A Walk With the Dead

by Sally Spencer

  ‘I’m a detective constable now,’ Crane said, interrupting her again. ‘I bet that shocks you, doesn’t it? You probably always imagined I’d end up as a bricklayer or a window cleaner.’

  ‘Well, I certainly never thought you’d end up as a policeman,’ Liz Duffy said, in evident confusion.

  ‘Anyway, we’re not here to chat about old times,’ Crane said. ‘We’ve come to find out what you can tell us about the body, haven’t we, boss?’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ Paniatowski replied.

  But she was thinking, What’s just been going on?

  Dr Duffy straightened up and said, ‘They say you should never carry out a post-mortem on someone you’ve known in life, and I believe them, because this morning I’ve found out for myself that it’s bad enough if the cadaver is only someone you’ve simply seen.’ She paused. ‘You do know we have both seen this girl before, don’t you, Monika? She was at the wedding reception.’

  ‘Yes, I did know that,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘What can you tell us about her, Doc?’

  ‘Death was by manual strangulation,’ Dr Duffy said. ‘There’s a bruise on her cheek, so I’m assuming that the killer first knocked her down, and then, when she was on the ground, strangled her – but I could be wrong about that. There are bruises on her ankles, too, and they were probably caused during the struggle.’

  ‘So she was strangled from the front?’

  ‘That’s correct. The pattern of contusions around her windpipe confirms that absolutely.’

  ‘Would the killer in this case have to have been a very strong man?’ Paniatowski asked.

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Strangulation always requires a certain degree of physical force, but the victim was probably dazed by the blow to her face, and anyway, she’s only a slip of a girl, so he didn’t need to be particularly strong.’

  She’d been a slip of a girl – and so was Louisa, Paniatowski thought.

  ‘Was there any evidence of sexual assault?’ she asked.

  ‘Not from the night she was murdered,’ the doctor told her.

  ‘But from earlier?’

  ‘She has love bites on her shoulder and her chest, but they are at least several days old. I suppose, given her age, those love bites qualify as sexual assault, but there’s no old bruising to suggest that she resisted in any way.’

  ‘And you’re certain the killer didn’t do anything of that nature.’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Was she a virgin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did the killer take anything away with him?’

  ‘You mean like a lock of her hair? Or a finger?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ Duffy paused before speaking again. ‘Please don’t think I’m being insensitive by using the term, Monika, but it was what some of my colleagues would call a “clean kill”.’

  Paniatowski frowned. There were cases on record of other clean kills, but they were few and far between – and largely unsolved. On the whole, this kind of predator wanted to defile his victim in some way – either by raping her or taking part of her body as a souvenir.

  ‘When did Jill die?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I’ll be able to give you a more accurate estimate when I’ve run more tests, but at the moment, I’d say it was some time between five and seven o’clock on Saturday night,’ the doctor told her.

  From the point of view of possible witnesses, that was just about the worst time she could have died, Paniatowski thought. In the afternoon, the park was full of parents pushing prams and lads playing football. In the evening, it was inhabited by people walking their dogs, and young couples – like Eddie and his girl – in search of a little privacy. But between five and seven, most people had gone home for their tea, and the park was largely deserted.

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ she asked.

  ‘I know what you’re hoping for, Monika, but I’m afraid there was no skin under her fingernails,’ Dr Duffy said. ‘The attack seems to have been sudden and unexpected, and by the time she realized what was happening, she had probably already begun to lose consciousness.’

  ‘Thanks, Doc,’ Paniatowski said. ‘If you come up with anything else, you’ll let us know immediately, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Duffy agreed. She turned to Crane. ‘Nice to see you again, Jack, even under such grisly circumstances,’ she said.

  And Paniatowski could have sworn she saw a mischievous twinkle in the doctor’s eyes.

