Thicker Than Water

by Sally Spencer

  ‘It’s best to leave it as it is,’ she said, heading for the door.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he called after her. ‘I know you.’

  She froze. ‘A lot of people think they know me, but it turns out to have been someone else entirely,’ she said.

  ‘No, no,’ persisted Robert – or Nigel, or whatever else his bloody name really was. ‘It’s been bothering me, on and off, all evening, and I’ve only just pinned it down. It was some years ago, I admit, but we were introduced in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.’

  She remembered him now – grey morning suit, top hat, surrounded by other equally insignificant members of his over-privileged, inbred tribe. He’d even tried to pick her up, she recalled, though at least he’d had the wit to hold off on his crude manoeuvring until Her Majesty the Queen had left the Enclosure.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ she said.

  ‘I think I can even remember your name. Yes, I’m almost sure I can. Aren’t you Lady …?’

  ‘My real name’s Colleen Beresford – and I’ve never been south of Stoke-on-Trent,’ she interrupted him.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ he said. ‘I could have sworn …’

  ‘Well, you’d have been wrong.’

  She stepped out of the room and walked quickly to the end of the corridor. She did not wait for the lift, but took the stairs.

  Her car was in the hotel car park, and as she slid her key into the ignition she checked her beeper and saw that she had been called several times, the last of those calls being nearly an hour ago.

  ‘Shit!’ she said.

  Then she slammed her car into gear and wondered where she could find a secluded lay-by in which she could consign Zelda to the leather bag in the boot of her car.

  The ambulance had taken the mortal remains of Jane Danbury to the mortuary, and the houses the length and breadth of Milliners’ Row were already being canvassed in the hopes that one of the neighbours had actually seen something that had occurred beyond the walls of his private fortress.

  ‘Where are those bloody people from the social services?’ Paniatowski demanded, as she, Flowers and Beresford stood in the hallway, close to the spiral staircase.

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am,’ Flowers admitted.

  Paniatowski turned to Beresford. ‘When all this over, I want you to remind me to pay social services a visit – and when I do, I’ll not be leaving again until I’ve got somebody’s balls on a silver platter,’ she said.

  ‘You need to calm down, boss,’ Beresford counselled.

  ‘Those children should be being looked after by someone competent by now,’ Paniatowski exploded. ‘None of what’s happened is their fault, and they need protecting.’

  But she knew that Beresford was right, and she forced herself to take several deep breaths.

  There was a sudden disturbance at the front door, and a large man in a smart blue suit burst in, followed by two uniformed officers.

  ‘This is my house,’ the man bellowed, ‘and I’ll enter it any time I bloody well feel like it.’

  Paniatowski stepped into the centre of the hallway, blocking the access to the stairs.

  ‘Councillor Danbury?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes – and who the hell are you?’

  ‘DCI Paniatowski. I wonder if you could …’

  ‘I want to see my boys,’ Danbury said. ‘Don’t you understand that, you stupid bitch? I want to see them right now!’

  ‘Given the state you’re in at the moment, Councillor Danbury, I don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ Paniatowski said, ignoring the insult. ‘Perhaps when you’ve had a little time to cool off …’

  Danbury strode furiously towards her. ‘Get out of my way,’ he shouted. ‘Get out of my way before I knock you out of my way.’

  Paniatowski held her ground, and Danbury came to a reluctant halt, just a foot from her.

  ‘I’ve told you to get out of my way,’ he said – and now his voice was lower and much colder.

  ‘I’m afraid I simply won’t allow you to go up those stairs,’ Paniatowski told him.

  Danbury turned his attention to Beresford, and said in a tone which could almost have been described as reasonable, ‘Do me a favour, old chap, and talk some sense into this cretinous woman.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Why not, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Because firstly, she’s the boss, and secondly, she’s right – you shouldn’t see the kids the state you’re in.’

  Danbury snorted. ‘She’s the boss,’ he repeated in disgust. ‘She’s the boss and so you let her lead you round by the nose. Just what kind of a man are you?’

  ‘I’m going to have to insist that you leave the house immediately, Councillor Danbury,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘You’re going to have to do what?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  If Danbury had sent out any signal – physical or mental – of what was about to follow, she would have employed the considerable skills she’d acquired during her judo training to ward him off. But he gave no indication at all. Instead, he shrugged, and half-turned towards the door.

  ‘Please believe me, Councillor Danbury, as soon as we judge it reasonable for you to see your children, we’ll arrange it,’ Paniatowski said.

  Danbury swung round and slapped her across her face with the palm of his hand. He was a big man, the blow was delivered with some force, and Paniatowski might well have collapsed unaided if she’d been given the opportunity.

  But Danbury wasn’t prepared to wait for that. He took another step towards her, grasped her by the shoulder and pushed. For a second, she tottered unsteadily, then her legs gave way. As she hit the floor, she was conscious of Danbury stepping over her.

  Danbury already had his foot on the first step when his chin came into contact with Colin Beresford’s fist. He turned, his face blazing with anger and pain, and Beresford punched him again, this time in the stomach.

