Thicker Than Water Read online

  ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Ignore it,’ Lillian repeated, locking her ankles tightly together in the small of his back.

  ‘I really can’t,’ Beresford told her, gently pushing her thighs apart and slipping free.

  Bloody idiot! he told himself as he dressed. If you hadn’t been so keen to show off with your over-elaborate foreplay, you’d have reached the grand finale long before your beeper went off.

  But by the time he reached his car, he was thinking neither of his missed opportunity in the bedroom nor of the killing in the posh part of town. He had, instead, turned his thoughts to Monika Paniatowski. They had been friends for a long time – since he was a fresh-faced constable and she was a very determined DS – and he loved her with a love that was only occasionally tinged by the fact that he also fancied the hell out of her. And because he loved her, he worried about her.

  He did not know who the father of her twins was, and though he was dying to ask, he had always restrained himself. But their parentage was not really the main issue, he’d decided. What really mattered was Monika’s attitude to Philip and Thomas. Most of the time, she seemed like a typical new mother – fussing over them, fretting about them. And if there were also times when she seemed to resent the fact they had taken much of her freedom away, well, that was normal, too. But what really – really – disturbed him was that, once or twice, he had caught her looking at the twins with a look in her eyes that could only be described as fearful – and why should anybody be afraid of two little babies?

  The hallway of No. 7 Milliners’ Row was large enough to throw a fairly impressive party in. It was tiled with granite, and there was a broad spiral staircase at the far end of it which led to the upper storey.

  The lounge – though probably, in a mansion like this, they should call it the reception room – opened off the hallway. It was as large as the whole of Paniatowski’s ground floor, and was laid with a polished hardwood which had probably cost as much as her entire house.

  Jane Danbury was lying on a large Persian rug in the centre of the room, halfway between a four-seater leather sofa and the marble fireplace. Her face was buried in the rug, and her arms were stretched out in front of her. The upper part of her skull – which, inevitably, the eyes were drawn to first – was a scramble of brains and bone. The parts of the rug close to her head were soaked in blood. Looking up, Paniatowski could find no sign of bloodstains on the ceiling, but that was probably because it was much higher than the usual domestic ceiling.

  ‘Oh dear, that really is rather unpleasant,’ Dr Shastri said, slipping on her overall in the doorway.

  Paniatowski ran her eyes up and down the rest of the dead woman’s body. Jane Danbury had been wearing a loose brown skirt and a fluffy pink sweater when she died. Both articles must have been expensive, but neither of them looked new. In other words, Jane had been wearing the comfortable, casual clothes that anyone might choose in their own home, and if the murderer had been a guest, it wasn’t a guest she’d been trying to impress.

  She’d not had a bad figure, either, Paniatowski had decided. The legs were good, and though the waist was not as narrow as it might once have been, well, how many women’s waists didn’t start to thicken a little when they hit their thirties? Perhaps the best way to describe her figure would be to call it curvaceous – except that it didn’t seem quite right to apply the term to a dead woman.

  Looking around the room, she saw something glinting in the corner, and when she got closer to it, she could see it was a heavy bronze figure which had clearly been flung across the room, hit the wall (there were indents in the plaster), and fallen to the floor.

  The statue was about twelve inches long, and had a square base. Paniatowski squatted down beside it. It was (she read on the base) a representation of Joe Louis, who had been world heavyweight boxing champion from 1937 to 1949. The base itself was heavily stained with blood.

  It was the second time in a year that she’d investigated a case in which the murder weapon had been a statue, she thought. In the first case, it had been a statue of Oscar Wilde, the Irish playwright. In this case it was the American pugilist. But what the weapons of choice had in common was that both murderers had been so enraged that they’d grabbed the first thing that would serve their purpose.

  She stood up again and walked over to the fireplace. On the mantelpiece were a number of other statues – the Duke of Wellington, Winston Churchill, Rocky Marciano, Joe DiMaggio …

  Most of the figures were evenly spaced along the shelf, but there was a significant gap between Churchill and Marciano. That, without a doubt, was where Joe Louis had stood until very recently.

  ‘I doubt very much if one blow, even delivered from a very strong man, could have produced this much damage,’ she heard Shastri say, from behind her.

  She turned around and saw that the doctor was kneeling beside the body.

  ‘So what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I can tell you what I think happened, but I may have to contradict some of what I have said – or perhaps even all of it – once I have conducted the post-mortem,’ Shastri cautioned.

  ‘I’d still like to hear it.’

  ‘This is where she was attacked, as is obvious from the blood spatter. The blow struck her on the back of the head, and she fell forward onto the rug.’

  ‘Was she still conscious after the first blow?’

  ‘The position of her arms would indicate that she was – that she did her best to try and break her fall. But I have seen corpses with a bullet through their brains in a similar position, and clearly, in their cases, they were dead before they even started to fall.’

  ‘So she might have been dead and she might have been alive, but whichever it was, he hit her again, to make sure?’

  ‘Exactly. And in order to deliver the other blows, he must have knelt down beside her.’

  ‘Other blows? You think there was more than one?’

