Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Travelling on a false passport wasn’t much of a risk at all, because, according to Charlie Woodend, the communist party have got pretty adept at forging,’ Paniatowski said. ‘And if she’d written a letter, there’s a good chance that it would never have got through. Franco may be dead but, so far, nothing much seems to have changed, and there’s still strict censorship in Spain.’

  ‘And if the censor happened to see that she was writing to a man who is – presumably – still wanted for the murder of an officer and two soldiers, she’d be in deep trouble,’ Meadows added.

  ‘But I don’t think that was her main consideration,’ Paniatowski said. ‘In fact, I don’t think the decision to come to England was logical at all. She was acting on pure instinct. It’s been thirty-six years since she’s seen her husband and her son.’ She paused. ‘Just think about that. None of you had even been born the last time she held her baby.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Beresford said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘And then she suddenly finds out not only that they’re both still alive, but where they’re actually living. And what’s her first thought? That she wants to see them as soon as possible!’

  ‘I think I can see why she didn’t write from Spain,’ Beresford said. ‘What I don’t understand is why she didn’t call them once she’d arrived in England.’

  Kate Meadows gave an audible sigh.

  ‘Am I being particularly thick again, Sergeant Meadows?’ Beresford demanded.

  ‘No, sir – not thick, exactly.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Perhaps just a little unimaginative.’

  ‘Then why don’t you explain to me where you think my reasoning is going wrong?’ Beresford suggested.

  ‘It wasn’t just that she thought they were probably dead, they probably thought she was, too,’ Meadows said.

  ‘That’s true,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘Right up until the point that he identified the body, Javier Martinez was insisting that the chances were that she’d been killed a long time ago.’

  ‘So the last thing she wants is to ring him up and baldly announce to her husband that she’s alive,’ Meadows said. ‘What she does want to do is to break it to him as gently as she can, to look into his eyes as she’s telling him, and then to hug him to her.’

  ‘But she never made it,’ said Crane sombrely.

  ‘Which means that she must have been killed soon after she arrived in Whitebridge, and before she had a chance to pay her husband a call,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Do we think the killer was local or an outsider?’

  ‘An outsider,’ Beresford said firmly. ‘My lads have spent all afternoon checking the Spaniards on the list that Robert Martinez gave us. None of them come from the same part of the east coast of Spain as Elena and her family. Besides, as far as we know, nobody in Whitebridge had any idea she was coming.’

  ‘So she was followed here?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘She must have been.’

  ‘In which case, why didn’t the murderer kill her before she ever got to Whitebridge?’

  ‘He may not have had the opportunity.’

  ‘What about motive?’

  ‘I think it might have been political,’ Crane said. ‘I’ve been reading the papers to find out exactly what’s happening in Spain.’

  ‘That’d be the highbrow papers, would it?’ asked Beresford, with just a little inverted snobbery. ‘The Guardian and The Times?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Crane agreed. ‘And also the Telegraph, the Economist and the Washington Post. What they all seem to be saying is that now Franco’s dead, a lot of the right-wingers are in a state of near-panic. So maybe they’ve decided to kill off a few of their enemies, before those enemies have a chance to turn on them.’

  ‘But surely Elena was only small fry,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Get enough small fry together, and they start to become a significant force,’ Crane argued.

  ‘Even so, just killing one old woman’s not going to change a lot,’ Beresford said.

  ‘How do we know they have only killed one old woman?’ Crane asked. ‘How do we know there haven’t been a string of murders of communist party officials, all over Spain?’

  ‘If there had been, we’d have heard about …’ Paniatowski began. ‘No,’ she corrected herself, ‘we wouldn’t have heard, because of the censorship.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s about politics at all,’ Meadows said. ‘I think it’s about the gold.’

  ‘There is no gold,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Javier Martinez told me that himself – and if anybody should know, he should.’

  ‘There doesn’t have to be any gold,’ Meadows said. ‘All that matters is that there are people who think there is.’

  ‘Let’s hear your theory,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘There are certain people in Spain who’ve heard the story about the gold, and who know that Javier was the man who was supposed to have it,’ Meadows said. ‘They also know that Elena is his wife, and when they get to hear she’s coming to England, they assume it’s to join him, and they see that as a good way to track him down.’

  ‘There was no need to track him down,’ Beresford said. ‘He’s been living quite openly, under his real name, for the last thirty-six years, and if they’d bothered to check, they’d soon have found that out for themselves.’

  ‘Yes, but they wouldn’t have bothered to check – because if he’d had the gold, as they thought he did, they’d assume he’d have changed his name,’ Meadows said.

  ‘If they were that keen to get their hands on the gold, wouldn’t they have checked anyway, just to be sure?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘I’m not saying they’ve been obsessing about it for the last thirty-six years,’ Meadows said. ‘It’s more the kind of thing they might have talked about when they’d had a few drinks. One of them might say, “If only we knew what Javier Martinez had done with the gold.” And another would reply, “Yes, if we could get our hands on that, we’d be sitting pretty.” Then they forget about it until the next time they get drunk. But when they hear that Elena is coming to England, the little game they’ve been playing suddenly becomes more serious.’

