The Hidden Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Sally Spencer from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Sally Spencer from Severn House

  The Monika Paniatowski Mysteries

  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

  DEATH IN DISGUISE

  THE HIDDEN

  The Inspector Woodend Mysteries

  DANGEROUS GAMES

  DEATH WATCH

  A DYING FALL

  FATAL QUEST

  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 HIDDEN

  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.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

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

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Lanna Rustage.

  The right of Sally Spencer 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

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8707-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-812-5 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-876-6 (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

  To Ava

  PROLOGUE

  It was by the purest of pure chance that Millicent and Janice Knightly – PC Michael Knightly’s two young daughters – discovered the body in the grounds of Stamford Hall.

  Mike Knightly’s original intention, on that Sunday in June, had been to drive up to the Lake District. Then, while he was having his breakfast cereal, he heard the weatherman on the radio announce that it was expected to rain buckets over Lake Windermere, and that was enough to convince him that it might be wise to come up with a plan B.

  ‘You know how thoroughly miserable both the kids get when it’s wet,’ he said to his wife, Ginny, ‘so why don’t we forget the lakes and go to Stamford Hall, instead?’

  ‘Stamford Hall? Wasn’t there a murder there – or am I thinking of somewhere else?’ Ginny Knightly asked.

  ‘No, it was there all right – the victim was a reporter from a national newspaper, I think – but that must have been well over two years ago,’ said Knightly, doing his best to avoid the need to come up with a plan C.

  ‘Oh, it was over two years ago, was it?’ his wife countered. ‘Well, that’s all right then – if it was over two years ago, it must be the perfect spot to take the kids. I mean, it’s not as if there’s likely to be a nasty atmosphere about the place, now, is there. Mike?’

  There were times when Knightly really appreciated his wife’s slightly sarcastic sense of humour – but this was not one of them.

  ‘There’ve been a lot of changes made to Stamford Hall since the murder,’ he protested.

  And so there had been. Since the murder, the estate’s owner, the 13th Earl of Ridley, had gone (rumour had it he’d been detained under the Mental Health Act) and he’d been replaced by a distant cousin, who had immediately begun turning the Hall into a popular tourist attraction.

  Ginny thought about it for a second – considering, among other factors, the possibility that one of the changes might have been the introduction of craft and souvenir shops – then said, ‘I suppose we could give it a try. If you can believe the weather forecast, at least we won’t get rained on there.’

  From the start, the expedition to Stamford Hall was judged a success by everyone involved in it.

  The weather was gorgeous, and the kids were overawed by the very size of the place.

  ‘How big is it, Daddy?’

  ‘Twelve hundred acres.’

  ‘Gosh, that is big! What’s an acre?’

  They loved the modest zoo – especially the petting section, where there were the sweetest goats. They relished their fish and chip lunch (mushy peas five pence extra, but well worth it), which they ate at the cafe overlooking the boating lake. After lunch, they hired a boat on the lake – the exercise would get rid of all those calories, Knightly told himself – then went to the fairground, where the girls embraced the opportunity of being spun giddy and sick.

  And finally, as teatime approached, they drove to the Backend Woods picnic area, which was about two miles from the West Gate. The picnic area had a large car park, and from the evidence of the full-to-overflowing rubbish bins, had been heavily used earlier in the day, but now, at almost five o’clock, there was only one other vehicle – a Ford Cortina – parked there.

  Sitting at one of the stone tables, they ate their corned beef sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs with gusto. The girls drank orange cordial, the adults sipped tea from a tartan flask.

  When they’d finished eating, Knightly lit up a cigarette.

  ‘Well, this has been a grand day, hasn’t it?’ he said – more to himself than anyone else.

  ‘Can me and Millie go and play hide and seek in the woods, Daddy?’ Janice asked.

  Knightly glanced down at his watch. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want you going too far.’

  ‘And come back every few minutes, so we know you’re all right,’ Ginny added.

  ‘Have you enjoyed yourself, love?’ Knightly asked his wife.

  ‘I have,’ Ginny replied. ‘It’s been one of them days when you don’t entirely regret not strangling your children at birth.’

  Knightly chuckled, and took another drag on his cigarette. And then he saw Janice, red-faced and gasping for breath, suddenly emerging from the woods.