  The two uniformed constables, who had been watching the whole scene in stunned disbelief, snapped out of their trance, stepped forward and grabbed Danbury before he joined Paniatowski on the floor.

  With both his arms restrained and his belly on fire, Danbury looked up at Beresford.

  ‘I’ll have your job for this,’ he said, speaking with difficulty. ‘And as for you, bitch …’ he inclined his head as far towards Paniatowski as the situation allowed him, ‘… you need taming – and I’m just the man to do it.’

  ‘Lock him up in the back of one of the patrol cars,’ Beresford said. He bent down next to Paniatowski. ‘How are you, boss?’ he asked, as the two constables half-assisted, half-dragged Danbury to the front door.

  ‘I can’t believe I let that happen,’ Paniatowski groaned.

  ‘You didn’t let anything happen,’ Beresford assured her. ‘If I give you some help, do you think you can stand up?’

  ‘I’d better be able to,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’ve still got a murder to investigate.’

  Beresford assisted her to her feet.

  ‘You’re going to have a prize-winning bruise in the morning,’ he said, examining her cheek. ‘I think we should get it checked out right away.’

  ‘I’ll be fine once I’ve had a cigarette,’ Paniatowski insisted. She raised her hand and massaged her jaw. ‘You shouldn’t have hit him like that, you know.’

  ‘I needed to subdue him, and I employed “reasonable force”,’ Beresford protested.

  Paniatowski grinned.

  A pain shot up her jawbone.

  ‘Yes, reasonable force,’ she repeated. ‘And if it comes to it, I’ll swear blind before the chief constable, the review board and God Almighty Himself that that’s just what it was. But you and I both know that there were other – less violent – ways you could have done it.’

  ‘He hurt you, Monika,’ Beresford said, with feeling, ‘and I wanted to hurt him back. In fact, he should count himself bloody lucky I didn’t kill him.’

  One of the constable
s who’d been posted outside the bedrooms came down the stairs, looking flustered.

  ‘One of the little lads has woken up, ma’am,’ he said. ‘He’s calling out for his mother. I don’t know what to do with him.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Paniatowski said, wishing the ache in her jaw would go away.

  Climbing the stairs was a real effort, and there was a moment on the landing when she thought she would faint, but somehow she made it to the bedroom. As she sank gratefully to her knees next to the bed, she told herself that getting up again might well present something of a problem, but she would worry about that later.

  The boy in the bed had a roundish, concerned face and troubled eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Monika,’ she said. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Simon. Where’s Mummy?’

  ‘Mummy’s not feeling very well, and has had to go to hospital,’ Paniatowski said gently.

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Simon asked.

  ‘We’ll have to wait until we hear what the doctors have to say,’ Paniatowski answered, dodging the bullet.

  ‘I thought I heard Daddy’s voice,’ the boy said. ‘He was shouting. Daddy shouts a lot, you know.’

  ‘It was probably just a bad dream,’ Paniatowski lied. ‘Listen, Simon, we’re going to have to talk about what happens next. How old are you?’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘And how old are your brother and sister?’

  ‘Charles is five and Melanie is two.’

  ‘So that makes you the oldest, doesn’t it? The responsible one? The one whose job it is to look after the other two?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Simon said uncertainly.

  ‘Well, in a few minutes, you’re going to have to prove just how responsible you are, because some nice people will be coming to pick you up and take you somewhere else for the night.’

  ‘Why?’

  Paniatowski laughed. ‘Well, silly, because your mummy is poorly and your daddy isn’t here, and even a big boy like you can’t be expected to stay in a house without any grown-ups, now can he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon said.

  ‘Anyway,’ Paniatowski ploughed on, ‘your little brother and sister will probably be quite upset, but they won’t be half as upset if you tell them everything’s going to be all right. Could you do that for me?’

  ‘I … I think so.’

  ‘Good boy,’ Paniatowski said encouragingly.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ Simon asked.

  ‘My face?’

  ‘You’ve got a big mark on it.’

  Paniatowski laughed again. ‘Oh that. I’m such a silly that I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I walked into a door.’

  ‘Mummy’s always walking into doors,’ Simon said.

  The senior social worker was called Mrs Atherton, and she was a thin, troubled-looking woman in her mid-forties, with nicotine-stained fingers and fingernails which had been chewed down to the quick. Paniatowski wondered whether the hands were testament to the fact that she couldn’t handle her job, or if they were an indication that she took her job so seriously that it was slowly killing her. It was possible, she decided, that it was both.

  Mrs Atherton was accompanied by two members of her staff, one male and one female, who were considerably younger – and far less careworn – than she was.

  ‘I’m sorry we took so long,’ Mrs Atherton said. ‘It wasn’t easy to find accommodation for three children – especially at this time of night.’ She read the look of scepticism on Paniatowski’s face, and added, ‘I didn’t want to split them up. I thought it was important that they stayed together as a family, so I had to look for a unit that would take all three.’

  Paniatowski felt all the anger that had been building up inside her begin to drain away.

  ‘I think that was the right approach to take,’ she said. ‘The children are upstairs. The oldest one woke up a while ago, but he’s dropped off again now. We haven’t had a peep out of the other two.’

