‘Really, boss . . .’ Beresford remonstrated.
‘Hand it over,’ Paniatowski told him firmly.
The headline said it all, but Paniatowski forced herself to read the rest of the article anyway.
Do we have the police we deserve?
By Mike Traynor
An arrest in the Linda Szymborska and Tom Whittington murder case is good news for the citizens of Whitebridge, who will be able to sleep more peacefully in their beds tonight.
But why was it so long coming, sources in police circles have been asking. Why was the obvious suspect – the only man with a real motive in the killings – allowed to remain at liberty for so long? Indeed, this reporter put exactly that question to DCI Paniatowski during her press conference.
And it is not merely a matter of justice postponed. A man who has killed twice may kill again, and who is to say whether it is more a case of luck than judgement that he did not strike for a third time?
This newspaper has always crusaded for the advancement of women in all walkexts of life, including the Police Force. And it will continue to do so. It is only proper that some senior police posts should be held by women. But the question we must ask ourselves here is not whether it is right that women should be chief inspectors, but whether the one who is a chief inspector is the right woman for the job.
‘He was well out of order writing that – and he knows it,’ Beresford said. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already written the apology that will appear in tomorrow night’s edition.’
It wouldn’t surprise me, either, Paniatowski thought. But the damage is already done.
‘Well, after all, tomorrow is another day,’ Beresford said, trying to sound philosophical.
‘No it isn’t,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘Not for me – because this case isn’t over yet.’
‘Not over?’ Beresford repeated. ‘How can it not be over? We’ve got the killer behind bars and . . .’
‘I want the man who pushed Stan Szymborska into killing his wife behind bars as well.’
‘Sorry, boss?’ Beresford said.
Paniatowski took a black-and-white photograph out of her bag, and handed it to her inspector.
In the background was the Old Oak Tree Inn. In the foreground, a man and a woman were kissing. The woman had long, dark, wavy hair, and was giving the kiss her all. The man – judging by his stance – seemed far less comfortable with this public act of affection.
‘Bloody hell!’ Beresford said.
‘It was this photograph – sent anonymously through the post – which tipped poor Stan over the edge,’ Paniatowski said. ‘If he’d never received it, Linda and Tom might still be alive today – and I’m holding the man who sent it partly responsible for their deaths.’
‘How can you do that, when you don’t even know who he is?’ Beresford wondered.
‘Because I can make a pretty fair guess at his name,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘And so can you.’
‘I’m not sure I can,’ Beresford confessed.
‘Think about it!’ Paniatowski urged him. ‘Who would reap the benefit from causing discord at the bakery?’
‘Another bakery!’ Beresford exclaimed. ‘Warren Tompkins!’
Paniatowski nodded. ‘Tompkins wasn’t directly involved in the murders, as poor deluded Jenny so firmly believes, but he has been responsible for a number of dirty tricks aimed at hurting Brunskill’s, and I think this one of them.’
‘Even if that’s true, Tompkins couldn’t have known Stan would go so berserk when he saw the photograph,’ Beresford pointed out.
‘That may be your opinion, but a judge and jury might think differently,’ Paniatowski said.
‘You’re . . . you’re actually going to arrest him?’ Beresford asked, incredulously.
‘I am,’ Paniatowski confirmed.
For some moments, Beresford was silent, then he said, ‘You’re on a hiding to nowhere with this one, boss. Even if you can get Tompkins to admit to sending the photograph, you’ll never be able to make the charges stick.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But I’m still going to give it my best shot.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
It would have been something of an understatement to describe the managing director’s office at Tompkins’ Bakery as large. The room ate up almost half of the second floor, with the result that most of the other offices were the size of broom cupboards. Even so, the way that Warren Tompkins had chosen to furnish it – with a huge desk, two big sofas, a conference table, a full-sized snooker table and a rowing machine – made it seem almost cramped.
The term ‘large’ would have been a charitable way to describe the man himself, Paniatowski decided. But she was feeling very low on charity that morning, and what she saw was a fat man who, though dressed in a sober suit, still reminded her of a dodgy used-car salesman.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chief Inspector,’ Tompkins said, standing up and reaching across his desk to shake her hand. ‘May I introduce my associate, Mr Cutler?’
Paniatowski turned towards Cutler, noting his bullet-shaped head and the scar on his cheek. He was a nasty piece of work if ever she’d seen one, she thought, and if she were to learn that he had a criminal record – especially one that involved crimes of violence – she would not be the least surprised.
Cutler did not follow his boss’s lead by standing up to shake her hand. Instead, he gave the briefest of nods, which did no more than acknowledge her presence.
‘I take it that you’re not exactly a big fan of the police, Mr Cutler,’ Paniatowski said.
Cutler shrugged. ‘If they promise to leave me alone, I promise to leave them alone.’
Tompkins laughed, as if all three of them were doing no more than sharing a good joke.
‘As you’ve probably already worked out for yourself, Chief Inspector, Mr Cutler works in our maintenance section, not our public-relations department,’ he said. He waved a flabby hand in the direction of one of the expensive leather chairs facing his desk. ‘Do take a seat.’
Paniatowski sat.
