Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire Page 7

  ‘This meeting is over,’ the vice consul said coldly.

  ‘Yes,’ Paniatowski agreed, ‘I rather think it is.’

  George Baxter, the chief constable, had always reminded Paniatowski of a huge ginger teddy bear, but since his wife’s death, that resemblance had all but melted away. In the days between Jo’s car crash and her funeral, his shock of red hair had turned completely white, and whilst he was still a big man, he no longer seemed as solid as he once had. But it was his eyes that told the story best. For most of the time, they were like huge swimming pools of guilt and grief, and when they did express another emotion, that emotion was usually anger.

  He was angry with Paniatowski at that moment, and part of the anger – but only part – was as a result of her early-morning trip to Manchester.

  ‘I don’t know what you think gave you the right to enter the Spanish consulate and interrogate the deputy vice consul, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘but let me tell you, here and now, it was a completely unacceptable action.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, sir, I didn’t go there to interrogate him, I went to ask him for help,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘That is certainly not the impression the vice consul gave me over the telephone,’ Baxter countered. ‘He says you were rude and threatening.’

  ‘And you automatically assume he was telling the truth, do you, sir?’ Paniatowski asked. ‘There was a time when you wouldn’t have done – a time when you would have accepted the word of one of your officers over that of a minor official from a fascist dictatorship.’

  ‘You’re verging on insubordination with that comment, Chief Inspector,’ Baxter said.

  But it was clear from the new expression in his eyes that he was remembering the time to which she’d referred.

  ‘I will make further inquiries about this morning’s incident, and then inform you if you will be subject to disciplinary proceedings,’ he continued, ‘but in the meantime, I would be grateful if you would tell me why you thought it necessary to ruffle the feathers of the Spanish government.’

  ‘I think my murder victim may be Spanish, sir,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I think that, until recently, she may have lived on the Costa Blanca.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence to back that up?’

  ‘Not direct evidence, no.’

  ‘You’ve suddenly become psychic, have you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Paniatowski replied.

  And told him how she’d reached that conclusion.

  ‘So you’re basing your whole investigation on the fanciful and over-imaginative speculations of a fifteen-year-old girl who happens to be your daughter?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Don’t attack Louisa,’ Paniatowski said, with a sudden ferocity. ‘Say what you like about me, but leave her alone!’

  Baxter blinked. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘That was uncalled for, and I apologize. But you still can’t go basing your investigation on the word of one girl, however sensible she is, Monika.’

  ‘That’s why I want confirmation,’ Paniatowski said, ‘and since the Spanish police and the Spanish consulate refuse to cooperate with me, I’ll just have to go to Spain myself.’

  ‘That’s out of the question,’ Baxter said, hardening again. ‘You’re supposed to be leading your team, not swanning off to the Costa.’

  ‘In that case, do I have your permission to send one of the team instead?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘No, you do not,’ Baxter said. ‘The link you have established is far too tenuous to justify the expense.’

  ‘Please don’t punish my team, and the investigation, because you’ve got something against me, sir,’ Paniatowski said, almost desperately.

  ‘You may go now, Chief Inspector,’ Baxter said.

  Charlie Woodend, a glass of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, was contemplating the blue Mediterranean Sea from his terrace when he heard the phone ring in the living room.

  ‘It’s Monika, Charlie,’ Joan called. ‘She wants to have a quick word with you.’

  She wanted to have a quick word with him!

  It was probably just a social call, Woodend thought, as he headed for the living room.

  But his gut instinct – which was not quite ready to retire yet – told him it was more than that, and his heart began to beat a little faster.

  ‘I need your help, Charlie,’ Paniatowski said, when he’d picked up the phone in his big hand, ‘but before I tell you what it is that I’d like you to do, I want to make it quite clear that I’m only turning to you because I’ve tried everything else, and you’re my last resort.’

  ‘You certainly know how to win a man over with flattery,’ Woodend said dryly.

  ‘That came out all wrong,’ Paniatowski said, sounding flustered.

  ‘You think so?’ Woodend asked, smiling.

  ‘What I meant to say was, I don’t want to get you involved, but I don’t seem to have any choice.’

  ‘Better and better,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Please, Charlie, this is serious,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Aye, I can tell that now,’ Woodend replied, chastened. ‘I’m sorry I was flippant. What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘The thing is – the reason I’ve got qualms about asking you – is you have this habit of treading on other people’s toes,’ Paniatowski said.

  She was not so much speaking to him as trying to talk herself out of asking the favour, Woodend thought. And he also knew that whatever it was she wanted him to do, it was real police business – and he desperately wanted to do it.

  ‘I used to tread on people’s toes when I was a bobby back in Lancashire,’ he said, ‘but that’s all over and done with now, and – like a good brandy – I’ve been maturing with age.’

  ‘I don’t want you getting yourself in trouble with the authorities,’ Paniatowski agonized, ‘especially since the situation over there in Spain is rather delicate at the moment.’

  He could picture her in his mind, pacing up and down the office which used to be his.

