Backlash (11 page)

‘That's not possible,' Paniatowski said.

‘Isn't it? Why not?'

‘Because it would be highly irregular for them to become a part of the official investigation.'

‘But they could be there unofficially,' Kershaw pointed out.

‘And how would that work?'

‘A couple of lads have taken some of the leave that's owed them. I didn't ask them to, but they insisted they'd do it whatever I said.'

‘They've taken
leave
?' Paniatowski repeated incredulously. ‘In the middle of a bloody flu epidemic, when we can barely scrape a skeleton staff together?'

‘Yes.'

‘And who rubber-stamped their request? You?'

‘No, not me,' Kershaw told her. ‘I'm too personally involved, so I passed the request up to the chief constable.'

‘You knew I'd ask you for the files, and, with George Baxter's complete cooperation, you decided to stitch me up before I even made the request,' Paniatowski said, furious.

‘I'm willing to do anything – and everything – I have to, if it will get my wife back safely,' Kershaw said.

‘Then why won't you and your chief constable mate just let me get on with my job?'

‘Maybe George doesn't completely trust you,' Kershaw suggested. ‘Maybe he thinks your personal animosity to me will influence the way that you conduct the investigation.'

‘And what about you?' Paniatowski demanded. ‘Is that how you think?'

‘No,' Kershaw said seriously. ‘I think you're a good bobby – probably one of the best in the whole force.'

‘Well, then?'

‘But I'm better. I'm
the
best. And since it's my wife who's gone missing, I want the best bobby available looking for her, even if it's only unofficially.'

‘And if I say no?' Paniatowski said, echoing his earlier comment.

‘If you say no, I'll go above your head – and I'll win,' Kershaw replied, returning the compliment. ‘Of course, it won't do either of our careers any good, but my career is the last thing I'm worrying about right now.'

‘I need time to think about it,' Paniatowski said.

‘There
is
no time,' Kershaw said. He looked around him. ‘I hear you're a pretty good darts player,' he continued, his eyes resting on the board.

And so I am, Paniatowski thought.

She'd come to the game rather late, when Louisa had started to express a distinctly unfeminine interest in it, and had been surprised to find she was a natural. Perhaps, she sometimes thought, it was because she was capable of such single-minded concentration. Or maybe it was simply because she'd a stronger urge to win than almost all her opponents.

‘I'll play you one game of three-oh-one, straight in and a double to finish,' Kershaw said. ‘If I win, you'll let my lads work in tandem with yours. If I lose, I'll stay clear of the investigation.'

‘Seems a bit of a desperate gamble,' Paniatowski said.

‘That's because I'm a bit of a desperate man,' Kershaw told her.

She nodded. ‘All right, you're on. How many practice darts do we have before we start?'

‘None,' Kershaw replied. ‘Life isn't about trying things out first – it's about meeting problems head-on, and dealing with them straight away.'

They bulled up, and she won the right to start.

Her first three darts landed firmly in the treble twenty. One hundred and eighty – the maximum score, and enough to make most of the opponents she'd ever played against all but give up the ghost.

But Kershaw was not about to give up, nor did he try to emulate her. Instead, he slammed three darts into the treble nineteen.

She had 121 left. Kershaw had 130.

She could finish it in the next three darts. Another treble twenty, a treble eleven and a double fourteen, and it was all over.

She found the treble twenty and followed up with the treble eleven. Kershaw was completely silent and perfectly still, but she could sense his tension.

She threw her third dart, and it landed just the wrong side of the double fourteen wire.

She stepped aside, and Kershaw walked up to the line.

For at least a minute, the chief superintendent stood staring at the board.

It wasn't that he was working out what he needed to win, Paniatowski thought. Any real darts player would know that automatically. No, what he was doing was putting off the moment when he might have to admit that he'd lost.

Kershaw threw his first dart, and it landed inside the treble twenty by a hair's breadth. He should have followed through with his second dart immediately, while he still had the momentum – every darts player knew that, too – but he didn't.

He's scared, Paniatowski thought. He's really frightened.

Kershaw lifted his arm again – stiffly, and with effort, as if the dart in his hand weighed a ton. When it was finally at the right level, he threw carelessly – like a man already accepting defeat – but, despite that, the dart still found its treble ten target.

He needed double fifteen to win.

He turned to Paniatowski. ‘You'll hold me to this agreement, will you?'

‘I will.'

‘Why, in God's name?'

‘Because I think you'll be a liability to the investigation. Because I think I have more chance of finding your wife on my own.'

Kershaw turned back to the board, and this time his hand rose quickly – this time he released the dart as if he were depending on the righteousness of his cause, or divine intervention – or
something
– rather than his own skill.

The dart wobbled in mid-air, but landed in the double fifteen.

‘You might not want me, but you've got me,' Kershaw said.

But there was no triumph in either his voice or his expression. There was only relief.

NINE

T
he two women seemed such an unlikely pair that it would have been difficult not to notice them under
any
circumstances, but the fact that they were standing squarely in the middle of the space in the police car park which said ‘Reserved for DCI Paniatowski' made ignoring them a virtual impossibility.

As she put the MGA into reverse, and began slowly to back towards her parking space, Paniatowski studied the women in her rear-view mirror.

