‘Oh aye,’ Cousins replied, looking away.
‘Is there something wrong with me doing that?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘No, ma’am, not wrong,’ Cousins said carefully, as he turned towards her again.
‘Spit it out,’ Paniatowski told him.
‘You’re the boss, ma’am. You have been for a few weeks now.’
‘Strangely enough, I had noticed that myself.’
‘Maybe you had – on one level. But sometimes, I think it’s still not quite all soaked in yet.’
‘In what way?’
‘Being the boss, you’ve got all kinds of extra responsibilities you didn’t have before. So what that means is that you can leave unpleasant little jobs like talking to Mrs Stockwell to somebody who’s a bit lower down in the pecking order, if that’s what you want to.’
‘And suppose I don’t want to do that?’ Paniatowski asked.
Cousins shrugged. ‘Then you go and see her yourself, I suppose. Like I said, you’re the boss – which means that you make the rules and the rest of us just follow them.’
THIRTEEN
The Pinchbeck Housing Estate had played a small role in Monika Paniatowski’s first major case as a DCI, and it had been during that investigation that Sergeant Walker – Inspector Walker now – had told her, with arrogant certainty, that the people who inhabited the estate were ‘the scum of the earth’.
Looking back on that particular encounter she felt ashamed that, even allowing for the fact that she was new to the job and still unsure of herself, she’d issued him with no more than a mild rebuke.
It wouldn’t happen now.
Not with Walker.
Not with anybody.
If she could relive that moment, she’d tell the sergeant, in no uncertain terms, that his comment revealed more about his own pig ignorance and blind prejudice than it did about the people on the estate – because while there were undoubtedly some real rough buggers living there, the vast majority of the inhabitants were ordinary, decent, hard-working people.
Even so, as she approached the estate she felt her stomach knot into a tight and painful ball. But that was nothing to do with the people who lived there now – it was all tangled up with her own unhappy past.
When they first arrive in England, Captain Arthur Jones, who married Monika’s mother amid the wreckage of war-torn Berlin, installs his family in a pleasant detached house on the other side of Whitebridge to the Pinchbeck Estate.
‘And this is only the start,’ he tells his new wife and new stepdaughter.
And so it is, though not in the way he means.
During the six years of the war, Jones has got used to giving orders. Back in civilian life, he simply cannot adjust to taking them instead. He drifts from job to job, each one a little meaner than the one which had preceded it.
As his wages grow ever smaller – and his savings trickle away – the family is forced to move from the house which was to be ‘only a start’ and settle in a more modest, semi-detached house on the Pinchbeck.
Monika doesn’t really mind the change in their circumstances. After her horrific wartime experiences, she can live quite happily in any place where there is a roof over her head, regular food on the table and – most importantly of all – people aren’t shooting at her.
Arthur Jones, on the other hand, takes it hard. He feels humiliated. He feels emasculated.
That is when he takes to visiting Monika’s bedroom in the middle of the night.
At first he does no more than cuddle her, and while she doesn’t exactly like it, she tells herself that her stepfather is only being affectionate. But soon his demands increase.
And she submits – because what else can she do? If she turns him down, she tells herself, he might throw his new family out on the street. And after all her mother has been through, Monika cannot bring herself to inflict new suffering on her.
So she lies there, night after night.
Suffering herself.
Waiting for it to end.
And eventually, it does.
‘And eventually, it did,’ Paniatowski reminded herself, as the MGA flashed past row after row of houses on the Pinchbeck Estate. ‘And now it’s all in the past. Now it’s as if it had never happened.’
A small boy, chasing a ball, suddenly ran out on to the road ahead of her, and as Paniatowski slammed on her brakes, she realized she must have been driving at double the speed limit.
The brakes screamed, the wheels locked, the MGA slewed to the side, and the engine shut down in protest.
‘Jesus!’ she gasped, as she watched the boy – who had no idea how close he had come to death – pick up his ball and trot unconcernedly away.
With trembling hands, she lit up a cigarette.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she told herself. ‘None of it was your fault.’
But still the shame and humiliation of a much younger Monika clung to her like napalm.
‘After seeing the way you conducted yourself on that search of the lawn, I’ve decided to adopt you as one of my special projects,’ DS Cousins told Constable Pickering, as the two of them walked down the driveway, away from Ashton Court itself and towards the big double gates which opened on to the road.
‘One of your special projects,’ Pickering repeated.
‘That’s right,’ Cousins agreed. ‘But before you start feeling too pleased with yourself, I’d better explain what that means. You see, all uniformed constables are gormless – that’s pretty much the definition of a Plod. But some are a bit more gormless than others, and when I find one who’s championship-class gormless, I like to take him in hand and see if I can knock a bit of sense into him.’
‘I see,’ Pickering said, worriedly.
Cousins laughed. ‘You shouldn’t take me so seriously, lad,’ he said. ‘What I actually need is a second pair of eyes, and in this case, I’m borrowing yours.’
‘I see,’ Pickering said again – though he didn’t really.
They had reached the gates, and when they’d stepped outside into the road, Cousins pointed to a large sign which had been mounted on the wall.
‘Read that to me,’ the sergeant said.