  ‘What’s the matter, love?’ he
asked, alarmed.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy, come and see, there’s a lady in there lying down!’ Janice shouted.

  Knightly relaxed, and did his best to hide the smile which had inevitably come to his face.

  ‘And did this lady have a gentleman with her, lying down next to her?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’ Janice screamed, furious at not being taken seriously. ‘There wasn’t a man – and there was blood all round her head.’

  Knightly jumped to his feet, and rushed across to where his daughter was standing.

  ‘Where’s our Millie, Janice?’ he asked, crouching down so that his eyes were level with hers, and placing his large hands on her small thin shoulders. ‘Where is she?’ he demanded, perhaps shaking her harder than he’d intended.

  ‘I’m here, Daddy,’ he heard a voice say from just behind him.

  He stood up and turned around, just as Ginny arrived on the scene and swept Millie up into her arms.

  ‘Where’s this lady, Janice?’ Knightly asked. ‘Tell me exactly where you found her.’

  ‘She’s … she’s down that path there,’ Janice said, pointing, shakily at a rough track.

  ‘Look after these two,’ Knightly told his wife over his shoulder, as he jogged down the path, mostly dodging the branches of trees which overhung it.

  ‘Mike, you’re never going to just run off and leave—!’ he heard his wife bellow.

  But he wasn’t going to stop to hear the rest, because he was as certain as he could be that his family didn’t need his protection – and a bobby was never really off duty.

  It was as the path veered slightly to the right that he saw her. She was lying parallel to the path, between two ancient oaks, and was wearing a pale blouse and a light brown skirt.

  Her hair was quite long, blonde and curly, and she looked vaguely familiar to him.

  She had very good legs (oh God, how could he be thinking of that now? he asked himself in self-disgust), but they were not young legs – the legs of a teenager – and he would probably put her age at somewhere between the mid-thirties and the mid-forties.

  When he drew level with the supine woman, he came to a halt, took a couple of deep measured breaths to calm himself down, and then knelt carefully down next to her.

  Janice had been right, he thought – the woman must have lost a lot of blood – and it had stained the ground a deep brown as it formed its obscene aura around her head.

  He reached out to feel for the pulse in her neck, and got his first real look at her face.

  ‘Jesus, I know you,’ he told the woman. ‘I bloody know you! You’re DCI Paniatowski!’

  ONE

  The west gate of Stamford Hall was (like the gates in the centres of the other three boundary walls), an impressive piece of work. Constructed by skilled ironworkers over two centuries earlier, it served as both a formidable barrier and a fine example of early industrial art. It was possible to open both sides of the gate – indeed, the grand carriages of the past had required it – but to make it easier to filter and check the traffic as it left the park, the uniformed sergeant and his team had only opened the left side, and when the big black Wolseley arrived, there was already a queue of twenty-five or thirty vehicles waiting to leave.

  The sergeant opened the right-hand gate, and though he could not see the man in the back of the Wolseley through the darkened glass, he saluted smartly. Once the big black car was inside – and much to the annoyance of all those waiting to leave – he closed the right-hand gate again.

  Chief Constable Ronald Pickering, sitting in the back of the Wolseley, had been far too distracted to notice the sergeant’s show of respect.

  Things didn’t look good, he told himself, as his driver turned left and followed the boundary road which led to the Backend Woods picnic area – they didn’t look good at all.

  The problem was, he was only acting chief constable (and likely to remain so until George Baxter either went mad enough to be certified or grew sane enough to resign), and acting chief constables were perpetually auditioning for the job they were already doing. So every new crisis was a test – a yardstick against which he could be measured – and it was more than possible that losing one of his senior officers might be regarded by those people who mattered as being rather careless.

  A roadblock had been set up about a mile and a half from the gate, and it was beyond the roadblock that there was evidence that a serious criminal investigation was already underway.

  The acting chief constable quickly scanned the scene.

  There were half a dozen patrol cars there, and the men who’d arrived in them were employed in taping off the whole area.

  There was an ambulance there, too, and the Land Rover which belonged to Dr Shastri, the police surgeon, so it was a safe bet that Monika Paniatowski hadn’t been moved yet.

  ‘Stop right here, constable!’ Pickering told his driver, and the driver brought the Wolseley to a halt close to where a square-built muscular man in his thirties was standing.

  Pickering got out of the car and walked over to the man.

