He does look. At first, he doesn’t understand why they are so red, or why, when he touches his right hand with his left index finger, it seems so sticky.
And then he does understand, and with that understanding comes a scream which is so loud – so very, very deep – that he thinks it will tear out his lungs.
‘For God’s sake, Alfie, whatever’s the matter with you?’ asks a voice which doesn’t belong in the woods at all.
Alfie opened his eyes. He was sitting up in bed, and he was soaked in sweat.
‘What is the matter?’ his wife, Marjorie, repeated. ‘Is it all the boozing you did in the George that’s upset you? Because if it is that, then you’ve only got yourself to blame.’
It wasn’t the booze, he thought. He’d only had a couple of pints – and he hadn’t really enjoyed them at all.
‘Well, you are a right misery-guts,’ Tony had said, when he’d announced, at half-past nine, that he was tired and was going home to bed. ‘This is supposed to be a celebration, and you’re acting like you’re attending a funeral.’
And he’d realised that what Tony had said to him had not been too far from the truth. It had felt like a funeral to him – or, at least, like something remarkably similar to one.
‘Alfie?’ Marjorie said.
‘It’s nothing,’ he told her.
‘Nothing?’ Marjorie repeated. ‘You’re woken up by your husband’s screams in the middle of the night, and he tells you it’s nothing.’ She placed her left hand – gently, oh so gently – on his shoulder. ‘I’m worried about you, Alfie.’
‘There’s no need to be,’ Alfie said, doing his best to sound reassuring. ‘I think maybe that corned beef we had at dinnertime was a bit off, and that’s given me nightmares. But I’m all right now, so you can go back to sleep.’
He doubted he would get much sleep himself. In fact, the thought of going to sleep absolutely terrified him.
Marjorie snuggled down under the bedclothes and pulled the sheet tight around her shoulder.
He would have to go back to the woods, Alfie told himself. He dreaded the idea – especially after the terrible nightmare – but knew that he would find no peace until he did.
Paniatowski lit up a cigarette and sucked in the acrid smoke.
‘Danbury’s not got much of an alibi as it stands, and if we can break it, he’s got nothing at all,’ she said. She turned to Meadows. ‘How confident are you that the Newcastle police will do a good job of questioning the staff at the Ambassador Hotel, Kate?’
‘Very confident,’ Meadows replied.
And so she was, because the superintendent she’d talked to had been positively bursting to get into her knickers, and though she had not exactly put it into words, she’d made it very plain that his chances would be greatly enhanced if he came up with some results.
‘What I’d like you to do, Colin,’ Paniatowski said to Beresford, ‘is to contact all the regional forces between here and Newcastle, and get them to show photos of Danbury and Gretchen at every petrol station along the route.’
‘If they had any sense, they’d have filled up with juice before they left Newcastle,’ Beresford said.
‘Then we’ll just have to hope they didn’t have any sense, won’t we?’ Paniatowski asked tartly. ‘I also want everyone who attended that trade fair interviewed on the telephone, and then face-to-face if they sound promising. Put as many DCs as can be spared on that.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘We can’t do any of that till the morning,’ Paniatowski said, ‘which is unfortunate, because we could really have used the information tonight.’
Beresford looked up at the clock. It was after midnight.
‘Tonight?’ he repeated. ‘How would it be useful tonight? What more could we possibly do tonight?’
‘We could pull Danbury and Gretchen in for questioning – and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.’
‘You’re not serious, are you?’ Beresford asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you think we’d be better waiting until we’ve broken Danbury’s alibi before do anything as dramatic as that?’
‘Can I remind you that you were all in favour of arresting Danbury this morning – and we didn’t even know about his affair with Gretchen then,’ Paniatowski countered.
‘We were wrong – and you were right,’ Beresford said. ‘We said we had rock-solid evidence, but we didn’t. We were all letting our feelings race ahead of our brains. You saw that then – why won’t you see it now?’
‘There are two reasons I want to do it tonight,’ Paniatowski said wearily. ‘The first is that as soon as it becomes public knowledge that we’ve arrested him, all Danbury’s important mates are going to get together and start putting pressure on the chief constable to make me release poor William, who’s surely suffered enough. By pulling him in while they’re asleep, we’ll at least be giving ourselves a few hours’ head start.’
‘And what’s the second reason, boss?’ Meadows asked.
Paniatowski wished she’d never mentioned the fact that there was a second reason.
‘It’s not important,’ she said. ‘The first reason is reason enough.’
‘We’d still like to hear it,’ Meadows persisted.
Paniatowski sighed. ‘I think there’s a possibility that Melanie is still alive,’ she confessed.
The entire team looked at her with expressions that were a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief.
‘Danbury’s a cold bastard, but he’s also an intelligent and calculating one,’ she ploughed on. ‘He knows that even the most carefully planned murder can go wrong. And he also knows that he may have made mistakes he doesn’t even realise he’s made. So he must be willing to accept that there’s a possibility that we’ll arrest him, and that – even if most of the evidence is circumstantial – we might be able to put together a strong enough case to get him convicted.’
