Supping with the Devil

by Sally Spencer

Then she walked up the impressive double doors at the front of the Hall and rang for the butler.

  Paniatowski had told her team that the new DCI would merely be dropping by that afternoon, but, as it turned out, the chief constable had misled her, and even as the team were meeting for a final drink together in the Drum and Monkey, DCI Wellbeloved had been settling into his new office.

  As was the usual practice with a newcomer, he’d been allocated an office at the far end – the outer darkness – of the CID suite, but, like a dog marking out new territory by peeing on every wall, he had already taken steps to make it very clearly his own, Beresford noted.

  A photograph of a younger Wellbeloved, in military uniform, hung just behind the desk, with a certificate of some kind flanking it to the right, and a framed newspaper article (which no doubt reflected well on him) to the left. A coat stand, topped with deer antlers, had been placed by the door, and a bag of professional-looking golf clubs was very much in evidence in the corner.

  Wellbeloved was about his own age, Beresford guessed. He was not particularly tall and had a rugby player’s build. His eyes were pale blue, and his cheeks – in contrast – had a permanent slight flush. The blue check suit he was wearing was almost aggressively smart, and he had an expensive-looking signet ring on his index finger.

  ‘As you already know, I’m DCI Wellbeloved,’ the new chief inspector said, ‘but that’s just the name I was born with, not a description of how my subordinates regard me.’

  Unsure of whether or not he was making a joke, Beresford risked a modest smile.

  ‘The purpose of this meeting is for me to get to know you, and for you to get to know me,’ Wellbeloved continued. ‘You joined the force as a cadet, didn’t you, DI Beresford?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Beresford agreed, and then he noticed Wellbeloved’s pale eyes harden, and added, ‘yes, sir.’

  ‘And yet you weren’t promoted to inspector until a little over two years ago,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘Is that because you’re a bit of a plodder?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that, exactly,’ Beresford replied, slightly awkwardly. ‘Most of the inspectors in the Mid Lancs force weren’t promoted until they were at least my age.’

  ‘And most of them won’t get any higher up the ladder, will they?’ Wellbeloved asked.

  ‘Probably not,’ Beresford agreed.

  Wellbeloved stretched his hands in front of him, as if he were already reaching out for the next rung himself.

  ‘Tell me, DI Beresford, do you want to spend the rest of your career as an inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t really thought about it,’ Beresford admitted.

  Nor had he. He was a man who had nursed his sick mother throughout his twenties, and only lost his virginity after turning thirty. Now he was making up for lost time in matters sexual, and was still coming to terms with the fact that fresh-faced young officers who he’d never met before automatically called him sir.

  Besides, the next step up was DCI, and Monika was the DCI.

  Except she wasn’t the DCI, he reminded himself. There were others – and he was looking across the desk at one, at that very moment.

  ‘You can’t afford to stand still in the modern police force, Colin, especially when you have no higher education to speak of,’ Wellbeloved told him. ‘If you’re not careful, you’ll have DC Crane as your boss in a few years, and once he’s got the power, it’ll be payback time for all the resentment he’s built up against you while he was climbing the slippery slope.’

  First it had been a ladder, and now it had become a slippery slope, Beresford thought. Wellbeloved needed to make up his mind which one it was.

  ‘There’d be no payback time with Jack Crane, sir,’ he said aloud. ‘He’s not like that.’

  ‘We’re all like that,’ Wellbeloved contradicted him. ‘It’s just that some of us are better at hiding it than others.’ He paused, and a sudden and totally unexpected smile came to his lips. ‘I can be a bit too blunt, sometimes,’ he continued. ‘A bit too blunt and, in order to make my point, somewhat over-emphatic – and I’d like to apologize for that, here and now.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Of course you’re not a plodder – you’re one of those good, solid policemen who make up the backbone of the force. And of course Crane isn’t the sort of man who would extract his petty revenge the moment the opportunity was presented to him. In fact, from what I’ve heard so far, you seem to be an excellent team, and I’d like that team spirit to continue now I’ve taken over.’

