The Dark Lady Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Sally Spencer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Prologue – November 1946

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  By Sally Spencer

  The Charlie Woodend Mysteries

  THE SALTON KILLINGS

  MURDER AT SWANN’S LAKE

  DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

  THE DARK LADY

  THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

  DEAD ON CUE

  DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

  THE RED HERRING

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  A DEATH LEFT HANGING

  THE WITCH MAKER

  THE BUTCHER BEYOND

  DYING IN THE DARK

  STONE KILLER

  A LONG TIME DEAD

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  DEATH WATCH

  A DYING FALL

  FATAL QUEST

  The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

  THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

  THE RING OF DEATH

  ECHOES OF THE DEAD

  BACKLASH

  LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

  THE DARK LADY

  A Charlie Woodend Mystery

  Sally Spencer

  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.

  First published in Great Britain 2000 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

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

  First published in the USA 2001 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

  Copyright © 2000 by Sally Spencer.

  The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0051-8 (ePub)

  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.

  This one is for Simon and Abigail, wishing them many years of happy married life together.

  Acknowledgements

  I owe a great debt to my websmaster, Luis de Avendano, who has not only created a superb site for me, but is tireless in updating it. And as always, this book would not have been possible without of the resources of The Brunner Library, Northwich, and its helpful staff.

  Author’s Note

  The fictitious company in this book, British Chemical Industries, has its operations based in the same area as the actual company ICI. I should not like the two to be confused. Unlike BCI, ICI has taken a strong lead in environmental matters and – as I know from the experience of relatives and friends – has always treated its employees extremely well.

  Prologue – November 1946

  His shoulders hunched, the collar of his jacket turned up as far as it would go and his hands crammed tightly in his pockets, he made his way rapidly down the narrow cobbled street which led to the docks.

  The fear, which had begun as the tiniest of grumblings in the pit of his stomach, had been gradually growing as he travelled up to Liverpool, until now it engulfed his whole body. It was not like the fear he had known during the war – a fear that with one slight error of judgement, he would be dead. No, this was much deeper. And more primeval. For the first time in his life, he was about to confront pure evil – and even the idea almost paralysed him.

  He turned a corner, and lost what little protection the houses had given him from the chilling breeze which was blowing in from the sea. He shivered. He could have been at home, drinking a milk stout and listening to the BBC Home Service, he told himself bitterly. Instead he was walking towards a rendezvous he had not sought, and was now starting to dread. And why? Because, whatever his own wishes were in the matter, he seemed destined to become nothing more than the instrument of even-handed justice.

  He reached the shelter on the sea front, and stepped inside. Half the windows had been broken, making it a far from perfect refuge, but it was still better than nothing. He moved into the corner and lit up a Woodbine. As the acrid smoke curled around his lungs, he turned and gazed towards the docks.

  I shouldn’t be here, he thought. I’ve already played my part, and this is none of my business.

  Yet even as the words echoed around his head, he did not believe them. There were some things a man had to do, if he were ever going to be able to hold his head high again.

  It had begun to rain slightly, or perhaps it was only drops of seawater which were spattering against his overcoat. He listened intently for the sounds of another human being, but there was only the lapping of the water and the distant rumble of the last tram making its way clankingly back to the depot.

  There was still time to walk away, part of his brain argued. It was not too late. Then he heard the footsteps, and knew that it was too late.

  Looking through a broken window, he could see the man he had travelled so far to deal with making his way along the front. And there was no doubt that he was the man. The way he moved – cautiously and menacingly, like a wolf on the prowl – was enough to identify him, even in the darkness.

  The man hiding in the shelter reached into his pocket and took out a sharp long-bladed knife. He made a stabbing motion, and wondered what it would feel like when, instead of cutting through the air, the knife sank deep into meat and muscle. It wouldn’t be long before he knew the answer – just a few more minutes, and it would all be over.

  None of the national newspapers had bothered to send a representative to the police briefing, and even the local rags were relying on their stringers, but for newly promoted Detective Sergeant Albert Armstrong this was a high point in his career. He was attending his first press conference, he would soon be investigating his first murder – and he could hardly contain his enthusiasm.

  He directed his gaze to the front of the room where his boss, Chief Inspector Harold Phillips, was just taking a cigarette out of the tin he always carried with him. Phillips lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, rubbed the crown of his bald head with his free hand, then turned his attention to the reporters, who already had their notepads open in anticipation.

