Thicker Than Water Read online

  ‘You’ve got it wrong, as usual, Martha,’ Cardew said. ‘I don’t like foreigners very much – I despise Germans.’ He turned to Beresford for sympathy. ‘They tried to kill me, you know.’

  ‘It was the war, dear,’ Mrs Cardew said. ‘It wasn’t personal.’

  ‘When a shell lands next to you, and damn near blows your leg off, it certainly feels personal,’ the colonel countered.

  Mrs Cardew sighed, and it was plain to Meadows and Beresford that this conversation had been a regular feature of the Cardews’ life for the previous thirty years.

  ‘The colonel’s quite right – Gretchen does go out quite a lot, but I’m sure that most of the time she’s running errands,’ Mrs Cardew said.

  ‘I suppose that even if someone had been watching the Danbury house, you’d never have noticed them,’ Beresford said fatalistically.

  ‘You’re wrong there. I most certainly would have noticed them,’ the colonel said.

  ‘But I thought with the high walls and …’ Beresford began.

  ‘The colonel drives around a lot,’ Mrs Cardew said.

  ‘I patrol,’ the colonel corrected her. ‘I do it twice a day. And if I happen to see gypsies, drug addicts, hippies or any of the other detritus which has crawled out from under its rock since the end of the war, I get on the phone to Reg Holmes, and he sends someone up to deal with it immediately.’

  ‘Reg Holmes?’ Beresford repeated. ‘Chief Superintendent Holmes?’

  ‘This whole thing is a bloody mess, Monika,’ the chief constable said. ‘As a force, we’re not looking good at all.’

  ‘With respect, sir, shouldn’t we leave worrying about how good or bad we look until after we’ve found Melanie?’ Paniatowski asked.

  Pickering shook his head. ‘That’s easy for you to say, but put yourself in my shoes for a moment. It’s my job to protect the public, but it’s also – and equally importantly – my job to protect the force.’

  And to protect himself, because he was only the acting chief constable, and that made his position very precarious indeed, Paniatowski thought.

  ‘The fact is, there’s been a serious error of judgement tonight, and we have to be seen to be taking some sort of action over it before the press start kicking up a stink,’ Pickering continued.

  Paniatowski felt her stomach tighten up. Pickering had already mentally laid out the sacrificial altar, and was beginning the ritual which would lead up to someone lying on it while he wielded the knife. She knew she had to stop him before he got that far, and she thought she knew how she could stop him. She didn’t want to do it – God, she hated even the thought of doing it – but she didn’t see that she had any choice.

  ‘Tell me again just how long it took the uniforms to discover that Melanie Danbury had gone missing,’ Pickering said.

  Paniatowski sighed. ‘Inspector Flowers’ team arrived at the house at about ten past nine. It was ten forty-six when the discovery was made.’

  Pickering groaned. ‘That long! And did they not – at any point – think to check the children’s rooms?’

  ‘They did check the children’s rooms,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Of course they did. They had to, to make sure the killer wasn’t hiding there – but they didn’t want to disturb the children …’

  ‘Or, in the case of Melanie Danbury, two pillows left to represent her.’

  ‘… because they didn’t want to wake them.’

  ‘Whichever way you look at it, somebody’s head has got to roll for what happened tonight,’ Pickering said. ‘I want you to see that for yourself, Monika, and I want you to tell me that, as a valued member of my senior staff, you’ll back me all the way.’

  What he really wanted was for her to be the first person to suggest the possibility that Flowers should be hauled up in front of a disciplinary board, thought Paniatowski.

  What he really wanted was for her to be the source of the complaint.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t agree with you, sir,’ she said, ‘but, as you said, I’m not standing in your shoes, and if you think that someone’s head must roll, then I bow to your judgement.’

  ‘Good,’ Pickering said, sounding relieved. ‘In that case, we need to discuss exactly how we …’

  ‘You’ll have my resignation on your desk first thing in the morning,’ Paniatowski interrupted.

