A Death Left Hanging (31 page)

‘But you don't still feel like that, do you?'

‘Jesus, no! After all that Margaret Dodds went through, I don't blame her for finding what relief she could in Seth Earnshaw's arms.'

Paniatowski looked sceptical. ‘You
really
don't blame her?'

‘I
really
don't,' Rutter insisted. ‘If I've learned one thing from this case, it's that there are a hundred worse things you can do to a person than be unfaithful to them.'

‘What about us?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Us!' Rutter repeated, sounding slightly alarmed.

‘Us,' Paniatowski reiterated. ‘Our relationship. The way we work together.'

‘Oh, that,' Rutter said. ‘What about it?'

‘As convenient as it would be to blame all our problems with each other on this particular investigation, we both know it goes deeper than that,' Paniatowski said. ‘We've been at each other's throats from the moment we met. Do you think we'll
ever
learn to get on?'

‘Yes, if we both try hard, we might eventually end up with some sort of decent working partnership,' Rutter said. ‘Especially now I know
why
I've kept dipping your pigtails in the ink well.'

‘Pigtails?' Paniatowski said, puzzled. ‘Ink wells? What the hell does that mean?'

He hadn't realized he'd said that last bit out loud. ‘I think it means I'm losing my mind,' he said evasively.

‘Oh, don't worry about that,' Paniatowski told him. ‘We all lose our minds in the end. It's an occupational hazard.'

‘Well, that's reassuring – I
think
,' Rutter said, smiling gratefully.

They lapsed into silence, but it was not the kind of silence they had known in the past. There was none of the old antagonism bubbling below the surface now. Instead it was a calming silence. A relaxing silence. An almost
companionable
silence.

Rutter found himself wondering if Monika liked nature as much as he did. If it thrilled her to watch a kestrel swoop down from the skies. If she saw fantastic images in the clouds, and beauty in the swaying grasses. If looking at a tree could make her think that whatever else happened, life was worthwhile.

‘It's funny the way everyone's different,' Paniatowski said, as if she had been following her thoughts as the kestrel follows the air currents.

‘How do you mean?' Rutter asked.

‘Take marriage. It really suits some people. You, for example. You love Maria with all your heart, don't you?'

Rutter nodded. ‘And I admire her more than anyone else I ever met. I don't think I'd ever be able to summon up the courage – even once – that she has to summon up every day of her life.'

‘And, of course, you'd never even imagine leaving her.'

‘Never. Losing her would be like losing the biggest part of myself. I wouldn't know who I was or
where
I was without Maria.'

Paniatowski nodded, as if he had merely confirmed her suspicions. ‘I've thought seriously about marriage myself,' she said, ‘but now I'm sure that it's not for me. I like being with other people some of the time, but at others I feel like being alone – and when I get that feeling, I don't see why I should have to justify it to anyone else. Can you understand that?'

‘Yes,' Rutter said, ‘I think I can.'

‘So what I look for is nice, uncomplicated relationships. No promises and no commitments on either side. No one getting hurt – especially those people on the fringes of the relationship. I don't drag my private life into anyone else's, and I don't want anyone else's dragged into mine.'

Rutter found himself thinking of birds again – and of rabbits scurrying to their holes, and squirrels scampering along tree branches.

‘You've gone very quiet,' Paniatowski said. ‘I've not been too profound for you, have I?'

‘No,' Rutter replied, a little startled. ‘No, not at all. I was just wondering if we really have to go back to the station.'

‘Doesn't seem much point in it, does there? We'd only be sitting around, twiddling our thumbs.'

‘Of course, if Cloggin'-it Charlie was still with us, we'd stay here until we were all rolling drunk, and then piss off home.'

‘True, but I don't really feel like getting rolling drunk today,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘Neither do I,' Rutter agreed. ‘So why don't we do something else instead?'

‘Like what?'

‘It's a lovely day, and there are still a few hours of light left. We could go for a drive in the country. We might even wait around to watch the sun set. What do you think?'

‘That would be nice,' Paniatowski said.

J
ane Hartley stood on the platform at Whitebridge Station, waiting for the train that would whisk her back to London. She would never return to her home town again, she decided. There would be no point in doing so now.

The mental film of that last, fateful night in the life of Fred Dodds was still playing in her head. But it was more than just a repetition of her previous viewings of it. Much, much more!

When she'd seen the film for the first time, under Paniatowski's guidance, it had been running at high speed, so while she had gained a general impression of what had gone on, the details had all been a bit of a blur. Now the film had slowed down, and she could linger on some of the parts which she had missed the first few times through.

Fred Dodds has just entered the room. Jane calls him ‘Daddy' – because she has been told to, and because she can't think of what else to call him – but she knows he is not her real father.

He is bending over her now, his face a contorted mask of unnatural lust. Jane's small hand gropes around on the coffee table, and then she feels the knitting needle between her fingers. She jabs – and sees it disappear up her stepfather's nostril.

He barely has time to topple backwards before the door is flung open and her mother rushes into the room.

‘Oh my God, you've killed him,' Margaret Dodds gasps.

Jane feels hot tears forming in her eyes. ‘I didn't mean to, Mummy. I didn't mean––'

‘It wasn't your fault, darling. Don't ever think that it was your fault.'

Margaret picks her up, carries her across the room and deposits her in the armchair furthest away from the supine Fred Dodds.

‘I want you to stay right here until I say you can move,' Jane's mother tells her. ‘Have you got that?'

‘Yes, Mummy.'

‘There's my big brave girl.'

Margaret goes into the hallway, and Jane can hear her talking urgently into the telephone. When Margaret returns to the living room she looks down at Fred – as if wondering what to do next – then starts to walk towards the back door.

‘Don't leave me, Mummy,' Jane says in a panic.

‘I'm not. I'm just going out to the shed. I won't be a minute.'

She is true to her word. She has returned in no time at all, and in her hand she is carrying a heavy hammer. Jane knows instinctively
what
her mother is intending to do with it, though she is not exactly sure
why
.

Still with the hammer in her hand, Margaret cuddles up against her daughter in the armchair. When they hear the sound of the car stopping outside, Margaret drops the hammer on to the floor – what a loud bang it makes! – and leads Jane out through the front door.

Margaret opens the car door. ‘Climb in, Jane. You can sit next to Mr Earnshaw. Won't that be exciting?'

‘Mummy, do you know what Daddy did?' Jane asks.

‘Yes, I do know. And I'm so sorry I let it happen. But there's no time to talk about it now.'

‘I don't mean what Daddy did
before
. I mean what he did when––'

‘Get in the car, darling.'

‘But Mummy––'

‘Get in the bloody car.'

Jane climbs into the car. The seat smells of leather, and is so high that her feet don't touch the floor. Her mother closes the door behind her and rushes back into the house. Mr Earnshaw pulls away from the curb and Jane wishes her mother had let her say what she wanted to say.

The train came to a halt, and Jane Hartley was shocked to realize that as it had been slowing down she had not scanned the carriages in the hope of finding one which did not contain a man.

As she climbed on to the train, the film was still replaying in her head. But now, she was trying to insert new dialogue into it – trying, even after thirty years, to make things clear to her dead mother.

‘You don't understand what I'm saying, Mummy. I'm not talking about what Daddy did
before
you got home. I mean
after
. While you were out in the shed. He woke up, Mummy! He woke up and said he had an awful headache. Then, just before you came back with the hammer, he fell asleep again.'