Thicker Than Water Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Sally Spencer from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  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

  BEST SERVED COLD

  THICKER THAN WATER

  THICKER THAN WATER

  A Monika 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.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

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

  Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Lanna Rustage.

  The right of Lanna 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.

  Thicker than water. – (The Monika Paniatowski mysteries)

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

  2. Police–England–Fiction. 3. Murder–Investigation–

  Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title II. Series

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8561-6 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-670-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-724-0 (e-book)

  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.

  PROLOGUE

  At first, Jane Danbury had no idea at all of what had just happened.

  She knew where she was.

  Of course she knew that!

  She was in her own lounge.

  She could see the expensive wallpaper on the far wall, though it was rather worrying that it was refusing to stay still, but instead insisted on jiggling up and down like a badly tuned television.

  So – she knew where she was.

  What else did she know?

  She knew that she had been talking to someone, only moments earlier …

  Why couldn’t she remember who that someone was? she wondered.

  Didn’t matter.

  Wasn’t important.

  Move on!

  … and saying things she should have said a long time ago. She knew that she had turned her back on the someone – who was it, for God’s sake? – though she could no longer remember why she’d done that.

  And she knew that that was when it had happened.

  Whatever it was.

  Did she have any clues, from which she might build up a picture of what had occurred? she asked herself.

  Well, her head was hurting.

  That was for sure.

  In fact, it was hurting one hell of a lot.

  And she had a vague sensation that something was being pumped out from a spot midway between her ears and towards the back of her skull.

  Blood! she thought.

  I’m spurting blood!

  What was left of her brain had been working in overdrive in the split second after the blow was struck, but now her body had caught up with it, and she felt herself falling forwards.

  This is all my fault, she thought as she fell.

  I’ve been very stupid, and it’s all my fault.

  Her face hit the floor, and as it did, her nose almost concertinaed. It should have been an agonising experience, but she was almost beyond pain now, and she hardly noticed it.

  It surprised her – annoyed her, almost – that as she lay dying (and she was sure she was dying) her hearing seemed to be as acute as it had ever been.

  But it was. It undoubtedly was.

  She heard the squeak of leather shoes, as the someone squatted down beside her.

  She heard harsh, irregular breathing.

  And she heard the soft swishing sound made by the soles of the shoes on the thick rug, as the someone shifted slightly to get a better angle on the task in hand.

  And then she heard nothing – nor ever would again.

  ONE

  Wednesday, 5th October 1977

  The phone call came through at 9.12 p.m., and by 9.14 Monika Paniatowski was already backing her car down the driveway.

  Once out on the street, she straightened the vehicle up, and, before pulling off, lit a cigarette.

  Paniatowski sighed. She had stopped smoking the moment she’d learned she was pregnant, and had told herself, as the pregnancy progressed, that she would never take up the habit again. But it hadn’t worked out quite like that, and within days of giving birth to the twins – and perhaps because she had given birth to the twins – she had submitted gratefully to the old craving.

  The police radio crackled into life, and a metallic female voice said, ‘DCI Paniatowski, are you receiving me? Over.’

  Paniatowski’s left hand reached instinctively for where the radio microphone should have been, and found itself cupping empty air.

  Different car, she reminded herself – different car, different layout.

  For just an instant, she mourned the loss of her little red MGA which her change in circumstances had forced her to trade in for the larger – and far less loveable – Ford Cortina.

  ‘DCI Paniatowski?’ the metallic voice repeated.

  Paniatowski’s reprogrammed hand unhooked the microphone and lifted it to her mouth.

  ‘DCI Paniatowski receiving you,’ she said. ‘What’s the current operational status?’

  ‘Inspector Flowers and her team have reached the house and secured the crime scene,’ the voice replied.

  ‘Has my team been contacted yet?’

 
; ‘We’ve called DS Meadows’ beeper several times, ma’am, but she’s still not got back to us.’

  ‘Shit!’ Paniatowski said.

  She’d only been back from maternity leave for three days. Her investigative skills had probably been dulled through lack of use, so the last thing she wanted was to embark on a high-profile murder investigation without her trusted bagman firmly at her side. And this murder just had to be high profile – because it had taken place in Milliners’ Row.

