The Ring of Death Page 2

  ‘I’m just getting a round in, boss,’ Beresford said, as Paniatowski resumed her seat. ‘Another vodka?’

  The DCI thought about it. ‘I’ve had two, so far, haven’t I?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then I’d better pass on a third. I’ve got a meeting with the chief constable this afternoon.’

  Beresford frowned. ‘Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. There wasn’t even a hint.’

  The inspector shook his head, slightly mournfully. ‘Not good,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Not good,’ DC Crane repeated, puzzled. ‘But if you don’t know what it is that the chief constable wants to talk about—’

  ‘If it was good, he’d have made the purpose of the meeting clear beforehand, so the boss had time to think about what she wanted to say,’ Beresford interrupted. ‘Since he’s playing it close to his chest, it’s much more likely to be an ambush than a meeting of minds. Isn’t that right, boss?’

  Paniatowski looked down regretfully at her empty vodka glass. ‘That’s right,’ she agreed.

  The sign on the office door said ‘Dr A. Beatty’, and as he sat down opposite the man the sign referred to, DS Cousins found himself wondering what the ‘A’ stood for.

  Allen?

  Ambrose?

  Archibald?

  Arsehole?

  It probably wasn’t the last of these, Cousins decided – but it certainly should be!

  He didn’t like Dr A. Beatty. Didn’t like him because he was one of those deluded men who thought that if he brushed hair over the bald spot in the middle of his head, no one would notice the baldness. Didn’t like him because his lips had a habit of twitching slightly – signalling, almost – about half a second before he actually spoke. But most of all, he didn’t like him because Beatty was the psychiatrist who he’d been coerced into meeting with once a week.

  Beatty’s lips did their slight twitch. ‘You’re on time this week,’ he said. ‘That’s a good sign, Paul.’

  ‘Is it, Amadeus?’ Cousins asked innocently.

  The lips twitched again, as if Beatty were thinking of correcting Cousins, then the doctor glanced down at the file on his desk and said, ‘How long is it now since your wife died, Paul?’

  ‘It’s all in that file,’ Cousins told him.

  ‘I know it is, but I’d still like you to tell me.’

  Cousins shrugged. ‘Two years, three months and six days.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’

  ‘How do you think I feel? I’ve over the bloody moon about it. I’m so happy I have to keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not just dreaming.’

  Beatty shook his head, reprovingly, though not so vigorously as to disturb his carefully arranged hair.

  ‘You agreed to attend these sessions only when you were told they were a pre-condition to your returning to your normal duties. Isn’t that correct?’ he asked.

  ‘Too bloody right it is.’

  ‘But what you seem to have failed to have grasped is that that pre-condition required more than you simply turning up at my office, though, as I said earlier, the fact that you have become more punctual is a good sign.’

  Cousins said nothing.

  ‘You are required not only to be here, but to make a positive effort to work with me,’ Beatty continued. ‘And if you fail to do that, Paul . . . well, we both know what the consequences will be, don’t we?’

  ‘You’re threatening to have me sent on sick leave again.’

  ‘I’m not threatening anything. That is not my role. I will merely write an objective assessment of these meetings, and your superiors will make the decisions about your future.’

  Cousins sighed. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I was totally devastated by my wife’s death.’

  The doctor gave him a disapproving look. ‘Too easy,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean – too easy?’ Cousins demanded.

  ‘You’re talking in platitudes,’ the doctor replied. ‘You’re using words – mere clichés – as a way of blocking out your true emotions.’

  ‘They might be clichés to you, but they’re not to me,’ Cousins said angrily. ‘I was devastated. She was the only woman I ever really wanted, and I’d lost her.’

  ‘And who did you blame for that?’

  ‘I didn’t blame anybody,’ Cousins said, perhaps a little too quickly.

