The Ring of Death Read online

  Cousins bowed his head. ‘You’re right, ma’am, I was taking the piss, and I shouldn’t have done,’ he admitted contritely. ‘But I was trying to make a serious point.’

  ‘Then make it!’

  ‘When my wife died, I went to pieces,’ Cousins said, with a poignancy in his voice that Paniatowski found almost unbearable. ‘I couldn’t cope. I couldn’t make decisions. Choosing what to have for breakfast was a major challenge for me, so I ended up having nothing at all. That’s when I realized I had to get help. That’s when I understood that I needed to be in a place where all my decisions were taken for me, and where there was someone paid to listen to me pour out my misery and – eventually – offer me constructive ideas on recovery. That was all that was involved – no straitjackets, no electric shocks – just time and peace.’

  The wave of guilt which swept over Paniatowski almost drowned her. When Bob Rutter – the love of her life – had been found dead at the foot of that steep hill, she’d almost gone insane herself. And maybe she would have, if Charlie Woodend – despite being devastated by Bob’s death on his own account – hadn’t nursed her through it.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘For what, ma’am?’

  ‘For thinking, even for a moment, that . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll have taken a more charitable view of my condition than a lot of my closer colleagues did – and they’re the ones who should have been making the allowances,’ Cousins said graciously. ‘The point is, I may have been lost for a while, but now I’ve found myself again.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘But I don’t think that’s the only problem we have over working together, ma’am,’ Cousins continued. ‘You see, I’ve been on the force longer than you have, and that means—’

  ‘That means you know how to do my job better than I do myself,’ Paniatowski interrupted, as her pity drained away and anger gushed in the fill the vacuum.

  ‘No, ma’am, it means I’ve had more of a chance to observe your career than you’ve had to observe mine. I saw how you worked when you were DCI Woodend’s bagman. You took chances. You went out a limb. What I did this morning – following my instincts – is just the sort of thing you’d have done when you were Sergeant Paniatowski. I’m right about that, aren’t I?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Paniatowski conceded.

  ‘So why do you fly off the handle with me? I think it’s because you’re worried that I’ll turn out be another Inspector Walker.’

  ‘Sergeant Walker,’ Paniatowski corrected him.

  ‘So you haven’t heard,’ Cousins said.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Walker’s been promoted, probably as a result of the part he played in solving the Linda Szymborska murder – or, at least, the part he claims to have played.’

  They couldn’t accept it, could they, Paniatowski thought angrily. The brass – and that probably even included George Baxter – simply couldn’t accept that she could have solved that murder without the help of a man.

  ‘The thing is, ma’am, I’m not Ted Walker,’ Cousins said. ‘I don’t mind working for a woman – as long as she’s good at her job.’

  ‘And I am?’

  ‘Yes. As far as I’ve been able to tell, from the outside looking in, you’re very good,’ Cousins said.

  ‘And how about the fact that I’m several years younger than you?’ Paniatowski asked sceptically.

  ‘There was a time when I saw myself as a rising star in the Central Lancs Constabulary,’ Cousins said, almost musingly, ‘a time when I thought I was destined for great things. But I was just fooling myself. I simply haven’t got what you’ve got, and what young Beresford – sorry, Inspector Beresford – will have some day. I’m not senior officer material.’

  ‘Then what are you?’

  ‘What I am is a bloody good bagman – probably the best you’ll ever work with. I take my job seriously – always have done – and now . . . well, now, it’s just about all I’ve got left. So I’d be grateful, ma’am, if you’d give me the chance to show you just what I can do.’

  Though he managed to hide the fact well, this whole conversation had been no more than a plea for acceptance on Cousins’ part, Paniatowski thought.

  ‘Welcome to the team, Sergeant,’ she said, meaning it.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Cousins replied – meaning it too.

