Supping with the Devil Read online

  The estate manager shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘If all goes as planned, we should certainly not make a loss.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ the dowager countess said triumphantly. ‘This whole disaster is not to raise revenue at all – it is to indulge the decadent tastes that you, Gervaise, have developed since your breakdown.’

  ‘Mother …’ the earl pleaded.

  ‘Your father would never have done anything like this, but then your father was a real man. Do you know, there are times when I wish that it had been your brother who inherited the title?’

  ‘Do you really think Sebastian would have made a better earl than I have?’ her son asked.

  The dowager countess hesitated for a moment, as if she were tempted to say ‘yes’, but then, realizing how ridiculous that would sound – even to her – she said, ‘At least your brother has never been locked up in a lunatic asylum.’ She turned to face her daughter-in-law. ‘I blame you for this.’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ the earl protested. ‘It’s nothing to do with Katerina. It was all my idea.’

  ‘Well, of course it was all your idea,’ the dowager countess said with contempt. ‘I may not have the highest opinion of your wife, but I know she would never have come up with such an insane scheme herself.’ She stood, using his arms to jack herself into an upright position. ‘The reason I blame you, Katerina, is because you did not talk him out of it – which is what any true countess would have done in your situation.’ She shrugged. ‘But then, I suppose that since you are not only from the lower orders but also a foreigner, I should not expect much from you.’

  She reached for her stick and hobbled away.

  ‘I am so, so sorry, my dear,’ the earl said to his wife.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Katerina said. ‘She is old, and she is in pain, and it does not really bother me.’

  But it did – the earl could see that it did.

  He turned to his estate manager. ‘And I must apologize to you, also, Mr Bell. You should not have had to hear that.’

  Bell smiled. ‘You should know by now, sir, that members of my family never hear what the earl does not want them to hear,’ he said.

  The rot had started to set in the day they had found Jo Baxter’s body out there on the cold, bleak moors, Monika Paniatowski thought, as she stood in the chief constable’s outer office and waited to be summoned to the inner sanctum.

  The coroner had ruled that Jo’s death had been an accident – that having inadvertently drunk more than she should have done, she had miscalculated a bend and come off the road. Yet few of the people who had observed the Baxters’ crumbling marriage – and suspected they knew why it was crumbling – had ever taken that particular verdict seriously.

  Before Jo’s death, Baxter and Paniatowski had been able, more or less, to put the past behind them – to ignore the fact that, long ago and in a different county across the Pennines, they had once been lovers – and deal with each on a professional basis. But just as overturning her car had killed Jo, so it had overturned the sometimes uneasy relationship which Paniatowski and Baxter had built up between them, and now – from Baxter’s viewpoint, at least – they were almost at war.

  The green light on the office doorpost came on, and Paniatowski knocked and entered.

  Baxter was sitting at his desk, bent over a sheaf of papers, and for at least half a minute he ignored her.

  Finally, he looked up.

  ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector,’ he said, in a voice which told her nothing at all. ‘What do you know about the events which are about to take place at Stamford Hall?’

  ‘Only what I’ve read in the general memo you sent round,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘And could you tell me what the memo said?’

  Is this some sort of test? Paniatowski asked herself. Have we sunk to such a low level of pettiness?

  ‘There’s going to be a big rock concert held in the grounds of Stamford Hall,’ she said aloud.

  ‘It’s a rock festival,’ Baxter said, as if he’d scored a point by correcting her. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Based on advance ticket sales, they’re expecting a hundred thousand people to turn up, though there may be more.’

  ‘Exactly. A hundred thousand people. That’s more or less equal to the population of Whitebridge. Just controlling the traffic flow will be a major exercise in logistics.’

  Why is he telling me all this, she wondered. Since it’s nothing to do with me – and since he can barely stand to be in the same room as me these days – why are we even having this conversation?

  ‘DCS Holmes will be in overall charge of the traffic flow, and will also be responsible for policing at the camp site and the catering and toilet facilities. But those are all outside the grounds, and unfortunately, he will not be allowed to police the actual estate itself.’

  ‘What’s stopping him?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘The earl,’ Baxter replied.

  ‘I know the Hall is private property, but if we suspect a crime is being committed, or may be about to be committed, then we have the legal right to enter the property.’

  ‘You’d think that would be the case, wouldn’t you?’ Baxter agreed. ‘But according to a royal charter which was granted to the 3rd earl, nobody – and I mean nobody – has the right to enter the grounds without the explicit permission of the earl himself.’

  ‘But surely that charter is hundreds of years old, and must be out of date by now.’

  Baxter shook his head.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t out of date, couldn’t we simply have it repealed?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘We could certainly try, but the whole process would take at least two years, and require a specific act of parliament which would have to be passed by both the lower house and upper house.’

  She still couldn’t see why she was there, what she was expected to say, or how she was expected to contribute.

  ‘The earl has agreed, in the interest of not appearing unreasonable, to allow one officer from this force inside the walls,’ Baxter continued. ‘That officer will give the estate manager, Edward Bell, whatever help or advice he requests, and may act as an observer.’

