Death in Disguise Read online

  ‘Well … no, but you’ve not heard the last of this,’ Stott said, now speaking almost as quietly as she was.

  ‘I expect I haven’t,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  She turned to face the lobby. Most of the spectators hadn’t heard what she’d said, but they’d read the body language of both participants, knew a knockout punch when they saw one, and were on the point of turning away.

  ‘I appreciate that you’d all like to leave, ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, ‘but until we’ve taken your statements, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’ She paused. ‘We’ll be as quick as we can be, but it will still take a while, and I’m asking you to be patient.’

  Several people groaned, loudly and theatrically, as if in the spirit of Sir Edgar Stott, but much more tentative.

  ‘You may think you have nothing to contribute to this investigation, and most of you probably haven’t,’ Paniatowski continued, ‘but a few of you will – possibly unawares – be holding what might turn out to be a vital piece of information, which is why we have to talk to all of you. Justice can only be done when every single one of us strives to see that it’s done. Thank you for your cooperation.’

  There were a few moments of silence, then a number of people started nodding, and a few actually clapped. Even Sir Edgar Stott, the personal friend of the chief constable, looked a little abashed.

  ‘When did you acquire gravitas, boss?’ Meadows asked, as they followed the manager to the lifts.

  ‘Dunno,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I think it must just have sneaked up on me when I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘And is it true that the chief constable can turn a cigarette packet into a penguin?’

  ‘Or a nun.’

  ‘Or a nun?’

  ‘I don’t know – but it’s always a possibility.’

  Meadows grinned. ‘Nice one, boss!’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paniatowski replied.

  As they stepped into the lift, Mansfield said, ‘Sir Edgar is both the president of the golf club and the master of the Mid Lancs Hunt. You wouldn’t really have arrested him, would you?’

  ‘What can you tell me about the dead woman?’ Paniatowski asked, ignoring the question.

  ‘She’s an American lady,’ Mansfield replied. ‘She’s been a guest here for the last two weeks.’

  In which case, she’d already spent a packet on hotel accommodation, Paniatowski thought.

  The suites were on the sixth floor, but the lift stopped at the third.

  ‘Has something gone wrong?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘No,’ the manager said, ‘but the chief constable would like a quick word with you before you begin your investigation.’

  ‘And he’s here?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve put him in room 316.’

  The lift doors slid open.

  ‘Do you know what it’s about?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I haven’t got a clue,’ the manager said.

  You’re a bloody liar! Paniatowski thought, as she stepped out of the lift.

  Room 316 was a single room, with a single chair, and the moment Paniatowski entered the room, the chief constable stood up, indicated that she should take the seat, and perched himself on the edge of the bed.

  It was a nice gesture, she thought, and, in fact, Keith Pickering was a nice man. But he was also the chief constable, who thought in terms of overall crime figures, while she was a chief inspector who thought – sometimes obsessively – about catching specific murderers. They were from two different worlds, and when those worlds touched – be it ever so briefly – it was wise to tread carefully, while grabbing every advantage from the situation that you possibly could.

  ‘I didn’t want to make my presence in the hotel too obvious, but I thought we should have a chat before you began your investigation, Monika,’ Pickering said. ‘You know what this is about, don’t you?’

  Rule number one in the chief inspectors’ survival handbook: don’t let the brass get away with putting their words in your mouth – make them spell out what they want said themselves.

  ‘No, sir, I really don’t know what it’s about,’ Paniatowski said.

  Pickering frowned. ‘Most of the people who matter in this town use this hotel,’ he said. ‘They use it because of its high standards of comfort and service, and because it is … discreet.’

  ‘You mean, they use it when they fancy having a bit on the side?’ Paniatowski asked.

  The frown deepened.

  ‘There are a number of reasons why they might not wish their presence here to be public knowledge,’ Pickering said evasively.

  Paniatowski said nothing.