  ‘I’ll take one of the boys, and you can take the other, Toby. Olivia, I’d like you to handle the little girl,’ Mrs Atherton said to her team. She turned her attention back to Paniatowski. ‘You said the children are still upstairs?’

  ‘That’s right. There’s a constable posted outside each of their doors.’

  ‘Then let’s do it,’ Mrs Atherton said.

  As she watched them walk up the broad staircase, Paniatowski found her heart going out to little Simon, who, sooner or later, would have to be told that he didn’t have a mother any more.

  She wondered if her own twins were missing her, or if they had already accepted Elena Lopez, her new live-in nanny-cum-housekeeper, as a reasonable substitute. Half of her hoped they had, but the other half knew she would be devastated if the six months of care she had given them had meant so little to them.

  No one had been expecting the scream.

  And why would they have been expecting it?

  There should have been no need for anybody to scream in a house full of police officers.

  To those standing in the hall, it was quite faint at first – almost no more than the rumour of a scream – and then, suddenly, it was louder, like the wailing of a demented banshee.

  There was no need to ask where it was coming from, Paniatowski thought, as she ran up the stairs, two at a time.

  There was pandemonium on the landing.

  Olivia, the younger social worker, was clinging to one of the constables for support. She had stopped screaming now, and was sobbing loudly into the officer’s shoulder.

  Mrs Atherton, holding Simon in her arms, was doing her best to comfort the boy.

  And a second constable was standing in the doorway of Melanie’s bedroom, visibly shaken.

  ‘I think … I think you’d better see this, ma’am,’ he said.

  Someone – presumably Olivia the social worker – had turned back the bedclothes so that Melanie could be gently lifted out of the bed – which would have been a good plan, if the girl had actually been in the bed.

  But she wasn’t.

  Instead, there were two pillows, placed in the centre of the bed to resemble the shape of a sleeping child. And one of those pillows was heavily stained with what looked like blood.

  TWO

  Melanie Danbury’s disappearance created a tidal wave of activity that swept through Whitebridge police headquarters and would, by morning, have engulfed the whole community.

  Knowledge of her disappearance was not ten minutes old when the first police check-point was set up on Preston Road.

  Within fifteen minutes of the discovery, uniformed constables were knocking on doors, and off-duty officers had been rung up and told to report immediately to their stations.

  It was less than twenty minutes before commanders of neighbouring divisions were examining their rosters to see how tightly they could be squeezed, and how many men they could liberate for the search for the little girl.

  A mere twenty-five minutes after the social worker’s scream had first alerted the people in the house on Milliners’ Row that something had gone very badly wrong, the night-time producer at North Western Television was already putting together the news item which would inform the wider world of the potential tragedy, while the newsreader himself was down in the costumes department, selecting a more sombre tie.

  And through the minds of all those involved in this process ran a single thought – the unthinkable had happened, and something had to be done.

  Fred Southgate was one of the first civilians to feel the impact of this tidal wave, and it came in the form of a loud banging on his bedsit door as he was making his night-time cocoa.

  ‘Who is it?’ he asked, a tremble already evident in his voice.

  ‘Police! Open up!’

  Southgate padded over to the door, opened it, and saw a police sergeant and a constable standing in the hallway.

  ‘What is it this time?’ he asked wearil
y.

  The sergeant, a family man, took a step backwards, in order to get a better look at him.

  Southgate was wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown of artificial silk, he noted. He was a tall, almost gangly man, and though he couldn’t have been much over fifty, he had silky white hair and watery eyes. He looked like a kindly bookkeeper, the sergeant decided, and though it was true that he had once been a bookkeeper, there was nothing in the least kindly about the bastard.

  ‘Step back into your room,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Have you got a warrant?’ Southgate asked.

  ‘Step back into the bloody room now!’

  Reluctantly, Southgate did as he was told, and the sergeant followed.

  The constable was about to do the same, when the sergeant said, ‘You stay where you are, son,’ and closed the door behind him.

  The sound of the door clicking shut was one of the scariest sounds that Southgate had heard in a long time, and he started to tremble.

  ‘I want that constable who’s standing outside to come in here,’ he said. ‘I want him as a witness.’

  ‘Well, tough,’ the sergeant said unsympathetically. ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘I’ve got rights,’ Southgate whined.

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ the sergeant told him. ‘You lost any rights you may once have had when you took that little girl into the woods.’

  ‘I did my time for that,’ Southgate said. ‘I served fifteen years in Strangeways.’

  ‘And then they made the big mistake of letting you out,’ the sergeant said. ‘Where were you tonight, you scumbag, you piece of filth?’

  Southgate folded his arms across his chest. ‘I don’t have to answer your questions,’ he said, weakly defiant.

  The sergeant slapped him. It was an expertly judged slap – hard enough to hurt and make Southgate rock slightly, but not with enough force to knock him off his feet or leave a mark that would be visible an hour later.

  ‘Where were you tonight?’ the sergeant repeated.

  ‘I was here,’ Southgate said, starting to cry. ‘Where else would I be? I’m not welcome in the pubs, and even if I was, I’ve got no money to spend because I haven’t got a job.’