A Walk With the Dead

by Sally Spencer

  ‘And don’t be too rough with me this time,’ she warned.

  Eddie grinned in the darkness. ‘It’ll be as smooth as silk,’ he promised. ‘You’ll hardly know I’m touching you.’

  ‘There’s no need to go to extremes,’ Elaine told him.

  As Eddie began the foreplay, which he read about in the book his older brother had lent him, Elaine closed her eyes. She wasn’t quite sure why she always did that at this point, except that was what they did in the films, so she supposed it was no more than standard procedure.

  She felt her excitement growing, and when Eddie entered her, she groaned loudly.

  ‘Shush!’ Eddie whispered urgently.

  He was right, she thought. Make too much noise, and you were likely to attract the attention of some passer-by.

  And then where would they be?

  Up before the magistrate, more than likely, with her mother glaring at her from the public gallery!

  ‘Do me, do me,’ she groaned – though quietly.

  She was really into it now, and with her eyes still closed, she groped around for Eddie’s hand.

  The hand seemed very cold, she thought, as her fingers found his – cold, and rather lifeless.

  And then she realized that it wasn’t Eddie’s hand she was holding, and she let out a loud scream – not caring who heard.

  By the time Paniatowski reached the park, temporary floodlights had been set up, and now the bushes were an island of illumination, floating in the middle of a sea of darkness.

  Beresford was already there, gazing down intently at the body, as if he thought that by doing that, he would somehow miraculously bring her back to life.

  ‘Is that the girl who you saw at the wedding reception, Monika?’ the inspector asked, when he noticed that his boss had arrived.

  Paniatowski looked down at the body, which was lying half hidden under one of the bushes.

  The girl looked so tiny, she thought. So helpless!

  ‘Yes, that’s Jill Harris,’ she said mournfully. And then, more crisply, she added, ‘Who found her?’

  ‘A lad called Eddie James,’ Beresford said. ‘He claims he was just taking a short cut through the bushes, but when he turned round to leave, I noticed there were grass and dirt stains on the back of his overcoat, so you can draw your own conclusions.’

  ‘There’s no chance he was involved in the murder, is there?’

  ‘In my opinion, none at all. He’s just a poor innocent soul who happened to stumble on a murder victim, and then did the responsible thing and called the police. There’s nothing that he – or the girl he wasn’t with – can tell us that we can’t see for ourselves.’

  ‘Do we know the cause of death?’

  ‘The doctor hasn’t arrived to examine her yet, but there’s bruising all around the throat, so it seems more than likely that she was choked.’

  Paniatowski looked at the girl again. Jill’s coat was open, and under it she was wearing her prized Miss Selfridge top, just as her mother had said she would be. And it was a nice top, so it was hardly surprising that a young girl like her had been so proud of it. In fact, in some ways, it was too nice a top.

  ‘Do you think this is what the girl was wearing when she left home on Saturday afternoon?’ asked Beresford, whose mind seemed to be running along similar lines to his boss’.

  ‘Yes, I’m almost certain it was,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘It seems a bit posh for a Saturday afternoon stroll in the park.’

  Yes, it did, especially when Jill had known her Auntie Vanessa would not be there to see it.

  Paniatowski wondered if there was anything more she could have done after she’d been to Jill’s room and finished interviewing her mother. And that, she recognized, was just a short step from wondering if she could have done anything to prevent the murder.

  But it was pointless thinking like that, she told herself, because you can’t protect everybody, all the time – however much you might want to.

  She lit up a cigarette. ‘How long do you think the poor child has been dead?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, she looks like she’s coming out of rigor, so my guess would be she was killed some time on Saturday evening,’ Beresford replied.

  Paniatowski took a deep drag on her cigarette.

  Smoking, according to the subtle messages hidden deep inside the adverts, was an almost magical process, which both soothed the body and made the world seem a slightly better place, she thought – but when you were looking down on the face of death, there was no magic to be found anywhere.

  The chances were that even as she was talking to the mother – and trying to give the poor woman some hope – the girl herself had already been lying here. The chances were . . .

  ‘It’s not too late, you know,’ she heard Beresford say in a gentle voice.

  ‘Too late for what?’ she asked.

  ‘Too late to ask for this case to be assigned to another DCI.’

  But it was too late, Paniatowski told herself. It had already been too late to shrug off the responsibility for Jill Harris when she’d sneaked out of the wedding reception.

  ‘I told you at lunchtime, in the pub, that however this turned out I could handle it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Beresford agreed. ‘But now that you’ve seen the girl for yourself . . .’

  ‘There’s not much more that we can accomplish in the dark,’ Paniatowski interrupted him. ‘Here’s what I’d like you to do, Colin. First of all, make sure that all non-essential officers are moved back well away from the crime scene . . .’

  ‘I still think that . . .’

  ‘. . . and then I want the park locked, and uniformed officers posted all around the perimeter. Make sure there’s at least a dozen of them on duty throughout the night, and if anybody from upstairs starts bitching about how much that’s going to cost in overtime, just refer them to me.’

