Stone Killer

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Are you saying that other people were stealing from him?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘No, Clive was too cunning to ever allow anybody else to get one over on him.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘The problem wasn’t the employees – it was him. He couldn’t keep his own hands out of the till.’

  Paniatowski nodded understandingly. ‘He liked to live well.’

  ‘He liked to have plenty of money in his pocket to lavish on his whores! God knows how much he got through in the last few years, what with posh dinners and expensive presents.’

  ‘And hotel bills,’ Paniatowski suggested.

  ‘Oh yes, them as well,’ Mrs Burroughs agreed, starting to slur her words slightly now. ‘A quick screw in the back of the car wasn’t good enough for him and his women. They had to do it in fancy hotels, with silk sheets and private bathrooms. It makes me sick to my stomach just to think about it.’

  ‘And it wasn’t always just the one night in those expensive hotels, was it?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen the bills,’ Paniatowski explained. ‘They’re all in the evidence file.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Mrs Burroughs said, and now there was a hint of caution in her tone.

  ‘And if I remember correctly, there was a time, a few years ago it must have been, when he paid for a hotel room in Manchester for a whole month,’ Paniatowski continued.

  The air in the room had been pleasantly warm, but now its temperature seemed to drop by several degrees.

  ‘Get out!’ Mrs Burroughs said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get out! I want you out of my house!’

  ‘Look, if I’ve said something to offend you, I’m sorry,’ Paniatowski told her. ‘Believe me, I certainly never meant it.’

  Mrs Burroughs rose shakily to her feet – and her shakiness was only partly a result of the wine, Paniatowski thought – and pointed to the door.

  ‘Out!’ she said firmly.

  ‘I’ll go, if that’s what you want. But would you mind if I just finished my wine, first?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody well would mind!’

  It was her house. There was nothing for it but to simply comply with her wishes.

  Paniatowski stood up. ‘Perhaps I’ll come back later, when you’re not quite so upset,’ she suggested.

  ‘You will not,’ Mrs Burroughs told her. ‘I never want to see you again,’ she continued, a little calmer now. ‘And if you try to talk to me – even if it’s only over the phone – I’ll immediately put a complaint through to your superior. I’ll tell him you came to my house and got drunk.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘Disgustingly drunk. I might even tell him what you called him. Octopus-Man, wasn’t it?’

  Paniatowski feigned concern. ‘Please don’t do that,’ she said.

  ‘I won’t – unless I have to,’ Mrs Burroughs said. ‘If you can keep your nose out of my business, then I’m perfectly willing to keep mine out of yours. If you don’t – well, you know now what will happen.’

  As threats went, it was quite forceful, Paniatowski thought, and wondered exactly what had turned Mrs Burroughs from an amiable lush into a towering harridan in less than a heartbeat.

  Twenty-Five

  The landlord of the Drum and Monkey looked across at the corner table in the public bar which, over the years, had become almost an unofficial annex of Whitebridge Police Headquarters.

  It was good to see the old team back in action again, he thought. But he couldn’t help feeling a slight twinge of resentment that the seat which used to be filled by DI Rutter was now occupied by someone else – a young feller wearing what was obviously his best suit. He seemed a pleasant enough lad, the landlord had to admit. Bright enough, too. But try as he might, he couldn’t imagine the lad ever quite being able to fill Bob Rutter’s shoes.

  Woodend took a swig of best bitter, and lit up a cigarette.

  ‘I think it’d be a good idea to run through our list of possible suspects,’ he said. ‘An’ the one I’d like to start with is Sebastian Courtney-Jones – the answer to every young maiden’s prayer.’

  ‘Really?’ Monika Paniatowski asked doubtfully.

  ‘Really,’ Woodend confirmed. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this – what with justice bein’ even-handed an’ all that – but I’d be tickled to death if that bastard did turn out to be our murderer.’

  ‘But why should he have killed Clive Burroughs?’

