Most of the salesmen at the sportswear conference seemed to be young, aggressively dynamic and clean-shaven, but the one who approached Beresford in the foyer of the Royal Vic had been cast in an entirely different mould. He was older, and had a bushy white beard, and while it was hard to imagine him in a no-holds-barred business negotiation, it would have been an absolute doddle to picture him as a department store Father Christmas.
‘Studying human nature, Inspector?’ the faux-Santa asked.
No, Beresford thought, I’m standing here wondering where the bloody hell we go next with this investigation.
But it was much easier simply to agree.
‘Yes, Mr Blair,’ he said, glancing down at the man’s badge. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘When these young men get up in the morning, the first thing they do is look in the mirror and say, “You’re the best salesman who ever drew breath, and today you’re going to make a big killing”,’ Blair said, ‘whereas I look in the mirror and think, didn’t you used to be younger?’
Beresford grinned, but said nothing.
‘Have you still got Jeff “Hard Man” Hill banged up at the police station?’ Blair asked.
‘I wouldn’t describe him as “banged up”, but yes, Mr Hill is still helping us with our inquiries,’ Beresford said cautiously.
‘I can’t see him killing this man, Lewis, myself,’ Blair said. ‘I mean, Jeff’s a complete shit, but I don’t think he’s a murderer.’
‘As far as I can recall, I never actually said that he was a murderer,’ Beresford replied.
‘What I don’t understand is why he doesn’t just get Margaret Rodgers to tell you they were up all night making the beast with two backs,’ Blair said.
‘I hardly know the man,’ Margaret Rodgers had said.
‘Are you telling me that they’ve been having an affair, Mr Blair?’ Beresford asked.
Blair chuckled. ‘During my years in this business, I’ve seen countless colleagues having a bit of nooky on the side. And do you know what most of them had in common?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Beresford said dutifully. ‘What did most of them have in common?’
‘They thought they were being so clever about keeping it hidden from everyone else. But, of course, there were always those little looks and gestures which gave it all away. So, in answer to your question, Inspector, yes, they’ve been having an affair. It was an open secret among the cognoscenti.’
Beresford confronted the woman just as she was coming out of the breakfast room.
‘I’d like a word with you, Miss Rodgers, if you don’t mind,’ he said.
‘And what if I do mind?’ Margaret Rodgers asked, glancing down at her watch.
‘I’d like a word anyway,’ Beresford said firmly.
With his hand on her arm to guide her, he led her into a quieter part of the lobby.
‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Beresford suggested, pointing to one of the easy chairs.
Margaret Rodgers ran a hand nervously through her blonde hair.
‘Look, I’ve got a very busy morning ahead of me …’ she said.
‘Sit!’ Beresford said – and this time, it was an order.
Margaret Rodgers sat down with some show of reluctance, and Beresford took the seat opposite her.
‘The last time we talked, Miss Rodgers, you told me you hardly knew Jeff Hill,’ he said.
‘That’s right, I don’t,’ she agreed.
‘But apparently, it’s common knowledge in the sportswear world that you’ve been having an affair with him.’
‘Common knowledge? It can’t be!’
‘I can assure you, it is.’
‘But that’s simply not possible!’ Margaret Rodgers protested. ‘We’ve always been so …’
‘So what?’ Beresford asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’ve always been so careful?’
‘Look, I’m planning to get married in six months time,’ Margaret Rodgers said.
‘And rather than have your fiancé find out that you’ve been having a last fling with another man, you were perfectly willing to let Jeff Hill go to gaol for a murder he didn’t commit?’
‘I knew you’d never have enough evidence to charge Jeff with the murder. How could there be any real evidence when he’d … when he’d …’
‘When he spent the night of the murder in your bed?’
Margaret Rodgers looked down at the floor.
‘Yes,’ she said, in what was almost a whisper.
Beresford stood up. ‘You’ll be called to police headquarters to make a second statement,’ he said, ‘and this time, make sure it’s a truthful one.’