  ‘I’ll see to it, boss,’ Beresford said, giving up on his attempt to change her mind. ‘Should I also arrange for somebody to inform the mother?’

  ‘No,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’ll do that myself.’

  ‘I’d make sure that whoever was sent was well trained and sympathetic,’ Beresford said.

  ‘I know you would, Colin – but it has to be me.’

  ‘All right,’ Beresford said dubiously. ‘In that case, I’ll see you in the Drum in, say, an hour.’

  Paniatowski forced herself to take another look at the dead girl, and then thought about the other girl – the one who would be waiting for her back home.

  ‘No, after I’ve told Mrs Harris the bad news, I think I’ll make an early night of it,’ she said.

  SIX

  It was still dark when Paniatowski left home, but by the time she reached police headquarters, the sun was shining weakly down on the sheen of frost that covered the pavements.

  By six thirty-two she was at her desk – a cigarette in her left hand, a cup of strong black coffee conveniently close to her right – and had started to make phone calls to people who were still snugly wrapped up in a cocoon of sleep.

  Roger Hardcastle, the producer of Northern Television News was her first victim.

  ‘I’d like to book a spot for a police spokesman on the nine a.m. news bulletin, Roger,’ she said.

  ‘Is it a murder?’

  ‘Yes, you can get the details from the police press office.’

  ‘Will it be you who’s putting in an appearance?’

  ‘I doubt it. I’ll probably send DI Beresford.’

  ‘Pity,’ Hardcastle mused. ‘Colin Beresford’s a nice enough lad, but you look much better on television.’

  ‘It’s not entertainment were talking about here, Roger – it’s murder,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Hardcastle replied, sounding slightly shamefaced, ‘but when you’ve been in the news business for as long as I have, it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference.’

  Her next call was to the editor of a local evening p
aper.

  ‘I want the story on the front page,’ she told him, ‘and I want it emphasized that while we always appreciate help from the general public, we really need it this time.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘What time does your first edition come out?’

  ‘Usually around two o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘If you make it midday, I’ll owe you one.’

  ‘We can’t possibly have it ready by midday,’ the editor protested.

  ‘The girl was thirteen,’ Paniatowski pointed out. ‘Thirteen!’

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll do my best,’ the editor promised.

  It was as she hung up the phone that she noticed the slight tremble in her hand.

  ‘You’re just tired,’ she told herself.

  Of course it was just tiredness. It couldn’t be anything else, for while it was true that the murder victim this time was a girl of around the same age as Louisa – and a girl, moreover, who she might have talked to at the wedding reception but hadn’t – this was still a case just like any other.

  Ideally, the subject of an interrogation should be tired and hungry, and the two prison officers who had just come off the night shift, and were now sitting across from George Baxter, fitted the bill perfectly.

  Their names were Higgins and Fellows, and they were in their mid-thirties. They both wore their hair short, though Higgins’ hair was blond and Fellows’ was brown. Fellows looked the more intelligent of the two, but also the more cautious.

  ‘You were on duty the morning Templar was beaten up in the shower, weren’t you?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Fellows agreed.

  Several seconds’ silence followed the admission, then Baxter said, ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘The shower block has ten showers, and the procedure is to take the prisoners there in batches of twenty,’ Higgins said. ‘What’s supposed to happen is that ten of them stand in the corridor, while the other ten take their showers. Then the ten that have showered take their turn at waiting in the corridor, while the other ten get their showers.’

  ‘The thing is, that assumes all ten showers are working properly,’ Fellows added.

  ‘And sometimes they’re not?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘At best, there’s never more than five or six of them in working order,’ Fellows said. ‘That means there has to be five prisoners in the showers, and fifteen waiting outside.’

  ‘And there are only two officers supervising them?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather a high ratio of prisoners to officers?’ Baxter wondered. ‘What if they decided to attack you?’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ Higgins said.

  ‘Why not? What would stop them?’

  ‘The thought of having their fingers broken,’ Higgins smirked.

  ‘Shut up, Tony!’ Fellows warned him.

  ‘So if any prisoner attacked any officer, the governor would have his fingers broken?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Yeah, right – like this governor of ours would have the balls to do that!’ Higgins said contemptuously.

  ‘I told you to shut up,’ Fellows said.

  ‘So if you’re not talking about the governor, you must be talking about the chief officer,’ Baxter said.

  ‘Mr Jeffries wouldn’t even think of doing that,’ Fellows said, obviously furious at his colleague for putting him in this position.

  ‘Then who would?’ Baxter pressed.

  Fellows sighed. ‘There are a few hotheads in this place, but most of the prisoners just want a quiet life,’ he said. ‘And that means that the last thing they need is for an officer to be assaulted while going about his duties.’

  ‘So the prisoners who want a quiet life break the fingers of anyone who steps out of line?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘No,’ Fellows replied. ‘As long as everybody knows they’d do it if they had to, there’s no need for any violence.’

  ‘But there is violence,’ Baxter pointed out. ‘Violence was done to Jeremy Templar.’

  ‘They didn’t hurt him because he stepped out of line,’ Higgins said. ‘They hurt him because he was a sick bastard.’

