The Dead Hand of History Read online

  ‘That’s right,’ Paniatowski agreed evenly. ‘And not just Mr Woodend’s – my old haunt, as well.’

  She turned and began to climb the bank again. Walker and Crane watched her until she reached the top.

  Only when she had finally disappeared from view did Walker allow himself to chuckle.

  ‘See the look on her face when I said the scum of the earth live on the Pinchbeck Estate?’ he asked Crane.

  ‘Yes, she did look a bit taken aback,’ Crane admitted. ‘But I thought she rallied very well.’

  ‘She was gutted!’ Walker said firmly. ‘Because she knows I’m right, and she knows that I know that she’s one of them.’

  ‘One of them?’

  ‘What is it they say – you can take the woman out of the council estate, but you can never take the council estate out of the woman? So don’t let that smooth exterior fool you, Jack, because deep inside herself she’s still wearing plastic curlers in her hair and robbing the electricity meter.’

  ‘If you feel like that about her, why don’t you put in for a transfer?’ Crane wondered.

  ‘Because I won’t let her get away with things – and the feller who replaced me just might.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you,’ Crane said.

  ‘Then you must be thicker than you look,’ Walker told him. ‘So let me explain it to you another way. I didn’t much like being at school, and I could hardly wait till I turned fifteen and could leave. And if you look through the records of any good bobby, you’ll find pretty much the same story.’

  He paused, as if waiting for Crane to challenge the statement.

  ‘I couldn’t wait to leave either,’ Crane replied.

  Walker nodded approvingly. ‘Good for you. Anyway, as I was saying, most of my teachers were shit, and they’d tell you any old rubbish as long as they got paid at the end of the month. But there was one thing I did like – a poem about a Roman feller called Horatius.’

  ‘Oh, I remember that myself, Sarge,’ Crane said. ‘He was a Roman warrior, and when the Etruscans tried to invade Rome—’

  ‘I’m telling this story, lad,’ Walker said harshly.

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

  ‘Anyway, these other wops were attacking Rome, you see, and the Romans weren’t ready for them. But in order to get into the city, the invaders had to cross this bridge. And that’s where Horatius comes in. It’s a narrow bridge they have to cross, and Horatius stands in the middle of it – on his own – fighting off these other wops one at a time.’

  You’re forgetting Lartius and Herminius, who were standing beside him, Crane thought – but it obviously suited Walker’s purpose to ignore them, and he knew better than to interrupt again.

  ‘And while he’s killing these other wops, his mates behind him are demolishing the bridge,’ Walker continued. ‘In the end, the bridge collapses, Rome is saved and Horatius is a hero. Get the point now?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Crane admitted.

  ‘There’s an army marching on this Police Force, intent on destroying it. It’s being led by DCI Paniatowski, but there’s a barrowful of other bloody women behind her. And not just women! There’s Pakis and nignogs as well. And if she breaks through, how long do you think it will be before we have an Asian DCI?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Crane admitted. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Well, I have,’ Walker told him. ‘That’s why I’ve planted myself squarely in the middle of the bridge – to make sure she doesn’t get through.’

  TWO

  The bakers had been hard at work since five o’clock, the van drivers had reported for duty at half-past six. By seven o’clock, the first consignments of Brunskill’s Prize-Winning Bread were already sitting on the shelves of dozens of small shops in the Whitebridge area, ready to be picked up by shift men on their way home from work. And once that basic need had been met – once it was certain there would be fried bread for breakfast, and sliced bread for the kids’ dinner-time sandwiches – the bakery turned its focus onto its secondary business, the production of Brunskill’s Famous Meat Pies and Cornish Pasties.

  The office block was single-storey and was located at the far end of the bakery. It had two entrances, one for the clerical staff at the left-hand side, and one for the management at the right – and it was through the right-hand door that Elaine Dunston walked at just after a quarter-past eight.

  Once inside, she gazed around with the kind of masochistic expression on her face which said that she was hoping everything had miraculously changed overnight – but was virtually certain that it hadn’t.

  I’m right, she told herself, with grim satisfaction. Everything is still the bloody same!

  There was her own hateful desk – right in the foyer, where she was clearly on show for anyone who happened to walk in through the door.

  There was the office which Jenny Brunskill shared with her brother-in-law Stan, and which, because it had no access to outside light, had glass panels running from waist height to the ceiling.

  And there was her sister Linda’s office – the big chief’s office – with its imposing oak door.

  Jenny Brunskill was already at her desk, Elaine noted, but that was hardly surprising, either. She was always the first of the management team to arrive, and the last to leave. She just loved being a martyr to her work, and probably told herself that while Linda was undoubtedly the powerhouse who was driving the business on to bigger and better things, she was the one who did the spadework which ensured that these grand ideas actually worked out. Well, she could tell herself whatever she liked – but as far as Elaine was concerned, that didn’t make her commendable, it just made her a mug.