‘Will I be charged with something?’ Margaret Rodgers asked, on the verge of tears.
‘Do you think you deserve to be charged with something, Miss Rodgers?’ Beresford asked unsympathetically.
DCI Wellbeloved was surprised when all three members of the team walked into his office, but even more surprised by the look on all their faces, which was somewhere between apprehension and steely determination.
‘Jeff Hill didn’t kill Terry Lewis,’ Beresford said. ‘You’re going to have to let him go.’
‘I should be the judge of whether or not that happens, don’t you think?’ Wellbeloved replied coldly.
Beresford shook his head.
‘You’re in no position to make that kind of judgement,’ the inspector said. ‘Your own personal history with Jeff Hill means it’s impossible for you to see things clearly.’
‘Have you been spying on me?’ Wellbeloved demanded.
‘We prefer to think of it as doing the necessary background research, sir,’ Crane said.
‘I’ll have your jobs for this,’ Wellbeloved growled.
‘Really?’ Meadows asked, with studied unconcern. ‘And there was us thinking quite the reverse was about to happen.’
Beresford shot Meadows a look which said she should shut up and let him handle things.
‘You honestly should listen to what we have to say about the matter, sir,’ he told Wellbeloved.
The chief inspector glanced at the door, as if he were about to order them to leave, then changed his mind.
‘All right, I’ll give you a chance to dig yourselves into an even deeper hole – but make it quick!’
‘You used to have an infatuation with a girl called Maggie Thorpe,’ Crane said.
A look of deep pain flashed across DCI Wellbeloved’s face, and then was gone.
‘I used to know a girl called Maggie Thorpe – but I’ve no idea if it’s the same one you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘Your relationship with her never actually went beyond friendship, but who knows how far it might have gone if Jeff Hill hadn’t come along,’ Crane continued. ‘Hill was at the height of his fame at that time – Honnerton’s sporting hero. Maggie knew he had a wife, but she told her friends that he’d promised he was going to get a divorce and marry her. Then he damaged his knee, and his footballing career was over. Honnerton wasn’t the right place to start up his sportswear business, and he began making arrangements to move away from the town, and that – I assume – is when Maggie began to insist he started his divorce proceedings.’
‘You’re assuming a great deal,’ Wellbeloved said.
‘Hill told Maggie it was never going to happen, and Maggie went into the woods alone one night, and hanged herself from an oak tree,’ Crane continued. ‘According to the coroner’s report, which I read in the Honnerton Chronicle, she was pregnant at the time of her death. Not unnaturally, you’ve had it in for Hill ever since, but it wasn’t until this murder investigation that you got the chance to do anything about it.’
‘I admit I used my previous knowledge of the sort of man that Hill was as a pointer in this investigation, but the investigation itself was based on sound police work,’ Wellbeloved said.
‘Yes, it did look like that at the start,’ Beresford admitted. ‘But then forensics found
no evidence where there certainly should have been some if Hill was guilty, and you refused to even consider the picture of Lewis walking around the grounds of Stamford Hall.’
Wellbeloved looked up at the clock, and then at the door again, as if he were expecting reinforcements to arrive at any minute and rescue him.
‘You’re building up your whole case against me on supposition and conjecture,’ he said.
‘Maybe,’ Beresford agreed, ‘but given the way you’ve gone after Hill, it’s enough to ruin your career.’
‘If you try to take me down, I’ll drag the three of you with me,’ Wellbeloved threatened.
‘No, not the three of us,’ Beresford corrected him. ‘If anybody tries to take you down, it’ll be just me.’
‘So the other two, your so-called colleagues, are prepared to let you – and only you – stand right in the firing line, simply because they haven’t got the guts to back you up,’ Wellbeloved mocked.
‘Ah, the good old divide-and-rule tactic,’ Meadows said. ‘You haven’t used that for days.’
