Supping with the Devil Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Sally Spencer From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Epigraph

  Monday, 9th August, 1976

  Part One – ‘We Can Be Together’

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two – ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide’

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Three – Aftermath

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Sally Spencer from Severn House

  The Inspector Sam Blackstone Series

  BLACKSTONE AND THE NEW WORLD

  BLACKSTONE AND THE WOLF OF WALL STREET

  BLACKSTONE AND THE GREAT WAR

  BLACKSTONE AND THE ENDGAME

  The Inspector Woodend Mysteries

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  DEATH WATCH

  A DYING FALL

  FATAL QUEST

  The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

  THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

  THE RING OF DEATH

  ECHOES OF THE DEAD

  BACKLASH

  LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

  A WALK WITH THE DEAD

  DEATH’S DARK SHADOW

  SUPPING WITH THE DEVIL

  SUPPING WITH THE DEVIL

  A DCI Paniatowski Mystery

  Sally Spencer

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2014 by Alan Rustage.

  The right of Alan Rustage to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Spencer, Sally author.

  Supping with the devil.

  1. Paniatowski, Monika (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Rock music festivals–Fiction. 3. Murder–

  Investigation–Fiction. 4. Aristocracy (Social class)–

  Fiction. 5. Motorcycle gangs–Fiction. 6. Police–

  England–Fiction. 7. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8408-4 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-522-3 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-560-4 (ePub)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland

  For Mike and Chris Hackney

  Author’s Note

  ‘We Can Be Together’ is a track from Volunteers by Jefferson Airplane; ‘Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide’ is a track from The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars by David Bowie; Aftermath is the title of the Rolling Stones’ fourth album.

  He who sups with the devil should have a long spoon.

  Monday, 9th August, 1976

  The weathermen said it was going to be the hottest summer for fifty years, and on all the available evidence so far, they were right.

  As their leaves began to wilt, months ahead of nature’s intended schedule, the trees were already acquiring a crumpled early-autumn look. The grass verges and immaculately maintained lawns had been hit by the recently imposed hosepipe ban, and were turning yellow and spiky. And even the air in Whitebridge – air which was famous for its dampness, and had been a key element in the town’s rise as a centre of cotton weaving – was beginning to dry out.

  It wasn’t natural, men said to each other, as they mopped at their sweaty brows with the big, white handkerchiefs that their wives had carefully ironed the night before.

  It was just like living in middle of the Moroccan desert, said women who had never gone beyond the county boundaries themselves.

  The heat didn’t bother Dr Shastri, as she drove towards her work that early Monday morning. She had been brought up in a part of India which got so hot that if – for whatever peculiar reasons of your own – you wished to cook an egg on the pavement, you would have no difficulty in doing so.

  But though it had no effect on her, she knew that many of the old people in the area found it almost intolerable, and fully accepted that if the temperature got much higher, she would have to give serious consideration to hiring some temporary staff to cope with the sudden rush of new business.

  She turned a corner in the road, and saw her workplace – her own little kingdom – just ahead of her. It was, she recognized, an ugly place by any standards – square and utilitarian, supported by concrete pillars which would have greyed with age had they not first been blackened by pollution – but over the years, she had found herself growing rather fond of it. And even if the exterior of the building was a little oppressive, she always ensured that the interior was clean and efficient, and – within the parameters that its function allowed – that it was respectful of the people who passed through it.

  As she pulled in to the car park, Shastri noticed a solitary figure standing under the portico. From a distance, it looked like her old friend, DCI Monika Paniatowski, but Monika – much to her own regret – was not involved in the latest murder investigation, and so she had no reason to put in an appearance at the mortuary so early on a Monday morning. Besides, the Paniatowski that Shastri knew would never stand as this woman was standing – tight up against the pillar, as if she hoped it would somehow manage to absorb her.

  No, it couldn’t be Monika.

  But as she crossed the car park and got closer to the woman, the doctor had to admit that it was.

  Paniatowski waited until Shastri was almost at the portico, then took a couple of unsteady steps towards her.

  ‘I need your help,’ she said, in a strained and croaking voice which was quite unlike her own.

  ‘Has there been an accident, Monika?’ Shastri asked, alarmed. ‘Has something happened to Louisa?’

