‘Where else should we be looking?’ Potter asked.
‘The river bank,’ Paniatowski replied, remembering her first case as a DCI, in which a severed hand had turned up on the bank. ‘Also the canal tow path. Essentially, anywhere that members of the general public could go if they chose to – but usually don’t.’
The chief superintendent nodded his agreement. ‘This is clearly a job for the uniformed branch, so I won’t be requiring your assistance during the actual search,’ he said, ‘but I would like you and your team standing by, in case there’s a negative outcome.’
Or to put it another way, Paniatowski thought, in case the unhappy girl – who she had last seen wearing a flounced pink dress – turned up dead.
‘I’ve already notified my team, sir,’ she said aloud. ‘In fact, I’ve arranged to meet them at lunchtime.
The superintendent smiled. ‘And that meeting will be taking place in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey, will it?’
Paniatowski grinned. ‘That’s right. It’s where we seem to do our best thinking, sir.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ the superintendent told her.
The main wing of Dunston Prison was connected to the administrative block by a short tunnel, which had heavy steel doors at either end. The wing was four storeys high, rectangular in shape, and had a central patio. Internal walkways ran around the top three stories, and a suicide net had been stretched over the entire patio at second-floor level.
Baxter and Chief Officer Jeffries arrived in the wing just as the prisoners from the third floor were slopping out, and they stood in the patio, watching a stream of men clanking down the metal stairs and gingerly carrying their buckets towards the toilet block.
‘Just look at it,’ Jefferies said, as the prisoners passed by them. ‘What a waste of officer manpower. We’re highly trained personnel, you know. And what do we end up doing, for at least an hour a day? We end up standing and watching the prisoners slopping out!’
Baxter nodded, but said nothing.
‘The problem isn’t that this prison was built in the time of Queen Victoria – which it was,’ Jeffries continued. ‘It’s the fact that we’re keeping these men under conditions that even the Victorians would never have tolerated.’
‘Is that right?’ Baxter asked neutrally.
‘It is,’ Jeffries confirmed. ‘The Victorian idea of punishment was that when you locked a man away, you really locked him away. He wasn’t allowed to fraternize with the other prisoners. He was in his cell for most of the day, and even when he was given exercise time, wasn’t permitted to talk to the other prisoners. The only people he did get to talk to were the guards and the prison chaplain.’
‘And you approve of that system, do you?’ Baxter asked.
‘Of course I don’t approve of it,’ Jeffries said. ‘It was inhuman.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, under that system, they never had trouble with prison gangs, like we do these days.’ Another pause. ‘But the point I was trying to make was that each of these cells was designed to hold one man – and that, remember, was in Victorian times, when conditions for most people were a lot rougher than they are now.’
‘I imagine they were,’ Baxter said.
‘So we have cells which the Victorians considered were just about good enough for one prisoner, and we’re putting two or even three men in them now, because we don’t have any choice in the matter. And if one of those men has the shits in the middle of the night, the others have to live with the stink until morning slopping out time.’
‘I know what you’re doing,’ Baxter said quietly.
‘Do you?’ Jeffries asked, with a hint of aggression in his voice. ‘Then why don’t you explain to me exactly what that is.’
‘You’re trying to show me what strain you’re all under – the prisoners as well as the guards. You hope that by doing that, you’ll get me to make allowances for the fact that things don’t always go as they should do.’
‘And will you?’ Jeffries asked.
‘I’m not some academic who’s just stepped out of his ivory tower and expects everything beyond that tower to be perfect,’ Baxter said. ‘I live in the real world. I run a police force that operates within a flawed system, and I accept that certain corners have to be cut and certain regulations ignored in order to make that system work. So sometimes, when I see there are things not being done exactly by the book, I deliberately look the other way.’
‘That’s a sensible attitude,’ Jeffries said.
‘But there are principles I have to stick by, and actions that I can’t ignore,’ Baxter continued. ‘I will not tolerate my officers taking bribes, intimidating witnesses or doing favours for their mates, for example, and if they cross any of those lines, there are no second chances – they’re out of the force and probably in gaol.’
‘That’s all very interesting, but I’m much more interested in finding out how you’ll apply these “principles” of yours to this prison,’ Jeffries said.
‘Oh, that’s very simple,’ Baxter told him. ‘If there’s nothing your men could have done to prevent Jeremy Templar’s suicide, they’re in the clear, and if there was something they could have done, then they’re not.’
‘We’ve already explained that there weren’t the funds to box in all the pipes,’ Jeffries said.
‘And I accept that,’ Baxter countered. ‘I also accept that if a man really wants to kill himself, he’ll eventually find a way, however careful those around him are.’
‘In that case, I don’t see why you’re here at all,’ Jeffries said.
‘Don’t you?’ Baxter asked. ‘Then perhaps I’d better explain it to you. Templar committed suicide because he found life intolerable, and the reason he found life intolerable was because of the attacks on him by other prisoners. So the real question is – could your men have prevented those attacks?’
‘I don’t think that is the real question,’ Jeffries said.
‘Then what is?’
