Dead End

by Sally Spencer

‘Of course he did. The day before he was found hanging, Wheatstone witnessed a robbery in the centre of Whitebridge.’

  ‘What kind of robbery?’

  ‘The Lord Mayor’s wife had her handbag snatched. Since she is so important municipally – though on the stage of real life she would scarcely merit a walk-on part – Chief Superintendent Snodgrass himself was going to interview Wheatstone.’

  ‘You dragged the mayor’s wife into this?’

  ‘Literally. She was pulled to the ground, and her knees were scraped quite badly.’

  ‘Why would Snodgrass play along with all this?’

  ‘He’s a good policeman, but he’s an even better ex-soldier – not to mention a fiery evangelical Christian. Which is why, when we told him he needed to cover up the death of a traitor and notorious fornicator for the good of his country, he readily agreed.’

  No wonder the killer had been careless enough to let Inspector Cole see him, Paniatowski thought. He must have been told in advance that any mistakes he made would be squared away by a senior police officer.

  ‘I assume that Snodgrass would have taken a ladder of the appropriate length with him,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. He also had an artfully crafted suicide note in which Wheatstone confessed to spying. And to support that, we’d left some semi-secret documents in his potting shed on Old Mill Road.’

  ‘There were no documents there,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘There were no documents there by the time you arrived,’ Forsyth said. ‘We’d removed them again, because after you’d blundered into Wheatstone’s garage, we needed a new script.’

  ‘Snodgrass made a big mistake in bawling me out,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘He did,’ Forsyth agreed. ‘It made important people start to question his judgement, and once that happened, he had to go.’

  ‘What about the autopsy?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘How did you hope to get round that? Oh yes, you managed to get hold of a ticket for an orchestra that Dr Shastri liked, so she wouldn’t be in Whitebridge that day.’

  ‘Managed to get hold of a ticket!’ Forsyth repeated. ‘How you still under-rate us, even after all these years.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t just any old orchestra that the estimable Dr Shastri likes, it was her absolute favourite. And we didn’t buy a ticket – we printed it, because we were the promoters.’

  ‘So you brought an orchestra to Manchester from where – London? – specifically to distract Dr Shastri for two hours on Tuesday lunchtime?

  ‘No, we brought an orchestra across from India specifically to distract Dr Shastri for two hours on Tuesday lunchtime, though no doubt it gave others pleasure, too. Are you beginning to appreciate what a very complex and well-resourced operation you barged in on, Monika?’

  Don’t be impressed! And don’t be intimidated!

  ‘The moment you found out I’d discovered the body, you handed the autopsy back to Shastri.’

  ‘There didn’t seem to be much point in using our man to tell the truth. Better to hold him in reserve for when lying is necessary.’

  ‘Why did the man who was washed up in Cornwall yesterday have Pemberton’s prints? Had you switched around two sets of prints in the Ministry of Defence?’

  ‘Yes, it was the easiest thing in the world.’

  ‘And you did it to make my team think that they hadn’t already got Pemberton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whereas, in fact, it was Pemberton who was buried on the allotment?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who killed him? Judd?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Judd was the man who knew where he could bury him without it being detected.’

  ‘Yes, it was Judd.’

  ‘Why did he kill him? Was it because Pemberton had already confessed to his wife that he’d been there when Wheatstone was killed?’

  ‘Yes, although that was merely indicative of just how unstable he’d become. But just to set the record straight, Judd did that on his own initiative – he’d had no authorisation from the centre.’

  ‘So I suppose it’s Judd whose body is in the Cornish mortuary.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And who killed him?’

  ‘No one. He killed himself.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s a little too late to start bullshitting me now,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Judd was told that we could no longer shield him from the consequences of killing Pemberton. We also pointed out the location of a large supply of tranquilizers. And finally we told him that if he still wanted to be of service to his country, we were very much in need of one dead body at that point in time.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘It was his choice,’ Forsyth said mildly. ‘A footnote to this story – and the main reason you may sleep peacefully in your bed from now on – is that …’

  ‘What was that you just said?’

  ‘You mean about you being able to sleep peacefully in your bed from now on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s quite true. Your life was in danger when there was a chance that you might be responsible for the Americans finding out that we stole the Z-13. That, it now seems, is no longer a problem.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On the way here, I heard on the radio that Sir Thomas Tavistock, the chairman of BAI has resigned, and is going to be replaced by Robert Carter, an American.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘An American!’ Forsyth said. ‘Come on, Monika, I know having your sentence of death withdrawn might knock you back for a while, but it’s time to move on.’

  ‘The Americans know what really happened.’

  ‘Yes. Some minister must have deemed it necessary to confess to what we did, and now the Americans are extracting a heavy penalty.’

