Best Served Cold

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Worried about me, Miss Hitchens?’ Paniatowski repeated, in a puzzled voice.

  ‘Yes. This is clearly a very difficult case which requires the full attention of the person in charge, and to have assigned it to a woman who is on the verge of giving birth – and thus has many other things on her mind – is bizarre. Frankly speaking, it doesn’t seem fair on you.’

  It was a brilliant tactic, Paniatowski thought. If Hitchens had attacked her for being incompetent as a result of her pregnancy, public opinion – and the rest of the reporters – would have turned on her. But by defending the DCI’s incompetence on the grounds that she was pregnant, she had got her message across without inviting any condemnation.

  Paniatowski turned to the chief constable.

  ‘Since that seems to be a direct criticism of you, sir, would you care to be the one to respond?’ she said.

  ‘I wasn’t … I never intended to …’ Claire Hitchens said, as she realized that though she’d planned to blast Paniatowski with both barrels, the chief inspector had managed to twist things around in such a way that she’d ended up shooting herself in the foot.

  ‘DCI Paniatowski is one of the most outstanding detectives I have ever been fortunate enough to work with,’ Pickering said. ‘She is also one of the most disciplined. When she feels she can no longer handle her workload to her own exacting high standards, she will hand the case over to her highly-trained team, but in the meantime, she is giving it one hundred per cent of her attention.’

  Louisa held her thumb up to the television screen in approval.

  ‘Nicely handled, Mum,’ she said.

  She was at home because it was one of the perks of being in the Sixth Form that she needn’t be in school if she didn’t have classes scheduled – and, in her opinion, there was no point in having a perk if you didn’t exercise it.

  The implicit understanding behind the granting of this freedom had been that the students would use their time at home to study independently, and the two books on her lap were ample proof that Louisa was following the letter – if not quite the spirit – of the law.

  She picked up one of the books now.

  ‘If you intend to bottle-feed your child, then it is essential to purchase at least two bottles,’ she read. ‘It is most important that both these bottles be carefully sterilized …’

  The baby would be arriving soon, she thought, and it was vital that at least one member of the family knew what to do, because her mother – for all that she might be an ‘outstanding’ detective, and had even got a little better at playing office politics – wouldn’t have a clue.

  The inhabitants of the boarding house could no longer be regarded as witnesses who might eventually be upgraded to suspects. They – and only they – had been in the establishment when Bradley Quirk had breathed his last, which meant that they had obtained an automatic upgrade, and henceforth would be interviewed in Whitebridge Police headquarters, where their interviews could be recorded and their reactions observed through a two-way mirror.

  The first of the suspects to be interviewed was Lucy Cavendish, and when she was shown into Interview Room B, she was, as expected, accompanied by her solicitor. She also had her right arm in a sling, which wasn’t expected, but, given the nature of her companion, should have been.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘My client suffered a fall in her room last night, and sprained her wrist as a result,’ the solicitor said.

  ‘When did this fall occur?’

  ‘Around eight o’clock.’

  ‘And did she receive medical treatment immediately?’

  ‘No, it was only when I saw she was in obvious pain this morning that I advised her to go to the doctor.’

  ‘It’s all rather convenient, isn’t it?’ Meadows asked.

  The solicitor tapped his briefcase. ‘I have a medical certificate here. Would you like to see it?’

  Meadows sighed. ‘Since I’m sure you chose the right doctor, there wouldn’t be much point, would there?’

  ‘Just what are you suggesting when you say the right doctor?’ the solicitor demanded.

  ‘I mean the best available, of course,’ Meadows said innocently. She turned her attention to Lucy Cavendish. ‘I’m going to ask you some purely factual questions, and even though you have your expensive mouthpiece here, I’d appreciate it if you’d answer them yourself. All right?’

  ‘We’ll see how it goes,’ Lucy Cavendish said.

  ‘Could you give me some idea of the sleeping arrangements in the boarding house?’