  ‘What?’ Pickering said.

  ‘I was in charge for the last hour before it was discovered that the child was missing. That makes it my responsibility.’

  It was a gamble – a big gamble – because Pickering might just decide that however valuable she was as an investigator, she could be even more valuable as a scapegoat.

  Pickering was silent for almost half a minute, then he said, ‘As I see it, Monika, your only failing is that you trusted Inspector Flowers to have done her job properly.’

  ‘We’ll have to agree to disagree on that, sir,’ Paniatowski said.

  Pickering glared at her. ‘You’re really prepared to make this a resigning matter, are you?’ he demanded.

  She loved her job – Jesus, she loved her job.

  ‘I don’t see that I have any choice in the matter, sir,’ she said.

  ‘So what would you do with Flowers, if you were sitting behind this desk?’ Pickering asked.

  ‘If mistakes have been made …’

  ‘If they’ve been made?’

  ‘… it would be more productive to give Liz Flowers and her team the chance to redeem themselves by working to get Melanie back.’

  ‘Are you, by any chance, a Catholic, Monika?’ Pickering asked, as if he were suddenly getting a whole new perspective on the situation.

  Paniatowski felt herself redden.

  ‘With the greatest of respect, sir, that’s not really any business of yours,’ she said, ‘but, as a matter of fact, I am.’

  Pickering nodded. ‘I thought so.’ He paused again. ‘All right, then, I’m prepared to postpone any decision on Inspector Flowers until after this investigation is over. If we get a satisfactory result, then I’ll probably agree to overlook her error of judgement. If we don’t, well, that will be another matter entirely. Does that satisfy you?’

  No, but she realised that was the best deal she was going to get.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

  ‘There’s one more matter that needs clearing up,’ Pickering told her.

  ‘And what might that be, sir?’ Paniatowski asked – though she already knew exactly what he was going to say.

  ‘I believe you’ve got William Danbury in the holding cells.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Has he been questioned?’

  ‘Yes, sir. DC Crane spent nearly half an hour with him.’

  Pickering frowned. ‘Wouldn’t it have been better to give the job to a more experienced officer?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a highly intelligent officer, and I’ve trained him well,’ Paniatowski countered.

  Besides, she thought, who else on her team could have done it? She and Meadows were ruled out by virtue of the fact that they were women, and Danbury wouldn’t have been likely to talk to Colin Beresford, the man who’d floored him only an hour or so earlier.

  ‘So what did Councillor Danbury tell young Crane during their session? Anything of value?’ Pickering asked sceptically.

  ‘He told him that he couldn’t think of anyone who might want to kidnap his child. Then he told Crane he wasn’t saying any more until he’d talked to George Fullbright, his lawyer.’

  ‘And has he talked to Mr Fullbright?’

  ‘Not yet. Mr Fullbright wasn’t at home when I sent an officer round there to collect him.’

  ‘Well, then …’ Pickering said, making an expansive gesture with his hands.

  ‘Well, then, what?’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Since he’s apparently helped you all, he can …’

  Another sentence left dangling.

  Another opportunity for her to say what the chief constable didn’t w
ant to say himself.

  ‘You want me to let him go! Is that what you’re suggesting?’ Paniatowski demanded.

  ‘Believe me, I am fully appreciative of the fact that the man assaulted you, Monika …’

  ‘Assaulted me? I’d call it slightly more than that. I’d say he bloody near knocked my head off my shoulders.’

  ‘… and he should certainly not go unpunished for that. But even so, we must take into account the fact that when he hit you, he’d just learned that his wife had been murdered.’

  ‘To be honest with you, sir, he didn’t appear very concerned about his wife’s death. The only thing he actually seemed to be interested in was his sons.’

  ‘His children, you mean.’