  ‘Everybody blames somebody – or something – in cases like that,’ the psychiatrist persisted. ‘Did you blame God, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe in God,’ Cousins told him. ‘And even if I do, I don’t think he’s interested enough in me personally to punish me by planting cancerous cells in my wife’s body.’

  ‘Then perhaps you blame the doctors?’

  ‘They did all they could.’

  ‘Or your wife herself? That’s quite common.’

  ‘No,’ Cousins said, with a sudden ferocity. ‘Not her!’

  The doctor smiled, knowingly. ‘Then that only leaves you, doesn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right. It only leaves me.’

  ‘And how are you responsible?’

  Cousins shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe if I’d made her go to see the doctor earlier . . .’

  ‘I’ve seen her medical record. Even if she had gone earlier, it would have made very little difference.’

  ‘Or maybe if I’d been a better person, a more considerate person . . .’

  ‘How would that have helped?’

  ‘I don’t know, but maybe if I’d spent less time at work she wouldn’t have got sick.’

  ‘Are you saying your wife was unhappy with your marriage?’

  ‘Not exactly unhappy – but maybe she sometimes felt a little neglected. It’s an occupational hazard among bobbies’ wives.’

  ‘So there are times when you think that your wife developed cancer through your neglect?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no scientific evidence for that ever having happened, you know.’

  ‘And can science prove that it doesn’t happen?’

  ‘Not definitively, no, but then there is very little in this world that can be definitively . . .’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’

  ‘You didn’t have any children, did you?’

  No, they didn’t. She’d wanted them. And so had he, in a way. But he’d wanted to get established in the Force first, so they’d put it off and put it off until it was too late.

  ‘I said, you didn’t have any children, did you?’ the doctor repeated.

  ‘It’s all in the file,’ Cousins said morosely.

  The psychiatrist raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Work with me, Paul. You have to work with me,’ he said.

  Cousins sighed again. ‘We didn’t have any children. We had a cat and a dog. And they’re both dead, as well.’

  ‘It’s the question of why you didn’t have any children that I’d rather like to take up—’ Beatty began.

  ‘I said they’re both dead as well,’ Cousins interrupted him. ‘The cat was run over by a car.’

  ‘I see, but to get back to question of children . . .’

  ‘Don’t you want to know who I blamed for that? Aren’t you interested in finding out if I can detect the hand of God in the conspiracy to have poor little Ginger flattened under the front wheels of a Vauxhall Victor?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. As I said, I think one of the fundamental points we need to discuss . . .’

  ‘Don’t you even want to know if I blamed myself?’

  It was the psychiatrist’s turn to sigh. ‘All right, Paul, if it will make you feel any happier, I will ask you that question,’ he said, reluctantly.

  The seconds ticked by . . . ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . .

  ‘Well?’ Beatty demanded.

  ‘You haven’t asked the question yet,’ Cousins pointed out, in an eminently reasonable tone. ‘Come on, Dr Beatty – work with me!’


  The psychiatrist sighed again. ‘Do you blame yourself for Ginger’s death?’ he asked finally.

  ‘He was a bloody cat,’ Cousins said slowly, as if talking to someone he had suddenly decided was particularly dim. ‘He liked to play “chicken” with passing cars, and one day he lost. So of course I don’t blame myself. What do you think I am? Some kind of nutter?’

  TWO

  This was perhaps the fourth or fifth meeting that Monika Paniatowski had had with the chief constable since she’d become a DCI, and it didn’t seem to her as if they were getting any easier.

  Part of the problem, of course, was that at another time – and in another county, the other side of the Pennines – she and George Baxter had been lovers.

  But that wasn’t the only reason, she admitted to herself.

  The other part was that there was a big difference between talking to the boss as a detective inspector – a reliable number two in a team – and talking to him as a chief inspector – whose job it was not only to deliver reports, but also to protect herself and her people.

  And protecting herself and her people was what this particular meeting was about – she was almost convinced of that now.

  ‘Ever since Sergeant Walker was reassigned, you’ve been working without a bagman,’ Baxter said, confirming her suspicions.

