‘I should think so.’
‘Then I’ll go and see about fixing us up with some lunch,’ Beresford said.
He had done no more than glance at the village’s only pub when he and Crane had made their tour of the High Street, but now Beresford gave it a more leisurely examination.
It was not the sort of pub you would ever expect to find in a mining village, he thought.
For a start, it should have been called something like the Pit Pony or the Miners’ Rest, instead of the Green Dragon. And the incongruity continued inside. The walls were covered with rich flock wallpaper, the fitted carpet had a thick pile and a subdued pattern, and there were even horse brasses on the wall. The whole pub looked as if it belonged in one of those pleasant, shady villages, so beloved by the moderately prosperous, chunky-sweater-wearing middle class, and the fact that it existed in this grimy industrial setting was distinctly odd.
A man appeared behind the bar. He was wearing cavalry twill trousers, a check shirt and a cravat, and looked as if he, too, would have been comfortable in the company of country doctors, senior clerks and teachers with posts of responsibility.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asked, with the assumed joviality that some landlords – and dressed like this, he could only be a landlord – have turned into an art form.
‘A pint,’ Beresford told him. ‘No, better make it a half for now.’
‘Ah, a wise man to hold himself in reserve, especially when you’re probably due for a heavy session later with your boss, DCI Paniatowski,’ the landlord said.
‘What!’ Beresford said.
The other man laughed. ‘Most people think that landlords are a bit like their beer pumps – permanently stuck behind the bar,’ he said. ‘But the fact is that we have a life of our own outside these four walls, though when we do go outside, we tend not to mix with civilians.’
‘You’re a member of the Licensed Victuallers’ Association,’ Beresford guessed.
‘Just so,’ the landlord agreed. ‘We like to get together now and again – us landlords – and when we do, we swap stories about what goes on in our establishments. Not that we reveal anything confidential,’ he added hastily, ‘we’re a bit like doctors and lawyers in that way. But we do allow ourselves the luxury of painting affectionate word portraits of some of our more colourful customers.’
‘Or to put it another way, you’ve been gossiping with the landlord of the Drum and Monkey in Whitebridge,’ Beresford said.
‘Exactly,’ the landlord replied. ‘He’s very proud – some might say overly proud – of the fact that what he calls one of the finest teams of detectives in the whole of Lancashire uses his pub as a base.’
What he calls one of the finest teams of detectives in the whole of Lancashire? Beresford thought, feeling a prickle of irritation. We are one of the finest teams of detectives in the whole of Lancashire.
‘Anyway,’ the landlord continued, ‘when I learned that the bobby leading this investigation had lovely blonde hair and a big conk, I knew it had to be DCI Paniatowski.’
Beresford’s feeling of irritation cranked up a notch or two. It was true that Monika’s nose was larger than the average Lancashire issue – she was Polish, for God’s sake! – but she was still one of the most attractive women he had ever met.
‘Is it always as quiet as this?’ he asked, looking around the empty bar.
‘At this time of day, yes,’ the landlord replied.
‘Yes, I imagine it must be tough, competing with the Miners’ Institute,’ Beresford said, and realized – as soon as the words were out of his mouth – that he was punishing the landlord for his comment about Monika.
What was it with him? he wondered. One moment he was resenting the fact that it was Monika – and not himself – who was leading the investigation, and the next he was leaping to her defence.
Maybe it wasn’t Alzheimer’s he was suffering from at all – maybe he was developing schizophrenia!
‘I’m not in competition with the Miners’ Institute,’ the landlord said, stung by the comment. ‘The Institute is a bit rough and ready, so that’s where most of the coalface workers go when they’re out with their mates. But when they take their wives or girlfriends out, this is where they come. We also cater for the pit managers and the clerks,’ he continued, counting them off on his fingers and watching Beresford’s reaction closely, ‘the commercial travellers . . . and then, of course, we’ve started getting a lot of the miners who are opposed to the strike.’
‘And why’s that?’ Beresford asked.
‘They come here because they don’t feel welcome in the Miners’ Institute any more.’
It was the perfect opportunity to ‘discover’ the information which Kate Meadows had given him and which he needed to pass on to Paniatowski, Beresford thought.
‘I hear there was a bit of trouble in the Institute only last night,’ he said casually.
‘You are well informed,’ the landlord said, impressed.
‘I’m part of what some people think is one of the finest teams of detectives in the whole of Lancashire,’ Beresford said. ‘You wouldn’t like to give me a few details of the trouble, would you?’
‘There was a punch-up between two retired miners who are on opposite sides of the fence when it comes to the strike,’ the landlord said.
That was good enough, Beresford decided.
‘We’ll be needing food while we’re here in Bellingsworth – hot lunches if possible, and sandwiches otherwise,’ he said. ‘Can you handle that?’
‘I most certainly can,’ the man behind the bar confirmed. He paused for a moment. ‘Does the landlord of the Drum and Monkey lay on hot meals and sandwiches?’
‘No,’ Beresford replied.
The landlord rubbed his hands together.
‘Excellent!’ he said.
