A Long Time Dead

by Sally Spencer

  ‘What!’

  ‘—now that he’s turned up again, there are people in Washington who rather feel that you have some explaining to do.’

  One

  When the phone on his desk rang, that damp early spring morning in 1965, Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Woodend was not thinking about the War.

  But he easily could have been.

  He often did.

  ‘It never even enters my head any more, Charlie,’ one or another of his old comrades would tell him at their reunions, after a few pints had been sunk. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s all over and done with. I can honestly say I’ve put it completely behind me.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Woodend would ask.

  ‘It is, Charlie. It most definitely is.’

  He didn’t believe it. As far as he was concerned, the War wasn’t something you forgot – it was merely something you tried not to dwell on too much.

  Because when you’d sweated half your body weight away in North Africa, when you’d almost drowned during the landing on the beaches of Normandy and nearly frozen to death in the Battle of the Bulge, when you’d seen for yourself the horrors of the Nazi death camps – and he had done all those things – you couldn’t entirely vanquish the memories, however much you might wish to.

  Still, on that particular morning – as he sat twisting the paperclips on his desk into an intricate pattern and waiting for the arrival of a major case which might serve to distract him, at least temporarily – his thoughts were dwelling on matters much closer to home.

  He was worried about his wife, Joan, and the heart condition which had first manifested itself on their holiday in Spain. He was fretting over the mental health of Inspector Bob Rutter, who’d had a nervous breakdown shortly after his own wife, Maria, had been murdered. And he was very concerned about the emotional balance of Detective Sergeant Monika Paniatowski, who was not only his bagman and confidante, but also Rutter’s ex-lover. So, all in all, it was hardly surprising that it came as something of a relief when the phone did ring.

  ‘Charlie? Charlie Woodend? Is that you?’ asked the caller.

  He did not quite recognize the voice at first, though the shiver which ran down his back told him that when he did put a name to it, he wasn’t going to like the result.

  ‘It’s me!’ the caller said. ‘Douglas Coutes! You surely remember me, don’t you?’

  Oh yes, a voice in Woodend’s head said ominously, I remember you, all right. You bastard!

  ‘What can I do for you, Captain Coutes?’ he asked.

  ‘No need to call me that now, Charlie,’ the other man replied. ‘The war’s been over a long time, you know.’

  He laughed, but Woodend could detect no humour in it – no sense of good-hearted joshing. Rather there was an edge to the laugh – a nervousness which almost bordered on hysteria.

  ‘This isn’t a social call, is it?’ the Chief Inspector guessed.

  ‘Not entirely, no,’ Douglas Coutes agreed. ‘Though, I must admit, I have been feeling guilty about not having got in touch with an old comrade like you long ago.’

  You never felt guilty about anything in your whole life, Woodend thought – which is probably why you’re a government minister now.

  But aloud, he said, ‘What do you want, Mr Coutes?’

  ‘Douglas, Charlie!’ Coutes said reprovingly. ‘After all we went through together, I think you can call me Douglas.’

  ‘Is it somethin’ official you wanted to talk about, Mr Coutes?’ Woodend asked, flatly.

  ‘Semi-official,’ Coutes told him, ignoring the deliberate slight. ‘Do you remember an American called Robert Kineally?’

  Of course I remember him, Woodend thought. He was a rare bird indeed – one of those few officers it was a pleasure to work with.

  ‘What about him?’ he asked.

  ‘You remember that he completely disappeared, just before the Invasion of Normandy?’

  ‘I was told later that he’d disappeared,’ Woodend said, choosing his words carefully. ‘If you recall, I’d already been posted on by then.’

  ‘Of course you had,’ Coutes agreed. ‘You missed all the fuss – the American military policemen turning over the camp, the helicopters they brought in specially so they could search the whole area from the air—’

  ‘Like you said, I missed all that,’ Woodend interrupted.

  ‘There were those who thought he’d fallen into the sea, and those who said he’d deserted.’

  And what did I think? Woodend wondered. To tell the truth, I was already on the battlefront when I finally heard the news – an’ with everythin’ that was goin’ on around me, I hardly thought about it at all.

  ‘There were even those who thought he was a Nazi spy, and had fled before his cover was blown,’ Coutes continued.

  Woodend sighed. ‘There’s always folk who’d rather think the worst of other people, but anybody who really knew Robert Kineally would never have believed he was a Nazi,’ he said.

  ‘Well, exactly,’ Douglas Coutes agreed. ‘He and I may have had our differences, but—’

  ‘Could you get to the point, please, sir?’ Woodend interrupted.

  ‘It turns out none of those things had happened. It turns out he was murdered.’

  ‘So?’ Woodend asked, though he was finding it hard to disguise the quickening of interest in his voice.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how I know he was murdered, Charlie?’ Coutes asked.

  ‘It was all a long time ago, and I’m not sure I—’

  ‘I know he was murdered because I’ve just been informed that they’ve found his body!’

  ‘Where?’ Woodend asked, resignedly giving in to his ever-increasing curiosity.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. They haven’t released all the details yet. But I believe it’s somewhere near Haverton Camp.’

