Stone Killer

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Well, that would make things a lot easier,’ Mrs Burroughs conceded, already heading back into the hallway. ‘Help yourself to another glass of wine when you need one.’

  I have been very stupid, Paniatowski thought, as she heard the front door slam. Very, very stupid.

  She could imagine herself standing in the witness box, if she was ever called to give evidence against Mrs Burroughs.

  ‘You told my client that you had two children of your own,’ she could hear the defence counsel saying. ‘Is that correct, Sergeant Paniatowski?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Is that what you told her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that you always left them in the care of your mother when you were at work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But none of that was true, was it?’

  ‘No. My mother’s dead. She had a hard life, which sent her to an early grave.’

  ‘And your children?’

  ‘I don’t have any. I’m barren. I can never have any – however desperately I might want to.’

  ‘I see. So having established that you’re a liar, let’s move on. Is it a part of your function – it is written into your job description, shall we say – that you should offer to baby-sit for any woman you are in the process of interrogating?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why did you do it on this occasion?’

  ‘To be helpful? To show at least one member of the public the human face of policing?’

  ‘I suggest you had quite another motive, Sergeant Paniatowski. I suggest you did it, purely and simply, to further both your investigation into Mrs Burroughs and your own career.’

  She’d already gone that far, and there was no backing out of it. But she didn’t need to go any further – she didn’t have to make matters any worse.

  ‘And once you were alone with the child – the poor, innocent little boy – what did you do then?’ she heard the imaginary barrister ask her in her head.

  ‘I …’

  ‘You interrogated him, didn’t you? His mother trusted you to look after him, and you repaid that trust by treating him no better than you’d have treated a common criminal!’

  The way out of that possible dilemma was simple enough, Paniatowski decided.

  If Timothy made any move to speak to her, she would say she didn’t want to talk because she had a headache. He might not like that, of course, but it was never too early to learn that part of growing up was accepting that you had to put up with a lot of things you didn’t like.

  The boy abandoned his toys, and crawled over to where she was sitting.

  ‘Do you know my daddy?’ he asked, looking up at her.

  ‘Headache!’ Paniatowski’s internal warning system screamed. ‘For God’s sake, say you’ve got a headache.’

  ‘No, I don’t know him,’ she said. ‘But he sounds like a very nice man. Why don’t you tell me all about him?’

  ‘Mummy says that he’s gone to London for a while – but I know that he hasn’t.’

  Oh Christ, I’m going to be the first person he chooses to confide in! Paniatowski thought. I’m going to be the first one to be told that he thinks his father is dead!

  But she couldn’t back out now, even if she wanted to – because if the boy had decided to face his fears, who could guess what damage it might do to him if she refused to face them with him?

  ‘Where do you think your daddy is?’ she asked gently.

  ‘He’s in New Zealand,’ the boy said firmly.

  ‘New Zealand?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know where New Zealand is?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘It’s right on the other side of the world.’

  ‘Is it? And where else is on the other side of the world?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  The boy considered for a moment. ‘Whitebridge,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you think he’s in New Zealand?’

  ‘Because that’s what he told the lady,’ the boy said, slightly scornful of her ignorance.

  ‘Which lady?’

  ‘The lady that me and my daddy – the lady that Daddy and I – used to go out with.’

  ‘And where did you go with this lady?’

  ‘All kinds of places. We went to the zoo, and saw lots of different animals – monkeys and tigers and bears. And we went out on a boat in the river. The lady liked it.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because she was always laughing.’

  ‘And your daddy told her he was going to New Zealand, did he?’

  ‘He told her we were all going to New Zealand – me and Emma and Mummy.’ Timothy looked suddenly troubled. ‘She didn’t laugh much after that.’

  Twenty-Four

  Woodend had been an enthusiast of best bitter for all of his adult life, and saw no good reason to start surprising his liver now it had reached middle age. As a result of his single-minded dedication, he knew almost nothing about wine – and even less about wine companies. Thus, as he drove towards the Kensington Wine Company’s regional headquarters in Bolton, he had no real idea what to expect, though he rather imagined it would be somewhat like a brewery warehouse, full of oak barrels and stacked crates of bottles.

  What he actually found was so different to his imaginings that it quite surprised him. Kensington’s office was housed in a medium-sized building in the better part of town. It clearly had no warehousing facilities of any kind, and was entered through a black plate-glass door with a very impressive coat of arms etched on it.

  Sebastian Courtney-Jones, in contrast to his place of work, presented no surprises at all. He was pretty much what Woodend would have expected from Giles Thompson’s description of him – mid-forties, smooth, and obviously very impressed with himself.

  ‘I really don’t know how I can help you, Chief Inspector,’ he said genially, when he had invited Woodend to sit down in an office which smelled of expensive polished wood and old leather. ‘It must be some years now since I’ve even talked to Judith.’

  ‘That’s not quite true, now, is it?’ Woodend asked. ‘Accordin’ to what I’ve been told, you saw her no more than a few months ago, when you first moved back to the area.’

  ‘Ah, so you’ve heard about that, have you?’ Courtney-Jones asked, slightly uncomfortably.

