Lambs to the Slaughter Read online

  ‘She despises you,’ Baxter said.

  ‘You’re wrong about that. She is very fond of me – even if she doesn’t quite realize it herself. We have now worked together on several investigations, and—’

  ‘You’ve never worked together,’ Baxter interrupted him. ‘You don’t work with anybody – all you ever do is use them.’

  ‘And doesn’t it reflect well on Monika that I consider her worthy of using?’ Forsyth asked.

  ‘When will these goons of yours from Special Branch be arriving?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘They should be in Bellingsworth sometime this afternoon.’

  Baxter smiled, as a new thought – and one which he was sure would get right under Forsyth’s skin – occurred to him.

  ‘They should be in Bellingsworth this afternoon,’ he repeated. ‘Isn’t that a bit like closing the stable door after the horse has bolted?’

  ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ Forsyth said, though from the uncharacteristically defensive look which had come to his face, it was fairly plain that he did.

  ‘I mean that you’re a day too late,’ Baxter said, starting to enjoy himself. ‘If you’d sent them up yesterday, they would have been able to protect Len Hopkins, your ally in the battle against the Red Menace – then none of us would have been faced with the problems we have now.’

  Anger blazed in Forsyth’s eyes for a split second, and then was gone.

  ‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he agreed, as smoothly as ever. ‘Given the depth of feeling over this strike, it would have been advisable to give Mr Hopkins some protection. I made a mistake – but then we’re all only human, aren’t we?’

  ‘I am, certainly,’ Baxter said. ‘But I’ve got serious doubts about you.’

  SEVEN

  Len Hopkins’ body, bent at the knees and still frozen in rigor, had presented a challenge to the ambulance men attempting to balance him on the stretcher, and the problem had been further compounded by the fact that the doors on his terraced cottage had not been designed with awkwardly shaped corpses in mind. Eventually, however, they managed to slot the dead man into the back of the ambulance, and drive away.

  Dr Taylor stood on the pavement, watching the ambulance make its slow – almost stately – progress down the street.

  ‘Just you wait until they’ve turned the corner,’ the doctor told Paniatowski and Meadows. ‘It’ll be a different story. Oh yes, indeed – then you’ll smell the burning rubber.’

  ‘I seem to be missing the point,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘They’ll race me back to the mortuary,’ Taylor explained, climbing into his car. ‘You might consider that childish – and you’d be quite right – but that’s what they’ll do.’

  ‘How do you know they’ll race you?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘Because since I’ve caught on to their little game, I’ve been really hammering the Jag, but so far they’ve still managed to get back first,’ the doctor said, firing up the engine. ‘But today – because the journey’s a little longer than usual – they just might have met their match.’

  ‘About the post-mortem report . . .’ Paniatowski began.

  ‘You’ll have it as soon as is humanly possible,’ Taylor promised, ‘and don’t you worry, I’ll stay within the speed limits until I leave the village, because unlike those two reprobates, I’m responsible.’

  He closed the car door, slid the Jaguar into gear, and pulled gently away from the kerb.

  ‘So what do you think of the new doctor, boss?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘I like him,’ Paniatowski admitted. ‘He’s no Shastri, but he has a certain style that I think I can work with.’ She lit up a cigarette. ‘We need to interview the woman who found the body – Susan Danvers. Where is she?’

  ‘She’s at home. Her doctor’s with her.’

  ‘Go and talk to the doctor,’ Paniatowski said. ‘Ask him if she’s in any state to be questioned.’

  ‘And where will you be when I’ve got an answer, boss?’ Meadows asked.

  ‘I’ll be here – trying to make some sense of what happened,’ Paniatowski said.

  She turned around and walked back into the house – through the parlour, through the kitchen and into the yard. She looked down the yard at the lavatory in which Len Hopkins had met his end.

  The back gate had blown open, and a cold wind which had been roaring down the alley had taken advantage of the fact to conquer the yard. Paniatowski shivered as she felt its icy fingers reaching for her, but even with the wind, the stink of the killer’s rage still hovered in the air.