  ‘After such a long time, how can they be so sure it’s him?’ Woodend wondered. Then the answer came to him. ‘Of course, he’ll have had his dog tags on him, won’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he had his dog tags,’ Coutes agreed. ‘And the American authorities have also checked his dental records, and come up with a perfect match. So I’m afraid there’s absolutely no doubt about it. It really is him.’

  Woodend reached for a cigarette, and lit it from the large box of kitchen matches which he always kept on his desk.

  ‘So Robert Kineally was murdered,’ he said. ‘How?’

  ‘Stabbed, apparently.’

  ‘Well, he’s been a long time dead, so there’s not much chance of them solvin’ the crime after all this time,’ Woodend said. ‘I doubt they’ll even try.’

  ‘I’ve … I’ve been told there is going to be an investigation,’ Coutes said. He paused and took a deep breath – as if he’d been putting off what he had to say next for as long as possible, but now recognized that the moment had finally come. ‘And apparently, the Americans consider me one of the main suspects,’ he finished in a rush.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘They’ve … they’ve apparently found one of my fingerprints on Kineally’s dog tags.’

  ‘After all this time? I’m no expert on fingerprints, but I’m surprised they could still lift it.’

  ‘It … it was a bloodstained fingerprint.’

  ‘Bloodstained? In that case, you might as well confess straight away, don’t you think?’

  ‘But I didn’t do it!’

  ‘Then how do you explain the fingerprint?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Whoever killed Robert Kineally must have decided to frame me!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know, for God’s sake! You can’t expect me to think like a murderer. But there must be hundreds of ways.’

  ‘Name one.’

  ‘Maybe I touched the dog tags while Kineally was still alive. Maybe the killer made a wax impression of my fingerprint, and somehow transferred it to the dog tag. I’m no expert in these matters. That’s why I’m
calling you.’

  Woodend stubbed out his cigarette. ‘If you’re tellin’ me all this because you think I might have some influence with the people they put in charge of the case, then you’re just wastin’ your breath,’ he said.

  ‘You! Have influence!’ Coutes scoffed. ‘I’m the one with influence. I’m a government minister, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  That’s better, Woodend thought. That sounds more like the Douglas Coutes I came to know and heartily dislike – the Douglas Coutes who was arrogant to the point of megalomania.

  ‘So why are you ringin’ me?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you’re a detective.’

  He’s flipped, Woodend told himself. The man’s gone completely off his rocker.

  ‘You want me to investigate the case?’ he asked.

  ‘Obviously!’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t?’

  ‘That’s what I said. I don’t care how much influence you’ve got, it won’t be enough to get me assigned to the investigation. The local police would never stand for it. An’ even if they were made to buckle under pressure, the press would make a field day out of it. Besides, if I’m to have any involvement at all, it will be as a witness – because I was there just before it all happened.’

  ‘It’s because you were there – because you know what it was like – that I want you on the case,’ Coutes said doggedly.

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t really had time to work out all the details yet,’ Coutes said impatiently. ‘We’ll come up with something. Perhaps we’ll call you a “ministerial advisor”.’

  ‘But what I’d really be is some kind of private eye!’ Woodend said incredulously. ‘A gumshoe!’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what your exact status is,’ Coutes said. ‘All that really matters—’

  ‘I won’t do it,’ Woodend said firmly.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t think it can be done, Mr Coutes. It’s amazin’ that after all this time they’ve been able to produce evidence against you – but it’d take a real bloody miracle to uncover any more evidence that could possibly be used in your defence. Besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘Given the fact that they’ve lifted your bloody fingerprint from his dog tag, I’m a long way from bein’ convinced you didn’t do it.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘I’m just lookin’ at the facts. You were a real nasty piece of work back then, and you an’ Kineally certainly had enough reason to hate one another, didn’t you, Mr Coutes?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You surely haven’t forgotten Mary Parkinson, have you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mary Parkinson. Farmer’s daughter. Sweet little thing. You met her in the Dun Cow.’

  ‘Oh, her,’ Coutes said dismissively.

  ‘Her,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘You surely don’t think I’d have murdered Kineally over a piece of skirt, do you?’

  No, given what little value he placed on women in general, he probably wouldn’t have, Woodend thought.

  ‘Still, on the face of it, things are certainly lookin’ bad for you, aren’t they?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve already given you my word that I didn’t kill him,’ Coutes said, somewhat impatiently.

  ‘The word of an officer an’ a gentleman?’ Woodend asked. ‘Well, you never were much of an officer—’

  ‘Now just listen here—’

  ‘—an’ you were nothin’ at all of a gentleman.’

  ‘I may be in trouble at the moment,’ Coutes said, with a new, threatening tone seeping into his voice, ‘but even weakened, I still have sufficient power to either make, or break, someone like you.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Maybe you can – an’ maybe you will. But whatever happens, I’ll do nothin’ to help you.’

  ‘Listen, Charlie, I seem to have got a bit carried away,’ Coutes said, wheedling now. ‘If you’ll just reconsider—’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Woodend interrupted. ‘I’m goin’ to hang up the phone now, Minister.’