  ‘The old crone of a landlady lives on the ground floor,’ Lucy Cavendish said. ‘Ruth, Sarah, Tony and I have rooms on the first floor, and Jerry, Bradley, Phil and Mark were given rooms on the second. Not that Mark ever used his room – he was living it up in the Royal Victoria.’

  ‘Was there any particular reason why the women were given rooms on the first floor?’

  ‘The landlady thought that the “ladies” would like to be closer to the bathroom. Yes, I know it’s disgusting that there’s only one bathroom, and that we’re all forced to share it, but, you see, we’re here in Whitebridge to relive our glorious past.’

  ‘One last question,’ Meadows said. ‘Did you hear anyone either going up, or coming down, the stairs that connect the second and third floors, between the hours of ten last night and five this morning?’

  ‘No,’ Lucy Cavendish replied. ‘I didn’t hear a thing. As a matter of fact, I slept like a log.’

  ‘Which can have been no mean feat, considering.’

  ‘Considering?’ the solicitor repeated. ‘What exactly are you implying this time?’

  ‘My goodness, you’re certainly earning your money today, aren’t you, Mr Graves?’ Meadows said. ‘All I meant was that, considering the amount of pain she must have been in, it is quite amazing that Miss Cavendish slept so well.’ She checked her watch. ‘Interview concluded at eleven-oh-seven,’ she told the microphone, and switched off the recorder.

  ‘Is that it?’ Lucy Cavendish asked, surprised.

  ‘That’s it,’ Meadows agreed.

  Lucy Cavendish and her solicitor stood up.

  ‘I do have one more question before you go,’ Meadows said, ‘but it’s more to do with my own curiosity than the murder case. And it’s this – why do you always have your solicitor with you? He probably says he needs to be here – why wouldn’t he, when he’s making a small fortune out of you? – but I’m surprised that a smart girl like you allows herself to be taken for a mug.’

  ‘I’m not being taken for a mug,’ Lucy Cavendish said angrily. ‘Maurice is here to stop me from being fitted up.’

  ‘Shut up, Lucy,’ the solicitor said.

  ‘Why would you think we’d try to fit you up?’ Meadows wondered. ‘Have the police fitted you up before?’

  ‘No comment,’ Lucy Cavendish said.

  ‘She must be referring to what happened down in London,’ Meadows told Crane – who already knew. ‘You see, Lucy runs this boarding house for young actresses. I call them “actresses” out of politeness, though none of them have an Equity card …’

  ‘What’s an Equity card?’ asked Crane, slipping easily into the role of gormless sidekick.

  ‘It’s what the actors’ trade union – Equity – issues to its members,’ Meadows explained. ‘You can’t usually get an acting job without it. Fortunately for these young “actresses”, they don’t need that kind of work, because they are often visited by very generous gentlemen friends.’

  ‘All charges were dropped!’ Lucy Cavendish said.

  ‘Yes, Maurice did a good job there,’ Meadows agreed.

  The solicitor opened the door.

  ‘We’re leaving, Lucy,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving now!’

  ‘I wonder how Equity would feel about having Lucy as a member if it knew she was running a brothel,’ Meadows mused.

  ‘You wouldn’t tell them, would you?’ Lucy Cavendish gasped.

&n
bsp; ‘Me?’ Meadows replied, shaking her head. ‘No, of course I wouldn’t. As much as I’d like to shop you to your union as payback for the way you’ve pissed us around in the course of this investigation, I’m a police officer who has gained the information from official sources, and hence I wouldn’t be allowed to use it for any such purpose.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ Lucy Cavendish said.

  Meadows smiled. ‘But it wouldn’t entirely surprise me if someone else – somebody who couldn’t possibly be traced back to me – did inform them anonymously.’

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ Meadows said, when Lucy Cavendish and her solicitor had gone. ‘But it’s a big step from running a brothel and trying to sleep your way into acting roles to becoming a killer, so while we can’t entirely rule Lucy out, I really don’t think she’s guilty.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Crane agreed.