It had taken some time to calm Susan Danvers down, but now she looked just about ready to start talking again.
‘I’ve just a couple more questions, and then we’ll be done,’ Paniatowski said. ‘All right?’
Susan nodded. ‘All right.’
‘As far as you know, did Len Hopkins have any enemies?’
‘Do you mind if I tell you a bit more about Len as a person?’ Susan Danvers asked.
‘Not at all,’ Paniatowski said – although she could spot an evasion when she heard one.
‘Len got religion after his family died. Well, nobody can blame him for that, can they? He grew very serious about this religion of his, but he never let that spill over into his normal life,’ Susan paused, ‘at least, not until recently.’
‘Not until recently?’ Paniatowski repeated.
‘Anyway, he was a very well-read and a very thoughtful man,’ Susan said, hastily, as if she was now regretting that last qualification. ‘All sorts of people would ask him for advice on all sorts of subjects. They’d just turn up at his door, and whatever the hour of day or night, he’d never turn them away.’
‘So he was a sort of village wise man?’ Paniatowski suggested.
‘That’s exactly what he was,’ Susan agreed. ‘There was nobody in this village who was treated with more respect – and nobody who had more right to it.’
‘So you’re saying that he didn’t have any enemies?’ Paniatowski asked innocently.
Susan paused again. ‘He didn’t have any enemies as such,’ she said finally.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘He got into quite a lot of arguments recently over whether or not there should be a strike,’ Susan admitted.
‘Did he argue with anyone in particular?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘If you don’t tell me, someone else will,’ Paniatowski pointed out.
Susan sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. The man he argued with the most was another old miner called Tommy Sanders – but Tommy would never have harmed him.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’
‘Tommy’s a man of prin
ciple, just like Len.’ Susan paused again. ‘And I wouldn’t like you to get the wrong impression about those arguments. They were passionate – because they both cared about the issues – but they never got personal.’
‘Never got personal,’ Paniatowski repeated sceptically. ‘I find that very surprising, considering the importance of the issues they were arguing about.’
‘You wouldn’t find it the least surprising if you’d known Len,’ Susan Danvers said. ‘I’ve known him all my life – and been looking after him for nearly twenty years – and I’ve never once seen him really lose his temper.’ She suddenly fell silent, and a deep frown came to her brow. ‘I’m making a liar of myself,’ she said, after a few seconds had passed. ‘I did hear him really lose his temper once – and there’s no excuse for me forgetting that, because it was only last week.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Paniatowski suggested.
‘Len’s been doing a bit of what you might call research into his family history, and he asked me to help him with it.’
‘He asked you to help him with it, did he? So I’m not the only one who thinks you’re clever,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Get on with you,’ Susan told her, blushing. ‘Anyway, checking back on the last four generations of the Hopkins’ family was easy, because they’d all lived in this village. But then we hit a snag. Len’s great-great-great-great grandfather . . .’ She paused. ‘If it’s four generations, have I got that right?’
‘Close enough,’ Paniatowski told her.
‘Anyway, he was apparently working on one of the ships that took coal from here to London when he met Len’s great-great . . . whatever . . . grandmother, and after they got married, he moved up here – which meant that in order to take the research any further back, Len would have to go down to London. And he couldn’t do that, could he?’
‘Why not? Wasn’t he well enough to travel?’
‘Oh, he was well enough – he was very fit for a man of his age – but he couldn’t afford it. He was never a big saver, you see – if he had any money in his pocket, and somebody came to him with a sob story, that money would be gone in the blink of an eye. And on a miner’s pension, you can’t go very far. Then I had an idea.’ Susan smiled. ‘A clever idea, if you like.’
Paniatowski returned the smile. ‘And what was this clever idea of yours?’
‘I said, “Why don’t you apply for one of them grants?” “They’ll never give a grant to somebody like me, lass – I’ve had no proper education,” he said. “Well, they certainly won’t give you one if you don’t apply for it,” I told him. And I went to the library and copied down the addresses of some government bodies that might be willing to give him a few pounds . . .’
‘You were going to tell me about the only time you ever heard him lose his temper,’ Paniatowski pointed out.
‘And so I will, lass, if you’ll be patient for a minute or two,’ Susan Danvers said, with a hint of reproach in her voice.
‘Sorry,’ Paniatowski said meekly.
‘He sent off the letter to the Department of Education and Science, and they wrote back straight away. They said that they were very interested, and that there should be no problem with a grant.’
‘And you’re sure this letter came from the Department of Education and Science?’ asked Paniatowski, who was surprised by the willingness of the department to fund what was no more than a hobby, and couldn’t imagine any government department writing back straight away.
‘Yes, it was from them,’ Susan said firmly. ‘Len showed me the letter.’
‘Did it say anything else?’
‘It said they’d be sending somebody round to interview him, and sure enough, last Thursday, a young man did turn up.’
And three days later, Len Hopkins was dead, Paniatowski thought.
