Best Served Cold

by Sally Spencer

  So all-in-all, Paniatowski thought, as Sarah Audley sat down opposite her, the younger sister seemed far less vulnerable than the older sister had led her to expect.

  ‘It’s really a waste of time my being here,’ Sarah said. ‘I didn’t see anything yesterday, and since I can’t possibly be a suspect …’

  ‘Hold on a minute, what makes you think you can be ruled out?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Because of all the people who were on the stage last night, I’m the only one who really loses out by Mark’s death. The others might have got a small boost to their careers from the documentary – which they’ve now lost – but I didn’t need a boost, because I’d already signed to co-star in DCI Prince – and there can be no DCI Prince without Mark Cotton.’

  ‘How did Cotton feel about you co-starring with him?

  ‘I think he was surprised at first – possibly even a little shocked. But pretty soon he came to realize that since there’s such chemistry between us, it could only strengthen the series.’

  ‘You went out with him once, didn’t you?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘I was talking about chemistry on stage,’ Sarah Audley replied, slightly haughtily.

  ‘But you did go out with him,’ Meadows persisted.

  ‘Yes, for a while.’

  ‘And you were devastated when he jilted you?’

  ‘Who told you he jilted me?’ Sarah asked angrily. ‘Was it my sister?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who told us,’ Meadows said. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Because, let me tell you, her breaking up with Mark hurt her a lot more than my breaking up with Mark hurt me.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered the question,’ Meadows reminded her – and she could see, from the look in other woman’s eyes, that Sarah was playing out scenes from that relationship in her head.

  Mark has just told her that he thinks they should stop seeing each other, and her first thought is that that is a ridiculous way to express it, because whatever else happens, they will be seeing each other every single day. And then the implications – rather than just the words – begin to sink in.

  ‘How can you treat me like this?’ she asks.

  ‘Treat you like what?’ Mark replies. ‘It’s not as if I’ve made any promises, is it?’

  ‘You let me tell you I loved you.’

  ‘I couldn’t stop you saying it, could I? And, to be fair, I never told you that I loved you in return.’

  So that’s all right then – that leaves him in the clear.

  Like hell it does!

  ‘Are you sleeping with Lucy Cavendish?’ she demands.

  ‘That’s my affair.’

  The word affair enrages her.

  ‘You’re a piece of shit,’ she screams. ‘You’re nothing but a filthy piece of shit.’

  ‘I think you should calm down,’ he tells her.

  She needs to hurt him, but she’s not sure how to go about it. And then – suddenly – she is.

  ‘You only get the starring roles because of your looks,’ she says. ‘But just wait until you try to move on to something bigger than provincial theatre. Then you’ll come against other good-looking men, men who have real talent – and you won’t stand a chance.’

  She can see the barb has hit home.

  ‘You little bitch!’ he says.

  ‘The truth hurts, doesn’t it?’ she taunts him.

  ‘You want the truth?’ he asks, really angry now. ‘All right, here’s the truth. I never really fancied you at all.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’

  ‘It’s the truth. I only screwed you to get back at your sister.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ she sobs.

  But she knows he does. And it really hurts that, for the first time in her life, her older sister has got one over on her – even though that was clearly not Ruth’s intention.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Audley?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I lied to you earlier,’ Sarah said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘It did hurt me when Mark chucked me for Lucy Cavendish. I was so upset that I almost left the company, but then Ruth said that throwing away my career because of a rat like Mark Cotton would be a real waste.’

  ‘So you stayed.’

  ‘Yes, it was hard, because every time I saw Mark I thought my heart would break again – but I stayed.’

  ‘What made you agree to come back for this reunion, Sarah?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, most of the others came back because they thought it would boost their careers, but – as you’ve pointed out – your career didn’t need a boost. And given your painful history with Mark Cotton, I’d have thought you’d have wanted to stay well clear.’

  ‘I knew that I’d have to come face-to-face with him sooner or later, and I wanted to see if I still had any feelings for him before we started filming the next series of DCI Prince.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Honestly, no – not at all. It was almost as if it had never happened to me – as if it was just something I’d read about. What I was much more concerned about was helping Ruth adjust to being back in the theatre because – now Mother’s dead – she really needs to find something to do with her time.’

  ‘You’re very close, are you?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Very close.’

  ‘Yet you seemed quite happy to have Ruth shoulder the burden of caring for your mother.’

  ‘Ruth wanted to do it. I’d have been an awful carer, because I don’t have the patience for it – and anyway, Mother and I didn’t really get on.’

  ‘Who do you think killed Mark Cotton?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Have you asked all the other members of the company the same question?’ Sarah Audley replied.

  ‘Yes,’ Meadows lied.

  ‘And have they given you a name?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Have any of them given you my name?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘That means yes,’ Sarah said. ‘But I don’t care if someone has pointed the finger at me. I’m not pointing it back, because I have no idea who would have killed Mark, or why they would have wanted to kill him.’