‘The reason it will be just me is that I won’t allow the other two to back me up,’ Beresford said. ‘I’m the senior man, and it’s my responsibility. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Meadows replied – and the respectful tone in her voice was, for once, quite genuine.
‘But the thing is, we don’t want to ruin your career,’ Beresford told Wellbeloved.
‘No?’ the chief inspector asked.
‘No. We think you’re basically a good bobby who’s simply not temperamentally suited to CID work. We think you’d be better off in the uniformed branch.’
‘Where you couldn’t do anything like as much damage,’ Meadows said.
‘Shut up, Kate!’ Beresford said harshly. ‘So here’s the deal, sir. You take a back seat, and let us conduct this murder inquiry ourselves, and when it’s over, you put in a transfer request and go back into uniform.’
Wellbeloved glanced at the door for a third time. There was still no sign of the US Cavalry.
‘This isn’t about me at all, is it?’ he asked. ‘It’s DCI Paniatowski.’
‘It’s partly about her,’ Beresford admitted, ‘but it’s also about having the right people in the CID.’
‘I’ve only been here a few days, but even in that short time, I’ve heard enough to realize that the chief constable positively loathes Paniatowski,’ Wellbeloved said. ‘So do you seriously believe that even if I went, he’d ever allow her to come back to her old job?’
‘If we could solve this murder – and find some way for her to get the credit – he wouldn’t have much choice,’ Beresford said.
But there was the rub, wasn’t it, he thought. They’d been on a wild goose chase for three days, and during the time the trail which led to the real killer had been growing colder and colder.
It was just twenty-five past twelve when Meadows entered the public bar of the Drum and Monkey, and ordered her customary bottle of bitter lemon.
In another half hour, the bar would be full of office workers and shop assistants, but for the moment, the only other customers were three old-aged pensioners, who were playing a vicious and unyielding game of dominoes in the far corner of the room.
Meadows sat down and waited for an inspired thought – an idea that would help solve the case and pull Paniatowski out of the shit – to come to her, but inspired thoughts seemed to be in short supply that Monday lunchtime.
‘My dear Kate, what a delight to see you,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
‘I’m meeting Beresford and Crane,’ Meadows said, looking up. ‘But what are you doing here, Doc?’
‘I believe it is perfectly legal for a single Indian doctor to visit a public house whenever she wishes to,’ Shastri said, with a smile.
‘Oh, it’s legal enough,’ Meadows agreed. ‘But when was the last time you visited the Drum?’
‘It was quite some time ago – possibly several years,’ Shastri admitted, sitting down opposite her. ‘But I am here now, and since I find you alone, let us grab the opportunity to have a real girl-to-girl chat with both hands.’
‘A girl-to-girl chat?’ Meadows repeated, and wondered if someone else – a mad scientist or an alien, perhaps – had taken over Shastri’s brain for the day.
‘Just so,’ Shastri agreed. ‘A cosy little talk would be most pleasant, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely,’ Meadows agreed, though she still had no idea what was going on. ‘Can I order you a drink, Doc? A glass of white wine, perhaps?’
‘Thank you. I do normally drink white wine, as you have so cleverly remembered, but on this occasion I rather think I would like a glass of vodka. In fact, I would appreciate you making it a double.’
So that was what all this was about, Meadows thought – or rather, that was who this was all about.
The waiter brought the vodka, and Dr Shastri knocked half of it back in one gulp.
‘I have always admired you, Kate,’ she said. ‘You appear to be a very practical woman, who will always find a way to do what needs to be done, and unlike most of your otherwise estimable colleagues, you do not seem unduly bound by rules and regulations.’
Curiouser and curiouser, Meadows thought.
‘Most people would consider a disregard for regulations to be something of a failing in a police officer,’ she said.
‘Indeed, society would not work at all if most of us did not obey the laws,’ Shastri said, ‘but there is still room for a few mavericks – a few idiosyncratic superheroes, if you like – who can correct the balance when society itself fails to do so.’
Meadows grinned. ‘I can’t say that I’ve ever thought of myself as a superhero.’
