Blake firmly intended to say that – this being a police matter – he could not give her that information, but even as the thought was passing through his brain, he felt Miss Dodd’s eyes burning into him and heard himself saying, ‘They just worked together.’
‘I thought so,’ Miss Dobbs said triumphantly. ‘You can always tell, you know.’
‘Can you?’
‘Indeed. Couples like them are always so much more affectionate to each other than couples who are actually married.’
‘But when they arrived, they signed in as a married couple, did they?’ Blake asked.
‘Of course,’ Miss Dobbs said severely. ‘We do have our standards, you know.’
‘And when was it they stayed here?’
Miss Dobbs opened the register, and quickly flicked through it.
‘Two weeks ago,’ she said. ‘They only stayed for one night. They signed in as Mr and Mrs Lord.’
Dick Whittington, Blake thought. Lord Mayor of London.
Well, it was nice to know that even adulterers could sometimes have a sense of humour.
‘Is there anything more that you can tell me about them, Miss Dobbs?’ he asked.
‘Very little indeed. After they checked in, we hardly saw them again.’ Miss Dobbs paused for a second. ‘We offer pony trekking here, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Blake said, because that was clearly what was expected of him.
‘Guests can also hire bicycles or go on bird-watching expeditions, and in the evenings, if there is sufficient demand, I myself can sometimes be persuaded to give a short piano recital in the main lounge. But Mr and Mrs Lord did not take advantage of any of the wonderful facilities the inn has to offer.’ She sniffed, disapprovingly, ‘I expect they thought they had much better things to do with their time.’
If I’d been here for a dirty weekend when you were on the desk, I wouldn’t have dared not to sample the wonderful facilities, Blake thought.
‘You didn’t happen to notice what kind of car he was driving, did you?’ he asked hopefully.
‘She was driving,’ Miss Dobbs corrected him.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It was Mrs Lord who did the driving. Probably – if I know anything about women like her – to make him feel small.’
‘And do you know what kind of car it was?’
‘Certainly. It was a dark blue E-type Jaguar. A very flashy vehicle, I’ve always thought, but then people like them just love flashiness, don’t they?’
SEVENTEEN
Jenny Brunskill was sitting behind her desk in her office. Her face was puffy, her eyes were red and she seemed to have become a much smaller woman than on the previous day.
‘Are you sure it was wise of you to come into work today?’ Paniatowski asked sympathetically.
Jenny shrugged, though it seemed to take her considerable effort. ‘The business doesn’t run itself,’ she said.
‘I know, but . . .’
‘Some brutal madman has robbed us of both our managing director and our head baker. That only leaves the two of us – my brother-in-law and me – to keep the bakery running. And you can’t expect Stan to do anything, when he’s just lost his wife.’
‘Linda wasn’t just his wife,’ Paniatowski reminded her gently. ‘She was also your sister. And I think you should seriously consider the possibility that her death has been almost as much of a shock to your system as it has been to your brother-in-law Stan’s.’
‘Oh, it has certainly been a shock,’ Jenny conceded, ‘but by being here, I’m doing what Linda would have wanted me to do. The bakery was her life, you see. It’s been both our lives, for as long as we can remember. Our father taught us well, and we never forgot the lessons we learned. Besides,’ she gave another weak shrug, ‘in a situation like this, it’s best to keep your mind occupied with ordinary, run-of-the-mill things, don’t you think?’
‘How does Stan feel about the bakery?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Stan?’ Jenny repeated, as if she didn’t quite know what the chief inspector was getting at.
‘Does he have the same sort of commitment to the place that you and your sister have – that you have, and your sister had?’
‘I’m afraid I still don’t know what you mean.’
‘Your brother-in-law used to run a very successful goods delivery business, didn’t he?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘That’s right, he did.’
‘Yet he sold that successful business, and invested all his money in a bakery which was in real trouble.’
‘Who told you that?’ Jenny demanded, suddenly angry. ‘Who said the bakery was in trouble when Stan bought into it?’
‘Well, I should have thought that the very fact you needed to take in a new partner . . .’
‘Sales had gone down, but that was nothing more than a temporary fluctuation which all businesses of this nature are prone to from time to time,’ Jenny said. ‘But we knew it wouldn’t be long before folk realized that you can’t beat good honest bread, and came back to us.’
The contrast between the first and second sentences couldn’t have been more striking, Paniatowski thought. The first one, measured and smooth, belonged to Jenny, the bakery business manager. The second, rougher and almost belligerent, came straight from the dead mouth of Seth Brunskill.
‘Linda and I weren’t the least bit worried by the downturn in business,’ Jenny said, as if it had suddenly become important to convince her visitor that this was the truth.
Paniatowski wasn’t buying it.
‘That does surprise me,’ she said.
‘It wouldn’t have surprised you at all if you’d known our father,’ Jenny countered. ‘Both Linda and I knew he’d never allow the bakery to fail. He had built it up from nothing, you see – and he loved it as much as we did.’
‘Even so, when Stan became a partner . . .’
‘He knew a good thing when he saw it. He understood that by buying his way in when we were suffering temporary difficulties, he was ensuring himself a meal ticket for life.’