  ‘Possibly you don’t fully appreciate the nature of a police inquiry,’ Woodend said gravely. ‘It’s a serious matter, and if you mislead it, you could well be charged with obstruction of justice.’

  ‘Over one little white lie?’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a white lie in the eyes of the law,’ Woodend told him. ‘There’s lies, an’ there’s the truth – an’ what you’ve just told me falls squarely into the former category, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose that, strictly speaking, it does,’ Courtney-Jones admitted. His hand hovered over the intercom on his desk. ‘Would you care for a drink, Chief Inspector? We’ve just received a shipment of a red wine from the Côte de Blaye which I’m sure you’ll find rather palatable.’

  ‘Do you know, I’d quite forgotten why I was so glad to leave London behind me,’ Woodend said.

  ‘And why were you?’

  ‘Because it was chock-full of fellers like you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Self-important prats,’ Woodend amplified. ‘Smarmy, complacent dickheads.’

  ‘I must say that I rather object to you using that kind of—’ Courtney-Jones began.

  ‘Tell me about the last time you spoke to Judith Maitland,’ Woodend interrupted. ‘An’ I mean, the last time.’

  ‘I did go to see her once – just for old times’ sake,’ Courtney-Jones said sulkily.

  ‘You went to see her with the explicit purpose of findin’ out if you could pick up again where you left off, seven years ago,’ Woodend corrected him.

  ‘You are well informed,’ Courtney-Jones said.

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend replied. ‘I am,
aren’t I?’

  ‘I suppose I’d better come clean,’ Courtney-Jones said.

  ‘That might be a good idea,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘I found myself back in my old hunting ground, both foot-loose and fancy-free. I went to see Judith because it seemed the ideal opportunity to renew an old acquaintanceship – especially when the old acquaintance in question was so very good in bed.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her you loved her? You didn’t say that you now realized she was the only woman in the world for you?’

  ‘Who told you that? Was it Judith herself?’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter who it was. Just answer the question.’

  ‘I may well have said something of that nature. Men will talk all kinds of rubbish when there’s a good chance of them getting back into a girl’s knickers, won’t they?’

  ‘Some men, maybe,’ Woodend agreed. ‘Some two-legged creatures that pass themselves off as men. But what I really want to know is why you decided to break up with her in the first place.’

  ‘She suddenly had the urge to start taking things far too seriously. I simply couldn’t allow that. I had my family to consider.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t consider them before,’ Woodend said dryly. ‘What made her want to become more serious, do you think?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ Courtney-Jones said.

  But he blinked as he spoke, and Woodend knew he was lying.

  ‘Were you aware, at the time you last saw her, that she supposedly had a lover in Dunethorpe?’ the Chief Inspector asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t even know the man existed, until I read about him in the papers,’ Courtney-Jones said – and the eyes blinked again.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No,’ Courtney-Jones said, squaring his shoulders and thrusting his chin out, ‘I have absolutely no idea at all. And, to tell you the truth, Chief Inspector, I’m not really interested.’

  ‘I’ll tell you anyway,’ Woodend said. ‘I think you were speakin’ no more than the truth when you said you’d finally realized you loved her. I think you’d have married her if she’d been willin’ and – apart from the occasional fling – you’d have stayed true to her.’

  ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,’ Courtney-Jones blustered.

  But though he was trying to hold back the tears, he was fighting a losing battle.

  ‘It must have come as a real shock to you to find out that you had a heart after all,’ Woodend pressed on relentlessly. ‘It doesn’t square with how you see yourself, does it? To a man like you, normal human feelings must have seemed almost like a weakness.’

  A single tear rolled down Courtney-Jones’ cheek, and fell on to his desk blotter.

  ‘We could have been so happy together,’ he said. ‘I just know we could have been.’

  Constable Beresford’s dealings with banks had never previously extended beyond talking to the clerk behind the grille, so he had no idea of what to expect from the manager’s office of the Wakefield and District Bank, into which he was now being ushered.

  His first impressions were of opulence and seriousness – a large, expensive-looking wooden desk; heavy flock paper covering the walls; a sombre portrait of the bank’s founder, which somehow managed to convey the impression that although he was long-dead, he was still watching you.

  The manager himself had a shiny bald head and a large grey moustache. He was probably in his mid-fifties, and it was almost impossible to imagine that he had ever been any younger.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Constable Beresford?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s Detective Constable Beresford, sir,’ Beresford replied, telling himself that Woodend would probably never find out he’d stretched the truth a little – and perhaps wouldn’t mind, even if he did.

  The manager smiled benignly. ‘Of course,’ he corrected himself. ‘Detective Constable Beresford.’

  Beresford cleared his throat. ‘As you may know, we’ve re-opened the Judith Maitland case,’ he said.

  ‘We?’ the manager said, in the tones so often employed by a teasing uncle. ‘Am I to take it, then, Detective Constable Beresford, that you played a major part in this decision?’

  Beresford felt himself starting to flush. ‘It … it was mainly my boss’s decision,’ he admitted.

