‘It won’t happen again,’ she promised.
‘It certainly won’t happen with Lynda Jenkins,’ Baxter said. ‘Roger Hardcastle has already been informed that if he wants any further cooperation from us, he’ll keep her well away from the police beat.’
‘If you think there might be trouble at the meeting, send a few uniformed bobbies down here,’ Paniatowski suggested.
‘I will,’ Baxter told her. ‘In fact, they’re already on the way. But to get back to the intelligence . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It came from your old friend, Mr Forsyth.’
‘What’s that bastard doing here?’
‘He says that he’s in Whitebridge to monitor the strike, but you can never tell with him. It’s more than possible he’s here on some entirely different matter, and is only using the strike as a cover. But whatever the case, he’s asked Special Branch to send a couple of their officers to Bellingsworth.’
‘He’s asked what!’
‘Forsyth has promised me that they will not impede your investigation in any way. He claims their only purpose here is as back-up.’
‘And you believe him, do you?’ Paniatowski demanded.
‘Honestly, Monika, I don’t know,’ Baxter admitted. ‘It makes sense in policing terms, but then everything Forsyth says seems to make sense at the time, and often, as you know yourself, he’s lying through his teeth.’
‘I don’t want the Special Branch here,’ Paniatowski said firmly.
‘I’m sure you don’t – I wouldn’t want them myself – but since there’s nothing that I can do to stop them, you’ll just have to grin and bear it.’
‘But just their presence here will distort the whole investigation,’ Paniatowski protested. ‘They’ll see Len Hopkins’ death as simply a political assassination. That’s the way they’re trained to think. That’s how they justify their very existence as the Special Branch.’
‘And you don’t think his death is political?’
‘Not at all! Len Hopkins’ death has nothing to do with politics.’
‘Have you got your whole team behind you in this, Monika?’ Baxter asked, deceptively mildly. ‘Do they all think you should focus the investigation on searching for a purely personal motive for the murder?’
It would be nice to be able to say yes to that, wouldn’t it, Paniatowski thought. But she couldn’t, in all honesty, say that any of the team was one hundred percent behind her – and when it came to Colin Beresford, the figure was closer to zero percent.
‘Well, of course, we’re still keeping all our other options open,’ she said, back-pedalling furiously. ‘It would be foolish not to.’
‘But . . .?’ Baxter asked.
It would be pointless to lie to Baxter, Paniatowski thought. And anyway, why the hell should she?
‘But even though we are investigating other possibilities, I know he was killed for personal reasons – I can sense it,’ she said.
‘I’ve always had the greatest respect for your hunches, Monika,’ Baxter said. ‘But the trouble with hunches is that if you put all your effort into following them, and they don’t work out, you’re left with nothing. Make sure you’re not left with nothing this time, Chief Inspector.’
As Becky stepped through the door of the grandfather’s kitchen, she bent into a mock-curtsey, and said, ‘I am come, your majesty.’
‘So I see,’ said her grandfather, who was sitting at the table. ‘And who might you be, fair damsel?’
‘I am no one at all – just a lowly peasant girl, who will work hard and honestly in return for a roof over her head and a few dry crusts.’
It was a game they had been playing since the three-year-old Becky had curled up snugly on her grandfather’s knees and listened as he read her fairy tales, and though they had both fully expected it to peter out as the girl grew older, it somehow never had.
‘If you are seeking work, then you must speak to my son, the handsome prince, for he is in charge of such matters,’ Tommy Sanders said.
‘And will he like me?’ Becky asked tremulously.
‘He’d be a right idiot if he didn’t, Becky, love,’ Tommy said.
The use of her real name signalled the end of the game, and Becky suddenly grew more serious.
‘Have the police been to see you yet, Granddad?’ she asked.
‘The police?’ Tommy repeated.
Becky breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So they haven’t.’
‘Why should the police want to come knocking on my door?’ Tommy wondered.
Becky sighed again, though this time with exasperation.
‘Because Mr Hopkins was murdered last night – and everybody knows that you and him were enemies.’
‘We weren’t enemies at all,’ Tommy protested. ‘We might have disagreed about the direction that the industry was going in, but outside that, we got on well enough.’
‘But don’t you see, there was no “outside that”.’
‘I’m not sure I quite get the point.’
‘The strike’s become the only thing that matters to you now. It’s all you really care about any more.’
‘Now that’s not true, our Becky,’ Tommy said severely. ‘I care about you, Becky. I care about you more than I can tell you.’
‘I’m sorry, I should never have said that,’ Becky replied, bowing her head to hide the tears that were forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘I know you care about me – deep down.’
‘What do you mean? Deep down?’
‘We used to talk to each other about anything and everything, but for the last few months, all you want to talk about is the strike.’
‘The strike’s important . . .’ Tommy began. Then he checked himself, and continued. ‘You’re right, our Becky, I’ve become a proper old bore. Well, I promise you that from now on—’
‘You still don’t get what I’m saying, do you?’ Becky asked, frustrated. ‘You still don’t understand why I’m here.’
‘I’d assumed that you were here to give a bit of comfort to your poor old grand—’ Tommy began.
