The anger which had been bubbling up inside Paniatowski finally came to the surface.
‘Sooner or later, you’re going to need another favour from me,’ she said, ‘but when you come to ask for it, don’t be in the least bit surprised if all I do is spit in your face.’
Edgar Bunting, the gardener who worked for William Danbury four days a week, lived in what had once been a derelict farmhouse on the edge of the moors. He had bought it thirty years earlier, when he married Mary Hinchcliffe, and had been working on improving it ever since.
The farmhouse had been built out of stone, and had a blue slate roof. Carefully managed ivy grew up the walls, and the path to the front door ran through the centre of a rose garden.
The place had an almost chocolate-box beauty about it, Jack Crane thought, as he walked up the path. It was the sort of cottage that Wordsworth might have lived in. It was hard to imagine that the man who did live there had brutally bludgeoned Jane Danbury to death in her own living room, but somebody had done, and the only way to catch the killer was by a process of elimination.
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by a grey-haired woman in her early sixties, who said she was Mrs Bunting.
‘I’m looking for Mr Bunting,’ Crane explained, when he’d shown her his warrant card. ‘I tried ringing, but all I got was an annoying beeping sound.’
‘The phone line’s down again,’ Mrs Bunting replied cheerfully. ‘When you live in the back of beyond, you get used to it.’
‘So if you could just tell me where your husband’s working today …’ Crane began.
‘He’s not working. He’s inside. Would you like to see him?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Mind your head on the beams,’ Mrs Bunting said, as she led him down the corridor. ‘This house wasn’t built for a big lad like you.’ She halted by a door at the end of the corridor. ‘He’s in there. You go and introduce yourself, and I’ll just nip into the kitchen and make a pot of tea. You’d like a piece of cake, wouldn’t you? It’s homemade.’
‘I’d love a piece of cake,’ Crane said.
Crane hesitated for a moment on the threshold, and reminded himself that having a nice house and nice wife didn’t necessarily prevent a man from being a cold-blooded murderer. Then he knocked and entered.
Mr Bunting was sitting in an armchair, and had his right foot resting on a straight chair in front of him. His right leg was encased in plaster from the ankle to the knee.
‘When did that happen?’ Crane asked.
‘A week yesterday,’ Bunting told him. ‘I got careless.’
The team was working against the clock, and he had just wasted over an hour, Crane thought despondently.
On the other hand, he told himself, there would be cake.
When Dr Lucas opened the front door and found William Danbury standing there, his stomach did a nervous somersault.
‘I’d never have just sat back and watched you go to prison,’ he said hastily, before Danbury had a chance to speak. ‘I’d have come forward in the end. You know I would.’
‘Of course I do, old friend,’ Danbury replied. ‘Would you mind if I came inside?’
His voice had changed, Lucas thought. Its customary certainty – which some people thought of as arrogance – was quite absent. His face had changed, too. He normally had a ruddy, healthy complexion, but now his skin was almost grey, and showed signs of sagging.
‘Can I come inside?’ Danbury repeated, almost plaintively.
‘Of course,’ Lucas said. ‘Of course you can come in.’
He led Danbury into his living room, sat him down, and poured him a glass of whisky.
‘Would you like to talk?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I would, as a matter of fact,’ Danbury replied, and now his voice had a musing, mystified quality. ‘I’ve just been to the rugby club. I’ve always loved it down there.’
‘I know you have.’
‘It’s one of the few remaining places that men can call their own – a refuge from the so-called “liberal values” that seem to be swallowing up everything that we hold dear.’
‘What happened?’ Lucas asked, with a hint of concern in his voice, because something unpleasant clearly had happened.
‘I expected a bit of manly sympathy,’ Danbury said. ‘After all, my wife’s been murdered, my daughter’s missing, I was in police custody for nearly two days, and now my father’s dead. Surely, I thought, everybody will want to rally round and do their best to cheer me up.’