‘By the middle of the sixties they were in big trouble,’ Sergeant Sid Roberts had told Paniatowski. ‘By the time Seth died, the bakery was totterin’ on the edge of bankruptcy.’
Some meal ticket for life!
‘Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame Stan for doing it,’ Jenny continued. ‘Any man in his situation would have grasped such an opportunity when he saw it. Most men in his situation would have demanded much more control over the business than he was willing to settle for.’
Jenny was performing a remarkable feat of mental gymnastics, Paniatowski told herself.
On the one hand, she was claiming the bakery hadn’t been in trouble at all, while on the other she was more or less indicating it was in so much trouble that Stan Szymborska could have virtually taken over the whole thing, if he’d chosen to.
‘I wonder if Stan’s decision was based on anything more than mere business considerations,’ Paniatowski said.
‘What do you mean?’ Jenny asked.
‘Well, he did marry Linda, didn’t he?’
‘Yes?’
‘So I was wondering if he perhaps bought into the business because he was in love with her.’
‘There was nothing at all going on between Stan and Linda before Father died,’ Jenny said emphatically.
‘No?’
‘No! It was only after Father passed on that my sister started to feel the need for a man.’
Or perhaps to feel the need for another man, Paniatowski thought.
‘Possibly there was nothing actually going on . . .’ she said aloud.
‘There wasn’t. I can assure you of that.’
‘. . . but it doesn’t necessarily mean that Stan couldn’t have had feelings for Linda, does it?’
Jenny gave her a smile which, while weak and tired, was still undoubtedly superior.
‘Stanislaw is Polish – as, I imagine, you are yourself,’ she said. ‘When did
you leave Poland?’
‘As a child,’ Paniatowski said.
‘As a refugee,’ she added mentally. ‘Fleeing with my mother, to keep ahead of invading Germans who, she was sure, would punish us for being the wife and daughter of a dead Polish army officer.’
‘As a child,’ Jenny echoed. ‘Ah, that explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Why you know so little about life in Poland. The Poles, you see, place great value on the family, and everyone’s place in it – a value which, sadly, we no longer seem to share in this country.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not quite following your argument.’
‘It’s really very simple. My father was the head of this family, and Stan would never have gone against his wishes by allowing himself to fall in love with Linda.’
Was Jenny for real, Paniatowski wondered. Did she actually believe all this rubbish she was spouting?
Yes, she decided – Jenny probably did.
‘As managing director, did Linda sometimes have to go on business trips?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Occasionally.’
‘And did these business trips of hers necessitate her staying away from home overnight?’
‘Once in a while they did,’ Jenny said, sounding puzzled. ‘Why are you asking?’
‘I was wondering if she happened to be away a week last Wednesday,’ Paniatowski said.
Or to put it another way, she thought, I was wondering if she happened to be away when (according to the report that DC Blake had just made) a Mr and Mrs Lord checked in at the Old Oak Tree Inn in Knorsbury.
‘Linda was away one night that week,’ Jenny said. ‘She went to a short conference of bakery managers in Leeds. But I can’t remember exactly which night it was. I expect the details will be in her appointment book, which she always keeps on her desk, so if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll . . .’
Jenny froze.
‘Take it easy,’ Paniatowski said softly.
‘The . . . the book’s in her office but I can’t . . . I don’t want to . . .’ Jenny mumbled.
‘But you don’t want to go in there yourself just yet?’ Paniatowski supplied.
Jenny nodded. ‘It’s weak of me, I know, and maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to face it . . .’
‘You said the appointment book would be on her desk. Would you mind if I went and found it myself?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And while I’m in there, would you have any objection to my searching the office?’
‘Searching it?’ Jenny asked, alarmed.
‘I need to look for evidence,’ Paniatowski explained. ‘Anything that might give me a clue as to who Linda’s murderer might be.’
Jenny hesitated. ‘You won’t make a mess, will you? You’ll leave everything as you found it?’
‘Of course,’ Paniatowski agreed.
And she was thinking, Linda Szymborska’s only been dead for a little over twenty-four hours, and already her sister’s turning her office into a shrine.
The moment Paniatowski stepped into Linda’s office, she realized how wrong she’d been about Jenny’s intentions for the place.
The evidence was all there.
The heavy teak desk – which most other firms would have got rid of years earlier.
The framed prize certificates which proclaimed that, generations ago, Brunskill’s loaves had triumphed over other brands of bread which probably no longer existed.
The huge painting dominating the far wall.
There was no need to turn this place into a shrine – because it already was one.
She gave the portrait a closer inspection. In the great tradition of Lancashire tycoons, Seth Brunskill had had it painted in oils, and – also in that tradition – the man himself was giving the artist a hard stare, as if assessing whether or not he was getting value for money.
He had been a handsome man, with much the same sort of handsomeness as Stan Szymborska and Tom Whittington possessed, Paniatowski thought. That surprised her, although given that both his daughters were good-looking women – or rather, one was, and one had been – it shouldn’t have done.
