Death of an Innocent Read online

  ‘Any leads, Vic?’ Woodend asked Harris.

  ‘The farm’s owned by a man called Wilfred Dugdale,’ the DI replied.

  ‘That’s probably why it says Dugdale’s Farm on the gate,’ Woodend said dryly. He pointed to the male corpse. ‘Is that him?’

  Harris shook his head. ‘Dugdale’s got white hair and is in his early sixties. It’s hard to be completely accurate about the victim’s age, what with half his face being blown away, but I wouldn’t put him at any more than late forties. And his hair is mousy brown.’

  ‘So if this isn’t Mr Dugdale, where is he?’

  ‘We’ve no idea. We’ve searched all the outbuildings, and there’s no sign of him.’

  ‘Is there any indication that he was here at the time of the murders?’

  ‘Nothing conclusive, one way or the other.’

  Woodend sighed, and wished he didn’t have to drag every last piece of information out of this bugger.

  ‘Assumin’, for the moment, that he was here at the time of the murders, how would he have left? Do you think he could have driven away?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a Land Rover parked in one of the outhouses.’

  It was like pulling teeth. ‘And does Mr Dugdale own any other vehicle?’

  ‘We’ll have to check on that.’

  You should already have checked on it, Woodend thought.

  Of course, life would have been a lot easier but for bloody DCC Ainsworth. If Dick the Prick hadn’t driven straight up to the farm, none of the other vehicles would have followed him, and it might have been possible to find some tyre tracks in the snow leading away from it. But there was no chance of that now.

  If anybody else had made a cock-up like that, I’d have had his balls on a platter, Woodend thought. But Ainsworth wasn’t anybody else – and officers of his rank didn’t make cock-ups, they were just prone to errors of judgement.

  ‘What else have you got?’ Woodend asked Harris.

  ‘We’re almost certain that the murder weapon was Dugdale’s personal property.’

  ‘Oh aye? An’ why’s that?’

  ‘We found a shotgun lying on the floor. It had recently been fired. It was registered to Wilfred Dugdale.’

  ‘So you’ve already put out the word that you want him picked up, have you?’

  ‘No, I . . . should I have done?’

  ‘It might have been an idea.’ Woodend turned to Paniatowski. ‘Radio the station. I want roadblocks in place everywhere within a twenty-mile radius of the farm. Anybody with white hair is to be stopped an’ questioned. An’ if we find out that Dugdale does have a second vehicle, I want all cars of a similar make an’ model stopped as well.’

  ‘Got it,’ the sergeant said.

  Woodend looked down at the male corpse again. Harris was probably right about his age – well, Harris had to be right about something. The victim was wearing a suit which had seen better days, and had hardly been impressive when new. It was obvious from the position in which the dead man was lying that he’d been standing up when he was shot in the chest, which meant that the second cartridge had been emptied into his face when he was already on the ground.

  Now why had the killer done that? Woodend wondered. Because he was so panicked that he hadn’t realized his victim was already dead? Or because, on the contrary, he’d remained cool enough after the first discharge to decide it would be to his advantage to make identifying the victim difficult.

  Or was there even a third possibility? Could he have hated the other man so much that even killing him was not enough – he’d felt the urge to mutilate him as well?

  Doc Pierson had finished examining the female victim, and walked across the room to join Woodend. The doctor was in his late forties, and had distinguished grey hair. He usually moved with the grace of a natural sportsman, but there was none of the normal spring to his step now. Not only that, but his eyes were red, and his face was drawn.

  ‘Rough night?’ Woodend asked.

  The doctor looked as if he were about to nod his head, then thought better of doing anything so vigorous.

  ‘If I’d known I was going to be here at this godawful hour of the morning, I’d never have had those last two whiskies,’ he said.

  ‘So what can you tell me about the stiffs?’

  ‘Cause of death is self-evident, I’d have thought. Shotgun wounds at close range.’

  ‘Did they die at the same time?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And when would that be?’

  ‘Going by the extent of the rigor mortis, I’d say they died somewhere between three o’clock and five o’clock this morning.’

  Woodend looked down at the male victim. He was wearing a cheap Timex watch, and the glass had been smashed, probably when he put his hand across his chest in a futile attempt to protect himself.

  The Chief Inspector crouched down to take a closer look. The watch face was dented, and the hands twisted, but the small hand was clearly very close to eight and the big one on nine.

  ‘The watch seems to have stopped at a quarter to eight,’ he said. ‘Which would indicate that’s when the gun was fired. Unless, of course, the pellet knocked the hands out of place. Or the man was in the habit of always keeping his watch a couple of hours fast.’

  He stood up again and waited for the doctor to comment, but Pierson appeared to be too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Woodend asked.

  Pierson shrugged, and then winced at the effect that even such a mild action was having on his body.

  ‘It’s possible they were killed later than I said,’ he admitted. ‘I haven’t taken the temperature in here, and I’ve no idea how long it is since the fire went out.’ He paused. ‘And to be honest with you, Charlie, my own judgement’s not all it might be right now. It’s taking me all my effort to even see straight, but give me a couple of hours to get over this hangover and I’ll be able to give you a much more accurate assessment.’

