‘I think you’re right,’ Paniatowski agreed.
‘For a girl of her age, she wasn’t in great shape physically,’ Liz Duffy asked. ‘Her diet was poor, her teeth were beginning to rot, and she wasn’t getting nearly enough exercise. She was also suffering from gonorrhoea – and had been for several weeks.’
‘Would she have known she had the clap?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Not necessarily. When men catch it, they usually experience pain when urinating within four to six days. In the case of women, there may be vaginal discharge, and having intercourse can become painful, but fifty per cent of women are totally asymptomatic, and have no idea they’re infected.’
A possible scenario flashed through Paniatowski’s mind . . . Maggie sleeps with a man, and four to six days later, it starts to hurt when he pees. He realizes what has happened and flies into a rage. When he confronts Maggie in the park . . .
But that would mean there were two killers, and even the cautious Dr Duffy now believed there was only one.
‘Maggie had consumed quite a lot of alcohol in the hours preceding her death,’ Liz Duffy continued. ‘My guess would be that it was cheap cider.’
What did the two girls have in common? Paniatowski asked herself.
One of them had had an overprotective mother, the other a mother who didn’t give a damn about her.
One had been a virgin, with lesbian tendencies. The other had been heterosexual, and sexually active.
Yet they died not only in almost exactly the same way, but also in almost exactly the same place.
‘I was hoping you might have been able to find something that linked the two victims,’ she said.
And then she saw the look of utter dejection that came instantly to the other woman’s face, and wished she hadn’t spoken at all.
‘What sort of thing did you have in mind?’ Liz Duffy asked, in a subdued voice.
‘I don’t know,’ Paniatowski confessed.
‘Perhaps that they shared the same rare blood group or had both got appendix scars from operations which were clearly performed by the same doctor?’
Paniatowski grinned. ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘Look, you shouldn’t take anything I’ve said to heart,’ she continued in a more serious tone. ‘It’s no reflection on you. The fact is that I’m so desperate over this case that I was hoping for a miracle – and miracles simply don’t happen every day.’
‘Is it really as bad as that?’ Liz Duffy asked. ‘Is your boss giving you a hard time?’
‘Not at the moment,’ Paniatowski said. ‘He’s in Yorkshire, investigating a prison suicide. But when he gets back, the fat will really be in the fire.’
‘Oh God!’ Liz gasped. She turned away, and began to pace the room. ‘I didn’t realize how much you were depending on me – and I’ve given you nothing!’
‘As I said, I’ve no right to expect miracles,’ Paniatowski said.
But Dr Shastri would have worked miracles, she thought.
If Shastri hadn’t had the right answers, she would at least have asked the right questions, which would have set the team on the path towards finding the right answers for itself.
It wasn’t Liz Duffy’s fault. She was young and inexperienced, and in time she would no doubt grow into just as fine a police doctor as Dr Shastri. But given that she had two murders on her hands, Paniatowski needed someone as fine as Dr Shastri now!
SEVENTEEN
Meadows was prepared to concede that the traffic was fairly heavy in the centre of Whitebridge that morning, but it still didn’t seem quite heavy enough to merit either the intensity of concentration or the caution with which DC Crane – who was behind the wheel – was treating it.
‘Do you know, Jack, the way you’re driving is so reminiscent of my Great-aunt Matilda that it’s almost uncanny,’ Meadows said.
Crane signalled to overtake a van, then thought better of it, and dropped back slightly.
‘Yes, good old Aunt Matilda,’ Meadows continued. ‘What a character she was! You could always tell when she’d taken the Roller out for a spin because there’d be a tailback of traffic that could stretch for miles.’
Crane said nothing.
‘Still, I suppose that’s only to be expected when you’re a ninety-one-year-old woman and as blind as a bat,’ Meadows ploughed on. ‘Are you ninety-one, Jack?’
‘Sorry?’ Crane said.
‘I was just asking you if you’d ever been to Bridlington-on-sea,’ Meadows said.
Crane shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘What’s on your mind, young Jack?’ Meadows asked.
‘Nothing,’ Crane replied.
‘You might as well come clean right away,’ Meadows told him, ‘because you know I’m easily smart enough to guess eventually, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do know that,’ Crane agreed.
‘Well, then?’
They reached the roundabout at the end of the High Street, and Crane took a left turn.
‘Have you ever been in love, Sarge?’ he asked.
‘I was married once,’ Meadows replied.
And because there was something in her tone which suggested that that particular avenue of conversation was permanently closed, Crane said no more than, ‘Fair enough.’
For a while, as they drove through the industrial wasteland that had once been the beating heart of Whitebridge, they fell silent again.
Then Meadows said, ‘All right, since I was the one who insisted on knowing what you were thinking, I suppose it’s only fair that I answer your question honestly. No, Jack, I’ve never been in love. Why do you ask? Are you?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Crane admitted.
‘And how long have you been suffering from this period of uncertainty?’ Meadows wondered.
‘About twelve hours.’
