The Dead Hand of History Read online

  Recent Titles by Sally Spencer from Severn House

  THE BUTCHER BEYOND

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  THE DARK LADY

  THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

  DEAD ON CUE

  DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

  DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

  A DEATH LEFT HANGING

  DEATH WATCH

  DYING IN THE DARK

  A DYING FALL

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  FATAL QUEST

  GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

  A LONG TIME DEAD

  MURDER AT SWANN’S LAKE

  THE PARADISE JOB

  THE RED HERRING

  THE SALTON KILLINGS

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  STONE KILLER

  THE WITCH MAKER

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2009

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2009 by Alan Rustage.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Spencer, Sally.

  The Dead Hand of History.

  1. Woodend, Charlie (Fictitious character) – Fiction.

  2. Police – England – Fiction. 3. Polish people – England – Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9′14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-032-6 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6805-3 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-170-6 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For Lanna

  PROLOGUE

  She was in a dark, dark place.

  She suspected that she was inside, rather than out, because the air was still and musty. But if she was inside, in some kind of room, she had no idea how large or small that room might be.

  ‘Concentrate!’ she ordered her fuzzy brain.

  The first thing to consider, she decided, was not where she was, but how she had got there.

  She had been at home.

  She was sure of that.

  It had been the evening, and she had been at home.

  Was it still evening?

  That didn’t matter! What had happened next?

  She’d had a fight with her husband! It had been a God-awful one, and he’d been angrier – and braver – than she’d ever seen him before.

  And then?

  And then – nothing!

  She didn’t know how the fight had ended, or what had happened after it.

  Focus on the present, then.

  She was in this room – which might be as small as a cupboard or as large as an auditorium – and she was standing up.

  But she couldn’t move! Why couldn’t she move?

  She couldn’t move because she was tied to something.

  A workbench, perhaps?

  Could be.

  At any rate, whoever had tied her up had made a good job of it. Her ankles were bound together, and fastened to the leg of the bench – if that’s what it was – and there were more bonds mooring her waist to the flat top.

  But it was what had been done to her hands which was the real mystery. They had been bound in such a way that her arms were spread to their maximum, and so that the hands themselves were palm-down on a cold metal surface.

  She should be more frightened, she told herself.

  And perhaps, when the fuzziness had cleared from her head, she would be.

  But for the moment, the important thing was to work out exactly what was going on.

  Somewhere in the middle distance a door opened, allowing a chink of light to leak into the room – just enough for her to realize where she was.

  But knowing where she was only raised more questions, didn’t it?

  She still had no idea why she was there, or who had brought her there.

  The door closed again. The only thing she could now see was the blinding light of a powerful torch, the only thing she could hear was the soft footfalls as her captor approached her.

  It was the steadiness of the light – the sure nature of the footfalls – which finally brought on the fear.

  ‘Who are you?’ she heard herself croak. ‘What do you want?’

  The light drew ever closer, and though she closed her eyes she could still feel the dazzle burning into her retinas.

  ‘Is it money you’re after?’ she asked, as a rising panic threatened to drown her. ‘Is it? Because if it is, I’ve got plenty.’

  There was no response, though the footsteps kept on coming.

  ‘You’ll never get away with it, you know,’ she said, changing tack. ‘I’ve got influence in this town. I’ll have you tracked down wherever you try to hide.’

  Her kidnapper had walked past her, and was standing at the edge of the bench.

  No, not bench – she knew exactly what it was now.

  ‘Why don’t you say something?’ she sobbed. ‘Why don’t you tell me why I’m here?’

  ‘You already know why you’re here,’ said a voice.

  And it wasn’t just any voice! It was a voice she recognized – a voice she knew very well.

  Oh God, no! she thought. It isn’t . . . it can’t be . . .!

  She was sure the torch was still shining directly in her eyes, and that when she opened them it would hurt.

  But she had to open them.

  Because how could she make her appeal for mercy with them closed?

  She forced herself to do it. At first all she could see was the blinding glare, but then, by moving her head to one side, she regained a little of her peripheral vision.

  And that was when she saw the meat cleaver, raised high in the air.

  ‘Please, no!’ she screamed.

  And she was still screaming when the cleaver reached its target – slicing through flesh, crushing and splintering bone.

  ONE

  The River Darne was too shallow for any but the smallest craft to navigate, and too narrow to require one of those mighty arched stone bridges which spanned more substantial rivers. But that said, it was pleasant enough, in its own quiet way. Swans glided majestically along its course, and bulrushes grew in abundance along its banks. Weeping willows overhung – and were reflected in – its water, and on warm summer days the path that ran alongside it was popular with both strollers and picnickers. But there were no strollers or picnickers on the river bank that early June morning in 1973. Instead, it had been invaded – and then occupied – by a dozen men with an official purpose.