‘Before we get down to any other business, let me just ask you this,’ Tompkins said. ‘Are you completely happy with the company which supplies your police canteen? Because if you’re not happy with it, you should certainly consider coming to us. I think you’ll find we can offer you a very good deal – a very competitive deal.’ He paused, but only for a second. ‘Not that I’d like you to think that we’re touting for business, of course?’
‘No?’
‘Certainly not. We’ve no need to tout. Business is thriving as it is.’ He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, at a large – and brightly coloured – chart on the wall behind him. ‘See that?’
‘It’s so bloody ostentatious that I could hardly miss it, could I?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Well, there you are, then,’ Tompkins said. ‘The figures more than speak for themselves, don’t they? Bread sales are up over thirty per cent in twelve months, our new lines in confectionary are selling like hot cakes – that’s just a little bakery humour! – and a deal is already on the cards to supply one of the biggest supermarket chains in the country with our muffins. Yes, things are certainly going very well indeed. Onwards and upwards, that’s my motto.’
‘By any means necessary?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘You said “Onwards and upwards” was your motto, and I asked, “By any means necessary?”’
‘By any legitimate means, certainly.’ Tompkins paused again. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’
‘Ah, I was wondering when you would remember that I wasn’t here just to listen to you tell me how brilliant you are,’ Paniatowski said.
‘I could take offence at that,’ Tompkins told her, though the expression on his round face said that he’d already decided to treat what was clearly a barb as if it was just another joke.
‘Yes, you certainly could take offence,’ Paniatowski a
greed, deadpan. ‘And most people I can think of probably would.’ She reached into her bag, took out a tape recorder and placed it on the desk. ‘You don’t mind if I tape this conversation, do you?’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘So that we’ll all be perfectly clear about exactly what was said in this meeting.’
Tompkins was beginning to look a little uneasy. ‘Do I need to have a lawyer present?’ he asked.
‘That depends,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘If you’re guilty of something, it would certainly be advisable to have one here. And even if you’re not, I think I’d still recommend it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ll probably feel much more confident if you have a mouthpiece to do your talking for you.’
Tompkins banished the worried look from his face, and replaced it with a salesman’s assurance.
‘A lack of confidence has never been one of my failings, Chief Inspector,’ he said.
‘So I can tape the conversation?’
‘I suppose so.’
That was Phase One completed, Paniatowski told herself. But then, with an overblown, self-important man like Warren Tompkins, Phase One was always going to be easy.
It was Phase Two – getting him to say something which could provide the basis for criminal charges – which was going to be complicated.
She pressed the record button on the tape recorder, stated the date, time and those present, and then said, ‘We’ve received complaints that you’ve been involved in unfair trade practices, Mr Tompkins.’
‘Complaints from whom?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Isn’t that sort of complaint a rather minor matter for a chief inspector to be investigating?’ Tompkins wondered.
‘Ah, but that’s one of the perks of my job, you see,’ Paniatowski lied. ‘I can investigate whatever I want to.’
‘That may be the case, but I still fail to see why you would want this particular investigation,’ Tompkins said.
‘I expect that will become clear to you later,’ Paniatowski said offhandedly. ‘Are you quite sure, given what I’ve just said, that you don’t want a lawyer here to hide behind?’
Tompkins hesitated. ‘No, no, I’m perfectly happy with things as they are,’ he said finally.
But the way in which he folded his chubby arms across his chest showed that wasn’t quite the case.
For perhaps a full minute, they sat staring at each other, and then Tompkins said, ‘I don’t wish to appear to be rude in any way, Chief Inspector, but my time is valuable, you know.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Paniatowski replied.
‘Then you’ll understand why I . . .’
‘And so is mine. In fact, since I’m charged with upholding the system of justice in this country – rather than merely baking bread – it could be argued that my time is even more valuable than yours.’
Another minute ticked away before Tompkins finally said, ‘All right, so what am I supposed to have done wrong?’
‘For starters, you’ve been bribing a number of small shopkeepers to take your bread, rather than Brunskill’s bread.’
‘Have I, indeed?’ Tompkins asked. ‘And do you have any proof for this ridiculous assertion?’
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski said, lying again. ‘We have photographs of your delivery men handing over the money.’
Tompkins looked rocked, but only for a second, then he turned to his ‘associate’ and said, ‘Is that true, Mr Cutler? Have we been paying shopkeepers to take our bread, rather than Brunskill’s?’
She’d got the measure of him now, Paniatowski thought. He was the kind of man who didn’t mind what was being done in his name, as long as it couldn’t be traced back to him.
But however slippery he turned out to be, she promised herself that she’d have the bastard.
‘Well, Mr Cutler, have you been paying bribes?’ she asked the bullet-headed man.
‘Might have been,’ Cutler snarled.
‘Bribery’s the wrong word,’ said Tompkins, now fully back in control of himself. ‘What I imagine my people have actually been doing is paying out what we in the business call a “loyalty bonus”. If it would make you any happier, think of it as a sort of discount.’
‘A discount which results in the shopkeepers not only ending up with their shelves stacked with your bread, but also with more money in their pockets than when they started out?’