  It was the fifth phone call he had made to a local police authority – this time it was to West Sussex, where the Audley sisters came from – and Beresford was starting to work on automatic pilot.

  ‘This is DI Beresford of the Mid Lancs Constabulary,’ he told the switchboard in a robotic voice. ‘I’m currently part of a murder inquiry in Whitebridge, Lancashire, and I’d like to be connected to –’ he glanced down at his list – ‘to Detective Chief Inspector Williams.’

  ‘I was told that if you rang up, I was to put you through to Sergeant Lloyd,’ the girl on the switchboard said, in a voice which would have been perfect for the sloth in a Disney cartoon.

  ‘You were told what?’

  ‘I was told that if you rang up, I was to put you through to Sergeant Lloyd,’ the girl repeated.

  ‘Let me get this straight – are you saying that someone there expected me to call?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘If you rang, I was told to put you through to Sergeant Lloyd,’ the operator said, as if she thought that by turning the sentence around, she might finally make him understand.

  ‘Then will you please do that?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Put me through to Sergeant Lloyd.’

  Sergeant Lloyd, as it turned out, was neither a Glum nor a Gabbler.

  ‘I can have you transferred to DCI Williams and his band of merry men on the top floor, if that’s what you want,’ he said, ‘but in my opinion, you’d be much better talking to Jim Parry.’

  ‘Who’s Jim Parry?’ Beresford wondered.

  ‘He used to be a sergeant here. As a matter of fact, he was the one who trained me up, and a bloody good job he made of it. Anyway, he’s retired now, but
he came in to see me this morning, and he showed me the front page of a newspaper, which had that murder on your patch splashed right across it. “If they know their arses from their elbows up in Whitebridge, they’ll be ringing you about this very soon,” he said. “And if they do ring you, put them on to me, because I’m the one who can give them what they need”.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea, sir. But I’ll tell you this for nothing – Jim Parry was one of the finest police officers ever to wear the uniform, and it’s a disgrace that he never rose any higher in the force. So if he says he’s got something for you, you’d be a bloody fool not to listen.’

  ‘You’d better give me his number, then,’ Beresford said.

  The sergeant dictated the number. ‘But there’d be no point in calling him now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’ll still be out on the golf links. It’d be best to leave it until seven or eight o’clock.’

  FIFTEEN

  Tony Brown was wearing a brown cord jacket with leather elbow patches, cavalry twill trousers and stout brogues. He had dark brown curly hair, which made him seem younger than he actually was. He looked every inch a teacher, and the expression on his face at that moment was one of a teacher who was confronting a class with a fearsome reputation for the first time, and was wondering what the best way to deal with them would be.

  He answered the standard questions which Paniatowski and Meadows put to him in the same way that everyone else in the company had answered them.

  No, he had not been up to the fly loft any time on Monday.

  No, he had not noticed anyone else going up there.

  ‘You’ve left the stage, haven’t you, Mr Brown?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you do now?’

  ‘I’m a teacher at a place called Walford Hall. It’s a small independent boarding school.’

  ‘What do you teach, Mr Brown?’

  ‘English and Drama.’

  ‘Are you happy in your work?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Have you ever thought of returning to the stage, Mr Brown?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Definitely not. I’m glad I did it for a time, but that part of my life is behind me now.’

  ‘So why exactly are you here?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘It’s a reunion,’ Brown said, as if that was all the explanation necessary. ‘We’re all here.’

  ‘Ah yes, but the others’ motives are much clearer than yours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘With the exception of Phil McCann, they’re all actors, and they hoped that this would help them in their careers. Anyway, since they are actors, they were probably “resting”, so they had nothing to lose,’ Meadows said. ‘You, on the other hand, you have a real job.’

  ‘I’m still not following you.’

  ‘Did you have to ask your employer for permission to take two weeks off and come here?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Brown grinned. ‘You surely don’t think I’m playing truant, do you?’

  ‘Is your school paying your salary, or is it unpaid leave?’

  ‘It’s unpaid leave,’ Brown said, sounding slightly defensive now, ‘but we are getting paid for performing.’

  ‘But, as I understand it, you’re only earning what you would have earned in Whitebridge Rep in 1957.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all part of the spirit of the thing. We stay in the same boarding house, we’re paid the same …’

  ‘How did your wife feel about you losing what – to all intents and purposes – is two weeks’ pay?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Your girlfriend, then?’

  ‘I don’t have one at the moment.’

  ‘I still don’t get why you’re here,’ Meadows confessed.

  ‘I thought it would be fun.’

  ‘Is that what you thought?’ Meadows asked sceptically.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is an official police investigation into a murder,’ Meadows said, ‘so I’d like you to think carefully before you answer what I’m about to ask you. Tell me, Mr Brown, did you really expect it to be fun?’

  Tony Brown hesitated for a second, then he said, ‘No.’

  ‘So what did you expect?’

