A Walk With the Dead

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’ve been doing no more than give them a little tap with a toffee hammer.’ Paniatowski lit up a cigarette. ‘Are you with me yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One Saturday afternoon – probably two or three weeks ago – you were in the park, spouting out your venom as usual, when you happened to notice two young girls. And it was immediately plain to you that they were more than just friends – they were lovers. You do remember them, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course you do. You saw them, but you were too cowardly – too afraid of going back to Strangeways – to do anything about it. Now that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  There were no witnesses, and if he kept denying it, she had nothing, Paniatowski told herself miserably.

  And then a thought that she’d been keeping locked away in the back of her mind escaped, and galloped into the forefront – and that thought was that maybe he was denying it because he hadn’t done it!

  ‘Let’s move on to last Saturday,’ she suggested. ‘You were standing in your usual place, but the park was emptying, and even you are not crazy enough to carry on preaching when there’s nobody there to ignore you. So you were just about to call it a day when you suddenly saw one of the girls again – and this time she was alone. Isn’t that what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And it not only enraged you that she was there at all, but that she was wearing a crimson top – like some kind of whore.’

  ‘The top was yellow,’ Horrocks said.

  ‘Thank God!’ Paniatowski gasped silently.

  ‘What was that you said?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You said the top she was wearing was yellow.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘It’s down on tape, Bill,’ Paniatowski said, pointing to the recorder.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Recording suspended at twelve oh seven p.m.,’ Paniatowski said.

  She stopped the tape, wound it back a little, and pressed down the replay button.

  ‘And it not only enraged you that she was there at all, but that she was wearing a crimson top – like some kind of whore,’ said a voice which was a little tinny, but clearly her own.

  ‘The top was yellow,’ said a second voice, which equally clearly belonged to Horrocks.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, when she’d restarted the recording.

  ‘I didn’t see her last Saturday,’ Horrocks said. ‘She was wearing that top the other time I saw her – with the other girl.’

  ‘I thought you said you hadn’t seen her with the other girl.’

  ‘I did see them – I just forgot.’

  ‘I know for a fact that, until last Saturday, she never wore that top unless she was out with her aunt,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes. You saw the girl in the yellow top all by herself, and you asked God what to do. And God replied that this time you should show her no mercy. This time, you shouldn’t just beat her up – you should kill her! And so you did, didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t you even want to kill her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you didn’t do it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So God gave you a direct command – kill this demon, this spawn of Satan – and you disobeyed Him! You’re a real coward, aren’t you, Bill. You’re worse than any of the sinners who’ll end up burning in the pits of hell for all eternity.’

  Horrocks’ lip trembled, and for a moment it looked almost as if he would burst into tears.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ he said weakly.

  ‘It’s exactly like that,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘If you didn’t obey the Lord’s command, then you are a coward and a sinner. There’s simply no other way of looking at it.’

  Horrocks lowered his head. ‘I did it,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You did what?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Spell it out clearly for me, William.’

  ‘I saw the girl in the yellow top in the park,’ Horrocks said. ‘I knew why she was there. When she went into the bushes, I followed her.’

  ‘And then what did you do?’

  ‘I grabbed hold of her throat, and I strangled her.’

  THIRTEEN

  Things were slowly starting to take a turn for the better, George Baxter thought, as he walked along the corridor towards his afternoon appointment with the governor. True, his wife was still refusing to speak to him after spotting his car in Whitebridge. And true, he was still groping in the dark as far as this particular investigation went. But at least the other big concern had been cleaned up – at least Monika Paniatowski had come through on her promise and made an arrest in the Jill Harris case.

  He found the governor sitting at his desk. He was not alone, but then, since he’d had forewarning of this meeting, it was only to be expected that he’d have invited his pet Rottweiler along.

  ‘You don’t have any objection to Chief Officer Jeffries sitting in on this conversation, do you?’ the governor asked.

  ‘No objection at all,’ Baxter replied. ‘Even if he wasn’t here, I expect you’d tell him everything I’d said the moment I’d gone.’

  ‘Err . . . yes, I like to keep my staff informed,’ the governor said awkwardly. ‘You told my secretary that you had a request you wanted to make, didn’t you?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Baxter countered. ‘I told her that I had something I needed you to arrange for me.’

  ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’ the governor asked.

  ‘No,’ Baxter replied. ‘The former means you have a choice in the matter, the latter means you don’t.’

  ‘You’re sounding rather belligerent today,’ the governor said.

  ‘Excellent,’ Baxter said. ‘That’s just the tone I was aiming at. And before you ask why I’m sounding belligerent, I’ll tell you – it’s because I’m tired of being buggered about.’

  ‘My staff have been most cooperative,’ the governor protested. ‘They’ve given you everything that you’ve asked for.’

  ‘That’s true of the kitchen staff, certainly,’ Baxter agreed. ‘If I ask for an egg, they give me an egg. If I ask for a sausage, there it is on my plate right away. But the prison officers are another matter. They give me what they want me to see – and no more.’