  The church hall was about ten times the length of an average car garage, and roughly five times as wide, Crane estimated. There was a small stage at one end of the room, on which hung a heavy purple mock-velvet curtain, and there were a number of tables and chairs stacked up along the wall.

  Two women, well past pensionable age, were mopping the floor near the stage, and a tall thin man in a clerical collar stood a little distance from them, watching them work, and occasionally popping something into his mouth from the paper bag he held in his hand.

  The vicar noticed he had visitors, though from the expression on his face, it was more likely that he considered them intruders.

  ‘I’m not interested in buying anything, so you’re simply wasting both your time and mine,’ he called across the hall.

  ‘Blessed are the meek,’ Beresford said.

  ‘Should we go over and tell him . . .?’ Crane began, taking a step forward.

  ‘No,’ Beresford said, grabbing his arm to restrain him, ‘let the bugger come to us.’

  Crane noticed the dark edge that was creeping into his inspector’s voice. It was quite a new thing – this edge – but it always spelled trouble.

  The vicar, seeing that they were making no effort to move, strode towards them.

  ‘Treat him gently, sir,’ Crane advised.

  ‘I’ve had quite enough of you travelling salesmen,’ he said. ‘This church hall is private property, and you are only allowed to be here with my permission – which I do not grant. So either leave now, or I will call the police.’

  ‘But we are the police,’ Beresford said, producing his warrant card.

  ‘Oh!’ the vicar replied, somewhat taken aback. ‘I took you for—’

  ‘You made it quite clear what you took us for,’ Beresford interrupted him.

  ‘It’s just we’ve had such a plague of travelling salesmen in this village recently. And they’re so forward and pushy, aren’t they? They hardly ever show the proper respect.’

  ‘I suppose they’ve got their job to do, just like everybody else,’ Beresford said. ‘You don’t mind if we have a look around, do you?’

  ‘No . . . uh . . . I suppose not,’ the vicar said, dipping his hand in his paper bag, and pulling out a peppermint. ‘It is not much, as you can see for yourselves, but it serves our humble purposes.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Beresford said, striding off towards the stage and leaving Crane with the vicar.

  Though not a believer himself, Crane’s view of religion was, on the whole, a rather positive one – he would for ever be grateful to the priest who had comforted his father in his last agonized days – but that did not mean he granted his blanket approval to all members of the clergy, and this one had definitely got up his nose almost as much as he seemed to have got up Beresford’s.

  It irritated him that the vicar spoke with such oily humility – ‘it serves our humble purposes’ – while at the same time acting as if he were the most important person in the room, if not in the county. It bothered him that the man should have been watching the two old ladies work, yet made no effort himself. And it annoyed him both that the vicar should greedily crunch his endless supply of peppermints instead of sucking them, and that he hadn’t thought to offer one to either his cleaning ladies or his visitors.

  Beresford returned.

  ‘This place isn’t perfect, but it will have to do,’ Beresford told Crane.

&nbs
p; ‘It will have to do what?’ the vicar asked.

  ‘It will have to do as our incident centre,’ Beresford said.

  The vicar shook his head. ‘Oh, dear me, no, I’m afraid it won’t “do” at all. This building does not have the same sanctity as the church, of course, but it is a vital part of village life, and I’m afraid I could not possibly allow—’

  Beresford sighed heavily. ‘You do know a man’s been murdered, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed I do, but since that man was not one of my parishioners, I feel under no obligation to—’

  ‘If you make me go to all the trouble of sending to Whitebridge for a court order which will compel you to let me use this little shack of yours, I shall be most pissed off,’ Beresford interrupted him.

  He was handling it all wrong, Crane thought, but that came as no surprise, because he had been handling most things all wrong for the past month or so.

  ‘Could I have a quiet word, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘A quiet word?’ Beresford repeated.

  ‘Won’t take a minute,’ Crane promised.