‘And didn’t they?’
‘No, they didn’t. Oh, they all went through the motions – very sorry to hear about what’s happened … if there’s anything I can do … et cetera, et cetera – but as soon as they’d said their pieces, they drifted away. The bar was positively heaving when I arrived, but after fifteen minutes, the only people left were me and the bar steward. Now why was that?’
‘Maybe some of the lads thought you shouldn’t have been out enjoying yourself while your daughter’s still missing,’ Lucas suggested tentatively.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, they can’t be upset about that!’ Danbury said. ‘I worry about Melanie, you know. I honestly do. But a real man doesn’t sit whimpering in a corner when things go wrong – a real man gets on with life. And they all understood that. I’m sure they did.’
‘Then again, maybe they’ve heard, because of the police investigation, that you beat your wife,’ Lucas suggested.
‘It can’t be that, either,’ Danbury said dismissively. ‘I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I gave her the odd backhander when I thought she deserved it.’
‘We both know it was more than the odd backhander, William,’ Lucas said, ‘and now, from what you’ve just described to me, it seems as if they do too.’
The magistrate’s name was Winston Crouch, and when Paniatowski finally tracked him down, he was having a drink – possibly not his first – in the members’ bar of the Whitebridge Golf Club.
Crouch had heavy side-whiskers, which reminded Paniatowski of the jovial Mr Pickwick – one of her old boss, Charlie Woodend’s, favourite Dickensian characters – but from the expression on his face as she explained what had happened to Reginald Holloway, she quickly decided that his heart was more in tune with Mr Bumble, the beadle at the orphanage in which Oliver Twist was incarcerated.
‘So let me see if I’ve got this straight, chief inspector,’ Crouch said, when she’d finished her story. ‘What you’d like me to do is convene a special session of the magistrate’s court and grant this Hollington chap …’
‘That’s Holloway, sir.’
‘… and grant this Holloway chap bail?’
‘That’s right.’
Crouch took a sip of his gin and tonic. ‘No chance,’ he said. ‘I’m booked on the green in half an hour. Social services can look after the kids over the weekend. God knows, the idle sods do little enough to earn the huge salaries we pay them.’
‘It’s not really Mr Holloway and his children I’m worried about, sir,’ Paniatowski said. ‘My main concern is you.’
‘Me? But you don’t even know me.’
‘I’m not talking about you personally,’ Paniatowski explained. ‘I’m referring to you as a holder of the office of magistrate.’
‘Go on,’ Crouch said.
‘You’ve heard of a reporter, Pete Dolan, who works for the Whitebridge Chronicle, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of him,’ Crouch said. ‘The man’s more a muckraker than a journalist. He seems to have absolutely no respect for authority at all.’
‘None,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘and if his editor had any decency about him, he’d have sacked Dolan long ago.’
‘What a sensible young woman you seem to be,’ Crouch said, clearly surprised to find her in agreement with him.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Paniatowski said. ‘The thing is, I’ve just heard that Dolan has been tipped off about this story, and is very keen to run with it. You can just imagine
the kind of headline a man like him – a man with no principles and no respect for his betters – might write, can’t you?’
‘No, I’m not sure I …’
‘Because I certainly can! “Broken-hearted children taken into care while magistrate plays golf!” is the first possibility that comes to mind.’
‘That’s likely, is it?’ Crouch asked, sounding increasingly troubled.
‘Of course, I wouldn’t blame you if you refused to bow to such intimidation,’ Paniatowski continued. ‘Although I suppose you might argue that if your friends and neighbours lose their respect for you, they’ll be also, in a way, losing their respect for the law, and that it’s your duty to prevent that.’
‘You’re sure that Dolan is interested in the story?’ Crouch asked.
‘Positive,’ Paniatowski said. ‘In fact, I believe that he’s working on it right now.’
That was not strictly true, she thought, but if Crouch didn’t do what she wanted him to, Pete Dolan would certainly be informed that he should be working on it.
