He was not alone. Standing close by – as he was always standing close by his boss unless he’d been sent on some specific mission – was Detective Sergeant Higgins.
Higgins’ nickname, back at headquarters, was Baby. This was not because he had smooth skin or innocent eyes – neither of those characteristics could have been ascribed to him – but because he was a baby rhino to his boss’s large adult. He had heard the nickname and guessed its origin, but it didn’t bother him. In fact, he was rather pleased that other people recognized how close he was to Dixon.
He didn’t love his boss – not in any sexual way, anyway – but he most certainly revered him. Dixon had plucked him out of the ranks and seen to it that he was promoted to sergeant, and all he asked in return was unquestioning devotion – which was fine with Higgins, because though he had long ago decided that he could never be a great man himself, he saw no reason why he couldn’t acquire a little of the greatness of others by brushing up against them.
Dixon looked around him – at the lush greenness of the early summer – then at his sergeant, who, if he didn’t know any better, he would say had been in a trance for the previous twenty minutes.
‘This certainly isn’t a case I would have chosen for myself, Sergeant Higgins,’ he said.
Higgins turned to him rather stiffly, like a robot which had just been reactivated.
‘No, boss, I don’t imagine it is,’ he agreed.
‘I see two possible pitfalls,’ Dixon continued. ‘The first is that we fail to make an arrest in this case – and if that happens, heads will roll.’
‘If it does turn out that way, they don’t necessarily have to be our heads,’ Higgins pointed out.
‘You mean they could just as easily be lopped off the shoulders of DCI Paniatowski’s team?’ Dixon asked.
‘Exactly, boss.’
‘Which brings me onto the second potential pitfall – if we can’t solve the case and Paniatowski’s team can, then we’ll all look complete bloody idiots – and the last thing I want is to suspect that uniforms are sniggering behind my back as I walk down the corridor.’
‘We’ll have to see that doesn’t happen, then, won’t we, boss?’ Higgins suggested.
‘We will,’ Dixon agreed. ‘That’s why I’m having Paniatowski’s sergeant shadowing you.’
‘Then she’ll know everything I know,’ Higgins pointed out.
‘Yes, she will – and no more than that,’ Dixon said. ‘Whereas if she went her own way …’
‘She could discover all kinds of things that she might decide to keep from us?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What about Beresford?’
‘I’ve told him he’s free to conduct his own investigation.’
‘Isn’t that a bit dangerous?’
‘Not really – how much investigating can he do without any troops of his own to deploy?’
‘You’ve really thought it out, haven’t you, boss?’ Higgins asked, admiringly.
‘I certainly bloody hope so,’ Dixon said, with just an edge of complacency to his voice.
Higgins consulted his watch.
‘Don’t you think it’s about time we called off the search for today, boss?’ he asked.
Dixon looked up at the sky. It was still bright enough, but, of course, it would be much darker in the woods.
‘We’ll maybe give it another fifteen minutes,’ he said – and then he noticed the constable emerging from the woods at speed. ‘Hello, it looks like we’ve found something.’
The constable drew level with them. He was gasping for breath, and his eyes were wide with excitement.
‘Sir, sir, there’s something in the woods that you really need to see,’ he said.
The three men were called Tosh, Arthur and Freddie, and – as per the landlord’s instructions – they had hustled Beresford into the alley behind the Fox and Hounds. Now, as Arthur and Freddie maintained a tight grip on Beresford’s arms, Tosh began the task of pounding away at his gut.
‘That’s it!’ Freddie said. ‘Give him a real working over, Tosh.’
As the pain hit him, Beresford found himself hoping that these lads could judge just how much was enough, and that he’d be fit enough to report for duty in the morning.
‘Police – stop that!’ said an authoritive – though comparatively youthful – voice.
The pounding ceased, and Tosh stopped trying to realign Beresford’s intestinal tract and turned to face the man who’d told him to stop.
