A Death Left Hanging (22 page)

The real problem, she recognized, was that while she could think these things through when she was alone, in Rutter's presence she found it almost impossible to think
at all
. Increasingly, she was becoming a creature of instinct – little more than two pairs of sharp claws and a mouth full of sharp teeth – which wanted only to lash out.

She suddenly realized that she had driven straight through the village and was now more than a mile the other side of it.

‘Get a grip on yourself, Monika,' she said angrily, pulling the MGA through a fast, tyre-screeching U-turn.

She did not make the mistake of driving through a second time. When she saw the village post office, she signalled and pulled into the curb. The house she was intending to visit, she had already established, was to the immediate right of the post office and belonged to Dorothy Hill, 55, spinster – and surviving sister of the long-dead Sidney Hill.

Paniatowski walked up the path. The garden on either side of it – she noted now that she had collected herself enough to becoming aware of her surroundings again – was rather neglected. So perhaps Miss Hill had no interest in growing things, nor felt any compunction to join with her neighbours and share their pride in the village.

Paniatowski rang the bell, and the door was opened by a woman who looked as if she were in her very late sixties.

‘Yes?' the woman said.

‘I'd like to see Miss Dorothy Hill, if she's in.'

‘I'm Dorothy Hill.'

God, but the woman hadn't aged at all well, Paniatowski thought, as she forced a smile to her lips in an attempt to mask her shock.

‘I'm Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, from Whitebridge Police Headquarters,' she said. ‘I wonder if I might come inside.'

‘Why?' Dorothy Hill demanded.

‘I'd like to talk to you about your brother, Sidney.'

‘He's been dead for over forty years. That's well before you were even born. What can you possibly want to know about him now?'

‘It's . . . er . . . it's a bit difficult to explain here on the doorstep,' Paniatowski said, slipping effortlessly into her young-inexperienced-woman-out-of-her-depth routine. ‘Do you think I could just pop inside for a few minutes?'

For a moment it looked as if the older woman had seen right through her act, then Dorothy Hill shrugged her slumped shoulders and said, ‘Why not, if that's what you want.'

She led Paniatowski down the passageway, and into the living room.

‘Sit down,' she said, indicating the ancient winged armchair that stood next to an equally venerable occasional table.

Paniatowski sat. It was not only the armchair and the occasional table that were close to being antiques, she realized. Everything else in the room was as old, or even older. The place could almost have been a museum.

‘This all belonged to my parents,' Dorothy Hill said, reading the sergeant's mind. ‘I never bought anything myself.'

‘Really,' Paniatowski said, lost for any other reply.

‘I was the only child in the family after Sidney's death, and my parents left me everything they had,' Dorothy Hill continued. ‘On their deaths, I was suddenly quite well-off. I could have replaced everything in here if I'd wanted to – but I
didn't
want to!'

‘The room certainly has . . . has charm,' Paniatowski said, knowing she was not doing a particularly good job of making a connection – yet unable to work out what approach might establish a better one.

‘I don't care about
charm
,' Dorothy Hill told her scornfully. ‘I don't care about
style
, either. I like this room the way it is because it reminds me of my early childhood – of a time of innocence.' She laughed with surprising bitterness. ‘We never value our innocence properly, do we? We can't – because until we lose it, we don't know we've ever possessed it.'

Again, Paniatowski found the right words would not come. She was suddenly out of her depth, she realized. Here, in this room full of decaying memories, she was drowning.

‘You probably know why I'm here, Miss Hill,' she said, desperate to buy herself a little time in which to pull herself together again.

‘Know why you're here? Whatever makes you think that?'

‘Well, it's been in all the papers that––'

‘I don't read the papers.'

‘And it's been on the wireless.'

‘I don't listen to the wireless, either. Why should I? They hold nothing of interest for me.' Dorothy Hill paused. ‘You hold nothing of interest for me, either – but at least, like a leaking tap or a sticking window, you help to break up the monotony of the day.'