  ‘As I told you, my dear Monika, until I have conducted a more detailed examination …’

  ‘That is what you think, isn’t it?’

  ‘The human skull is very tough, and the damage is extensive. It is possible it took only two blows, but I would guess it required three or four.’ Shastri paused. ‘I would also speculate that it must have been obvious to anyone – even someone with no medical training – that she was dead after the second blow.’

  ‘But he kept on hitting her.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  So what did she know? Paniatowski asked herself.

  She knew that the dead woman had felt secure enough to turn her back on her killer. She knew that the killer had not brought a weapon with him, but had improvised. And she knew that such was his rage that he’d kept on hitting her even after she was clearly dead.

  ‘Would he have got any blood on his clothes?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t see how he would have avoided it,’ Shastri replied.

  That would be a real break in most cases, because people out on the street noticed a man with blood on him. But in this case – on this road – he could have been soaked in blood from head to foot and the chances were that no one would have seen it.

  Inspector Flowers appeared in the doorway. ‘Dr Lucas is here, ma’am,’ she said. ‘He’s the family doctor, and he’d like to see Gretchen Müller.’

  ‘Does he know what’s happened?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Then why is he here?’

  ‘I … er … rang him.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘I rang him. I said we needed his help in a police matter, and he wasn’t to discuss it with anyone.’

  ‘And why would you have done that?’

  ‘Gretchen said she was feeling cold, and asked to see her doctor. She’s entitled to request medical attention, and I thought it might complicate matters later if I refused.’

  It could well have done, Paniatowski thought, picturing a possible future courtroom scenario
in her mind.

  Paniatowski is in the witness box, and the barrister for the defence is about to question her.

  ‘Gretchen Müller’s statement was crucial to the way you investigated this case, wasn’t it, Chief Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘It was one of several leads we followed, yes.’

  ‘I put it to you it was your most important lead. I put it to you that without her statement you would never have embarked on the pursuit – and subsequent persecution – of my client.’

  ‘As I said, we had several leads.’

  ‘And this lead on which you built your case was provided by a woman who was not only confused, but actually unwell. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘She seemed rational enough, and clear enough in her own mind, when I questioned her.’

  ‘Isn’t it true, Chief Inspector, that Miss Müller was feeling so unwell that she asked to see a doctor?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly how unwell she was feeling, but yes, she did ask for a doctor.’

  ‘And you refused that request.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t like idea of the family doctor being involved,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Why didn’t you arrange for her to be taken down to Whitebridge General?’

  ‘I suggested that, and she was quite insistent that it was Dr Lucas – and only Dr Lucas – that she wanted to see. I can understand why she feels like that. He’s my doctor, as well, and he’s very sympathetic and understanding.’

  ‘But can we trust him?’

  ‘Definitely, ma’am. I’d stake my reputation on it.’

  ‘You just have,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Just outside the front door.’

  ‘Then I suppose I’d better talk to him.’ Paniatowski glanced down at her watch. ‘And where are the bloody social services?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’ve rung them again, and they swear they’re already on their way, ma’am,’ Inspector Flowers replied.

  Someone at the back of the room coughed, but the man standing at the front – and holding a sheaf of poems in his hand – decided to ignore it.

  ‘It leaves a trail of slime across my soul,’ he recited,

  ‘Like some terrestrial gastropod mollusc,

  High on drugs, and out for mischief.’

  DC Jack Crane paused, to give his audience in Rawtenstall Central Library’s Reading Room the opportunity to soak up the image. There’d been a time when what he’d produced had been much more lyrical, he thought, but the kind of work he was involved in now made it almost impossible for his imagination to generate images of skylarks and gently flowing water courses.

  ‘It chills my blood, it slows my heart … ’

  A sudden buzzing sound filled the library. The progressives in Crane’s (admittedly small) audience nodded their heads in approval at this bold use of sound effects during a performance. The traditionalists, in contrast, exchanged glances which said they could remember a time when young poets hadn’t felt the need to resort to gimmicks but had, instead, relied solely on the power of their words.

  Both groups looked a little disappointed when Crane stopped reading and said, ‘I’m sorry, that’s my beeper. I have to ring headquarters immediately.’

  ‘There’s a phone in the office you can use,’ the chairman said, ‘and if it turns out to be not as urgent as you seem to think it is, Mr Crane, then we’ll all be more than willing …’

  ‘It will be,’ Crane interrupted. ‘Thank you for having me. I’m sorry to have cut the reading short.’

  He left the room to a smattering of applause, which, given the circumstances, he thought was more than he deserved.

  On his way back to Whitebridge, he flicked the mental switch in his head, sending the poet into temporary oblivion and allowing the policeman space in which to work.

  It was good that the boss was back, he thought. The team needed her, because though it was a good team, it had its weaknesses, and those weaknesses had to be controlled.

  Colin Beresford, though a solid, hard-working – sometimes even inspired – bobby, was not above occasionally letting his prejudice for old-fashioned ways and attitudes colour his interpretation of the facts.