  ‘No, I mean his sons. And they’re the main reason that I’m keeping him locked up – because when I saw him, he was certainly in no state to give them the kind of attention they’ll need tonight.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not being unduly influenced by the fact that now you have sons of your own, you’re assuming that there is only one way to handle small children – your way?’

  ‘The man was out of control,’ Paniatowski said, determined not to give an inch.

  ‘Yes, William does have quite a temper – but it never lasts for long, and I was wondering if …’

  ‘William?’ Paniatowski interrupted. ‘So you know Councillor Danbury socially, do you, sir?’

  ‘Yes, but only in the way that I know many people socially,’ said Pickering, clearly back-footed. ‘I am the chief constable, and as chief constable, I am expected to attend the kinds of events that important businessmen like William Danbury also attend.’

  ‘And do you play golf with him, as well?’

  ‘I have done – occasionally.’

  ‘I’m not prepared to release Danbury without a written order from you, sir,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘You’re so inflexible, aren’t you?’ Pickering said, with a hint of anger in his voice. ‘You expect other people to jump through hoops for you, but you won’t bend even a little for anyone else.’

  ‘I’m perfectly willing to allow the charge against Danbury for assault to be withdrawn, if that will make life somewhat easier for you,’ said Paniatowski.

  ‘I never asked you to do that,’ Pickering said defensively. ‘I want to make that quite clear.’

  ‘It is quite clear, sir,’ Paniatowski agreed. ‘But you must admit that by not insisting that Danbury’s charged, I’m giving you much more manoeuvring space when you’re dealing with him.’

  It was the early hours of the morning when Paniatowski finally arrived home, and as she drew up outside, she saw that the house was in darkness.

  She slipped her key into the lock, opened the door as quietly as she could, and tiptoed along the hall and up the stairs.

  The first doorway, at the top of the stairs, was Louisa’s bedroom. Paniatowski came to a halt in front of it, and wondered whether she dared go inside.

  It was three years, she realised, counting back, since she’d last visited her adopted daughter just before going to bed herself.

  It had been at Louisa’s insistence that the visits ceased.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mum!’ she’d said, with sleepy anger, when she’d woken up during one of Paniatowski’s nightly inspections. ‘I am fourteen years old, you know. I really don’t need to be checked up on.’

  ‘I know it’s stupid, but you’re so precious to me, and …’ Paniatowski had begun to argue weakly.

  ‘Promise me you won’t do it any more,’ Louisa had said firmly.

  She had promised, and though it had been hard to keep that promise, she’d somehow managed it.

  But after the evening she’d had – after what had happened in that big house on Milliners’ Row – she had to break the promise that night.

  She just had to.

  She turned the door handle and crept into Louisa’s bedroom. She could see a dim shape under the blankets, and for one insane moment she felt a strong urge to strip back the bedclothes and make sure that it was her daughter – and not just a couple of pillows – lying there.

  Then she heard Louisa’s calm, regular breathing, and the madness passed.

  She retreated from Louisa’s bedroom and entered her own. In the pale glow of the nightlight, she could see the two cots, side by side.

  She walked over to them and looked down at her two sons.

  They were starting to develop their own personalities, she thought. Philip was both curious and demanding, whereas Thomas took life as it came, and once his basic needs had been met, he seemed quite happy to be on his own.

  It was perfectly normal for fraternal twins to develop in different ways, and at different speeds, she had read in the books on child development.

  But were they fraternal twins?

  There was a part of her that believed that, as a result of that night in the woods, they weren’t – and she felt that belief growing stronger and stronger, deep inside her, like some malignant cancer.

  As she stood there in the twins’ bedroom, the bedroom walls, melting and swirling before her tired eyes, seemed to take the form of trees – broad elms and ancient oaks.

  And suddenly she could smell the heavy, damp earth in her nostrils, and she knew she was back there in those woods, reliving the whole terrible nightmare yet again.

  The last thing she remembers is watching the Devil’s Disciples dividing up their money. Now, as she slowly regains consciousness, she realises that she is lying on the ground, that she has lost her shoes, that her skirt is around her waist, that her breasts hurt – and that she has been raped.