  Because she could not imagine anything – other than harm coming to Paniatowski’s beloved adopted daughter – which would have reduced her friend to this pathetic state.

  ‘Louisa’s fine,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’m the one with the problem. I want you to examine me.’

  ‘I am not your doctor,’ Shastri pointed out. ‘I do not have your case history to refer to.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Paniatowski said miserably.

  �
��No,’ Shastri agreed, looking at her grey, tortured face – and knowing that whatever was wrong, it had to be dealt with then and there. ‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’

  Paniatowski lay on her back on the examination table, her body still covered with a white sheet, her eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling.

  ‘There is considerable bruising to the vagina, but you are probably aware of that already,’ Shastri said, trying to sound crisp and efficient – as if Monika was just any other patient.

  ‘Is there any permanent damage?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘On the face of it, I would guess not – but it is impossible to say for certain without running further tests,’ Shastri told her. ‘Am I correct in assuming that you have been raped?’

  ‘Well, of course I’ve been bloody well raped!’ Paniatowski snapped. ‘You don’t think I wanted them to do this to me, do you?’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Last night.’

  Shastri glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past eight, which meant that the rape had occurred at least nine hours earlier, and probably longer than that.

  ‘You should have come to see me – or gone to some other doctor – straight away,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You said them,’ Dr Shastri said, reflecting on Paniatowski’s earlier comment.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You asked me if I thought you wanted them to do it to you. How many of them were there?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Paniatowski asked angrily.

  ‘Yes – in a clinical examination, every piece of additional information is important,’ Shastri replied.

  Paniatowski closed her eyes. ‘If you must know, there were three of them,’ she said.

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘How can that bloody matter?’

  ‘Everything matters, Monika. Rape very rarely occurs in a sterile environment …’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘… and we need to know what kinds of possible infections to be on the lookout for.’

  Paniatowski sighed heavily. ‘It happened in the woods.’

  ‘What woods?’

  ‘Now that really is none of your business.’

  ‘I don’t see why you won’t tell me,’ Shastri said, puzzled. ‘Surely, when you report it, you will have to give those details – and many more besides.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s just it, you see, Doc – I won’t be reporting it,’ Paniatowski told her.

  ‘What did you just say?’ Shastri gasped.

  ‘You heard me well enough. I won’t be reporting it.’

  PART ONE

  ‘We Can Be Together’

  4th–5th August

  ONE

  Wednesday, 4th August

  While the butler went through the established ritual of serving the coffee, Gervaise de Courtney, 13th Earl of Ridley, looked quickly around the rosewood table which Thomas Chippendale, the master craftsman, had personally designed for the Great Library in 1758.

  To the earl’s right was his wife, Katerina, the Countess of Ridley. He had married her in his early thirties – which was considered very old for the heir to the earldom to enter his first marriage – but he daily thanked God that he had waited, because she had brought a light into his life which had made him want to continue living it.

  To his left sat Edward Bell, his estate manager, a solidly built man wearing a rough tweed jacket which seemed to be such a part of him that he would shed it in only the hottest weather. Bell had worked at Stamford Hall all his life, as had his father, and his father’s father, right back to George Bell, who had been appointed the Hall’s first steward in 1705.

  They were loyal to him – both of them – the earl thought, and he needed that loyalty, because sitting opposite him was his mother, Sarah, the Dowager Countess, and if there was one person in the world who really hated him, then – he suspected – that person was her.

  The mother spoke. ‘I wish to make it known, in the strongest possible terms, that I disapprove of the coming madness, and intend to confine myself to my apartments for the entire period it is being perpetrated,’ she said.

  The earl sighed. ‘Couldn’t you at least have waited until Barton had finished serving the coffee, Mother?’ he asked.

  His mother looked up at the butler, who was expertly pouring coffee from a large silver jug into small, delicate china cups.

  ‘Does it distract you if I talk while you are serving, Barton?’ she asked. ‘Or do you believe, as I do, that a good servant will allow nothing to distract him from doing his duty?’

  ‘I am not distracted, my lady,’ the butler replied, in a voice totally devoid of any expression.

  It really wasn’t fair of his mother to put Barton in such a difficult position, the earl thought. And it wasn’t fair of her to show such lack of respect for him in the presence of a servant.

