Death Watch

by Sally Spencer

  ‘I really will think about it,’ Stevenson promised. He paused for a second. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to the investigation, darling?’

  ‘Damn right,’ his wife agreed. ‘If I’m not careful, that bitch Monika Paniatowski will go ahead and grab all the glory, because not only has she got a protector in Cloggin’-it Charlie, but she’s free to sleep with anyone she wants to – which is well known to be a good way to get on.’

  ‘I’m sure your own virtue will be rewarded in good time, darling,’ Stevenson said.

  ‘I don’t want to wait for “good time”, Martin,’ his wife said. ‘I want my reward now.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Stevenson said, replacing the phone on the hook, and renewing his contemplation of the university campus.

  Three

  The man alighting from the train which had just pulled into Whitebridge’s late-Victorian railway station was in his early thirties. He had alert brown eyes and a determined jaw. His dark hair was neat without being austere, and he was wearing a smart blue suit. An uninformed observer might well have taken him for a tough London business executive on a whistle-stop inspection tour which was intended to put the fear of God into the quaintly provincial managers of his company’s old-fashioned northern branches. Closer examination, however, would have revealed an air of uncertainty about him which would not sit well on the shoulders of a company hatchet man. And a moment later, when he reached up into the carriage and gently lifted down a small child, the initial impression would not have had a leg left to stand on.

  ‘Well, here we are. We’re finally home, darling,’ Bob Rutter said to his daughter.

  Louisa, who was not quite four, looked up at him questioningly. ‘Home?’ she repeated.

  ‘You remember, don’t you?’ Rutter asked, with some concern. ‘This is where we used to live before you went to stay with the abuelos.’

  The abuelos. Louisa’s Spanish grandparents, who had taken her in when Maria, Rutter’s wife, had been murdered, and Rutter had found himself incapable not only of fulfilling his duties as a detective inspector but even of taking care of his own daughter.

  But that was all in the past. He was back on Charlie Woodend’s team, pulling his full weight again, and now he was ready to take responsibility for his little daughter, too.

  ‘You do remember, don’t you?’ he asked, almost pleadingly.

  The little girl looked at him with a serious expression in her eyes. ‘Yes, Daddy,’ she said.

  She was lying, he thought. She’d only agreed with him because she could tell that he was worried about her answer, and wanted to please him.

  But at least she did still want to please him – which, after he had abandoned her for so long, was more than he had any right to expect.

  ‘I told you about Janet, didn’t I?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘Janet?’

  ‘The lady I’ve asked to look after you when I’m not there. I’m sure you’re going to like her.’

  ‘Why can’t abuelita look after me?’ Louisa wondered.

  ‘Because she’s in London, and we’re here,’ Rutter explained patiently. ‘Besides, abuela’s quite old now, and she finds looking after an energetic little girl like you more than she can handle.’

  ‘Is abuela olderer than you, Daddy?’ Louisa asked.

  ‘Not olderer, just older,’ Rutter replied.

  He corrected her automatically, but the moment the words were out of his mouth he found himself wondering, as an anxious parent determined to get things right, if that had been the proper thing to do.

  ‘Is she older than you?’ Louisa asked, enunciating the word with extreme care.

  ‘Much older,’ Rutter told her, and he was thinking, There are so many things that are obvious to an adult that don’t seem obvious to my baby at all.

  There was the sound of a whistle blowing, and the train started to pull out of the station. Louisa watched its departure with growing panic, as if she had only just now realized that this wasn’t merely a day’s jolly excursion with Daddy – this was to be her life.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Rutter said soothingly. With his right hand, he took hold of his daughter’s hand. With his left, he picked up her suitcase. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

  He started to lead her gently towards the ticket barrier. She did not resist, though it would have been stretching the truth a little to say that she went completely willingly.

  It was then that Rutter saw the blonde woman standing by the barrier. Monika Paniatowski was doing her best to display a welcoming smile, but for some reasons already obvious to Rutter – and some that were yet to be revealed – she was not making a particularly good job of it.

