So what's the answer? Have you ever taken any bribes?'

‘Get back to the station, Sergeant,' Woodend said coldly. ‘Get back right now, before your new boss – the excellent Inspector Harris – starts wonderin' where you are.'

‘I need to know,' Paniatowski persisted, anguishedly. ‘If I'm going to put my own career on the line, I need a straight answer. Give it to me now, and I promise I'll never ask again.'

‘If you don't know me by now⎯'

‘
Please
! Please tell me, just this once,
Charlie
!'

‘I've never taken a bribe in my life,' Woodend said. ‘An' if I've done anybody favours – which I have when justice has needed temperin' with a bit common humanity – it's never been in the hope of gettin' anythin' in return. Does that answer your question?'

Paniatowski let out a gasp of relief, and then was instantly businesslike again. ‘You're in big trouble.'

‘I know that.'

‘No, you don't. At least, you don't know quite
how
big it is. Have you ever heard of a bobby called Stan Evans?'

‘DCI Evans, do you mean? Bullet-head Evans. Based in Preston?'

‘That's the man,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘I met himself this morning. Mr Evans is the one who's been called in to investigate the case against you.'

‘Shit!' Woodend said.

‘Shit is right,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘He's only been on the job for a few hours, and he's already started to turn the station inside out.'

‘What the hell for?' Woodend demanded. ‘The complaint's a simple one. He doesn't even need to be in the station at all.'

‘You still don't get it, do you?' Paniatowski asked, almost pityingly. ‘Evans isn't just interested in what you did to that reporter. He wants a lot more than that.'

‘More of what?'

‘More evidence. Evidence that you're dirty.'

‘He'll not find any,' Woodend said firmly.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Haven't I just told you that I'm not bent?' Woodend exploded.

‘And I believed you when you said it. But that doesn't mean that, if Evans digs long enough, he won't be able to come up with something that makes you
look
bent.'

She was right, Woodend thought. There were cases in his past which had not been solved. There'd been criminals he'd arrested who'd escaped custodial sentences because the evidence hadn't been
quite
strong enough to convince a jury.

Who was to say, with absolute certainty, that these failures had been no more than bad luck? Who could claim, with complete conviction, that when the guilty went unpunished it wasn't because Charlie Woodend had been pulling the strings behind the scenes, in return for a thick wad of cash?

He pictured himself defending his career in front of a committee of cold-eyed men bent on his destruction, and knew that no man's record was protection against organized malevolence. Then, in a sudden burst of irritation, he pushed the image to the back of his mind.

Whatever the future held in store for him, there was nothing he could do about it now, he told himself. So there was really no point in dwelling on it, was there? Especially when there were more pressing matters to be dealt with.

‘Tell me about how the case is goin',' he said. ‘What new leads have you got?'

‘None,' Paniatowski said. ‘And, as much as I'd like to, I can't really blame all of it on DI Harris. Whichever way we turn, we seem to be running into dead ends.'

‘You must have done
somethin'
constructive since the last time we spoke,' Woodend persisted.

‘We've asked Battersby do a second comparison between the prints he lifted at the farm and the ones we've already got on record.'

We've
asked, Woodend noted. She was speaking about a team of which he was no longer a part.

‘With what result?' he asked.

‘There were no matches.'

‘Not a single one?'

‘That's what I said.'

‘An' you've just left it at that, have you?'

Paniatowski sighed. ‘No, of course, we haven't just left it at that. We've sent the prints down to London, so that Scotland Yard can check them against the national records – but that kind of thing all takes time.'