Louisa is sitting at the breakfast table, trying to focus on the hockey match which will take place just across the Lancashire-Yorkshire border – and hence, by definition, in hostile territory – later in the day.
The Yorkshire County Youth team are, she has discovered from her careful research, on average eleven months older than the Lancashire team, which means (the chances are) that they will be just that little bit taller and just that little bit stronger. What the Lancashire captain (Louisa Concepción Paniatowski) needs to do, therefore, is develop a game plan in which strategy and cunning can serve as winning substitutes for physical strength.
But the problem is that every time she makes a serious effort to devise such a plan, her mind quickly drifts back to the buff envelope which arrived in the post the day before, and which – though she knows she should have done it already – she has yet to discuss with her mother.
The envelope contains a letter from the University of Cambridge, and that letter carries a message which Louisa considers to be very bad news indeed – and which will lead to her disappointing her mother deeply.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she says softly, before attempting to force down some of the breakfast fuel she knows she will need to energize her during the battle with the fierce tribe of Yorkshire women. ‘I’m really sorry.’
It is five long – agonizing – minutes before Monika, who has been playing with the twins, finally enters the room.
Louisa waits until she has poured herself a cup of tea, and then says, ‘I’ve heard from Cambridge, Mum.’
Monika reads her face, then reaches across the table and takes her daughter’s hand.
‘I’m so sorry, my love,’ she says, ‘but you tried your best, and we always knew it was going to be very difficult.’
Yes, I really did try my best, Louisa thinks – and maybe that was my big mistake.
‘I got in,’ she says. ‘Peterhouse wants me.’
For a moment, Paniatowski considers rebuking her daughter for teasing her, because she’s always taught Louisa that teasing shows a lack of respect – but she doesn’t want to spoil Louisa’s moment of triumph by introducing a jarring note, and so she just says, ‘That’s wonderful, darling.’
‘Peterhouse wants me – but I don’t want Peterhouse,’ Louisa says.
‘If you’d prefer some other Cambridge college, then maybe we could put it off for a year and—’
‘I don’t want to go to Cambridge at all.’
‘Then why did you apply?’ Paniatowski asks – and she is almost shouting now.
‘Because that was what you wanted me to do!’ Louisa counters – and she is almost shouting, too.
‘Do you know how many girls would give their eye teeth for a place in Cambridge?’ Paniatowski demands.
‘I’m sure there must be thousands of them – maybe even millions,’ Louisa says. ‘But I’m not one of them – I want to be a police cadet, and you know that’s what I want!’
‘I could have your application rejected, you know,’ Paniatowski says. ‘I could do it easily.’
‘And you would, wouldn’t you?’ Louisa asks bitterly, ‘because it’s not about what I want at all, is it – it’s all about what you want!’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ Paniatowski answers, her voice suddenly much quieter, her tone almost a tremble. ‘I would never …’
There is the sound of a motor horn outside.
‘That’s my coach,’ Louisa says, standing up from the table.
‘But you can’t just leave like that,’ Paniatowski protests.
‘So what do you want me to do instead?’ Louisa asks, in the maddeningly logical adult voice that she sometimes employs. ‘Would you like me to tell the driver, four teachers and twenty-seven pupils, that I can’t leave yet, because I’m having a bloody row with my mother?’
‘We’re not having a bloody row,’ Paniatowski says – but she recognizes, even as she’s speaking, that that is exactly what they’re having.
Louisa crosses the room to the corner where she’s left her kitbag and hockey stick.
‘We’ll talk about it when I get home,’ she says.
‘I had a terrible row with Mum this morning, Kate,’ Louisa said, the words gushing from her mouth, like a confession extracted under torture. ‘We never – ever – row, but we did this morning, and before we could make it right with each other, I left the house.’
‘The reason you left was because you had a hockey match, wasn’t it?’ Meadows asked.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Did you win?’
‘Does that matter?’ Louisa said, in a tone pitched halfway between surprise and outrage.
‘Yes, it matters,’ Meadows said, with a sudden intensity which quite frightened Louisa. ‘Life’s hard – and anybody who claims that it isn’t hard is a bloody liar. It’s nothing but a series of defeats and disappointments, from the cradle to the grave – so when you’re lucky enough to have a victory, you’d better learn to treasure it. So let me ask you again – did you win?’
‘Yes, we won,’ Louisa admitted.
‘Tell me you feel good about it,’ Meadows said.
‘I feel good about it,’ Louisa said dully.
‘Tell me again – and this time, make it sound as if you mean it,’ Meadows ordered her.
‘I feel good about it,’ Louisa repeated and by now she was starting to think that yes, she did.
The door to the intensive care unit opened, and a doctor in her thirties emerged.
‘Miss Paniatowski?’ she asked.
Louisa nodded.
‘How old are you?’ the doctor asked.
‘Nearly eighteen.’
The doctor frowned, as if that were certainly the wrong answer from her point of view.
‘And is the lady with you a relative?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I am,’ Meadows said hurriedly, before Louisa had the chance to spoil things by being honest. ‘I’m her Aunt Catherine.’
