Death in Disguise

by Sally Spencer

  Am I a parasite – a miner of human misery – as the man at JFK suggested I was?

  Am I a seeker of truth – an uncoverer of secrets that have been long hidden?

  Am I worthy – or just greedy?

  I don’t know – I really, honestly don’t – but perhaps the answer lies somewhere out there, behind the abandoned mills and the decaying chimneys.

  If they knew what I was doing, my friends back in Manhattan would say that I was a fool.

  But do I care what they think?

  And are they really my friends – or just the friends of the woman I am trying to leave behind me?

  There are times when I myself think I am a fool, because only a fool would take such risks – would gamble so much on an uncertain future. And yet I know that I have no choice in the matter – know that if I had carried on as I was, I would have begun slowly dying from the inside.

  FOUR

  March 14th 1978

  Paniatowski had imagined that once the twins had begun to take a more active part in life – thoroughly examining every inch of the carpet in the search for things to put in their mouths, for example – they would sleep more.

  ‘Which just shows how little you know about bringing up kids,’ she told herself ruefully.

  In point of fact, they seemed to be waking up earlier with each successive day, and she was happy they did – because, though it meant she got less sleep than ever, she was able to spend more time with them.

  That morning, after turning down Elena’s offer of help, she had bathed them, changed their nappies, and explained to them the possible complexities of the Mary Edwards’ case in an experimental baby language (she really was trying to be a conventional mum) that her team would not have been able to follow but her children seemed to find acceptable enough. Finally, she placed them on the floor, and instructed them, in a stern mummy voice, to entertain themselves in ways which would not inevitably lead to her having to perform a Heimlich manoeuvre. Her conscience clear – for at least three minutes – she turned on the television at low volume for the local news, and forced herself to eat a bowl of the revolting muck that her adopted daughter Louisa insisted would provide her with much-needed fibre.

  As she ate, she kept glancing down at her babies. The twins were the product of a brutal act which had more to do with power and fear than with sex, and though Paniatowski’s newly rediscovered religious convictions had not allowed her to have them aborted, she had never really believed that she would love them.

  But she did. She loved them so much that she knew it would kill her if anything happened to one of them.

  And yet …

  And yet sometimes, as she fondly watched them constantly discovering new aspects of life beyond the cradle, she found herself wondering if she had made the right decision – wondered if they had in them a seed of evil which would grow as they grew, and would one day be unleashed on an unsuspecting world.

  She wouldn’t let it happen, she promised herself. Her church taught her that God was merciful and love would overcome all – and her faith commanded her to accept that.

  So why, when she caught a certain look in Thomas’s eye, or saw Philip snatch something away from his brother’s hand, did she feel a shudder run through her whole body?

  Would she have felt like that if dear sweet Colin Beresford had been their father?

  Was she seeing things which were perfectly normal and putting a dark interpretation on them?

  She could not wish she had never had her twins – but she sometimes wished she had never gone into the woods that night.

  Best not to think about it!

  Best to watch the news, especially since the screen was now filled with the image of the Royal Victoria hotel, making it likely that the police appeal would be next.

  The picture of Mary Edwards in her Mousy Mary persona appeared on the screen.

  ‘This woman, believed to be called Mary Edwards, was found dead in a Whitebridge hotel yesterday,’ the newsreader said. ‘Anyone who has information on the whereabouts and activities in the last two weeks should contact the police immediately at the number now showing on the screen.’

  Paniatowski nodded her head with satisfaction. She and the news editor had carefully worked out the wording between them, and the result was just what she had wanted – a message which gave just enough information to underline the seriousness of the inquiry, but contained little to inflame the sensation junkies who lived for this kind of shit.

  Louisa walked into the lounge, dressed in her school uniform.

  Three more months, and then she’ll never wear it again, Paniatowski thought, perhaps a little sadly.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she said aloud.

  ‘I’ve got a study group before class,’ Louisa replied.

  Yes, three more months, and Louisa would have the choice of going to university (several of which had already expressed a keen interest in her) or becoming a police cadet (which was what she had had her heart set on for years). Paniatowski had no intention of trying to stop her exercising the latter option, but prayed nightly that she would change her mind and plump for the former.

  Louisa gave both of her stepbrothers a cuddle, then sat down at the table opposite her mother and ate, with obvious relish, some of the muck she’d made her mother eat.

  When she’d emptied her bowl, she looked up said, ‘I’m a little bit worried about Elena.’

  ‘Why?’ Paniatowski asked, alarmed. ‘Isn’t she looking after the twins properly?’

  ‘No, it’s not that – she’s doing a marvellous job, but, you see, I feel responsible for her.’

  Paniatowski did her best to hide her smile. She could see where the idea came from, even though Elena was a good three years older than Louisa. The Spanish girl came from the village where Louisa’s family had their roots, and it had been while reconnecting with those roots that the two had met. And yes, it had been Louisa who suggested Elena as a nanny when Paniatowski had unexpectedly become pregnant, but even so …

  ‘I think we’re exploiting her,’ Louisa said bluntly.

