Dead End
Page 16
They had managed, since Paniatowski’s promotion, to work well together, because they were both fair-minded people and good police officers, but Baxter had never been able to quite suppress his feelings of hurt and betrayal – just as she had never been able to quite suppress her feelings of guilt – and that meant they were forever operating on a knife edge.
In the twenty-four hours since the murder, the story had grown and grown, so though the room was not as full as it would have been if the crime had taken place in the south (where murder really mattered!) there were several London journalists and a couple of camera crews from the national stations, to supplement the local reporters and television people.
Baxter opened the proceedings, and then handed matters over to his DCI. Paniatowski outlined the details of the discovery of the body and stated that the police were treating it as a murder.
‘If you knew him, and have observed him behaving in any way strangely, please let us know,’ she concluded. ‘It doesn’t matter how trivial it might seem to you, it could be of great value to us. If you’ve seen anyone watching him or following him, please let us know. Don’t worry about looking a fool, because let me assure you that you won’t look that way to us.’ She paused and checked her watch. ‘There’s just time for a few questions.’
‘Do we know what poison was used on him, Chief Inspector?’ one of the local reporters asked.
No, they bloody didn’t, despite the fact that Dr Shastri had been up for most of the night working on it.
‘For operational reasons, we are not prepared to reveal the name of the drug at this stage of the inquiry,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Is it possible that he was a spy?’ asked a man in a leather jacket, who was from the BBC in London, and was thus automatically the alpha male in the press pack.
Paniatowski had anticipated such a question, and had come up with a line which, while it didn’t actually answer the question, at least sounded as if it had.
‘We have no evidence—’ she began.
‘I can state categorically that Russian intelligence had nothing to do with this case,’ Baxter interrupted her.
Paniatowski resisted the urge to turn towards him and demand to know what the hell he thought he was doing – but it wasn’t easy.
‘And before you accuse me of sophistry, let me assure you that the same holds for the East German Stasi, the Bulgarian Committee of State Security and any of the other Eastern Bloc agencies you care to mention,’ Baxter continued.
The surreptitious smile at the corners of the BBC man’s mouth was only there for a second, but it told anyone who was watching him closely – and Paniatowski was – that there was nothing he liked better than making provincial policemen seem stupid on camera.
‘That’s a great deal you seem to be assuring us of,’ he said.
‘It is,’ Baxter agreed, like an innocent who had no idea he was walking into a trap.
‘And may I ask you what you base your assurance on?’
‘Indeed you may. I base it on a conversation I had with the Home Secretary not half an hour ago. And in case you’re wondering where he got the information from, he assured me it came from his various heads of security – MI5, MI6 – clever people like that.’
‘Oh,’ said the BBC man, not quite sure where to go next.
The rest of the journalists fell silent, savouring this moment at which the top dog had – in front of their very eyes – stepped on his own bollocks.
Paniatowski stood up.
‘Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, taking advantage of the pause. ‘You’ll be informed by the chief constable’s secretary when the next press conference will be held.’
‘Neatly extricated, Chief Inspector,’ Baxter said, as they strode away from the press conference, down the corridor that led to both of their offices.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘Was it true?’
‘That I spoke to the Home Secretary about half an hour ago. Yes, that was true.’
‘And did he tell you there was no Russian involvement in this murder?’
‘Yes, he did.’
Paniatowski came to a halt, which made it hard for a natural gentleman like Baxter to carry on walking.
‘What is it, Monika?’ he asked.
‘I need you to say it again – and this time I need to be looking into your eyes,’ Paniatowski said.
‘In other words, you’re accusing me of lying?’ Baxter said – and though he was not angry yet, he was heading that way. ‘You always push things too far, don’t you? You just can’t help yourself.’
‘I’ve got my people out in the field, and if there are any KGB assassins out there as well, I have to know about it,’ Paniatowski said. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you – but I have to be sure.’
‘It’s not that you don’t believe me, but you don’t believe me,’ Baxter said. He bent his head slightly. ‘Can you see into my eyes?’
She used to look in those eyes and try her hardest to make them hypnotize her into loving him.
She really did.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No … Russian … agent … nor … any … agent … from … any … other … Iron … Curtain … country … is … connected … in any way … with the murder of Arthur Wheatstone. Is that clear enough for you, Chief Inspector?’
‘Yes, sir, it is,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Thank you.’
There were three cars in the lay-by off the ring road. In one of them, a middle-aged man was snoring quite loudly. In the second, a couple in their twenties were having an argument which had already reduced the woman to tears twice. And in the third, a detective sergeant was talking to police headquarters or, more specifically, to a clerical officer called Linda, who thought she was wonderful.
‘So DCI Paniatowski is in a press conference at the moment, sarge, but she’d left the information on your desk for you,’ the girl said.
‘And do you have it?’
‘In my hot little hand.’
‘Then let’s hear it.’
‘According to this, there was the dead man and four other people involved in the project. A Dr Horrocks, a Dr Jennings …’
‘Yes, I’ve seen them.’
