‘We didn’t find any flashlight at the scene,’ Paniatowski said.
‘No, you wouldn’t have. I picked it up again. It wasn’t easy in the dark, but I knew I had to find it, because I’d been told that I should make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.’
‘You’d been told?’
‘I mean, I thought that. I thought I shouldn’t leave anything behind.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I went into the back alley . . .’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Paniatowski said firmly. ‘If you want us to believe you, Becky – if you want to convince us it was you, and not Gary, who killed Mr Hopkins – then you can’t lie to us about anything.’
‘I ran back towards the house,’ Becky said miserably. ‘I was nearly there when I realized I still had the pickaxe in my hand.’
‘So what did you do with it?’
‘I threw it against the wash house wall.’
‘Why did you decide to leave through the house, instead of going into the alley?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And how did you manage to lock the front door behind you?’
‘I don’t remember.’
Paniatowski risked a sideways glance at Beresford. It was clear from the expression on his face that he believed that Becky really had killed Len Hopkins – and so did she.
‘What I still don’t understand is why you killed him, Becky,’ Paniatowski said. ‘He was a nice man.’
‘He wasn’t a nice man at all,’ Becky said stubbornly.
‘You killed a nice man, who everybody liked,’ Paniatowski prodded. ‘You robbed him of his life. You murdered him!’
It was those last words that connected – that hit the switch in Becky’s brain. Her eyes widened, and her face was suddenly transformed into a mask of arrogance and pitilessness.
‘It’s not murder to kill a man like Len Hopkins,’ she said, in a harsh voice, quite unlike her own. ‘He’s a louse. He’s scum. He’s against everything your grandfather ever worked for or believed in. And he’ll still be alive when your granddad’s dead. He’ll stand there, looking down at your granddad’s grave, and laughing. And don’t you think your granddad knows that? Don’t you think it’s eating away at him worse than the coal dust? If only Len Hopkins was gone, your granddad could die happy. And it wouldn’t be any worse than squashing a bug, Becky – it wouldn’t be any worse than swatting a fly.’
The mask melted away, revealing the frightened child beneath it.
‘That was what Gary told you, wasn’t it?’ Paniatowski asked gently.
‘No,’ Becky said, in a dazed voice. ‘No, he . . .’
‘I’ll tell you what I think happened on Sunday night,’ Paniatowski said. ‘You went up to your bedroom, and then you climbed down the drainpipe. You’re very good at that, aren’t you? Remember. you showed me how easy it was?’
‘I remember.’
‘Gary was waiting for you in the alley . . .’
‘No!’
‘He was waiting for you in the alley,’ Paniatowski repeated firmly. ‘He told you that Mr Hopkins would have to go to the lavvy at some time in the night . . .’
‘No!’
‘. . . and the reason he was sure of that was because he’d already spiked Mr Hopkins’ cocoa with laxative. Not his milk, Becky – his cocoa!’
‘I meant his cocoa when I said his milk,’ Becky whimpered. ‘You’ve been getting me all confused.’
‘It was Gary who told you to use the pickaxe, because that was the weapon a miner would have used. And when you’d killed Mr Hopkins – when you’d murdered Mr Hopkins, when you’d smashed the poor man’s skull in – it was Gary who was waiting for you in the house. Isn’t that true?’
‘No!’
‘It just as we thought,’ Paniatowski said to Beresford. ‘She’s making the whole thing up. She was the one waiting in the house, and Gary was the one who killed Len Hopkins.’
‘That’s not true,’ Becky said. ‘It was Gary who was in the house.’
‘And what was he doing there?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘He . . . he . . .’
‘You can’t go back on it now – you’ve already admitted he was there.’
‘He . . . he was looking for a bit of paper,’ Becky mumbled. ‘He said it was very important that he took it away with him.’
That would be the letter which was supposed to have come from the Department of Education and Science, but, in fact, had come from a very different department, Paniatowski thought.
‘He found what he was looking for, didn’t he?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Becky admitted. ‘And when he found it, he screwed it up, and put it in his pocket, as if it didn’t matter at all.’
It didn’t matter. All that was important was that the police didn’t find it in the house after Hopkins’ death, and start asking awkward questions.
‘You left through the front door, didn’t you?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And Gary locked it behind him, so he must have had a key.’
‘Not a proper key. It was like a lot of metal rods.’
‘Skeleton keys?’
‘I think that’s what he called them.’
And he’d locked the door behind him to muddy the issue, Paniatowski thought – he’d done it so they’d waste time wondering who had a key.
‘When you persuaded your granddad to lie about you having been together Sunday night, he thought that was because you wanted to give him an alibi. But that wasn’t it at all, was it? You wanted him to give you an alibi. And you didn’t think that up yourself, did you? That was another one of Gary’s ideas.’
‘Gary said he couldn’t stand the thought of me going to gaol. He said that if I had an alibi, everything would be all right.’
‘Do you ever feel sorry for killing Mr Hopkins?’
‘Sometimes. But Gary said I shouldn’t. Gary said I’d done a wonderful thing – a kind thing.’
‘I think that’s all we need,’ Beresford said to Paniatowski.