  SEVEN

  Mrs Garner, the headmistress of the Fairfield School, wore a pale jacket and skirt which had only recently gone out of fashion, had half-moon glasses perched on her nose, and allowed her blonde hair to fall freely to her shoulders. It was obvious that she considered herself a very modern headmistress, and her office, too, reflected that modernity, with its Scandinavian desk – on one side of which the sergeant was currently sitting – its Paul Klee prints, and its clean, functional lines.

  But it was all only skin deep, Meadows decided. She had seen through the disguise, and knew that lurking underneath it was the tweed-encased soul that made her another Miss Harvey.

  Yes, the two women were both petty tyrants, and both wore a cloak of snobbery to disguise their social insecurity, Meadows thought. And having reached this assessment, she sat back and waited for the inevitable to happen.

  ‘Speaking strictly, as an individual, I would be more than willing to cooperate fully with your investigation, Sergeant Meadows,’ Mrs Garner said, in a serious, self-important voice, ‘but alas I do not have the freedom that is granted to ordinary people. My first duty is to this school, and, having stated my position, I think there’s really no more to say.’

  The headmistress clasped her hands in front of her, and looked first at Meadows and then at the door.

  ‘You can’t ignore the death, you know,’ the sergeant said, staying firmly where she was. ‘For its own mental health, the school needs to grieve the loss of one of its own.’

  Mrs Garner snorted at her presumption in offering advice. ‘We are all, of course, greatly distressed to hear that Jane has been murdered . . .’ she began.

  ‘Jill,’ Meadows told her. ‘The poor girl’s name was Jill.’

  ‘That Jill was murdered,’ the headmistress corrected herself, though her tone suggested that if she had been wrong, it was probably Meadows’ fault. ‘But as distressed as we are, Sergeant, I’m afraid we cannot allow you to turn this school upside down in order to pursue your inquiry.’

  ‘We?’ Meadows said, looking around the room as if expecting to see someone else. ‘Oh, I see, you’re using the royal “we”, are you?’

  ‘I am quite convinced that Jill’s death had nothing to do with anyone in this school, and that you would be making much better use of your time looking in the centre of Whitebridge for the tramp or drunkard – or whoever it was – who mindlessly killed her,’ Mrs Garner said, ignoring the comment.

  ‘Yes, you might well be convinced of that, but you see, you’re not an expert in murder – and we are,’ Meadows said. ‘And we think it would be useful to talk to Jill’s friends in the place where they spent most of their time together. We’ll have to get the parents’ permission first, of course, but I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to cooperate.’

  ‘You may choose to speak to the girls in their own homes – I can do nothing about that – but I will not allow you to speak to them within the confines of my school,’ the headmistress said firmly. ‘On the other hand, if you wish to speak to any of my staff . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I will give my permission for that – but only after school has finished for the day, and only in my presence.’

  It was time to crank up the pressure a little, Meadows decided. She contemplated going for the jugular straight away, but then – perhaps out of a sense of pity – she decided to give Mrs Garner one more chance to do the decent thing.

  ‘I understand that you have the repu
tation of your school to consider, and that you don’t want it associated with a horrendous crime like murder,’ she said, ‘but it already is associated with it, and the best thing you can do for its reputation would be to help us find the killer.’

  ‘The best thing I could do for my school is to see that it returns to normal as quickly as possible,’ the headmistress countered. ‘We have GCE examinations in June, and though that might seem a long way away to a police officer who probably cannot see the value of an academic education, I can assure you that in our little community, three months is a very short time indeed.’

  Well, she’d tried being reasonable, and it hadn’t worked, Meadows told herself.

  ‘You do realize that this means I’ll have to go over your head, don’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Over my head!’ the headmistress repeated, outraged.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Over my head to whom?’

  ‘I’m going to have to contact the chairman of your school governors.’

  Mrs Garner’s outrage melted away, and though she probably rarely saw the humour in anything, she laughed now.

  ‘Please feel free to do just that, Sergeant Meadows,’ she said, ‘but I can assure you that Lord Briargate has complete confidence in the way I manage this school, and will back me to the hilt.’

  ‘You may well be right,’ Meadows conceded.

  ‘I am right.’