  ‘Don’t you go worrying yourself about me getting myself into trouble,’ he assured her. ‘Remember, I’ve not just got my new-found maturity to keep me on the straight and narrow, I’ve also got Paco Ruiz.’

  ‘It’s precisely because of Paco that I’m so concerned about the whole business,’ Paniatowski admitted.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Paco’s a lovely man, just as you’re a lovely man, but each of you on his own is a bit of a loose cannon – and together you’re a small war.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to take that as an insult or compliment,’ Woodend said. ‘I think, on reflection, I’ll take it as a compliment.’

  ‘I mean it, Charlie,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I’d just hate to see you being deported from Spain – apart from anything else, Joan would kill me if that happened – and I break out into a cold sweat just thinking about the possibility of Paco going back to gaol.’

  ‘We’ll be careful,’ Woodend said. ‘If there’s even a whiff that things are about to go pear-shaped, we’ll pull back.’

  And he was thinking, What is it that you want us to do? I’ll have a heart attack if you don’t tell me soon.

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ Woodend said – and even as he spoke the words he was promising himself that he really would try to keep his promise to Monika, even though he knew that when he was elbow-deep in an investigation, such promises usually counted for nothing.

  Paniatowski sighed. ‘All right, here’s what I want you to do,’ she said.

  SEVEN

  Hillton Rise was considered by most people to be one of the better areas of Whitebridge, and Ashton Avenue was one of the better parts of Hillton Rise. All the houses on Ashton Avenue had double frontages, attached garages, and large gardens both front and back, and the people who lived in them employed cleaners and part-time gardeners, and really considered themselves rather posh.

  But it was on Tufton Court – a cul-de-s
ac which ran off Ashton Avenue – that the real wealth was on display. People there didn’t manage large factories, they owned them. And if any of the inhabitants happened to work in a bank, then it was a merchant bank, rather than one of the common-or-garden high-street variety.

  Paniatowski parked her MGA in front of number seven, Tufton Court, got out of the car, lit up a cigarette, and reviewed what little she knew about Robert Martinez MP.

  Most of the information, she quickly realized, came either from the newspapers or from Louisa.

  From the newspapers, she had learned that Robert was the son of a political refugee called Javier Martinez, who had arrived in Whitebridge in the late thirties, and had built up his luxury coach business from scratch. The papers had also informed her that Robert had been running the family business for a number of years, and had only stepped down when he’d been elected as the Member of Parliament for the Whitebridge constituency. Furthermore, they went on to claim, there was strong circumstantial evidence to suggest that he regarded his constituents as more than just a ticket to Westminster, and was actually prepared to fight hard for their interests whether they’d voted for him or not – a trait that was unlikely to gain him preferment within his party, but had certainly earned him the grudging respect of some of his political enemies locally.

  Louisa had a slightly different take on things. According to her, Sr Roberto was clever, witty and enthusiastic, and – taking into account the fact that he was quite old – really rather handsome. He played the Spanish guitar beautifully, and knew a lot about flamenco dancing. It was he – and he alone – who had created the Whitebridge Hispanic Circle, and when he had announced that he would have to give it up, there had been a universal wailing and gnashing of teeth from the members.

  Though the house itself looked quite grand, the Martinez residence had a relatively low wall running around its boundary, and the front gates were no more impressive than those of the less imposing houses on Ashton Avenue.

  The gate had a notice attached to it which read:

  Robert Martinez’s office is to be found around the left-hand side of the house. The gate is not locked, so just push it open and walk in. Constituency surgeries are normally held every Saturday from 9 to 3, but if I’m here in the week, I’ll see you at any time, if you consider it urgent.

  Hanging from the big notice was a smaller one which announced, Robert Martinez is in/is not in, and had an arrow pointing to the ‘is in’.

  Paniatowski pushed open the gate. A broad path led to the front door, and a narrower path branched off it and led around to the side of the house. She followed this smaller path and found herself looking at an annex which had probably once been a garage. The annex had a large picture window, and through it, she could see an efficient-looking woman in her late thirties, who was pounding away at a typewriter as if she hated the machine.

  When Paniatowski knocked at the door, the woman called out, ‘It’s not locked – it never bloody is!’

  Paniatowski opened the door and stepped inside.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Martinez,’ she said.

  The woman stopped typing, and looked up at her.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said he was in London, would you?’ she asked.

  ‘I might, but for the fact that his London office has told me he’s here, and that’s confirmed by the notice on the gate,’ Paniatowski said.

  The other woman shrugged. ‘Oh well, it was worth a try. How about if I asked you whether whatever you’ve come about could wait for a few days, because we’re already running late?’

  ‘I’m afraid it can’t wait,’ Paniatowski told her.

  ‘That’s probably just as well,’ the secretary said, philosophically. ‘If I had succeeded in turning you away, I’d only have got into trouble for it – again!’

  ‘You get into trouble, do you?’ Paniatowski asked, smiling.