  ‘Bloody terrible thing to have happened, Colin,’ he said, placing a comforting hand on DI Beresford’s shoulder.

  Beresford – clearly red-eyed – only nodded, as if putting what he was feeling into words would have been just too much.

  ‘Have you any idea what Monika was doing in the woods?’ Pickering asked. ‘Was it part of an ongoing investigation, do you know?’

  And then a new thought occurred to him – one so ghastly that he almost fainted.

  ‘She … she didn’t have any of her children with her, did she?’ he said tremulously.

  Because if her kids – her bloody infant twins – had gone missing, there’d be such a stink that he might as well hand in his resignation then and there!

  ‘No, the children weren’t with her,’ Beresford replied. ‘The twins are at home with Elena, the housekeeper, and Louisa has gone over to Yorkshire with her school, to play in a hockey match.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Pickering said. ‘Now what we need to do is find out why DCI Paniatowski was—’

  ‘She’s still breathing,’ Beresford interrupted him cuttingly, and with an edge of contempt just discernible in his voice. ‘She can’t say anything, and I’m not even sure she knows where she is, but she’s still breathing – and that’s something.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose—’

  ‘I’d have been with her myself, but I didn’t want to get in the way of the doc and the paramedics.’ Beresford paused. ‘Anyway, I thought you might like to know that,’ he continued, most of his anger now dissipated.

  ‘Yes … yes, of course,’ Pickering said awkwardly. ‘That should have been the first thing I asked, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it certainly was the first thing I asked,’ Beresford admitted.

  ‘At any rate, while I’m sure we’re all praying she makes a full recovery, we’re not medical men, are we, and the only thing we can do for Monika ourselves is to try our damnedest to catch the bastard who attacked her!’ Pickering said briskly. He looked Beresford straight in the eye. ‘I’m right about that, aren’t I, Colin?’ he challenged.

  ‘Yes, sir, you are right,’ Beresford agreed, though any feeling that they might be comrades-in-arms was undercut by the deadpan voice in which he delivered the words.

  ‘So what have you done – in practical detecting terms – so far?’ Pickering asked.

  ‘As you can see, we’ve almost finished sectioning off this area,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Yes, yes, but what about the rest of the grounds – the funfair and the zoo? I saw a stream of cars leaving as I arrived. I assume everyone in them has already been questioned, have they?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Beresford replied. ‘Most of them probably don’t even know there’s been an attack, but I’ve made sure the officers on the gate are taking their names and addresses, and—’

  ‘Why didn’t you question them first?’ Pickering demanded.

  ‘We don’t
have the manpower.’

  ‘Then you should have waited until sufficient manpower arrived, for God’s sake!’

  ‘The gatekeeper tells me he’s sold over eight hundred car tickets today,’ Beresford said. ‘If there were, on average, four people in each car, we’re talking about over three thousand folk who need to be interviewed. Add to that the people who arrived on the courtesy buses from the railway station, and we’re up to maybe three thousand six hundred. Then there are the ones who came on charter coaches. Even if we’d had the whole force on duty, which, this being a Sunday at the start of the summer leave season—’

  ‘All right, all right, I get the point,’ Pickering said. ‘Christ, what a mess.’ He looked around him, as if searching for inspiration. ‘I want you to hold the fort until DCI Dixon gets here,’ he said finally.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Are the rest of DCI Paniatowski’s team here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Of course they bloody were! Paniatowski’s team had a reputation for being so thick with one another that it was said around police headquarters that if you kicked one of them, they all limped.

  ‘Right, you have my permission to stay here as well – for the moment – but the second DCI Dixon arrives with his team, I want you all out of here.’

  ‘We’d prefer to stay, sir,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you would, Colin,’ Pickering agreed. ‘I’m sure you would. But you see, I simply can’t allow that. You’re far too close to this particular investigation to play any continued active part in it.’

  ‘With respect, sir, it’s because we’re close to DCI Paniatowski – because we know the way she thinks and what motivates her – that we’re essential to the investigation.’

  ‘Your comments have been noted, but the decision has been taken,’ Pickering said.

  ‘If we can’t investigate it as police officers, then we’ll investigate as private citizens,’ Beresford said firmly.

  ‘Come on, Colin, be realistic – you can’t be police officers and private citizens at the same time,’ Pickering pointed out.