‘Well, you should,’ Shastri urged. ‘I myself am very conventional – and rather dull – by nature, and if that were not bad enough, I have had imposed on me, by my profession, a code of ethics which I ignore at my peril. I suppose I am like a priest in that way.’
‘Oh yes?’ Meadows said, non-committally.
‘Monika had a case – I think it was about two years ago now – in which a murderer confessed to her priest, and because he was bound by the seal of the confessional, the priest was forced to jump through all kinds of intellectual and moral hoops in an effort to point the police in the direction of the truth.’
‘Are you saying that someone’s gone and confessed a murder to you?’ Meadows asked.
Shastri laughed. It was her special laugh, which Paniatowski always said reminded her of the gentle tinkle of temple bells.
‘Good heavens, no,’ she said. ‘Why would anyone confess to having committed a murder to me? Besides, that is very specific, and we are talking in general and hypothetical terms, are we not?’
‘And all within the context of a girl-to-girl chat?’ Meadows asked.
‘Exactly,’ Shastri agreed. ‘Let me give you a hypothetical example of a moral dilemma I might possibly encounter. Say, for example, that a woman – for the sake of argument, let’s call her a detective chief inspector – say this woman came to me because she’d been raped by three members of a motorcycle gang who had been employed to provide the security for a – oh, I don’t know – a rock concert at a Queen Anne mansion. And say this woman – who could quite easily be of Polish extraction – told me she was not intending to report the rape because it would damage her career. Now I might think she had made the wrong decision – I might, indeed, be very angry that these creatures would be getting away without any kind of punishment – but there would be nothing I could do about it.’
‘Yes, it would be a dilemma, so it’s just as well that that sort of thing has never happened to you,’ Meadows said.
‘Well, exactly,’ Shastri agreed, swallowing the rest of her vodka.
‘The good news is that we won’t be charging you with murder after all,’ Beresford told Jeff Hill. ‘The bad news is that we will be charging you with conspiracy to pervert the course
of justice.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ Hill asked, as if he found the whole idea of prosecuting a sporting hero like him very puzzling. ‘What’s in it for you?’
‘You committed a crime, and we put you on trial,’ Beresford said. ‘It’s sort of what we’re here for.’
‘Suppose I pleaded guilty?’ Hill asked, as a cunning look came to his eyes. ‘What would I get?’
‘Well, judges always look sympathetically on people who save the court time by admitting their guilt,’ Beresford said, ‘and if you happen to come up before a judge who’s a football fan – and that can be arranged – you may well get away with probation.’
Hill grinned. ‘I’d appreciate that,’ he said, ‘and if there’s anything I can ever do for you – tickets to the Cup Final, a big discount on the police football team’s strip, something like that – you’ve only got to give me a call.’ His grin widened. ‘That doesn’t sound like an attempt to bribe you, does it?’
‘Certainly not,’ Beresford assured him. ‘You’d just be showing your appreciation, like you said. Of course, as part of your plea, you’ll have to say how sorry you are for misleading the police.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And you’ll have to explain why you did it.’
‘Are you saying …?’
‘I’m saying you’ll have to admit that you spent the night – and a number of other nights before it – with Margaret Rodgers.’
‘But if I come out with that in a court of law, then my wife’s bound to find out.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about her finding out as a result of the court proceedings,’ Beresford said.
‘Ah, you mean you’ll have a quiet word with the journalists and make sure it never gets in the papers,’ Hill said, grinning again. ‘I really will be in your debt, won’t I?’
‘No, I didn’t mean that at all,’ Beresford said.
‘Then what did you mean?’
‘I meant she won’t find out from what goes on in court, because she already knows enough to work it out for herself.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘I’m afraid not. We haven’t released your name to the press – all we’ve said to the reporters is that a man is helping us with our inquiries – but someone must have rung her up and told her it was you, because she’s waiting for you downstairs.’
Supping with the Devil Page 20