She was so cold, Paniatowski thought. So cold – and yet so vulnerable.

‘We're re-opening the investigation into the murder of Fredrick Dodds,' the sergeant said softly. ‘We believe your brother was a friend of his. Possibly his
only
friend.'

Dorothy Hill shook her head sadly. ‘Poor Sidney,' she said. ‘Even in death, he's still coming second to Freddie.'

‘You knew Fred Dodds, did you?'

‘Yes, I knew him.'

‘What was he like?'

‘He was the Prince of Darkness. A fiend who, having no soul of his own, was driven to suck the souls out of others.'

‘How
exactly
was Fred Dodds a fiend?' Paniatowski probed.

‘I won't tell you that. I wouldn't if you were to rip out my fingernails and thrust burning brands into my eyes.'

‘But surely, if you feel––'

‘Sidney died to purge himself of evil. It is not for me to resurrect it now. I will take his secret with me to the grave. Even before the Judgement Seat itself, I will maintain my silence.'

She meant it, Paniatowski thought. If any more information were to be extracted from this woman who was old before her time, it would have to be done through extreme stealth.

‘Your brother was killed in a railway accident, wasn't he?' she said.

‘His death was no accident. And I should know. I saw him die with my own eyes.'

‘You saw it!'

‘Isn't that what I said?'

‘How did it happen?'

‘He was killed by a train.'

‘I know. But how did you come to see it?'

‘I caught a severe chill shortly after my ninth birthday,' Dorothy Hill said, her voice now as flat and toneless as if she were reading aloud from a telephone directory. ‘I was in bed for over a week, and even when the doctor allowed me to get up, it was only for a few hours a day. Then, one bright sunny morning, my father announced that it was time that I started going out in the fresh air again. He would have taken me himself, he said, but he had church matters to attend to.' She paused. ‘He
always
had church matters to attend to. Being a bishop meant something important in those days – much more than it does now – and my father so desperately wanted to become one himself. But you weren't going to be elevated to a bishop's throne if you were merely a part-time priest. You were expected to sacrifice everything to your work – and “everything” included your
family
.'

Her questions were opening old wounds, Paniatowski thought, but she wasn't sure they were the wounds she
needed
to open.

‘Your father was too busy,' she prompted. ‘Did he suggest that Sidney should take you for your walk?'

‘Suggest!' Dorothy Hill echoed. ‘Did
your
father ever suggest things to you?'

‘I never knew my father,' Paniatowski said. ‘I was brought up by my mother.'

‘By your mother
only
?'

‘At first,' Paniatowski said. ‘Later on, I had a stepfather.'

And if I knew where he was buried, I'd go to his grave and spit on it, she added mentally.

‘
My
father spoke with the voice of God,' Dorothy Hill said. ‘And he had the
wrath
of God to back up those words of his. Sidney didn't
want
to take me for a walk. He didn't
want
to be in my company at all. He would gladly have done almost anything else instead. But he was given no choice.'

‘How old was Sidney at this time?'

‘He was sixteen.'

‘And still at school?'

‘Yes. It was planned that he should take his school certificate, then go to university. He'd read religion once he was up, of course, and after he graduated he'd join the Anglican priesthood.'

‘You said, “it was planned” rather than “
he
planned”. Why?'

‘Do I really need to tell you that?' Dorothy Hill asked disdainfully. ‘If you truly are so dull and insensitive that you can't keep track of the story even at this point, then I don't think I will waste my time by telling you any more of it.'

I'm losing her! Paniatowski thought. I'm bloody losing her!

‘I'm sorry,' she said aloud. ‘I
do
know. I
do
see what you mean.'

‘Then why did you ask?'

‘It's my police training,' Paniatowski confessed, because though opting for the truth was a dangerous tactic, there were even more pitfalls in risking an unconvincing lie.

‘Your police training?' Miss Hill repeated.

