‘I appear to be at something of a disadvantage here, since you seem to know who I used to be, but I have no idea who you are,’ Meadows interrupted him. A half-amused, half-embarrassed smile came to her face. ‘God, that’s awful, isn’t it? “I appear to be at something of a disadvantage here.” I must sound to you like a real toffee-nosed bitch.’
‘No, no, not at all,’ Radcliffe protested.
‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ Meadows suggested. ‘From your reaction to me, we’ve clearly met before, but being the flighty, scatterbrained sort of person I am, I’m rather ashamed to admit that I can’t remember it. So would you be so kind as to enlighten me?’
‘It was at one of your husband’s famous weekend house parties,’ Radcliffe said. ‘He was thinking of expanding his business interests at the time, and I was invited down there in order to—’
‘Of course, that was it! I remember you perfectly now, Mr Radcliffe,’ Meadows lied. ‘So now that we’ve established that we’re old friends, do you think it would be possible to get down to the business which has brought me here?’
‘Certainly, Lady Kath . . . Sergeant,’ Radcliffe said.
‘I’m investigating the murder of Len Hopkins,’ Meadows said. ‘No doubt you’ll have read about it in the papers.’
‘The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t say I’ve exactly got the details at my fingertips,’ Radcliffe admitted.
‘Hopkins attended the brass band competition which you sponsored last Sunday. In fact, it was his local band which won.’
‘Yes, the . . . err . . . Bellingsworth Colliery Band,’ Radcliffe said, with a sudden hint of caution in his voice which took Meadows by surprise.
‘We’re interested in any incidents which occurred during the competition,’ Meadows told him.
‘And . . . err . . . what exactly do you mean when you say “incidents”?’ Radcliffe asked.
‘Did any serious fights break out? Were there disturbances of some other kind? You know the sort of thing.’
‘Ah, if that’s what you need information on, then you’ll have to speak to our security people,’ Radcliffe told her, picking up the phone. ‘Ask John Tweed to pop upstairs, will you, Marjorie,’ he said. He replaced the phone on its cradle. ‘John’s our head of security. Very sound chap. He should be here in five minutes.’
‘You’re being most helpful,’ Meadows said sweetly.
‘Always pleased to assist the forces of law and order,’ Radcliffe said. ‘Now about the other matter – there’s no need for the police to get involved in it, is there? I mean, strictly speaking, no crime has actually been committed.’
‘What other matter are you referring to?’ Meadows asked, puzzled.
‘Ah, you haven’t heard!’ Radcliffe said. ‘I thought you must have done. To be perfectly honest with you, my first thought, when I heard you’d asked for an appointment, was that that was what you wanted to know about.’
‘You talk in riddles, o wise one, and I, a humble disciple at your feet, have no idea about that of which you speak,’ Meadows said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I still haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Radcliffe said. ‘Well, Sergeant, this company has invested a great deal of money in the brass band competition. We advertise it extensively on television and in the newspapers, and on the actual day of the competition, we hire four large marquees and a number of smaller tents in which to stage it. But what’s more important than the cost is that the company’s also investing its prestige—’
‘Forgive me, but I don’t quite see where you’re going with all this,’ Meadows interrupted.
‘No, I don’t suppose you do,’ Radcliffe agreed. ‘Let me put it this way, then – since we are so closely associated with the brass band competition, its integrity and the integrity of our beer have become almost synonymous. So it is very important to us that the competition is seen as the embodiment of British fair play, just as Brough’s Premium is the embodiment of British beer.’
‘I’m a big fan of Watney’s, myself,’ lied Meadows, who was teetotal.
Radcliffe looked shocked. ‘Have you never tried Brough’s Premium?’ he asked.
‘I can’t say that I have.’
‘Would you like a crate to take away with you, Sergeant? Or perhaps even two crates?’
‘Two crates would be lovely,’ Meadows said sweetly.
Crane would enjoy it, and if Beresford stopped being such a dickhead, she might even give some of it to him.
‘Two crates it will be, then,’ Radcliffe said. ‘Now where was I?’
‘British fair play, Brough’s Premium beer,’ Meadows prompted.
‘Ah, yes. Given the importance of the competition to the brewery’s image, we were not at all happy with Sunday’s result. I’m no expert in brass band music myself, but according to the people who do know about these things, Bellingsworth Colliery Band, whilst more than competent, is scarcely championship material. And yet it romped to victory.’
‘Maybe it just had a good day, while some of the other bands had a bad one,’ Meadows suggested. ‘That can happen.’
‘Indeed it can,’ Radcliffe agreed, ‘but there are very few people who think it did happen at last Sunday’s competition. Bellingsworth, of course, had no doubts that it should have won – the winning team never does. But I think it would be fair to say that when the results were announced, a wave of disbelief swept over a large part of the audience.’
‘So the judges were nobbled?’ Meadows said.
‘I am reluctant to reach such a conclusion, but we are certainly investigating the possibility.’
‘What’s the prize for winning the competition?’
‘The winners are awarded the Brough Premium Cup.’
‘Is it valuable?