  ‘Do you?’ Paniatowski asked, surprised. ‘I pay her much more than she could ever earn in her village.’

  And rather more than I can really afford, she added mentally.

  ‘Yes,’ Louisa agreed, ‘but we’re not doing anything much to help her get on in life.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘She could enrol in a few evening classes at the technical college. I’ve been down there myself, and there are several courses which might be useful to her when she eventually goes home.’

  ‘And if she was down at the technical college, who would look after the twins when I have to work late?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘What about your own studying – I’m not having that suffer.’

  ‘Come on, Mum, we both know that if I took the exams today, I’d pass with flying colours.’

  ‘Ah, but if you really believe that, why do you need to go to study sessions before school starts?’ Paniatowski asked, then sat back and waited for Louisa’s attempt to counter her logic.

  ‘I don’t need them – but I’m the head girl, and I think I should set an example for those who do by going myself,’ Louisa said.

  Paniatowski shook her head in wonder.

  ‘When did you become so middle-aged?’ she asked, half-humorously.

  ‘Years ago,’ Louisa said. She grinned. ‘Let’s face it, Mum, there needs to be at least one adult in this house, and since you’re clearly not up to the job …’

  ‘Cheeky devil,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do – I’ll ask Elena if she wants to study in the evening, but I’m not going to force her.’

  ‘Perfect!’ Louisa said. She stood up, kissed Paniatowski on the forehead, and headed for the door. ‘Got to run. I love you, Mum.’

  ‘And I love you,’ Paniatowski said – but by then Louisa was already in the hallway.

  As the front door clo
sed, Philip suddenly started crying. Paniatowski picked him up, rested his head on her shoulder, and began to gently massage his back.

  ‘What’s the matter, my little darling,’ she cooed. ‘Is it wind?’

  And through her head ran a prayer which she had not consciously composed, but which seemed to have written itself.

  ‘Please let nurture overcome nature in my babies. Please let them be a joy to me – and not a curse.’

  Largely as a result of having to care for his mother when she had developed early-onset Alzheimer’s disease, Colin Beresford had not lost his virginity until he was in his early thirties. Since then, he had been making up for lost time, and when he had learned that his nickname around headquarters was Shagger Beresford, he’d been over the moon about it.

  And hadn’t he the perfect right to be over the moon? he’d asked himself at the time.

  Wasn’t it only fair that a man who had carried his virginity around as a heavy, guilty secret for so many years should finally come into his own?

  Now, increasingly, he was coming to see the nickname as a curse, rather than as an accolade. He did not want to be remembered as the man who had slept with the largest number of attractive girls in Whitebridge – though that was an ambition he was still pursuing relentlessly – but rather as a bobby who, while he never rose above the rank of detective inspector, had been a bloody good detective inspector.

  These thoughts flashed through his mind as he mounted the podium which had last seen use at a regional awards ceremony for DigRight garden implements salesmen.

  He looked down at the rows of detective constables, each with his own small desk and telephone.

  ‘Welcome to the Royal Victoria Hotel ballroom,’ he said. ‘Will you all please take your partners for the invitation foxtrot.’

  The line got him a laugh, but then he was an inspector, so that was almost guaranteed.

  ‘You’ll get a lot of calls this morning, and most of them will be a complete bloody waste of time,’ he continued. ‘That’s why you’ve got your scripts – to help you to weed out the nutters from the genuine articles. The first thing that you’ll notice, at the top of your scripts, is a number of facts – that the dead woman had a tattoo, that she smoked Tareyton cigarettes (which are not available in this country) et cetera, et cetera.’

  Detective Constable Mark Simcox sat at the back of the ballroom, doodling what had started out as a series of random lines, but was rapidly becoming a sketch of Shagger Beresford. He was pretty good at drawing, he thought. Actually, he was pretty good at quite a lot of things, and while the others might need this talk, he certainly didn’t – because he could spot a fake at fifty paces.

  ‘If someone claims to have seen Mary Edwards, you might ask them if she was smoking,’ Beresford continued. ‘If he tells you that Mary was, you ask what brand. If he says he didn’t notice, that doesn’t necessarily mean he hasn’t seen her. If he says they were an American brand, but he can’t remember the name, that’s promising. If he can remember the name – and it’s the right name – you can move onto the next stage. But if he says they were Benson and Hedges Special Filter – and insists that’s what they were when you ask him a second time, then you’re on a hiding to nothing, because that’s what a lot of nutters do – fix on something real, insert it into their fantasy world, and stick to it like glue.’

  The sketch of Beresford was coming along rather well, DC Simcox thought. He particularly liked the fact that he had drawn the inspector’s head in the shape of a penis tip.

  ‘Once you’ve established that the caller is not a timewaster, you should go to the questions in the lower half of the page. They’re all basically “who”, “where”, “why” and “how” questions. They’re there to help you ask the caller the right things. What they are not is an instruction to be followed slavishly. You’ve all been trained to use your own judgement, so bloody well use it.’ Beresford paused. ‘Are there any questions?’