  ‘So they follow her from Spain, because they want to find Javier, and once she’s reached Whitebridge, they kill her?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Perhaps she saw them following her,’ Meadows suggested. ‘Or perhaps they just wanted her out of the way, because they knew they needed time to watch Javier and work out where he might have hidden the gold. Whatever the reason, they didn’t want her to be found, because that would have tipped Javier off – which is why they dropped the body in the canal.’

  ‘What you’re all overlooking is that it may have nothing to do with politics or money at all – that it’s all to do with revenge,’ Beresford said. ‘We know that Javier killed at least three people …’

  ‘He didn’t kill the lieutenant,’ Paniatowski pointed out.

  ‘No, but the lieutenant wouldn’t have died in a burning building if Javier hadn’t knocked him out,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘We know he killed at least three people, and he probably killed a lot more, and maybe one of their friends or relatives wanted to pay him back.’

  ‘So, essentially, your theory is like Kate’s, except that it’s revenge, not gold, that’s the motive,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Beresford agreed.

  ‘And they killed Elena in case she warned him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not saying that any of your theories is definitely right,’ Paniatowski said, ‘but if there’s even a glimmer of truth in even one of them, Javier Martinez’s life is in danger. So as soon as we’ve finished up here, Colin, I want you to get on to HQ and make sure there are regular patrols going past his house.’

  ‘Right,’ Beresford said. ‘And would you like me to inform Javier Martinez himself?’

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

  And she found herself thinking, Why did I say that? Am I just looking for an excuse to talk to Robert Martinez again?

  ‘So what’s our next move?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘We need to trace Elena’s movements from the second she first set foot in Britain,’ Paniatowski said. ‘That means, for a start, checking all the seaports and airports.’

  ‘It’s a big job,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘but the more accurate a picture we build up of her journey here, the more likely it is that we’ll be able to establish if she was being followed – and if she was, who was following her.’

  ‘The problem is, the time she spent in Britain is only the end of the trail,’ Meadows said. ‘If the motive for the murder has its origins in Spain, then Spain should be the focus of the investigation, and since we can’t investigate in Spain …’

  ‘We can’t,’ Paniatowski said, reluctantly giving in to the inevitable, ‘but Charlie Woodend can.’

  It was nearly a quarter to twelve when Paniatowski finally got home again, and as she stepped into the hallway, she wondered if it was now a little too late to ring Javier Martinez.

  No, of course it wouldn’t be too late. No man minds being disturbed if it’s to be told that his life is in danger. Besides, after the traumatic evening he’d had, he was unlikely to be asleep yet.

  She reached for the phone and dialled the number. She could hear it ringing at the other end, but no one was picking it up. A couple of minutes passed with no reply, and she was on the point of hanging up when she heard a voice say, ‘Robert Martinez. Who’s calling please?’

  ‘It’s Monika,’ she said, then added quickly, ‘I mean, DCI Paniatowski. I’m sorry if I woke you.’

  ‘You didn’t wake me – I’ve only just got in,’ Martinez said. And then, as if he considered further explanation necessary, he added, ‘I’ve been out walking. I needed to think about what happened earlier.’

  We both needed to think about that, Paniatowski told herself.

  But aloud, she said, ‘I’m actually calling on official police business, Mr Martinez.’

  ‘Of course,’ Martinez mumbled. ‘I’m sorry. What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to your father,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Do you think he’ll still be awake?’

  ‘I should think so,’ Robert Martinez said. ‘I tried to get him to take some sleeping pills earlier, but he refused. I asked him if he wanted me to sit with him, and he said he didn’t. He said he needed some time to meditate on his life. I left him in his bedroom – staring at the wall – and went out to do a bit of meditating of my own.’

  ‘Does he have a phone in his bedroom?’

  ‘No, he’s very old-fashioned in that way. He says one phone in the house is enough.’

  For a few seconds, neither of them spoke, then Paniatowski said, ‘So perhaps you could go and get him for me?’

  ‘What?’ Robert Martinez asked, as if he had been deep in his own thoughts and had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

  ‘Could you go upstairs and ask your father to come to the phone, please,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Yes. Of course. That was why you called, wasn’t it?’ Martinez said.

  ‘It was,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘I’ll get him right away. Sorry if I sounded stupid just then – I’m a little confused.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Paniatowski said. ‘It’s been a confusing evening for all of us.’

  Martinez put down the telephone, and there was the sound of his footsteps as he climbed the stairs.

  Why was she such an idiot? Paniatowski asked herself.

  Why did she always fall for either the wrong men or – as in this case – the right man at the wrong time?

  She heard footsteps again, but this time they were louder and more irregular – as if whoever was responsible for them was coming down the stairs two or three steps at a time.

  Someone picked up the phone again – and whoever it was, was gasping for breath.

  ‘Is that you, Robert?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s … it’s my father. He’s … he’s dead!’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’ Martinez said hysterically. ‘His eyes are bulging and he isn’t bloody breathing!’

  ‘Calm down, Robert.’

