Backlash (9 page)

Kershaw gave the wardrobe a thorough inspection. ‘There's nothing missing,' he said finally. He looked around the room. ‘May I examine the laundry hamper?'

Meadows and Beresford exchanged glances, then Beresford said, ‘As long as you're wearing gloves.'

Kershaw took a sterilized package out of his pocket, slipped on the gloves, and opened the hamper.

He rummaged through it for about a minute, before saying, ‘The nightdress she was wearing when I left for work yesterday morning isn't here.'

‘Could you describe it to us, sir?' Beresford asked.

‘Certainly. It's in pale-blue chiffon, with a low neckline, dropped back, and slits up each side to the upper thigh level. Have you found it anywhere else in the house?'

‘No, sir,' Meadows replied.

Kershaw gulped. ‘Then we can only assume that she was still wearing it when the bastard took her away,' he said. He gulped again. ‘And what further assumption can we make from that?'

‘I don't think you personally
should
go making assumptions, sir,' Meadows said quietly.

‘We can assume that he didn't expect anyone to catch sight of her between here and . . . and wherever he was planning to take her,' Kershaw said, ignoring the advice.

‘We've one more thing to show you, sir,' Beresford said.

‘And what's that?'

Beresford produced the red stiletto heel. ‘Is this your wife's?'

‘Good God, no,' Kershaw exclaimed. ‘That heel must be nearly five inches high, and I don't mean to sound snobbish here, but Elaine has far too much style to ever contemplate wearing such a monstrosity. In fact, it's hard for me to imagine the kind of woman who
would
wear it. Would you think of wearing a pair of shoes like the ones this heel came from, Sergeant Meadows?'

Meadows' face suddenly lost all expression. ‘With all due respect, sir, what I would or wouldn't wear is nothing to do with you.'

Kershaw nodded his head. ‘Quite right, Sergeant, and I apologize for ever placing you in the position where you felt it was necessary to put me in my rightful place.'

‘Apology accepted,' Meadows said.

‘And now, Sergeant, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like you to leave the room while I have a private word with Inspector Beresford,' Kershaw said.

‘Of course, sir,' Meadows agreed.

The interview with Mary Philips had shaken up Paniatowski, but that had more to do with Kershaw himself than with the investigation. It had seemed – as it had when interviewing her mother – that they had been talking about a different man to the one she knew.

No, she corrected herself – not
knew
, more a case of
had known
.

But as she drove into central Whitebridge, and despite all her efforts to fight it, she found her mind drifting back to those
had known
days.

‘
There's a delicate balance that has to be maintained in any police force,' he said the first time. ‘I want to find out who's
been producing these disgusting pictures – I really do – but I have to tread carefully, because I can't risk destroying the morale of the whole unit in the process.
'

‘
You have to be patient,' he'd said on her second visit. ‘And maybe you'd find that a little easier if you let yourself go and just had a good cry.
'

The woman in the picture – the woman with
her
head pasted on to her – is lying on the ground, with her legs spread wide. And on top of her – mounting her – is a full-sized hog.

Then he says, ‘Why, Monika?
'

‘
Because they're sick bastards,' she tells him, though she is fully aware that she is not answering the question he's asked.

‘
It all comes down to a question of respect,' he tells her. ‘You have to work hard to get it, and once it's yours, you have to make sure that you never do anything which might make it slip from your grasp.
'

‘
I don't understand,' she says.

‘
I have the respect of my men,' Kershaw says gravely. ‘Wouldn't you say that's true?
'

‘
Yes,' she admits – because there is no point in denying it.

‘
And because I have the respect of my men, I know that none of them would have pasted my head on to this disgusting photograph. So the question is, who did put it there?
'

‘
You can't be certain that one of them didn't . . .' Paniatowski begins.

‘
I am
absolutely
certain,' Kershaw says firmly. ‘And now I am going to repeat my question, and I want it answered honestly. If they didn't do it, Monika, then who did?
'

‘
If they didn't do it, then I have no idea,' Paniatowski says.

‘
I can't blame you, Monika, because I understand the pressures you're under,' Kershaw says softly. ‘Nor will I hold it against you in the future. But I will caution you again that if you continue to hold your emotions in, there is a serious risk that you will repeat this error of judgement.
'

‘
Can I go now, sir?' Paniatowski asks.

‘
You may,' Kershaw replies. ‘Though I think you might be wiser to stay a little longer, and talk this thing through with me.
'

‘
I want to go,' Paniatowski says urgently, knowing she will fall into an emotional nosedive if she stays there a minute longer.

‘
Then go,' Kershaw says.

‘I didn't cry,' Paniatowski said, as she pulled into the car park at police headquarters. ‘I didn't cry. I didn't cry,' repeating it like a mantra. ‘I had every excuse in the world, and I still didn't cry.'

But then she realized, as she put on her handbrake, that the tears she had held back for so many years were flowing freely enough now.

It was eleven thirty. Marie padded barefoot along the narrow corridor, stopped in front of Grace's room, and tapped lightly on the door.

‘You awake yet?' she asked with a lightness of tone in her voice that she was far from feeling.

