‘She didn’t talk about Javier Martinez?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t mention him, either?’
‘Why should I have?’ Doña Rosa asked, sounding puzzled. ‘I didn’t know the man. I have never even spoken to him.’
‘Not even at meetings of the Hispanic Circle?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘He never went to a meeting of the Circle,’ Doña Rosa replied.
‘I thought I’d told you that my father had embraced the British way of life wholeheartedly,’ Robert said to Paniatowski. ‘He wanted nothing to do with Spain, or with the Spanish community in Whitebridge.’
‘But what about the picture in the newspaper?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘The one in which he’s standing with you and Louisa?’
‘He’s not standing with us, he’s standing behind us,’ Robert Martinez said. ‘It was a mistake.’
‘A mistake?’
‘Louisa and I were in my office, planning a Hispanic Circle excursion, when the newspaper photographer arrived. He was only intending to take a picture of me, but I said it would be nice if Louisa was in it, too. The photographer was new to the job, and wanted to make sure he’d get it right, so he took rather a lot of shots. My father wandered in halfway through – as he does. He knew that the photographer was taking pictures for the article, but he did not know that he would be caught in one of them. He was furious when he saw it printed in the paper.’
‘Why was that?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘He didn’t say, but I assume it was because he didn’t want anyone thinking that he was a member of the Hispanic Circle.’
So Javier Martinez really had turned his back on Spain and all things Spanish, Paniatowski thought.
Then why had he had all those pictures of his native country on his bedroom wall?
The Manchester police force had over eight thousand officers on its rolls, while Mid-Lancs had a little over a third that number. The Manchester police had a helicopter. It had crime labs that were state-of-the-art. And though, since the moment he had walked through the door of its headquarters, Beresford had kept reminding himself that he was a good bobby, who had played a part in any number of successful investigations, he still could not help feeling like a bit of a hayseed.
The officer who’d been assigned to look after him while he was in Manchester was called DI Henry James.
‘Like the feller who wrote all those books, you know.’
Beresford didn’t know, though he had no doubt that Crane would.
‘The Wings of a Dove, Portrait of a Lady, Washington Square?’ James said helpfully.
‘I’m afraid that none of them ring any bells for me,’ Beresford said apologetically.
‘I’m not surprised,’ James told him. ‘I read one of them once – what with us sharing the same name and everything – and it was so bloody boring and fussy that I never got past the first few pages.’
Beresford grinned, and decided he quite liked Inspector James.
‘We showed the sketch you sent us around Ringway Airport, and one of the officers at passport control says he definitely remembers her arriving on a flight from Alicante last Tuesday,’ James said. ‘But he’s almost certain that she wasn’t using the name you gave us.’
The name was no problem, Beresford thought – Charlie Woodend had already informed them that Elena had been travelling under a false passport – but the day definitely was.
‘Are you sure it was Tuesday?’ he asked. ‘It couldn’t have been Wednesday, could it?’
DI James looked down at his notes. ‘There was no flight on Wednesday,’ he said. ‘The next flight after the Tuesday one is on Thursday morning.’
And Thursday would have been too late – since the canal was frozen over by then – so the porter on Whitebridge station must have got it wrong.
‘One of the airport bus drivers remembers taking her to Victoria railway station. He described her as “a little old lady dressed all in black”.’
‘She was a little old lady, all right, but she wasn’t dressed like that when we found her,’ Beresford said.
‘No, she wouldn’t have been,’ James agreed. ‘When we showed the sketch around Victoria Station, nobody remembered seeing her – despite the fact that dressed as she was, she should have stuck out like a sore thumb. So I started to think that maybe the reason we lost the trail there was because she didn’t stick out any longer, and that’s when I got some of my lads to canvass all the clothing stores in the immediate vicinity.’
‘And did they come up with anything?’
‘They had no luck at all with the shops selling new clothes, but we struck pay dirt with the owner of a second-hand shop.’ James paused and smiled as if he were remembering a private joke. ‘But even though she wasn’t dressed in black any more, it’s strange that nobody on Victoria Station recognized her from the sketch, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ Beresford agreed, ‘it is.’
But no stranger than the fact that – with the exception of the porter at Whitebridge railway station – nobody in Whitebridge recalled seeing her, either, he added mentally.
‘Well, I think I can explain how that might have happened,’ James said, and there was now definitely an amused twinkle in his eye.
‘You can?’ Beresford asked.
‘Yes. You see, she didn’t just get her skirt, blouse, cardigan and overcoat from the second-hand store – she also bought her disguise there!’
‘Her disguise!’ Beresford exclaimed – just as he was supposed to.
‘That’s right,’ James said. ‘And now, I imagine you’d like to talk to the owner of the second-hand store yourself.’
‘Too bloody right, I would,’ Beresford agreed.
‘Did you see all the pictures on the wall of that office?’ Crane said, as he and Meadows walked towards the south side garage.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Meadows replied.