  ‘Who are we seeing next?’

  ‘Phil McCann.’

  ‘Well, unless he heard something last night, that will be a waste of time too,’ Meadows said.

  ‘Are you ruling him out as well?’ Crane asked, surprised.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘On what basis?’

  ‘On the basis of the notes that Shagger Beresford took while he was talking to a chief inspector in the Herefordshire Police.’ Meadows slid a single sheet of paper across to Crane. ‘Colin must be the most literal bobby in the whole of Lancashire, but that can be an advantage sometimes.’

  Crane scanned the notes.

  Assistant bank manager … plays very active role in the community … runs amateur theatre group in which his daughter is one of the stars … member of the Rotary Club …

  ‘What does that tell you?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Not much,’ Crane admitted. ‘What does it tell you?’

  ‘It tells me that Phil McCann is far too boring to be a murderer, and what leads me to that conclusion is that I also think it tells me why he spent so much time and effort persuading all the others to attend this reunion,’ Meadows said.

  NINETEEN

  To reach Sergeant Parry’s house in deepest Sussex, Beresford had had to take three trains and hire two expensive taxis, but finally he was there, sitting in the sergeant’s living room.

  Parry did not look like the crank or weirdo that Beresford had been half-expecting to find. He was, in fact, a perfectly average-looking man in his late-fifties, living in a perfectly ordinary semi-detached house which was probably furnished in much the same way as every other house in the street.

  But there was one thing which seemed to strike a slightly discordant note – his living room seemed to be overrun with felines.

  ‘How many cats do you own?’ Beresford asked.

  Parry smiled. ‘You don’t own cats,’ he said, ‘they own you, but I suppose what you really meant is how many cats do I share my roof with, and the answer to that is seven.’

  ‘It seems rather a lot,’ Beresford said.

  ‘My wife and I got a cat when we married,’ Parry told him. ‘We couldn’t afford a washing machine or a fridge in those days, but we decided we’d get a little black kitten. We called her Suzie. Ellen – that was what my wife was called – loved that little kitten, and so did I.’

  Beresford noticed the use of the past tense.

  ‘Did your wife die?’ he asked gently.

  ‘She did. We’d only been married eighteen months when she got cancer. It wasn’t an easy death.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Beresford said.

  Parry shrugged. ‘These things happen,’ he said. ‘It still hurts, but it was a long time ago. Anyway, Suzie was a great comfort to me after Ellen died, and I’ve lived with cats ever since.’

  ‘You never married again?’

  Parry shook his head. ‘I knew I’d never find another woman like Ellen, so there didn’t seem much point.’

  He stood up and walked around the room for a few seconds.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘you didn’t come here to listen to my sorrows. You’d like to hear what I know about Sarah Audley, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Beresford said.

  ‘It all started with a rather major incident at Blackthorn Independent School,’ Parry said.

  The teacher on playground duty that day is called Miss Hobson. She is a conscientious young woman in her second year of teaching. She is well aware that she is lucky to have got a job at such a prestigious school and is determined to justify the headmistress’s confidence in her, so when she hears what sounds like a serious disturbance behind the bike sheds, she immediately resolves to find out what is going on.

  A group of pupils from the upper half of the school (both male and female – though mainly male) have formed a circle around some sort of event, and are cheering loudly.

  It must be a fight, Miss Hobson tells herself. She is not daunted by the thought. Some of those forming the circle are taller than she is, but they are children and she is a teacher, and when they see her they will immediately yield to her authority.

  She reaches the edge of the circle and taps on the shoulder of the boy nearest to her. He is still screaming wild encouragement as he turns, but the moment he sees her face, he falls silent.

  It takes only seconds for an awareness of the fact that a teacher has arrived to communicate itself to the rest of the spectators.

  The circle breaks up.

  The human wall is gone.