‘That can happen,’ Tompkins said, waving his hands expansively in front of him. ‘And sometimes it does – in certain trading circumstances. It all depends how the particular deal, on the particular occasion, is structured. And there’s nothing illegal about it.’
No, there probably isn’t, Paniatowski agreed silently.
‘Let’s cut the crap, Mr Tompkins,’ she said aloud. ‘We both know you were trying to drive Brunskill’s out of business, don’t we?’
‘No, we most certainly do not,’ Tompkins countered. ‘The last thing I wanted was for Brunskill’s Bakery to close down.’
‘Right,’ Paniatowski agreed, sardonically.
‘It is right,’ Tompkins said. ‘What I actually wanted was for it to still be a going concern when I took control – but a going concern with a much less healthy turnover than it had had formerly.’
‘You were planning to take control of it?’
‘I still am, if I can make Jenny Brunskill see sense. I need more capacity for my expansion programme, you see – and Brunskill’s Bakery could provide that for me. Plus, I’ll freely admit, I would also be acquiring a certain amount of goodwill.’
‘I can see the logic of acquiring it from your point of view,’ Paniatowski said. ‘But whatever made you think they’d sell it to you?’
‘Linda did,’ Tompkins said, disarmingly.
‘What?’
‘We were in the middle of a complex negotiation when she was murdered. And just between you, me, Mr Cutler and the tape recorder,’ Tompkins smiled, in what he probably liked to believe was a winning way, ‘that’s what our bread incentive scheme was all about. You see, if we could bring the argument to the table that they were less successful now, than they’d been in the past, we’d have got the bakery at a better price.’
‘Let me just get this straight,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Linda was prepared to sell you the bakery.’
‘She was.’
‘And you were doing everything that you could possibly think of to make the value of her business fall, in the belief that would make her willing to accept a lower price?’
‘That’s absolutely correct. It was a pretty smart move on my part, don’t you think?’
He was convinced he’d weathered the storm, Paniatowski told herself. More than that, he was now under the foolish impression that he could take anything she threw at him and deflect it with ease.
Now was time to spring the trap.
‘And part of this pretty smart plan was to send the photograph to Stan, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
Tompkins gave her a puzzled look, as if he had no idea what she was talking about.
‘What photograph?’ he asked.
Paniatowski took the picture out of her bag, and slid it across the polished surface of the desk.
‘This one,’ she said.
Tompkins gaped at the picture.
‘Bloody hell, but that’s Linda and that head baker of hers . . . Tom What’s-’is-name.’
‘Tom Whittington,’ Paniatowski supplied. ‘Was it you who took that picture, Mr Cutler?’
‘No,’ Cutler said, though he was addressing Tompkins, rather than Paniatowski. ‘I swear on my mother’s life that it wasn’t me, boss. I’m as surprised as you are.’
‘Ah, but you see, Mr Cutler, Mr Tompkins isn’t surprised at all,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Isn’t that right, Warren?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Tompkins said.
‘Let me see if I can trace the way your nasty little mind must have worked,’ Paniatowski sug
gested. ‘You knew that Linda and Stan each owned a third of the bakery, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘And together – as a happily married couple, which they undoubtedly were – they made a formidable negotiating team. But what if you could find some way to set them at each other’s throats? you asked yourself.’
‘You’re talking nonsense,’ Tompkins protested.
‘If you could set them at each other’s throats, they wouldn’t be a team any longer, would they?’ Paniatowski pressed on. ‘In fact, they’d be so keen to see the back of each other that they’d probably sell you the bakery for a song.’
‘I swear to you I didn’t . . .’
‘But the problem was, as it turned out, that Stan didn’t just get angry with Linda, he killed her. And I think you should have foreseen that. In fact, I think you did foresee it – at least as a possibility – and you just didn’t care! Which brings us to the real point of this meeting.’
‘The . . . the real point?’
‘That’s what I said. I’m here to charge you with soliciting murder under Section 4 of the Offences Against the Person Act.’
‘You can’t . . .’ gasped Tompkins.
‘Oh, but I can,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘“Whosoever shall solicit, encourage, persuade or endeavour to persuade, or shall propose to any person, to murder any other person, shall be guilty of a misdemeanour.” And that fits you to T, wouldn’t you say?’
‘But I’m innocent,’ Tompkins whined.
‘Of course you are,’ Paniatowski agreed, mockingly.
‘I didn’t send Stan the photograph. I swear I didn’t. I didn’t even know Linda and Tom were having an affair.’
‘Oh, come on!’ Paniatowski said contemptuously. ‘From the look on his face, I’m perfectly prepared to accept that Mr Cutler – for all that he’s as bent as a corkscrew – knew nothing about this particular nasty trick. But that only means that you used someone else to do your dirty work for you. Who was it?’
‘I . . . I didn’t use anybody. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘I’d guess it was a private detective who specializes in divorce work,’ Paniatowski said, treating the denial with the contempt she thought it deserved. ‘And just how long do you think it will take me to find the man, Mr Tompkins – whoever he is? And when I do find him, how long will it be before he admits that it was you who sent him to the Old Oak Tree Inn, a week last Wednesday?’
The Dead Hand of History Page 24