‘Ah, then it must be the new police doctor who you think you might have fallen for,’ Meadows guessed. ‘Falling in love so quickly was rather impulsive, don’t you think?’
‘It’s not so much a case of having discovered new feelings as it is of resurrecting ones which I thought were dead and buried,’ Crane explained.
‘So she’s an old flame, is she?’
‘That’s right.’
‘From your university days?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’d better tell Aunt Kate all about it, hadn’t you?’
‘We were together for a little under a year . . .’ Crane began.
‘Can you be a little more precise than that?’ Meadows interrupted him.
Crane grinned sheepishly. ‘We were together for three hundred and twenty-seven days,’ he said.
‘Ah, so she jilted you.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because you’re the one who’s kept the score.’
‘You’re right, of course,’ Crane agreed. ‘She jilted me. And at the time, it was a bit of a relief.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Because I was young and foolish, I suppose. She saw us as a complete pair. She worshipped me . . .’
‘You flatter yourself,’ Meadows told him.
‘No, I don’t think I do,’ Crane continued seriously. ‘I could do no wrong in her eyes, and, to be honest, I was starting to find it a bit stifling.’
‘So perhaps she jilted you because she thought you were about to jilt her,’ Meadows suggested.
‘Do you know, I’ve never considered that possibility,’ Crane said thoughtfully, ‘but now you bring it up, it sort of makes sense. Anyway, it wasn’t long before I started to miss her more than I’d ever imagined I would, and I was on the point of suggesting we try again when she met Simon.’
‘Who was tall, handsome, and drove a very expensive sports car?’ Meadows suggested.
‘Yes, you’re right about all those things,’ Crane agreed. ‘Anyway, I made the best of a bad job, and started going out with other girls, some of whom were quite stunning.’ He paused. ‘And I’m not flattering myself there
, either,’ he added, as if to nip the expected criticism in the bud.
‘No, I’m sure you’re not,’ Meadows agreed. ‘You’re not my type at all, Jack, you really aren’t . . .’
‘There’s no need to go on about it,’ Crane told her.
‘. . . but even allowing for that, I don’t find it particularly hard to believe you can pull beautiful girls just by clicking your fingers.’
‘I’ve tried to put her out of my thoughts over the years, but now – totally unexpectedly – we’ve met again,’ Crane continued. ‘And Liz isn’t attached any more! Simon left her – she told me that last night.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a bit dangerous to pick up just where you left off?’ Meadows cautioned. ‘Might you not soon start to feel hemmed in again?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Crane said. ‘I’m older now, and the prospect of getting together with someone who wants to make you the centre of her universe – and who you want to become the centre of yours – doesn’t seem anything like as daunting as it once did.’
‘Even so, it’s always a mistake to rush into things,’ Meadows cautioned. ‘You won’t rush into them, will you, Jack?’
‘We’re there,’ Crane said, sidestepping the question.
They were indeed, Meadows thought, looking through the windscreen and seeing Wood Rise High School looming up in front of them.
The school had cold slate roofs and gables that seemed to gaze down disapprovingly at those below them. It looked more like a Victorian workhouse – which was what it once had been – than a centre of enlightenment, and it was hardly surprising that it was known locally as Blood Eyes High School.
‘We’re expected, are we?’ Meadows asked, as she got out of the car.
‘We are,’ Crane confirmed. ‘The headmaster will be waiting for us in his study.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Not a great deal. I believe he was a military policeman in the army before he retrained as a teacher.’
Meadows looked at the gaunt, austere building again. ‘He must feel quite at home here, then,’ she said.
Baxter was sitting at his desk when he heard an awkward cough, and he looked up to find Chief Officer Jeffries standing in the open doorway.
‘Can I do something for you, Mr Jeffries?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been ordered by the governor to ask you how your interview with Lennie Greene went,’ Jeffries said woodenly.
Having been in the prison for a few days, and seen for himself who actually pulled the strings, it was difficult to imagine the governor ordering Jeffries to do anything, Baxter thought. So if such an order had, in fact, been issued, it was only because Jeffries wanted it issued.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Jeffries asked.
‘Yes, you said you’d been ordered by the governor to ask me how my interview with Lennie Greene went.’
‘And how did it go?’
‘It went fine.’
‘You’re not being very cooperative,’ Jeffries said.
‘I must have learned that from someone else,’ Baxter countered.
‘Look, you must have realized by now that we rely on Greene to keep things in order on the other side of the bars,’ Jeffries said.
But did they, Baxter wondered – or did they only think they did?
Was there some other prisoner secretly calling the shots – a prisoner who Greene was so afraid of that even though he desperately wanted to study with the Open University, he didn’t dare to expose him? Was that what he had meant when he’d said that telling Baxter what he wanted to know would be taking a step too far?
‘Are you listening to me?’ Jeffries demanded angrily.
‘I’m listening,’ Baxter said.
‘Since you talked to Greene, he’s been unusually quiet. He may even have been crying. And as his state of mind has a direct effect on the running of this prison, I demand to know what went on between the two of you.’
‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Baxter suggested. ‘You tell me why you felt it necessary to alter the timesheets, and I’ll tell you what I said to Greene.’
‘Why I altered the time sheets?’ Jeffries repeated. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Baxter picked up the timesheets that were lying on the desk. ‘These are what you gave me – and they’re only photocopies,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Jeffries agreed.
‘And not even very good ones. Was that deliberate?’
‘No, it wasn’t deliberate,’ Jeffries said. ‘The prison service isn’t like the police force, you know. We don’t get money showered on us every time we hold our hands out.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, do you think you’re the only ones working under budgetary constraints?’ Baxter said, exasperatedly. ‘Some of my officers are driving around in patrol cars that should have been retired years ago. I’m so understaffed that I’m continually moving men from one important job when it’s only half completed because I need them on another important job.’
The smile that came to Jeffries’ face signalled that he thought he was just about to win the argument.
‘So you’re understaffed, are you?’ he asked.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I take it that means that sometimes you have to go out on foot patrol yourself?’
‘Of course not! That would be ridiculous.’
‘Would it? Well, sometimes we’re so understaffed that I personally have to work one of the shifts. Me – the Chief Officer!’
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ Baxter said.
‘I don’t want your sympathy, I just want you to appreciate the conditions we have to work under here,’ Jefferies countered. ‘We have to make-do-and-mend, so if the photocopies I provided you with aren’t very good, it’s because the machine I used wasn’t very good – and if the machine I used wasn’t very good, it’s because we can’t afford a new one.’
‘If that’s the case, then I’d better see the originals of the time sheets, hadn’t I?’ Baxter asked.
‘The originals are official documents,’ Jeffries told him.
‘And I’m conducting an official inquiry,’ Baxter reminded him. ‘I want those time sheets on my desk by – at the latest – eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘And what if I can’t produce them?’
Baxter shook his head. ‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ he asked. ‘If you refuse to deliver them – or come up with some pathetic excuse like they’ve been lost or destroyed – I’ll get straight on the phone to the Home Office, and you’ll be out of a job.’
‘If you – or any other do-gooder bloody liberal – ever came to work here, you’d soon learn what prison was all about,’ Jefferies snarled. ‘And I’ll tell you something for nothing – you wouldn’t last a week.’
Baxter lit up his pipe and took a reflective puff. ‘You may well be right,’ he agreed, ‘but that still doesn’t alter the fact that I will have those reports.’
Jeffries turned on his heel, and stormed off down the corridor.
The chief officer was like a rat trapped in a corner, Baxter thought – and he wondered just what Jeffries would do next.
The headmaster of Wood Rise High School was called Coles. He was in late middle age, tall and thin. His eyes were cold, his head was almost shaven, and if he’d ever had any laughter lines, they’d probably been surgically removed.
The office was as Spartan as the man, and the chairs that he invited Meadows and Crane to sit down on seemed to have been deliberately designed for maximum discomfort.
‘It must have been a great shock for you to learn that one of your pupils had been murdered,’ Meadows said, ‘but, I have to admit, looking at you now, it really doesn’t show.’
Crane recognized this gambit of Meadows’ for what it was. In training, you were told that you’d get most out of a witness by being sympathetic and giving them the impression you were on their side. And sometimes, Meadows was sympathetic – genuinely so
. But there were other occasions – and this was clearly one of them – when she decided that she’d get better results by deliberately poking the witness with a sharp mental stick.
The headmaster winced slightly at Meadows’ comment, then thought for perhaps ten seconds before he spoke.
‘I am sorry that Margaret Hudson is dead – of course I am,’ he intoned finally. ‘As the poet says, the death of anyone, however much we may dislike them personally, diminishes us all.’
‘But . . .?’ Meadows prompted.
‘But while I am surprised that she died so young, it is not surprising at all that she came to a violent end.’
‘Because . . .’
‘You’re a police officer,’ the headmaster said. ‘You will have seen some unpleasant things in your time, so I assume that you don’t subscribe to the view that no one is ever really guilty of anything they do – that, for example, when a group of thugs beat up an old-aged pensioner, it’s only because they’ve had an unhappy childhood, and so they are entitled to our sympathy rather than our condemnation.’
‘I’m with you so far,’ Meadows said, non-committally.
‘Margaret Hudson was a vicious young woman, and the people she attracted to her were also vicious,’ the headmaster said. ‘She was a bully. She was disruptive. And she had the morals of an alley cat.’
‘That seems a bit harsh,’ Meadows said, prodding again.
‘Does it?’ the headmaster asked. ‘Perhaps you’ll no longer think so when I tell you that my senior mistress caught her having sexual intercourse with a boy behind the bicycle sheds, and that there were another four boys lined up to take his place when he’d finished the filthy business.’
‘Well, at least they’d formed an orderly queue,’ Meadows said. ‘That shows some sense of propriety.’
‘It’s not funny!’ the headmaster said.
‘No, of course it isn’t,’ Meadows replied, with mock contrition. ‘I apologize unreservedly. Do carry on.’
A Walk With the Dead Page 17