  Elaine sat down at her desk. She’d been a secretary before her marriage, but she’d hated it, and had got out of it as quickly as she could. She’d conned Eric Dunston into marrying her by telling him just one tiny little white lie about being pregnant, and once they were married she’d looked forward to never having to work again. But things had never been the same after she told Eric she’d lost the baby that she’d never actually been carrying. In the end, the bastard had run off with her hairdresser – which, since she’d been a good hairdresser, had been a double blow – and Elaine had found herself reluctantly back on the job market.

  The loud roaring sound in the car park announced the arrival of Jenny’s brother-in-law, Stan Szymborska, on his Honda CB 750. The bike was a continuing source of friction between Stan and his wife, and Linda’s harangues on the subject were a continuing source of pleasure for Elaine, whenever she was lucky enough to overhear them.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, still riding that big bike around?’ Linda would demand. ‘That’s the sort of thing you’d expect a kid to do. But you’re a company director, and you’re nearly fifty. Don’t you think it’s about time you started acting your age?’

  Stan would say nothing in reply, and though he was normally putty in his wife’s hands, on this one matter he refused to bend.

  Jenny, on the other hand, would speak volumes on the subject when Stan wasn’t there.

  ‘Stan was the youngest pilot in the Polish Air Force,’ she’d remind her older sister.

  ‘The war was over a long time ago,’ her sister would reply.

  ‘It might be for you and me, but I don’t think it seems that long ago to Stan,’ Jenny would counter. ‘And isn’t it only natural that he still gets a thrill out of speed?’

  Elaine lifted herself slightly from her seat, so that she could see into the glass-walled office.

  Jenny Brunskill was lighting a cigarette. She’d only started smoking recently – probably because she’d decided it would make her look older and more sophisticated – and she still wasn’t very good at it. Elaine waited until Jenny had inhaled and started to cough, then sank back down into her chair chuckling, just as the door opened and Stan Szymborska walked in.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Szymborska,’ Elaine said, with the cultivated brightness s
he used to mask the toad-like venom flowing through her veins. ‘And how are you today?’

  ‘Fine,’ Stan Szymborska grunted.

  Well, he didn’t look fine, Elaine thought, not without a certain degree of enjoyment. He looked as rough as anything, which meant he’d probably been at the Polish vodka again.

  She waited until Szymborska had entered his office, then reached out and clicked down the switch on the intercom.

  ‘Good morning, Stan,’ said a crackling voice through the speaker. ‘Gosh, you do look a little under the weather today.’

  ‘I’ve got a headache,’ Szymborska replied.

  And serves you right, too, thought Elaine, who, while she sometimes got a little squiffy herself, considered other people getting drunk to be extremely reprehensible.

  ‘Will Linda be arriving soon?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Stan demanded.

  Elaine chuckled again. Normally, they were so very polite to each other, but with Stan acting like a bear with a sore head, today might turn out to be a little more interesting.

  ‘I asked why you wanted to know,’ Stan said.

  ‘There’s . . . there’s just something I need to talk over with her.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ Stan asked, and even through the crackling speaker the suspicion in his voice came over loud and clear. ‘Something she’s been doing that I’m not supposed to know about?’

  Jenny laughed. ‘Now what could Linda possibly have been doing that you’re not supposed to know about?’

  But there was no return laugh from Stan. Instead his voice grew gruffer, and he said, ‘So if it’s not that, what is the problem?’

  ‘Sales are down,’ Jenny said.

  Elaine groaned. She’d been hoping for something dramatic – a nice juicy scandal – and all that bloody Jenny Brunskill was worried about was that sales were down!

  ‘So sales are down and you want to go running straight to your big sister with the bad news?’ Stan asked, almost contemptuously.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Jenny agreed. ‘Sales matter.’ She laughed again, to signal that a joke was on the way. ‘Making bread is how we make our bread and butter, you know.’

  Pathetic, Elaine thought. Really pathetic!

  ‘Well, should we be expecting Linda soon?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A sigh from Jenny. ‘I suppose what I’ve really been asking, in a roundabout sort of way, is if she was about ready to leave home when you set off yourself?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But she must know we’ve got an appointment with the catering manager of the Royal Victoria in just over an hour. Landing their business could be very good for us. I’d better give her a ring, in case she’s still at home.’

  ‘Don’t disturb her,’ Stan said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She’s . . . er . . . not feeling very well. She said she might stay at home and try to sleep it off.’

  ‘But this meeting we’ve arranged . . .’

  ‘You can handle it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to . . .’

  ‘You’re better at business than you think you are.’

  Elaine lifted herself from her seat again.

  One day they would catch her watching them, and demand to know what she was doing, she thought.

  But when they did, she could always fob them off with some story about standing up because the doctor had told her that she had high blood pressure and needed to do gentle exercises while she was at work. Yes, they would swallow that, easily enough. They would probably even be concerned about the state of her health, because those kinds of people always were.

  Caution counselled only a quick glance, but when she sat down again, she had seen all she needed to.

  Stan no longer looked merely rough, he seemed quite worried.

  Jenny, on the other hand, was looking much happier. And why? Because Stan had said she was better at business than she thought she was, and now she sat there basking in the rosy glow of his approval.