  “I’ll give you all the details we’ve managed to collect so far, lads,” he said in a flat tone which suggested to Armstrong that this whole proceeding was boring h
im. “The murdered man was found in a shelter near the docks. He’d been stabbed to death. A single thrust to the heart.” He jabbed into the air with his index finger, making even this gesture seem lethargic. “He was in his late twenties, had brown hair and was just over six feet tall. He had no distinguishing marks. His clothes were all of German manufacture, and it’s our belief that he may have been a stowaway on a ship which recently docked from Bremerhaven. He had a set of identification papers on him, but on examination, these proved to be fakes.” He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. “And that, gentlemen, is about as far it goes.”

  “What about fingerprints?” one of the reporters asked.

  “We’ve had no luck there,” Chief Inspector Phillips told him. “He’s not on Scotland Yard’s files, nor on those of the military or civil authorities in Germany. Still, that’s hardly surprising – a lot of their records were destroyed in the last few months of the war.”

  “Any idea what the motive might be, Chief Inspector?” a second reporter asked.

  Phillips shook his head. “No. As far as we can tell, he just stepped off the boat and got himself murdered. Could have been robbery – though he still had his watch and his wallet on him when the body was discovered. Could have been a random act of violence – the docks are a bit of a rough area, as I’m sure you realise yourselves.” He rose to his feet. “That’s really all there is for the moment, gentlemen. Thank you for coming.”

  “When will you be holding your next press conference?” said the reporter who had asked about motive.

  “I’ve never been one to waste other people’s time,” the chief inspector replied, “so I won’t be holding another one – at least, not unless there are any developments to report.”

  The Shipwrights’ Arms was full of the usual lunchtime drinkers, but Sergeant Armstrong managed to find a table in the corner, and while his boss guarded the seats, he got the beer in.

  “I’m thinking of taking a few days’ leave,” Phillips announced, when Armstrong had sat down.

  “Leave, sir?” the sergeant repeated. “Now?”

  “Why not now?”

  “Well, there’s the murder . . .”

  “That particular investigation’s not going to take much of our time. I’ll send a couple of lads down to the docks to see if they can come up with any eyewitnesses – and we both already know they won’t – but beyond that there’s not a hell of a lot more investigating we can do.”

  Armstrong took a deep breath, and tried to infuse his boyish features with a manly seriousness. “With respect, sir, I think there’s quite a lot that we could do.”

  The chief inspector looked at his sergeant through narrowed eyes. “Oh, is there now? And what more would you do if you were in my place, Sergeant Armstrong?”

  Was this how the Old Man normally behaved, or was his air of defeatism peculiar to this case? Armstrong wondered. “Well, if we’re looking for a lead, we could do worse than start with the man’s identification papers,” he suggested.

  Phillips rubbed his shiny head again. “You’re not thinking clearly, lad. His papers were fakes, so all they’ll do is lead us up a blind alley.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Armstrong persisted. “It took an expert to establish they were false . . .”

  “So?”

  “So it must have taken an expert to produce them in the first place. Now, if we could find that forger, there’s a more than fair chance he could tell us what the victim’s real identity is. All we have to is to get on to the authorities in Germany and ask them to—”

  “They’ve got enough on their plates, without having to bother their heads with this.”

  “Perhaps if I went myself . . .”

  Phillips chuckled, but Armstrong didn’t get the impression that there was any real amusement behind it.

  “Fancy a free holiday on the continent, do you, Sergeant?” the chief inspector asked. “Well, you’d be much better waiting until a case comes up somewhere which hasn’t had the hell bombed out of it. Not that the Krauts didn’t deserve it, mind you. Did them good to get a taste of their own medicine.”

  It wasn’t wise to get angry with a superior officer, Armstrong told himself – not even when he’s just insulted you.

  “It’s not just the papers, sir,” he said. “There are other things in Germany which might give us a lead.”

  “Such as?”

  “His clothes, for a kick-off. Most of them were pretty shoddy stuff, but that jacket of his is quality, made by a real tailor. I don’t know how many jackets that particular tailor will have made, but I’m willing to bet he kept a record of them somewhere and—”

  Phillips’s eyes hardened. “You’ve only been my bagman for a couple of days, and already you’re off on a wild-goose chase, Armstrong.”

