Dead End Page 8

  It was such a waste of resources – such a waste of her! While she fretted in the corridors of Lancaster Castle, crimes were being committed on her patch which needed a serious looking into.

  She was on her way to Lancaster Crown Court at about half-past six that crisp morning in early April, when a bulletin over the police radio informed her that there was a break-in in progress in Barrow Village.

  The village, set just inside the moors, was not too far off her current route, she thought, and since it was at the very edge of the Whitebridge policing area, it was highly unlikely that any of the regular patrol cars would be closer to it than she was.

  Of course, this might mean she was late for court, but though the judge might hate the fact, he certainly wasn’t going to rebuke her for catching a criminal.

  And how delightful would that be?

  ‘DCI Paniatowski,’ she said into her microphone. ‘I’m about a mile from the village, so I’m going in – but I’d appreciate it if you could send me some reinforcements.’

  She approached Barrow Village from the south side. The village drew its name from the fact that it was located on Barrow Moor, though where the moor got its name from was anybody’s guess. The hamlet’s name instantly conjured up images of old stone buildings covered with ivy, smoking chimneys, and ancient residents with blackthorn walking sticks and clay pipes. Nothing – the new arrival would quickly learn – could be further from the truth, for though a few of the houses could claim a history, the major part of the village was made up of a new housing estate.

  The houses on this estate were all detached. They had double garages and dormer windows in their sharply sloping – almost alpine-like – roofs, and most of their owners were drawn from the moderately prosperous middle class.

  The break-in was reported to have occurred at No. 23 Blackthorn Way. Paniatowski parked at the other end of the street.

  As she walked down Blackthorn Way, she checked around her. All the front rooms of the houses she passed were in darkness, though a few of the upstairs bedroom lights were on. Most of the activity, however, seemed to be occurring at the backs of the houses, in the kitchens and breakfast rooms.

  It was a strange time of day to commit a robbery – just as it was getting light – Paniatowski thought. But then maybe the burglar knew something she didn’t.

  As she drew level with No. 23, the door to the house opposite opened, and a tall man in a heavy wool dressing gown walked down his garden path and onto the street. He moved well for an old man, Paniatowski noted, but old was what he obviously was.

  ‘Are you the law?’ he asked.

  Yes,’ Paniatowski confirmed.

  He took a step closer to her. ‘My name’s Martin Cole. I’m the one who phoned you. Can I see your warrant card please?’

  Paniatowski produced her warrant card, and held it out for him to see. Most people would have given it no more than a glance, but Cole went over it line by line, and then went over it again, before nodding that he was satisfied.

  ‘Tell me what you saw,’ Paniatowski said.

  Cole spread his legs and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘At around twenty past six, I saw a man casing No. 23, which is the home of Arthur and Elaine Wheatstone,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean by “casing” it?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘He was walking around it in a meaningful manner, looking up at the windows, and assessing how difficult it would be to force the doors.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘How would you know?’ Cole countered.

  ‘You’re ex-job,’ Paniatowski guessed.

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘I was a detective sergeant – and then inspector – for over thirty years. And you are the famous DCI Paniatowski. I suppose we should feel honoured that you’ve come to deal with such a petty crime personally. Why, I remember—’

  ‘Describe the man to me,’ Paniatowski said, interrupting him before things got too cosy.

  ‘He’s around 35 years old, six feet tall and weighs about twelve stone. He has brown hair, cut so short it’s almost a crew cut. He’s wearing a check sports coat, check trousers, and what I think are moccasin shoes. His outfit may not be to my taste, but it wasn’t cheap, either.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound like the sort of clothes a burglar would choose when he was out on a job,’ Paniatowski said sceptically, because while she had no doubt that he had once been a policeman, he could well have chosen in his retirement to make a hobby out of being a nutter.

  ‘It is a strange outfit,’ Cole said, steadily and firmly, ‘but that’s what he’s wearing.’

  ‘You seem to have had plenty of opportunity to observe him,’ Paniatowski said, still unconvinced.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Where were you watching him from?’

  ‘My bathroom. I was having a pee – which can be a protracted business when you get to my age.’

  ‘Do you always look out of the window when you’re having a pee?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cole grinned sheepishly. ‘Because it’s a lot better than looking down at my faded glory,’ he said.

  ‘Did you actually see him enter the house?’ Paniatowski asked.

  Cole shook his head. ‘He disappeared around the back.’

  ‘So you can’t know for sure that he’s inside.’

  ‘No, but that’s where my gut says he is.’

  ‘Are the Wheatstone family at home?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘There’s only the two of them – Elaine and Arthur. Elaine’s away visiting her mother, but Arthur’s there.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I saw him twice last night. The first time was around seven. I was taking the dog for a walk, and he was standing in the garden.’

  ‘I would have thought it would have been a bit cold for standing in the garden,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘It was – but Elaine doesn’t like him smoking in the house, you see.’

  ‘When was the second time you saw him?’