  ‘Do you want me to try and contact DS Meadows again, ma’am?’ the operator asked.

  If Kate Meadows wasn’t responding, it could only be because she’d put her detective sergeant persona on hold and become Zelda, a creature of the night, who recognised no responsibilities and played by no rules but her own.

  ‘Ma’am?’ the operator said.

  ‘Yes, beep her again – and keep beeping her until she answers – but get hold of DI Beresford and DC Crane first.’

  Milliners’ Row was located near the northern tip of the Whitebridge municipal authority. Though it would have been strictly accurate to call it a private housing estate, it would have also been thoroughly misleading, since it differed, in so many ways, from the housing estates which flanked it – at a respectful distance – on its left and right.

  There were twenty-four houses in the Row, and the twelve on the south side looked across at the twelve on the north side over a wide avenue, along the centre of which ran a line of evergreen trees of exotic varieties rarely seen in Lancashire. Each house sat on a half-acre plot, and the plots were each surrounded by high, imposing walls. It was commonly referred to by most people in Whitebridge (often enviously, and occasionally bitterly) as Millionaire’s Row.

  There was no need for Paniatowski to count off the houses as she went, in order to establish which one was No. 7 Milliners’ Row – the half a dozen police cars parked in front of it provided ample indication.

  As she drew level with No. 3, a middle-aged police constable stepped out into the road, and waved her down with his torch.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn around, madam,’ he said, politely but firmly.

  Paniatowski held her warrant card out of the window, and the constable shone the torch on it.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t recognise you,’ he said. ‘Is this your car?’

  Paniatowski grinned. ‘Aren’t you only supposed to ask that if you suspect it’s been stolen?’

  ‘No, what I meant was, where’s your MGA?’ the constable explained hurriedly. He paused. ‘You’ve never got rid of it, have you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have,’ Paniatowski admitted.

  ‘But it was such a lovely little car, and you kept it immaculate,’ the constable said, as if mourning the loss personally.

  ‘Right on both counts,’ Paniatowski agreed, edging the big, graceless Cortina forward.

  The woman standing on the pavement in front of the large ornamental gates was in her early thirties, and had the wiry body of a dedicated hockey player. She wore an expression which said she was fairly confident she had handled the situation well, but that she also recognised, given her relative lack of experience, that there was always a slim chance she had made a colossal blunder.

  ‘What have you got for me so far, Elizabeth?’ Paniatowski asked, when they’d exchanged greetings.

  ‘The victim hasn’t been formally identified yet, but she’s presumed to be Jane Danbury. She’s been living here, with her husband and three children, for about four years.’

  ‘Where did you get this information from?’

  ‘The au pair, a girl called Gretchen Müller.’

  ‘Is she the one who found the body?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Was she here at the time of the murder?’

  ‘No, she gets Wednesdays off, and she’s been out for most of the day. She only came back to change into her party clothes.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘About three-quarters of an hour ago.’

  ‘And she was the one who called us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A lot of young women wouldn’t have the presence of mind to do that, Paniatowski thought. A lot of young women would just have run round to the neighbours’ house in a blue funk. But then, of course, running round to the neighbours’ house was no simple matter in a place like Milliners’ Row.

  ‘Where’s the girl now?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s sitting in the back of one of the patrol cars. I gave her a blanket, and a cup of hot sweet tea.’

  ‘Where did you get the tea from?’ Paniatowski wondered. ‘Did one of the neighbours send his butler round with it on a silver tray?’

  Inspector Flowers grinned. ‘No, ma’am. I always carry a thermos flask of tea with me. It’s remarkable how often it comes in useful.’

  It was a nice, thoughtful, domestic touch, Paniatowski thought – perhaps just a little too thoughtful and domestic for a woman trying to claw her way up the slippery slope of promotion, where all the short cuts were reserved for men.

  ‘The flask of tea’s a good idea,’ she said, ‘but, if I was in your shoes, I’d delegate the job to one of my lads in future.’ She paused to light a cigarette. ‘Apart from talking to the au pair, what other actions have you taken?’