‘These gates are protected by an Elite Security Company’s Alarm and Surveillance System,’ Pickering read obediently.
‘And what do you make of that?’ Cousins wondered.
‘Well, I assume it means that the gates are wired,’ Pickering said awkwardly.
‘That’s exactly what it means,’ Cousins agreed. ‘The wires are partly concealed, but if you look closely, you can see them. Now tell me, Constable Pickering, do you see any wires running from the gates to the walls?’
Pickering looked closely, assuming he was being tested in some way, and then said, ‘No, Sarge, I don’t.’
‘That’s because the wall isn’t wired,’ Cousins said. ‘And by putting up that sign, the so-called security company has alerted any potential intruders to the only risk they might be running.’ He sighed. ‘They might as well have put up a second sign which said, “Don’t break in here! Go round the back, where it’s safer for you!” And it’s my guess that that’s just what the killer will have done.’ He lit a cigarette, then continued, ‘Let’s go and see how the rest of the lads are getting on, shall we?’
They walked along the front wall. Every fifty yards or so, they passed a uniformed constable who was carefully examining the ground for any signs of the intruder.
‘The lads on this stretch of the wall are probably wasting both my time and theirs,’ Cousins said to Pickering in a low voice. ‘Still, it has to be done, if only in the interest of thoroughness.’
‘Why are they wasting time, Sarge?’ Pickering asked.
‘Think about it, lad,’ Cousins said. ‘If you were breaking into the place, would you do it from the front, where you might be spotted by a passing motorist, or would you go round the back?’
‘I’d go round the back,’ Pickering admitted.
‘So would I – and I thi
nk we’ll find that’s just what the bastard did do,’ Cousins said.
In Paniatowski’s experience, WPCs fell into two basic categories. The first of these was lean and athletic, as she had been herself. The second was slightly overweight and tending towards being matronly – and it was one of these potential matrons who was standing – smoking – outside the Stockwells’ front door.
The WPC saw the red sports car approaching, quickly removed the cigarette from her mouth, dropped it to the ground, and covered it with her foot, and by the time the DCI was walking up the path towards her, there was no evidence she had been doing anything but standing on alert guard duty.
‘How’s it going, Gloria?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Could be worse, ma’am,’ the WPC replied.
Paniatowski smiled. Could be worse was almost the official motto of the people who lived in Lancashire, she thought, and it covered everything from a football match being rained off to a leg being amputated.
‘Tell me what you’ve done so far,’ she said.
‘First off, I asked the neighbours if they wouldn’t mind looking after the kids for a bit,’ the WPC replied. ‘Then, once they were out of the way, I made a cup of tea for Mrs Stockwell, and asked if she’d like me to sit with her.’
‘But she didn’t want you to?’
‘She said she’d rather be on her own for a while.’
Paniatowski nodded. ‘Where is she now?’
‘In the front room, ma’am.’
‘And what sort of state is she in?’
The WPC shook her head slowly. ‘Not good.’
Of course she wasn’t good, Paniatowski thought. A death in the family was always a difficult thing to come to terms with, but learning that the death was not due to natural causes – that the life had been stolen, rather than just lost – was even worse. And it would be much, much harder yet, when the woman learned – as she must eventually – that her husband had been stripped not only of his existence, but also of his dignity.
‘You were smoking when I drove up, weren’t you, Gloria,’ Paniatowski said accusingly.
The WPC looked guilty and shuffled the foot under which the offending cigarette was concealed.
‘Yes, ma’am, I was,’ she admitted. ‘I know that I shouldn’t have been, but . . .’
‘What did you think I’d say if I caught you?’ Paniatowski wondered.
Gloria shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, exactly, ma’am, but we both know I’m not supposed to smoke when I’m on duty, so I thought it might be best . . .’
‘Just to hope that I hadn’t seen you?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Paniatowski sighed exasperatedly, though whether her exasperation was aimed at herself, at Gloria, or at the police force’s rules and regulations, she was not entirely certain.
‘You’ve just spent over an hour dealing with a woman who’s lost her husband, haven’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And you do know it’s a job most of your male colleagues wouldn’t have the stomach for, don’t you?’
Despite herself, the WPC grinned. ‘That’s men for you, ma’am,’ she said.
‘So bearing in mind the emotional roller-coaster ride you’ve just been on, did you really think that I was going to haul you over the coals for a minor infringement of regulations?’
Gloria looked down at her feet. ‘There’s some as would, ma’am,’ she mumbled.
‘Yes, there are,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But I’m not one of them. Please remember that in future.’
‘I will, ma’am,’ the WPC promised.
Paniatowski nodded again. ‘Right then, I suppose I’d better get this over with,’ she said.
She pushed the front door open, stepped into the corridor, and tapped gently on the door to the left.
‘Who . . . who is it?’ asked a tremulous voice from inside.
‘Police, madam. DCI Paniatowski. Can I come in?’
‘All right.’
The front room offered no surprises. There was a fitted carpet (patterned in extravagant swirls), a three-piece suite in imitation leather (which would probably be clapped out by the time the final hire-purchase payment was made), and a brand-new colour television set in pride of place in front of the window.