  ‘Hello, Bob! Hello, Louisa!’ she said.

  ‘Who are you?’ the little girl asked.

  ‘This is Monika,’ Rutter said. ‘I work with her.’ And silently, he added, She’s the woman who I betrayed your mother with. The woman your mother was going to divorce me over, even though I’d already forced myself to break off the affair.

  ‘Are you my auntie?’ Louisa said.

  Paniatowski laughed gently. ‘Now whatever made you ask that?’ she wondered.

  ‘Because Daddy used your first name,’ Louisa said seriously.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He didn’t call you Mrs Something-or-other, like he does with most ladies. He called you Monika, instead.’

  Paniatowski’s eyes watered slightly. ‘I’m not your auntie,’ she admitted. ‘At least, not your real auntie. But you can call me Auntie Monika if you want to. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Louisa said. ‘You’re nice.’

  And so she was, Rutter thought. In many ways, she was bloody wonderful. But what was she doing there at the station – edging her way into his new life before that life had even really started?

  ‘The boss sent me,’ Paniatowski said, by way of explanation to the unspoken question.

  ‘That was kind of him,’ Rutter replied, surprised to hear how sour his own voice sounded to him. ‘But I’m a big boy now. I can probably find my own way home.’

  ‘I’m sure you can,’ Paniatowski countered. ‘But he doesn’t want you to go home – he wants you to report to him immediately. That’s the main reason I’m here – to look after Louisa so you’ll be free to see the boss.’

  ‘This is outrageous!’ Rutter protested. ‘I’ve only just arrived back, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I know,’ Paniatowski said sympathetically. ‘But a thirteen-year-old girl’s been kidnapped from the corporation park, and the boss thinks it could turn very nasty – very soon.’

  ‘But why does he need me?’ Rutter asked, almost petulantly. ‘Why can’t you handle things for a while?’

  ‘Because I’m not the one he’s asked for. You are. You should be flattered.’

  ‘So I’m suddenly bloody indispensable, but he doesn’t mind you nicking off?’ Rutter said angrily. ‘Well, screw him!’

  ‘He’s watching you, you know,’ Paniatowski said ominously.

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,’ Rutter countered.

  Paniatowski shook her head, slowly and sceptically. ‘You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?’ she asked.

  ‘Believe what you like,’ Rutter said.

  Paniatowski sighed. ‘All right, if it’s necessary to spell it out for you, I suppose I’ll have to do just that,’ she said. ‘The boss is worried that you can’t both do your job and bring up Louisa single-handed. So he’s watching you to see if you really can cut it. And it wouldn’t do you any good to fall at the first fence.’

  She was right, Rutter thought. He might not like it – but she was undoubtedly right.

  ‘So you’ll take Louisa home?’ he said defeatedly.

  ‘That’s right,’ Paniatowski agreed. She crouched down, so that her eyes were at the same level as the child’s, just as she had done with Freddie earlier. ‘We’ll have a little party,’ she s
aid. ‘Just you, me, and Janet, who’s going to be your nanny. There’ll be loads of fizzy drinks and lots of cake. And even though it isn’t Christmas yet, we’ll have crackers. Won’t that be nice?’

  ‘Will there be paper hats?’ Louisa asked.

  ‘Of course there’ll be paper hats!’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘That’s why we’ve got the crackers.’

  She stood up and held out her hand, which, Rutter noticed to his own chagrin, Louisa took willingly.

  ‘See you later, Daddy,’ the little girl said, and though she had not framed it as a question exactly, the questioning was undoubtedly there.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Rutter agreed. ‘I’ll be home before you know it, sweetheart.’

  But he avoided looking into Monika Paniatowski’s eyes for any sign of confirmation.