  ‘Which brings us neatly back to that morning in the showers,’ Baxter said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was in the shower block, and Officer Higgins was supervising the prisoners in the corridor,’ Fellows said. ‘Then Officer Higgins came into the showers, and asked me to help him deal with a situation that had developed.’

  ‘What kind of situation?’

  ‘Two of the men waiting in line had got into a fight, and he needed help separating them. I stepped out into the corridor and dealt with the matter. When I returned to the showers, Templar was lying on the floor of the stall. He’d been beaten up.’

  ‘And there were only four or five men who could have been responsible for the attack, weren’t there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you question them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they all denied having anything to do with it.’

  ‘What did Templar have to say about it?’

  ‘Templar knew better than to say anything,’ Higgins said, with another sneer.

  ‘Our hands were tied,’ Fellows added. ‘You can’t charge five men with an attack when only one of them might be responsible, and since Templar refused to help us . . .’

  ‘I’d like to see the report you wrote on the attack,’ Baxter said.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Mr Jeffries for it – but it won’t tell you anything we haven’t already said,’ Fellows said.

  ‘I’d also like to see the other report.’

  ‘What other report?’

  ‘The one on the incident that occurred outside the shower block – the one that Officer Higgins called you out of the showers to deal with.’

  ‘Ah, well, you see, I’m not sure there is one,’ Fellows said uneasily.

  ‘What do you mean – you’re not sure?’

  ‘In comparison to what happened to Templar, that was no more than a scuffle, and we may have forgotten to write it up.’

  ‘But it did happen, did it?’

  ‘Yes, of course it happened.’

  There were only two possible explanations of the incident, Baxter thought. The first was that there had been no fight in the corridor, and the two officers had invented it to excuse the fact that they’d failed to protect Templar.

  The second was that there had been a fight, and that it had been carefully orchestrated to distract Higgins’ and Fellows’ attentions while someone in the showers laid into the pervert.

  Both explanations had their merits, and it was impossible – for the moment – to decide which one of them was the truth.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  And he couldn’t miss the look of relief on Fellows’ face that the interrogation was over.

  Fairfield High School for Girls was about as posh as schools got in Whitebridge. It was situated on the edge of the town, in an old neo-Gothic mansion, and such had been the demand in the previous few years for the kind of ‘superior education’ it claimed to offer, that several modern annexes had been grafted onto the original building.

  Looking at the gothic part of Fairfield from the road, Kate Meadows thought back to her own school days.

  She recalled vividly the countless occasions on which she had been hauled into her headmistress’ study, a stuffy overbearing room which smelled of leather and spinsterhood. She had only to close her eyes to see the headmistress, Miss Harvey, a woman in late middle age, who had worn heavy tweed costumes, kept her grey hair rigidly in place with a complex network of pins and grips, and looked at the world through heavy-framed glasses.

  ‘So you’re here again, Katherine.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Harvey.’

  And then one of the obligatory lectures would begin. They were lon
g, rambling lectures, full of disapproving adjectives and adverbs that were framed within rhetorical questions.

  The only relief from the stream of condemnations came when Miss Harvey broke off to point to one of the numerous photographs of ‘old girls’ that adorned her wall.

  ‘That’s Lucinda Hubbard. She’s only a few years older than you, but she’s already a junior partner in a most prestigious firm of accountants.’

  Good for her – the smug-looking cow!

  ‘And that’s Miranda Bonneville. She’s a junior lecturer in St Hilda’s College, Oxford now, and I wouldn’t be the least surprised if she is offered a chair by the time she is forty.’

  And she was more than welcome to plop her big fat academic arse on it, because Kate didn’t want it!

  ‘I really would have thought, Katherine, that these girls would serve as an inspiration to you.’

  ‘They do, Miss Harvey.’

  ‘Well, I must say, that’s certainly not apparent from either your work or your attitude.’

  But they had inspired her – though not in a way the headmistress would have hoped.

  ‘Look at me now, Miss Harvey,’ she said to the empty air. ‘A common-or-garden police sergeant, rubbing shoulders with all sorts of riff-raff. Ain’t that just grand?’

  It seemed somehow wrong to be entering the morgue without Dr Shastri standing there at the door to greet her, Paniatowski thought, and she found herself hoping that the beautiful and delicate doctor would soon get bored of exploring her exotic roots and return to dank, chilly Whitebridge.

  It was the new doctor – wasn’t her name Liz Duffy? – who was conducting the post-mortem, and as the attendant showed Paniatowski and Crane into the dissecting room, she looked up from her work and said, ‘Good God, Jack Crane! What are you doing here?’

  ‘You know each other, do you?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Know each other?’ Dr Duffy repeated. ‘I should say we do! Jack and I were at—’

  ‘At school together,’ Crane interrupted hastily and – it seemed to Paniatowski – rather shakily. ‘As a matter of fact, our families lived on the same street, didn’t they, Liz?’

  ‘Er . . . yes . . . er . . . they did,’ Duffy said, and though she was wearing a surgical mask, Paniatowski could still read the puzzlement in her eyes. ‘But I still don’t know what you’re—’