  And what is left is not two boys covered in snot and blood, but a boy and a girl.

  The girl is lying on the ground with her skirt up to her waist, and the boy – his trousers pulled down well below his backside – is lying on top of her.

  Miss Hallam has been the headmistress of Blackthorn Independent School for six years. She sits like a pharaoh at the pinnacle of school life, and most of the children – quite wisely – live in fear of her.

  Now, in her study – her inner sanctum – she is looking across her desk at a boy and a girl, who are, themselves, examining her carpet.

  ‘What you did was both immoral and disgusting,’ she tells them, ‘but since you have both reached the age of consent, what you do in your own time is no concern of mine. What is my concern is that you chose to carry out your vile act in my school – and in front of other children, many of whom are much younger than you. So what have you got to say for yourselves?’

  The two miscreants keep silent.

  ‘I asked you a question, Desmond Swift, and I expect an answer,’ Miss Hallam says severely.

  The boy raises his head. His eyes are full of tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Hallam,’ he blubbers. ‘I don’t know why I did it. I promise it will never happen again.’

  ‘And what about you, Sarah Audley?’ the headmistress asks.

  Sarah raises her head, but there are no tears in her eyes, only anger.

  ‘Screw you, you old bitch!’ she says.

  That didn’t sound at all like the woman who had talked to Monika about how she would approach her role as a chief inspector in DCI Prince, Beresford thought. But maybe that had all been an act. After all, she was an actress.

  ‘How are you doing, today, Mr McCann?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Considering that a man who I knew quite well was brutally murdered only a few feet from where I was sleeping, I’m doing comparatively well,’ Phil McCann answered.

  ‘Do you see what Phil just did?’ Meadows asked Crane. ‘He’s just told us, by implication, that he heard nothing last night.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ McCann said. ‘When I go to bed, I put cotton wool in my ears. It’s a habit I developed when my daughters were young and noisy.’

  ‘Boring!’ Meadows said, almost under her breath.

  ‘What did you just say?’ Phil McCann demanded.

  ‘Have you still got cotton wool in your ears?’ Meadows replied. ‘I asked you if there was any good reason why we shouldn’t make you our number one suspect in the murder of Bradley Quirk.’

  ‘Yo
u said no such thing.’

  ‘Well, did you kill him?’

  ‘I did not. And I didn’t kill Cotton, either.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ Meadows said airily. ‘You had a very good reason for wanting Cotton to stay alive – at least for a little while.’

  ‘As a normal caring human being, I like to think that I have a very good reason for wanting everyone I come into contact with to stay alive,’ McCann said, slightly pompously.

  Meadows chuckled. ‘A normal caring human being?’ she repeated. ‘Oh, come on, Mr McCann, that’s a little rich coming from someone who’s used other people as much as you have, don’t you think?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea at all what you’re talking about,’ McCann said stiffly.

  ‘I hear your elder daughter’s very interested in amateur dramatics. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ McCann said – and it was clear from the expression on his face that he now had at least a suspicion of what was coming next.

  ‘Is she planning to go to drama school?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And presumably you want her to go to one of the better ones. But competition for places is very fierce, so you start thinking about what you can do that will give her a head start over the other candidates. Dancing lessons? Yes, that might help – but almost all the little darlings will have had dancing lessons. Singing lessons, then? They certainly couldn’t do any harm. But what would really help would be a recommendation from someone already in the business. If only you knew someone who was a big star! And, of course, you do! But the big star is – by all accounts – not a very nice man, and if he is going to help you, he wants something in return.’

  ‘The big hook for the BBC was that it would be the same cast that had appeared in The Spanish Tragedy in 1957,’ Phil McCann said, defeated. ‘If it wasn’t the same cast – and I mean all the same cast – then they weren’t interested.’

  ‘And Mark Cotton desperately wanted the documentary, because he hoped it would mean that people would take him more seriously?’

  ‘Yes.’