‘Yes, it is. It’s solid sterling silver. But it’s only awarded to them, not given to them.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘They have their name engraved on the base, and they’re allowed to keep it for a year, in the special security case that we provide them with. But come next year, when there’s a new winner, they have to hand it back.’
‘What else do they get out of it?’
‘The brewery throws a party for them in whichever of our pubs is closest to their home base, and they are allowed to replace either three or four of their instruments – depending on the cost – at our expense.’
‘In other words, it’s peanuts,’ Meadows said.
‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,’ Radcliffe agreed, just slightly miffed.
‘Yet someone was prepared to bribe the judges to get the result he wanted,’ Meadows said.
‘And that’s what makes the whole idea so apparently inconceivable,’ Radcliffe told her. ‘The judges are all respectable men – pillars of their communities. Some of them are even quite wealthy. They simply do not strike me as the kind of chaps who would be interested in taking bribes. And even if they were prepared to sacrifice their hard-won integrity for financial gain, who would be willing to pay them?’
‘Who indeed,’ Meadows agreed.
‘And yet if they weren’t bribed, how did Bellingsworth manage to win?’ Radcliffe asked helplessly.
Louisa lay in her bed, looking pale and exhausted.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said, for perhaps the hundredth time.
‘It doesn’t matter, baby,’ Paniatowski cooed softly, as she looked down at the child with tired, prickling eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter at all.’
But it did matter, she thought. It mattered that someone had invited her child to a place where she would be in danger. It mattered that someone – perhaps the same someone – had dropped her off at her home in such an unsteady state that she couldn’t even find her front-door key, and had only just managed to ring the doorbell before collapsing on the garden path.
‘Do you feel strong enough to tell me what happened, baby?’ Paniatows
ki asked.
‘I think so.’
‘Then take your time. There’s no need at all to rush.’
‘I was at Ellie’s party – I shouldn’t have gone, Mum, I shouldn’t . . .’
‘Don’t worry about that now. Just tell me what happened.’
‘I didn’t like the party, and there was this boy called Colin – he seemed nice – who said he’d drive me home.’
‘Go on.’
‘He took me for a burger, and I think it was soon after that I started to feel funny.’
‘She’s been drugged,’ Dr Green, the family doctor, had said, when Paniatowski had called him the previous night.
‘And is she . . . is she . . .?’
‘There’s no need to panic. It was a very mild dose – I doubt she even completely lost consciousness – and it’s already starting to work its way through her system. She’s over the worst of it, and by morning she should be fine.’
‘What happened after you started feeling funny, sweetheart?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘I don’t know, Mum, I just don’t know. The next thing I remember, I was at the front door.’
Paniatowski patted her daughter’s hand. ‘When you’re feeling a little bit stronger, we’ll get you dressed and go and see the doctor,’ she said.
‘Which doctor? The one I saw last night?’
‘No. It will be the doctor I work with.’
‘Why do I have to see a different doctor?’ Louisa fretted.
Because, if it ever came to court, evidence from the police doctor would carry more weight from that of an ordinary general practitioner, Paniatowski thought.
‘I’m taking you to him because I know you’ll like him,’ she told her daughter. ‘He’s a nice man, and he tells funny jokes.’
Louisa bit her bottom lip. ‘Why do I have to go and see him?’ she asked tremulously. ‘Is it to find out if I’ve been interfered with?’
‘Of course not,’ Paniatowski said, a little too quickly.
Louisa gave her a sad smile. ‘I’m a big girl now, Mum. I know I don’t always act like it – but I am. You can tell me the truth.’
She wasn’t a big girl at all, Paniatowski thought, she was still such a baby – but she wasn’t a stupid baby.
‘All right, if you want the truth, here it is,’ she said. ‘There was no evidence at all that your clothes had been disturbed, so it’s almost certain that nothing happened to you.’
What she’d just said was perfectly true, she thought. The police officer in her knew it was true.
But the mother in her – already wracked with guilt – was preparing for the worst.
SEVENTEEN
The vicar of Bellingsworth had not merely been snobbish when he’d described Len Hopkins as belonging to some sort of wild Methodist sect in the next valley – he’d been completely wrong. Hopkins, it turned out, had not been a Methodist at all, but an evangelical.
And this was where he worshipped, Crane thought, looking at the Brigden Evangelical Church.
The church stood on a hill overlooking the village itself, and Crane wondered whether the decision on locating it there had been made by the evangelicals (to maintain their purity), or by the parish council (on purely aesthetic grounds).
Whichever the reason, the tin-clad building was certainly ugly, and had it not been for the small spire – little more than a pimple – which was precariously balanced at one end, it could easily have been mistaken for a large shed or a middle-sized industrial chicken coop.
The pastor, who was standing in front of the church at that moment, went by the name of the Reverend Eli Mottershead, and was probably a couple of years short of his thirtieth birthday. He had a slight – almost puny – build, yet walked with the swagger of a much larger man, and Crane, who could recognize an out-and-out fanatic when he saw one, knew that he was looking at one now.
‘How long have you been working in this village?’ the detective constable asked.
‘Ministering,’ Mottershead said. ‘I do not work, I minister.’
So it was going to be like that, was it?