  Wilton sighed. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that,’ he said. ‘What is it in particular than you want this afternoon?’

  ‘I want you to arrange for me to see one of the inmates.’

  ‘Ah, perhaps you wish to see life from the prisoners’ perspective,’ the governor guessed. ‘Well, I’m sure that Chief Officer Jeffries can select an inmate who is both intelligent enough and articulate enough to . . .’

  ‘I want to see Lennie Greene,’ Baxter said.

  ‘Lennie Greene?’ the governor repeated.

  He turned to his chief officer for some guidance. He seemed to do that a great deal.

  ‘Leonard Arthur Greene is serving a long sentence for – among other things – blinding a police officer, and he’s probably the most dangerous man in this prison,’ Jeffries said.

  ‘Are you sure that’s true?’ Baxter asked, sounding slightly puzzled. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not doubting that he was very dangerous man when he was on the outside, but I’ve looked at his record . . .’

  ‘You’ve looked at his record?’ Jeffries asked, flushing. ‘Who the bloody hell gave you permission to do that?’

  ‘Nobody gave me permission,’ Baxter replied. ‘I asked your records officer for the file, and he immediately handed it over to me. You see, he, at least, seems to have grasped one simple fact that has quite eluded you, Mr Jeffries – and that fact is that I don’t need permission.’

  It was the turn of the chief officer to turn to the governor for support, but Wilton only shrugged.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Baxt
er’s quite right, Mr Jeffries,’ he said weakly. ‘Under the terms of his Home Office remit, he is granted access to anything he considers pertinent.’

  ‘As I was saying, I’ve looked at his record, and it seems he’s never been in trouble while he’s been serving his time in Dunston,’ Baxter continued. ‘In fact, he could be said to have an exemplary record.’

  Jeffries shook his head at Baxter’s naivety.

  ‘You really have no idea how prisons work, do you?’ he asked contemptuously. ‘Of course Greene has an exemplary record. Of course he hasn’t put a foot wrong while he’s been here. That’s because he gets some other lag to do his dirty work for him.’

  ‘So if he wanted Jeremy Templar beaten up, for example, he’d get another prisoner to do it?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Jeffries admitted. ‘And if you want my opinion, it’s more than likely that he was behind the attacks.’

  ‘Then it’s strange you never mentioned it before,’ Baxter said.

  ‘I didn’t see any point in mentioning it before,’ Jeffries countered. ‘If Greene is behind the attacks, he’s not going to admit it to you, is he? Besides, we can’t force him to even talk to you, and I’d be more than surprised if he agrees to.’

  ‘He’ll agree,’ Baxter said confidently, ‘and the reason he’ll agree is because I’ve got something that he wants.’

  ‘You really think you can bribe a prison kingpin like Greene with an ounce or two of snout?’ Jeffries asked, the contempt in his voice thicker than ever.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Baxter replied. ‘But, as I’ve said, I’ve read his file – and I know I can offer him something he’ll value much more than tobacco.’

  ‘I thought you couldn’t show any more ignorance of how things work than you already have, but you’ve exceeded yourself this time,’ Jeffries said. ‘There is nothing a prisoner values more than snout. It’s just like money behind bars – it’s what greases the wheels.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that,’ Baxter said.

  ‘And in prison terms, Greene’s already a millionaire, so just what is it that you think you can offer him that he can’t get for himself?’

  ‘I can offer him knowledge,’ Baxter said.

  As Jack Crane made his way towards Liz Duffy’s flat, he was reflecting on the lunchtime victory celebration that the team had held in the Drum and Monkey. It should, on the experience of previous such celebrations, have been a monumental – and boisterous – piss up. All the components had certainly been in place – the murderer had been charged, the case was closed – yet somehow it had never hit quite the right note, and when the boss had suggested, quite early, that they call it a day, the rest of the team had agreed immediately.

  Maybe the problem was that the case had been too straightforward, he thought. A girl had been killed, an obvious suspect had presented himself to them, and a confession had been extracted. There’d been none of the twists and turns they’d had to untangle in some of their other investigations – and that meant there was little scope for congratulating themselves on just how clever they’d been when it was all over. In fact, they had all been left with the vague suspicion that even PC Plod could have cracked this particular case.

  He was almost at Liz Duffy’s garden flat when the butterflies started in his stomach.

  Nerves?

  No, it couldn’t be!

  He must have eaten something that was upsetting him.

  Yet the closer he got to the door, the more furiously the butterflies flapped their wings.

  This was ridiculous, he thought. He was a grown man – a grown policeman, who’d just been involved in an unpleasant murder investigation – and he didn’t get an attack of nerves at the mere thought of visiting a woman. The callow youth that he’d been during his first few weeks at Oxford – a boy who’d only recently said goodbye to adolescent pimples – might have stood on a girl’s doorstep, a bunch of flowers in his hand, and wondered how he could avoid the biological urge to dash straight to the toilet the moment he was admitted, but the Jack Crane that he was now had left all that far behind him.

