Death of an Innocent by Sally Spencer

joined the force was probably now nothing more than a doddering old man who didn’t even scare the little kids rampaging over his allotment. So why should he ever have imagined that he was any different? Why shouldn’t he accept that his time had come, just as it came for everybody?
    â€˜Because I can still do the job!’ he told himself angrily, as he stepped out on to the street.
    He was
not
fooling himself –
not
overlooking weaknesses and failings which had sneaked up on him unawares. He was still the best senior detective in Central Lancashire, and if anybody could get to the bottom of the murders at Dugdale’s Farm, it was him.
    He turned the corner on to the Boulevard. The bus queues were longer than usual, not – he suspected – because more people were travelling on this particular Sunday, but because with the snow, the buses were finding it impossible to keep to their schedule.
    Where the bloody hell was Dugdale? he asked himself.
    Had an old farmer, who’d known the moors like the back of his hand for most of his life, really thought that he could cross them under these conditions? It didn’t seem at all likely.
    He heard a click-click of hurrying high-heeled shoes behind him, and wondered why – when there were no buses leaving the station at that moment – the woman should be in such a rush to get there.
    â€˜Sir!’ said a voice.
    He stopped, and turned round. ‘Did I forget somethin’ in the pub, Monika?’ he asked.
    â€˜No,
I
forgot something,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘I forgot how much I owe you. And I forgot why I joined the force in the first place. You’re right about DI Harris. And you’re right about us! You’re needed on this case, and if the only information you get is the second-hand stuff that I can feed you, well, I suppose that’s better than nothing.’
    Woodend had not expected that if his persuasion worked, he would feel guilty – but he did.
    â€˜You’re takin’ a big chance,’ he warned his sergeant.
    â€˜As long as we’re careful, it won’t be
that
big a chance,’ Paniatowski replied, unconvincingly.
    â€˜So how do we handle it?’
    Monika Paniatowski glanced nervously around her, as if she suspected informers lurking behind every lamppost.
    â€˜Don’t phone me – ever,’ she said. ‘Not even at home.’
    â€˜Then how will we⎯?’
    â€˜We’ll arrange in advance where we’re to meet. And it had better not be a place anywhere near as public as the Boulevard.’
    Woodend nodded. ‘So where will our next meetin’ be?’
    Paniatowski thought for a moment. ‘You know that building site – the one on the way out to Dugdale’s Farm?’
    â€˜The new estate Taylor’s are buildin’?’
    â€˜That’s right. Be there at noon tomorrow.’
    â€˜You want to leave it that long?’ Woodend asked disappointedly.
    â€˜Of course I don’t. I’d like you to be with me every inch of the way. But we’ve got to be practical. I want your help, but I can’t be consulting you every five minutes. As little as we may like it, we’ve got to keep some distance between you and the investigation.’
    Yes, Woodend thought gloomily. Yes, he supposed they had.

Six
    I nvestigations had moods, just like people did. They could be up on top of the world, buoyed by the feeling that even if things hadn’t quite gone right yet, they would soon start to. Or they could be down – wallowing in a swamp of lethargy – going through the motions, but with very little expectation that it would ever lead anywhere. As DS Monika Paniatowski entered the basement the next morning, after snatching a few hours’ sleep, she immediately sensed that the mood of
this
investigation was far closer to down than it was to up.
    She stopped and looked around her. The phones were being manned,