‘And what did he find out?’
‘Anne Hoole was Maggie Thorpe’s girlfriend, but she’d also been seeing another woman. The sergeant’s theory was that Maggie found out about it, and beat her up.’
‘And was this theory based on anything?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘If you had a boyfriend, and he was beaten up so badly that he had to be hospitalised, what would you do?’ Meadows asked.
‘Go to the hospital to see how he was?’ Paniatowski guessed.
‘Exactly, but Maggie never went near the place. She didn’t even ring up. The sergeant thinks that the reason Anne kept quiet about who attacked her was because she was worried that, if she didn’t, she’d get an even worse beating next time. And despite the fact that she’s a Whitebridge girl, born and bred, Anne left the town as soon as she was discharged from hospital, and hasn’t been seen since.’
‘And there’s a five,’ Beresford reminded the sergeant.
‘That’s right,’ Meadows agreed. ‘We’d reached a point in the interview when she really thought she was going to get me into her bed …’
‘What made her think that?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Me. I led her on. Anyway, at that point, I showed her a picture of a kid. I said was my niece, and since it obviously mattered to me, she must have known that one way to get on my good side was to put on a show of enthusiasm. And she couldn’t do it! She has absolutely no empathy with children at all. So if you were to ask me if she could kill Melanie in order to cover her own tracks, I’d say she’d do it without a second thought.’
Meadows had done brilliantly, Paniatowski thought. She’d handed them a suspect with a violent nature who had had both the means and the opportunity to kill Jane Danbury.
And what about motive?
If Jane had rejected her, she might have flown into a rage, as she’d done with her previous girlfriend, only, this time, she’d gone even further.
Yes, she was the perfect suspect.
But then Danbury had been the perfect suspect, too.
He picked up the phone and dialled Whitebridge police headquarters.
‘My name’s William Danbury, and I want to speak to the chief constable,’ he said.
‘Connecting you to Mr Pickering’s office now,’ the girl on the switchboard told him.
A new voice came on the line – another bloody woman.
‘This is Mr Pickering’s secretary, sir. If you’d like an appointment with the chief constable …’
‘I don’t want an appointment with him – I want to speak to him,’ Danbury said.
‘I’m afraid that might not be …’
‘If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to get on my bad side, because that’s a very uncomfortable place to be,’ Danbury said menacingly. ‘If I was you, I’d tell Keith Pickering that I want to speak to him now.’
‘Hold the line for a moment, sir,’ the secretary said, clearly shaken.
Danbury heard a whimpering behind him. He put his hand over the phone and turned round to face the battered and bleeding girl huddled in the corner.
‘And you can shut up – or you’ll get more of the same!’ he screamed.
The chief constable did not look a happy man.
‘I’ve had William Danbury on the phone,’ he said. ‘He told me that he’d been cold-shouldered at the rugby club, and that he blames it on you. He also told me I should force you to resign.’
‘Were those his exact words?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘No, they weren’t. What he actually said was, “I want you to get rid of that bloody Polak bitch.”’
‘And what did you say to him?’
‘I told him that while I had a great deal sympathy for him after the ordeal that he’d been through, I really didn’t appreciate him telling me how to run my police force.’
Paniatowski smiled. ‘Then he said, “Oh, my God, I’ve overstepped the mark. I realise that now, and I’m so sorry.” Is that how it went?’
‘No, not exactly. He said he would be taking the matter up with our ultimate boss, the Home Secretary, who just happens to be a friend of his.’
‘Do you think that’s true?’
‘That he’s the Home Secretary’s mate? I certainly wouldn’t dismiss it as a possibility. The man’s constituency is just over the Pennines, and I know for a fact that he’s a keen rugby fan. But even if he doesn’t know the Home Secretary, and even though he’s been shunned by the rugby club, he’s still got enough influence in this town to make waves when he feels like it. The rich and powerful of Whitebridge aren’t going to cross William Danbury just to save you, Monika.’
‘So are you asking me to resign, as a sort of pre-emptive strike?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘No, I most certainly am not, and there are two good reasons for that. The first is that he was in custody because you’d built up a very convincing case against him, and if he chose to keep quiet about his alibi, then that was his choice, and he only has himself to blame.’
‘And what’s the second reason?’
‘I very much want to be confirmed in this post, Monika, and I realise that to get that confirmation, I’m going to have to kiss a few arses along the way. But if getting the job is dependent on kissing the arses of men like William Danbury, then it’s not worth having.’
‘Thank you, sir, for being so frank with me,’ Paniatowski said.
‘How’s the investigation going?’ Pickering asked hopefully.
‘We’ve got a new prime suspect, sir. We really think we may have got it right this time.’
I’m saying it, but I’m not sure I truly believe it, Paniatowski thought. There’s still a nagging feeling in my gut which tells me we’re looking the wrong way again.
‘Catch the killer, Monika,’ Pickering said. ‘Catch him in the next couple of days – because, if you don’t, the question of whether you resign or not may well be taken out of my hands.’
The rain had finally stopped, but its effect was still all too evident in the Whitebridge Mortuary car park, and to reach the main building, Paniatowski was forced to navigate a zigzag course between the dozens of deep puddles which had established themselves in dips in the car park’s decaying surface.