‘Last night, in the Miners’ Institute, you had a fight with Mr Hopkins, didn’t you?’ Becky interrupted him.
‘And how do you know about that?’ Tommy asked sharply.
She knew about it because it was all in the note that Gary had given her outside school, Becky thought.
But aloud, she said, ‘You had a fight with Mr Hopkins, and now he’s dead. What are the police going to think?’
‘They’d never think—’
‘But of course they would!’ Becky began to pace the narrow kitchen, clutching her thin arms across her thin bosom. ‘What time did you leave the Institute last night, Granddad?’
‘Not long after I had my little disagreement with Len. I didn’t much feel like staying on after that.’
‘And where did you go?’
‘Where do you think I went? I came back home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Who else would have been with me?’
‘So you were here alone, all night?’ Becky said. ‘You were alone – and you never left the house?’
‘Isn’t that what I just said?’
She knew he was lying – she could hear it in his voice.
‘Granddad . . .’ she said.
And it was almost a plea – almost a prayer.
‘You’re really serious, aren’t you?’ Tommy asked, suddenly serious himself.
‘Of course I’m serious!’
‘Listen, love, I don’t know if you know this, but Len lives up the hill from me. By the time I’d walked to the end of this street, turned the corner and made my way to his front door, I’d be too knack— I’d be too tired to kill him.’
‘You wouldn’t have had to do it that way,’ Becky said. ‘If you went through your backyard into the alley, it’s only a few steps to his backyard. And he was in his backyard – on the lavvy – when he was killed.’
‘You surely don’t think . . .’
>
‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ Becky said. ‘It’s what the police think that’s important.’
‘You’ve been watching too many cop programmes on the television,’ Tommy said.
‘It’s time we were honest with each other, Granddad,’ Becky said.
‘Honest about what?’
‘We always talk about you being there when I get my degree, but it’s all pretend, because we both know that’s not going to happen, don’t we?’
‘Yes,’ Tommy agreed. ‘We do.’
‘Then say it!’ the girl demanded. ‘Say why it is you won’t be there!’
‘Because I’ll be long dead by then,’ Tommy told her.
‘Yes, you will,’ Becky agreed. ‘Long dead. And when you die, I want to be right there with you, holding your hand in mine.’
‘I couldn’t think of a better way to go,’ Tommy said, now almost in tears himself.
‘But if that’s ever going to happen, there’s something you have to do first, to make sure it happens,’ Becky said. ‘And if you won’t do that thing for yourself, then at least do it for me.’
‘What thing are you talking about, lass?’ Tommy asked.
And then Becky told him of her plan.
THIRTEEN
When Louisa arrived home from school, she found Lily Perkins in the kitchen, cooking her tea.
Lily had been Louisa’s nanny when she was small, and had graduated from that role to housekeeper as she was growing. Lily was not – as she readily admitted herself – any great shakes in the brain department, but she was warm and good-hearted, and Louisa had come to regard her as a sort of stand-in granny.
‘Your mum’s out on a job,’ Lily said cheerfully.
Louisa grinned. Lily always said it just like that – ‘Your mum’s out on a job’ – as if she imagined Monika was selling brushes door-to-door or fixing somebody’s boiler, instead of investigating a grisly murder.
‘I know all about that,’ Louisa said. ‘I was here this morning, when she got the call.’
‘So that means I’ll be staying over tonight,’ Lily told her.
Louisa was not sure whether that was good news or bad news.
It was certainly good news for somebody who wanted to go to a party, because it wouldn’t be too hard to con Lily into believing that she had permission.
On the other hand, though she really did want to accept Ellie’s invitation, she had a nagging feeling that it would be wrong to go, and she’d been half-hoping that her mother would be there, to take the decision out of her hands.
‘We’ll have a really cosy evening together,’ Lily said enthusiastically. ‘I bought a special ginger cake on my way over, and we can tuck into it like a couple of little piggies while we’re watching television.’
Would now be a good time to tell Lily she would be going out later, Louisa wondered.
No! In fact, it would be a very dangerous time to tell her, because if Mum phoned, and Lily asked her about the party . . .
Better to say nothing now, Louisa decided. Better to leave it and see how things turned out.
For a full twenty seconds after he knocked, Beresford could hear the old man coughing and wheezing, as he slowly made his way from the kitchen to the front door.
But how much of that noisy effort was real, and how much of it was put on? Beresford asked himself.
Was he really struggling, or was it all no more than an act designed to show that Tommy Sanders could not have been physically capable of killing Len Hopkins?
The front door was finally opened, and Beresford got his first look at the man he had already decided was the murderer.
Most miners in the village were as short as Tommy was, but whereas their rock-hard muscles visibly strained against the confines of their clothing, his clothes hung loose, as if they had once belonged to a much beefier man.
Tommy Sanders looked up at Beresford with a mixture of mistrust and dislike on his face.
‘You’re a bobby, aren’t you?’ Tommy asked.
‘I am,’ Beresford confirmed.
‘Well, you might have gone around the back and saved me a bit of effort,’ the old man said.
‘I’ll remember that the next time,’ Beresford promised. ‘Can I come inside, please, Mr Sanders?’