  ‘Ever since Sergeant Walker tried his best to sabotage my investigation and I managed to get rid of him, I’ve been working without a bagman,’ Paniatowski paraphrased silently.

  ‘I haven’t been involved in any investigation which has been major enough for me to need a bagman,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Then this is the ideal opportunity for you to get a new bagman – while you have the time and leisure to show him the ropes and train him into the job,’ Baxter said.

  ‘How much training will he need to carry my bag?’ asked Paniatowski – knowing there was much more to the job than that, and knowing that Baxter knew there was much more to it, yet still finding herself unable to come up with a better argument.

  ‘Every other DCI I have working for me is screaming out for extra manpower,’ Baxter mused. ‘Why aren’t you?’

  Because bringing new people into the team was dangerous, Paniatowski thought. Walker had done all he could to wreck her first major case – and with it, her career – simply because she was a woman. And he was only the tip of the iceberg. There are half a dozen other sergeants who, if they’d been given the opportunity, would have acted exactly as he did.

  ‘DC Jack Crane is acting as my bagman at the moment, sir,’ she said. ‘And he’s very good at it.’

  ‘He’s a baby!’ Baxter said dismissively.

  ‘He’s twenty-four, sir.’

  ‘Like I said, he’s a baby. But then that’s an advantage, as far as you’re concerned, isn’t it – because babies are so much easier to handle?’

  It wasn’t a question of being easy to handle, Paniatowski thought – it was a question of trust. Jack Crane had gone out on a limb for her in the Szymborska murder case, and she knew she could rely on him.

  ‘So you get to pamper DC Crane, while I get to keep experienced sergeants kicking their heels when I could be offering them the chance of a role they could really get their teeth into,’ Baxter said. ‘Is that how it works?’

  No, that didn’t seem fair, Paniatowski conceded – at least from the chief constable’s point of view.

  ‘Who’ve you got in mind?’ she asked, resignedly.

  ‘DS Cousins,’ Baxter said.

  ‘Cousins!’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘But he’s—’

  ‘Been out on sick leave,’ Baxter interrupted her.

  ‘Sick leave! Yes, strictly speaking, I suppose he has. But it’s not exactly a septic toenail which has been keeping him away from . . .’

  ‘And now the police shrink has assured me that he’s ready to return to normal duties.’

  ‘You know what a major case is like, sir,’ Paniatowski protested. ‘You know the kind of pressure the team’s under. And any team’s only as strong as its weakest link.’

  Baxter shook his head sadly. ‘You disappoint me, Monika,’ he said.

  ‘And why’s that?’ Paniatowski demanded.

  ‘Because I would have thought you’d have learned more working under Charlie Woodend than just how to solve murders – I thought you’d have learned a little humanity.’

  Paniatowski felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. But it was a fair punch, she acknowledged – a punch she probably deserved.

  ‘You think Cousins is up to the job?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d never have put him forward if I didn’t,’ Baxter said, with just a hint of rebuke still evident in his voice. ‘He was a fine officer before his wife died, and the shrink thinks there’s every chance he’ll be a fine officer again. But I’m not ordering you to take him.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘No. But if you don’t want Cousins, I’ll leave the decision as to who’s assigned to your team to Chief Superintendent Horrocks. And he won’t allow you to pick and choose.’

  It was blackmail, Paniatowski thought. But at least it was blackmail from a decent man who was basically on her side.

  ‘Cousins it is, then,’ she said.

  Baxter nodded. ‘Good,’ he said.

  Louisa Paniatowski, half-English, half-Spanish by birth (and just a little bit Polish by adoption) was busy poring over her history homework when Monika arrived home at half-past six.

  She gazed up at her mother with a look of mild disapproval in her eyes, and said, ‘Why aren’t you at your judo class, Mum?’

  Paniatowski shrugged helplessly. ‘I thought you might appreciate my company.’