  ‘But then again, Pinky may decide to back me to the hilt, since we’re such old mates.’

  ‘Pinky? Old mates?’ the headmistress repeated.

  ‘That’s right,’ Meadows said airily. ‘Pinky and I go back a long way.’

  The headmistress laughed again, even more scornfully this time.

  ‘Of course you do,’ she said disbelievingly. ‘I expect he’s an “old mate” of all the detective sergeants in Whitebridge.’

  ‘No, I don’t think that’s the case at all,’ Meadows said seriously. ‘Or at least, if they are his mates, I don’t think I’ve ever met any of them at one of his weekend house parties.’

  ‘You surely don’t expect me to believe . . .’ Mrs Garner began.

  ‘Funnily enough, I’d been meaning to give him a ring even before you decided to be so bloody uncooperative,’ Meadows interrupted her.

  ‘I will not tolerate that sort of crude language in my school,’ the headmistress hissed.

  ‘The thing is,’ Meadows continued, unconcerned, ‘the poor old bugger’s been rather worried about Jess’s health, and you know what it’s like when one of the family gets ill – you really appreciate a shoulder from outside to cry on.’

  ‘This has all been one big bluff from the start, hasn’t it?’ Mrs Garner crowed triumphantly. ‘You don’t know Lord Briargate at all!’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘His lordship’s wife’s name is Lady Elizabeth! And his children are Rachael and Charles.’

  ‘So?’ Meadows asked blankly.

  ‘He has no close relations called Jess.’

  ‘I never said she was a relative, I said she was a member of the family,’ Meadows pointed out.

  ‘You’re making no sense,’ Mrs Garner told her.

  ‘Jess is Pinky’s gun dog,’ Meadows explained. ‘She’s a lovely little black Labrador, and she’s had a liver infection.’ A sudden puzzled look came to her face. ‘Surely he must have told you about it. He tells everyone.’

  ‘No, I don’t remember him mentioning it,’ the headmistress said with increasing uncertainty.

  ‘I should imagine he’ll be quite cross when I tell him how you’ve been obstructing me, but if I was you, I shouldn’t worry about that too much,’ Meadows said cheerfully. ‘As you know yourself, he rarely holds a grudge.’ She frowned. ‘Although, when he does . . .’

  ‘There’s no need to bother Lord Briargate,’ Mrs Garner said. ‘I’m sure we can reach an understanding that will satisfy both of us.’

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ Meadows agreed.

  ‘Perhaps I could put you in touch with my head of pastoral care, and if she has no objection, you could talk to some of the girls.’

  ‘That would suit me perfectly,’ Meadows agreed.

  ‘Then if you’d like to wait in the outer office . . .’ Mrs Garner said, turning back to her paperwork.

  It was a dismissal – a minor victory on Mrs Garner’s part – but Meadows did not mind, because she had achieved her objective, and as she left the office she found herself wondering if Lord Briargate – whom she had never met – really did have a Labrador called Jess.

  ‘That was rather strange, wasn’t it, Jack?’ Paniatowski asked, as she and Crane walked back across the morgue car park towards the MGA.

  ‘What was rather strange?’ Crane asked, unconvincingly.

  ‘The little exchange that I just witnessed between you and the new police doctor – you know, the one in which she kept trying to say something and you kept shutting her up before she had the chance.’

  ‘You’re right, I was trying to shut her up, but I was afraid she’d start telling you about some of the embarrassing things I did when I was a kid.’

  ‘You’re lying to me,’ Paniatowski told him.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Crane admitted.

  They had reached the car, and were staring at each other across the red bonnet.

  ‘Don’t ever lie to me again, Jack,’ Paniatowski said, with an edge to her voice. ‘Don’t even have a reason to want to lie to me.’

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Crane muttered. He lowered his head gazed down at the bonnet for a few seconds, then lifted it again, and said, ‘There’s something I need to tell you, boss – something we need to talk through.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Not now. Not when we’re in the middle of a case. I’d rather leave it until after we’ve caught the killer. Could we do that, please?’