  ‘I expected it to be just what it was – a showcase for Mark Cotton, an opportunity for the big star to laud it over the rest of us.’

  ‘So why did you come?’

  ‘I suppose it was because there were people I wanted to see.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ruth Audley, for one. I’ve always had a soft spot for her. And Jerry Talbot – he can be a bit of a prick at times, but we’ve had some laughs together.’ Brown paused for a moment. ‘But what I’ve just realized is that that wouldn’t have been enough on its own. What really tipped the balance was that Phil McCann paid me a visit, and pretty much talked me into it.’

  As Colin Beresford stood facing the heavy black door, a tired old police joke came into his head.

  Q: Why is a chief constable like a sewerage system?

  A: Because most of the time you can ignore the fact that he’s there, but if you ever have to go and see him, you’re probably in the shit.

  It wasn’t a particularly funny joke, he thought, but what it lacked in humour, it made up for in accuracy.

  This wouldn’t be the first time he’d spoken to the chief constable, he reminded himself. But ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘No, sir,’ and ‘Thank you, sir,’ couldn’t really be called conversations, and when you were personally summoned to the big chief’s office, a conversation – or, far more likely, a lecture or interrogation – was what you were about to be on the unpleasant end of.

  The green light came on and Beresford knocked on the door, opened it, and stepped into the inner sanctum.

  Pickering was at his desk.

  ‘Inspector Beresford,’ he said. ‘Colin, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take a seat, Colin.’

  Beresford sat.

  ‘You’ve worked with DCI Monika Paniatowski for a long time, haven’t you, Colin?’ Pickering said.

  ‘I have, sir.’

  ‘And am I right in assuming that she’s more than just a colleague – that she is, in fact, a close personal friend?’

  ‘Yes, sir, she is a close friend – but only when we’re off duty,’ Beresford said cautiously.

  ‘Quite right and proper,’ Pickering agreed. ‘There are some chief constables, you know, who just fire off arbitrary orders at random, and expect everyone else to jump to it unquestioningly, but that’s not my way.’

  On the surface, it sounded as if he was changing the subject – but Beresford was bloody sure he wasn’t.

  ‘Mine is a more personal style of management,’ the chief constable continued. ‘I don’t like ordering my officers to take certain actions – although I will, of course, if I consider it absolutely necessary. I prefer to let them act on their own initiative, and if I think they’re making a mistake, my first step is to try and talk them round to my point of view.’

  Here it comes, Beresford thought.

  ‘Both the press and the police authority have contacted me several times during the course of the day, and what they all seem to wondering is why DCI Paniatowski hasn’t questioned Maggie Maitland, who is an obvious prime suspect in the murder of Mark Cotton.’

  ‘DCI Paniatowski doesn’t think Maggie Maitland is the prime suspect,’ Beresford said. ‘And besides, she’s been traumatized.’

  ‘But she’s come out of it now, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes sir, but the doctors think she’s still too fragile for them to allow us to talk to her.’

  ‘I think I might be able to help you there,’ Pickering said. ‘Some of the members of the hospital board are golfing acquaintances of mine, and I know others through various social organizations.’

  The bloody Freemasons, Bere
sford thought – but he was wise enough to say nothing.

  ‘I believe that in the interest of the greater good, those board members could persuade the doctors in the psychiatric unit to change their minds,’ Pickering continued. ‘But that won’t be of any use at all if DCI Paniatowski still refuses to make questioning Maggie Maitland a priority. And that’s where you come in. I’m not ordering you to try and change your DCI’s mind, but I would certainly appreciate it if you would.’

  The safest course would be to agree with the chief constable, and then do nothing, Beresford decided.

  But he had been knocking around with Charlie Woodend and Monika Paniatowski for so long that part of their general approach to life seemed to have rubbed off on him.

  ‘You’re the big boss, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Pickering agreed.

  ‘But DCI Paniatowski is my immediate boss, and whatever course of action she decides on has my complete backing.’

  ‘Then here’s something else to consider,’ Pickering said, doing his best to hide his irritation. ‘A lot of women plan to go back to work after their babies are born, but once it’s actually happened, they decide they wouldn’t be able to cope with both an infant and a job. And if that happens in DCI Paniatowski’s case, then there’ll be a vacancy at the DCI level, and that vacancy is likely to filled by someone I think I can rely on.’

  Beresford laughed. He didn’t mean to, because laughing is not something you do, uninvited, in the presence of the chief constable – but he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘If you think there’s a possibility she might not be coming back to work, sir, then you don’t really know Monika,’ he said.

  Given that she’d been a member of the Whitebridge Players in 1957, Lucy Cavendish must have been around forty, but she did not look it. She had long hair which was almost platinum blonde, and a face that reminded Paniatowski of an exquisitely delicate china doll.

  There was nothing delicate or exquisite about the man she had brought with her.

  ‘This is Mr Graves,’ Lucy Cavendish told Paniatowski and Meadows. ‘He’s my solicitor.’