The building itself, now thoroughly soaked, looked even more depressing than usual.
Or maybe it’s just me, Paniatowski thought – maybe I’m just more depressed than usual.
Dr Shastri was seated in her bright, antiseptic office, catching up on her paperwork.
‘I am so very busy,’ she told Paniatowski. ‘It seems that even though I am no more than a humble Indian doctor – little more, in fact, than a barefoot medicine woman – there are many people in my field who wish to hear my views on quite complicated medical matters, and I have been asked to assist in a number of cases far beyond the bounds of our small town. It is all most tiring.’
‘And you’re as chuffed as little apples about it, aren’t you?’ Paniatowski said, with a grin.
Shastri smiled. ‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘Though striving for recognition is perhaps something of a vanity, we still all like to bask in the glow of our colleagues’ approval.’
Yes, I remember that feeling, Paniatowski thought.
‘I have a question, Doc,’ she said aloud.
‘But of course you do,’ Shastri replied. ‘The only time I see you is when you wish to tax my poor brain with unanswerable conundrums. What is it this time?’
‘I need to know if Jane Danbury could have been killed by a woman,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Would that be because you have a prime suspect who is a woman?’ Shastri guessed.
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed.
Though she was forced to admit to herself that the only thing that made Maggie Thorne a prime suspect was the lack of any alternative.
‘I am tempted to say that if a woman had struck the blows, she must have been a very strong one,’ Shastri said, in measured tones. ‘But as I have often told you in the past, rage can make eve
n the weakest of us very powerful for a short time, and there is no doubt that whoever killed Jane Danbury was more than a little annoyed. Is that any help?’
‘Well, you certainly haven’t ruled out my suspect,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Thanks anyway, Doc.’
‘You are always rushing off,’ Shastri said. ‘Won’t you stop for a drink? I have a bottle of your favourite vodka in the cupboard.’
Yes, she was always rushing off, Paniatowski thought. Shastri was her dear friend, and yet as soon as she’d got the information she needed, she was gone. Building up her case against Maggie Thorpe could be put on hold for fifteen minutes, she decided.
‘I will stop for a drink, but only the one,’ she said.
‘You will only be offered the one,’ Shastri said severely. ‘After all, you are driving.’
Maggie Thorpe was walking along the canal bank, flanked, on either side, by the decaying ghosts of old cotton mills. She was holding a small cloth bag in her right hand, and she had still not decided what to do with it.
When Jane Danbury had invited her to visit the big house on Milliners’ Row – ‘Come on Wednesday, my husband’s away and it’s the au pair’s day off,’ – she had, naturally enough, assumed that Jane fancied her.
When nothing had happened on that first visit, she had not been overly disappointed. Jane was – in her terms – a virgin, and virgins sometimes needed gentle coaxing.
But then nothing had happened on the second and third visits, either, and Maggie had decided that if she wasn’t getting any sex out of it, then she might as well get something else.
On the fourth visit, Jane had said, ‘After you left last week, I noticed that some of my jewellery was missing, Maggie.’
‘Are you accusing me of being a thief?’ Maggie had demanded, her hands automatically balling up into fists.
‘No, no! It’s just that I remember Melanie started to cry, and I went to comfort her, and when I came out of Melanie’s room, I found you in my bedroom, very close to where I kept it hidden.’
‘I didn’t steal anything,’ Maggie had said.
Even though that was exactly what she had done.
‘It means a lot to me,’ Jane had told her. ‘My father gave it to me.’
‘Maybe your husband took it.’
‘He doesn’t know about it. He … he doesn’t like me having things he hasn’t bought for me himself.’
In that case, there’s no danger you’ll report it to the police, is there? Maggie thought.
‘I didn’t steal anything,’ she’d said, for a second time.
‘I … I don’t really mind that you took it,’ Jane had said, with tears in her eyes. ‘I enjoy your company so much, and if you want to keep the jewellery, that’s all right. Just as long as you come back again.’
She had never gone back, and she still wasn’t sure why. People always seemed to think that lesbians didn’t like pretty things, but she did – and she’d virtually been given a licence to steal them.
Perhaps it was that Jane Danbury’s intensity – Jane Danbury’s need for her – had frightened her.
None of that mattered now. What did matter was the bobby who had talked to her that afternoon. The bobby knew she’d been to the house, and was probably already thinking about getting a warrant to search her flat.
She reached into the bag, and took out a necklace. She wanted to look at it one last time, but it was too dark on the canal bank to see anything more than a vague shape.
She sighed, put the necklace back in the bag, and threw the bag quickly into the canal, before she had a chance to change her mind.
They had chatted about Louisa and India, and Paniatowski’s vodka glass was empty.
‘I really have to go,’ she said, standing up.
‘Of course,’ Shastri agreed. ‘By the way, Monika, will you be seeing Dr Lucas soon?’
‘I might be. Why do you ask?’
‘There were quite serious mistakes in the medical records that he sent me,’ Shastri said. ‘I intend, of course, to inform him of them myself, but as I said, I am very busy at the moment, and if you could do it …’
‘What kind of mistakes?’