  They walked to the other corner of the room, and Beresford said, ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘We could get a court order, but that would take time, and – according to the boss – time is just what we don’t have,’ Crane said. ‘Besides, the rest of the team is already on its way from Whitebridge, and it’ll need a base ready for it when it gets here.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Beresford demanded. ‘I don’t want to go through all the rigmarole of getting an order, but if this pompous little shit won’t cooperate, what choice do we have?’

  ‘I think I can persuade him to agree,’ Crane said.

  ‘Now this I’ve got to see,’ Beresford told him.

  ‘I think I can persuade him if you’re not here,’ Crane said firmly.

  ‘You’ve no chance,’ Beresford scoffed.

  ‘Just give me ten minutes alone with him,’ Crane suggested.

  Beresford thought about it. ‘All right, I’ll do it, Jack,’ he agreed, ‘but only to show you that while you’re a smart lad, you’re nowhere near as smart as you think you are.’

  ‘I appreciate it, sir,’ Crane said.

  Beresford left the church hall, and Crane sauntered over to the vicar.

  ‘I don’t much like your superior’s attitude,’ the vicar said.

  ‘I don’t much like it myself,’ Crane said.

  But even on his worst day, he’s probably better than you on your best, he added mentally.

  ‘And you do see my point, do you not?’ the vicar asked. ‘I simply cannot allow the church hall to be used for the purpose your colleague suggested. So much of village life is focussed on this place – the Sunday School, the Mother’s Union, the Christian Fellowship . . .’

  ‘And no doubt you foster local talent by allowing the village rock bands to practise in here,’ Crane suggested.

  The vicar sniffed.

  ‘Certainly not,’ he said.

  Crane sighed, philosophically. ‘I’ll do my best to get the inspector to drop the idea,’ he promised.

  ‘I would appreciate it,’ the vicar told him.

  ‘I mean to say, when all’s said and done, sir, you’re a simple country priest, and it would be most unfair to foist all that unwelcome publicity on you,’ Crane continued.

  If the vicar had objected to the phrase ‘simple country priest’, Crane would have immediately apologized and tried another tack. But, in fact, those were not the words that the other man chose to pick up on.

  ‘Unwelcome publicity?’ the vicar said.

  ‘If you allowed this hall to become our incident centre, it would be one of the focuses of attention for the media,’ Crane explained. ‘That’s not too bad in a way, but that attention would also spill out into other areas connected with you. Since it is your church hall, the television people would constantly be pestering you for your views on what’s happening to the village.’

  ‘I see,’ the vicar said thoughtfully.

  ‘And it wouldn’t stop there,’ Crane continued. ‘Once we’d packed up and gone, the sightseers would arrive – taking pictures of the hall and tramping through your lovely church. You’d find yourself treated like some sort of celebrity – and you wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  ‘No,’ the vicar said, unconvincingly. ‘No, I wouldn’t. But perhaps we need to look beyond our own selfish needs, and consider the general good.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Crane asked, suppressing a grin.

  ‘It is true that the dead man was not an active member of the church – I believe he belonged to some kind of wild Methodist sect in the next valley,’ the vicar continued, in the voice he probably normally reserved for sermons, ‘but he was, when all is said and done, as much one of God’s children as any of us, and we should all do all we can to help see his killer brought to justice.’

  ‘So we can use the hall?’ Crane asked.

  ‘I think it would be only right and proper,’ the vicar said solemnly.

  When Louisa Paniatowski saw Ellie Sutton walking across the playground towards her, she thought she would just burst with happiness.

  There was no one else in the whole world quite like Ellie, she decided. Ellie was intelligent. Ellie was sophisticated. And now Ellie was coming to talk to her – and all her other friends would see it happening.

  ‘Robert says he’ll hire DJ Dee for the party, Louie,’ Ellie gushed.

  Louisa didn’t really like being called ‘Louie’, but if that was the name that Ellie would be using, she supposed she could get used to it. She wasn’t sure, either, that she’d like to call her mum ‘Monika’, as Ellie called her dad ‘Robert’, but maybe if Ellie insisted – and Mum would allow it – she could get used to that, too.