  ‘So would I, sir,’ Beresford agreed.

  ‘But one thing I learned during my time in the army is that there are two halves to any team – the officers and the other ranks – and the team works best when that clear distinction is constantly reinforced. That’s the job of the officers, and they can only do it by working together.’ Wellbeloved smiled again. ‘What I’m really saying, Colin, is that I need to know I can count on your support, and in return – I promise you – you can count on mine. Any questions?’

  Yes, he had a lot of questions, Beresford thought – but none he was prepared to voice at that moment.

  ‘No, sir,’ he said aloud.

  ‘Then send in the next one, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Wellbeloved told him. He waited until Beresford was almost at the door before he added, ‘Actually, there is just one more thing I’d like to ask you before you go. What do you know about DS Meadows?’

  ‘I think she’s a very good bagman, and should develop into—’ Beresford began.

  ‘I’m not talking about how she does her job in Whitebridge,’ Wellbeloved interrupted him. ‘I mean what do you know about her before she came here?’

  ‘Not much,’ Beresford admitted, and was surprised to discover that even not much was an exaggeration, and that, in fact, he actually knew bugger all. ‘Why do you ask, sir?’

  ‘No real reason,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘It’s just that her record is rather vague. Still, she can probably explain that to me herself.’

  ‘Yes, sir, she probably can,’ Beresford agreed.

  Though knowing Meadows as he did, he doubted she would.

  As Paniatowski was led along the high corridor to the earl’s sitting room, she found herself wondering what to expect.

  Would Gervaise de Courtney be wearing a flowery shirt and sitting barefoot on the floor, smoking a joint?

  Or would he – despite his hippy aspirations – be dressed as his ancestors would have been, in a heavy tweed suit?

  He turned out to be neither of those things. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans, a white shirt and a pullover that looked as if it had been bought from a chain store. He was a tall, slender man – so slender that Paniatowski was sure she could have encircled his wrist with her thumb and index finger. His nose was long and thin, his jaw had a soft delicate line, and his pale blonde hair just brushed lightly against his shoulders.

  He was not alone. Sitting beside him in his parlour was a woman. She was perhaps a few years younger than him – say, thirty-five – with a good figure, a face which was pleasing rather than beautiful, and long red hair. She was definitely foreign, Paniatowski thought, and probably central European.

  As the chief inspector was ushered into the room, the earl stood up and offered her his hand.

  ‘I am Gervaise de Courtney, and this is my wife, Katerina,’ he said. ‘Do please take a seat.’

  Paniatowski sat down in the armchair opposite the two-seater sofa occupied by the earl and the countess.

  ‘The first thing I should make clear is that I am not at all happy about having you here,’ the earl said.

  ‘That’s not very polite, Gervaise,’ said his wife, in a mildly reproving voice and with an accent which confirmed Paniatowski’s earlier suspicions.

  The earl looked slightly shocked at the idea that his wife – and possibly his visitor – might have misinterpreted his words.

  ‘You should not take what I have just said as implying
any criticism of you, Chief Inspector Paniatowski,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It is merely that I do not trust the police.’

  The countess gave an uneasy laugh. ‘You’re just making things worse, Gerv,’ she said.

  ‘Have you had a bad experience at the hands of the police?’ Paniatowski enquired.

  ‘Me, personally?’ the earl replied. ‘Of course not! I am a peer of the realm, and such is the class prejudice in this little country of ours that I could probably shoot someone in front of a dozen witnesses and still get away with it. But I do not trust the police in their handling of the poor, the dispossessed and the merely unconventional – and we are expecting people from all three of those classes to arrive here in the next few days.’

  ‘If I may say so, you’re showing a little prejudice yourself,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘Being a member of the poor, dispossessed or unconventional doesn’t automatically imbue you with virtue.’