  ‘About eight o’clock, when he opened the door for his visitors.’

  ‘Did you see them from your bathroom again?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘One was about five feet ten, the other was at least six four.’

  ‘You sound pretty sure of their heights.’

  ‘I am. They were standing next to Arthur, you see – and I know how tall he is.’

  ‘What were they wearing?’ Paniatowski asked, promising herself that if Cole described them as wearing something exotic, she’d be back in her car and on her way to Lancaster.

  ‘They were both wearing anoraks, and either jeans or dark trousers,’ the ex-bobby said.

  ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but their car – a blue Vauxhall Victor – was gone by the time I went for my eleven o’clock pee.’

  ‘How tall is Arthur Wheatstone?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Five eight.’

  ‘And is he in shape?’

  ‘No, he’s a bit of a weed, to tell you the truth.’

  So what we have here is a large burglar who doesn’t seem particularly worried about getting caught in the act, and a householder who can – at best – only make a poor job of defending himself, Paniatowski thought.

  It could turn out to be a very nasty situation.

  Paniatowski clicked on her radio, but there was only static.

  Bloody moors! she thought.

  She turned towards Whitebridge, and listened for the sound of police sirens in the distance.

  Nothing.

  ‘From what you’ve told me, Mr Wheatstone could be in danger,’ Paniatowski said to the old man. ‘I’m going to go in there.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Cole said.

  Paniatowski grinned. ‘Really, Inspector Cole?’ she asked.

  Coles shook his head in disbelie
f. ‘What am I thinking?’ he asked. ‘For a moment back there, I forgot I wasn’t young. How about, as an alternative course of action, I stay here and raise the general alarm if needs be?’

  ‘That’s a much better plan,’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ Cole asked, concerned.

  ‘Certain,’ Paniatowski told him, ‘I’ve got a black belt in judo – and if he causes me any trouble, I’ll wrap it round his neck and throttle the bastard.’

  Once the decision was made, there was no point in delaying any longer.

  Paniatowski sprinted across the road. The front door of No. 23 was locked, and there was no sign anyone had attempted to force it.

  She moved a couple of feet to the left, and risked a glance into the living room.

  No sign of a burglar there. No sign of the homeowner, either. The living room was as neat and tidy as if the Wheatstones were expecting guests to turn up at any minute.

  She moved rapidly around the side of the house, past the bin, to the back door. There was no more sign of life in the kitchen than there had been in the living room.

  She tried the kitchen door. It wasn’t locked.

  There was a single plate, a knife and fork and a wine glass in the sink. No evidence of any pans, so maybe Wheatstone had eaten some convenience food he’d heated up in the oven. The toaster was cold, the kettle was cold, and there was a nearly full bottle of milk in the fridge.

  The utility room led off the kitchen, but Paniatowski could see at a glance that there was nothing of interest in there.

  She checked out the living room, and then the small study which lay off it. The study was full of technical books and journals which all seemed – on a first fleeting impression – to be concerned with aeronautics.

  Paniatowski made her way up the stairs. There was a master bedroom with an en suite, two more bedrooms and a second bathroom. The beds in the guest bedrooms had not been made up, and though there were sheets and blankets on the bed in the master bathroom, it had not been slept in.

  Monika checked the en suite. Both the soap and the towels were completely bone dry.

  So what had she learned?

  She had learned that Mrs Wheatstone was away, and Arthur Wheatstone had had two visitors the night before, but they were gone by eleven, and unless he had washed up after they’d gone, he’d offered them no refreshment. He himself had had something to eat, and drunk at least one glass of wine. But he had not slept in his bed, nor had he had any breakfast.

  As for the intruder with the crew cut, there was no indication – despite ex-Inspector Cole’s gut feeling – that he had ever entered the house.

  There was one more space to check – the garage.

  She went downstairs again, crossed the kitchen, and entered the utility room.

  She reached for the handle of the door that led into the garage, and then hesitated.

  You were told never to go into a situation like this without backup, she reminded herself.

  But what exactly was a situation like this?

  A well-dressed man breaks into the house in the middle of the countryside just as night is ending.

  Why?

  Why, why, why?

  And if it was important enough for him to take such a risk, was it important enough to kill for?

  She had her judo, that was true. But he might have a gun, and it was generally acknowledged that although the ability to use an opponent’s own weight against him is a great asset, it isn’t much defence against a bullet.

  As she flung open the door to the garage she was screaming out her name and rank, not because she thought those two things would make any difference if he’d decided to shoot her, but because loud words – any loud words – can create moments of confusion – and actions taken in those moments can be life-saving.

  There was only one person in the garage as far as she could tell, and he would never present a threat to anyone, ever again.

  He was a skinny man – ‘a bit of a weed’ as ex-DI Cole might have said – and he was wearing grey flannel trousers and a brown cardigan.

  He was hanging from the central concrete beam which ran the length of the garage. His tongue was hanging out, but though the crotch of his trousers was heavily stained, there was no pool of urine on the floor. Just behind him, on its side, was one of those small stepladders which people use when they need to reach high shelves.