‘Not unless you’ve got a warrant in your pocket,’ Sanders replied. ‘And, incidentally, there won’t be a next time – because if you come calling again, I’ll bloody ignore you.’
‘Have you got something against all policemen, or just the ones trying to find Len Hopkins’ murderer?’ Beresford asked.
‘All policemen,’ Sanders told him. ‘You’ve sold your souls to the bosses, lad, and in return for a colour television and few bob in the bank, you’re more than willing to come and beat us shitless whenever those bosses decide that we’re getting out of order.’
‘Are you being deliberately provoking?’ Beresford wondered.
‘Well, of course I am,’ Sanders answered. ‘And if I say so myself, I’m making a pretty good job of it.’ He paused to suck in some air. ‘How did you expect me to behave anyway – like a suspect on Columbo?’
‘I’m not sure I know quite what you mean,’ Beresford said.
‘Then you must be a bit thick, lad. In every episode of Columbo, there’s always one character who goes out of his way to help the police, and who’s always willing to explain away any questions or doubts that the lieutenant has. And that’s how Columbo knows he’s the murderer!’
‘So by turning the whole thing around by a hundred and eighty degrees, you’re hoping to convince me you’re not the murderer?’
Tommy Sanders chuckled. ‘If that was the way my mind was working, I’d be a bloody idiot to tell you about it, wouldn’t I?’
‘Did you kill Len Hopkins?’ Beresford asked.
‘Do you think I killed him?’ Tommy Sanders countered.
‘Well, you certainly had the means, motive and opportunity,’ Beresford pointed out.
‘Yes, I did, that’s certainly true,’ Sanders agreed. ‘But, you see, I also have an alibi.’
It was plain that PC Mellors was already not a happy man as he stood uncertainly in the doorway of the church hall, and when Paniatowski gestured for him to join her at a desk in the corner of the room, his degree of unhappiness notably increased.
‘You sent for me, ma’am?’ he asked, standing in front of the desk like an errant schoolboy.
‘When I was talking to Susan Danvers, she told me that Len Hopkins had been killed with a pickaxe,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Well, he was,’ Mellors replied.
‘I know that, and you know that – because we were there,’ Paniatowski said. ‘But how did she know that?’
Mellors looked down at the floor. ‘I might have told her,’ he mumbled. ‘It might just have slipped out.’
‘Might?’ Paniatowski repeated.
‘It did slip out,’ Mellors confessed.
‘Susan also had the distinct impression that the rest of the village knew as well,’ Paniatowski continued. ‘Was she right about that?’
‘I . . . I didn’t know it was such a big secret, ma’am,’ Mellors said.
Of course he didn’t, Paniatowski thought. He was a country bobby who’d probably never been involved in anything bigger than bicycle theft. He had no idea how murder investigations were run, and when he’d suddenly gained new status in Bellingsworth – as a result of the fact that he alone, of all the villagers, had been to the crime scene – he had not been able to resist revealing a few of the juicier details. In a way, she felt sorry for him, but what he had done had damaged the integrity of the investigation, and it simply couldn’t be overlooked.
‘I’m going to have to file a report on you,’ she said.
‘Do you have to, ma’am?’ Mellors asked.
‘I have to,’ Paniatowski said firmly, then, as she noticed that Mellors’ lower lip was quivering, she softened. ‘You’re the one with the local knowledge, and if you learn to
keep your mouth shut, you might still be useful to the inquiry. If you can put in a good performance from now, I’ll try not to make my report too scathing.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Mellors said.
‘You’re dismissed,’ Paniatowski told him, ‘but keep yourself available, because Inspector Beresford wants you with him at the miners’ meeting.’
‘I’ll do that, ma’am,’ Mellors promised. ‘And thank you again.’
‘Don’t thank me until you know you have a reason to, PC Mellors,’ Paniatowski cautioned.
It was five minutes after Paniatowski had talked to Mellors that Colin Beresford arrived back at the church hall, and the moment he walked into the room, it was obvious to everyone who saw him that he was in a very black mood.
‘He’s taking the piss out of me,’ he complained, the moment he reached his boss’s desk.
‘Who is?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘The feller who’s my prime suspect – and notice I said my prime suspect, because I know you don’t see things that way.’
‘Ah, it’s Tommy Sanders that you’re talking about!’ Paniatowski said.
‘That’s right – Tommy-bloody-Sanders. He thinks he can say what he likes to me, because he’s got an alibi. But he’s wrong about that – because I’ll break that bloody alibi if it’s the last thing I do.’
‘Who’s he offering as his alibi?’
‘His granddaughter, Becky.’
‘If she’s his granddaughter, she can’t be much more than a kid,’ Paniatowski said thoughtfully.
‘He says she’s fourteen.’
Fourteen! Paniatowski thought. Louisa’s age!
‘He claims that she was with him all night, does he?’ she asked Beresford.
‘Yes, he does.’
‘And have her parents confirmed it?’
‘That’s where our Tommy thinks he’s being so bloody clever. He says her parents don’t know she was there.’
‘How could they not have known?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘Surely they must have been at home themselves.’
Lambs to the Slaughter Page 11