  The manager chuckled. ‘Yes, I rather imagined it might have been.’

  So now, instead of being treated like a kid in a uniform, he was being treated like a kid in a suit, Beresford thought – and wondered if the manager had somehow learned he still lived with his mum.

  ‘I am right in assuming that Mrs Maitland was a customer of yours, aren’t I, sir?’ he pressed on.

  The manager wagged his finger playfully. ‘You shouldn’t say “customer”, Detective Constable Beresford. This is a bank, not an ironmonger’s shop, and we much prefer the term “client”.’

  ‘Then she was a client of yours?’

  ‘Now that sounds better, doesn’t it? Yes, she was a client of ours.’

  Beresford imagined the manager going home after his day’s work and having his wife in stitches as he described the way he had made the young constable jump through the hoops.

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen, he decided, as he felt his earlier humiliation being driven out of him by a growing anger. It wouldn’t happen because he’d give the manager such a grilling that the bastard wouldn’t even want to think about what had gone on once he got home.

  He started softly, still playing the role of the stumbling, unsure constable – which was not really quite a role at all.

  ‘What were your impressions of Mrs Maitland, sir?’ he asked diffidently.

  ‘My impressions? I suppose I’d have to say I thought her a rather personable young woman.’

  ‘Personable?’ Beresford said. ‘That’s one of those “dressed-up” words, like client, isn’t it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It sounds better – more respectable – to say “client” rather than “customer”, and it sounds better to say “personable” than “a real cracker”. But really, they both just mean the same.’

  A slight tick had suddenly developed in the bank manager’s left eye.

  I was right, Beresford thought triumphantly. He fancied her rotten. It was probably her he was picturing when he was lying on top of his missus – thrusting half-heartedly as part of their weekly ritual. But he can never admit it – even to himself – because bank managers are pillars of the community. They’re not supposed to be dirty old men.

  The manager seemed to have got his tick under control. ‘Mrs Maitland certainly had a pleasing aspect to her, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But that wasn’t what I meant at all.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. When I called her “personable”, I was referring to her character – to her businesslike attitude and her obvious energy. Now do you understand what I’m talking about?’

  Beresford grinned, but made no reply.

  ‘Have I inadvertently said something to amuse you?’ the bank manager wondered.

  ‘Not really. I was just thinking that, if I’d been a bit older, I might have had the hots for her myself.’

  ‘The hots for her?’ the manager repeated, horrified.

  ‘And if I’d been your age – and in your position – I might well have been persuaded to take the same risk you did.’

  ‘Risk?’ the bank manager asked, still flushed from the discovery that this boy in his Sunday suit had somehow managed to learn of his secret yearnings. ‘What risk?’

  ‘The risk of lending a great deal of money to a young woman with absolutely no experience of running a business on her own,’ Beresford explained, with growing self-confidence. ‘Now that’s a case of your heart leading your head, if I ever heard of one.’

  ‘Are you daring to suggest …?’ the bank manager began.

  ‘Still, you didn’t completely lose your self-control, did you?’ Beresfo
rd continued cheerfully. ‘Once she’d charmed you into agreeing to lend her the money – once her spell had worn off a little – you did at least have the good sense to insist that she got a guarantor for the loan.’

  ‘You’re quite wrong in almost all your assumptions,’ the manager said heatedly. ‘Mrs Maitland never cast a spell on me, and I most certainly never lent her any …’

  He dried up, realizing he had said too much.

  ‘What was that, sir?’ Beresford asked.

  Now they were back in the familiar territory of money matters, the bank manager seemed more in control of himself again. He folded his arms decisively. ‘Any dealings which this bank has with any of its clients are an entirely confidential matter,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps I’m being unfair to you,’ Beresford pondered. ‘Maybe there was never a question of a loan from the bank at all. Maybe it was more a case of the bank merely agreeing to manage the money that Mr Thompson had put into Mrs Maitland’s account. Have I got it right this time?’

  The manager unfolded his arms, and pressed a button on his desk.

  ‘This interview is over,’ he said coldly. ‘And the next time your Chief Inspector wants me to answer any questions, I suggest he sends someone else to ask them.’

  By the time Mrs Burroughs returned from the builders’ merchant’s, Timothy had already become bored with talking to Paniatowski about his father, and had drifted back to his train set in the corner of the room.

  ‘Were they any trouble?’ the mother asked the policewoman.

  ‘None at all,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘Timothy’s been playing quietly, and there hasn’t been a peep out of Emma.’

  ‘That’s typical, isn’t it?’ Mrs Burroughs said, sitting down and immediately reaching for the wine bottle. ‘People look after your kids for half-an-hour or so, and go away with the impression that they’re little angels. What they don’t realize is that when we’re alone – just me and them – they can be right proper sods. You probably find the same with your own kids, don’t you, Monika?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘Did you get the delivery sorted out all right?’

  ‘No problem at all,’ Mrs Burroughs said, taking a generous gulp of her wine. ‘It’s an easy business to run if you’re just a little bit careful. Profitable, too, if you watch the till. But Clive never did.’