  Woodend nodded, understandingly. Though he himself could knock back ten pints of best bitter during an evening and wake up fresh as a lark the following morning, he’d long ago accepted the fact that drink could take other men in other ways.

  ‘Do you feel up to talkin’ me through the second stiff?’ he asked.

  ‘Just about, I suppose,’ the doctor said grudgingly.

  They walked over to the corner of the room. The victim looked almost too small to be a full-grown woman, Woodend thought, though perhaps, cramped up as she was, that was merely a trick of perspective.

  It was possible, even with part of her skull missing, to see that she had long blonde hair. She was wearing a blouse, and a skirt that came to just below her knees. Woodend did not know a great deal about clothes, but he was prepared to bet that the skirt alone had cost considerably more than the dead man’s entire outfit.

  He let his eyes travel below the skirt. Her legs were slim, and her feet were so small they were almost tiny. The shoes, as with the rest of the outfit, looked expensive.

  ‘Just one wound,’ Dr Pierson said, ‘though it was probably from both barrels.’ His voice cracked. ‘It should never have happened, Charlie. It should simply never have happened.’

  Woodend shifted to one side, to examine the corpse from another angle. It didn’t make any difference. He understood now why DC Hardcastle, who had three daughters of his own, had broken down in tears. He almost felt like following suit himself. He’d been thinking of her up to that point merely as a female corpse – as a dead woman. But she wasn’t a woman at all – she was no more than a girl.

  ‘How old was she?’ he asked, feeling a lump in his throat.

  ‘Difficult to say exactly, without a closer examination. Kids grow at different rates. But if I had to make a guess, I’d say she was around fifteen.’

  Fifteen! Jesus Christ! Less than two years younger than his beloved Annie, the apple of his eye who had just begun a nursing course in Manchester.

  ‘She
’s a child!’ he said. ‘She’d hardly started livin’!’

  ‘I know,’ Pierson agreed, sombrely.

  Paniatowski came in from the yard. ‘The roadblocks should be in place within the next few minutes, sir,’ she said. Then she noticed the expression on Woodend’s face. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m fine.’

  ‘Do you want me for anything else at the moment, Charlie?’ Dr Pierson asked.

  ‘What? Do I . . .? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘In that case I think I’ll go home. Have a few black coffees – and maybe a hair of the dog – before I begin the PMs.’

  ‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Woodend said abstractly.

  A kid! he was thinking. A child! Only a few years beyond the dolls and teddy bear stages – yet lying there with her face spattered all over a cold flagstone floor. She would never feel butterflies in her stomach when the boy she’d been mooning after for weeks finally invited her out on a date. She’d never know what it was like to get married and have kids of her own. It was all wrong!

  ‘You’re sure you’re OK, sir?’ Paniatowski asked.

  Woodend took a deep breath. ‘I told you, I’m fine. Let’s see what else we’ve got here.’

  His attention had been focused entirely on the victims before, but now that he had seen enough of them – perhaps more than enough, in the case of the girl – he took in the room. Structurally, it had been probably been unchanged since the day it was built, a couple of hundred years earlier. The walls were dressed stone, the beams of blackened oak. There was the large fireplace in the middle of the side wall, and narrow mullion windows which looked out on to the moor in the front wall.

  All perfectly normal – all just as he might have expected.

  The furniture – on the other hand – took him completely by surprise.

  Harris came back into the room. ‘I’ve just checked with headquarters. The only vehicle registered to Wilfred Dugdale is the Land Rover, sir.’

  ‘So assumin’ he was here when the murders were committed – an’ it’s more than likely that he was – how did he get away?’

  ‘He could have walked, couldn’t he?’

  ‘If he’d gone off on foot along the road he’d have been spotted by one of our cars.’

  ‘Perhaps he cut across the moors, then.’

  Woodend went over to the window. It was snowing harder out there on the tops than it had been in his village. The snow would be probably at least two feet thick in most places. And where it had drifted, it would be even deeper. Walking across the moors would be very arduous work, even for a man much younger and fitter than Dugdale. Probably dangerous, too. And an old farmer, brought up on the moors, would be bound to know that.

  ‘Wherever he is, I want him found,’ Woodend told Harris. ‘See to it, will you, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Woodend turned his attention back to Paniatowski. ‘Does anythin’ strike you as odd about the furniture in this place, Monika?’

  Paniatowski looked around her. The dining table and chairs were polished hardwood, as was the sideboard and corner unit. There were two sofas and three easy chairs, all in soft white leather. And a rocking chair which looked as if it had been expensive.

  ‘Too much – and too posh,’ she said.

  Which was just what Woodend had been thinking. ‘Talk me through it,’ he suggested.

  ‘I’ve been to three or four of these farms during my time on the force,’ Paniatowski said. ‘There’s not much of a living to be made out here any more, and anyway, most of these old farmers are too canny to go spending their cash when there’s no need to.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the typical farmhouse is furnished with the heavy old furniture – Victorian mostly – which the farmer’s parents or grandparents bought. It might be ugly, but I doubt if they even notice that, and they see no point in throwing out things that are still perfectly serviceable. And even if they do replace it, it’s normally with modern, factory-made tat, whereas there’s real craftsmanship in the stuff Dugdale’s bought.’