  ‘But why I am here?’ a voice nagged at the back of Paniatowski’s mind. ‘Why am I here?’

  ‘I’m sure DCS Holmes has a number of officers who would fill that role very well,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure he has,’ Baxter agreed, ‘but I’ve decided to use someone from your team.’

  That seemed a little odd, Paniatowski thought, but her team was not, at that moment, involved in any major investigations, and if it was what Baxter wanted …

  ‘I could spare you DC Crane,’ she said. ‘He’s well-educated and very diplomatic, and I’m sure he’ll find the experience interesting. But if there’s a murder, I’ll need him back right away.’

  Baxter smiled. It was a grim, joyless smile, and she realized that for the previous ten minutes he had been playing with her like a particularly merciless cat might play with a very helpless mouse.

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,’ he said. ‘When I told you I wanted a member of your team, what I meant was, I want you.’

  She should have seen it coming, but she hadn’t – and it felt like a slap in the face.

  ‘It’s not really my area of expertise, sir,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in the CID for most of my career. I would have thought someone from the uniformed branch would be better equipped to handle it.’

  ‘Would you, Chief Inspector?’ Baxter asked. ‘Well, you’re certainly entitled to think whatever you wish to think, but I’m telling you that I’ve decided, as chief constable, that I’d like you to do it.’

  Giving her a menial task well below her proven abilities was meant to humiliate her. But it could be worse, she consoled herself. It would only be four or five days work, and since the job at the Hall seemed to be, in fact, a non-job, she could run her team almost as well as if she was at headquarters.

 
; ‘You start this afternoon,’ Baxter said.

  ‘But the concert’s not for a couple more days,’ Paniatowski said, ‘and it seems as if I’ll have very little to do, anyway.’

  ‘If the wheels come off on this thing – and they well might – I don’t want anyone saying that it only happened because I sent my officer in too late,’ Baxter told her.

  There was nothing for it but to bow to the inevitable.

  ‘Very well, if you insist,’ she said.

  ‘While you’re away, your team will be temporarily reassigned to DCI Wellbeloved,’ Baxter told her.

  ‘Who the hell is DCI Wellbeloved?’ Paniatowski demanded.

  ‘He’s just been transferred to the patch from Honnerton. He’s an impressive young man, by all accounts, and working with DI Beresford for a while will be an excellent way to acclimatize him to the job.’

  ‘But I’ll be away for less than a week,’ Paniatowski pointed out. ‘That won’t be anything like long enough for DCI Wellbeloved to come to grips with how we work in Mid Lancs. It would make a lot more sense to give him a permanent team of his own.’

  ‘You’ll be away for less than a week, will you?’ asked Baxter, with a hint of mock surprise in his voice. ‘Who said anything about less than a week?’

  ‘That’s how long I’ll need to be up at Stamford Hall. You’re not suggesting I stay there longer than that, are you?’

  ‘No, that would be a waste of valuable police time.’

  ‘Well, then …’

  ‘But the RockStately Festival isn’t the only event that will be taking place this August. Even just off the top of my head, I can think of half a dozen more. There’s the Bryston Medieval Fayre, the Conglebury International Folk Gathering …’

  ‘You’re surely not saying …’

  ‘The experience you gain at Stamford Hall will be invaluable when you’re working on these other gatherings, and by the end of the summer, you will have become a real expert in the field of outdoor events.’

  Baxter didn’t just want to punish her, she realized. He wasn’t merely taking malicious glee in making her life uncomfortable. He was trying to destroy her.

  ‘I wish to register the strongest possible protest at being given an assignment of this nature, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Your protest is noted, and will be duly recorded,’ the chief constable told her. ‘You may go now, Chief Inspector.’

  TWO

  Spike, sitting with his back resting against an ancient oak tree and his legs stretched out in front of him, was watching the centre of the forest clearing with the same look of anticipation on his face as that of a small, excited child seeing the circus for the first time.

  The focus of his attention was Badger, who had driven a thick wooden post into the ground a couple of minutes earlier, and was now standing aggressively in front of it.

  To Badger, the post was no longer a post at all, Spike thought – it was a Red Dragon or a Black Mountain Banshee or a member of any of the other ten or twelve rival motorcycle gangs with whom the Devil’s Disciples were almost permanently at war.

  Badger reached into his pocket, and pulled out the bicycle chain which he had modified by welding short pieces of pointed metal into some of the links. For perhaps half a minute, he swung the chain, almost lackadaisically, from side to side. Then the serious business began, and he started to arc it through the air, tracing out elaborate and highly controlled patterns as he did so.

  Spike risked taking his eyes off the spectacle for the few seconds it took him to light a cigarette.

  He had been a member of the Devil’s Disciples Motorcycle Gang for over two years. During that time he had been in a dozen pitched battles with rival gangs. He had taken part in perhaps fifty gang-bangs involving girls who were no great beauties, but were (usually) more or less willing participants. He had sold a little marijuana, acted as a heavy for debt collectors, and – when money had been particularly short, or one of the gang members needed expensive work doing on his machine – had even indulged in a few burglaries.