The woman sitting on the sofa came as no surprise, either. She had mousy brown hair, which hung lankly over her shoulders and framed her pinched features. She was probably in her earlier thirties, but looked older. And though some of that could be put down to the shock she had just received, it was likely that considerably more of it could be ascribed to the life she had led – and probably, bearing in mind his criminal record, the husband she had led it with.
‘I’m sorry to have to disturb you at such a distressing time,’ Paniatowski said softly.
Mrs Stockwell looked up at her, and Paniatowski noticed the bruising just below her right eye.
‘How will we manage?’ the widow asked her plaintively. ‘However will we cope, now that he’s gone?’
‘I’m sure all your friends and relatives will do what they can to help you,’ Paniatowski said, aware of just how inadequate her response was, yet unable to offer anything more reassuring.
‘There’s all the bills to be dealt with, you see, miss,’ the widow moaned softly. ‘We’re three weeks behind with the rent, an’ then there’s the payments on the telly . . .’
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘What?’ Mrs Stockwell replied, as if the question had taken her completely by surprise.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘No. Sit down if you want to.’
Paniatowski sat on one of the easy chairs facing the sofa. ‘Could I ask you a few questions?’
The widow did no more than nod – and even that seemed to have taken her a considerable effort.
‘What do you know about your husband’s movements last night?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘His movements?’ Mrs Stockwell repeated.
‘Was he at home?’
Mrs Stockwell laughed bitterly. ‘At home? He was never at home – not as long as the pubs were open. He stayed out till midnight every night – an’ it was even worse on Thursdays.’
‘Thursdays?’ Paniatowski repeated.
‘Thursday nights – or Friday mornings, rather – he never came back until three or four o’clock.’ Mrs Stockwell shuddered. ‘I used to dread them early mornings.’
‘Why?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘Of course I can,’ Paniatowski thought.
‘I’d like to hear it in your own words,’ she said aloud.
‘There’s no point in me pretendin’ to you that he didn’t knock me about, because everybody who lives round here knows he did,’ Mrs Stockwell said. ‘But sometimes he was better than others. Sometimes, he could be nice as pie. He’d buy presents for the kids, an’ cuddle me just like he used to do in the early days. But that never happened on them early Friday mornings. Then, he was always lookin’ for trouble. Sometimes, he’d even wake me up to give me a thumpin’.’
‘So where did he go on Thursday nights?’
‘I’ve no idea – an’ I never dared ask him. But I do know that wherever it was, it wasn’t in town.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’ve got this cocoa tin that I keep my money in,’ Mrs Stockwell said dully. ‘It’s not much – a few quid – but it’s there for emergencies. He knows about it . . .’ The widow gulped. ‘He knew about it, but he’d always left it alone – until a couple of Thursdays ago.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘He asked me where I’d put the tin. I told him I’d been savin’ up for a new pair of shoes for our Liz, an’ he said, bugger that, he needed to buy for petrol for his van. I said, couldn’t he wait a few days, an’ he said no, he bloody couldn’t. So I gave him a quid, an’ he said that wasn’t enough. Said he needed a full tank for where he was goin’. So I had to give
it to him, didn’t I?’
‘Who were his friends?’ Paniatowski asked.
Mrs Stockwell shrugged. ‘The fellers he went out drinkin’ with, I suppose. I didn’t know any of them. He never brought them back here.’
‘And which was his favourite pub?’
‘Any of them that sold beer,’ Mrs Stockwell said, increasingly bitter. ‘But most lunch times you’d find him at the Clog and Billycock.’
Paniatowski stood up.
‘I have to go,’ she said, ‘but I’ll tell the WPC – her name’s Gloria, by the way, in case she hasn’t introduced herself properly – to stay around for a couple of hours more, in case you need anything.’
Or in case you remember something that might help the investigation, she added silently – not that there’s much chance of that.
‘If the bastard was goin’ to get himself killed, why didn’t he get himself killed at work?’ Mrs Stockwell asked. ‘At least that way we might have got some compensation.’
When a murder inquiry was underway, the incident room in Whitebridge Police HQ looked much as it had done in the days when he’d been a humble detective constable, Beresford thought.
There was still a large old-fashioned blackboard at the front of the room. There were still a series of desks – laid out in a horseshoe pattern for easier communication – with a newly drafted-in DC sitting at every desk and talking earnestly on the telephone. The only thing which had changed, he supposed, was him. He was no longer a fresh-faced bobby looking up to the inspector for guidance – he was that inspector.
And he liked his new role. He really did. But there were times when – looking back on those still recent days when he’d been a sergeant, Monika had been an inspector, and they’d been out in the field together – he felt a great sense of loss.
But this wasn’t the moment for nostalgia, he told himself. The boss had given him a job to do, and it was up to him to bloody well do it.
He walked the length of the room, listening at random to some of the constables’ telephone conversations in their entirety and catching just a phrase or two of others.
‘So, apart from that one time he defaulted, Mr Stockwell’s been keeping up on the regular payments on his decorator’s van, has he?’ one of the constables was asking a clerk at the finance company.
The Ring of Death Page 11