  ‘It is possible that your investigation will uncover some of these … these … shall we call them assignations?’

  ‘Yes, let’s call them that by all means, sir,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘And if any of these … err …’

  ‘Assignations?’

  ‘Assignations are relevant to the investigation, I would naturally expect you to follow them through.’

  Another pause.

  Another chance for Paniatowski to say something.

  She decided not to avail herself of it.

  ‘But if these assignations prove to have no relevance to the case, I would not like to see matters go any further.’

  ‘In other words, having dug them up, you’d like me to drop them back in the hole from whence they came,’ Paniatowski said.

  Pickering studied her for a moment – as if suspecting her of taking the piss – then said, ‘You’ve got it in one, Monika.’

  She could see his point, especially since members of the police authority – which held his future in its hands – were likely some of the ‘people who mattered’ using the Royal Vic for their dalliances.

  ‘Well?’ Pickering asked.

  ‘I’m not in the morality police, sir,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘If it’s not illegal, then it’s none of my business.’

  ‘That’s very understanding of you.’

  ‘And I hope you’d be equally understanding, sir, if one of my team was ever in a similar situation.’

  ‘Are you thinking of anyone in particular?’ Pickering asked.

  Yes, Paniatowski thought, I am thinking of Kate Meadows who, sooner or later, is bound to be a guest in an S&M club when it’s raided by some overzealous superintendent from the uniformed branch.

  ‘No, sir, I’m talking hypothetically,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Well then, hypothetically, I promise to be very understanding,’ Pickering said.

  Mansfield and Meadows were waiting for her by the lift. The manager looked relieved to see her finally appear, as if he had found his time alone with the sergeant to be something of a strain – which was quite a common reaction among people Meadows had taken a dislike to.

  They rode the lift to the sixth floor, and when the lift doors opened, they stepped out into a corridor in which the carpeting was thicker than that on the third floor and the paintings on the walls much more valuable.

  A uniformed constable, on duty outside the suite, saluted when he saw the chief inspector.

  Paniatowski turned to the manager. ‘Thank you, Mr Mansfield, you can go now,’ she said.

  ‘Go?’ Mansfield repeated, ‘but don’t you want me to …?’

  ‘No,’ Paniatowski said firmly. ‘But I would appreciate it if you made yourself available in case we do need you.’

  The manager turned reluctantly to the lift.

  ‘He’s really shitting himself, isn’t he?’ Meadows said, as the lift began its descent.

  ‘Wouldn’t you – in his situation?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘No,’ Meadows replied.

  And that was probably true, Paniatowski thought, because Meadows had a certainty and self-assurance that she herself could only envy.

  ‘Shall we go and look at the body?’ she suggested.

  ‘Seems like a good idea to me,’ Meadows replied.

  The Princess Beatrice suite (where Pani
atowski had once spent a gruelling hour of bluff and double-bluff with a hard-faced member of the intelligence service) was based on the decor of Osborne House, Queen Victoria’s home on the Isle of Wight.

  The Prince Alfred suite, named after her younger son, had taken its inspiration from quite another source – Balmoral Castle, the queen’s residence in Scotland – and here there was a definite Highland theme.

  Pictures of the Scottish glens hung at intervals on the walls, punctuated by bagpipes, claymores and kilts. A stag’s head stared – glassy-eyed – at the fireplace across the room.

  The fireplace itself was made up of large blocks of granite, and had been cunningly and painstakingly constructed to suggest that the whole thing had been hastily cobbled together by one of the queen’s Scottish ghillies. It was intended to dominate the room, and most of the time it would, no doubt, do just that. On this occasion, however, the centre of attention was unquestionably the dead woman in the wing-backed armchair near the writing desk.

  At first glance, Paniatowski thought, the woman could easily have been taken for a drunk who had simply collapsed backwards into the chair, and then been unable – or unwilling – to shift into a more conventional position. But drunks did not stare out at the world through eyes as cold and glassy as those of the dead stag on the wall. Nor did their chests show absolutely no sign of movement. And – usually – drunks did not have large indentations on the foreheads, around the edge of which splinters of the frontal bone were coyly peeping out.

