A Death Left Hanging Read Online Free PDF Page A

men around the table nodded. Of course it was all right with them, Woodend thought. Why wouldn’t it be all right with them? They’d all forgotten what it was like to be a real policeman.
    But he bloody hadn’t!
    As she sat looking at Chief Constable Henry Marlowe across his impressive teak desk, Jane Hartley found herself unable to decide whether he was sneakier than he was slimy – or slimier than he was sneaky. Whichever he turned out to be, she would be glad when the interview was over.
    â€˜I don’t often get the chance to see ordinary members of the general public, Miss Hartley,’ Marlowe said condescendingly.
    â€˜I’m sure you virtually
never
get to see them,’ Jane Hartley replied. ‘But then I’m
not
an ordinary member of the general public, am I? Because if I was, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’
    Marlowe shifted uncomfortably in his padded seat. ‘I’m not sure I see your point, Miss Hartley.’
    â€˜The matter I’m about to bring to your attention is one that I first raised nearly twenty years ago,’ Jane Hartley said.
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Indeed.
Then
, my complaint didn’t even go beyond the duty inspector, whereas
now
, I’m talking to the chief constable. And why is that, do you think? Because the case has become more important over time? Highly unlikely. In fact, the reverse is normally true – the more a case moves towards being ancient history, the less interest there is in it. So what has changed?’
    She fell silent and leant back in her chair. Marlowe waited for her to speak again, and, when it was plain she wasn’t going to, he sighed and said, ‘What do
you
think has changed?’
    Jane Hartley affected a puzzled look, which slowly melted into one of surprised revelation.
    â€˜Why, if anything’s changed, it must be me!’ she said, with mock incredulity. ‘I was a nobody then – and I’m a famous lawyer now.’
    â€˜I don’t like being threatened, Miss Hartley – not even by famous lawyers,’ Marlowe said in a voice that was almost a growl.
    Jane Hartley’s answering laugh was as light as the gentle clink of a pair of cyanide bottles.
    â€˜You misunderstand me,’ she said.
    â€˜Do I?’
    â€˜Of course. If I were threatening you, I’d have pointed out that I have some very influential contacts in the world of politics – especially at the Home Office. Or I might have mentioned that I have powerful friends in the national press – friends who, if I asked them to, would launch a campaign to crucify you. I might even have said it would be unwise of you to displease someone who has a very good chance of becoming the first female high court judge. But I really don’t want to give the impression that I’ve done any of that, Chief Constable.’
    â€˜Then what
do
you want?’
    â€˜I want you to investigate a miscarriage of justice which has been a blot on the record of this police force for over a quarter of a century.’
    â€˜I assume that you’re acting on behalf of some client with a personal interest in this case,’ Marlowe said.
    â€˜Then you assume wrongly,’ Jane Harley replied.
    â€˜So who are you representing? Surely not one of those bleeding-heart liberal organizations that have nothing better to do with their time than cause trouble for hard-working police officers?’
    â€˜Not them, either. I’m representing myself and my own interests.’
    â€˜Are you indeed? And just who’s supposed to have suffered as a result of this miscarriage of justice, then?’
    Jane Hartley gave him a look that would have melted steel. ‘My mother!’ she said.
    The attractive blonde woman, with the nose that was just a little bit too big to have been home-grown Lancashire, had been standing at the bar of the Drum and Monkey for more than five minutes. If no one came to join her soon,