‘You do believe me now, don’t you?’ Becky asked pleadingly. ‘You do believe that Gary was in the house at the time I killed Mr Hopkins, and that he had nothing at all to do with it.’
‘I believe he was in the house,’ Paniatowski said.
‘I couldn’t bear it if anything bad happened to him,’ Becky told her. ‘I love him, you see. I’m having his baby.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The cold wind had blown in from the moors – where it had been doing all it could to freeze the sheep to death – and now it was rushing along the streets of Whitebridge in search of human victims. What few pedestrians there were out on those streets walked with their hands in their pockets and their heads bent forward, but even then, the wind’s icy fingers clawed at their faces and found a way under their tightly wrapped scarves to their vulnerable necks.
The two women standing in front of the Royal Victoria looked up at the suite on the top floor of the hotel.
‘I don’t want you going up there to talk to him, boss,’ Kate Meadows said. ‘I really don’t.’
‘I don’t much like the idea myself, but I’ve no choice in the matter,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘A deal has got to be made – and I’m the only one who can make it.’
‘Then let me come with you,’ Meadows pleaded.
Paniatowski shook her head. ‘If you’re there, we’ll get nothing. He likes it to be just me. He thinks we have a special relationship.’
‘You do have a special relationship,’ Meadows told her.
‘Yes, I try to deny it, but deep down inside myself, I know that we do,’ Paniatowski admitted. ‘And some nights, I wake up in a cold sweat, just thinking about it.’ She braced herself, and took a step closer to the hotel’s main entrance. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck, boss,’ Meadows replied, and then, when Paniatowski was almost at the door, she added, ‘I’m half-hoping that he’ll refuse to see you.’
Paniatowski stopped and turned around. ‘He’ll see me,’ she said confidently. ‘He needs to know if I’ve found out his secret.’
Paniatowski was met in the vestibule of the suite by a short, broad man with a shaved head.
‘I’m going to have to search you,’ he said.
‘You do know who I am?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘That’s why I need to search you.’
Paniatowski spread her arms. ‘Then let’s get it over with.’
The process was slow, thorough – and as asexual as if the man had been searching a wardrobe. When he’d completed it, he said, ‘Follow me,’ and led her into the lounge.
Forsyth was sitting behind the desk, and an upright chair had been positioned on the other side of it, facing him.
‘Ah, my dear Monika, what a pleasure to see you again,’ he said. ‘I take it that Symons has introduced himself.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Paniatowski said.
Forsyth gave the other man a disapproving look. ‘You really don’t have any concept of the social niceties, do you, Clive?’ he asked. He turned back to Paniatowski. ‘Symons is my valet,’ he said.
‘Symons is your bodyguard,’ Paniatowski countered.
Forsyth nodded. ‘He’s that, too. You’re not going to cause him any trouble, are you, Monika?’
‘No,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘It’s already been pointed out to me, by my sergeant, that there are some battles I simply can’t win.’
‘Excellent. My respect for Sergeant Meadows – who is not quite who you think she is – increases daily,’ Forsyth said. He gestured to the chair. ‘Do take a seat, Monika. Can I offer you a glass of vodka?’
‘No,’ Paniatowski said, sitting down.
Forsyth looked hurt. ‘But it’s Zubrowka – your favourite. I ordered it specially.’
‘Still no,’ Paniatowski said, sitting down.
Forsyth sighed. ‘I do wish you’d try to be more civilized during these meetings of ours, Monika,’ he said.
‘I want to know why you had to have my daughter abducted,’ Paniatowski told him.
‘We’ll come to that later,’ Forsyth promised. ‘Before that, I’d like to know how things are in Bellingsworth. What have you been doing since you made your arrest?’
She could argue – could say that she wouldn’t answer any of his questions before he answered the one that was truly important to her – but she knew that there would be no point.
‘I got our technical boys to check out a few of the buildings in the village,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Oh yes?’
‘They found listening devices in the Miners’ Institute and Tommy Sanders’ house. There weren’t any bugs in Len Hopkins’ home, but that, I assume, is because they were removed on Sunday night.’
‘You surely don’t expect me to either deny or confirm that, do you?’ Forsyth asked.
‘How long have you had an interest in the village?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘For months,’ Forsyth replied. ‘We moved in soon after the Yom Kippur War, which was long before most of the miners even realized there was the possibility of a strike.’
‘And your aim was to influence the strike ballot when it was eventually called?’
‘It was.’
‘You won’t win, you know.’
‘On the contrary, I expect the Bellingsworth miners to vote massively against the strike.’
‘But most of the other pits won’t. There will be a strike.’
‘I think you rather misunderstand our purpose in Bellingsworth,’ Forsyth said. ‘We regard it as a laboratory, in which we can try out various strategies and analyse their effectiveness.’
‘And why would you want to do that?’
‘The miners must be crushed – and crushed decisively. If Britain is to survive as a world class nation, there is simply no choice in the matter. But they won’t be crushed this time, because our current prime minister, Mr Heath, hasn’t got the stomach for a long and bitter fight. However, we will eventually have a prime minister with more spirit, and when she takes on the miners—’
‘She?’ Paniatowski interrupted.