‘Did you meet this young man?’ she asked.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It was about half past four in the afternoon when I went to Len’s house to make his tea, and when I reached the front door, I could see the two of them – Len and the young man – in the front parlour. Well, I didn’t want to disturb them – not when they both looked so serious – so I stayed out on the street. And it was while I was standing there that the shouting started.’
‘Were they both shouting?’
‘No, the young man seemed quite calm. It was Len that was making all the fuss.’
‘Did you hear what he was shouting?’
‘Some of it. He was bellowing so loudly, that it would have been hard not to have.’
‘Tell me as much as you can remember of what he said.’
‘He said something like, “You might call it a bursary . . .” That’s a grant, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘it’s a grant.’
‘He said, “You might call it a bursary, but I call it a bloody bribe!” Then the young man said something very softly. “These are my people,” Len told him, “and if you think I’ll betray them for a mess of pottage, you’re off your bloody head.” That’s from the Bible, that bit about the mess of pottage.’
‘I know,’ Paniatowski said. ‘When he was talking about betraying his people, do you think he was referring to his own family?’
‘No, I don’t, because he didn’t have any family left, to speak of,’ Susan said. ‘And anyway, the next thing he said was, “I’ve grown up with these people. They’re my neighbours. And even when they’re wrong, they’re a bloody sight righter than you’ll ever be, you fancy piece of shit.” And you have to remember that Len never swore – so that shows just how upset he was.’
‘What happened next?’
‘The young man left. He came out of the front door, and walked quickly up the street. I don’t think he even noticed me.’
‘He didn’t have a car?’
‘He must have done, unless he came by bus – and he didn’t look like the kind of person who’d even know how to use a bus – but he hadn’t parked it anywhere near Len’s house.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘He was quite tall, and had fairly long blond hair. He looked a bit young to be working for the government, but he was wearing a nice suit – quite an expensive one, if you ask me – so I suppose he must have been what he said he was.’
‘What did Mr Hopkins tell you about him?’
‘Not a thing. He refused to discuss it. But while I was making his tea, he kept muttering the same thing over and over to himself.’
‘And what was it?’
‘He kept saying, “It’s all true. You read about it, and you think it’s an exaggeration – but it’s all true.”’
‘And you have no idea what he meant by that?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Do you think the young man might have been responsible for Len’s death?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Good heavens, no,’ Susan said, completely taken aback.
‘Why not?’
‘Because if he’d killed Len – and I’m not saying he ever would have, but if he had – he’d have shot him, or maybe strangled him. I didn’t see much of him, but I saw enough to know that he’d have thought it far too messy to smash his head in with a short-handled pickaxe.’
‘So you know he was killed with a pickaxe, do you?’ Paniatowski asked sharply.
The question seemed to take Susan Danvers by surprise.
‘Of course I know,’ she said. ‘Probably everybody in the village knows by now. It was the one Len used himself, when he was working down the mine. He kept it in the wash house, and every week, he’d polish the handle.’ Susan gave another sad little smile. ‘Men are funny creatures, don’t you think?’
‘Very strange,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘So if the young man wouldn’t have thought of killing him with the pickaxe, who do you think would have?’
‘I can’t think of anybody,’ Susan told her. ‘Like I said, he had no enemies.’
‘But somebody di
d kill him,’ Paniatowski said firmly, ‘and I’d still like to know what kind of person you think would use a pick.’
‘It could be anybody,’ Susan said – conveniently ignoring the fact that there was no great leap from turning a miner’s tool into a miner’s weapon.
TEN
The detective sergeant who would be in charge of coordination was the first to arrive at the church hall. He was a middle-aged man with white hair, and he went by the improbable name of Eddie Orchard.
‘The name’s been a burden to me my whole life, sir,’ he told Beresford, who he hadn’t met before.
It must have been, thought the inspector, who could well imagine the younger Orchard having to endure nicknames like Apple, Pear and – perhaps worst of all – Cherry.
‘Yes, it’s been a real curse on me,’ the sergeant continued, with a grin. ‘I could never understand why I wasn’t called something more sensible – like Frank!’
The detective constables who Orchard would be coordinating arrived in a bunch. They were all young, mostly newly promoted, and clearly very enthusiastic, and as Beresford watched DS Orchard assign them to their places on the horseshoe, he felt an unexpected pang of envy.
Once the constables were seated, Beresford climbed on to the small stage at the end of room, and, aware that all eyes were on him, began his address to the troops.
‘Those of you who are working your first murder inquiry are probably almost bursting with excitement,’ he said to them, ‘so here’s a bit of advice – get rid of that feeling of excitement now.’ He paused, to let the remark sink in. ‘There’s nothing thrilling about this kind of investigation,’ he continued. ‘It’s hard work and it’s tedious work. But it has to be careful work, too, because one of those tedious little details may be just the one that cracks the case wide open.’
He had them in the palm of his hand, he thought, looking down at their faces. At this stage of their careers, he was the man they looked up to – the man they one day wanted to be. And he’d earned their respect, he told himself, because he was very good at his job, and played a vital part in a well-oiled machine.
Lambs to the Slaughter Page 8