‘Taking everything into account, I think it might be best if I did convene a special session of the court,’ Crouch said. ‘Thank you for bringing this to me, chief inspector.’
‘My pleasure, sir,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘After all, we are both on the same side.’
As she walked back to the car park, Paniatowski ran the implications of what she’d just done through her mind.
If it ever became common knowledge around Whitebridge police headquarters that she’d taken time off – in the middle of a murder enquiry – in order to persuade a magistrate to do what any decent man would have done without prompting, then she’d be in deep trouble with everyone from her own team right up to the chief constable.
But she didn’t care, she realised.
Jane Danbury was dead, and Melanie Danbury almost certainly was, too. There was nothing she could do for them any more – but she could still make a difference for the Holloways.
There had to be one good thing that could come out of this whole sorry mess – just one point at which decency and goodness triumphed.
There just had to be.
‘I’ll fight for you, Mr Holloway,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll fight for you tooth and claw. And I’ll get you a suspended sentence if it kills me.’
Maggie Thorne was wearing jeans, and the sort of check shirt made famous by lumberjacks.
The last time she’d been interviewed, the man on the other side of the desk had been a DC Green, and his notes on that interview covered less than half a sheet of foolscap. Meadows didn’t know Green, but had already decided that he wasn’t very good at his job, because though she’d only just met Maggie herself, she was prepared to bet that she already knew – or had guessed – enough to fill a complete sheet of foolscap.
‘Tell me, what do you like to do in your free time, Maggie?’ she asked.
‘What the bloody hell has that got to do with this murder up on Milliners’ Row?’ Thorne asked.
She was either nervous or afraid, Meadows decided – but which was it?
Lots of people were nervous when they were questioned by the police, but Maggie didn’t strike her as the sort of woman to be cowed by authority. And nervous people didn’t usually swear in the presence of a bobby, either.
Afraid, then – afraid and defensive.
But why would someone with nothing to hide be either of those things?
Meadows smiled. ‘The question hasn’t got anything to do with the murder, really. I was just curious.’
‘I spend a lot of time in the gym,’ Thorne said. ‘I like to keep fit.’
Meadows clapped her hands delightedly. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘The moment you walked in here, I could see you were a woman who took care of herself. And, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re in great shape.’
‘You’re not in bad shape yourself,’ Thorne said, softening.
‘Why, thank you.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy coming out for a drink with me one night?’ Maggie said.
There was a smile on her face, but her eyes were cold and predatory, Meadows thought. It was like being stalked by a wolf.
‘I’m afraid I can’t go out with you,’ she said, ‘not while I’m part of this investigation – and you’re still a suspect.’
Thorne rocked in her chair. ‘I’m still a what?’
Meadows laughed. ‘I’m only joking. Of course you’re not a suspect, and of course I’d love to go out for a drink with you.’
‘I’d love it, too.’
Meadows ticked off a mental box in her head, then reached into her purse and produced a photograph of a baby, which she’d borrowed from one of the constables in the canteen.
‘I’d like to show you this,’ she said. ‘It’s my niece, Monika.’ She passed the photograph across the table. ‘Isn’t she just adorable?’
‘Very nice,’ Thorne said, hardly glancing at the picture before handing it back.
Meadows sighed regretfully. ‘Well, as enjoyable as it is to sit here chatting, I suppose we’d better get down to business. You were one of the cleaning team that worked at the Danbury house, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Maggie Thorne said, suddenly stiffening again.
‘I never met Mrs Danbury, but I’ve seen photographs of her, and she looks rather dishy. What was she like in the flesh?’
‘She was all right,’ Maggie Thorne said, turning away to look at the corner of the room beyond Meadows’ shoulder.
‘Did you see much of her while you were working there?’
‘Not a lot. She kept pretty much to herself.’
‘But you must have talked to her occasionally.’