  ‘Constantly,’ the secretary replied. ‘“Now that’s not how we deal with our constituents, is it, Marjory?”’ she said, in a much deeper voice than her natural one. ‘“No, Robert, it isn’t,”’ she continued, in a meeker version of her own voice. She grinned. ‘I’m sorry, but he drives me insane. I’m supposed to be his gatekeeper – that’s what he said I’d have to be when he gave me the job – but every time I close the gate, he bloody opens it again.’

  ‘It must be difficult for you,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Difficult,’ Marjory repeated. ‘It’s bloody near impossible. He should be in London today, and the party whips – who have a big say in who gets promoted and who doesn’t – will be very cross that he isn’t. And do you know why he’s in Whitebridge instead?’

  ‘No,’ Paniatowski confessed, ‘I don’t.’

  ‘He’s arranged a meeting with some businessman, to discuss the possibility of opening a new factory in the town. I told him it wasn’t his job. “That sort of thing is the responsibility of the town council,” I said. “It’s the responsibility of everybody who cares about the future of Whitebridge,” he said. Well, you can’t argue with that, can you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘You really do have to see him, do you?’ Marjory asked.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Paniatowski replied, producing her warrant card.

  The secretary clicked on the intercom. ‘I’ve got a Chief Inspector Paniatowski out here,’ she said. ‘Can you see her?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied a slightly tinny voice from the machine.

  ‘Of course the answer’s “of course” – it’s always “of course”,’ Marjory said, with resignation. She pointed to a door in the far wall. ‘You’ll find him the other side of that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And if you could find an excuse to get him banged up on some bogus charge for a few days, I’d really appreciate it – because we could both do with the rest,’ the secretary said, grinning again.

  Robert Martinez was at his desk, flanked by mountains of documents, and when Paniatowski entered the room, he stood up.

  ‘You must be Louisa’s mother,’ he said, shaking her hand and then gesturing her to sit down, ‘but since you mentioned your rank to my secretary, I assume this is an official, rather than a social visit.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘What a pity,’ Martinez said – and sounded as if he meant it. ‘But before we get down to whatever business brought you here, would you mind if I asked you how Louisa is getting on?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Paniatowski said.

  He’d got very nice eyes, she thought – dark, heavy, Latin eyes. And Louisa was right – he was rather handsome.

  ‘So how is she getting on?’ Martinez asked, with a slightly awkward note in his voice.

  She realized she must have been staring at him.

  ‘Louisa’s fine,’ Paniatowski told him. ‘She’s enjoying school – and doing rather well. And, as a matter of fact, we’ve just got back from Spain, where she met her Spanish relatives for the first time.’

  ‘Lucky girl,’ Martinez said wistfully. He paused. ‘I miss running the Whitebridge Hispanic Circle, you know. Of course, I know the work I’m doing now is more important and can change more lives for the better, but the Circle wasn’t just worthy – it was fun.’

  ‘And parliament isn’t?’

  ‘Parliament is a grind, full of people who like the sound of their own voices too much,’ Robert Martinez said, ‘and if I could find someone who I thought could represent Whitebridge better than I do, I’d gladly surrender my seat to him – or her – tomorrow.’

  He took a packet of Ducados out of his pocket, and offered them to Paniatowski. When she declined, he lit one up himself.

  ‘Do you prefer black tobacco?’ Paniatowski asked, reaching into her handbag for her own cigarettes.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Martinez replied. ‘I left Spain when I was a baby – and given my father’s political background, I imagine I would be far from welcomed back – yet I smoke Spanish c
igarettes, drink Spanish wine, know how to cook a very decent paella, and am an almost fanatical supporter of Valencia Club de Fútbol.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I am also, of course, a fanatical supporter of Whitebridge Rovers – it would be political suicide not to be.’

  ‘Yes, it most certainly would,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘Yet sometimes, I worry about being so attached to a country I left so long ago,’ Martinez said, frowning slightly. ‘You know what it’s like when you hear some people talking about the good old days?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think those good old days can only seem quite that good when viewed from a distance, and through rose-coloured glasses. So is my attachment to Spain – my equivalent of the good old days – more to do with the fact that I’m dissatisfied with the life I’ve got now? I don’t think so – but how can I be sure?’ He paused for a moment. ‘How do you feel about Poland?’

  It was a complicated question, Paniatowski thought. To her, Poland was her father, and her father was dead – mown down in the last foolish-heroic cavalry charge against German machine guns – and she was not sure she would feel quite comfortable talking about it to a man she had only just met.

  ‘I like the vodka,’ she said.

  Martinez laughed, then seemed to sense her dilemma and said, ‘I’m sorry, I should never have put you on the spot like that.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she told him, appreciating his sensitivity.

  ‘So, shall we get on to the real purpose of your visit?’ Martinez suggested.

  Paniatowski nodded, and took the sketch of the dead woman out of her handbag. She would have laid it down on the desk, but with all Martinez’s papers, there really wasn’t room, and so she just held it up for him to look at.

  ‘It’s about this woman,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, yes, I saw that picture in the paper,’ Martinez said, ‘but she’s a complete stranger to me, and I don’t really see how I could help you.’

  ‘What we didn’t know until last night is that there’s a strong possibility she was Spanish,’ Paniatowski told him.