  The Jackson family home was a solid, respectable, mid-terrace house which had probably been built some time in the mid-twenties. As Woodend drove up to it, he saw that a small crowd had already gathered in the street outside the front door. He was a little dismayed at the sight, but not entirely surprised – because however hard the police tried to keep a lid on secrets in a town like Whitebridge, the news would still spread like wildfire.

  He parked the Wolseley, and climbed out. Several of the spectators noticed him for the first time, and he heard one man say, ‘See that big bugger? That’s Chief Inspector Woodend.’

  As he drew level with the gate, he turned to face the crowd. ‘Why don’t you all take yourselves off home?’ he asked. ‘There’s nothin’ at all for you to see here – nor is there likely to be.’

  Several of the watchers looked down at the ground – perhaps with shame, perhaps with embarrassment – but none of them moved a single step.

  Well, it was a public street, and there was nothing he could do about it if they wanted to stay there, he told himself. Besides, there were much more important matters to deal with.

  A uniformed constable was standing on duty at the door. ‘Are the parents inside?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘They are, sir.’

  ‘Anybody with them?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Stevenson.’

  Woodend nodded. It was a good choice, because though he didn’t like Rosie Stevenson personally, he acknowledged that she was a solid bobby who knew how to keep her head when all around her were losing theirs.

  He knocked on the door, then, without waiting for an answer, lifted the latch and stepped into the hallway.

  Sergeant Stevenson appeared in the living-room doorway almost immediately. She was around the same age as Monika Paniatowski, Woodend remembered, but there the resemblance ended. Stevenson was slightly shorter and slightly chunkier than his bagman, and wore her dark brown hair in a tight, controlled perm. She managed somehow to be simultaneously both more aggressive and more deferential than Monika, and while Paniatowski’s obvious ambition seemed to gently back-light her every action, Stevenson’s glowed like a blazing warning beacon.

  ‘How are the parents?’ Woodend asked softly.

  Stevenson shrugged. ‘About like you’d expect, sir.’

  ‘You take a ten-minute break, Sergeant,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’

  ‘Take a break. I’ll talk to them alone.’

  ‘I don’t need a break, sir,’ Rosemary Stevenson said firmly. ‘I think I’d be of more use assisting you.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Woodend told her. ‘You need to get away from this house of sorrow for a few minutes, Rosie. Walk up an’ down the street a couple of times. Fill your lungs with fresh air. But whatever you do, don’t say a word to the gatherin’ ghouls outside.’

  For a moment, Stevenson looked as if she was about to argue, then she shrugged again, squeezed past him, and stepped out through the front door. Woodend took a deep breath himself, then entered the lounge.

  Mr and Mrs Jackson were sitting on the sofa. Mr Jackson had his arm over his wife’s shoulder, and they both looked as if they’d been crying.

  They were both in their late thirties, Woodend guessed. That was rather old to be bringing up such a young family, but he suspected that Mrs Jackson was probably one of those women who refused to be led to the altar until she and her future husband had scraped together enough money to put down the deposit on a house, a dining-room set, and a good three-piece suite.

  ‘Have you found her?’ Mrs Jackson asked frantically.

  Woodend shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ the woman moaned.

  ‘But it’s early days, an’ you shouldn’t necessarily take the fact that there’s no news yet as a bad sign,’ Woodend told her.

  He regretted using the word ‘necessarily’ the moment it was out of his mouth, but it was said now. Besides, it would have been cruel to give Angela’s parents any false hope.

  ‘She’s such a good girl,’ Mrs Jackson said. ‘Such a reliable girl – and so fond of her little brother.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ Woodend said.

  ‘She’s doing very well at school, as well,’ Mrs Jackson continued in a rush. ‘Her teachers are always telling me that she’s destined for great things.’

  She was putting her daughter’s case, Woodend realized – arguing that bad things should only ever happen to bad people.

  But it didn’t work like that!

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m goin’ to have to ask you a few questions,’ he said.

  Mr Jackson nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Woodend reached into his pocket, and pulled out the watch that Beresford had found under the bush. ‘Is this Angela’s?’ he asked.