  He loved being a Devil’s Disciple. It could be hard in winter, living in squats with broken windows and no electricity – but in some ways that merely reaffirmed the outlaw status.

  He liked the other Devil’s Disciples, too. Some of them were barely literate and totally ignorant of the world beyond their own narrow sphere. Their conversation was limited, their intellectual curiosity non-existent. But they didn’t bully him, as the well-educated, over-privileged boys had done at school. No, to them he was a brother-in-arms – and they would take a beating for him as readily as he would take a beating for any one of them.

  But the best thing about the gang was Badger. He was the leader not because he was the oldest member of the Devil’s Disciples – though he probably was. Nor was he the toughest member – he was hard enough, but straight off the top of his head, Spike could think of at least half a dozen Devil’s Disciples who were harder. No, he was the leader simply because he had a natural talent for leading.

  He had become almost a father-figure to the younger man, and though he could sometimes treat Spike unfairly, and even vindictively, Spike knew that, deep down, Badger cared about him – and how many men could say that of their real fathers?

  As if he was suddenly tired of the game, Badger let the chain fall slack against his leg, turned his back on the wooden post, and took two steps towards the edge of the clearing.

  He really looked like he was leaving, thought Spike – but the truth was, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  When Badger did make his move, it came so fast that it was almost a blur. One moment he had his back to the post and was at least three paces from it, the next he was in a crouch, now closer to the post and facing it again, but a little to the side. As he straightened up, he swung the chain, and the cruel metal barbs embedded themselves in the wood at head height.

  Badger took a step back to admire his work, and then – gently and almost lovingly – eased the chain free of the post.

  On one level, the practice had been just what it appeared to be, Spike thought – a warrior honing his skills. But on another level, it had been a performance, designed to impress the bald, fat man who was standing at the opposite edge of the clearing.

  The bald man puzzled Spike, because the Devil’s Disciples normally had nothing to do with civilians, yet this was the second time this particular one had put in an appearance.

  The first time is at a transport café on the A49. The Disciples have been there for around ten minutes. When they first arrived, there were plenty of other civilians around, but the sight of forty-three members of a motorcycle gang descending on the place is enough to make them all run for cover.

  It is always like that. The café owners do not want to serve them, but they are afraid of what the Disciples will do if they refuse, so they try to look as if they are delighted to see their new customers, all the while praying that they won’t stay too long or do too much damage.

  The bald man in a scruffy suit arrives just after the Disciples. He does not seem the least put off by their presence. In fact, he walks straight over to the table where Badger is eating his eggs and chips, and says, as bold as brass, ‘I’d like a word with you.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Badger replies. ‘And why would you like it with me, rather than any of the other lads?’

  ‘Because you’re the boss,’ the bald man says flatly.

  Badger looks down quizzically at the right-hand lapel of his battered leather jacket.

  ‘Of course I’m the boss,’ he agrees. ‘That’s what it says on my badge. Except there is no badge, is there?’

  ‘I know that you’re the boss because I’ve been watching you,’ the bald man says.

  Badger’s eyes narrow. ‘Been watching us?’ he says. ‘How long has this been going on?’

  The bald man sighs. ‘Does it really matter how long I’ve been doing it?’ he asks. ‘Look, I can walk away, if that’s what you want me to do, but if I was you, I�
�d be curious as to why somebody who obviously isn’t a copper would spend so much time studying me.’

  Badger thinks about it for a second, then stands up. ‘We’ll talk outside,’ he says.

  The two of them go out on to the forecourt, and are deep in conversation for about five minutes, then the bald man gets into his car and drives off.

  Badger comes back into the café and complains to the manager that his eggs and chips are cold. The manager could point out that the only reason they’ve gone cold is because he’s left them for so long, but he realizes that wouldn’t exactly be the smartest move he’s ever made in his life, and he tells the cook to make up another plate on the house.

  None of the other Devil’s Disciples ask Badger what the bald man wanted – you don’t question the leader – and Badger himself says nothing at all about the encounter.

  Badger slipped his lethal bicycle chain back in his pocket, and walked back across the clearing to rejoin the bald man. They talked for over half an hour. Each of them, at some point in their discussion, waved his arms in the air in an extravagant – and possibly frustrated – gesture. Several times, they turned to look in the general direction of Spike’s tent. Then, finally, they shook hands – Badger had shaken hands with a civilian! Spike thought, shocked – and the bald man disappeared into the woods, heading for the road.

  Badger crossed the camp again, passing Devil’s Disciples tinkering with their machines and Devil’s Disciples playing cards or drinking, and came to a halt in front of Spike’s tent.

  Spike looked up at him. The leader’s long black hair had become dishevelled during his practice with the bike chain, but now he had combed it carefully back into place, so the streak of white hair ran directly across the centre of his head.

  ‘How are you doing today, young Spike?’ Badger asked. ‘Are you fighting fit?’

  ‘I’ve never been better, Badger,’ Spike replied.