‘And a Dr … no, wait a minute, I must have that the wrong way round, yes that’s it, according to this there’s a Mrs Rosemary Pemberton who’s a senior technician and a Dr Roger Pemberton, the head of department, who has the same address as her, so is probably her husband …’
‘Unless she’s his mum.’
‘It’d be a miracle if she was, because, according to this, they’re the same age.’
‘According to that, where do they live?’ Meadows asked.
‘According to this …’ The clerical officer paused. ‘You’re not, by any chance, taking the mickey out of me, are you, sarge?’
‘Of course not, Linda,’ Meadows said, transmitting a warm friendly smile over the airways.
‘That’s all right, then,’ Linda said, mollified. ‘Well, according to this, they live at number 11 Park Rise.’
Two or three years earlier, the ground from which the Park Rise Residential Area had risen had been occupied by two very gloomy Victorian mansions, originally built at the behest of two very gloomy Victorian mill owners. Everyone agreed that the project which replaced the mansions had been of benefit to the area – that the dozen detached houses added an air of lightness and contemporary ambience which could only be an improvement.
They weren’t bad houses at all, Meadows thought, studying number 11. In fact, it would be fair to say that a lot of people would consider them their dream houses. But they were primarily intended for young people on the way up – teachers and officer workers who had just got their first promotion – and the head of a project in BAI should have been able to do much better for himself.
She rang the bell, and through the frosted glass saw a figure approaching down the corridor.
She was a natural blonde, but her hair had been neglected and grown scraggly. Her skin could use a moisturizer, her teeth could do with a polish, and a little make-up wouldn’t have gone amiss.
She was wearing baggy trousers and a baggy jumper, which effectively hid what was, Meadows suspected, a rather good figure.
So what was her game? Meadows wondered.
There were women, it was true, who were trapped in sloppiness like an insect in amber. Some of them did not even notice it. Others did, but had no idea how to escape. Rosemary Pemberton didn’t fall into either category, Meadows thought, because neither of those sorts of women would have examined her outfit the way Rosemary was doing – not in awe, but with the cold calculating eye of an experienced fashionista.
‘I’m here to ask you a few questions about Arthur Wheatstone,’ Meadows said, holding out her warrant card for inspection.
‘You’d better come into the lounge, then,’ Rosemary Pemberton answered, without much enthusiasm. ‘My husband’s just watching his sport.’
The television was certainly on in the lounge, but there was no sign of Roger Pemberton.
‘Roger?’ Rosemary Pemberton called up the stairs. ‘Are you up there? The police are here.’
Meadows looked around the room. The furniture, like the house, was more than acceptable, but she would have expected better even if the household’s only source of income had come from Roger Pemberton. So maybe they used his wife’s salary for living expenses, and were saving his much larger salary to buy a beach house in the Bahamas.
The other thing that was interesting about the room was the decoration on the walls, which seemed to consist almost entirely of photographs of football teams of which, presumably, Roger Pemberton had been a member, since there was also a trophy cabinet full of cups and shields in the corner of the room.
There was the sound of footsteps on the staircase, then Roger Pemberton appeared in the lounge. He was wearing a smart blazer and a tie. His wife had obviously not been expecting this. She opened her mouth to say something, then bit the comment back.
Now why would she have done that, Meadows wondered.
The sergeant took a closer look at Pemberton’s tie. It was a tie worn by members of a certain gentlemen’s club in London. Meadows herself had, in another life, visited the club, and knew – as surely as she knew the sun would rise in the morning – that it would never have accepted Pemberton as a member.
Physically, he was quite an attractive man, Meadows decided, but she was already starting to wonder if his beauty was any more than skin deep.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘DS Meadows.’
Pemberton held out his hand. His grip was firm but not painful. It said, I could hurt you if I wanted to, but of course I’d never do that.
‘Well, I expect you’re here to talk about Arthur Wheatstone,’ he said. ‘Do take a seat.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Have you offered Sergeant Meadows a drink, Rosemary?’
‘No, I …’
‘Well, come along then – chop, chop!’
‘I don’t want a drink,’ Meadows said, bending slightly forward to switch off the television, ‘but thanks for volunteering your wife, anyway.’
Pemberton flashed her a look which said this was not the way he’d envisaged things going at all, then said, ‘Well, let’s get this over with – some of us have busy lives to lead you know.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ Meadows said, giving the television a backwards glance. ‘I suppose the first question I should ask you is whether Dr Wheatstone had any enemies that you knew of.’
‘We hardly knew him at all, so we’re not really in a position to say,’ Pemberton told her.
‘You hardly knew him!’ Meadows said incredulously, ‘How long have you been working together?’
‘Five years, but we didn’t socialize with him, did we, Rosemary?’ Pemberton asked.
‘No,’ his wife replied. ‘We don’t really socialize with anybody.’
‘But surely you must have known something about him,’ Meadows persisted. ‘Dr Horrocks had quite a lot to say about him.’
‘Dr Horrocks would.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘It means that Arthur liked to bait him for being queer, and Horrocks – being as thin-skinned as the rest of his tribe – reacted badly, making it even more fun for Arthur.’