  SEVEN

  So far, they’d been able to keep a lid on the investigation, Paniatowski thought, as she looked at her team, sitting around the table in the Drum and Monkey. So far, the press hadn’t even got a whiff of the fact that the body of a naked man had been found in the woods. But that wouldn’t last – because in a town like Whitebridge, nothing was ever secret for long.

  Still, for the moment at least, they had a breathing space: a time in which they could operate without the local – and probably national – reporters breathing down their necks; a time in which half of Colin Beresford’s team of junior detectives weren’t out on wild-goose chases, investigating calls from people who were probably cranks, but who just might not be.

  ‘Let’s review what we’ve got so far,’ she said. ‘Would you like to start, Inspector Beresford?’

  Beresford nodded. ‘First of all, we’ve identified the victim,’ he said. ‘The driving licence left at the scene of the crime . . .’

  ‘Or rather, the place where the body was actually found,’ Paniatowski corrected him.

  ‘. . . or rather where the body was actually found,’ Beresford agreed, ‘belonged to an Andrew Adair, of 32 Palmerston Terrace, and we’ve been able to establish, by talking to other residents of the street, that the victim is in fact Adair. Further inquiries have established that he’s been living there for around six months, that he was the sole resident of the property, and that he seemed to keep pretty much to himself.’

  ‘What about the van that’s been seen near the woods twice this week?’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘A blue six-hundredweight Bedford van was stolen from the centre of town four nights ago, and was recovered near the Empire Mill this morning,’ Beresford said. ‘Unfortunately, before the thief abandoned it, he set it on fire.’

  ‘And we’ve no idea who this thief might be?’

  Beresford shook his head. ‘Nobody saw him nick it, and nobody saw him burn it.’

  Paniatowski turned to Cousins. ‘Tell us what you’ve found out, Sergeant.’

  ‘When I was examining the body in the woods, I noticed that the dead man had a tattoo on the inside of the right arm,’ the sergeant said. ‘It wasn’t very elaborate – just two words in a foreign language. It was all Greek to me, of course,’ he laughed, ‘though I later found out it wasn’t Greek at all, but Latin.’ He laid a single sheet of paper on the table. ‘These were the words.’

  ‘Utrinque Paratus. Ready for anything,’ DC Crane said, before he could stop himself.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke any Latin, Jack,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Where did you learn it?’

  ‘Where else but at bloody school,’ Crane thought, furious with himself for inadvertently revealing the extent of his education. ‘I studied it at advanced level and got a bloody A!’

  ‘I can’t speak it, as such, ma’am,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ve just somehow picked up a few phrases. Nil illegitimus carborundum – that’s another one I know.’ He was wittering, he thought, but didn’t know how to get out of it. ‘It means, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down”,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Fascinating,’ Paniatowski said, in a tone which clearly implied it wasn’t. ‘Shall we get back to “Ready for anything”, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Cousins agreed. ‘It’s apparently the motto of the Parachute Regiment, so thinking it was probably a fair bet that the dead man had been a Para himself, I rang up an old mate of mine in the War Office. He was a bit cagey at first, as you can imagine, but once I’d promised to keep his name out of it, he said he’d have a peek at Adair’s file a
nd pass on any information that didn’t actually endanger national security.’

  ‘And what information did he pass on?’ Beresford asked.

  ‘That Adair left the army six months ago, after serving for twelve years,’ Cousins paused for a second, ‘and that he was one of the Paras involved in the Bloody Sunday shootings in Londonderry.’

  If Cousins had been expecting this revelation to be something of a bombshell, he was not disappointed. Bloody Sunday had shocked the whole country, and just the mention of it – in connection with someone involved in their investigation – was enough to reawaken that shock in the team now.

  The afternoon of Sunday the 30th of January 1972.

  A demonstration of Irish Catholic civil-rights marchers, in Derry.

  The demonstrators – thirty thousand strong by some accounts – had been planning to march to the Guildhall, but the army has set up barricades to prevent that, and instead the marchers are diverted to a place called Free Derry Corner.

