The Dead Hand of History

by Sally Spencer

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course not. I honestly thought you were the best qualified person for the job. But we have to be careful, Monika. If somebody is seen to cross you, and the next day he’s out on his ear, tongues will start wagging.’

  ‘In other words, sir, if this request had been made by any other DCI, you’d have granted it without a second’s thought?’

  ‘Not without a second’s thought, no,’ Baxter said, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘But you would probably have granted the request.’

  ‘We’re dealing with a hypothetical situation here, so it’s impossible to say anything for certain. But yes, I think I probably would have agreed to let the chief inspector have his way.’

  ‘But because it’s me, you don’t think you can?’

  ‘Essentially, yes.’

  ‘So my ability to investigate this case is to be undermined by office politics?’ Paniatowski asked bitterly.

  Baxter made an expansive gesture with his big ginger hands.

  ‘That’s the way of the world, Monika,’ he said. ‘We not only have to be squeaky clean, we have to be seen to be squeaky clean. Learn to work with Walker. Try to find a way to make him want to nail his colours to your mast. And once this particular case is over, we’ll reassess the whole situation, and perhaps I’ll be able to give you what you want.’

  ‘Providing that I get a successful result?’

  ‘Providing that, of course.’

  ‘Which you’re expecting me to achieve with one hand tied behind my back?’

  Baxter smiled. It was not exactly an amused smile, though there were elements of amusement in it. And it was far from being a cruel smile – though Baxter would not have been human if he hadn’t felt just a little satisfaction at seeing the woman who had turned his life completely inside out in an uncomfortable situation for once. Overall, it could perhaps have been said to be a reassuring smile – but with a warning attached.

  ‘Welcome to the higher echelons, Detective Chief Inspector Paniatowski,’ he said.

  The phone rang on Baxter’s desk.

  ‘Excuse me for a moment, Chief Inspector,’ he said, standing up and crossing the room.

  He was always polite, Paniatowski thought. He was always the perfect gentleman.

  Why couldn’t she have learned to love him as he so deserved to be loved?

  Baxter picked up the phone. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I see.’

  His voice was growing heavier with every word, Paniatowski thought.

  Why was it growing heavier?

  The chief constable put the phone down.

  ‘Things didn’t start out very well this morning, but they’ve just turned even nastier,’ he said gravely.

  ‘A second body part’s turned up?’ Paniatowski guessed – because what else could it be?

  ‘That’s right,’ Baxter agreed. ‘Another hand.’

  ‘Poor bloody woman,’ Paniatowski said with feeling. ‘We simply have to assume she’s dead now, don’t we?’

  ‘I’m afraid it wasn’t a woman’s hand this time,’ Baxter told her. ‘It was a man’s.’

  SIX

  Mike Traynor had been on the phone to the London Daily Globe for almost half an hour.

  The first five minutes of that half-hour had been highly unsatisfactory. When he’d asked to speak to the editor, he’d been told – by a very bored-sounding minion – that Mr Stevens was not available. When he’d pointed out that he was the Mike Traynor, the Globe’s northern correspondent, the same minion had been completely unimpressed, and it was only when Traynor reluctantly pushed himself into the background, and the story to the forefront, that things started to happen.

  The lackey he’d been talking to had quickly been jerked away from the phone, and returned to whatever cupboard he lived in when he wasn’t required for fobbing off provincial reporters. He had been replaced by a man who announced himself as the assistant editor, and while it would have been better to talk to the deputy editor, Traynor decided to settle for what he’d got.

  As he told his story, he sensed that the assistant editor’s interest was quickening.

  ‘Have you still got the hand in your possession?’ the other man asked.

  ‘Well, of course I haven’t still got it,’ Traynor told him. ‘Apart from it being a severed hand – which is not exactly something you want to keep around the place – it’s evidence of a crime, isn’t it?’

  ‘So what did you do with it?’

  ‘I phoned the police, and they came round to the office and took it away with them.’

  ‘Ah,’ the assistant editor said.

  ‘But I’ve got a photograph of the hand, which is all you’d need,’ Traynor pointed out.

  ‘And the note that accompanied it?’

  ‘I’ve got a copy of the note, too. They could both be on the next train to London.’

  The assistant editor paused, as he considered the implications of the ‘could both be’.

  ‘I suppose we just might be able to use this little story of yours,’ he said finally, and in an airy manner. ‘It all depends, you see.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how slow the rest of the news is today. If there’s an earthquake in China, for example—’

  ‘You’ll put that on page three, like you always do with stories about foreigners,’ Traynor interrupted him. ‘And why? Because we both know that your readers don’t give a toss about what’s happening on the other side of the world. But they will care about the story that I’m offering you. It’s front-page material – and we both know that, too.’

  ‘Perhaps it might be front-page material in . . . where was it? . . . you said you were calling from Lancashire, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Traynor agreed. ‘Lancashire.’

  ‘But the Globe is a national newspaper, and . . .’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Traynor, who was starting to enjoy himself. ‘Perhaps the story isn’t much use to you. I’ll tell you what – I’ll send it to the Gazette instead.’