‘The real question is not whether they could have prevented those four attacks – it’s how many more attacks on him there might have been if my lads hadn’t been doing the best they could in nearly impossible circumstances. And we’ll never know the answer to that – because if something didn’t happen, you can’t prove it was ever going to.’
He had a point, Baxter admitted. And maybe he was right – maybe his men, rather than being inefficient, had been as efficient as was possible in the circumstances. But at this stage of the inquiry, it was far too early to reach any such conclusion.
‘Who fills in the time sheets?’ he asked the chief officer.
‘What do you mean by time sheets?’ Jeffries replied evasively.
‘I mean the sheets on which you keep a record of which officer is on duty at which particular time.’
‘That would be me – or one of the junior officers working under my supervision,’ Jeffries admitted.
‘I’d like to see all the ones relating to the times Jeremy Templar was attacked,’ Baxter said.
‘I don’t really see the point of that,’ Jeffries replied.
‘You will – if you really put your mind to it,’ Baxter promised him.
There was no sign on the corner table in the public bar of the Drum and Monkey to say that it was reserved, but then there didn’t need to be. The regular customers got vicarious pleasure from seeing DCI Paniatowski and her team in deep and urgent discussion on – say – a Tuesday night, and then reading about her making an arrest in the evening newspaper on Wednesday. They knew she wasn’t their bobby – that she was nobody’s bobby but her own – but occasionally, when they gently pointed non-regulars to another table, they could not help feeling a little pride over the fact they were, in some small way, contributing to the investigation.
The whole team was at the table that Sunday lunchtime, and Paniatowski looked at them all with the fondness of a mother hen who knows she has raised some very fine chicks.
There was DI Colin Beresford, whom she
had worked with since he had been a young detective constable, and she had been a sergeant. A big, solid man in his early thirties, he was her best friend, and though he had almost gone off the rails in their last investigation, she would trust him with her life.
There was fresh-faced and film-star-handsome DC Jack Crane, who she sometimes thought of as barely out of nappies, while fully acknowledging the fact that she would not be in the least surprised if she ended up working for him.
And there was DS Kate Meadows, the newest member of the team, and her bagman. Kate was still something of a mystery. She had a sex life that Paniatowski couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but was gradually learning to accept. She had the cavalier investigative style of someone who was working for her own amusement, rather than because she needed the money. And she had an expensive taste in clothes that she should never have been able to indulge on a DS’s salary. A mystery then – but a bloody fine bobby, for all that.
Paniatowski became aware of the fact that the rest of the team were watching her, and waiting for her to speak,
‘I don’t want to put a jinx on the search by assuming it will end with what Superintendent Potter chooses to call a “negative result”,’ she said, ‘but we have to accept the fact that Jill’s been missing for over eighteen hours.’ She paused to take a deep breath. ‘That means that the prospects don’t look good, and if things do turn out badly, we need to be ready.’
‘I’ve already informed the divisional commanders that we may be drawing on them for manpower,’ Beresford said.
Paniatowski nodded. ‘Good. If the worst does come to the worst, I’ll want your lads to trace Jill’s movements from the time she left the wedding.’ She took a drag on her cigarette. ‘Kate, your job will be to go to Jill’s school, and find out what you can about the parts of her life that her mother probably has no idea of. And before you ask,’ she continued, turning to Crane, ‘the reason I’m sending Sergeant Meadows is because most of the information she’ll gather will probably come from the girls.’
‘I don’t quite follow, boss,’ Crane admitted.
‘It’s not your fault, but you have an effect on girls of a certain age,’ Paniatowski said. ‘They quite lose their heads when they’re talking to you. And don’t deny it – because I’ve seen it happen.’
Crane grinned sheepishly. ‘I wasn’t about to deny it, boss,’ he admitted. ‘I’m cursed with good looks.’
‘And burdened with humility,’ Paniatowski said dryly. ‘Sergeant Meadows, on the other hand, comes across to teenage girls as an older sister. Admittedly, it’s a slightly dangerous older sister – the one they’d like to copy if only they had the nerve . . .’ She paused. ‘I’ve got that about right, haven’t I, Kate?’
‘If you say so, boss,’ Meadows replied.
‘And because that’s how they see her, they’ll tell her things they’d never dream of telling the rest of us,’ Paniatowski continued. ‘That leaves you, Jack. You can stick with me, and carry my bag.’
‘Fine,’ Crane said, doing his best to hide his disappointment.
‘That’s about as far as we can go for the moment,’ Paniatowski said, rounding things up. ‘Any questions?’
Meadows shook her head, and Crane said, ‘It all seems clear enough.’
‘Will you two excuse us for a minute?’ Beresford asked, looking first at the sergeant and then at the detective constable.
He’d posed it as a question, but both Meadows and Crane knew it was nothing of the kind, and they immediately stood up and walked over to the bar.
‘I hope you’re not looking for advice on your ever-more-complicated love life, because I never discuss sex on a Sunday,’ Paniatowski said, with an uneasy grin.
She knew what he was going to say, Beresford thought – and she didn’t want to hear it.
‘Are you sure you want this case, Monika?’ he asked, anyway.
Paniatowski’s forced grin froze, and then melted completely away.