  ‘Because he was still in love with Judith, and he saw Burroughs as his main rival for her affections. She refused to come back to him, remember, and he might just have thought that with Burroughs out of the way, she’d be more amenable to changin’ her mind.’

  ‘But Burroughs wasn’t his rival,’ Paniatowski pointed out. ‘He was having an affair with the landlady of the Philosophers’ Arms.’

  ‘Is there any law which says a man can’t be conductin’ two affairs at the same time?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘From everything we’ve learned about both Judith and Burroughs, I don’t think they’d ever have considered having an affair,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘I admit it doesn’t seem very likely,’ Woodend conceded, ‘but there’s nowt as queer as folk, an’ you can never really tell who’s goin’ to decide to hop into bed with who, can you?’

  Oh shit, I shouldn’t have said that! Woodend told himself.

  Not to Monika.

  Not quite so bluntly.

  And especially not in the presence of Constable Beresford, who knew nothing about her affair with Bob Rutter.

  He risked a quick glance at Paniatowski’s face, to see how she’d taken his gaffe.

  His sergeant did seem to have suddenly fallen into a pensive mood, he decided – but he got the distinct impression that whatever she was thinking about, it wasn’t Bob Rutter.

  ‘An’ if Judith wasn’t havin’ an affair with Burroughs, exactly what hold did he have over her?’ the Chief Inspector pressed on. ‘Because there’s no doubt that he did have a hold of some kind.’

  ‘I’d like to throw another name into the hat, if I may,’ Constable Beresford said, speaking very quickly, as if he’d only just summoned up the courage to speak at all.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Woodend said encouragingly.

  ‘Giles Thompson.’

  ‘Giles Thompson!’ Woodend repeated. ‘But he’s a grand lad, is Giles. I’ve known the feller for donkey’s years!’

  ‘Does … does that mean he couldn’t possibly be a murderer, sir?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘Well, no, of course it doesn’t,’ Woodend admitted. ‘In my time, I’ve come across any number of murderers who seemed to be grand lads on the face of it. In fact, I’ve come across a good few who really were grand, an’ were just pushed past the point of endurance. So why do you think Giles Thompson might be our killer, Beresford?’

  ‘For the same reason you think Courtney-Jones might have done it,’ Beresford replied. ‘Love!’

  ‘Are you sayin’ Judith might have had an affair with Giles Thompson an’ all?’

  ‘No, sir. I’d think it was more a case of paternal love. Judith started working for Thompson just after her father died. She was very young at the time, and I think Thompson sort of took her under his wing. And once her mother had abandoned her and moved to Australia, I think he might have started to see himself as the only family she’d got.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ Woodend said, though he seemed a long way from being convinced.

  ‘In fact, he felt so responsible for her that when she needed the money to establish Élite Catering, he was the one who provided it,’ Beresford continued.

  ‘Now hold on a minute,’ Woodend said. ‘That’s not what Giles told me at all. According to him, all he did was guarantee the bank loan.’

  ‘I’m sure he did say that,’ Beresford replied. ‘But I think he was lying.’

  ‘An’ what are you basin’ this assumption on?’

 
; ‘On what they told me at the Wakefield and District Bank.’

  ‘You went to the bank?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who did you speak to?’

  ‘The manager.’

  ‘You’ve got some nerve,’ Woodend said, with a hint of admiration in his voice. ‘Even I’d think twice before I started strong-armin’ a bank manager. An’ did the bank manager confirm that Giles Thompson had actually given Judith Maitland the money?’

  Beresford considered giving his new boss a verbatim account of the meeting, then rapidly decided against it.

  ‘He wouldn’t confirm that Thompson provided the money, sir,’ he said. ‘But he wouldn’t exactly deny it, either.’

  ‘So, according to your theory, Giles killed Burroughs out of his love for Judith?’

  ‘It’s certainly a possibility, sir. He’d already stood by and done nothing while one man wrecked her life. He may well have decided he wasn’t going to let anything like that ever happen again.’