Forsyth smiled like a mischievous schoolboy.
‘Did I say she?’ he asked. ‘I meant, of course, he. I wouldn’t want you to think, when the Conservatives get rid of Heath and elect a new leader, that I’ve had anything to do with it. Oh no, that would never do at all.’
‘You’re full of shit,’ Paniatowski said.
‘At any rate,’ Forsyth continued, ignoring the comment, ‘when a prime minister comes along who does have the stomach for a fight, we will give him all our support, and it is then that the lessons we have learned in Bellingsworth will be invaluable.’
‘You fixed the brass band competition in Accrington, didn’t you?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘We had a quiet word with two or three of the judges, and pointed out there are certain things about their private lives they might not care to become public knowledge, if that’s what you mean,’ Forsyth said.
‘That is what I mean,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘What was the point in fixing the competition?’
‘We come back to our laboratory idea again,’ Forsyth said. ‘Harold Wilson – who has twice been elected prime minister, and will be again – has a theory that when people feel happy, they tend to opt for the status quo. Thus, he has always tried to schedule elections at a time when the weather is pleasant, or when England is basking in the glow of a sporting triumph.’
‘So you thought that if the miners won the brass band competition, they’d be less inclined to vote for a strike?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And has it worked?’
Forsyth looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Events have moved on since the competition, so we have no real way of assessing its impact,’ he said.
‘Events have moved on,’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘Is that another way of saying that Len Hopkins was killed?’
‘It is.’
‘Len’s letter never got as far as the Department of Education and Science, did it?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘It did not. We intercepted it before it had even left the village.’
‘And you wrote back to him on DES notepaper.’
‘Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.’
‘What was point of Gary’s visiting him?’
‘Gary?’
‘That was the name by which your agent was known to Becky Sanders.’
‘Ah, indeed. The purpose of his visit was to give Len Hopkins quite a large amount of money.’
‘But the money was not intended to finance his research into his ancestry, was it?’
‘No, it was to be used as a cash incentive for miners who were still not sure which way to vote in the forthcoming ballot.’
‘It was to be used to bribe them, you mean.’
‘If you choose to look at it that way.’
‘That doesn’t sound like one of your schemes, at all,’ Paniatowski said. ‘It seems far too crude.’
‘It is crude, when stated as baldly as that,’ Forsyth agreed. ‘But if it had been handled correctly, Len Hopkins would have been left with the impression that he’d been co-opted by the DES, as part of a general scheme to widen workers’ educational opportunities.’
‘But it wasn’t handled correctly?’
‘Unfortunately, it was not. The boy . . . did you say Becky called him Gary . . .?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gary is one of our less experienced operatives, and the only result of the conversation was that Hopkins was left with the unfortunate idea that we were trying to recruit him as a secret agent.’
‘Which you were.’
‘Of course.’
‘Was that when you decided to kill him?’ Paniatowski asked.
A single snowflake fluttered gently through the air, and landed on Meadows’ sleeve. She looked down at it, and shivered. The snowflake melted, but another quickly took its plac
e. And then another. The snow storm, which had been threatened for so long, had finally arrived.
Meadows stamped her feet, rubbed her hands together, and looked up at the suite on the top floor of the Royal Victoria.
‘How long has the boss been in there now?’ asked a voice to her left.
‘About half an hour, sir,’ Meadows replied, keeping her gaze fixed on the window.
‘I’m sorry,’ Beresford said.
‘Forget it,’ Meadows replied.
‘No, I can’t do that,’ Beresford told her. ‘I’ve been an arsehole to you and everybody connected with this investigation.’
‘Especially the boss,’ Meadows said.
‘Especially the boss,’ Beresford agreed. ‘She says things are fine between us again, but I don’t know if she’ll ever really forgive me.’
‘She’ll forgive you,’ Meadows said confidently.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘She’ll forgive you because she loves you,’ Meadows said. She paused. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I don’t mean she loves Rock-hard Colin, the Ram of Whitebridge. He’s a bit crude for her taste.’
‘I’m starting to think he’s a bit crude for mine,’ Beresford said.
‘But you are a big part of her life, and she doesn’t want to lose you,’ Meadows continued.
‘What about you?’ Beresford asked. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Well, for a start, I don’t love you.’
‘I know that,’ Beresford said. ‘But do you forgive me?’
Meadows turned to face him. ‘If I was the inspector and you were the sergeant, I’d tell you that I might eventually forgive you, but that for the moment, you were on probation.’
‘Tell me anyway,’ Beresford said.
‘You’re on probation,’ Meadows said.
Beresford grinned. ‘So I’ll have to watch my step, won’t I?’
‘It would seem like a good idea.’
The snow was more heavy now, landing on their hair, melting on the sleeves of their coats.
‘How long are you going to stay here?’ Beresford asked.
‘Until she comes out again,’ Meadows told him. ‘You, too?’
‘Me, too,’ Beresford agreed.
He looked up at the suite on the top of floor of the Royal Victoria, and wondered just how well – or how badly – things were going up there.
Lambs to the Slaughter Page 23