  None at all, DC Simcox thought. As far as he was concerned, the last fifteen minutes had been a complete waste of time.

  It had not been confirmed until the early evening that murder had been done in the Prince Alfred suite, and by then it had been too late for the guests to even contemplate changing hotels that night. The next morning was a different matter entirely, and by a quarter past eight – while the travelling salesmen were stuffing their faces with the Royal Vic’s complimentary breakfast – a fairly long queue of the more timid guests was already building up at the reception desk.

  The manager watched their departure without undue distress. He normally hated guests leaving, not because he was particularly hospitable – he tended to see them as figures on a balance sheet, rather than people – but because that meant empty rooms, and the battle to avoid under-occupancy (which head office regarded as the most obscene word in the English language) would have to begin again. This time, however, there would be no such battle, because there had been a stream of calls asking if there were any available rooms. He understood why his hotel had suddenly become so popular – the ghoulish instinct which lives in everyone was particularly close to the surface in these early-morning callers – but he did not care, and despised these potential guests only a little more than the ones who were in the process of abandoning him.

  The only dark cloud on his horizon was that he had had to cancel a booking he had taken for a conference of local small businesses, since the ballroom was occupied by Inspector Beresford’s lads. He wondered, briefly, if he should chance his arm and send a bill to police headquarters for loss of income. And then he thought of Sergeant Meadows, and decided it was not a good idea.

  Elena had taken charge of the children, and Paniatowski was just about to leave home when the call came through.

  It was Meadows.

  ‘We’ve dangled our bait in the water, and we’ve had our first nibble, boss,’ the sergeant said.

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘It was a man called Arthur Tyndale. He says that he’s a solicitor.’

  ‘Hi ho Silver, away!’ Paniatowski said, almost automatically.

  ‘What was that, boss?’

  ‘Sorry, Kate. Yes, he’s a solicitor, but he’s not just any old solicitor. We call him the Lone Ranger, because he rides the wide plains of Lancashire in his white Jaguar, supporting the underdog and fighting injustice wherever he encounters it. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him.’

  Although, now she came to think about it, she wasn’t really surprised at all, because Meadows hadn’t been in Mid Lancs that long, and she herself couldn’t remember seeing Tyndale in court for two or three years.

  ‘He sounds like an ambulance chaser to me,’ Meadows said.

  ‘Oh, he’s much more than that,’ Paniatowski said. ‘The man has an ego the size of a double-decker bus, but there’s a savage earnestness about him which terrifies most magistrates. And if the case gets as far as trial, he doesn’t brief the best barrister available – he briefs the barrister best able to present the argument that he’s come up with. You should see him in Crown Court – the judge is watching him, the jury is watching him, and defence counsel doesn’t dare make a move unless he raises an encouraging eyebrow.’

  ‘You’re talking as if you’ve come up against him yourself.’

  ‘I have – a couple of times.’

  ‘And what was the result?’

  ‘He got one client off, and the other was sent down.’

  ‘And was the one that he got off guilty?’

  ‘We thought so, but we also thought the convicted one was guilty, too – but he was released on appeal, in the light of new evidence.’ She reached into her handbag for her packet of cigarettes. ‘What does Tyndale want, anyway?’

  ‘He says he has some information about the murder. Do you want me to ring him, and tell him to report to headquarters?’

  ‘No, the Lone Ranger really doesn’t like being summoned. He’d turn up eventually, of course, but there’d be a lot of foot dragging bef
ore he did, and since his office is on my way to headquarters, I might as well do what he wants, and drop in on him.’

  Paniatowski paused for a moment to light a cigarette.

  Filthy habit, she told herself.

  ‘Anything else to report?’ she asked.

  ‘Shagger’s—’ Meadows began.

  ‘Kate!’ Paniatowski warned her.

  ‘Sorry, boss. Inspector Beresford’s got the incident room up and running – rather well, it seems to me – and there’s a whole bunch of uniforms on the streets, handing out pictures of Mousy Mary.’

  ‘Good,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Keep me informed.’

  ‘You’ve got it, boss.’

  George Clegg owned a television set, but he never switched it on now, because that would only have reminded him of the many happy evenings he’d spent in front of the screen with his beloved late wife, Ellie, and that would have made him feel the loss even more than usual.

  Thus, he did not catch the evening news bulletin which had shown the image of Mousy Mary.

  He didn’t take the evening paper, either, so it was not until his kindly next-door neighbour pushed his copy through the letterbox that George even realised that the woman calling herself Mary Edwards was dead.

  The effect on him was instantaneous. Pain shot through his left arm, and he felt a band tightening across his chest. He walked back – staggered back – to his kitchen, and plopped down helplessly in his armchair.

  She was dead; his head pounded.

  She was dead.

  That lively, beautiful girl who had visited him only a couple of days earlier had been murdered.

  He needed to talk to the police, he told himself – he needed to talk to them now.

  But now was not an option, because, feeling as he did, he’d never even make it to the front door.

  He wished he had a phone, but he and Ellie had never seen the need for one, because anyone they ever needed to talk to lived only a few doors up or down from their own home.