  Paniatowski turned the idea over in her mind.

  ‘Does what we need to talk about have anything to do with Liz Duffy?’ she asked, finally.

  ‘Not really,’ Crane said. ‘Or, at least, if it does have anything to do with her, it’s only very indirectly,’ he amended, in the interest of accuracy.

  ‘Well, that’s as clear as mud,’ Paniatowski said.

  Crane waved his hands helplessly. ‘Liz is . . . well, I suppose she’s just what you might call the final catalyst.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘That’s what I’d rather not say at the moment.’

  ‘Will this thing that you’re holding back on – whatever it is – have any impact on the investigation?’

  ‘No, boss, I swear it won’t.’

  ‘I don’t like mysteries,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Then you shouldn’t be a detective, boss,’ Crane said, sensing her wavering and risking a joke.

  A smile flickered across Paniatowski’s face. ‘I will wait – but you’d better be right about it not affecting the case.’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ Crane said.

  ‘Well, if you’re wrong, you’ll certainly wish you were dead,’ Paniatowski said dryly.

  George Baxter looked down at his notes he’d taken during the four interviews he’d conducted that morning, and decided that while he had made some progress, he hadn’t made nearly enough.

  He’d certainly established a pattern of sorts. The second, third and fourth pair of officers had all claimed – just as Fellows and Higgins had done before them – that when Templar had been attacked, they’d been dealing with a disturbance elsewhere.

  So had the prisoners who wanted to hurt Templar orchestrated the whole thing?

  Or had the officers invented the disturbances – or had them invented for them by Chief Officer Jeffries – to cover their own inefficiency?

  He needed a break from work, he told himself, and since there was a news bulletin on the radio, he might as well find out what was happening beyond the walls of this closed, claustrophobic prison.

  He switched his tran
sistor radio on.

  ‘Sport,’ said the announcer. ‘Despite the best efforts of its manager, Tommy Docherty, Manchester United looks increasingly likely to be relegated to the second division at the end of the season. A spokesman for the club . . .’

  Baxter sighed. After years of hearing United fans mock Whitebridge Rovers’ efforts to climb out of the second division, he should be taking pleasure from the fact that they would now be getting a taste of the unpleasant medicine themselves, he thought, but he doubted he could take pleasure in anything at that moment. He was less than forty-eight hours into his inquiry, and he was already heartily sick of it.

  ‘The closing headlines,’ the news reader said. ‘Police in Lancashire are investigating the death of a girl found strangled in Whitebridge Corporation Park. The girl has been identified as Jill Harris, and she was thirteen years old. The officer in charge of the investigation, DCI Monika Paniatowski, has urged all members of the public who feel they may have some information to come forward, and . . .’

  ‘Thirteen years old! Monika Paniatowski!’ Baxter exclaimed.

  He reached for the phone and quickly dialled a Whitebridge number.

  ‘Jesus, who’ve I got working for me?’ he asked himself. ‘Imbeciles?’

  Mrs Pierce, who was head of pastoral care at Fairfield High School, was dressed like a frump, but had the keen eyes of a brain surgeon.

  ‘If you asked me about Jill only a couple of months ago, I’d have had very little to tell you,’ she admitted to Meadows. ‘What I suppose I would have said is that she was quiet, industrious and a little boring – and I’d probably have put that down to that mother of hers.’ She paused. ‘Have you met Mrs Harris?’

  ‘No,’ Meadows said, ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky,’ Mrs Pierce said. ‘The woman’s a monster. Not an evil monster, you understand – not even a malicious monster – but a true monster, nevertheless.’

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Meadows suggested.

  ‘Mrs Harris’ one aim in life is to fit in,’ Mrs Pierce said. ‘She’d do anything to conform. She’s a bit of a prude, but if you told her that everyone who was anybody was planning to strip off naked, cover themselves in paint, and run around the Boulevard, she’d be off to the ironmongers to buy a tin of Emerald Green before you could turn around.’