The doctor cleared her throat. ‘We’ve taken the appropriate action to stop your mother’s internal bleeding,’ she said. ‘We consider more surgery to be neither necessary nor appropriate.’
‘So she’s going to be all right,’ Louisa said with huge relief.
The doctor looked at Meadows for guidance, and Meadows flashed back that Louisa would want to hear the truth, however painful that might be.
‘Your mother is in a coma at the moment,’ she said. ‘We don’t know when she’ll come out of it. It could be soon, but there’s also a chance that it might never happen.’
‘Do you … do you mean she could stay in a coma for ever?’
‘Unfortunately, yes, that’s exactly what I mean. It’s also possible that she could die tomorrow. You can never tell with cases like hers.’
‘But if she does come out of the coma, she’ll be fine,’ Louisa pleaded, clutching at whatever straws she could find floating past her.
‘She could have no more than a bad headache,’ the doctor said cautiously, ‘but it’s also possible that her brain might not be all that it was.’
‘And what does that mean, exactly?’ Louisa asked, resolutely.
‘At best, she might just be a little absent-minded. At worst, she’ll never be able to take care of herself again.’
‘Can I see her?’ Louisa asked.
‘Of course.’
‘And can I spend the night with her?’
‘I wouldn’t recommend it. A girl of your age needs her sleep.’
‘Are you saying I can’t?’ Louisa demanded.
‘No, I’m not saying that,’ the doctor admitted.
‘I need a few things from home, Kate,’ Louisa said. ‘Will you drive me there?’
‘Sure,’ Meadows agreed.
THREE
There was no brass plaque screwed to the corner table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey to commemorate what had gone on there. There was not even a cardboard reserved sign in the centre of the table. Yet the pub’s re
gular drinkers felt a certain protectiveness towards it. They would never even think of sitting at the table themselves, and would soon warn off any newcomers who felt inclined to park their arses there.
The table served as the spiritual home of Monika Paniatowski’s inner team, and had performed the same function for Charlie Woodend’s team before it. At this table, ideas had been tossed around across the tops of pints of bitter, and cases been cracked to the sound of salt and vinegar crisps being crunched. So it was unthinkable that when they were involved in a serious investigation, the team would meet anywhere else.
Yet that night, the unthinkable was happening, and the regulars found themselves gazing at the table and wondering why – now the team really needed to get their heads together – it was still empty.
Kate Meadows’s approach to driving had once been described as being like a kamikaze pilot high on LSD, but on the way back to the Paniatowski home, she was more like a little old lady paying her weekly visit to church.
‘I’m not saying that you shouldn’t spend the night at the hospital, but wouldn’t it be better if you had an adult with you?’ she asked Louisa.
‘Why?’ Louisa demanded, aggressively from the passenger seat. ‘In case my mother dies in the middle of the night?’
No, no, of course not, tell her that wasn’t what you were thinking at all, said a cautionary voice in Meadows head.
‘No, not just for that reason – although we both accept that her dying is a possibility,’ she told Louisa. ‘But whatever happens, it will be so much easier to face if you’ve got someone else with you.’
‘Someone?’ Louisa said, with contempt. ‘Why don’t you come out with what you really mean – which is a big grown up person!’
She’s looking for a fight, Meadows thought, and if it will make her feel better to lash out at someone, she can lash out at me. I’ll even go against all my principles, and let her win.
‘Yes, you’re right, that is what I mean,’ she said. ‘An adult. A big grown-up person.’
‘I’m an adult,’ Louisa told her.
‘If you say so,’ Meadows agreed.
But Louisa seemed to have lost her taste for fighting, and simply sank back into her seat.
It was as they were pulling up at the Paniatowskis’ front door that Louisa said, ‘Maybe you’re right, Kate – maybe it would be nice to have someone else there with me.’
‘Would you like me to call one of your mother’s friends for you?’ Meadows asked.
Louisa laughed. ‘What friends?’ she asked.
Yes, it was a pretty stupid thing to say, when you thought about it, Meadows told herself.
When the boss wasn’t with her team, she was with her kids – just as when she herself wasn’t with the team, she was into bondage with strangers, while Beresford searched for fresh women to seduce, and Crane wrote poetry.
None of them had any real friends outside the team – because nobody outside the team could really understand them.
‘Look, I’m not very good on the sympathy and understanding front – that’s more in Jack Crane’s line,’ she said. ‘To tell you the truth, your mother uses me more as an attack dog.’
‘Yes, that’s the impression I got,’ Louisa said – and it was good to hear her giggle.
‘But if you want me to stay with you overnight, Louisa, then I will,’ Meadows said.
‘I’d like that,’ Louisa told her. ‘I’d like it very much.’
Colin Beresford didn’t care much for the Fox and Hounds. There was no actual tangible reason for his lack of enthusiasm – the dartboard was as well-oiled as the dartboard in any other halfway organized pub; the domino table had that comfortable and comforting worn-away look about it; the draught beer was good; the peanuts were salty – but somehow he just didn’t feel at home in it.
But then wasn’t that the point? He would feel at home in the Drum and Monkey – yes! – but everybody there would be watching him and pitying him.
At least no one in the Fox and Hounds knew who he was.