‘He started it,’ he complained, nodding towards Beresford. ‘He hit one of our pals for no reason at all.’
‘Oh, really?’ Crane said. ‘Now isn’t that interesting.’
Even though most of his thoughts were concentrated on the agony in his own gut, there was a small part of Beresford’s brain which was registering genuine surprise, because he did not know this man – or rather, this was not the man he knew.
The Crane who he worked with was a bright lad who had the potential to become a good bobby. This Crane, on the other hand, had all the confidence and gravitas of a chief superintendent.
‘So how many times did this feller hit this pal of yours?’ Crane continued, sounding genuinely curious.
Tosh shrugged. ‘A couple of times.’
‘And how many times have you already hit him?’
Another shrug. ‘Maybe three or four.’
‘So it would seem to me that your business with him is over,’ Crane suggested reasonably.
‘This is a private matter,’ Tosh said. ‘It’s got nothing at all to do with the police.’
‘It’s not my job to be anybody’s nanny, and if it was one-on-one, I might well agree with you,’ Crane said easily. ‘However, since there are three of you, I really do think it’s time to call a halt.’
‘And what if we don’t stop?’ Tosh demanded, aggressively.
‘Well, then, I’ll have to arrest you,’ Crane said.
‘On your own?’ Tosh asked. ‘Do you think that you could manage all three of us?’
‘Oh yes,’ Crane said, with quiet confidence. ‘Of course, I’ve only got one set of handcuffs, but I suppose I could improvise with a bit of wire or something.’
‘Are you sure you’re a bobby?’ the puncher asked.
‘I certainly was the last time I looked.’
‘Then show us your warrant card.’
‘I could do that,’ Crane agreed, ‘but if you make me go to the trouble of taking it out, I think I’ll arrest you anyway.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ Tosh said. ‘The whole thing’s been a bluff from start to finish.’
‘Then call it,’ Crane suggested.
Tosh looked questioningly at one of his mates, and then at the other.
‘We’ve taught the sod a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and have another drink.’
Without Arthur and Freddie to hold him upright, Beresford sank down into a squat. That helped to ease the pain – though not a great deal.
‘Let me guess, sir – somebody said something less than flattering about the boss, and you hit him,’ Crane said.
‘The bastard had it coming,’ Beresford groaned. ‘Why didn’t you show Tosh your warrant card?’
‘Didn’t have it with me,’ Crane said. ‘For the last couple of hours, I’ve been Jack Crane the poet, rather than DC Jack Crane – and when I’m being Jack Crane the poet, I leave my warrant card at home.’
‘You’re a really mixed-up bugger, aren’t you?’ Beresford asked.
‘It takes one to know one,’ Crane told him. ‘I’m going to help you to your feet, and then I’m going to drive you back to your flat and assess the damage. I imagine that when I start to lift you, it will hurt like hell.’
He wasn’t wrong.
Louisa was sitting in the easy chair next to her mother’s hospital bed when Kate Meadows picked up a blanket and began tucking it in around her. At first, it seemed the logical thing to do – it was far easier for Mea
dows to tuck the blanket in than it would have been for Louisa herself to do it – but somehow, about halfway through the process, they both began to feel self-conscious.
‘It’s almost like becoming a child again,’ Louisa said, ‘and the worrying thing is that I quite like it.’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’ Meadows asked. ‘When things get really awful, a lot of people find comfort in retreating back to childhood.’
‘Have you ever done that?’ Louisa asked.
No, Meadows thought, but when you know you’re going to be married off the day you turn sixteen, you don’t have much of a childhood in the first place.
‘Yes,’ she said aloud, ‘I’ve done it.’
Louisa narrowed her eyes. ‘You don’t sound as if you have,’ she said.
Damn, Meadows thought, that was the problem with letting your guard down – you gave far too much away.
‘All right, maybe some people have such bloody awful childhoods that there’s no refuge to be found there,’ she conceded.