  ‘Let’s not be too hasty,’ the assistant editor cautioned. ‘I’m willing to pay you fifty pounds for the story, whether we use it or not.’

  ‘I want a hundred pounds,’ Traynor told him. ‘And I want the story appearing under my byline.’

  There was another pause, then the assistant editor said, ‘I think we can agree to that.’

  Of course they could, Traynor thought, wishing he’d asked for two hundred pounds.

  Traynor had only just put the phone down again when the office boy appeared at his door.

  ‘Chief Inspector Paniatowski just rang up and asked if you were here,’ the boy said.

  ‘And what did you tell her?’

  ‘That you were. Did I do right?’

  ‘Of course you did. We should always cooperate with the police. Did she say anything else?’

  ‘She said she was on her way over, and she’d be grateful if you didn’t go out before she got here. Only . . .’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘Only, the way she said it, it seemed like she was really saying that if you weren’t in, there’d be hell to pay.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m sure that’s just exactly how she intended it to sound,’ Traynor said.

  And he was thinking, What a difference a few hours can make. Earlier this morning she was summoning me to see her, and now – even if she does do her best to make it seem as if she’s still in charge – she’s coming to see me.

  ‘Is there anything else I can do for you while I’m here, Mr Traynor?’ the office boy asked.

  ‘No,’ Traynor said, but as the boy was heading towards the door, he changed his mind and called out, ‘Actually, there is.’

  Traynor reached into his drawer and took out a large buff envelope. Then he placed the envelope on the desk top, and hurriedly scribbled an address on it.

  ‘Take this down to the parcel office at the railway station,’ he told the boy. ‘Find out what the quickest
way of sending it is, and send it that way. It doesn’t matter what it costs. Got that?’

  ‘Got it,’ the office boy said.

  When DCI Paniatowski entered Traynor’s office she did not look in the best of humours. But then, the reporter told himself, it would have been a bloody miracle if she had.

  ‘Chief Inspector Paniatowski,’ he said jovially. ‘How nice to see you again – and so soon after our last meeting as well. Do take a seat.’

  Paniatowski remained standing. ‘I want to hear about the second hand,’ she said.

  ‘Certainly,’ Traynor agreed, still on a high at the thought of a byline and a hundred pounds. ‘But since I’ve already given the details to your Sergeant Walker, it’s pretty much second-hand news, don’t you think?’

  Paniatowski glared at him. ‘Two people may already be dead, and more could follow,’ she said.

  ‘I know that, but even so, Chief Inspector, if you can’t have a sense of humour about things . . .’

  ‘And if you don’t stop pissing me about, Mr Traynor, you could be one of them!’

  She didn’t mean it, of course, Traynor thought. It was just one of those things people said, like, ‘I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.’ Nevertheless, he found the words were having a sobering effect on him.

  ‘The note was delivered by hand,’ he said. ‘No joke intended,’ he added hastily. ‘That’s just the way it came.’

  ‘Delivered?’ Paniatowski repeated, questioningly.

  ‘It was slipped under the door.’

  ‘Which door? The front door, that opens out on to the High Street?’

  ‘No, the back door. The one that’s in the alley.’

  ‘Show it to me,’ Paniatowski said, holding out her hand.

  ‘The note?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, because I’ve already handed it over to your sergeant.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to show me the copy you made, won’t you?’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘But I didn’t make any—’

  ‘Now!’

  With a sigh, Traynor opened his drawer, took out the copy and laid it on the desk.

  The letter had been pasted together with words cut out of magazines . . .

  IF you want a real SCOOP, here’s one,

  Mr Traynor

  Go and take a look at the dustbin

  behind YOUR office. There’s a

  human hand IN IT

  ‘You have to admit that whoever he is, he’s short and to the point,’ Traynor commented.

  Paniatowski picked up the note, folded it neatly and slipped it into her jacket pocket.

  ‘Here, hang on . . .’ Traynor protested.

  ‘Is this the only copy? Paniatowski asked.

  ‘It is,’ Traynor replied.

  ‘Apart from the one that the office boy’s taking down to the railway station, even as we speak,’ he added mentally.

  ‘I don’t want you discussing the contents of this note with anybody,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Is that understood?’

  Traynor nodded. ‘It’s understood.’

  ‘Good. And now we’ve got that out of the way, I’d like to see where you found the hand.’

  Traynor stood up. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  The alley was wide enough to accommodate any delivery vans which might need access and a row of battered dustbins.

  Paniatowski looked up and down the alley. The killer had chosen his spot wisely, she thought. It was true that, in addition to the Chronicle offices, it was overlooked by half a dozen shops on either side, but those with a window looking out on to the alley had put up blinds – since no business wants the retail spell it is trying to weave spoiled by the bedazzled customer spotting the dustbins.

  She lit up a cigarette. Yes, the killer had been very clever, she thought, because though things can always go wrong however carefully they’re planned, he could have been reasonably confident that no one would see him when he made the drop.

  A uniformed constable was standing, somewhat languidly, at the end of the alley, but the moment he noticed Paniatowski walking towards him, he stiffened up and saluted.

  Paniatowski smiled at him. ‘Did you know that I can read your mind?’ she asked.