  ‘You said “too much” as well as “too posh”. Why’s that? The room doesn’t feel cramped, does it?’

  ‘Far from it,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But another thing about these old farmers is that they tend to keep pretty much to themselves. If they come into town once a week to do their shopping, it’s a social event. So why does he need all these easy chairs?’

  ‘True,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Unless he’s the exception which proves the rule, there’s no need for it at all.’ He checked his watch. ‘I have to pop back to take Joan to the station. Can I borrow your car?’

  Paniatowski smiled. ‘Think you can handle it, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I can handle it, you cheeky young madam,’ Woodend said.

  Paniatowski handed him the keys. ‘Are you leaving right now?’

  ‘No,’ Woodend decided. ‘I’ve still got a few minutes to spare. I think I’ll go an’ have a talk with this journalist feller, to see if I can find out just what he was doin’ out at a desolate place like this so early on a Sunday mornin’.’

  Three

  Woodend gazed pensively across the moors towards Whitebridge. The sun had reluctantly emerged from behind the heavy banks of clouds, and the snow glistened under its pale light as if it were made up of a million tiny diamonds. The view could almost have come off a Christmas card – except that the backs of Christmas cards did not contain grisly scenes like the one he would see if he turned around again and re-entered the farmhouse.

  A detective constable approached him. ‘Hardcastle was in a bit of a state, so I’ve told him to go an’ sit in the car for a while, sir,’ he said. ‘I hope that’s all right with you.’

  Woodend nodded. A good bobby should always look after his partner, and Woodend thought that DC Barney Duxbury was a very good bobby. He’d put Duxbury’s name forward for promotion a few months earlier. And he’d been surprised that the promotion had been turned down, until, that was, he’d learned that Duxbury’s son had been made his school’s Sportsman of the Year, and that his only serious competition for the title had been Peter Ainsworth – DCC Ainsworth’s son and heir.

  ‘I’m goin’ to have a word with this reporter feller,’ Woodend said. ‘Where will I find him?’

  ‘Over there,’ Duxbury said, pointing to the sleek, new Triumph Spitfire which was parked close to the barn.

  ‘Nice set of wheels,’ Woodend said. ‘Very nice. Obviously, workin’ for the BBC pays better than I’d thought it did.’

  The Chief Inspector made his way over to the Spitfire. The man sitting behind the wheel could not have more than twenty-five or twenty-six, he noted, as he got closer. The reporter had taken off his overcoat and – apparently unconcerned about the price of petrol – had left the engine running in order to heat the car. He was wearing a suede jacket with knitted sleeves and pockets, which Woodend assumed was fashionable, and probably hadn’t been bought locally.

  The Chief Inspector tapped on the side window. As the reporter wound the window down, a blast of hot air rushed from the car into the chilled atmosphere which surrounded it.

  ‘Mr Bennett?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to ask you some questions.’

  Bennett ran his eyes quickly over Woodend’s shabby overcoat. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to wait until your boss gets here, Sergeant.’

  ‘Chief Inspector.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Woodend. An’ the last time I checked on it, I was the boss.’

  Bennett grinned. ‘My mistake,’ he said easily, and without any hint of apology. ‘Would you like to get into the car?’

  Woodend shook his head. ‘Nay, lad. It looks a bit too cramped for my legs. Why don’t you get out?’

  Bennett sighed, as if he considered that an unreasonable imposition, but then he reached for his over
coat and stepped out of the Spitfire.

  ‘The first thing I’d like to know is how you came to be here at this godawful time on a Sunday morning,’ Woodend said, as the reporter slipped into his expensive camelhair coat.

  ‘I got a phone call at about half past seven suggesting that I should come up here.’

  ‘Who was this phone call from?’

  ‘He didn’t give his name.’

  ‘Do you often get anonymous phone calls?’

  ‘They’re not uncommon. I work for both regional radio and regional television. Bennett’s Beat, my television programme’s called. If anybody thinks they’ve been badly done by, they call me to investigate. I create quite a stir sometimes – uncovering wrongs which would probably have gone totally unnoticed otherwise. But surely, I don’t need to tell you that. You must have seen the programme yourself, mustn’t you?’

  Yes, now Bennett mentioned it, his face was starting to look vaguely familiar, Woodend thought. But he was buggered if he was going to give the smug young sod the satisfaction of hearing him admit it.

  ‘Can’t say I watch much television,’ he said aloud. ‘An’ when I do, it’s usually the national news. I find that much more professional.’

  ‘You’d be surprised just how professional some of us can be,’ Bennett said, clearly stung. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, since I’m something of a local celebrity, it’s to me that most people turn to when they have a good story to tell.’

  ‘So you weren’t surprised to get the call. An’ what did this particular caller have to say for himself?’

  ‘That if I didn’t want to miss the biggest story of my career, I should get out to Dugdale’s Farm as quickly as I could.’