‘The whole history of the company’s up there,’ Crane said, ‘starting from a few old rickety buses in 1945 and going up to the shiny fleet they run now. And while you might not like Javier Martinez’s methods very much, you have to admire him for his achievement, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’ Meadows asked, non-committally.
They turned the corner, and found Fred Sidebotham sitting on the oil drum, just as Mitchell had predicted he would be.
He was a small man. He had a greasy cap on his head, and though his overalls were heavily stained with oil, none of those stains looked recent.
‘We’re from the police, Mr Sidebotham,’ Meadows said, producing her warrant card. ‘Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?’
Sidebotham blinked. ‘This would be about Chavier Martinez’s murder, would it?’
‘That’s right,’ Meadows agreed.
‘Well, it wasn’t me who topped him, though I’d certainly like to shake the hand of the man who did,’ Sidebotham said.
‘You went back a long way together, didn’t you?’ Meadows asked.
‘We did,’ Sidebotham agreed. ‘Right back to 1946, in fact. I’d just come out of the army, and was looking for work. And Chavier, who’d spent the war working in the aircraft factory, had built up a little nest egg from his overtime payments, and decided he wanted to start up his own business. He bought these three old buses – they were only held together by sealing wax and string – and started running trips to the local markets.’
‘So he was in the right place at the right time,’ Meadows suggested.
‘Wrong, lass,’ Fred said. ‘It might have been the right place, but it definitely wasn’t the right time. There was still petrol rationing, you see, and sometimes he couldn’t run the buses because he didn’t have the fuel.’ He chuckled. ‘He had to sack one of his drivers after a few months. He’d have liked to sack me, too, but he couldn’t afford to.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I was the only feller who could keep them buses on the road. I went all over Lancashire, searching scrap yard
s for spare parts, and no sooner had I got one of the buses running than another of the buggers would break down. Anyway, it got to the point where he couldn’t afford to keep me and he couldn’t afford to let me go – and that’s when he offered me a partnership. He said he’d give me twenty per cent of the company if I’d work for half the pay I was getting at that time, and because I’d grown quite fond of those old buses, I agreed.’
‘You’re not a partner now, are you?’ Meadows asked.
‘No, I’m bloody well not,’ Fred agreed. ‘One day in 1951, Chavier came up and said he couldn’t see the business ever making much of a profit, and that he was feeling guilty about the fact I’d been on half-pay for the last five years. So he offered to buy my stake in the company for the amount of money I’d missed out on in wages. Well, I thought that was more than generous, and I accepted.’
‘And the day after you’d signed on the dotted line, some new coaches turned up,’ Meadows guessed.
‘It was a couple of months later, and the coaches were good second-hand, rather than new – but you’re close enough,’ Fred said. ‘It didn’t bother me at first. Two and a half years’ pay was a handy sum of cash. I bought a brand-new stair carpet for the wife, and a whippet for myself. But over time, it slowly started to sink in that when Chavier said he didn’t think the business would ever make much of a profit, he’d been lying – that it must have already been making a profit, or he’d never have had the money to buy more coaches. For five years, I’d been scraping by – doing a second and third job when I’d finished work here – just to keep them bloody buses on the road. And then he lied to me. And it was the lying – rather than losing my share – that really got to me.’
‘Why didn’t you leave?’ Crane asked.
Fred shook his head at the younger man’s obvious naivety.
‘It was in the fifties that this area really began to decline,’ he said. ‘The mills were starting to close down, and there were more folk looking for jobs than there were jobs to be had. So if you did already have a job, you bloody clung on to it.’ He reached down and took a swig from his bottle of brown ale, not caring whether they noticed or not. ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘I always thought the sting would go away in time – that in a few years, I’d be able to look back at it, and laugh about what a mug I’d been. But it never went away – it just got worse and worse. And that’s why I’d like to shake the hand of the man who choked the life out of Chavier Martinez.’
SIXTEEN
Paniatowski sat at a copper-topped table in the saloon bar of the Hanging Gate, waiting for Robert Martinez to return with the drinks, and examining, without much interest, the horse brasses and pewter mugs hanging on the walls. It was not the kind of pub she would normally have chosen to spend any time in, she thought, but it was close to Doña Rosa’s house, and besides, she was unlikely to run into any of her colleagues there.
But why should it bother her if she did run into any of her colleagues? she wondered.
After all – and whatever Colin Beresford might think – Robert Martinez had just given her considerable help with her investigation, so what could be more natural than that she should go for a drink with him?
Martinez arrived, bearing a pint for himself and a glass of vodka for Paniatowski.
For perhaps a minute, they sat in an uncomfortable silence, as if neither of them was quite sure, now that they were finally alone, what to use as a conversation opener.
Then Paniatowski said, ‘I’m very grateful to you for finding Doña Rosa for me, Robert. Really I am.’
‘Then could I ask for a favour in return?’ Robert Martinez said.
Paniatowski’s body tensed.
If he was going to ask her to keep him abreast of the investigation, that clearly couldn’t happen.
And if he was just looking for an opportunity to get her into his bed, that shouldn’t happen – at least, until the investigation was concluded.
‘What kind of favour?’ she asked cautiously.