  ‘Pathetic,’ Elaine Dunston said, for the second time that morning. ‘Really pathetic.’

  Whitebridge town mortuary was a squat square building, constructed of large concrete slabs which had started to discolour almost as soon as they’d been slotted into place. It gave all the appearance of having been commissioned by someone with no taste, and built by someone with no pride. But the truth was, Paniatowski thought, as she pulled into the car park, that neither lack of taste nor lack of pride had had anything to do with it. Rather, the mortuary stood as a silent monument – and rebuke – to the blackmail and municipal corruption which had only ended when she and Charlie Woodend had arrested the builder and several town councillors.

  Dr Shastri was already waiting for her in the doorway of the mortuary, and was, as usual, wearing a colourful sari.

  Her saris had drawn a great deal of comment when, in the wake of her predecessor being sent to prison for – among other things – tampering with evidence, she’d first become the official police surgeon.

  ‘If you like that sort of thing – and it certainly wouldn’t do for me – then I suppose it’s comfortable enough in the heat of summer,’ people had muttered. ‘But just wait till proper winter comes,’ they’d added, with dark satisfaction. ‘Wait till the icy winds start blowin’ in off the high moorlands. Then – you mark my words – you’ll soon see a change in her. Then you’ll see her start to dress more sensibly – more Lancashire!’

  But people had been wrong – as folk who understand no one’s attitude but their own so often are. When the weather did turn cold, Shastri stuck to her sari, but added a heavy sheepskin coat to shield her from the worst of it.

  The saris definitely suited her, Paniatowski thought. But then Dr Shastri would have looked good in an old flour sack, because she was undoubtedly a beautiful woman – slim and delicate, with a skin that was a soft coffee colour and shining eyes as black as coal. Looking at her perfect little hands, it was impossible not to imagine them gently tinkling small bells at a Hindu wedding, but put a scalpel in them and they became precision surgical instruments themselves.

  ‘What a pleasure it is to see you, as always, my dear chief inspector,’ the doctor called out, as the new arrival drew closer.

  Paniatowski fought the urge to look over her shoulder to see if there was a real chief inspector standing behind her.

  ‘And what an honour it is for me that you have come to visit me on your first morning in your new post, Monika,’ Shastri continued, with just a hint of mischief in her voice.

  ‘It’s not an entirely social visit, Doc,’ Paniatowski said. Then she grinned, and added, ‘But you already knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course I knew that,’ Shastri agreed. ‘And how is your charming daughter?’

  ‘Louisa’s fine. You must come round and have tea with us sometime,’ Paniatowski said. She paused, but only for a single beat. ‘So what have you got for me, Doc?’

  Shastri’s smiled widened. ‘You are becoming just like your dear Mr Woodend, Monika – immediately down to business, with absolutely no time at all for polite chit-chat.’

  ‘Sorry to sound so abrupt,’ Paniatowski said awkwardly. ‘But I’m under real pressure with this case.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Shastri replied, with mock gravity. ‘In fact, though I have worked in this dismal cave of a place for over eight years, I cannot recall a single instance in which the police were not under real pressure with whatever case they happened to be handling at the time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Paniatowski said humbly.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For reminding me of the need to keep a sense of proportion.’

  Shastri shrugged. ‘Is that what I have done? Being a simple Indian doctor, I know nothing of such things, but if I have assisted you in some way, then I am, of course, delighted. Shall we go and discuss my findings now?’

  ‘Yes, that would be good idea,’
Paniatowski agreed.

  The freezer bag was lying on Dr Shastri’s dissecting table. It was pale blue, and decorated along the top with darker-coloured blue fish and pork chops, as if the manufacturer believed that his customers would be too stupid, without this information being presented to them graphically, to realize that the bag was intended for food.

  At the bottom of the bag were two tears, about three inches apart.

  ‘I am told it was discovered by a clever doggy,’ Dr Shastri said.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Though the dear little doggy was plainly not clever enough to avoid damaging it.’

  ‘Can I see what was inside?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Shastri agreed, opening a refrigerated drawer and taking out a human hand which had been severed at the wrist.

  ‘How old was she?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Was?’ Shastri countered. ‘I am not entirely convinced there is any was about it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My examination has revealed that when she lost the hand, she was still very much alive.’

  Paniatowski shivered. ‘But she could be dead by now?’

  ‘Certainly. If she had a weak heart, the shock might have killed her. And if she was not given medical attention after the amputation, she would quickly have bled to death.’

  ‘How was it done?’

  ‘With more enthusiasm than skill, I would say.’

  ‘And the weapon?’

  ‘The instrument used could have been any sharp, broad instrument, but a meat cleaver is a strong possibility.’

  ‘And what does the hand tell you about the woman herself?’

  ‘That she is a Caucasian. That she was – or still is – somewhere between thirty and forty years old. And that while she has obviously not been involved in heavy domestic work for any length of time, she has not been particularly protective of her hands, either.’

  ‘In other words, you’re saying that she was neither a washerwoman nor a fashion model?’

  ‘Well put.’

  Paniatowski took her cigarettes out of her handbag, and offered the packet to Shastri.