  Ten of the men were uniformed, had established themselves in fixed positions and now stood scanning the near distance for any sign of the sensation-seekers who always appeared – almost by magic – whenever a grisly incident like this one occurred. The men in plain clothes, on the other hand, strode back and forth along the path, as if
by this action alone they were achieving something of significance.

  ‘Not that we can do much of anything until she gets here,’ Detective Sergeant Walker complained. ‘After all, we don’t want to go treading on her toes on her first day in her shiny new job, now do we?’

  ‘You sound a bit pissed off to me, Sarge,’ DC Crane said.

  ‘Do I, indeed?’ Walker said reflectively. ‘Now I wonder why that could possibly be?’

  ‘Don’t know, Sarge.’

  ‘How old would you say I am, Jack?’

  DC Crane examined the other man. Walker was square-bodied. His hair was just starting to show signs of greying at the temples, and while the bags under his eyes were not yet quite coal sacks, they were certainly noticeable.

  ‘I’d guess you were thirty-five,’ the detective constable said, deciding his wisest course would be to err on the flattering side.

  ‘I’m thirty-bloody-nine,’ the sergeant growled. ‘Which – if you can do the sums – makes me around the same age as our new bloody boss. So there you have it – born a few months apart, but already separated by two steps in rank. Of course, there’s a perfectly understandable reason for that, isn’t there?’

  ‘Is there? And what is it?’

  ‘I haven’t got tits, have I?’

  I should have known, Crane thought. I shouldn’t have even bothered to ask.

  But he was only three years out of university – where everyone was terribly earnest and terribly enlightened – and he was still finding it hard to adjust to the fact that beyond the cosy confines of the campus lurked a tribe of snarling Neanderthals.

  ‘Got a good record, though, hasn’t she?’ he said, knowing he shouldn’t, but somehow unable to stop himself.

  ‘A good record?’ Walker repeated incredulously. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Well, I know I’ve not been around here long . . .’

  ‘You can say that again, young Crane. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still wet behind the ears.’

  ‘. . . but I did hear that when the DCI was working with Mr Woodend, the two of them were a really excellent—’

  ‘Not working with Mr Woodend, working for Mr Woodend,’ DS Walker corrected him. ‘In fact, if the rumours I’ve heard are true – and I’ve no reason to doubt them – she was working under him.’

  Crane didn’t believe that for a minute. As an officer low down in the pecking order, he’d only known Charlie Woodend from a distance, but even so, the chief inspector hadn’t looked like a man who’d cheat on his wife, especially with a member of his own team.

  ‘Yes, working under him,’ Walker repeated, with some relish. ‘And in my opinion, that’s a woman’s proper place – under a man, with her legs spread so far apart they’re hanging over the sides of the bed.’

  Neanderthal wasn’t in it, Crane thought. There must once have been primitive slime, still crawling out of the swamp, with more developed sensibilities than Detective Sergeant Walker had now.

  The sound of an engine being driven at high revs made Crane turn. Raising his head, he let his eyes climb the sharp grassy incline to the minor road at the top of it, which had once been a donkey track. It was then that he saw the car, a bright red MGA, pulling up.

  ‘She’s here!’ he said.

  ‘So she is,’ Walker agreed. ‘Well, I suppose all we have to do now is stand back admiringly, as we watch a brilliant mind at work.’

  The paved steps down the river bank were some distance away, but Monika Paniatowski showed no interest in taking them. Instead, she chose to descend the grassy slope at an angle.

  ‘It’d really make my day if she lost her footing, and went arse over tit,’ Walker said.

  Yes, it probably would, Crane thought, but it looked as if the sergeant was due for a big disappointment, because despite the fact that the grass was still slippery with the morning dew, the new chief inspector certainly seemed to be sure-footed enough.

  Crane followed Paniatowski’s progress with interest, though with entirely different motives to those of his sergeant. Her blonde hair was just lovely, he decided. And though her nose was on the large side for Lancashire taste – that would be the Polish influence, wouldn’t it? – that was quite nice, too. But it was her figure that really got his approval. It certainly didn’t look thirty-nine – and though Paniatowski was an old woman by Crane’s standards, he had to admit, somewhat guiltily, that he really quite fancied her.

  As the DCI drew almost level with them, Crane was surprised to note that, despite his earlier derogatory comments about her, Walker snapped smartly to attention. And not wishing to be left out, the young detective constable decided he’d better do the same.