  She examined the wound clinically and without emotion. Unless the victim was a child, it was always easy to be unemotional at the beginning, she thought. It was only later – when you’d filled in some of the details of the corpse’s personality – that you ceased to regard what you’d been looking at as just a piece of meat, and started to see a real person who had been robbed of his or her precious life.

  Paniatowski took a step backward. The dead woman was in her late thirties, she guessed. Her hair was light brown, and set in tightly permed curls, but it was skewed – slightly oddly – to the side.

  ‘She’s wearing a wig,’ Meadows said.

  ‘Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘she is.’

  The corpse was dressed in a brown skirt and white blouse.

  ‘Have you got anything to say about her clothing, Kate?’ Paniatowski asked Meadows.

  ‘It’s reasonable quality, but not too expensive,’ Meadows replied. ‘It’s very respectable.’

  Paniatowski gave a half-grin. Of all the people she worked with, only Meadows could make ‘respectable’ sound almost an insult, she thought.

  ‘They’re the sort of clothes an office worker might buy,’ Meadows continued. ‘My guess is that she picked them up at Marks and Sparks, or one of the local chain stores.’

  ‘You’d think a woman who could afford this suite would spend more on her clothes,’ Paniatowski mused. She turned her attention to the corpse’s face. ‘Does anything strike you about the way she’s applied her make-up?’

  Meadows thought about it. ‘She’s not made the best of herself,’ she said finally.

  ‘Exactly,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘She’s got oval eyes and cheekbones most women would kill for, but she hasn’t highlighted either of them. In fact, she’s gone in just the other direction.’

  ‘It was the absolutely the wrong thing to do – but she didn’t do it because she knew no better,’ Meadows said. ‘She achieved exactly the look she wanted – and that took considerable skill.’

  Paniatowski nodded. She’d thought much the same herself, but it was good to have it confirmed by her sergeant, because, in her off-duty hours, Meadows became Zelda, an S&M goddess – and she really knew about make-up.

  ‘So why did she do it that way?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Because she wanted to disguise herself.’

  ‘Is she on the run, do you think?’

  ‘I’d very much doubt it. People on the run like to keep themselves well below the radar – and you don’t do that by booking into the second most expensive suite in the best hotel in Whitebridge.’

  ‘But if she’s not on the run, why bother with a disguise at all?’ Paniatowski asked.

  She walked over to the large Victorian desk which dominated one half of the sitting room, and which, unlike the examples of Victoriana on the lower floors, was the genuine article.

  Someone – almost definitely either the dead woman or her killer – had placed a large brown handbag in the centre of the desk, and Paniatowski began carefully unpacking it and laying the contents on the desk.

  There were the usual things they might have expected to find: compact, mascara, nail file, lipstick, cigarettes, matches and tampons. In addition, there were several pens in a variety of colours and A.C. Brownley’s A Short Guide to the Historic Mills of Whitebridge.

  ‘No rubbers,’ Meadows said.

  ‘Would you expect there to be?’

  ‘I think so. Most women who are promiscuous carry sheaths around with them, because you can’t rely on the men to provide them.’

  ‘How do you know she was promiscuous?’ Paniatowski asked.

  Meadows shrugged. ‘I just do. I can feel it. It’s a gift I have.’

  Paniatowski examined the wallet next. It contained a hundred and ten pounds and some loose change – and that was all.

  ‘What do you keep in your wallet, Kate?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Driving license, credit cards, photographs—’ Meadows began.

  ‘Photographs!’ Paniatowski repeated.

  She hadn’t meant to interrupt like that, but the idea of Meadows carrying something as personal as photographs of other human beings around with her was almost incredible.