‘In other words, you lied to me!’ Louisa said accusingly.
‘Yes,’ Meadows confessed. ‘I did – and I’m sorry.’
‘Promise me that however horrible the truth is, you’ll never lie to me again,’ Louisa said, looking across at her mother’s bed.
‘I promise,’ Meadows agreed.
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Louisa said, ‘I know nobody can know for certain, but do you think Mum’s going to get better?’
‘I think there are some questions it’s better never to ask,’ Meadows replied – which was sort of in line with the promise she’d just made.
‘You think I was a bloody fool back there, don’t you?’ Beresford asked, once they were in Crane’s car.
‘We both know you were a bloody fool back there,’ Crane said. ‘Expressing your own anger and frustration is a luxury you can’t afford to indulge in when you should be devoting all your energy to catching the man who attacked the boss.’
‘You’re right,’ Beresford agreed.
‘So what do we know for certain?’ Crane asked.
‘We know that Monika was in Backend Woods on her own—’ Beresford began.
‘No, we don’t,’ Crane contradicted him. ‘For all we know, she could have been on a date.’
Beresford felt a little stab of pain which was only partly attributable to having been beaten up.
‘If she’d been seeing somebody, she’d have told me,’ he said.
But would she, he wondered – would she really? Or, suspecting that he might still have some romantic affection for her, might she have decided to keep quiet about it?
‘Alternatively, it could be something to do with the job,’ Crane said, ‘but I can’t think of anything we’re even vaguely interested in at the moment which would have taken her anywhere near Backend Woods. Can you?’
‘No,’ Beresford said.
He could, he supposed, tell Crane that he was almost certain Meadows knew why Monika had been there, but was equally sure that, since the sergeant clearly didn’t believe it had anything to do with the attack, there was no way on God’s green earth that she was ever going to tell them about it.
Yes, he could certainly do that – but he was just too damned tired.
He glanced down at his watch.
‘Turn on Radio Whitebridge,’ he said. ‘There may be something new on there.’
What there was blasting out of the radio was the latest ABBA song about the pain of breaking up, but then, as it was almost approaching its climax, the DJ faded it out.
‘This just in,’ he said. ‘Police investigating the attack on DCI Monika Paniatowski have found the body of a young woman in Backend Woods. More details as soon as we have them.’
ABBA filled the airspace again, and for at least ten seconds, both Beresford and Crane sat in shocked silence.
Then Beresford said, ‘Jesus, this changes everything!’
FOUR
Monday
During the night, there had been some clouds in the sky, but apart from a few of the wispier ones – which had floated across the moon like veils shed by an erotic dancer – they had been scarcely noticeable, and come the morning, there was no evidence of them at all. In fact, it was one of those rare days in Lancashire (famous for its rain) when the sky was a perfect blue. It was the sort of day when people said, ‘lovely day for a walk,’ or ‘lovely day for getting that bit of gardening done,’ but down at Whitebridge police headquarters, nobody – not a single officer – said, ‘lovely day for a murder investigation.’
The press briefing room was located on the ground floor, very close to the headquarters’ main entrance. This was at least partly based on the theory that while journalist and television reporters were, of course, all fine chaps (and chapesses), who were, moreover, dedicated only to finding the truth, and consequently more than eager to work with the police in a spirit of true cooperation – blah, blah, blah – it was probably best to keep the slimy untrustworthy bastards (and bitches) as far away from the nerve centre of the building as possible.
The two men giving the press conference – at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning – were Chief Constable Pickering and DCI Dixon. Pickering wore the smart uniform he normally reserved for ceremonial occasions. Dixon was wearing a smart blue suit which either came from Savile Row or was an outstanding imitation.
Facing them were all the local hacks, plus a smattering of national newspaper reporters (an attack on a senior police officer, even in a backwater like Whitebridge, was still big news) and three television crews.