  Some of the younger demonstrators break away from the main group, and start hurling stones at the barricades, but there is nothing new – nothing unusual – in this.

  Unconfirmed reports begin to filter into army headquarters that an Irish Republican Army unit has sent a sniper into the area, and that some of the marchers are carrying nail bombs on their persons.

  The tension mounts.

  Nerves, already frayed, become ragged.

  At seven minutes past four, the Paras are sent into the heart of the demonstration, with orders to start making arrests.

  What happens next is still disputed. The soldiers say they came under fire, but the marchers themselves – as well as the spectators and the journalists sent to cover the event – disagree. What is beyond dispute is that the Paras fire a hundred rounds of ammunition straight into the crowd.

  Thirteen demonstrators are killed – some of them shot in the back as they run away, one as he waves a white handkerchief and tries to help a wounded friend.

  The official report, published only eleven weeks later, confirms the army’s version of events, but there is not a Catholic in the whole of Ireland who doesn’t see it as a whitewash.

  ‘So you think this murder is related to Bloody Sunday, do you?’ Beresford asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over the team.

  ‘Be a bit of a coincidence if it wasn’t, don’t you think?’ Paul Cousins replied. ‘I mean, it’s not as if Adair’s just been murdered, is it? He’s been tortured, and then stripped naked. Whoever killed him must have really bloody hated him. And what else could he possibly have done in his life to have brought so much hatred down on him?’

  But still Beresford did not seem convinced.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘there have been IRA executions before, and they’ve never gone in for anything as elaborate as that. What they normally do is make the victim kneel down and then shoot him in the back of the head.’

  Cousins shrugged. ‘Then maybe you’re right, sir. Maybe it’s not punishment for his part in Bloody Sunday. But in that case, what the hell is it?’

  A good question, Paniatowski thought. Dr Shastri had speculated that the killer had posed his victim in that way in order to send a message, but had had no idea what that message might be.

  And Dr Shastri was not alone in that!

  Paniatowski didn’t see the uniformed constable enter the bar, and it was not until he was standing directly opposite her that she even knew he was there.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but the chief constable would like to see you,’ the constable told her.

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘No, ma’am, he didn’t. He just said that I’m to drive you back to headquarters right away.’

  Paniatowski knocked back her remaining vodka, and stood up.

  This was the second time in two days she’d been summoned to George Baxter’s office, she reminded herself. The first time it had been in order to have Paul Cousins foisted on her. That, it was true, seemed to be working out much better than she’d ever expected it to – but she didn’t think she could be so lucky twice.

  The moment Paniatowski entered Baxter’s office and saw the man sitting across the coffee table from him, she knew that her worst fears had been realized.

  The visitor was wearing a herring-bone suit which probably came from one of the best bespoke tailors on Savile Row. He had silvery hair, cut in a deceptively simple way, which shone as if it were real silver, and his glowing pink skin was almost entirely free of wrinkles.

  He looked the perfect English gentleman, Paniatowski thought.

  So smooth, so sophisticated and – above all – so civilized.

  And that was exactly what he was – on the surface. But underneath that well-tailored suit and immaculate grooming there lurked a dark savage beast that knew no pity or remorse – that would do whatever was necessary to get its way.

  She hated this man, she despised him, and – though she would not admit it, even to herself – she was also, perhaps, a little frightened of him.

  The chief constable stood up. ‘Ah, Monika,’ he said, with a false heartiness which revealed just how uncomfortable he was with the situation. ‘I believe you already know Mr Forsyth, who works for the Ministry of . . .’ He paused and looked down at the other man. ‘Which ministry did you say?’

  ‘Just the ministry,’ Forsyth replied, enigmatically.

  Baxter ran his fingers through his mop of ginger hair.

  ‘Mr Forsyth would like a chat with you, Monika,’ he said awkwardly.

  ‘A chat?’ Paniatowski repeated.

  ‘That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’ Baxter asked the seated man.