  The Disciples start to talk to her. They tell her that if she goes to the police, they will not believe her, and even if she is believed, she will never be able to pin it on them.

  ‘And let’s be honest,’ one of them says, ‘you must have enjoyed being shagged by three real men for a change.’

  As she listens to them retreating through the woods, she has already accepted that she won’t report it – not because (and they are right about this) she will never be able to prove they did it, but because it will damage her credibility as a senior police officer beyond repair.

  She climbs painfully to her feet, determined to bury the incident as deep in the back of her mind as she possibly can. It does not occur to her – at that moment – that the three animals who violated her have left her with something which will make it impossible to forget.

  Paniatowski steadied herself, leant carefully forward, and placed one gentle hand on each of the sleeping babies.

  ‘I’ll try to learn to love you as much as I love Louisa,’ she whispered. ‘Honestly I will.’

  THREE

  Thursday, 6th October 1977

  The dried leaves, carried along by the early morning wind, were all the company that Alfie Clayton had as he made his way down the empty street towards Whitebridge police headquarters. Sometimes a sudden gust would propel them ahead of him. Then the wind would drop again, and they would flutter to the pavement, as if waiting for him to catch up.

  Alfie wondered why there were so many leaves in the largely treeless centre of town, and supposed it was because it had been the driest early autumn for years, and so, instead of turning into mulch once they reached the ground, they had simply lain there until the wind chose them as its playmates.

  He turned the corner – and groaned at what he saw ahead of him.

  He should have set his alarm clock to go off even earlier, he told himself, because even though it was not yet light, a substantial queue – two abreast – had already built up outside police headquarters.

  Then he saw who was standing at the very back of that queue.

  Tony-bloody-Haynes!

  He and Tony had once been best mates, and had been joint owners of a homing pigeon called Billy Blue. He’d been a cracking bird, Billy – a real potential champion – but they’d never had the chance to find out just how good he might be, because Tony had take
n the pigeon out onto the moors one day, and, without checking whether or not there were any hawks in the vicinity, had released him.

  Tony, informing Alfie of the sad demise of their bird, had said it could have happened to anyone. Alfie had disagreed. The discussion had turned into an argument, and the argument had turned into a fight on the George and Dragon car park in which both men had lost teeth (Alfie still got stabs of pain in his mouth whenever the weather turned unexpectedly cold), and would probably have lost more if their friends hadn’t intervened.

  That had been in 1967 (around the time that Muhammad Ali had been stripped of his world heavyweight boxing title for refusing to be drafted into the US army, and Frank and Nancy Sinatra were at the top of the hit parade with a song called ‘Something Stupid’), and, ten years on, the matter had still not been resolved. In order to avoid further, almost inevitable clashes, the two men now drank at different pubs (though, in their hearts, they both yearned for the George and Dragon). And it went even further than that. If they met in the street, they pretended not to see each other, and though the two families had once been quite close, none of Alfie’s relations spoke to any of Tony’s, and vice versa.

  And now here was Tony Haynes at the tail end of a queue which Alfie desperately wanted to join himself.

  For a moment, Alfie considered holding back until a few more men had joined the queue, and thus provided a buffer between himself and Tony.

  But what if Tony was the cut-off point?

  What if everyone in the queue behind him was thanked for coming and told that they could go home?

  Squaring his shoulders, Alfie took the place in the line right next to Tony Haynes.

  Overnight, the basement of Whitebridge police headquarters had been transformed. Just a few hours earlier, it had been a repository for junk which had yet to be classified as such, and so could not be thrown out. Now, with its rows of desks, numerous telephone lines and two large blackboards, it was once again the major incident centre.

  Where did all the junk go when the room became an incident centre? Beresford wondered. And more to the point, if there was somewhere else to store it, why did it always find its way back into the basement once the investigation was closed?