Echoes of the Dead (20 page)

‘I don't buy it,' Woodend said.

‘You mean that you don't
want
to buy it!' Paniatowski countered. ‘Look at the facts, Charlie. There was no evidence that Lilly had ever been in his van, Terry Clegg has given him an alibi that no man in his right mind would ever have made up, and – most important of all – with his dying breath, and in the presence of a priest, he swore that hadn't killed Lilly.'

Woodend stood up and walked over to the edge of the terrace. He stood staring at the sea for perhaps five minutes, and when he turned round again, he seemed to have aged ten years.

‘Oh, my God,' he moaned, ‘we really
did
get the wrong man!'

SIXTEEN

A
nyone watching the woman, who was slowly labouring up the steep street with a heavy shopping bag in each hand, could not have been blamed for assuming that she was at least seventy. In fact, she was much younger than that, and if her back was bowed, it was due more to the burden she had had to carry for much of her life than it was to the inevitable ageing process.

The woman laid her bags on the ground, and rested for a moment. She should shop more often, she told herself. But the truth was that she didn't want to shop
at all
– didn't want to leave the house
at all
– because every time she saw the look of pity in the eyes of those who knew her history, it was like going through the whole terrible ordeal again.

As she approached her own house, she noticed that a man was standing patiently outside her front door.

Perhaps it was a reporter. But surely, after all this time, the journalists had bled everything from her daughter's tragedy that they possibly could. Besides, he didn't
look
like a reporter. He wasn't dressed in a smart suit, but instead was wearing a shabby jacket and grey flannel trousers.

All these thoughts passed through her mind, as thoughts will do, but none of them really interested her. Nothing that she saw or heard had
really
interested her for almost a quarter of a century.

‘Can I help you?' she asked, when she had finally drawn level with the waiting man.

‘Mrs Dawson?' the man asked.

‘Yes.'

‘I didn't know it was you. If I had, I wouldn't have just stood there and watched you struggle, I'd have come down the hill and helped you. I really am
so
sorry.'

‘Who are you?' she asked.

The man smiled. ‘Didn't I say?' He reached into his pocket and produced his leather-bound warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hall. I've come all the way from Scotland Yard to see you.'

‘Scotland Yard,' Mrs Dawson repeated. ‘I haven't spoken to anyone from Scotland Yard since . . . since . . .'

‘I know – since poor little Lilly died,' Hall said sympathetically. ‘Look, why don't you hand me your bags while you look for your key, and then we'll go inside, shall we?'

Once they were both in Elsie Dawson's kitchen, Hall insisted that the woman should sit down.

‘You need a bit of a rest after all your efforts,' he said cheerily.

‘But the shopping needs putting away and . . .' Mrs Dawson began.

‘That can wait for a few minutes,' Hall assured her. He paused for a moment. ‘Tell me, Mrs Dawson, just how long is it since Lilly was murdered?'

‘Twenty-two years.'

‘That's a long time ago.'

‘Is it?' Mrs Dawson asked, as a tear leaked from the corner of her eye. ‘It doesn't seem like a long time ago to me. It seems like it was just yesterday.'

‘Of course it does,' Hall agreed readily. ‘In some ways, time stopped still for you when Lilly was killed, didn't it?'

‘It did,' Mrs Dawson said, suppressing a sob. ‘It really did.'

‘And here I am, upsetting you all over again,' Hall said, with what sounded like genuine regret. He reached forward and laid his hand gently on the woman's shoulder. ‘You know what you need now, Mrs Dawson? You need a nice hot cup of tea. Wouldn't that be nice?'

‘I don't know,' Elsie Dawson said weakly. ‘I'm not sure I want to . . .'

‘Well, I can see the kettle, and I can see the pot,' Hall told her. ‘All I need now is the tea caddie. Where do you keep it?'

‘What's this all about?' Mrs Dawson wondered.

‘Is it in the cupboard over the sink?'

‘Yes, but . . .'