  ‘It’s certainly a privilege to be working with you, ma’am,’ Walker said.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘It’s bad luck to be landed with a case like this on your first day in the job, but then there’s nothing like a baptism by fire for showing what you’re really made of, is there?’ Walker continued.

  ‘Probably not,’ Paniatowski said, with less conviction than she might have wished.

  ‘And there’s no doubt in my mind that with your brilliant track record, you’ll have a result in no time,’ Walker said.

  Professional pleasantries were all very well in their place, Paniatowski thought, but really, enough was enough.

  ‘We’ll get a result, Sergeant,’ she corrected her new bagman. ‘As a team. Because that’s what good policing is – teamwork.’

  ‘You’re quite right there, ma’am,’ Walker agreed.

  ‘So what can you tell me about the investigation so far?’ Paniatowski asked crisply.

  ‘The object in question was discovered by a man called Edgar Harper, about an hour ago,’ Walker said, in his best policeman-in-the-witness-box voice. ‘Mr Harper was out walking his dog when—’

  ‘Strictly speaking, ma’am, it was the dog which did the finding,’ Crane interrupted.

  Walker gave him a look which could have frozen blood and then continued, ‘. . . when the dog disappeared into those bushes over there, and reappeared again with the plastic bag in its mouth.’

  The bushes were not tall, but they were quite thick, Paniatowski noted, and if the dog hadn’t found it, the plastic bag could have lain hidden there for days.

  So what had been the point of putting it there at all?

  ‘Where’s this bag now?’ she asked.

  Walker took his cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one up and blew smoke down his nose.

  ‘I had it sent over to the mortuary, so that that Paki doc . . . so that Dr Shastri could have a look at it.’

  Paniatowski’s eyes hardened, and for a moment it looked as if she was about to deliver some kind of rebuke. Then she nodded again and said, ‘Good, that was the right thing to do. And what else have you done?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Every boss that I’ve ever worked for has his own particular way of doing things, ma’am,’ Walker said. ‘And until we’d found out what the right way was for you, we thought it best not to go barging around doing the wrong thing. Isn’t that right, DC Crane?’

  ‘Er . . . yes,’ Crane said.

  What the sergeant had just said made good sense, Paniatowski thought. A wise bobby always modified his own style – to a certain extent – to fit his boss’s. That was one of the many lessons she’d learned from working with Charlie Woodend.

  ‘I want the river bank searched for half a mile in either direction,’ she said. ‘Carefully searched.’

  ‘I’ll see to it right away, ma’am,’ Walker promised.

  Paniatowski turned to face the grassy slope she’d so recently descended. Its incline meant she could not see much beyond it. But she didn’t need to, because this was her old stamping ground – the backcloth of an unhappy childhood – and she was only too aware that on the other side of the road lay a patch of waste ground, and beyond that the edge of a hou
sing estate – red brick, featureless and laid out on a strict grid pattern.

  ‘I also want a door-to-door inquiry conducted,’ she continued. ‘It should take in any houses with easy access to the river along a two-mile stretch, but I’d like you to start with the Pinchbeck Estate.’

  ‘The Pinchbeck Estate?’ Walker repeated, sounding slightly surprised. ‘You do know it’s a council estate, don’t you, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Which means, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, that the people who live on it are the scum of the earth. Skivers and layabouts to a man. Or to a woman, for that matter.’

  Paniatowski hesitated for the briefest of moments, then she said, ‘And apart from those obvious virtues you’ve just so clearly described, are they also all blind, as well?’

  Walker seemed puzzled by the comment. ‘A few of them may be – or at least claim to be, so they can scrounge even more disability benefits off the government – but, as far as I know—’

  ‘Then if they’ve got eyes,’ Paniatowski interrupted, ‘they might – just possibly – have seen something.’

  ‘With respect, ma’am, you’re missing the point.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Yes, I rather think you are. The people who live on that estate are such idle bastards that they don’t get out of bed until the pubs open. Which means, in my humble opinion, that conducting an inquiry on the Pinchbeck Estate would be a complete waste of police resources.’

  Paniatowski forced a smile to her lips. ‘Every boss has their own way of doing things, Sergeant, as you’ve just pointed out yourself,’ she said. ‘And my way, in this particular instance, is to conduct a door-to-door on the estate, whatever you might think.’

  ‘I stand corrected, ma’am,’ Walker said, as he too commanded a reluctant smile to appear on his face.

  ‘Right, that’s it,’ Paniatowski said. ‘If you’ve got something to report before twelve-thirty, you’ll find me in my office.’

  ‘And after twelve-thirty?’

  ‘The chances are that I’ll be found in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey.’

  ‘Ah,’ Walker said, as if enlightenment had suddenly dawned. ‘Mr Woodend’s old haunt.’