  ‘I always do appreciate your company,’ Louisa replied. ‘But judo is a commitment, you know.’

  So earnest, Paniatowski thought fondly. So like Bob, her long-dead father, in so many ways.

  But it still didn’t do to let her get too cocky.

  ‘I’m a black belt,’ she reminded her daughter. ‘A fifth dan. Do you know how many other women there are in England who could say that?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Louisa conceded. ‘But since there are some men who are tenth dans, that means you’ve still got a lot to learn.’ She smiled, as if she was suddenly worried that her mother might think she was being too critical. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘if you don’t go to your classes now – when you’re not investigating a major murder case – when will you go?’

  ‘I can strike a balance between my work life and my home life,’ Paniatowski said, noting how defensive she sounded, even to herself.

  ‘Like Uncle Charlie did?’ Louisa asked innocently.

  ‘I have the greatest respect for Uncle Charlie, as you well know,’ Paniatowski said severely.

  ‘But . . .?’ Louisa asked.

  ‘But he was what you might call an old-style kind of bobby – one who had to be in the thick of everything himself.’

  ‘You, on the other hand . . .’ Louisa said, with an amused smile playing on her lips.

  ‘I, on the other hand, am a more modern, forward-looking police officer – one who knows how to delegate and how to guide her team from a distance.’

  ‘If you say so, Mum.’

  ‘I do say so.’

  Louisa nodded, as if she quite accepted her mother’s point.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I was talking to Mrs Tait, my form teacher, today.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes. And Mrs Tait’s been reading this article in the Times Educational Supplement which apparently says that any child without her own colour television in her bedroom is at a . . . at a . . .’

  ‘At a what?’

  ‘I’m trying to think of the exact words. At a distinct educational disadvantage! That’s it! So bearing in mind that you don’t want me to be at a “distinct educational disadvantage,” can we go out and buy me a colour telly on Saturday?’

  Paniatowski found she placed her hands on her hips – a motherly gestu
re she’d once promised herself she’d never adopt.

  ‘You surely don’t think I’ll fall for that, do you?’ she asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Louisa wondered.

  ‘Because it’s so obviously a load of old rubbish!’

  ‘True,’ her daughter conceded. ‘But you can’t blame me for trying. After all, if you can believe you’re any different from Uncle Charlie, you might believe anything.’

  THREE

  Five forty-two a.m.

  If the night-duty room had been London or New York – big cities in which, reputedly, crime never slept – then the sound of the telephone bell slicing its way through the empty early-morning air would have been almost anticipated. But this wasn’t either of those places. It was Whitebridge, a small city, where even the most industrious of cat-burglars was safely tucked up in bed by half-past three, and where, between the last fight on the doorstep of a closing pub and the first fight at an early morning bus stop, nothing happened.

  Sergeant Kendrick, somewhat started by this sudden intrusion on his peace and quiet, laid aside his newspaper – with the crossword still only half-completed – and picked up the phone.

  ‘Whitebridge Police Headquarters,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Oh my God, it was horrible!’ gasped a man’s voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘What was horrible, sir?’ Kendrick asked, using a measured, authoritative voice in which he could not quite suppress the hint that if he was, in fact, talking to a crank, he would not be at all surprised.

  ‘I know murder’s supposed to be horrible,’ the man gabbled. ‘But not like this. It was awful. I mean, it was just awful.’

  ‘Calm down, sir,’ Kendrick said soothingly. ‘You’d better give me the details. An’ you can start by tellin’ me your name.’

  It took less than a minute to persuade Kendrick both that the caller – a Mr Toynbee – was genuine, and that the crime he described really was awful.

  ‘It . . . it wasn’t the fact that his throat was cut that was the worst,’ Toynbee moaned down the line. ‘It was the other thing – the way he’d been—’

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ Kendrick interrupted, doing his best to hide his own revulsion from the caller. ‘Listen, Mr Toynbee, what I want you to do now . . .’