At least there, he could be alone with his misery.
And he had plenty of misery to contemplate. For almost his entire career in the Mid Lancs police, Monika Paniatowski had been at his side. She had been his guide, his teacher and his friend, and, more than once, she had put her own job on the line to save his. There was a time when he’d thought he was in love with her. He didn’t believe that any longer – or, at least, there was only a tiny part of him that still did – but he certainly did love her, more than anyone else in the world.
Beresford checked his watch. Jack Crane should be arriving soon, though Kate Meadows, who was with Louisa, had not been sure whether or not she could make it. Well, it didn’t really matter whether she could or not, because until they’d been to the briefing session the following morning, they would have very little to talk about anyway.
It was time for the local early evening news, and the landlord of the Fox and Hounds reached for the long pole that he used to press the buttons on the television set, which was mounted high above the bar.
The screen came to life just as the local news was starting. As was only to be expected, the attack on DCI Paniatowski was the main news item covered. The newsreader outlined the details of the attack, and read out the telephone number that anyone with any information on the incident should call.
Then, he disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a photograph of a young blonde-haired woman, looking rather self-conscious, in a police cadet’s uniform.
‘DCI Paniatowski joined the Mid Lancs police as soon as she was old enough to do so,’ a disembodied voice said. ‘For a couple of years, she conscientiously pounded the beat like any other officer, but her real ambition was to join the CID, and, in fact, she became the first female detective sergeant in the region. For a number of years, she worked with DCI Woodend, who many viewers will surely remember as one of the more colourful characters …’
It was a good idea to do it this way, Beresford thought, because it got potential witnesses to see Monika as a person – it made them want to help catch her attacker, not merely because it was their duty, but because they liked her. Yes, it was a good idea – one that Monika would probably have approved of herself – but it sounded to him awfully like an obituary.
‘You see what happens when you let women into the police force?’ asked a loud voice from further up the bar.
‘What does happen?’ asked his friend.
‘Well, they can’t look after themselves, can they? They’re worse than bloody useless.’
Steady, Colin, Beresford told himself – stay steady.
‘I mean, for every woman you’ve got who’s a bobby, you’ve got to have a male bobby whose main job it is to look after her.’
Beresford had heard of people seeing red when they were angry, and he had always thought it was no more than a figure of speech – but it was no literary device which was turning the glasses behind the bar a deep claret colour.
Calm down, Colin, he urged himself. The worst thing you can do now is go over the top.
‘Not that I’m saying women bobbies aren’t useful,’ the idiot further along the bar continued. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that at all. Somebody’s got to make the tea, haven’t they? And if a real bobby – a male bobby – feels like a shag at the end of his shift, it’s nice if there’s someone close at hand to oblige him.’
Beresford stepped away from the bar, so he could get a look at the other man. It was no surprise to discover that he was a big feller in his thirties, the sort of man who could never – even if he’d been wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and a long white coat – have been mistaken for a rocket scientist.
‘With a bit of luck, what’s happened to this Polish bint should serve as a warning to other women who think they can do a man’s job,’ the man said. And then he noticed that Beresford was glaring at him, and added aggressively, ‘What do you think you’re looking at, Sunshine?’
‘Monika Paniatowski
has worked bloody hard for this community,’ Beresford said, doing his best to keep his voice level and even. ‘I think she’s entitled to some respect.’
‘Worked bloody hard for this community!’ the man repeated, in a sarcastic voice.
‘Leave it, Eddie,’ one of his drinking companions urged him.
But Eddie didn’t want to leave it.
‘What’s your interest in the woman?’ he asked Beresford. ‘Have you been slipping her a length yourself?’
‘I was hoping to appeal to your sense of decency,’ Beresford said, ‘but since it seems that you don’t have one …’
The punch was well-aimed and well-timed, and most men would have buckled and gone down. Indeed, for a moment, it looked as if that was just what Eddie might do.
But in addition to being a loud-mouthed bigot, he was also a seasoned street fighter, and he managed to roll with the punch, then right himself again.
Beresford took a couple of steps backwards, in order to give both himself and his opponent plenty of room for what would surely follow.
Eddie let out a roar, and flung himself at his attacker.
Beresford sidestepped, and as Eddie rushed past him, he delivered what felt like a most satisfactory uppercut to the other man’s gut.
Eddie sank to his knees, and – like a matador who knows the bull is no longer a threat – Beresford turned disdainfully away from him.
He was not at all surprised to feel each of his arms grabbed in an iron grip, or to hear the pub’s landlord growl to the men who now flanked him, ‘Get the bastard out of here – and use the back way.’
He could announce the fact that he was a police officer, and they would leave him alone, Beresford thought, but he didn’t want to do that because, if they reported him, he would be suspended.
Besides, it hadn’t been a policeman who had hit Eddie, it had been Monika’s mate – and as Monika’s mate, he was prepared to take the punishment.
There was no pressing reason for DCI Dixon to stay at the scene of the crime (he had confidence in the lads conducting the search, and if anything of significance was found, they could easily contact him), but he stayed anyway, because the alternative – going home to Doris – was something he’d much prefer to postpone as long as possible.
The Hidden Page 3