‘But Wheatstone didn’t try to get under your skin, too?’
‘How could he? I provided him with no ammunition.’
‘Besides which, he’d probably think twice before having a go at his head of department,’ Meadows said.
An embarrassed silence which lasted for perhaps fifteen seconds followed the comment. Then Rosemary Pemberton said, ‘Actually, I’m the one who is head of department.’
Meadows thought about what Linda, the clerical officer had said to her.
‘And a Dr … no, wait a minute, I must have that the wrong way round, yes that’s it, according to this there’s a Mrs Rosemary Pemberton who’s a senior technician and a Dr Roger Pemberton, the head of department, who has the same address as her, so is probably her husband …’
Linda had seen it written down that the woman was a doctor, and had assumed that it had to be a mistake.
She was a very nice girl, Meadows thought – but she’d make a lousy dominatrix.
Pemberton laughed uncomfortably. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I could have got my doctorate, just like my swotty wife did, but I was far too busy living life to worry about things like that. And I was right, too, wasn’t I, Rosemary? You wish you’d done the same, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Rosemary Pemberton said, in the voice of a robot, ‘I wish I’d done the same.’
Meadows wondered if it would be possible to fake losing her balance and to contrive to break Pemberton’s nose as she grabbed it for support. It was a sweet dream – a pleasing fantasy – but, unfortunately, that was all it was.
‘So you know nothing about Arthur Wheatstone’s private life, Dr Pemberton?’ she asked.
‘No, nothing.’
‘And how about you, Mr Pemberton?’
Pemberton glared at her. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Did either of you ever hear him mention his allotment?’ Kate Meadows asked.
And suddenly she had their full attention, as if she’d pronounced the magic word.
‘His allotment?’ Pemberton repeated.
‘Yes, he had one on Old Mill Road,’ Meadows explained.
‘Old Mill Road? That’s the one you go to, isn’t it?’Pemberton asked his wife.
‘Yes, it is,’ Rosemary Pemberton admitted.
‘And who does it belong to, did you say?’
‘My cousin Jane.’ Rosemary turned to Meadows. ‘Well, she’s not strictly my cousin,’ she explained, ‘but when we were growing up she called my mum “auntie” and I called her mum the same. I help her out, now and again. It makes a nice change, being out in the fresh air.’
‘Have I ever met Jane?’ Pemberton asked.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘And why is that?’
‘You don’t normally like spending time with my friends, Roger,’ Rosemary said.
‘That’s right, I don’t,’ Pemberton agreed. ‘Did you ever see Arthur Wheatstone when you were down at the allotments?’
‘No.’
‘That’s strange, don’t you think?’
‘It’s a big place,’ Rosemary said – and Meadows thought she could detect a hint of panic in her voice. ‘If his plot is right at the other end from Jane’s, it’s unlikely our paths would ever have crossed.’
‘What about Horrocks and Jennings?’ Meadows asked. ‘They’ve got a plot down there as well.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve seen them,’ Rosemary Pemberton said –
and the sergeant knew not only that she was lying, but why she was lying.
‘Well, thanks for your help,’ Meadows said. ‘I’ll call again if there’s anything more I need to ask.’
‘Ring first,’ Pemberton said.
Rosemary accompanied her up the hallway.
‘Listen,’ Meadows said when they reached the front door, and her foot was already over the threshold, ‘if you have any problems, call me, and if I can’t get here right away, I’ll make sure someone else does.’
‘Problems?’ Rosemary said. ‘What kind of problems are we talking about, Sergeant?’
‘You know what I’m talking about,’ Meadows insisted.
‘You’re wrong. I really haven’t a clue,’ Rosemary said firmly.
And then she closed the door with just enough force to dislodge a little of the mortar.
Jack Crane was a great believer in the maxim that if a horse threw you, you needed to get back in the saddle right away. Mrs Wheatstone, he felt, had not only thrown him over her head at their last meeting, but had then pranced around his sprawling body to complete the indignity. She had made a fool of him, but he didn’t blame her – because he’d had an idea about the absence of ladders, and if he was right, then all her aggression had been in self-defence.
She was staying in the Prince Alfred suite at the Royal Victoria Hotel, and when she met him at the door she said, ‘Ah, my pet policeman. Won’t you come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.’
The Prince Alfred suite was decorated in the style of Balmoral, the Queen’s Scottish residence, and from the walls hung claymores, bagpipes, paintings of dark glens, and the mounted head of a glassy-eyed stag.
Mrs Whitestone giggled.
‘Isn’t it hideous,’ she said. ‘Truly hideous.’
‘Then why are you staying here?’ Crane wondered.
‘I’m staying here because your chief inspector won’t allow me to stay in my own house,’ Mrs Wheatstone said.
‘That’s almost a lie, but not quite,’ Crane said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re staying in town because you can’t go back to your own house,’ Crane said. ‘You’re staying in the Prince Alfred suite because your insurance company is paying, and it’s the most expensive room in town.’