  The corners of Forsyth’s mouth crinkled into a half-smile. ‘I believe what I actually said was “a cosy chat”,’ he replied.

  ‘So if you’ll excuse me . . .’ Baxter said, still addressing Forsyth.

  ‘Of course,’ Forsyth agreed.

  Baxter crossed the room in one direction, his chief inspector in the other. As they met in the middle, the chief constable gave Paniatowski a look which said that the last thing he wished to do was leave her alone with Forsyth, but the matter was out of his hands.

  Paniatowski kept on walking towards the coffee table. She didn’t want to do it. What she wanted to do was turn around, leave the room, and not stop until she was outside the building and could gulp in some clean, fresh air, free of Whitehall poison. Yet there was no choice in the matter, and on legs which were tingling so much they might almost have been trembling, she forced herself to continue until she came to a halt next to Baxter’s chair.

  Forsyth did not stand up and offer her his hand, though it was not any lack of manners which had prevented him from doing so. Like everything else about him, his manners were impeccable, and what held him back was the knowledge that if he offered her his hand, she would not take it.

  As the chief constable stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him, Forsyth said, ‘Do please sit down, Chief Inspector.’

  Paniatowski sat, because, she told herself, not to do so would show Forsyth just how disturbed she was.

  ‘As if he doesn’t already know!’ she thought, angry with herself.

  Forsyth reached into his briefcase, and produced two silver hip flasks and two small glasses. He placed the glasses on the table, unscrewed one of the hip flasks and poured its contents into the first glass.

  ‘Single malt,’ he said.

  He unscrewed the second flask, and poured the clear liquid into the second glass.

  ‘Vodka,’ he told her. ‘Zubrowka.’

  ‘Am I supposed to be impressed by that?’

  ‘I would be, in your position. Many experts consider Zubrowka to be the finest vodka in the world, and I happen to know that it’s your favourite tipple.’

  ‘You know that, do you?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘For a fact,’ said Forsyth, with all the certainty of a man who was never wrong, because if he was wrong, the
rules were quickly re-written to make him right. ‘Yes, your favourite tipple. But you can’t get your hands on it often, can you, Monika – because it’s very much in demand with the bigwigs in the Polish Communist Party?’

  It was all games with this evil bastard, Paniatowski thought. And the frightening thing was that, half the time, they worked.

  Forsyth took a sip of his malt, and smacked his lips appreciatively.

  ‘You’re not drinking,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m not, am I?’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘I haven’t seen you since you were a mere sergeant, DCI Paniatowski,’ Forsyth said amiably. ‘If you remember, we met when you were working with Cloggin’-it Charlie Woodend, on that rather nasty little business down at the old Haverton Army Camp.’

  Paniatowski said nothing.

  ‘You do remember, don’t you?’ Forsyth asked.

  ‘I remember,’ Paniatowski said. ‘And I also remember that other rather nasty little business, when you personally blocked the criminal prosecution of half a dozen snivelling ex-public schoolboys who worked for the War Department, and who should definitely have been banged up for a long, long time.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Forsyth agreed. ‘But I was only involved on the periphery of that little affair, and I must admit, I’d quite forgotten it.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’ Paniatowski said.

  Forsyth smiled. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh, Chief Inspector?’ he asked mildly.

  ‘A man like you doesn’t forget,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘You hoard every dirty trick you’ve ever pulled in some festering corner of your mind, and when you’ve got a little time free you re-live each and every one of them, and tell yourself what a splendid patriot you are.’

  For a moment it looked as if Forsyth would lose his equanimity, then his face settled back into its bland mask

  ‘As much as I might enjoy these gentle sparring sessions of ours, we both know that they’re of no real consequence,’ he said, his voice hardening almost imperceptibly. ‘We both know, in fact, that I’m here for a purpose, that eventually I will tell you what I want you to do to fulfil your part in that purpose, and that you will do it – because you have no choice in the matter.’