  ‘I had not expected that sort of response from a police officer – and I take the fact that I am presented with it by you as a sign of sensitivity, which is really quite encouraging,’ the earl said. ‘You are quite right, of course, DCI Paniatowski. Not all members of those classes are model citizens, but the atmosphere we will create at our RockStately Festival will hopefully neutralize those base, vicious tendencies which run through us all. That is why I do not think we will need any kind of police presence – even outside the walls. Unfortunately, the authorities did not take the same view, and in order to get a licence for the festival, I was forced to agree to cooperate with the police.’

  ‘I get the picture,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘I’m not sure you do,’ the earl said. ‘I would like, if I may, to explain my motives in promoting this festival.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Paniatowski said.

  The earl looked flustered. ‘My doctor says it is good for me to express my feelings,’ he told her. ‘He says that by explaining things to others, I am helping to explain them to myself.’

  ‘Let him tell his story in his own way,’ the countess said softly. ‘Please, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘All right,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  The earl seemed relieved. ‘My family have been landowners for over six hundred years, and in that time we have ruthlessly stamped on anyone who tried to oppose us,’ he said. ‘For the last three hundred years, we have dispatched younger family members out to the colonies, where they behaved in much the same way as they did at home – except that there, they were exploiting black people and brown people – and all so that we could continue to live in the lap of luxury. And never, in all those years, have we ever attempted to give anything back.’

  ‘Keep calm, my darling,’ the countess said soothingly.

  ‘All the time I was growing up, I believed that there was no real purpose to life – or, at least, to my life,’ the earl continued. ‘I served in the army, and found it so brutish that I … err … fell ill. Then I joined the diplomatic service and was posted to Prague. The year was 1968.’

  ‘The Prague Spring,’ Paniatowski said, starting to understand where he was leading her.

  ‘The Prague Spring,’ the earl agreed. ‘It was a brave attempt, by a brave government, to introduce a kind of socialism with a human face. For the first time since the Second World War, there was no press censorship in Czechoslovakia, and freedom of movement began to be regarded as a right. People were allowed to say what they thought, rather than what Moscow had decreed they should think. You should have been there, Chief Inspector. There was such a feeling of solidarity out on the streets – such a feeling of fraternity. It didn’t matter what your background was, you were at one with everyone else, and you were all walking arm-in-arm towards a brighter future.’

  ‘Gervaise is right,’ the countess agreed. ‘It was exactly like that in my poor country.’

  ‘And then – without warning – the Russians invaded,’ the earl said. ‘They came overnight – ten thousand rumbling tanks and two hundred thousand foot-stamping soldiers. The tanks crushed the cobblestones in the streets of old Prague – stones which had lain there undisturbed for centuries. But they didn’t just crush the stones – they crushed hope.’

  ‘Even when we saw it, we still couldn’t believe it was happening,’ the countess said. ‘It felt so wrong.’

  ‘After a while, it put such a strain on me that I was almost taken ill again,’ the earl said, ‘and I went to America to recuperate. And that was my road to Damascus. That was where I had my epiphany – and it was called the Woodstock Festival. For three days, nearly half a million people endured the most appalling conditions, but instead of turning on each other like rats trapped in a cage, they chose to embrace love.’

  Paniatowski smiled. ‘I’ve seen the film,’ she said.

  ‘When I left that concert, I knew that something had changed forever inside everyone who had been there. We would all be ambassadors of the spirit of Woodstock, I thought, and that spirit would emanate from us and eventually conquer all. Politics could alter nothing, because the forces of repression could crush a political revolt, just as they had done in Czechoslovakia. But they couldn’t crush love, because it wasn’t just gathered on a street corner holding up placards – it was invisible and it was everywhere, and its triumph was inevitable.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, my dear?’ the countess asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ her husband assured her. ‘But I was as wrong about Woodstock as I had been about the Prague Spring,’ he told Paniatowski. ‘The forces of repression would crush that spirit, too. But they wouldn’t use tanks, as they had in Czechoslovakia, they would use the record companies and the mass media. They would drive out the good music – the music of hope and peace – and replace it with garbage which promised nothing but saccharine clichés. Yet, for a moment back then, there was real promise, and what I am offering now, with this festival, is a second chance to get it right.’