  ‘Did you hear what I said! DJ Dee!’ Ellie repeated, as if expecting more of a response.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Louisa confessed.

  ‘The disc jockey on “Radio Whitebridge Late Night”,’ Ellie said. ‘You must listen to him! Everybody does!’

  ‘Oh yes, course I do,’ Louisa said weakly, though she was sure that by the time ‘Radio Whitebridge Late Night’ came on the air, she was already safely tucked up in bed.

  ‘He’s the best DJ in Lancashire,’ Ellie bubbled, ‘and he’ll be playing at my party.’

  ‘Great!’ Louisa said, because if Ellie thought he was so good, then he simply had to be.

  ‘The only problem is, we’ve had to change the date,’ Ellie said. ‘It’s tonight, instead of Friday.’

  ‘Tonight,’ Louisa repeated. ‘But we have school tomorrow.’

  ‘To hell with school,’ Ellie said. ‘If I don’t feel like coming in, I’ll get Robert to write me a note – and you can get your mother to do the same.’

  ‘That might be difficult,’ Louisa mumbled. ‘My mum doesn’t like me missing school.’

  ‘A bright girl like you could soon talk her round,’ Ellie said airily.

  ‘And I’m not even sure I’ll see her, because she’s working on this new murder case, and—’

  ‘Boring!’ Ellie interrupted her dismissively. ‘Murder is so really, really boring!’ She paused. ‘Can you come, Louie – or can’t you? Because I’d like to know right now!’

  It was an ultimatum, Louisa recognized. Say yes, and Ellie would continue to be her friend. Say no, and the older girl would want nothing more to do with her.

  It would be wrong to go to the party – she knew it would be wrong – but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say that to Ellie.

  ‘I don’t know how I’d get to your house,’ she said, hoping to yet find a way to steer through the two disastrous choices which lay ahead of her. ‘You see, Mum probably won’t be home, and Lily Perkins, our housekeeper, doesn’t drive, so though I’d really like to come . . .’

  ‘I’ll get Robert to pick you up,’ Ellie said.

  And with those few words, any chance of doing the right thing c
ompletely melted away.

  The Lower School had to go to the office if they wanted to make a phone call, but the Upper School were regarded as having earned the privilege of bypassing the secretary, so a payphone had been installed for their exclusive use – and it was to this phone that Ellie Sutton went immediately she had finished her conversation with Louisa Paniatowski.

  The number she dialled connected her to the university switchboard, and the switchboard put her through to her father’s office.

  ‘I’ve done it, Robert,’ she said, when her father picked up the phone.

  ‘Good girl!’ Dr Sutton replied.

  ‘But it wasn’t easy,’ Ellie told him.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t.’

  ‘In fact, it was very hard work, and I shall expect some suitable reward.’

  ‘What kind of reward are we talking about here?’ Dr Sutton asked cautiously.

  ‘You know that ring I showed you in the jeweller’s window . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s what I want.’

  ‘But . . . but it costs hundreds of pounds!’ Sutton protested.

  ‘You’re right – it’s far too expensive,’ Ellie said. ‘So I’ll just go and tell that grotty little girl that the party’s off, shall I?’

  Sutton sighed resignedly.

  ‘You’ll get your ring,’ he said.

  EIGHT

  The two civilian Scenes of Crimes Officers – or SOCOs for short – were called Bill and Eddie, and though they must have had surnames as well, no one in Whitebridge HQ knew what those names were, nor felt any need to find out. Bill was tall and thin, Eddie was small and round, and together, in Paniatowski’s opinion, they were a formidable team.

  It was Eddie who usually acted as the spokesman for the team, and looking round Len Hopkins’ kitchen, it was Eddie who spoke now.

  ‘The dead feller wasn’t much of a one for what you might call popular entertainment, was he?’ he asked. ‘No television, no hi-fi system, nothing like that.’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Paniatowski agreed.