Maggie shifted uncomfortably in her chair, as if her buttocks had suddenly started to ache. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘Not much. The weather, and things like that.’
‘Funny, you don’t look like the kind of woman who talks about the weather,’ Meadows said.
‘Well, you know …’
‘No, I don’t think I do.’
‘She’d … she’d ask me about my life – what I did, and where I went. I think she was a bit lonely.’
‘Did you ever see her outside working hours?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you ever go to the Danbury house just for a chat, rather than as a cleaner?’
‘No.’
That’s a lie, Meadows thought. That’s a dirty great whopper.
‘Have you ever been in trouble with the police?’ she asked, and now the tone of her voice had slipped from playful into rock-crushing mode.
‘No,’ Maggie Thorne said, completely knocked off balance.
‘Are you sure?’ Meadows demanded.
‘Yes, I …’
‘Before this particular investigation began, had you ever been questioned by the police?’
‘I … I was, once.’
‘And why, exactly, did the police consider that it was necessary to interview you?’
‘There was this girl,’ Maggie Thorpe mumbled. ‘She got hurt.’
‘Now that is interesting,’ Meadows said.
Gretchen was waiting for Danbury in the lounge, and had put on a dress which she knew was one of his favourites.
‘Welcome back, my darling,’ she said. ‘Did you have a good time at the rugby club?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Danbury replied, in a throaty growl. ‘They all treated me as if I was some kind of leper.’
Gretchen’s face took on a pained expression. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake to go to the club while they are still looking for Melanie.’
‘That’s what Lucas said.’
‘Was he there?’
‘No, I went round to see him later. I thought it might make me feel better, but it didn’t.’
‘Never mind, darling,’ Gretchen said. ‘We don’t need any of them as long as we have each other. And guess what. I have cooked you a pork s
tew. It is the same stew that my mother and I used to make for my father, and he said it was the most delicious meal in the world.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Danbury said.
Gretchen pouted. ‘But darling, I’ve spent hours preparing it.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘Just try a little,’ Gretchen wheedled. ‘Try the tiniest, tiniest portion, just to please me.’
Jane would have read the signs by now, but Gretchen hadn’t quite mastered the art yet – and it came as a complete shock to her when Danbury smashed her in the face.
The team was waiting for her in her office, and the moment she entered the room, Paniatowski could sense the excitement in the air.
‘We’ve not had time to check out all our lines of enquiry yet, but those we have checked out have led nowhere. Except for one – and that one is a real beauty,’ Beresford said. He turned to Meadows. ‘Tell the boss about her, sergeant.’
‘I interviewed a woman called Maggie Thorne,’ Meadows said. ‘She was one of the cleaning team that worked up at the Danbury house, and there are several reasons we should consider her a serious prospect. One: she’s a lesbian, a fact that the DC who interviewed her the first time round seems to have missed completely. Two: she got very cagey when I started asking her about Jane Danbury. Three: she said she’d never been to the house except in her capacity as a cleaner, and I’m sure she was lying.’
‘But four is the clincher,’ Beresford said.
‘Yes, it is,’ Meadows agreed. ‘She’s got a history of violence.’
‘Why am I only being told about this now?’ Paniatowski demanded angrily. ‘Why didn’t somebody pull her criminal record out at the very start of the investigation?’
‘Because she doesn’t have a criminal record,’ Meadows said. ‘Do you happen to know Sergeant Conley, boss?’
‘Yes, I know him,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘He’s a good bobby – very dogged and determined.’
‘That’s the impression I got,’ Meadows said. ‘Anyway, he told me this story about what happened to a girl called Anne Hoole, a couple of years ago.’
‘I’m listening,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Apparently, Anne was found in one of the alleys behind the brewery, in a pretty bad way. Not to put too fine a point on it, she’d had the crap kicked out of her. She said she didn’t know who’d attacked her, but Conley wasn’t convinced she was telling the truth, so he did a little snooping around.’
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