  He stopped, breathless.

  ‘You have explained it all wonderfully,’ the countess said. ‘In fact, I have never heard you express it better. But I think perhaps you now need a little quiet time on your own.’

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ the earl agreed, rising, slightly shakily, to his feet. ‘I hope you will excuse me, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Of course,’ Paniatowski said.

  FOUR

  DCI Wellbeloved leant forward on his desk and ran his eyes quickly up and down DS Meadows’ body.

  Slim figure, delicate features, and hair cut so unfashionably short it was almost as if she was wearing a velvet cap.

  She wasn’t the type of woman he’d normally lust after – he tended to favour them big, blonde and straightforward – yet he had to admit there was something indefinably exciting about her.

  ‘What’s your impression of DI Beresford, DS Meadows?’ the chief inspector asked.

  ‘DI Beresford?’ Meadows repeated, as if she really didn’t understand the question.

  ‘DI Beresford,’ Wellbeloved repeated patiently – because he understood that the lower ranks were very cautious about criticizing one of their superiors to another, and sometimes needed a little encouragement.

  ‘DI Beresford is … steady,’ Meadows said.

  Except for the times when he lets his dinosaur/caveman instincts take control, she added mentally.

  ‘Steady,’ Wellbeloved repeated, rolling the word carefully around his mouth, as if he were afraid of breaking it. ‘That’s just the word I would have used myself. And we do need steady officers in the force. In fact, we’d be lost without them, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘It takes all sorts,’ Meadows said, enigmatically.

  ‘But when I look at DI Beresford, I can find little evidence of the flair and sparkle which were apparent the moment you walked into a room,’ Wellbeloved told her.

  ‘You’re making me blush, sir,’ Meadows said, though, if he was, there was no external sign of it.

  ‘The problem is that police officers wi
th drive – and I include both of us in that category, Sergeant – are sometimes resented by our slightly duller colleagues. They see us as a threat – and I got the distinct impression that DI Beresford sees you in that way.’

  ‘Is that right, sir?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Yes, it is. You see, Sergeant, he’s probably begun to worry that his performance will look bad when compared to yours, and it’s my guess that he’ll decide to start undermining you, if only to ensure his own survival. Now, to be fair to him – because he seems a decent enough chap – he may not even realize that he’s doing it. But whether it’s intentional or not, his actions could really damage your career.’ Wellbeloved paused again. ‘Am I making any sense here?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, you most certainly are,’ Meadows replied. ‘In fact, I’d say that listening to you has been a real revelation.’

  ‘Now I can’t let your career be damaged – and for a purely selfish reason,’ Wellbeloved said crisply. ‘Any good DCI needs a good bagman – and I think you fit the bill. Do you see what I’m saying here?’

  ‘Yes, sir – you’re saying you’ll watch my back.’

  ‘And, in return, I’ll expect you to watch mine.’

  ‘That seems fair,’ Meadows agreed.

  ‘Excellent,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘Now there’s one other small matter we need to clear up, and that’s your record.’

  ‘My record, sir?’

  ‘According to the file, in the two years before transferring to Whitebridge, you worked for the West Midlands Traffic Division as a humble WPC.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did.’

  ‘So could you explain to me how you managed to jump from uniformed constable to detective sergeant in one mighty bound?’

  Meadows shrugged. ‘I passed my sergeant’s examination, and I’m very good in interviews, sir.’

  ‘You could have passed the exam with flying colours and been positively brilliant in the interview, and you still wouldn’t have got such a huge promotion,’ Wellbeloved said. He smiled encouragingly. ‘Tell me what really happened, Kate. I can assure you, it will go no further.’