  ‘You can’t just—’

  ‘I’d wish you good luck – but we’d both know I didn’t mean it.’

  Two

  Chief Constable Henry Marlowe looked up at the big man who was standing in front of his desk. He had not liked Charlie Woodend from the moment they had met, and the longer they knew each other, the deeper that dislike had grown.

  Woodend, it seemed to Marlowe, paid scant regard to anything that really mattered. His lack of concern began with the way he dressed – hairy sports jackets instead of the smart lounge suits favoured by other senior officers – but went on to include so many other things.

  When Woodend bothered to show any deference at all, it was mock-deference. At best!

  In addition, he had a habit of ignoring standard procedures (as clearly laid down by his betters) and instead chose to blunder around any case he was assigned to like a rampant dinosaur.

  But perhaps the worst thing about ‘Cloggin’-it Charlie’, the Chief Constable was forced to admit, was that – despite the appalling way he carried out his duties – he usually got results. No doubt that was more due to luck than judgement – and no doubt his luck would one day run out – but until then, his very presence on the Force was a source of continual irritation to the forward-looking senior policeman who had to deal with him.

  All of which helped explain why the arrival of the visitor from the capital – the man now sitting behind the desk next to the Chief Constable – had been so welcome. Because when he went away again, he wouldn’t be going alone. And the thought of being without Woodend – even if it was only for a week or so – was more than enough to instantly give Marlowe a rosier view of life.

  ‘This is Mr Forsyth,’ the Chief Constable told his Chief Inspector. ‘He’s come up from London, specifically to see you.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ Woodend said.

  There was nothing wrong with words the Chief Inspector had used, Marlowe told himself. It was the way Woodend had used them. The bastard simply refused to be impressed by anything.

  The Chief Constable rose to his feet. ‘Since the matter that Mr Forsyth wishes to discuss with you is outside the ambit of my operational control, I have decided to absent myself from this meeting,’ he said, moving towards the door.

  Forsyth waited until Marlowe had left the room and closed the door behind him, then stood up and said, ‘Well, this is all very formal, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mr Marlowe likes formality,’ Woodend said. ‘Thrives on it, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Yes, that’s certainly the impression I gained myself,’ Forsyth said thoughtfully. ‘But without wishing to interfere with Mr Marlowe’s usual arrangements and procedures in any way, I’m sure we’ll both be much more comfortable sitting over there.’

  He was indicating a pair of easy chairs, placed on opposite sides of a large coffee table.

  This ‘relaxing area’ was a relatively new feature of the Chief Constable’s office, and had been added when Marlowe had read about it in one of the management magazines he so enjoyed perusing in the time he should have been devoting to police work.

  Woodend lowered his heavy frame into one of the chairs, and made a rapid assessment of the other man. Forsyth was in his fifties, he guessed. He was wearing an expensive herring-bone suit, and heavy glasses which – perhaps by accident, but more likely by design – matched the cloth perfectly. His short grey hair was neatly trimmed, his hands looked as if they had been recently manicured.

  A civil servant, Woodend thought.

  But not one of those who helps the unemployed to fill out forms in the dole office, and then goes home and worries about his mortgage. No, this man would have a large mahogany desk somewhere in Whitehall, and, at the weekends, would escape to his country residence for a spot of hunting and fishing.

 
‘Do you have any idea why I’m here?’ Forsyth asked, as if he were genuinely curious to hear the answer.

  ‘I can only imagine that it’s somethin’ to do with Douglas Coutes,’ Woodend replied.

  Forsyth laughed. ‘Right on the button,’ he said. ‘Our Minister’s in a bit of a bind.’

  ‘So I believe,’ Woodend said, noncommittally.

  ‘A bind that you, apparently, expressed absolutely no interest in helping him to get out of.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  Woodend sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’

  A very long story. A story that started – in a sense – before he ever even met Coutes.

  Everybody, and that included the Germans on the other side of the Channel, knew the invasion of France was coming – but very few people knew exactly when or where it would actually happen. For the vast army, gathered on, or near, the south coast of England, it was therefore merely a matter of training as hard as it could and then waiting to be told on which battlefield it would quite possibly lay down its collective life.

  Charlie Woodend, newly promoted to sergeant, was at home in Whitebridge when the order came through that he was to be a part of that invading army. It was the first leave he had had for four years, and though he knew his home town like the back of his hand, he still found it hard, after being in the desert for so long, to come to terms with the absence of sand.

  There were other things he found difficult to accept, too.

  His parents’ terraced house, which had seemed huge to him as a child, now felt dwarf-sized.

  The parochial feel of a place which had been weaving cotton for a hundred years – and blandly assumed it would continue to do so for another thousand.

  Yet the difficulty was not with the house or the place, he recognized. They were as they had always been. He was the one who was no longer the same.

  It had been with much trepidation that he had gone to see Joan. He’d been carrying her image around his head all the time he had been away. But what if – in the process – his mind had modified that image of her? What if – like the town – she now seemed an almost alien creature to him?