‘We make inferences if we're forced to, but it's always better to get a direct statement if we possibly can.'

From the expression on the other woman's face, she saw that she had chosen the right course – understood that if she had tried to lie, she would now be being shown the door. But she was still not out of the woods.

‘I will not be interrogated,' Dorothy Hill said. ‘Do you understand? You may listen to what I have to say, and draw from it whatever conclusions you choose – but I will
not
be interrogated!'

‘I understand,' Paniatowski said contritely.

‘The vicarage was half a mile from the nearest village. To get to the village, we had to cross a bridge over the railway line. That was the direction we set out in. I said it was a lovely day, didn't I?'

‘Yes, you did.'

The birds are singing prettily, and Dorothy can hear tiny insects buzzing busily in the grass. Sidney is quiet and moody, but Dorothy has got used to that over the previous few months. When they are halfway across the bridge, Sidney stops. And so, a moment later, does Dorothy.

Sidney squats down so that his eyes are on a level with his sister's. His mouth starts to move as if there is something he desperately wants to say. But no words come out.

Somewhere in the distance, they hear a sound. It is only the commonplace whistle of a train, but from the expression on Sidney's face, it is almost as if he's heard heavenly trumpets. He has been avoiding touching his sister – even accidentally – for quite some time, but now he reaches out and takes hold of her hand. He squeezes it – very hard. Dorothy wants to cry out in pain, but she doesn't, because she knows that he hasn't meant to hurt her.

‘I want you to stay here, Dorothy,' he says. ‘Whatever happens, I want you to promise me you'll stay here.'

‘All right.'

He releases her hand. ‘I'm so sorry, Dorothy,' he says. ‘I'm so very, very sorry.'

He walks to the end of the bridge, and disappears down the steep embankment. Dorothy goes over to the parapet. It is not a high wall, but she is very small, and when she stands on tiptoes to look over the top, she can feel her nose rubbing against the rough brickwork.

Behind her, she can hear the sound of the approaching train. Ahead of her, she can see Sidney standing by the track.

‘Come away, come away!' she shouts, because she knows it is dangerous to be so close to speeding locomotives.

Sidney cannot hear her over the roar of the train, but even if he could, she senses that he wouldn't take any notice. He knows what it is he wants to do. He has made up his mind, and nothing will change it now.

He waits until the engine is under the bridge, then steps out into the middle of the track. Even if the engine driver spots him, there is nothing he can do to stop the inevitable carnage.

Sidney has been staring straight ahead of him, but now – moments before the train will strike him and pulverize every bone in his body – he raises his head. Raises it and – for the first time in an age – looks his little sister squarely in the eyes.

‘I thought he'd look frightened,' Dorothy Hill told Paniatowski. ‘But he didn't. Not at all. In some ways, I wish he had, because the expression that filled his face was far more terrible and terrifying than simple fear could ever be. It burned itself into my brain. And it will stay with me until the day I die.'

‘How
did
he look?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Relieved,' Dorothy Hill replied simply. ‘He looked relieved.'

‘Y
ou did a good job with that old coalman, Clem

Hodnut,' Woodend said.

‘Thank you, sir,' Bob Rutter replied.

Woodend glanced up at the clock. It was nearly noon. He wondered how close Marlowe was to getting his board of inquiry together.

‘The problem is, I'm not sure how much further down the line it takes us,' the Chief Inspector continued. ‘In this bloody case, we never seem to be able to find an answer without it leadin' on to half a dozen new questions.'

‘
At least
half a dozen,' Rutter agreed gloomily.

‘We now know
when
Marcus Dodds was killed,' Woodend said. ‘What we
don't
know is what he was arguin' with his son about. Why did Marcus say Fred could go to prison? Why did Fred say his father should be the one in jail? What was it that Marcus had done which he thought made him safe? That's three questions so far, an' I've only
begun
to scratch the soddin' surface.'