‘He has made an error in the blood typing of both Melanie Danbury and William Danbury.’
‘And how do you know this?’ Paniatowski asked, as she felt a shiver run down her spine.
‘You remember that you took a sample of Mr Danbury’s blood when he was in custody?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you also remember that I told you it would not be necessary, because Dr Lucas had already sent me the records?’
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski said, more impatiently this time.
‘The sample had already gone to the lab by then, and they sent me the results this afternoon. And that is when I noticed Dr Lucas’ error. The blood type that he sent me and the blood type from the sample are not the same at all, and this could have very serious consequences, because if Mr Danbury ever needed a blood transfusion, and they gave him the blood that his medical record indicated he needed, he would probably die.’
‘But how do you know he got Melanie’s blood typing wrong, as well?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Ah, that is because of the inconsistencies. Whilst it is perfectly possible, going by the medical record, to say that Mr Danbury could be Melanie’s father, the blood sample says he could not. And since he is Melanie’s father, it is only logical to infer that Dr Lucas has got Melanie’s blood type wrong too.’ Shastri frowned. ‘I must admit, I am quite disappointed in Dr Lucas. He has previously struck me as a very good doctor, but he has proved to be very slipshod in this case.’
He was a careful man, Paniatowski thought, and if he had made mistakes, they had been deliberate mistakes.
‘Shit!’ she said. ‘He’s been playing me – he’s been playing me all along!’
The woman who opened the front door of Dr Lucas’ house looked both surprised and relieved to find Paniatowski standing there.
‘My goodness, that was quick,’ she said. ‘I only rang the police station five minutes ago.’
‘And why did you ring?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Was it because Dr Lucas has gone missing?’
‘That’s right.’
‘When did you first notice he wasn’t here?’
‘I didn’t. A friend of mine, Betty Hutton, rang me up at home, to say he’s missed his last three surgeries, and that’s most unusual, because he’s never missed even one before.’
Missed his last three surgeries!
Betty Hutton!
Rang me up at home!
‘Is Mrs Hutton’s husband dying?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘No,’ Mrs Dale replied. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? Pete Hutton is as fit as a fiddle.’
‘And you’re not a live-in housekeeper, are you?’ Paniatowski asked.
Mrs Dale laughed. ‘Bless you, no. Mr Dale would never stand for that. When he gets home from a hard day’s work, he expects to find his tea waiting for him on the table.’
‘So how often do you come here?’
‘Only three times a week – Tuesday, Thursday and Friday – but this week, for some reason, he gave me Friday off.’
‘I’d be totally lost without my housekeeper. I simply wouldn’t be able to keep the whole show afloat,’ Lucas had said to Paniatowski on her first visit to his gothic pile.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’ he asked, the second time she’d visited him. ‘It may take some time, because Mrs Dale isn’t up yet, and I don’t know where she keeps everything. Still, I expect I can manage.’
He had chosen his words carefully – she now saw that he had always chosen his words carefully – in order to convey the impression that Mrs Dale was a full-time employee.
And the purpose behind that had been to send a message – ‘There can’t have been anything odd or unusual going on in this house, because if there had been, Mrs Dale, who is here all the time, would have noticed it.’
The dying patient had
been another strand he’d woven in to his tissue of lies, because that said, ‘And anyway, I wouldn’t have had the time to get up to anything odd or unusual myself – because I’ve been spending most of my time with Betty and Pete Hutton.’
‘I need to search the house,’ Paniatowski said.
Mrs Dale looked dubious. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure how Dr Lucas would feel about …’
But Paniatowski was already heading up the stairs.
Lucas’ bedroom was almost excessively neat, tidy and orderly.
It certainly wasn’t the bedroom of a man who would make a mistake over not just one, but two, medical records, Paniatowski thought.
The wardrobe was fairly full, but there were some significant gaps on the rail, suggesting that several sets of clothes had been removed. One of the drawers in the chest of drawers – which Paniatowski guessed was the sock drawer – was empty. And there was no sign of the large suitcase she had seen on her last visit.
She checked the bathroom next – no shaving brush, no razor, no toothbrush.
A search of the ground floor of the house revealed nothing, until she reached the kitchen, where she noticed a door in the wall opposite the cooker.
‘Where does that lead?’ she asked Mrs Dale, who had been following worriedly in her wake since the start of the search.
‘It goes down to the wine cellar,’ the other woman said. ‘But it hasn’t been used for years. Dr Lucas doesn’t drink very much, and when he does, it’s usually whisky.’
The wine cellar would have both thick walls and ventilation, which would make it perfect for Lucas’ purposes, Paniatowski thought.
She tried the door, and discovered it wasn’t locked. But why would it be locked, when the horse had already bolted?
Beyond the door were steep stairs, leading down to the bowels of the house. Paniatowski found the light switch, and descended.
She was not in the least surprised by what she found beyond the foot of the stairs.
There was an electric fire, which Lucas had not even bothered to turn off when he left, because, however high the next electricity bill turned out to be, that was no concern of his any more.
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