There was no answer.

‘Come on, get yourself out of bed, lazybones, and we'll go for a drink,' Marie persisted.

There was still silence from the other side of the door.

It shouldn't be like this, Marie thought. I've been fair. I could have done this half an hour ago, but I waited. I've played by the rules. She
has to
be there.

She reached out for the door handle, and gave it a half turn. The door was not locked.

And still she hesitated, as if another ten seconds could make a difference – as if, though Grace had not been in the bed when she knocked, she would be by the time she opened the door.

She pushed, and the door swung open. She looked across at the bed, and it was obvious – even from the other side of the room – that it had not been slept in.

EIGHT

L
ong ago, shortly after she and Bob Rutter broke up, Paniatowski had had a brief affair with George Baxter, a policeman she'd been working closely with on the other side of the Pennines. He had made all the running, and she – emotionally crippled by her unhappiness – had simply let it happen, because she liked and respected the man, and it seemed to be what he'd wanted. The affair had been doomed from the start, for though she tried her hardest to fall in love with him, she secretly knew that had never been a real possibility. It had been a relief to her when he ended it, even though that left her feeling lonelier than ever. And at least, she had consoled herself, she could finally put it all behind her.

And then, out of the blue, George Baxter – now married – had been appointed Mid Lancs' Chief Constable.

They had an uneasy relationship now, which, though much of it was based on mutual professional respect, also contained elements of regret, bitterness, and an abiding affection which terrified them both. So, understandably, it was not without some trepidation that Paniatowski answered his summons that morning.

Baxter was sitting behind his desk, rather than on one of the easy chairs in the corner which he reserved for more comfortable chats. She looked at him, and could not help, for a moment, seeing him as the big ginger teddy bear she had once known. But if he was
still
that teddy bear, he was an angry one – or perhaps only a troubled one.

He looked up from his paperwork, and said, ‘Please take a seat, Chief Inspector.'

Paniatowski sat. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about, sir?'

‘Is there some bad blood between you and Chief Superintendent Kershaw?' the chief constable said.

‘Why do you ask that, sir?' Paniatowski countered.

‘I ask because, from the reports I've been receiving, you seem to be handling Mr Kershaw with a lack of tact which is extreme, even by your own somewhat volatile standards.'

‘My somewhat
volatile
standards?' Paniatowski repeated.

‘That's what I'd call them,' Baxter confirmed.

‘I get the job done,' Paniatowski said stubbornly.

‘Yes, you certainly have so far,' Baxter admitted. ‘And that's been your saving grace. But a bobby who relies
only
on results to keep out of trouble is heading for a fall.'

An uneasy silence descended, only broken when Paniatowski said, ‘Might I ask who has been giving you these reports?'

Baxter ran his hands through his shock of ginger hair.

‘How would you reply to that question if it was put to you?' he asked.

‘I'd reply that I wasn't at liberty to say,' Paniatowski confessed reluctantly.

‘And can you expect any less from me?' Baxter wondered. ‘Now, Chief Inspector, since I have answered your question as best I can, would you kindly answer mine?'

‘Whatever history I might have with Mr Kershaw in no way influences the way I'm handling this investigation,' Paniatowski said stiffly.

‘Doesn't it? I'm told you ordered him to have a blood test.'

‘The man was involved in a car crash which could easily have resulted in the death of other drivers. I'd have been failing in my duty as a police officer if I hadn't ordered the test.'

‘You know the result was negative, don't you – that he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol all day?'

‘That still doesn't make it wrong to have ordered the test,' Paniatowski said, holding her ground.

‘Tom Kershaw's not just a good bobby, he's a decent man,' Baxter told her. ‘He's a deacon at my church.'

Paniatowski grinned involuntarily. ‘I didn't know that you were a member of the God-bothering brigade, sir,' she said.

‘There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Chief Inspector – there are a lot of things you never
took the trouble to find out
!'

So there it was, out in the open – a chunk of their own personal history, rearing up from the grave they had tried to bury it in, like the monster it was.

‘Can I ask you what your own relationship with Mr Kershaw is, sir?' she asked.

‘I'm his superior,' Baxter said.

‘So it's no more than that?'

‘You do realize you're bordering on insubordination with questions like that, don't you?' Baxter said.

‘I must disagree with you there, sir,' Paniatowski said firmly. ‘I'd be bordering on insubordination if I
demanded
to know what your relationship with Mr Kershaw was – but I'm only asking.'

‘We're both very keen anglers, and sometimes we go fishing together,' Baxter said.

‘So you'd say that once you've both taken off your uniforms, the chain of command is left behind and you're simply friends?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Don't push it,' Baxter warned her.

‘I'm just trying to get a clear picture, sir,' Paniatowski said flatly.

‘You're just trying to insinuate that in any dispute between yourself and Chief Superintendent Kershaw, I'll come down on Tom's side,' Baxter said angrily. ‘Tell me, Chief Inspector, do you intend to charge the chief superintendent with dangerous driving – because if you do, you'll have my support, if not my approval.'

‘No, of course I don't intend to charge him,' Paniatowski said.