‘Firstly, we don’t know yet if it will be a case,’ she said. ‘And secondly, if it does turn out to be a case, why wouldn’t I want it?’
‘It’s less than two months since your Louisa was abducted,’ Beresford said. ‘Do you remember what sort of state you were in when that happened?’
‘Of course I remember. How can you ever think I’d forget it? Now can we change the subject, please?’
‘We were in the pub in Bellingsworth village when you got the call that she’d gone missing, and—’ Beresford continued steadfastly.
‘I know where we bloody were,’ Paniatowski interrupted him.
‘—and when you came back to the table, you were trembling – and as white as a sheet. You tried to find your car keys in your handbag, and you couldn’t even manage something as simple as that, so in the end I drove you back to Whitebridge myself.’
‘Are you enjoying dredging all this up?’ Paniatowski asked. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.’
Beresford said nothing.
Ten seconds ticked slowly by before Paniatowski continued, ‘Yes, I was in a state. I admit that. Louisa’s my only child, for God’s sake! How would you have expected me to react?’
‘Exactly as you did,’ Beresford said. ‘And you’re not so far from that state now. So do you really think that you’re strong enough to handle an investigation which is bound to remind you of that terrible night?’
‘I’m strong enough,’ Paniatowski said.
‘I’m sure that the deputy chief constable would be more than willing to hand the investigation – if there is one – over to some other chief inspector,’ Beresford told her.
‘I’m strong enough,’ Paniatowski repeated, firmly.
FIVE
Sunday drifted lazily on, as Sundays invariably and inevitably did. The pubs closed at two in the afternoon, the drinkers wandered home, and by half-past two, the centre of Whitebridge – and the suburbs that clung to it like dependent limpets – were almost deserted. Once inside their own houses, the Sunday drinkers tucked into their traditional Sunday lunch of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and three veg, and then settled down in front of their television sets, soon falling asleep while watching old films they’d already seen half a dozen times before.
It was only on the edges of the town – in the industrial wasteland – that there was any sign of activity. There, teams of searchers, usually led or supervised by a police officer, checked out decaying mills and rotting warehouses, dilapidated scrap yards and dubious used-car establishments.
The searchers had started the day in somewhat high spirits. They were doing something for their community – they were acting together – and they felt good about it. They knew, of course, that their search might end in tragedy, yet they could not actually bring themselves to believe that it would.
By three o’clock, the mood had changed. The searchers were tired and hungry, but more than that, they were beginning to tell themselves that they were on a pointless mission – that if Jill Harris was safe and well, they would have found her by then.
At four o’clock, when darkness was beginning to fall and the search was finally called off, they felt a mixture of relief and disappointment – and began to prepare themselves for the inevitable.
It was just after six o’clock when Elaine Hardy and Eddie James began walking – gloved hand in gloved hand – through the Corporation Park.
The winter and early spring were difficult times for young lovers, Elaine reflected as they walked. At least, they were difficult times if you had a mother like hers – one who refused to accept the fact that by the time you were seventeen you’d stopped being a girl and become a woman, with all the natural urges that went with womanhood.
She envied the young Americans she had seen in films at the Odeon. They were able to ‘make out’ any time they felt like it, because they all had big flashy automobiles, with plenty of room on the ample back seat for a spot of nooky. If you were a teenager in Whitebridge, on the other hand, then
all you had was a sodding push bike, and however randy you were feeling, having sex on the crossbar was just about impossible.
And so she and Eddie – who would one day be her husband, and the father of her children – were forced to practice their ‘making out’ in isolated bus shelters and on wooden park benches. And in winter, that could be bloody cold!
As they passed the bandstand, she caught her boyfriend glancing speculatively at the bushes, so she knew what was about to come next.
‘Do you fancy a quick tumble?’ asked Eddie, always the romantic.
‘It’s a bit chilly for that sort of thing,’ Elaine said dubiously.
‘It’s warmer than it was last Friday – and we did it then,’ Eddie pointed out, with impeccable logic.
‘It doesn’t feel warmer to me,’ Elaine said. ‘Have you got a rubber Johnny on you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Eddie said dubiously.
‘Well then . . .’
‘I’m joking with you,’ Eddie said, grinning. ‘Of course I’ve got one. It’s right there in my wallet. I always carry one – ’cos I never know when you’ll start making your insatiable demands on me.’
‘Now, don’t go pretending that it’s always me who’s wanting to have it,’ Elaine said. ‘You’re the one who keeps saying you can’t have too much of a good thing.’
‘So what do you think?’ asked Eddie, who was getting tired of the debate. ‘Are you up for a quick one or not?’
‘As long as it is a quick one,’ Elaine said. She grinned, impishly. ‘But not too quick, or you’ll leave me unsatisfied.’
‘As if I’d do that,’ Eddie replied.
They looked around, to make sure no one was watching them, then quickly headed for the bushes.
Eddie stripped off his overcoat and laid it on the ground. Then he ran his hands over the lining, to make sure he hadn’t placed it on any roots.
‘There you go, my princess,’ he said grandly.
Elaine lay down on the coat, raised her backside slightly, and pulled down her knickers.
A Walk With the Dead Page 5