  But the problem was, the dowager countess didn’t think that she was either making the butler’s life difficult or embarrassing her son, because as far as she was concerned, the feelings and opinions of servants – if, indeed, they had any – counted for nothing. From her perspective, the servants’ only function in life was to serve her, and when they were not doing that, they didn’t really exist.

  The butler finished his task, took an almost imperceptible step backwards, asked if there was anything else that the assembled company required, and withdrew when he was told there wasn’t.

  ‘It’s not a good idea for you to stay inside all the time, Mother,’ the earl said, continuing the earlier conversation. ‘You know the doctor told you that you should get some fresh air at least once a day.’

  ‘But the problem is that the air will not be fresh, will it?’ his mother countered. ‘It will have been horribly polluted by the rabble you will have allowed to invade the Hall.’

  ‘No one will be invading the Hall,’ said the earl, laying a plan of the grounds on the table, and smoothing it out with his right hand. ‘The music stage will be here, close to the west wall. The main camp site, however, will be beyond the walls, close to the west gate.’ He paused. ‘The portable toilet cabins will be here in plenty of time, won’t they, Mr Bell?’

  ‘They will, sir,’ the estate manager confirmed.

  ‘And we must ensure that there is an ample supply of fresh water. In this heat, there’s a real danger of dehydration.’

  ‘That’s already been taken care of.’

  ‘Our guests will be here, in a large semicircle around the stage,’ the earl said to his mother and his wife. ‘When the last band of the night …’

  ‘Band!’ his mother snorted.

  ‘… when the last band of the night has completed its set, all the fans will leave the grounds, and the gates will be locked.’

  ‘And in the daytime?’ his mother asked. ‘Will the vile hooligans be free to rampage through the rose garden and the greenhouses? Will you just stand by and watch them kill the ducks and swans in the north lake, and row their sweaty bodies up and down the south lake?’

  ‘As I have explained at least half a dozen times before, Mother, the concert area has been cordoned off from the rest of the grounds by a wire-netting fence,’ the earl said.

  ‘And what will happen when the riff-raff decide they will break down the fence?’

  It was amazing how this woman – who really had a very limited imagination – could find so many different words to describe people she disapproved of, the earl thought.

  ‘They will not break down the fence, Mother,’ he said. ‘They will listen to the music and do their best to become at one with the universe. And even if there are a few people who decide, for some inexplicable reason, to make trouble, the marshals I have appointed will soon deal with them.’

  ‘The marshals!’ the dowager countess repeated. ‘Is that what you call them? I call them motorcycle thugs. Vandals! They will probably do more damage than the rest of the scum put together!’

  ‘Since you have no intere
st in hearing what I have to say, I suggest you withdraw, Mother,’ the earl said, his patience finally wearing thin.

  ‘Are you ordering me to go?’ the old woman asked.

  ‘No, Mother, of course not.’

  ‘Because you could order me to go, you know,’ the dowager countess said, in a tone designed to make him feel both guilty and cowardly. ‘You are, after all, the earl, whereas I am nothing.’

  ‘Mother, this really isn’t necessary,’ the earl said.

  ‘I don’t see why you have to do it,’ the dowager countess persisted. ‘We don’t need the money. You are rich.’

  ‘The estate is rich,’ the earl corrected her, ‘but even so, running the Hall is a costly business, and if we do nothing to augment our income, the money will melt away soon enough.’

  ‘Then do something with a little dignity to it,’ the old woman argued. ‘Open the house to guided tours for the respectable middle class – if you can find any! Build a safari park, if you consider it absolutely necessary.’

  ‘That’s already been done by others,’ the earl pointed out. ‘Besides, I believe in the RockStately Festival, Mother.’

  ‘The RockStately Festival! What does that even mean?’

  ‘It’s a play on words,’ the earl said, wondering why he was even bothering to explain, since he knew his mother was not interested in the answer. ‘It’s a combination of “rocksteady”, which is a kind of music, and “stately home”, which is what …’

  ‘Is my son charging enough?’ the dowager countess asked, turning to Edward Bell.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ Bell replied, stalling.

  ‘You’re the man whose supposed to know about figures, Bell – God knows, the family paid enough to have you educated in them – so I would have thought it was a simple enough question. However, since you seem to have failed to grasp the concept the first time, I will repeat it – is my son charging the sweaty proletariat enough to make a profit?’