  ‘We searched both the grounds and the house, to establish whether or not the killer was still in the vicinity, and, of course, we checked on the children.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘They’re still in their rooms. The boys share a room, the girl has one of her own. They’re all sleeping peacefully.’

  Unlike the twins, who seem to take it in turn to be on bawling duty, Paniatowski thought ruefully.

  ‘The children’s rooms have been thoroughly searched, like everywhere else, but I thought it best not to disturb the children themselves until social services arrive to deal with them,’ Flowers continued.

  ‘What if they wake up, and wander downstairs?’

  ‘I’ve posted an officer at each of their bedroom doors to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  Flowers seemed to have dealt with the situation rather well, Paniatowski decided.

  ‘Where’s the husband?’ she asked.

  ‘According to Gretchen, William Danbury is …’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Paniatowski interrupted, ‘when you say, “William Danbury”, are we talking about Councillor Danbury?’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am,’ Meadows said. ‘Do you know him?’

  Paniatowski shook her head. ‘No, but I know of him. He runs one of the few remaining mills in this town, he was the youngest-ever president of Whitebridge Golf Club, and he’s a big wheel in local politics.’

  All of which made him the last person she wanted breathing down her neck when she was investigating a murder, she thought.

  ‘Anyway, you were on the point of telling me where he is at the moment,’ she continued.

  ‘Gretchen says he’s off on a business trip. He was expected back today, but it’s not unusual for him to stay away longer than he’s said he will.’

  Another vehicle arrived on the scene – a battered Land Rover driven by Dr Shastri, the police surgeon and veteran of hundreds of grisly post-mortems.

  Shastri parked behind Paniatowski’s Cortina, switched off the engine, and climbed down from the cab – except that ‘climbed down’ was not really what she did at all. Instead, the graceful descent of her sari-clad figure made it seem as if she was almost floating to the pavement.

  Shastri smiled at Paniatowski.

  ‘My dear Monika,’ she said. ‘What a pleasant surprise to find you here. I had heard, of course, that you were back from your leave, but when I did not see your car in the street …’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Doc,’ Paniatowski interrupted, before there could be any more wailing and gnashing of teeth over the departure of the bright red MGA. ‘The body’s inside. Would you like to take a look at it?’

  ‘Most
certainly,’ Shastri agreed. ‘After all, humble Indian doctor that I am, that is what I am here for.’

  As Flowers swung the left gate slightly open, Paniatowski noticed that there was a large sign fastened to it which announced that the house was for sale, and advised anyone interested in buying it to contact Holgate, Jones and Hudson (Estate Agents).

  Her first thought was that it was surprising that the inhabitants of somewhere like Milliners’ Row should submit to the same process, when selling their houses, as mere mortals like herself did.

  Her second thought – which quickly and brutally elbowed the first thought aside – was to wonder if the proposed sale of the house and the murder were in any way connected. That was improbable, she readily admitted, but if she had learned one thing about murders, it was that they were very often stuffed to the brim with improbabilities.

  It was at least a hundred yards from the gate to the house. The driveway which connected the two was wide enough for two large cars to pass each other comfortably, and was cobbled with dressed stone, which Paniatowski guessed had probably been very expensive. At the far end of the driveway, there was a turning circle and a spur which, presumably, led around the side of the house to the garage.

  The house itself was fairly new, but had been built in the style of a Georgian mansion. The ground floor was brilliantly – almost blindingly – illuminated, but the upper floor, where the children were sleeping, was in semi-darkness.

  ‘I want the kids out of the house as soon as possible,’ Paniatowski told Flowers as they approached the front door. ‘The moment you’ve shown us where the body is, get on to social services again, and, if necessary, give them a hard kick up the arse from me.’

  ‘Right, ma’am,’ Flowers replied.

  Detective Inspector Colin Beresford was in bed – enjoying a romp with Lillian, a divorcée who shared his cut-and-run attitude to sexual encounters – when his beeper made its unwelcome intrusion.

  ‘Don’t stop now,’ Lillian told him throatily. ‘Ignore it.’