  ‘Calm down! Did you hear what I said? My father’s been murdered!’

  ‘I want you to leave the house immediately, Robert,’ Paniatowski said soothingly. ‘I want you to open the front door, and step out into the garden. Do you think you can do that for me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’

  ‘You can do it. I know you can. Go into the front garden and stay there until the police arrive. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Martinez agreed.

  Paniatowski heard a clatter as Martinez dropped the phone, then a series of dull thuds as it swung to and fro, pendulum-like, and collided with the telephone table. And then – thank God – there was the sound of Robert Martinez’s slow, heavy footsteps, as he made his way towards the front door.

  She pulled her police radio from her handbag.

  ‘This is DCI Paniatowski,’ she said, clicking it on. ‘There’s been a serious incident, and I want at least two patrol cars and an ambulance sent to seven, Tufton Court immediately.’

  She suddenly felt a little light-headed, and put her palm against the wall, to steady herself.

  ‘Jesus,’ she groaned, ‘what a bloody mess!’

  TWELVE

  After the giddiness came the nausea, and Paniatowski was sure that – very soon – she was going to be violently sick. She made it to the bathroom just in time, and spent the next ten minutes kneeling over the toilet, spewing up the contents of her stomach into the bowl.

  It must have been something she’d eaten, she told herself, as she continued to dry heave – but she knew it wasn’t that at all. Rather, it was a combination of guilt and self-disgust which had forced her into this position.

  Finally, when she was sure there was nothing left inside to eject, she stood up. Her legs felt weak, and her head was pounding. Her body was screaming that it needed to go to bed, if only for a little while, but she knew that, with this second murder, rest was not an option.

  She took a few cautious steps along the landing, then lit up a cigarette.

  She would be all right now, she told herself – she would bloody well have to be!

  By the time Paniatowski arrived at Tufton Court, there were already three patrol cars, Beresford’s Cortina and an ambulance parked in front of the Martinez home – and in the houses adjacent and opposite to it, neighbours in dressing gowns stood looking on with ghoulish fascination.

  ‘Where’s Robert Martinez?’ Paniatowski asked Beresford, who was waiting for her at the front door.

  ‘I put him in one of the patrol cars,’ Beresford said. ‘I got Jack Crane to ask a neighbour to make him a cup of tea, but I don’t know if he’s drunk it.’

  They stepped into the hallway – the very same hallway, Paniatowski reminded herself, in which she had kissed Robert Martinez, and from which he had been talking to her only a few minutes earlier.

  ‘Several of the rooms – both upstairs and down – have been completely ransacked, but there are others which seem untouched,’ Beresford said. ‘It’s possible that whoever was responsible for it was disturbed in the act.’

  ‘Robert Martinez had been out for a walk, and they probably heard him returning,’ Paniatowski said.

  And she was thinking, Robert was very lucky to come out of it unscathed, because the murderer had already killed two people, and he’d have had no compunction about making it three.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t a matter of luck at all. Killing a helpless woman and an old man was comparatively easy, but
taking on a big strong feller like Robert Martinez was another matter entirely. Perhaps the murderer hadn’t felt up to the task – especially if he was quite elderly himself.

  ‘Would you like to see the body now?’ Beresford suggested.

  ‘In a minute,’ Paniatowski said. ‘First, I’d like you to tell me what you’ve got so far.’

  ‘We think he came in through the French windows which open on to the back garden, because they were wide open when we got here, and one of the panes was smashed.’

  ‘And how would he have reached the French windows?’

  ‘There are two possible ways. He could have walked along Tufton Court, and then taken the path around the side of the house. Or he could have come along the service road that runs behind the houses – which is what all the garages open on to – and climbed over the back gate.’

  ‘Would he have to have been particularly fit to climb over the back gate?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Not really. It’s not a lot higher than the one at the front.’

  ‘And what about the burglar alarm? Is there one?’

  ‘Yes, but when I talked to the housekeeper on the phone – she doesn’t live in, and goes off duty at six – she said that Javier Martinez only switched on the alarm when he went to bed.’

  ‘I thought that he was in his bedroom when Robert found him,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Robert?’ Beresford repeated quizzically.

  ‘That is his name, isn’t it – Robert Martinez?’ Paniatowski asked, while silently cursing herself.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s his name, all right,’ Beresford agreed. ‘I was just surprised to hear you using just his …’ He caught the look in Paniatowski’s eyes, and paused. ‘Anyway,’ he continued shakily, ‘the point is that though he was in his bedroom, he wasn’t actually …’

  ‘Shall we go and look at the body now?’ Paniatowski interrupted him.

  ‘OK,’ Beresford said.

  It was a relief to both of them.

  Javier Martinez’s bedroom, which overlooked the street, was at the end of the corridor. As well as the bed and all the other usual bedroom furniture, it contained a big old-fashioned roll-top desk and bookcase which held a couple of dozen leather-bound ledgers. The only sign of a personal touch to the room was in the large-framed pictures on the walls of mountain ranges, castles and long, flat plains – and just looking at them evoked the spirit of Spain.