‘Go on,’ Meadows said.
But there was no real curiosity behind the words – no real interest. It was simply that, because she was the boss, Meadows was humouring her.
‘If he’s convicted of his wife’s murder, he’ll probably serve, with time off for good behaviour, ten to fifteen years, and when he’s released he’ll still be a comparatively young man. But if he’s convicted of murdering his baby as well, they’ll lock him up and throw away the key. So he may have decided that he won’t kill Melanie until he’s confident he’s got away with Jane’s murder.’
‘If that is the case, then we can afford to wait, can’t we?’ Beresford said. ‘Because there’s no way he can already be confident that he’s got away with it.’
‘I’m worried he might change his mind, or that Gretchen might convince him that keeping Melanie alive is too big a risk,’ Paniatowski said.
Shit! she thought, I should never have said ‘worried’ just then – ‘worried’ shouldn’t have any part to play in this discussion.
‘Listen,’ she continued, ‘it’s more than likely that he has already killed her. I accept that. But there is still a slight possibility she’s still alive, and I don’t think that’s a possibility we can ignore.’
She looked at each of her team in turn.
They thought she’d lost it, she told herself. They thought that having babies of her own had warped her judgement about the baby who had gone missing.
And maybe they were right.
‘So we pull Danbury and Gretchen in for questioning,’ she said firmly. ‘Are we all agreed on that?’
‘You’re the boss,’ Beresford said flatly – which was not exactly the ringing endorsement she’d been hoping for.
The badger made his way steadily through the darkness, in the direction of the big oak tree.
He had made his first visit the night before, but had been disturbed, in the middle of his labours, by a large brown dog which had been abandoned by its heartless owner some days earlier.
The badger had not known that the dog was a stra
y, nor that it was hungry. He had not even known it was called a dog. What he had known was that a large, fierce creature was bearing down on him.
If he had been cornered, he would have fought, and since he had powerful jaws and weighed nearly forty pounds, he might well have prevailed. But since he hadn’t been cornered, he had decided that rather than risk injury and possible death, he would flee back to his sett.
Tonight, there was neither sound nor smell of the big brown creature, but nonetheless, the badger approached the tree with caution. At its base, he paused and listened. He could hear the buzzing of night insects, and the croak of frogs, both of which – under different circumstances – he would have considered a tasty snack, but there was still no heavy panting to indicate that his enemy of the previous evening had returned.
Satisfied, he assessed the job in hand like a true professional, and began to dig.
It was half-past twelve. All the pubs were closed and shuttered by now, but the Prince Albert bar of the Royal Victoria Hotel remained open for the few guests who still had business to discuss or who simply couldn’t resist adding one last drink to their expense accounts.
The three unmarked police cars pulled up in the service lane behind the hotel, where the general manager – Ralph Mansfield – had been pacing nervously up and down for the previous five minutes.
Mansfield recognised two of the officers who emerged from the unmarked cars.
One was called DS Meadows, he remembered. He’d had dealings with her before – well, more of a clash, really – and had emerged from the process feeling as if he’d been fed into a car crusher.
The other was a DI Beresford, who seemed a nice enough chap, if perhaps a little uncouth.
On the whole, he thought, it might be best to address his concerns to Beresford.
‘Are you sure that all this is absolutely necessary, inspector?’ he asked.
No, thought Beresford, I’m bloody well not, but it’s what Monika wants, so it’s what Monika gets.
‘Of course it’s necessary,’ he said aloud. ‘We wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t.’
‘Couldn’t it wait until morning?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Mr Danbury has two small children in his suite, you know. Who’ll take care of them?’
Beresford flicked his thumb in the direction of a uniformed policewoman standing by one of the cars.
‘They’ll be looked after by WPC Chalmers,’ he said. ‘She’s done a special course on handling distressed children.’
‘Professionally, my hands are tied in this matter, since I must obey the law,’ the manager said. ‘But on a personal level, I want it noted that I strongly disapprove of what you are doing. Aside from the fact that he’s just suffered the tragic loss of his wife, Mr Danbury deserves some consideration for all he’s done for this town, and I think it’s disgraceful that …’
‘Fair enough,’ Beresford interrupted. ‘You’ve talked me round – we won’t take him in for questioning after all.’
‘What did you just say?’ the manager asked, astounded.
‘If you think that it’s such a bad idea, Mr Mansfield, then we won’t do it.’
‘I never suggested …’
‘Funny, I could have sworn that you did.’
‘Look, I just want this over with as soon as possible,’ the manager said, visibly sweating, despite the cool night air. ‘Miss Müller is in room 107, on the first floor. Mr Danbury is in the Prince Alfred suite.’
‘We’ll be sending two teams in, and each one will need to be accompanied by a member of your staff, who should have a passkey available,’ Beresford said. ‘Of course,’ he continued, turning slightly so that Mansfield couldn’t see his grin, ‘if you’ve changed your mind again, and would prefer us just to go away …’
‘No, no, you must do your duty,’ the manager said, in babbling, panicked haste. ‘I’ll go and organise it right away.’