Hall took the caddie out of the cupboard, opened it, scooped out three spoonfuls of tea and deposited them in the earthenware pot.

‘One for me, one for you and one for the pot, as my old mum used to say,' he told the woman, as he worked. ‘You wanted to know what this was all about, didn't you?'

‘Yes, I . . .'

‘Well, to be honest with you, I'm here on a very painful mission.' Hall filled the kettle and switched it on. ‘You'll be aware, won't you, that the man who went to prison for killing your little girl has recently died?'

‘Yes – and I hope he's burning in hell for all eternity,' Mrs Dawson said passionately.

‘After what he did, I'm more than certain in my own mind that he'll be doing just that,' Hall said. ‘But did you know there are some people around here who are starting to say he didn't do it after all?'

‘How
can
they say that?' Mrs Dawson gasped. ‘He confessed!'

‘So he did,' Hall agreed. ‘He killed Lilly – your poor, sweet, helpless little Lilly – and he
confessed
to having killed her. That's why, before these vicious rumours have time to spread any further, we want to nip them in the bud. And that – in a nutshell – is why I'm here now.'

‘I don't understand,' Mrs Dawson said.

She felt hot, as if she had caught a fever. And then, suddenly, she was she was so cold that she was shivering.

She was confused. She was upset. She was sure the policeman from London meant well, and didn't realize how much distress he was causing her, but it was awfully hard to bear and she was not sure how much more she could take.

Steam appeared in the spout of the kettle.

‘Goodness, didn't that water boil quickly?' Hall said. He laughed. ‘You must have better electricity up here than we have in the south.'

He poured the boiling water on the tea leaves, replaced the lid on the pot, and sat down opposite Mrs Dawson.

‘We'll just give it time to brew,' he said. ‘What I'm doing, you see, is re-investigating the case, just to make sure the evidence is as watertight as we think it is – which, of course, we both know it will be. So would you mind if I asked you a few questions?'

‘It couldn't do any harm, I suppose,' Mrs Dawson said uncertainly. ‘What happened was that Lilly went to the market that morning . . .'

‘Oh, I don't want to distress you by making you go over all that again.' Hall stood up. ‘The tea should be just about ready by now.' He laid out two cups, poured the tea and added milk. ‘Sugar?' he asked.

‘No, thank you.'

Hall grinned. ‘Me neither. My wife says I'm fat enough as it is.' He sat down again, and took a sip of his tea. ‘Delicious,' he pronounced. ‘What brand is it? PG Tips?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thought so. I don't have many talents, Mrs Dawson, but I do pride myself on being able to tell one make of tea from another.' Hall took another sip. ‘As I said, I don't want to drag you through all the painful details again. What I'm really interested in is the visit that the Scotland Yard men made to you back then. There were two of them, weren't there?'

‘That's right,' Mrs Dawson agreed. ‘One was Chief Inspector Woodend. I thought he was a nice man. I used to see him around town, after he moved back here, but somehow I could never bring myself to go up and speak to him.'

‘Too painful for you, I expect,' Hall suggested.

‘Yes, that must have been it,' Mrs Dawson agreed. ‘The other man was Mr Woodend's sergeant. He
wasn't
so nice.'

Hall grimaced. ‘Sergeant Bannerman. And you're quite right, he's not nice at all,' he said. ‘Now, what I wanted to ask you, Mrs Dawson, is did they ask to see Lilly's things?'

‘Yes, they did.'

‘And I'll bet it was that nice Mr Woodend who actually went to look at Lilly's room, wasn't it?'

‘It was.'

Hall grinned. ‘Thought so. Bannerman was never much of one for the personal touch. So, tell me, Mrs Dawson, did Mr Woodend bring anything down from Lilly's room with him?'

‘Yes, he brought a couple of her drawings. They always made me so sad, those drawings.'

‘And did he take them away with him?'

‘No, he apologized for bringin' them downstairs at all – said he couldn't think how it had happened. And then he went up to Lilly's room and put them back where he found them.'

‘So he didn't take the drawings away with him,' Hall mused. ‘Did he take anything else?'