  Kate Meadows, who had a real flair for the work, could sometimes be a loose cannon, trampling on rules and regulations as if she thought they did not actually apply to her.

  And what of Jack Crane, MA (Oxon.)? he asked himself with a rueful grin.

  Well, he thought that Jack Crane was pretty near perfect, except for those times when the boss pointed out that he wasn’t and – faced with the evidence – he felt obliged to agree with her.

  Dr Lucas was of medium height, no more than a few pounds overweight, and in his middle-to-late thirties. Very few women would have called him a handsome man, but even fewer would have been willing to condemn him as ugly. He had intelligent brown eyes and a mouth which could probably deliver a caring, sympathetic smile, but now the eyes were troubled and the mouth had the downturn of a very worried man.

  ‘Liz Flowers asked me to come, but she wouldn’t tell me what it was about,’ he said to Paniatowski. ‘Has somebody been hurt? Is it Jane?’

  ‘Now why would you ask that?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘Isn’t that obvious? The police are here, and I’ve been summoned, so there must be something wrong,’ Lucas said.

  ‘What I meant was, why did you automatically assume it was Mrs Danbury who’d been hurt? After all, five people live in this house.’

  ‘I don’t know why I assumed it – I just did,’ Lucas said, unconvincingly.

  ‘As a matter of fact, you’re right, and it is Mrs Danbury who was hurt,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘I’m sure it was an accident,’ Lucas said.

  ‘An accident?’ Paniatowski repeated quizzically. ‘And you can say that without even examining her, can you?’

  ‘He won’t have meant it,’ Dr Lucas said in a rush. ‘He just doesn’t know his own …’

  ‘Go on,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘I think I’ve said more than enough,’ Lucas replied, his voice turning into a mere mumble.

  ‘Are you telling me that you know who might have accidentally hurt Mrs Danbury?’

  ‘No, of course not. How could I know that?’

  The time for verbal fencing was over, Paniatowski decided.

  ‘So you’ve no idea who could have smashed in her skull with a bronze statuette?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Lucas moaned. ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘You’re a doctor – what do you think?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘William would never have done that. I swear to God he wouldn’t have.’

  ‘And by William, you mean William Danbury, her husband, do you?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Look, I don’t think you’re being fair,’ Lucas said, evading the question. ‘You asked me to come here in my capacity as the family doctor, and if there’s nothing for me to do as the family doctor, then I think I’d like to leave.’

  ‘But there is something for you to do as the family doctor,’ Paniatowski said. ‘One of your patients, Gretchen Müller, has asked to see you.’

  ‘Is she the one who …?’

  ‘Yes, she’s the one who found the body.’

  ‘Poor Gretchen,’ Lucas said. ‘That must have been terrible for a young woman like her. Where is she?’

  ‘Before I let you see her, I want to be sure that you’re capable of dealing with her in a professional manner.’

  ‘Well, of course I am – I’m a doctor.’

  ‘You’re also a friend of the family, so Jane Danbury’s death must have come as a great shock to you.’

  ‘Death always comes as a shock, even in my business,’ Lucas said. ‘But Jane wasn’t exactly a close friend. I knew her, of course – I quite liked her – but my friend, who I’ve known since primary school, is William.’ He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. ‘I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of treating Gretchen. In fact, it
is my duty to do so.’

  ‘All right,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But you are not to discuss anything that has happened here with her, and if she requires anything more than a mild sedative, you are to consult me first. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Dr Lucas said.

  DS Kate Meadows was no snob. It didn’t matter to her whether the man wielding the whip or receiving the lash himself was a coal miner (and there had been several of those) or a high-flying barrister (a breed who, she had found, seemed to be both particularly drawn to S and M and, despite her obvious lack of interest in it, keen to talk about their work). What did matter to her was how inventive those fleeting partners were, and whether they could accurately judge the thin line of pleasure that lay between mild enough to be positively dull and extreme enough to draw blood.

  Her partner that night (who, like all the others, had been reached through an anonymous advertisement in a contact magazine), definitely belonged at the upper reaches of the social scale, and had been most unusually creative, possibly as a result of experiences he’d endured in one of England’s finer public schools. But now it was all over, and it was time to leave both him and the Grand Hotel, Lancaster, well behind her.

  The man, who claimed that his name was Robert – as if names mattered to her, one way or the other! – lay contentedly in the hotel bed, watching her getting dressed, and as she was about to go, he said, ‘Well, that was jolly good, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘it was.’

  ‘So why don’t we do it again?’ he suggested.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Meadows said, adjusting her spiked purple Zelda wig in the mirror.

  ‘Why not?’ the man asked, with a slight edge of hurt creeping into his voice.

  Meadows sighed.

  ‘It was great tonight, but the next time it wouldn’t be quite as good, and after that …’

  She let her voice trail off, hoping he’d got the point.

  ‘I’m not so sure you’re right there,’ he said. ‘If we both worked at it – if we both wanted it to work …’

  That was the trouble with some men, she thought. They simply couldn’t be detached. They refused to see that sex, on the one hand, and real life and relationships, on the other, were entirely different things, and that if you mixed them together you were asking for trouble.