One of them – the younger of the two, who was probably twenty-two or twenty-three – was dressed in cheap, flashy clothes, and heavily – if hastily – made-up, and if she wasn't already on the game, then she was at least teetering on the very edge of it.

The older one could have been twenty-five or twenty-six. She was slightly less attractive than her companion, but had a style – both in her dress and her manner – that the other woman could never hope to emulate.

As the back bumper of the MGA approached the yellow line which marked the edge of her space, she saw the two women step to one side. But they made no effort to move away. Instead, they stood in silence, and watched while she completed the manoeuvre.

Paniatowski shifted the gear stick into neutral, switched off the engine, and stepped out of the car.

‘Is there something I can do for you, ladies?' she asked.

‘It's our friend, Grace,' moaned the younger one. ‘She's gone missing.'

‘Gone missing?' Paniatowski repeated.

‘I told you I'd handle this, Marie,' the older one said, firmly but kindly.

The younger one looked down at the ground. ‘I'm so sorry, Lucy, I just forgot.'

‘It's all right,' the older one – Lucy – cooed. ‘We all forget things when we're upset.' She turned to Paniatowski. ‘We've come about a friend of ours who's disappeared – and yes, before you ask, she's a prostitute.'

‘We think the Ripper might have got her,' Marie said, on the verge of hysteria.

‘What ripper?' Paniatowski said. ‘I've no idea what you're talking about.'

‘One of the other girls got slashed with a razor a couple of weeks ago,' Lucy explained. ‘We think the same man might have taken Grace.'

I don't have time for this, Paniatowski thought. I really
don't
have time.

‘If you're worried about your friend, you should report it,' she said aloud.

‘That's what we're doing,' Grace told her.

‘When reporting a suspected crime, there are channels to go through,' Paniatowski pointed out.

‘You can drown in those channels,' Lucy said bitterly. ‘It's happened often enough before. So we either report it to you – or we report it to nobody.'

Paniatowski hesitated for a second, then said, ‘There's a café just around the corner. Why don't we go and have a cup of tea?'

It was a workman's café, which meant they got none of the disapproving stares which might have been aimed at them in a more genteel establishment.

‘So, it's the fact that the one girl was slashed which makes you so worried about the other one, is it?' Paniatowski asked, when the waitress had deposited mugs of tea on the table and moved on.

‘That's right,' Lucy agreed. ‘It's because of that.'

‘Grace is so young – and so tiny,' Marie sobbed.

A lorry driver had been eying them up for some time, and now he ambled over to the table.

‘I wouldn't normally bother with a woman of your age,' he said to Paniatowski, ‘but you look like you've got a bit of class about you.'

‘Do you think so?' Paniatowski asked. ‘I'm never sure myself. It's my nose I worry about. I think it's a bit too big.'

The lorry driver leered. ‘It's not your nose I'll be most interested in,' he said. ‘So how much will it cost me?'

Paniatowski's brow furrowed with concentration. ‘Hard to say exactly,' she told him. ‘But I'd guess that it would be somewhere around a hundred and fifty pounds.'

‘A hundred and fifty quid?' the lorry driver said. ‘For a quick jump in the cab of my lorry?'

‘And then, of course, there's the fact that your name will be in the papers to be taken into consideration.'

‘I don't know what you're on about.'

‘Are you thick or something?' Paniatowski asked, reaching into her handbag. ‘The fine for soliciting should be about a hundred and fifty pounds, and your name will be in the papers when it comes to court.' She held up the warrant card. ‘I'm a police officer, so if I was you, I'd piss off.'

The lorry driver turned and rushed out of the café, leaving his bacon sandwich on the counter. Lucy was laughing throatily, and even Marie seemed to have cheered up a little.

‘About this girl who was slashed,' Paniatowski said to Lucy, ‘do you have any of the details?'

‘I have
all
the details,' Lucy told her.

‘
If you want oral, it'll cost you more, and I don't do anal whatever you're willing to pay,' she says.

‘
Oral' and ‘anal' are not the words she would have used a couple of weeks earlier. She didn't even
know
them a couple of weeks earlier. But Lucy says they are good words, because they show you have a bit of class – and there are some punters who are willing to pay more for class.

‘
Have you ever read any of the works of the Marquis de Sade?' the punter asks tentatively.

‘
Marquee?' Denise says. ‘Isn't that some kind of big tent?
'

Denise shifts her weight uneasily from one foot to the other. ‘Barriers?' she repeats. ‘I don't know what you're on about.
'

‘
I have all kinds of costumes at home,' the punter says. ‘Tight corsets, masks, shoes which are so high they are almost stilts . . .
'

‘
Look, I don't care
what
you've got at home – do you want to do the business or don't you?
'

‘
I want to do the business,' the punter confirms, his confidence growing. ‘I want to chain your hands above your head so tightly that you are forced to stand on tiptoe. I want to see your naked skin glistening in the candle light. And then I want to whip you!
'

‘
You're sick!' Denise says.

‘
I am not sick,' the punter counters, in what sounds almost like the cry of a wounded animal. ‘I merely have unusual tastes.
'

‘
Sick!' she repeats. ‘What's the matter with you? Can't you get it up, like normal men?
'