‘In Spain, there’s a tradition that the dead are buried as soon as practicable – often only twenty-four hours after they have passed away – and for that reason, I wish to hold my mother’s funeral as soon as Dr Shastri has released the body,’ Robert Martinez said.
‘And you want me to do all that I can to speed up the process?’ Paniatowski said.
Martinez looked shocked at the very idea.
‘Oh no! Certainly not!’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I was using you as an enchufe.’
‘As a what?’
Martinez smiled. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to confuse you. Enchufe is the Spanish word for socket, and what it really means, in this context, is having friends in high places.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’ Paniatowski asked, mystified.
‘I want my mother to have someone else – as well as me – standing at the graveside as she is buried,’ Martinez said.
‘And you’d like that someone to be me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘Because I like you, and I think she would have liked you if she’d lived long enough to get to know you – and because you seem a very caring person, who can feel sorrow even over the death of a stranger.’
The passion and sincerity in his words made her tingle.
God, but I really, really, want to sleep with this man, she thought.
‘I’d be honoured to attend your mother’s funeral,’ she said. ‘I’ll come to your father’s too, if you’d like me to.’
Martinez shook his head. ‘That’s very kind – but not necessary,’ he said. ‘My father had enough friends – or at least close acquaintances – to more than fill the chapel in the crematorium.’
‘You’re having him cremated!’ Paniatowski gasped.
‘I’m sorry, does that offend you as a Roman Catholic?’ Martinez asked. ‘It shouldn’t, you know. The pope has given cremation his full approval.’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with religion,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I stopped being a believer years ago.’
‘But something’s clearly upset you,’ Martinez persisted.
‘A couple of years ago, I had my father’s bones brought from Poland,’ Paniatowski explained. ‘I had them buried next to my mother. I thought it was a beautiful thing, and I’m a little shocked, I suppose, that you’d consider doing anything else.’
‘It wasn’t my decision to take,’ Robert said. ‘My father always expressed a strong wish to be cremated. Perhaps, after seeing my mother in the mortuary, he might eventually have decided that if they could not be united in life, they could at least have been united in death. But we can’t know for certain that he would have changed his mind, and since his last instruction to me was that he should be cremated, I must respect that wish.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘I have always done my best to be a dutiful son.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ Paniatowski said.
And the urge to sleep with him was stronger than ever.
The shop was located on Hanover Street. The sign above it said, ‘Hope’s Fashions’, and below it, a second sign said – a little more accurately – ‘Quality Second-Hand Clothing at Affordable Prices.’
The owner, Mr Hope, was a middle-aged man with a pot belly. He had lost most of the hair on the top of his head, and had compensated for the fact by growing what looked like small haystacks over his ears.
He seemed willing enough to talk – in fact, the only problem they were ever likely to have with him as a witness was shutting him up, Beresford thought.
‘You ask me how I can remember an individual customer a week after she came into the shop,’ Hope said – although Beresford had not, in fact, got round to asking that at all. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. It’s not very often an old woman dressed entirely in black comes through that door, and besides,’ he added slightly gloomily, ‘I’ve not exactly been rushed off my feet recently, so the customers I do get tend to stick in my mind.’
‘What did she
…?’ Beresford began.
‘You probably want to know what she bought,’ Hope interrupted him. ‘She wanted a full outfit – head to toe. “I’m starting a new life,” she told me, “and I want new clothes to go with it.”’
She was starting a new life, Beresford repeated silently – a life based around two people she thought she had lost nearly forty years earlier. And she deserved a new life, if anybody did. Yet less than twenty-four hours later, she would be dead.
‘Did she buy her underwear from you?’ he asked.
‘I don’t sell second-hand underwear,’ Hope said. ‘I tried it once, but people just wouldn’t go for it. I even had this sign up, “All our underwear has been double-bleached,” but you could see the customers thinking about where it might have been before it was double bleached, and …’
‘Do you happen to know where she did buy her underwear from?’ Beresford interrupted.
‘I sent her to my cousin Hymie’s shop, which is just down the road. I told her to show him my card, so he’d give her a discount.’
‘So you sold her what, exactly?’
Hope gave a perfect description of the clothes Elena had been wearing when she’d been fished out of the canal.
‘Did she have a suitcase with her?’ Beresford asked.
Hope closed his eyes, as if he thought that would help him remember.
‘No,’ he said, ‘she had a small carrying bag – no more than a big handbag, really, and certainly not large enough to hold a change of clothes.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘What do you think happened? We made a deal – she didn’t even bother to haggle – she handed over the money, and then she asked me where the changing rooms were.’
‘Is there a changing room?’ Beresford asked.
‘Well, no, as you can see for yourself, this isn’t the type of business that has one, but she looked so dropped on when I told her that, so I said she could go into the back room, which is where I make my brew. And that’s just what she did. She looked quite a different woman when she came out again. I mean, she still wouldn’t have had builders wolf-whistling after her as she walked down the street, but she at least looked as if she belonged in the twentieth century.’
Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire Page 17