Death of an Innocent by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    Everything looked so
normal
, Woodend thought – and wondered how that could possibly be, when his own world was crumbling in front of his eyes. He’d given nearly twenty years of his life to the police force. It was almost inconceivable to him that he should have been suspended. Yet unless he was losing his mind, that was exactly what
had
happened. And there might be worse to come. Though he personally didn’t take the charge levelled against him seriously, it was always possible that the disciplinary board just might. And then what would happen? The force was his anchor – he knew no other kind of work, nor did he have the desire to learn any. If he lost his job, it would be like losing a major part of himself.
    He checked his watch. Monika Paniatowski had promised that she’d be there by half past one at the latest. And now it was nearly a quarter to two. Where the hell was she?
    The young couple seemed to have settled their argument, the men in chunky sweaters were still talking loudly about high finance, the pensioner had woken up and the young gambler had finally run out of funds. Woodend resisted the temptation to look at his watch again, and lit another cigarette instead.
    It was five minutes to two – almost afternoon closing time – when Monika Paniatowski finally entered the Dirty Duck, brushing snow from her shoulders as she stepped through the door. The sergeant went over to the bar and ordered a vodka from the bottle which the landlord kept especially for her use. Then, instead of going straight over to where her boss was sitting – as he’d expected her to – she glanced around the pub.
    She’s checkin’ to see if there’s anybody she knows in here, Woodend thought – anybody she might not want to see her talkin’ to me.
    And suddenly he felt very alone.
    Apparently satisfied that it was safe to do so, Monika walked over to the table and sat down.
    â€˜Sorry I took so long,’ she said, ‘but with DI Harris strutting around the basement like the cock of the walk, it was difficult for me to get away from there at all.’
    â€˜What developments have there been in the case, Monika?’ Woodend asked anxiously.
    â€˜None. We still haven’t found Wilfred Dugdale, and there’s no match on our records from any of the fingerprints that DC Battersby lifted from the surfaces at the farmhouse.’
    â€˜No match at all?’
    â€˜That’s what I’ve been told.’
    â€˜Not even the dead man’s?’
    â€˜Not even his.’
    But both he and Paniatowski had been so
sure
there’d be at least one match, Woodend thought. And they weren’t amateurs – they knew when their instincts were on track!
    â€˜What about the yellow Austin A40 that Bennett claims to have seen comin’ from the direction of the farmhouse?’ Woodend asked.
    â€˜Four A40s have been stopped at the roadblocks. One was being driven by an old vicar on his way to church, another belonged to a mill worker who had his wife and four kids with him. I can’t remember the exact details of the other two,