  ‘Everything you’ve just put me through was totally unnecessary, wasn’t it?’ Paniatowski demanded.

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know that the option of killing you was off the table until I was nearly at the hospital, and it seemed a pity to waste the journey.’

  ‘And have you enjoyed yourself, listening to me beg for my life?’

  ‘You’re being too self-critical, Monika. You didn’t beg. You have too much spirit to ever be able to beg.’

  ‘Have you enjoyed it?

  ‘It has been a pleasant diversion for a man who does not have too many pleasant diversions left to him,’ Forsyth admitted.

  ‘And doesn’t it bother you that three men have died in order to keep a secret which some spineless politician has decided is no longer worth keeping?’ Paniatowski demanded.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Monika, grow up!’ Forsyth said, and there was real anger in his voice. ‘We are selling weapons which we know will be responsible for the deaths of thousands – maybe hundreds of thousands – of innocent women and children. Do you really think I should feel any guilt for my part in the deaths of a roué, a wife beater and a burned-out spy?’

  EPILOGUE

  It was a perfect – almost emblematic – English April afternoon. The sun, attended by a few wispy clouds, shone down benevolently on the churchyard, and the spring flowers basked in its glory. Bees buzzed in the hedgerows, birds chirped in the trees, and in the distance there was the clip-clopping sound of horses’ hooves.

  The Norman church – according to Pevsner, one of the finest in the country – was full, and the vicar was just delivering his eulogy.

  ‘George Harrington-Maud was not a poor man, as anyone who has been fortunate enough to be entertained in his lovely home can attest. That he worked was not through need, but because he felt it was his duty to his country. If he had entered the world of politics, he might have become prime minister – indeed, those of us who knew him well are convinced he would have been. But that was not his way. He did not seek the limelight, but chose to immerse himself in the intricacies of life in the higher civil service. Most of us would have found his work dry and
dusty. I suspect that he did, too – but he knew it was necessary work that few men could have handled, and so he did it without complaint.’

  In one of the pews close to the back of the church, a blonde woman leant over to her dark-haired daughter, and said, ‘I’ve had enough of this shit – anyway, I need a cigarette.’

  They were standing by the lychgate.

  ‘You smoke too much, Mum,’ Louisa said.

  ‘I was unconscious for months, so I’ve a lot to catch up on,’ Paniatowski replied.

  Louisa sighed. ‘Explain to me again why we’re here,’ she said.

  ‘We’re here because George Harrington-Maud – as we now know him to be – invited me to his funeral.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘Perhaps he wanted me to find out if I was brave enough to come.’

  ‘And why are you here?’

  ‘Perhaps because I wanted to find out if I would be brave enough to come.’

  The wake was at the family home, an Elizabethan manor house a short walk from the church.

  Since it was a lovely day, the reception was held in the garden, and uniformed waiters were kept busy with plates of canapés and trays of Pimm’s No. 1 Cup.

  Paniatowski was halfway down her second Pimm’s when the tall, elegant woman in her early sixties approached her.

  ‘You must be Monika,’ she said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You do realize you’re one of the select few, don’t you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’re one of the few people here who know what George actually did.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘George rather liked you, you know. In fact, he had a sneaking admiration for you. He wanted you to know that.’

  There was a pause, and then Paniatowski said, ‘Mrs Harrington-Maud …’

  ‘Lady Harrington-Maud.’

  ‘Lady Harrington-Maud, if you knew how much I would like to say – for your sake – that I felt the same about your husband. But I can’t.’

  The other woman smiled. ‘Don’t distress yourself, my dear,’ she said. ‘George thought you might say that, and so there was a second message, which he asked me to repeat accurately. He said, “The advantage of being born into my station in life is that approval from someone born into your station in life is of no interest to me.” I have to say that I agree with him. Have a pleasant trip home.’

  Prior to leaving, they strolled down to the end of the garden. There was a stream running through it, and they stood looking into the water.

  ‘Mum?’ Louisa said, with a mischievous edge to her voice.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Were you being quite honest back there? Isn’t there a small corner of you which is quite going to miss not dealing with Mr Forsyth?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, we’re not living in some cosy detective novel, where the murders are antiseptic and the murderer isn’t quite scary enough to keep you awake at night,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Forsyth was a ruthless bastard. You could say he did what he did for his country – but the country he did it for was one in which a few people drink Pimm’s No. 1 Cup in the middle of the afternoon, and the rest of us just scrape by. I’m not sure I quite believe in hell yet, but I’m trying my hardest so I can picture him burning in it for all eternity.’

  ‘Do you know, I’m rather sorry I asked,’ Louisa said.