  He looked down at his hand, and was almost surprised to see it clutching a bunch of red roses. He considered his stomach, and decided it would be demanding a visit to the loo quite soon.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ he said aloud.

  He took a deep breath, and knocked firmly on the door.

  When Liz answered, he took a second breath. She was wearing a kaftan like the ones she had worn when they were at college together – it may even have been one of those old kaftans – and she seemed to him to be absolutely beautiful.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she said.

  And he had, he thought – and not just the ghost of a person, but the ghost of a life.

  ‘Anyway, I’m glad you could make it after all,’ Liz said. She looked down at his hand. ‘You’ve brought me flowers!’

  ‘Yes,’ Crane said, glancing at the hand himself, and noticing that his knuckles were almost white.

  Liz laughed. ‘Well, you’d better give them to me before you choke the life out of them,’ she said.

  So she’d noticed the white knuckles too, Crane thought. Well, she was a doctor.

  He held out the flowers stiffly, and she took them from him, turned around, and walked down the hall.

  ‘Don’t just stand there in the doorway – come inside,’ she said, over her shoulder.

  He followed her into the living room.

  ‘I’ll just put these in water,’ Liz said, heading for the kitchen.

  With some relief, Crane noted that his stomach seemed to have settled down. He looked around him, and his eyes immediately rested on the two framed posters on the wall, one the iconic Che Guevara photograph, another advertising the Magdalen College May Ball.

  Liz returned, holding a cut-glass vase in which she had artistically arranged the roses. She saw him looking at the posters, and laughed self-consciously.

  ‘I know it’s foolish of me to keep those old mementos, but they were happy times,’ she said.

  She was right, he agreed silently. They’d been happy times, and – despite the fact that they’d all considered themselves to be sophisticated free spirits – they had been strangely innocent times, too.

  ‘What do you think of the fireplace?’ Liz asked expectantly.

  Drawn fully into the world of the posters, he hadn’t even noticed it, but now – since it seemed important to her – he gave it his full attention.

  It was a large fireplace for such a relatively modest flat, and it was tiled in pink granite. A thick – and obviously expensive – rug – had been laid in front of it, and three small logs blazed merrily in the grate.

  ‘It’s very nice,’ he said.

  ‘It was what really sold this place to me,’ Liz told him. ‘I love an open fire – they’re so romantic.’

  ‘And do you light it every night?’ he asked.

  She laughed. ‘Of course not. Who has the time? Most nights, I rely on the boring old central heating. But I do like it for special occasions.’

  ‘And is this a special occasion?’ Crane asked, before he could stop himself.

  ‘Yes, it’s . . .’ Liz began – and then seemed unsure of how to continue. ‘It’s . . . it’s bound to be special occasion when two old friends meet up after so long apart, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Crane agreed, grateful that at least one of them seemed capable of keeping things on the right track.

  It was a quiet night in the Prince Albert Bar of the Royal Victoria Hotel, and that was just as well, thought Harry, the head barman, because when there was trouble, you didn’t want a lot of people around.

  Not that there had been any actual trouble yet, admittedly, but Harry had been in the business long enough to see it coming, and knew that the blonde woman who had been sitting at the far end of the bar for over an hour was a ticking bomb.

  As he polished a half-pint glass, he found himself wondering just what her proble
m was.

  Her marriage, probably, he decided.

  Most of the people who created difficulties in the Prince Albert had marriage problems – the women because they thought their husbands were playing away from home, and the men because they thought their wives suspected that that was exactly what they were doing.

  ‘Harry!’ the woman called, rather too loudly.

  With a sigh, the barman made his way reluctantly over to where she was sitting. ‘Yes, madam?’

  ‘I’d like another G and T.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the barman asked. ‘You’ve had four already.’

  And they weren’t your first drinks of the day either, he added mentally.

  The woman swayed slightly on her stool. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I asked you if you were sure you wanted another one.’

  The woman rested her elbows heavily on the bar – perhaps to show how displeased she was, perhaps only to ensure her stability.

  ‘Here’s how it works,’ she said, slurring slightly. ‘I’m the customer, and you’re the barman. I tell you what it is that I want, and you go and get it for me. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Harry replied.

  It was difficult to know whether or not he was doing the right thing, he thought, as he held the glass hesitantly under the optic. On the one hand, he didn’t want to piss off the wife of a man of some local importance, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to piss off the man himself, by sending his wife home drunk. Then he remembered that the man in question was out of town at that moment, and – with a shrug – pushed the glass upwards and let gravity do the rest.

  It was as he was using the tongs to pick up a slice of lemon that the woman said, ‘Are you married, Harry?’

  He sighed for a second time, and wondered why these dreary discussions always had to follow the same well-trodden route.

  ‘Yes, I am married, as a matter of fact,’ he said, using the tongs to extract some ice from the bucket.

  ‘Do you ever find yourself wondering if your wife married you on the rebound?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Not really,’ the barman said.