  ‘I still don’t see it,’ Woodend confessed.

  ‘And he has a temper,’ Beresford pointed out. ‘All his staff confirm that you’ve only got to call his restaurant the Dirty Duck, instead of the White Swan, and he’ll go ballistic.’

  ‘You’re both missing one vital point,’ said Paniatowski, who seemed to have emerged from her reverie.

  ‘An’ what’s that?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Would either Thompson or Courtney-Jones have let the woman they loved go to prison for a crime they’d committed themselves?’

  ‘Would you care to field that one, Beresford?’ Woodend asked.

  He’d expected the constable to look flustered, as all new recruits did the first time their pet theory was shot down in flames, but Beresford seemed to take it in his stride.

  ‘I think both Thompson and Courtney-Jones might well have let her take the blame,’ the constable said seriously. ‘You see, it seems to me there’s a very big difference between doing something for the woman you love and suffering instead of her.’

  ‘Such wise words from one so young,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Monika!’ Woodend said sharply.

  ‘Sorry, that came out wrong,’ Paniatowski said, and she really did sound apologetic. ‘As a matter of fact, what Constable Beresford’s just said makes a lot of sense. But I still think your general theory’s wrong. I still think the prime suspect is to be found in Dunethorpe.’

  ‘Mrs Burroughs?’

  ‘Or Alfred Sanders. Or both of them. Mrs Sanders had both emotional and financial reasons for wanting to get rid of her husband.’

  ‘An’ Sanders?’

  ‘He may be in love with her – he almost certainly is sleeping with her. Besides, with Mrs Burroughs controlling the company, he’s the manager. Whereas, if Burroughs had lived, the company might well have gone broke and he’d have had no job at all.’

  ‘So did they deliberately set out to frame Judith Maitland for the murder? Or was that just an accident?’

  ‘It really doesn’t matter, does it? Accidental or deliberate, the end result’s the same.’

  The landlord leaned out across the bar counter. ‘Phone call for you, Sergeant Paniatowski,’ he shouted across the noisy pub, in his ‘last orders’ voice.

  ‘Now I wonder who that could be?’ Woodend said.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Paniatowski told him.

  Paniatowski took the phone as far away from the bar as the cable would allow her to, and then wrapped herself around it.

  ‘Monika?’ said a voice at the other end of the line.

  ‘How did you find me?’ Paniatowski asked.

  DCI Baxter chuckled. ‘I’m a detective, remember. I’m trained to track people down.’ He paused. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  Was there?

  Paniatowski wasn’t sure.

  ‘Why are you calling?’ she asked.

  ‘I just thought it’d be wise to confirm our lunch date for tomorrow.’

  ‘We don’t have a definite lunch date,’ Paniatowski retorted. ‘I said we’d do it if I could make the time.’

  The pause was longer this time, then Baxter said, ‘Listen, Monika, I’m a blunt, no-nonsense Yorkshireman. If you’d rather not see me again, you’ve only got to say the word.’

  ‘I don’t … I haven’t …’ Paniatowski found herself spluttering. She took a deep breath. ‘I think – I’m almost sure – I want to see you, but it’s all so complicated,’ she continued.

  ‘Is that right?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Yes. You may not believe it, but it is. I was very involved with another man until quite recently …’

  ‘But that’s over, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there’s no chance of you getting back together?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  ‘And … and then there’s the investigation. I’m up to my neck in it right now, and I just can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘Then let’s say no more about it, for the moment,’ Baxter suggested. ‘But if you are in Dunethorpe tomorrow, we’ll try to grab a bite of lunch together. And whether we do it as lovers, friends, colleagues – or even casual acquaintances – is entirely up to you. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  Woodend had been watching his sergeant, and noticing how tense she seemed to be as she spoke into the phone.