‘How long have you been ministering in this village?’ Crane asked.
‘I was called by the Lord God to minister here only six months ago,’ Mottershead replied.
Now that was a pity, Crane thought, because he’d been hoping that Len Hopkins’ pastor would have known the man for much longer than that, and could tell him something interesting about Tommy Sanders.
‘Is your predecessor still in the area?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No,’ Mottershead said. ‘He is not.’
‘Then do you know where I can find him?’
‘We can only pray that he has ascended to Heaven, there to bask in God’s infinite mercy,’ Mottershead intoned.
‘In other words, he’s dead?’
‘That is correct.’
‘And we can only pray he’s ascended into Heaven?’ Jack Crane repeated, slightly puzzled. ‘Why would you phrase it in quite that way? Is there any real doubt about it?’
‘My predecessor was, by all accounts, a kind and gentle man,’ Mottershead said, ‘but he lacked the faith – the conviction – to go about God’s work as it should be gone about, and as infinitely forgiving as the Lord is . . .’
‘He has to draw the line somewhere?’ Crane suggested.
‘Indeed he does,’ Mottershead said, completely missing the irony. ‘I arrived here to find not a sheep dip from which my flock could emerge purified, but a cesspit in which they were allowed to wallow in their own sin.’
He wasn’t just a fanatic, Crane thought – he was a genuine, prize-winning religious nutter.
‘I expect it wasn’t long before you started cleansing the cesspit,’ he suggested.
‘It was not,’ Mottershead agreed. ‘It has been a hard path I have chosen for myself and my flock, and some – the weaker brethren – have fallen by the wayside as we followed it, and so condemned themselves to eternal damnation. But those who have persevered – and continue to persevere – will undoubtedly find their reward in Heaven.’
‘Did Len Hopkins fall by the wayside?’ Crane asked.
‘He did not,’ Mottershead said. ‘He struggled constantly with his demons, and he was slowly triumphing over them.’
‘Do you have any specific demons in mind?’ Crane wondered.
‘When he was a younger man, he had carnal knowledge of a woman who was not his wife,’ Mottershead said, ‘and the demon which had led him to that abomination remained with him.’
A woman who was not his wife! That would be poor Susan Danvers he was talking about, Crane thought.
‘But surely, Mr Hopkins had stopped committing that particular sin a long time ago,’ he said aloud.
‘And so he had.’
‘Then I don’t see—’
‘He had not yet divested himself of the source of that sin.’
‘The source?’
‘There was not only his own particular demon to consider – there was also the one which dwelt in her.’
‘You told him he had to get rid of his housekeeper,’ Crane gasped.
‘It was the only way.’
‘And how did he take it?’
‘There were tears, as the demon sought to hold on to his soul, but in the end, armed with the strength of the Lord, I prevailed.’
And that was why Len hadn’t taken Susan to the brass band competition, Crane thought, because this so-called ‘pastor’ – this vindictive scarecrow powered by bile – had told him he had to dump her.
‘I’d better have a look at this church of yours while I’m here,’ Crane told the pastor.
Mottershead smiled. It was a smile of grisly, complacent triumph, the sort of smile which would have been completely at home on the face of the Spanish Inquisitor General.
‘My words have touched you,’ he said.
‘You’re not wrong,’ Crane agreed.
‘You have begun to see your path, and now you wish to enter my chu
rch and throw yourself on God’s mercy. Isn’t that true?’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite that way,’ Crane admitted.
‘Then how would you put it?’
‘I wish to enter your church and see if you’re complying with the fire regulations.’
The idea seemed to rock Mottershead.
‘But this is a church – a sacred place,’ he protested. ‘It is above the merely temporal concerns and—’
‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,’ Crane interrupted him. ‘And Caesar, in this case, is the local borough council.’
He strode across to the church, with Mottershead, like an agitated puppy, at his heel. Once inside, he walked up and down, making loud clicking noises with his tongue.
‘This place is a death trap,’ he pronounced. ‘Section 14/36/B of the Fire Code clearly states that you must have Paniatowski sliders attached to all windows, and a Meadows’ rotating hinge on the door. And don’t even get me started about the lack of Beresford bolts.’
‘But . . . but . . .’ Mottershead whimpered.
‘Don’t get your cassock in a twist,’ Crane said cheerfully. ‘It’s true that, as it stands, we’d have to close the place down, but I estimate that the whole lot can be put right for around six thousand pounds.’
‘Six . . . thousand . . . pounds,’ Mottershead gasped.
‘Well, I suppose I’d better say seven, just to be on the safe side,’ Crane told him.
‘But . . . but this is a poor church. Where could I possibly be expected to lay my hands on that kind of money?’
Crane walked over to the door, and out into the clear, crisp air.
‘Where can you lay your hands on that amount of money?’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘I expect the Lord will provide it.’
As he walked down to his car, he tried to convince himself that in causing Mottershead no more than temporary discomfort – and changing nothing at all in the long term – he had been childish and petty, and had not lived up to either the standards that the police had set for him, nor the ones he had set for himself. He tried to convince himself, and he failed – because the simple fact was that he felt good about what he’d done.
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