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

just told you that I’m not bent?’ Woodend exploded.
    â€˜And I believed you when you said it. But that doesn’t mean that, if Evans digs long enough, he won’t be able to come up with something that makes you
look
bent.’
    She was right, Woodend thought. There were cases in his past which had not been solved. There’d been criminals he’d arrested who’d escaped custodial sentences because the evidence hadn’t been
quite
strong enough to convince a jury.
    Who was to say, with absolute certainty, that these failures had been no more than bad luck? Who could claim, with complete conviction, that when the guilty went unpunished it wasn’t because Charlie Woodend had been pulling the strings behind the scenes, in return for a thick wad of cash?
    He pictured himself defending his career in front of a committee of cold-eyed men bent on his destruction, and knew that no man’s record was protection against organized malevolence. Then, in a sudden burst of irritation, he pushed the image to the back of his mind.
    Whatever the future held in store for him, there was nothing he could do about it now, he told himself. So there was really no point in dwelling on it, was there? Especially when there were more pressing matters to be dealt with.
    â€˜Tell me about how the case is goin’,’ he said. ‘What new leads have you got?’
    â€˜None,’ Paniatowski said. ‘And, as much as I’d like to, I can’t really blame all of it on DI Harris. Whichever way we turn, we seem to be running into dead ends.’
    â€˜You must have done
somethin’
constructive since the last time we spoke,’ Woodend persisted.
    â€˜We’ve asked Battersby do a second comparison between the prints he lifted at the farm and the ones we’ve already got on record.’
    We’ve
asked, Woodend noted. She was speaking about a team of which he was no longer a part.
    â€˜With what result?’ he asked.
    â€˜There were no matches.’
    â€˜Not a single one?’
    â€˜That’s what I said.’
    â€˜An’ you’ve just left it at that, have you?’
    Paniatowski sighed. ‘No, of course, we haven’t just left it at that. We’ve sent the prints down to London, so that Scotland Yard can check them against the national records – but that kind of thing all takes time.’
    She was starting to talk to him as if he were an outsider, Woodend thought – starting to regard him as a civilian who couldn’t even begin to appreciate the pressures and complexities which came from being involved in this particular investigation. In a way, he supposed, she was right to think like that – because even after less than twenty-four hours off the case, he could feel himself starting to lose touch with it. And the feeling would only get worse as time went by, unless he could find a way to plug himself firmly back into the case – unless he could find a way to convince Paniatowski that she really needed him. If there was ever a time for him to pull a rabbit out of the hat, that time was now.
    â€˜How many sets of prints did Battersby manage to lift from the farmhouse?’ he asked.
    â€˜Without more detailed study – and that takes time as well – it’s difficult to say with any degree of accuracy.’
    I
know
it takes time, Woodend thought. Stop treating me like an idiot.
    â€˜Doesn’t Battersby even have a rough idea?’ he asked.
    â€˜He thinks there may be around twenty sets of prints,’ Paniatowski admitted.
    â€˜An’ has anybody bothered to ask themselves
why
there are so many sets?’
    â€˜I don’t think I’m following you, sir.’
    â€˜If you dusted my house down, you’d find my prints, Joan’s, Annie’s, a couple of the neighbours, three or four friends and maybe the ones left by the man who came to read the electricity meter. That wouldn’t come to