  She supposed the next thing she should have done was check his pulse, but she knew that would be pointless. Even so, under normal conditions she would probably have done it, but these were not normal conditions, because she didn’t know where the bloody man in the check jacket was.

  She heard the footfall behind her a split second before she felt the sharp blow on the back of her head.

  For a moment, everything went black, but she was still aware enough to put her hands in front of her to break the fall which she accepted as inevitable.

  Her palms hit the floor, her wrists were jarred, and her eyes opened again. She saw a pair of check trouser legs, and heard the sound of the up-and-over garage door being lifted. Then the early-morning light flooded into the garage, and the trouser legs were gone.

  As Paniatowski struggled to her feet, the man was already dashing down the road.

  He probably had his car parked at the other end of Blackthorn Way, she thought, and if she didn’t catch him by then, she would have lost him forever.

  And then – blessed relief – she heard the police sirens.

  She turned and faced the oncoming car, waving for it to stop.

  It drew up beside her.

  ‘DCI Paniatowski,’ she said to the driver, waving her warrant card at him. ‘Get in the back.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but are you sure …?’

  ‘Get in the bloody back,’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘Go on – move it!’

  The driver hesitated a split second more before deciding that while she might well be deranged, she was still a DCI, which meant that she had licence to be pretty much whatever she wanted to be.

  Once the driver had climbed into the back, Paniatowski took his place at the wheel, and slammed the gear into a racing start. The car roared up Blackthorn Way, leaving a small whirlwind of gravel behind it.

  They reached the end of the street just in time to see the man in the check trousers pulling away in a Jaguar XJ.

  ‘Get on the radio,’ Paniatowski said. ‘I want every police vehicle in Lancashire on that bastard’s tail.’

  The Jag shot off towards the Lancaster road. By the time it reached the edge of the village, it was doing nearly eighty.

  Even though the Vauxhall Vectra that Paniatowski was driving had been souped up, she knew that once they were out on the moors, where there were countless side roads following the old peddlers’ routes, they could soon lose him.

  ‘Get patched through to Chief Superintendent Snodgrass and tell him I want roadblocks set up on all roads that lead off the moor between Bolton and Lancaster,’ Paniatowski told the constable in the passenger seat. ‘Tell him I’d normally get it cleared with the chief constable, but right now I’m too busy chasing somebody who might just turn out to be a murderer.’

  The village was already five miles behind them – and the needle on the speedometer was nudging a hundred and ten – when they saw the sign stating there were roadworks ahead.

  In front of them, the Jaguar’s brake lights went on, and there was a screech of tyres as the car slowed.

  She slammed on her own brakes, and the rear end of the Vectra did a rattling mambo before juddering to a halt.

  She could see now what his problem was. The road was just about wide enough for two cars – or two lorries, if they were very careful – to pass each other, but half the road was currently occupied by a steamroller, and the other half was operating a reversible flow system. On their side, the single lane was blocked by a bread van, a milk lorry and a tractor, all waiting for the lights to change. Even worse news, from the
Jaguar driver’s viewpoint, was that two police cars were just approaching the other side of the roadworks.

  Paniatowski manoeuvred the Vauxhall so it was across the road, cutting off the Jag’s retreat.

  ‘Shall we go and get him, ma’am?’ asked the constable on the back seat.

  ‘No,’ Paniatowski said. ‘He’s very likely to be dangerous, so we’ll wait for the reinforcements.’

  ‘Roberts and me can handle him easily, ma’am,’ the constable said, doing his best not to sound disappointed.

  He was like a little kid who’d been denied his football, she thought, and almost laughed. Yet alongside that amusement there was envy, because in putting a damper on his enthusiasm, she was also leaving the younger Monika – who scorned the boring, the predictable and the safe – even further behind.

  And then she remembered that she had virtually hi-jacked the car she was sitting in, and had driven it at high speed when she was probably suffering from concussion – and while she felt she should certainly censor herself for taking such an irresponsible action, it still made her feel a whole lot better.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the constable.

  ‘Butler, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do, PC Butler. We’ll give the rest of the lads five minutes to get here, and if they’re still not here by then, you’ll get your wish to go over there and have your heads kicked in.’

  ‘You’re a bloody star, ma’am!’ Butler said enthusiastically.

  ‘Easy, Johnno,’ Roberts cautioned him.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Butler said, blushing. ‘I didn’t mean to be cheeky or anything—’

  ‘He’s moving,’ Paniatowski interrupted him.

  He was. The man in the check jacket had got out of the Jag, and was walking slowly and casually towards the Vauxhall.

  ‘Ma’am, do you think we should …?’

  ‘I’ll get out of the car first,’ Paniatowski said firmly. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do after that – that will depend on him – but whatever I do, I’ll want you just behind me. Have you got that?’

  ‘We could be in front of you, if you thought that might be better ma’am,’ Butler said.