  Mrs Jackson moaned softly.

  Mr Jackson said, ‘Yes, it’s hers. It’s the one we bought for her when she turned thirteen.’

  ‘My daughter always keeps her watch runnin’ ten minutes fast,’ Woodend told him. ‘She says it’s her way of makin’ sure she gets to places on time. Is your Angela like that?’

  Mr Jackson shook his head. ‘No. Our Angela takes real pride in the fact that her watch is always accurate.’

  So if the watch said two minutes past three when it stopped working, then that was the time it had actually been, Woodend thought.

  He cleared his throat. ‘The next question I have to ask you is if you’ve seen any strangers hangin’ around in the street?’ he said.

  ‘Strange men, you mean, don’t you?’ Mr Jackson asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend admitted. ‘That’s what I mean.’

  Mr and Mrs Jackson exchanged helpless glances.

  ‘I wouldn’t have noticed if there was. I’m out at work for most of the day,’ Mrs Jackson said. ‘You need two wages coming in when you’ve got a growing family to support,’ she added, as if she felt the need to justify herself.

  ‘An’ at night?’

  ‘At night – with winter drawing in – I close the curtains as soon as I get home, and never step out of the house again.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Jackson?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘I’m out most of the day and most of the evening,’ Angela’s father said. ‘I’m a taxi driver, you see, an’ in my job, you have to take the work when an’ where it’s available.’

  ‘But we should have taken more care,’ Mrs Jackson sobbed. ‘We needed to have taken more care.’

  Her feelings of concern were being drowned in a tidal wave of guilt, Woodend recognized. It did not surprise him. He’d seen it a thousand times before – and he was far from immune to it himself.

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he said gently. ‘Even if he has been watchin’ the house – and that’s far from certain – he’ll probably have taken care not to be spotted.’

  ‘Do you think it was all carefully planned in advance?’ Mr Jackson asked, the thickness in his voice showing that he was close to tears again.

  ‘I don’t know about that – one way or the other,’ Woodend admitted.

  ‘But you do think she’s already dead, don’t you?’ the anguished father d
emanded.

  ‘I don’t know whether you remember this or not, but a couple of years ago another girl of about your daughter’s age disappeared from the corporation park,’ Woodend said, sidestepping the question.

  ‘Helen Dunn,’ Mr Jackson said dully.

  ‘That’s right, Helen Dunn,’ Woodend agreed. ‘She was missin’ for several days, but when we did eventually find her, she was alive and well.’

  That was all true enough, but even as he was speaking the words he was well aware that that had been an entirely different case – that young Helen Dunn had been of no interest to kidnappers in herself but had merely been a pawn in a much bigger game.

  If he wanted to compare cases – and he didn’t! – then the one that came to mind concerned the little girl in London whose disappearance he’d investigated early in his career. He’d never forget the day he found her – never forget the sight of her poor mutilated body, as they pulled her out of the river.

  Never forget it?

  Twenty years on from the case, and he couldn’t even stop himself from dreaming about it!

  ‘We’re doin’ all we can,’ he said. ‘If it’s humanly possible to return your daughter safely to you, then you can rest assured we’ll do it.’

  It wasn’t enough for them. He knew it wasn’t enough. But what else could he say?

  Four

  The basement of Whitebridge Police Headquarters had a dual role. For most of the time it was a dumping place for unwanted or redundant equipment – traffic signs, police barriers, and the like – but when there was a serious crime it came into its own as the only room in the entire building which was big enough to accommodate a large team of investigators. A couple of hours earlier, it had still been in its dumping-ground phase, but by the time Woodend reached it to address his new team, its transformation had been completed.

  The chief inspector looked around him – at the desks laid out in a horseshoe, at the eager faces of the detective constables, pulled in from all over Central Lancs to work on the case.

  By Christ, they all looked so young, Woodend thought. In fact, each new team seemed to be younger than the last. Give it a couple of years, and he’d find himself addressing babies.