‘I don't think so,' Mrs Dawson said, uncertainly.

‘You don't
think
so – but you're not entirely sure, are you?'

‘No,' Mrs Dawson admitted. ‘I'm not entirely sure. Is it important?'

‘Not really,' Hall said. He paused again. ‘What I'd like do now, Mrs Dawson, is ask you about some of the things that you bought for Lilly.'

What's the etiquette for greeting a friend who also happens to be your boss? Colin Beresford wondered, as he stood in the arrivals' lounge of Manchester's Ringway Airport, waiting for Paniatowski to clear customs and passport control.

Should he kiss her on the cheek? Should he kiss her on the lips? Should he offer to shake her hand? Or should he do nothing at all?

The moment he caught sight of her walking towards him, he knew that the best course would be to do nothing at all, because – clearly – the trip to Spain had not gone well.

‘That's the trouble with booking your flights at the last minute – you don't get to choose where you sit,' Paniatowski complained when she drew level with him. ‘I had to spend the whole of the return flight in the bloody non-smoking section.'

‘Why don't you tell me about it?' Beresford suggested, sympathetically.

‘I've already told you – I was nearly three hours without a cigarette!'

‘I don't mean that,' Beresford said.

‘I know you don't,' Paniatowski agreed.

By the time they reached Beresford's car, she had outlined the whole of the conversation which had taken place on Woodend's sunny terrace.

‘I was looking forward to my first visit to Spain,' she said. ‘I was going to take Louisa with me. She really loves her Uncle Charlie and Auntie Joan.'

‘Yes, I know she does,' Beresford said.

‘And now the whole thing's been spoiled for me – I can never go there again without remembering
this
visit.'

‘How's Mr Woodend taking it?' Beresford asked, as they both climbed into the car.

‘He's devastated at the thought of having sent an innocent man to jail. If it was anybody else, I'd say he'd get over it in time – but you know Charlie.'

Beresford fired up the engine, and pulled away.

‘How much damage is the whole business likely to cause?' he asked.

‘Scotland Yard and the Mid Lancs Constabulary will have to pay out a fairly hefty sum in compensation to Howerd's daughter between them, so I imagine Charlie won't be exactly popular with the top brass in either of those places,' Paniatowski said. ‘But as far as the rest of the Force is concerned – well, mistakes are made, even by the most diligent and scrupulous of police officers, and there's not a bobby who's ever pounded a beat who doesn't know that.'

‘None of Mr Woodend's old colleagues will want to cast the first stone at him – if only for fear that the next one might well be aimed in their direction,' Beresford said. ‘What about the newspapers?'

‘They might kick up a stink for a couple of days, but it will soon die down, and nobody who's ever known Charlie Woodend personally will pay much attention to them, anyway.'

They were clear of the airport now. In less than an hour, they would be back in Whitebridge, Paniatowski thought, and as soon as she got there, she would ask to see the chief constable and report to him on what she and Hall had discovered.

And what would happen then?

Baxter would begin the process which would probably eventually lead to Fred Howerd's exoneration and pardon. Lilly Dawson's murder would be filed away on the cold case shelf. DCI Hall could go back to London, and she herself could return to active duty. And Charlie Woodend could sit under a blue Mediterranean sky and work on forgiving himself.

It was not the ideal end to an investigation, she told herself – so few things in life ever ended ideally – but, given the circumstances, it was about as good as it could be.

She would not have taken such a philosophical view if she had known about the time bomb which, even then, was slowly ticking away back in Whitebridge. But she
didn't
know about it. Nobody did – for the moment – except DCI Tom Hall.

SEVENTEEN

T
he man sitting across the chief constable's desk from George Baxter was in his fifties, and had a naturally florid face which turned even redder when he was angry – as he was now.

‘Don't
you
think that what happened to my poor brother was terrible?' the man demanded.

‘The case is still being investigated, and I wouldn't wish to prejudge it by making any comments at this time,' Baxter said carefully.