  The constable looked confused. ‘Can you, ma’am?’

  ‘I think so. You were just telling yourself that you didn’t join the Force to stand guard over dustbins. Am I right?’

  The constable’s confusion grew. ‘Well, actually, ma’am . . .’

  ‘But even a seemingly menial job like this one can play a vital part in an investigation – which is why I hope you’ve been doing it properly.’

  ‘I have, ma’am,’ the constable assured her. ‘I’ve not let anybody get near them bins.’

  Paniatowski nodded. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘We all have to climb the promotion ladder step by step, you know.’

  ‘I do know, ma’am.’

  ‘And if you’re not careful and conscientious, you’ll falter on the first one, and then you’ll never get any higher. That’s happened to more officers than you’d ever imagine.’

  ‘It won’t happen to me,’ the young constable said firmly.

  Paniatowski smiled again. ‘I’m sure it won’t.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, ma’am,’ the constable said – and sounded as though he meant it.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Paniatowski told him.

  She turned and walked back to the dustbins, where Traynor was waiting for her.

  The journalist sniggered. ‘What was that I just witnessed?’ he asked. ‘A pep talk to one of the poor bloody infantry?’

  ‘You’re smarter than you look,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘But then, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Traynor demanded.

  ‘Which one of these bins was the hand in?’ Paniatowski asked, ignoring the question.

  ‘This one,’ Traynor said, tapping the one on the end of the row with his knuckles. ‘Did you notice that?’

  ‘Did I notice what?’

  ‘That I only touched it with my knuckles. I did it that way to make your job easier for you. No fingerprints, you see.’

  ‘So when you opened it the last time, you were wearing gloves, were you?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean,’ the journalist exclaimed. ‘It would have been better if I had been wearing gloves, wouldn’t it?’

  Paniatowski sighed. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed. ‘So tell me exactly what you did?’

  ‘Well, I took the lid off, and rummaged about inside.’

  ‘And where was the hand?’

  ‘Just below the surface.’

  Yes, it would have been. The killer wouldn’t have wanted to spend too long at the bin, in case he was spotted.

  ‘Was it wrapped in anything?’ she asked.

  ‘It was in a blue plastic freezer bag. I could see immediately that it wasn’t like the other one – because it was far too big to be a woman’s hand.’

  ‘You should be a detective,’ Paniatowski said drily.

  And it was not until Traynor said, ‘So the other hand was a woman’s,’ that she realized she’d made a mistake.

  ‘I’ll send one of my lads round with a van to pick up this bin,’ Paniatowski told him.

  ‘I said, so the first one – the one on the river bank – was a woman’s hand,’ Traynor repeated.

  ‘He should be here to collect it within the half-hour,’ Paniatowski replied, stonily.

  ‘If you’re taking the bin away, I’ll need a receipt,’ Traynor said, giving up on the confirmation, and shifting to a different tack.

  ‘A receipt?’ Paniatowski repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For a dustbin?’

  ‘Well, when all’s said and done, it is Lancashire Evening Chronicle property,’ Traynor said.

  ‘It’s Whitebridge Council property,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘And if you think I’m going to give
you a receipt so that you can publish it on the front page under the headline, “The Chronicle finds the hand of horror”, then you’ve got another think coming.’

  ‘Hand of horror,’ Traynor mused. ‘Do you know, Chief Inspector, that’s really not bad at all. Maybe, just as I should have been a detective, you should have been a journalist.’

  ‘No receipt,’ Paniatowski said firmly.

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed Traynor, who’d already got more out of this meeting than he’d ever expected to.

  The lounge bar of the Drum and Monkey was populated in roughly even numbers by a small group of travelling salesmen drinking gin and tonics and a few office workers who restricted themselves to halves of bitter – but would still manfully suck their way through several strong peppermints before they returned to their places of business.

  The public bar, in complete contrast, was doing a roaring trade. Irish navvies knocked back pints of draught Guinness like there was no tomorrow. Bookies’ runners exchanged notes and smoked small cigars, while waiting for their punters to make up their minds on whether or not to place one more bet. And old men in cloth caps clacked both their false teeth and their dominoes, as a furious game of fives and threes was fought out.

  In the corner of the public bar, there was the special table. Locals knew better than to sit at it, and visitors were advised by the landlord that even though it was unheard of to reserve tables in a pub, reserved was definitely what it was. It was the table Charlie Woodend had used for brainstorming with his team for the ten or more years he had held the post of DCI – and Monika Paniatowski, on her first day in the job, saw no reason to go anywhere else.

  Paniatowski took a sip of her vodka, then turned to DS Walker, one of the two men at the table.

  ‘Anything to report?’ she asked.

  Walker shook his head. ‘If you were hoping for any clues from along the river bank, you’re out of luck, ma’am,’ he said. ‘And as for the feller who phoned us – Harper – he saw nobody when he was making his call.’ He grinned. ‘Just to make sure, I put his dog through the third degree, but he wouldn’t admit to having seen anything, either.’

  ‘How about the door-to-door inquiries?’

  ‘Nothing, ma’am.’ Walker hesitated for a second, then continued, ‘But I did warn you that would be the case, didn’t I?’