  The sergeant screwed up his courage even tighter. “I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of line, sir, but it doesn’t seem to me as if you’re very interested in solving this murder,” he said.

  Instead of exploding as Armstrong had expected him to, Phillips took another sip of his pint. “You never met my son, did you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He was a captain in the Cheshires. He took part in the D-Day landings and got through it without with a scratch. Then they sent him into the Ardennes. He didn’t come back from there.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know,” Armstrong said, but from the faraway look in his boss’s eye, he doubted that Phillips had even heard him.

  “His unit had a bunch of German troops pinned down,” the chief inspector continued. “Reginald – that was my son – did the decent and honourable thing, and offered them the chance to surrender. They came out with their hands in the air, but one of them stayed behind in the woods, and when Reg stepped forward to take their surrender, the bastard shot him.”

  “I’m really sorry, sir,” Armstrong repeated, and this time his words did get through.

  “I’m sorry, as well,” Phillips said. “More than sorry. That boy meant the world to me. So if one of our British lads has taken it into his head to stab some Kraut ex-soldier . . .”

  “We don’t know for sure he was an ex-soldier, sir.”

  “They were all soldiers. Bloody hell, they were so short of manpower by 1945 that they were drafting every available man – pensioners, and kids of thirteen and fourteen – into the army. So, as I was saying, if one of our local lads has taken it into his head to kill some bastard of a Kraut who didn’t have any right to be in this country anyway, then I’m not about to bust a gut trying to find him.” He paused, and looked Armstrong straight in the eyes. “Have I made my position quite clear to you, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Phillips said. “The thing I admire most in the men who serve under me is loyalty, Albert. I reward loyalty. Ask any of the inspectors back at the station. But, if anyone ever decides to cross me . . .” He left the rest unsaid, knocked back the remains of his pint and stood up. “It’s time I got back to the station. Even if what you’re really doing is bugger all, it’s always wise to look busy.”

  Armstrong watched his boss walk to the door. The chief inspector was a bitter and twisted man, he thought. And he was wrong in the decision had taken. Terribly, terribly wrong.

  A crime had been committed, and it was the job of the police force to do all it could to bring the person responsible to justice. They had no chance of catching the murderer with Chief Inspector Phillips heading the investigation – that much had been made plain – but one day, Armstrong promised himself, the case would be solved, because he, personally, was determined never to let it die.

  One

  Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend looked down at the naked body on the slab. The dead man was in his early forties, he guessed. He’d probably been quite handsome, too, though it was hard to say for sure with half of his face stove in.

  Woodend turned to his sergeant. “Give me whatever you’ve got so far, Bob,” he said.

&nbs
p; Bob Rutter consulted his notebook. “The victim’s name was Gerhard Schultz.”

  “German, Austrian or Swiss?”

  “German.”

  “It’s sixteen years since I last saw a dead German,” Woodend said. “Somewhere on the Rhine, it was. The difference is, he was a soldier, an’ I was the one who’d killed him.” He shook his head. “Thank God I’ll never have to do anythin’ like that again.”

  “At the time of his death, Schultz was employed as a time-and-motion manager by British Chemical Industries,” Rutter continued. “He’d only recently been posted to this area.”

  “How recently’s recently?”

  “A few weeks before he was killed.”

  Woodend nodded. “Then the feller must have had a real talent for makin’ enemies quickly,” he said. “What do we know about Herr Schultz’s movements on the night he died?”

  “He was drinking in the Westbury Social Club until nearly closing time, then, according to several people who were there, he said he was going for a walk in the woods. That’s where he was found the next morning. Cause of death – repeated blows from a flatish blunt instrument.”

  Woodend nodded again, and lit up a Capstan Full Strength to kill the taste of the formaldehyde which had invaded the back of his throat.

  “An’ what can you tell us about him, doc?” he asked the man in the surgical smock who was washing his hands in the corner sink.

  “Not a great deal,” the doctor admitted. “He was in pretty good shape for a man of his age.”

  “So he died healthy, then?”

  “You could say that. He’d eaten a substantial meal about three hours before he died, and he’d been drinking.”

  Woodend inhaled, and was reminded how adept formaldehyde was at wrapping itself around nicotine.

  “So he’d been drinkin’?” he said. “How much? A lot?”

  The doctor shrugged. “A fair amount. Given his weight and height, I would say that he was possibly tipsy, but definitely not drunk.”