Perhaps her expectations of Seth Brunskill had been shaped by Sergeant Sid Roberts’ sour view of the man, she told herself. And perhaps Roberts had been right – for while the features were undoubtedly strong and regular, there was no humour in the eyes, and no signs of compassion around the mouth.
She could not picture Seth dandling Linda or Jenny on his knee, or tickling one of them under the chin. On the other hand, it was easy to imagine him scowling at them when they had done something of which he disapproved – and Paniatowski could almost hear him saying that they had disappointed him, and they must try harder next time.
DS Walker was well into his third pint of best bitter when the man with the dandruff-flecked collar sat down next to him, uninvited.
‘Detective Sergeant Walker?’ the man asked, though it was not really a question at all. ‘I’m—’
‘I know who you are,’ Walker said gruffly. ‘What exactly do you want, Mr Traynor?’
‘Just a few words.’
‘Well, here’s a couple of words for you,’ Walker said, after taking a sip of his pint. ‘Piss off!’
‘You’re not very keen on the press, are you?’ Traynor asked.
Walker lit up a cigarette. ‘Well, let’s put it this way,’ he suggested, ‘if I was planning to push a line of people off a cliff, then reporters would certainly be in that line, right after lawyers and foreigners.’
‘And where would detective chief inspectors be in the line?’ Traynor wondered.
‘What?’
‘You don’t much like DCI Paniatowski, do you?’
Walker shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing against her.’
‘And I don’t like her, either,’ Traynor said, choosing to treat the veracity of the comment with the contempt it deserved.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because she’s had her chance to cooperate with me, and she’s not taken it – which means that, in my book, there’s a black mark against her name.’
‘Is there any particular reason that you’re telling me this, Mr Traynor?’ Walker wondered.
‘Have you ever heard the expression, “My enemy’s enemy is my friend”?’ the reporter asked.
‘Might have done,’ Walker said evasively.
‘It’s not a trick,’ Traynor assured him.
‘Then what is it?’
‘It’s an offer. If you help me, Detective Sergeant Walker, then I’ll be more than willing to help you.’
Walker frowned. ‘Would you care to spell that out?’
‘Certainly. I’d very much like to know just how a big a cock-up DCI Paniatowski’s making of her new job, and if you were to provide me with a few details, you could rest assured I’d make sure the rest of the world found out, too. Now, some people might call that kind of thing disloyal . . .’
‘And what would you call it?’
‘I’d call it loyalty of the highest order.’
‘Would you?’
‘Indeed. Because if DCI Paniatowski’s not doing her job properly, then it’s your duty as a member of the Police Force – and the well-being of that force is where your loyalty truly lies – to make the general public aware of that failing. And, of course – though I know this wouldn’t sway you one way or the other – there might be a bit of money in it for you.’
‘That sounds suspiciously like you’re making an attempt to bribe me,’ Walker said.
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like . . .’
‘And if you think I’d be willing to betray my boss, then you don’t know me at all.’
Traynor stood up again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘I seem to have made a mistake.’
‘A big one,’ Walker growled.
‘No hard feelings?’ Traynor said, offering his hand.
‘Aren’t there?’ asked Walker, pointedly ignoring it.
Traynor began
to walk slowly towards the door.
‘I must be losing my touch,’ he told himself. ‘I really must. I could have sworn that Walker was just the sort of man who’d . . .’
And then he heard the sergeant call out from behind him, ‘Hold on a minute, will you, Mr Traynor!’
The reporter turned around. ‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘You forgot to leave me your business card,’ Walker pointed out.
Traynor smiled in self-congratulation. ‘Losing my touch?’ he asked himself. ‘Not a bit of it! I can still smell out the stink of human weakness from across a crowded room.’
‘You’re quite right, Sergeant,’ he told Walker. ‘I did forget to leave you my card.’
Jenny Brunskill was still sitting at her desk – still apparently absorbed in her work – but it was obvious she had been crying again.
‘Did you find anything?’ she asked Paniatowski hopefully. ‘Were there any of the clues you were looking for?’
Paniatowski shook her head. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But it was a bit of a long shot anyway. And there are plenty of other lines of investigation that we’ve been following.’
‘You will catch him, won’t you?’ Jenny Brunskill asked.
And, as always when she was asked that question, Paniatowski found herself struggling for an answer – because while she wanted to give the assurance which was being sought, she could not ignore the fact that there were some murderers who did get away with it.
‘We’re doing all we can,’ she said.
Jenny smiled weakly. ‘I believe you are,’ she said. ‘You’re trying your best, and that’s all any of us can do.’ She paused for a second, then continued, ‘Did you find Linda’s appointment book all right?’
‘Yes. It was Wednesday night that she was away.’ Paniatowski lit up a cigarette. ‘Why didn’t you go with her to Leeds?’
‘Oh, that sort of thing simply isn’t my cup of tea,’ Jenny said, almost apologetically. ‘I look after the books, and Linda looks after – Linda looked after – the people.’
‘So Linda went alone?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Yes. Why would you ask that?’
‘Well, I just thought that Stan might have gone with her.’
The Dead Hand of History Page 15