  ‘Not me,’ Meadows said, hastily backtracking. ‘I don’t carry photos myself, but I believe that most people do.’ She paused. ‘Maybe the silly girl kept all her documentation together, in the desk drawer.’

  Paniatowski tried the desk drawer, half-expecting it to be locked, but it slid open easily.

  A quick examination of the contents was enough to explain why Mary Edwards hadn’t bothered to lock it. The drawer contained paper clips, rubber bands, a number of pens (each one with a different coloured ink), and a notebook.

  What is this thing she had with multicolours? Paniatowski wondered, as she flicked through the notebook, only to discover that it had never been used.

  ‘See if you can find the wall safe, Kate,’ she said.

  Meadows – who would have made an excellent criminal – quickly located the safe. It was behind a large painting of Whitebridge Moor in the pale moonlight, the work of a local artist who was becoming quite fashionable in London and New York, but who the sergeant – who had once had a modest art collection of her own – considered to be grossly overrated.

  The safe, like the desk drawer, was not locked, and contained nothing at all – not even a coloured pen.

  ‘Maybe she put everything in the main hotel safe,’ Meadows suggested.

  Maybe she had, Paniatowski agreed silently, though her gut was telling her that the killer – for reasons of his own that she couldn’t even begin to guess at yet – had removed all the victim’s documentation. Her gut further added – almost by way of a footnote – that this was going to be one of those cases that twisted and turned right in on itself, and that until the case was solved – if it was ever solved – most of the information that they managed to collect during the course of the investigation would make no sense at all.

  ‘Go and ask your mate the manager what – if anything – she’s handed in to him for safekeeping,’ she told her sergeant.

  ‘Will do,’ Meadows said – and as she stepped into the corridor, she saw Dr Shastri getting out of the lift.

  Dr Shastri was dressed in one of the colourful saris which she wore throughout the year – whatever the outside temperature – and the only evidence that she was a doctor at all was the stethoscope around her neck and the rubber gloves she was holding in her hands.

/>   ‘Ah, another day, another victim,’ she said chirpily to Paniatowski, ‘and once more, my dear Monika, you will be expecting me to take one brief glace at the victim and then immediately tell you the murderer’s height and weight, his colouring – and what he had for breakfast.’

  Paniatowski grinned. ‘His name and address would be even better, doc,’ she said.

  ‘And how are your two darling boys?’ Shastri asked.

  Paniatowski marvelled at the light tone to the doctor’s words. It was almost as if she knew nothing at all about the violent, brutal way in which the twins had been conceived, though the fact was that – as far as Paniatowski was aware – Shastri was the only one who did know the truth.

  ‘The boys are fine,’ Paniatowski said, certain that, although she did not appear to be, Shastri was listening very carefully to the nuances in her words and reading her facial expression as she said them.

  ‘Good,’ Shastri said, so briskly that Paniatowski had no idea what her assessment might have been. The doctor glanced across at the armchair. ‘Is this the victim?’

  Paniatowski grinned again, partly with relief at getting off the subject of the twins and back to business.

  ‘Is that the victim?’ she repeated. ‘You’re supposed to be the medic – you tell me.’

  Shastri walked over to the chair. ‘Well, the cause of death looks simple enough,’ she said.

  ‘Was she standing when she was attacked?’

  ‘From the position in which she now rests, I would say that she almost definitely was.’

  So the victim had been looking at her killer, and must have seen the weapon in his hand – but she hadn’t been frightened, otherwise she would have tried to escape. And what that suggested was that she knew her murderer, and had been confident that he would never carry out the threat which the weapon he was holding had implied.

  Well, she’d certainly been wrong about that!

  Shastri slipped on her gloves, placed one hand each side of the victim’s face, and moved the head slightly to the left and then slightly to the right.

  ‘Rigor mortis has not even begun to set in yet,’ she said, ‘which means, given the ambient temperature, that she was killed not more than three hours ago – and possibly much less than that.’