As was his privilege, Pickering opened the proceedings, then quickly handed over to Dixon.
‘Following the attack on DCI Paniatowski, officers searching the woodland area discovered the body of a girl aged between sixteen and eighteen,’ Dixon said. ‘She had been strangled.’ He paused, to let this information sink in, before continuing, ‘A sketch of her has since been released.’ Dixon paused again, while the artist’s impression (free from any of the ugly contortions of death which a photograph would have revealed) filled the projector screen. ‘Forensics would seem to indicate that she died sometime within the two hours before DCI Paniatowski’s attack,’ the detective chief inspector continued. ‘We have appealed for anyone who might know her to come forward, but she has yet to be identified.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘As you can imagine, we have a busy day ahead of us, ladies and gentlemen, but I’m willing to take a few questions now.’
‘Do you think DCI Paniatowski was attacked because she saw the murder?’ a reporter from a London tabloid asked.
‘Anything is possible,’ Dixon said, ‘but it’s highly unlikely. DCI Paniatowski was – is – a highly trained and very experienced officer. I cannot believe that having seen the killer in the act, she would then allow him to sneak up behind her, and smash her head in with a stone.’
Colin Beresford, who was watching the press conference on a monitor with Sergeant Higgins, heard the words, and shuddered.
DCI Paniatowski was – is – a highly trained and very experienced officer.
He’d talked to the hospital himself, and while they wouldn’t give him any details – since he wasn’t a relative – they’d at least given him to understand that he needn’t necessarily be thinking about getting out his black tie yet.
Yet everyone else seemed to take it as read that Monika wouldn’t recover.
Why was that?
Because they were much more realistic than he was?
Or because it was a northern trait to always expect the worst?
‘Had the killer hidden the body?’ one of the reporters asked.
‘There had been some attempt to hide the girl, but it was half-hearted at best,’ Dixon told him. ‘We think that the killer had either not planned to take his victim’s life or had suddenly realized that – for some reason – he did not have enough time to make a proper job of concealing her.’
‘Had the dead girl been sexually assault
ed in any way?’ asked the man from the BBC.
Dixon shook his head. ‘There is nothing at all to suggest she had been molested in that way,’ he said.
‘Does your boss normally do this?’ Beresford asked DS Higgins.
‘Do what?’
‘Show his whole hand right at the beginning.’
‘Come again?’
‘He’s made it public knowledge, right from the start, that the girl’s been strangled, and that she wasn’t sexually assaulted.’
‘So?’
‘So whatever happened to holding information back, so we’ll have a way of testing whether anybody who calls in about the murder has something useful to say, or just a nutter?’
‘Let me see if I’ve got this straight, sir,’ DS Higgins said, with a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. ‘You’re saying that my boss doesn’t know what he’s doing, are you?’
He’d forgotten he was no more than a barely-tolerated visitor on this team, and so he had gone too far, Beresford realized.
‘No, I wouldn’t suggest that at all,’ he said. ‘Or if I did, I was quite wrong. Mr Dixon is an experienced high-ranking officer, so it was foolish of me to assume he’d shown his whole hand.’ He paused for a second. ‘He is holding something back, isn’t he?’
Higgins smiled. ‘Of course he is.’
Beresford waited for the sergeant to say more, but it soon became plain that he wasn’t about to do that.
His best course of action was do likewise – to steer clear of any situation in which there was potential for him to lose face – he told himself, but there was an undisciplined goblin within him which forced him to say, ‘So what is it that he’s holding back?’
‘All will be revealed at the briefing,’ Higgins said.
‘Why can’t you tell me now,’ Beresford heard the goblin say.
‘Why can’t I tell you now, sir?’ Higgins repeated. ‘I can’t tell you now because we’re both on DCI Dixon’s team, which means we play by DCI Dixon’s rules – and one of those rules is that his unworthy underlings – like me – don’t say anything until he’s told us we can say it.’
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