  Now he turned to Beresford and said, ‘Why do I get the distinct feelin’ that when you started tellin’ me about Giles Thompson, your nervousness was only partly due to the fact that you were the new boy at the table, makin’ his voice heard for the first time?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Beresford said, deadpan.

  ‘But there was another reason for it, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘An’ would you like to tell me about it?’

  ‘I’d really rather not.’

  Woodend shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, lad. If you’re goin’ to be part of the team – even for a short time – you’re goin’ to have to learn to tell me what’s on your mind.’

  ‘I spoke out when I did in order to save Sergeant Paniatowski from further embarrassment, sir,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Now I wasn’t expectin’ that!’ Woodend admitted. ‘Would you mind spellin’ out for me exactly what you meant?’

  Beresford swallowed hard. ‘You were talking about love affairs in general terms, sir, but I thought that there was a real danger that Sergeant Paniatowski might take it personally.’

  ‘An’ why should she have done that?’

  ‘Don’t you know, sir?’

  ‘That’s not the question, lad. I’m more interested in what you think you know.’

  Beresford gulped again. ‘For over a year, Sergeant Paniatowski was having an affair with Inspector Rutter,’ he said.

  ‘An’ who else in Whitebridge HQ knows this – or, should I say, thinks they know this?’

  ‘I can’t speak for anybody above the level of sergeant.’

  ‘Then don’t. Who knows among the rank an’ file?’

  ‘Everybody,’ Beresford said.

  But of course they did, Woodend thought. He’d been foolish to ever imagine otherwise.

  The servants in big houses the length and breadth of the country knew everything their masters were getting up to; the common soldiers, whether in barracks or out on the battlefield, were more aware of their officers’ doings than the officers themselves ever dreamed they might be – and there were no secrets that could be hidden from the police canteen.

  ‘Have you always had this instinct for protectin’ other people like you just tried to protect Sergeant Paniatowski, Constable?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir, it’s something that’s developed quite recently.’

  ‘An’ why do you think that might be?’

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ Beresford told him. ‘And this time, I mean it.’


  ‘Fair enough,’ Woodend agreed.

  Paniatowski returned to the table, and the moment she’d sat down she knocked back the rest of her vodka.

  ‘Was that call anythin’ to do with the case, Monika?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No,’ Paniatowski replied.

  Woodend waited for her to tell him more, and when it became plain she wasn’t about to, he said, ‘So exactly where are we, in terms of the investigation, do you think?’

  ‘We’ve got a fair number of leads to follow up on, but none of them are strong enough to indicate that it’s the one we’re really looking for,’ Monika Paniatowski said.

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That we have no choice but to keep plugging away at them until we get a breakthrough.’

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘An’ while we’re doin’ that, we just have to pray that Major Maitland can keep control of his end of things, an’ that the Chief Constable doesn’t suddenly decide to go an’ do somethin’ bloody daft.’

  Beresford looked down at his watch. ‘If there’s nothing else, sir, I think I’d better go,’ he said.

  ‘Go?’ Woodend repeated. ‘But there’s three-quarters of an hour’s drinkin’ time left yet.’

  ‘I know that,’ Beresford agreed. ‘But, you see, sir, my mother will be waiting.’

  Woodend wondered if he was joking – and decided that he wasn’t. ‘Well, you’d better get yourself off, then,’ he said.

  Beresford stood up. ‘Good night, sir. Good night, Sarge.’

  As soon as the constable had gone, Woodend ordered more drinks.

  ‘So what do you make of our new lad?’ he asked Paniatowski.

  ‘When you told me over the phone that he was on the case, I was annoyed,’ Monika admitted. ‘I didn’t like the idea of bringing in somebody green – somebody who had no idea of how we work.’

  So it’s ‘us’ again, is it? Woodend thought. The way we work.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t say I’m impressed by the fact that he’s still so tied to his mother’s apron strings that he has to dash off home well before closing time,’ Paniatowski continued. ‘But, despite that, I think I rather like him.’