Beresford watched him disappear into the hotel. It had been amusing to screw with the man’s mind – Meadows-style – for a while, he thought, but the fact was that Mansfield’s view of William Danbury and his situation would be shared by a great many people in Whitebridge, and if they didn’t get a result soon, things could start turning very nasty indeed.
Meadows appeared by his side. ‘So who does what?’ she asked.
‘You take Gretchen, and I’ll take Danbury,’ Beresford said.
‘Why should you take Danbury?’
‘Because if the way he behaved last night is any indication, he might well turn violent.’
‘That’s typical of you,’ Meadows said.
‘What is?’
‘You always grab all the fun jobs for yourself.’
Meadows knocked on the door of room 107.
‘This is the Whitebridge police, Miss Müller,’ she said. ‘Would you please open up?’
There was no response from the other side of the door.
Meadows knocked again, and repeated her request.
Still nothing.
Meadows turned to the assistant manager, who was standing, rather nervously, next to her.
‘Open it,’ she said.
The assistant manager fumbled the first two attempts, but succeeded in opening the door with his third.
Meadows stepped inside.
The room was in darkness.
She reached for the switch.
The room was suddenly flooded with light – and empty.
She went straight to the bathroom. No toothbrush, no hairbrush, none of the jars or tubes which most women considered a necessary part of their daily maintenance.
Had Gretchen sensed the jaws of the investigation tightening around her and decided to do a runner? she wondered. That was certainly a possibility.
‘Shit!’ she said to her own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Beresford knocked on the door of the Prince Alfred suite.
‘This is the Whitebridge police, Councillor Danbury,’ he said loudly. ‘Open the door, please.’
He counted slowly to ten, and was about to knock again when the door was flung open.
William Danbury – wearing a silk dressing gown – was framed in the doorway.
‘Have you found my daughter?’ he asked.
‘No, Mr Danbury, I’m afraid we haven’t.’
And you not only know we haven’t – you know why we haven’t, he added silently.
‘Then, if it’s not about my daughter, I demand to know what the hell you’re doing disturbing me at this time of night,’ Danbury said.
‘We’d like you to come down to police headquarters and answer a few questions.’
‘Now?’
‘Now.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘If you come voluntarily, we can both walk out of here like civilised people,’ Beresford said. ‘If you refuse, I’ll be forced to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of your wife, Jane Danbury, in which case, I’ll be required to handcuff you. The choice is yours.’
‘What’s going on?’ said a sleepy voice from within the suite.
Danbury shifted position to block the policeman’s view, but it was far too late.
‘Good evening, Miss Müller,’ Beresford said. ‘How are you tonight?’
The Gilded Cage was Whitebridge’s longest established and most popular gay and lesbian club, and the two women sitting on high stools at the bar were called Phileda and Elaine.
Phileda towered over Elaine, since, at five feet eleven, she was the tallest woman there, whilst Elaine, who didn’t quite reach five feet, was probably the shortest.
Phileda had been talking enthusiastically – and increasingly desperately – for nearly half an hour, but suspected that Elaine had only been listening intermittently.
Any minute now, I’m going to lose her, she thought.
And that would be a real pity, because Elaine was just the petite, Christmas-tree-fairy kind of girl that she really liked.
‘Listen, I d
idn’t put you off by telling you about the man I beat up for calling me a dyke, did I?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Elaine replied, and from the blank expression on her face, it was clear that she hadn’t been listening when Phileda told that particular story.
A woman walked up to the bar and tapped Elaine on the shoulder. When Elaine turned, the woman said, ‘You stood me up last Saturday.’
It was amazing the effect that the woman – who couldn’t have been more than five feet five – had on Elaine, Phileda thought. The bored expression had disappeared from her face, and been replaced by what could almost be described as terror.
‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’ the woman, who was obviously drunk, demanded.
‘I’d never do that, Maggie,’ Elaine said – and she was almost babbling.
‘We agreed to meet here at eight o’clock on Saturday,’ Maggie Thorne said firmly.
‘No, we didn’t,’ Elaine protested. ‘I said I couldn’t come because I was doing something else.’
‘And when I asked you to change your plans so you could, you said you’d think about it.’
‘I did think about it, but I wasn’t … I just couldn’t …’
‘You stood me up – plain and simple.’
In most other situations, Phileda would probably have stepped in earlier, but she’d been deliberately holding back this time – letting Elaine get more and more frightened, and closer and closer to the point at which she’d do anything for (or to) the person who rescued her.
And that point had now been reached, she decided.
Phileda climbed down from her stool and slid into the space between Elaine and Maggie.
‘Look, Elaine obviously doesn’t want to talk to you – so why don’t you just bugger off,’ she said, with the easy assurance of a big woman who has proved on numerous occasions that she knows how to handle herself.
Maggie looked up at her through bleary eyes. ‘This is none of your business,’ she slurred, ‘so just keep your big nose out of it.’
‘My big nose is staying right where it is,’ Phileda said.
Behind her, she felt the Christmas-tree fairy begin tugging desperately at her sleeve.
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