The Dead Hand of History (30 page)

He dropped the torch again, and levered himself up into a kneeling position. He was only just in time. His stomach demanded that he lean forward, and when he had obeyed it, it emptied its entire contents on the floor of the delivery bay.

TWENTY-SIX

T
hree police vans had arrived within minutes of DC Crane making his call, and the uniformed constables disgorged from them had immediately set up barriers, sealing off the whole area. A pick-up truck had appeared on the scene soon after, and was now awaiting the instruction to take the E-type Jag to the police garage. DCI Paniatowski's MGA was parked just inside the barrier, as were an ambulance and Dr Shastri's Land Rover.

And there were other people very much in evidence.

Lots of other people!

Lighting technicians setting up lighting.

Fingerprint experts dusting for fingerprints.

Detectives hoping to find something to detect.

And patrol officers on patrol.

The lower end of Brewer's Street had gone from being on the periphery of the investigation to its very centre, in less time than it would have taken to write the details down.

DC Crane, a blanket draped over his shoulders, was sitting in the back of the ambulance and drinking hot, sweet tea.

‘I'm so ashamed of myself, ma'am,' he said, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor of the ambulance.

‘Ashamed?' Paniatowski repeated. ‘Why?'

‘Because the minute I saw that poor bloody woman's face, I lost it completely.'

‘And so would most people who suddenly found themselves in that kind of situation.'

‘But we're not most people, are we, ma'am?' Crane asked. ‘We're bobbies. We're supposed to be able to
handle
things. And I didn't.'

‘You're being too hard on yourself,' Paniatowski told him. ‘By playing a hunch, you've given us by far the biggest lead we've had in this investigation – and I won't forget that.'

‘Thank you, ma'am,' Crane said.

‘No, thank
you
,' Paniatowski replied. ‘Are you going to be all right, DC Crane?'

‘I think so, ma'am.'

Paniatowski nodded. ‘Good.'

She climbed out of the ambulance, but once she was on the street she turned round to face the detective constable again.

‘And thank you for the other thing, as well,' she said.

‘The other thing, ma'am?'

‘Sergeant Walker didn't bother to tell me that he had established an ID for the second victim. He didn't tell me he was going to Brunskill's Bakery, either. But somebody did. Somebody phoned me up and told me exactly what was going on. And that could only have been you, couldn't it?'

Crane took a sip from his plastic cup.

‘It's very nice, this tea, ma'am,' he said. ‘Very refreshing.'

Paniatowski smiled. ‘I'll be keeping a close eye on you, DC Crane,' she promised.

The old bakery's loading bay was bathed in the blinding light of several powerful arc lamps. To the left, the superannuated baking table on which DC Crane had banged his head was being studied by the forensic team. To the right, Dr Shastri was bent over the two corpses.

Paniatowski crossed the bay, and came to a halt next to the bodies. Linda Szymborska's dead face stared up at her, the eyes filled with frozen horror.

Or surprise.

Or pain.

Or perhaps all three.

She turned to look at Tom Whittington, whose eyes were closed, and whose expression seemed to indicate no more than mild bemusement.

‘Can you tell me which of the victims died first?' Paniatowski asked the doctor.

‘Based on the activity of our busy little friends the maggot and the blowfly, I would say that the woman died a few hours before the man,' Dr Shastri replied. ‘But at this stage, that
is
only a guess. I will be able to speak with more authority once I have sliced them both open.'

‘I'd like to see the results as soon as you have them available,' Paniatowski said.

‘Were I a clever detective chief inspector, rather than a simple dissector of cadavers, I think I would find the manner in which they died more interesting than the actual timing,' Dr Shastri said.

Paniatowski grinned. ‘I
had
noticed,' she said, ‘but I can see you're just bursting to explain it to me, so please feel free.'

‘The woman, as is evident from the ligature marks on her arms and legs, was strapped to that baking table over there,' Dr Shastri said. ‘The amputation of her hand – if amputation is the correct word for such butchery – was the first act of violence committed against her. Once that was accomplished, her killer launched a more frenzied and general attack, using, I am almost certain, the same weapon he had used to cut off her hand. And you can see the result of that for yourself – he literally hacked her to death.'

‘It would have been messy,' Paniatowski said.

‘Very messy indeed,' Dr Shastri confirmed. ‘There will have been a veritable fountain of blood, and I have no doubt that the killer will have been covered in it himself. Most men would have found this experience truly revolting, and would have pulled back. But our killer did not. It is possible that his frenzy was such that he did not even notice the blood until he had achieved his aim.'

‘But Tom Whittington's death was not like that at all.'

‘No, it wasn't. He was strangled, and the lack of any signs of struggle suggests that he was already unconscious when that strangulation took place. And his hand, unlike the woman's, was not removed until after he was dead.'

‘So he hardly suffered at all?'

‘Correct. And then there is the way in which the victims were treated once they were dead. The man was laid neatly on the ground. His left arm, with the hand still intact, was laid across his chest. His right stump, in contrast, was placed by his side, where it wouldn't be so noticeable.'

‘And the woman?'

‘She died at the bench, struggling, no doubt, to break free of her bonds. But those bonds were very securely tied, and were strong enough to keep her upright, even when she was dead.'

‘But we didn't find her tied to the bench.'

‘No, you did not. The killer, I think, wanted to rob her of even what little dignity she had left, so he cut through the bonds and let her fall into a crumpled heap on the floor.'

It was as if the killer both hated
and
blamed the woman much more than he hated and blamed the man, Paniatowski thought.

And if that
were
the case, there was good reason for it, because it must have been obvious to Stan Szymborska that mild-mannered Tom was almost an innocent party in the affair, and that Linda had been the real instigator.

‘When can I have the full reports?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Later today,' Shastri replied. ‘And once I have completed them, I will apply myself to the other little job you asked me to do.'

She had almost forgotten
the other little job
, Paniatowski thought, and given recent developments, she was no longer sure that it even needed to be done at all.

‘There's no rush with the third cadaver,' she said, ‘but I really do need the reports on these two pretty damn quickly.'

‘You will get them as soon as is humanly possible – if not sooner,' Shastri promised her.

Paniatowski nodded, and walked over to the baking table to which Linda Szymborska had been strapped, and where the grisly amputation of her hand had taken place.

‘Have you come up with anything I can use yet, Arthur?' she asked the technician examining the table.

‘No fingerprints, ma'am,' the technician replied. ‘Looks to me as if the table's been wiped clean. But there is
that
!'

He was pointing to the pool – almost a reservoir – of dried blood on the floor. And, more particularly, he was pointing to the large male footprints squarely in the centre of it.

Stan Szymborska must have observed the police cars approaching from his front window, and by the time they had reached the driveway in front of his house, he was already standing at the door.

There were still signs of the recent strain on his face, Paniatowski thought, but considering he almost certainly knew what was about to happen next, he seemed remarkably calm.

‘Have you found my Linda's body?' he asked.

‘What an interesting way you have of expressing things, Mr Szymborska,' Paniatowski said.

‘Please do not play games with me, Chief Inspector,' Szymborska replied, with great dignity.

‘I'm
not
playing games,' Paniatowski told him. ‘I said you have an interesting way of expressing things because you
do
. Most men in your situation would have held on to the desperate hope that their wife was still alive. But not you!
You
didn't ask if we'd found
her
,
you
asked if we'd found her
body
.'

‘Why should I put on a show for your benefit?' Szymborska demanded. ‘Why should I pretend that I still have hope that my wife is alive, when I know that she is dead?'

‘Yes, you
do
know she's dead – because you killed her!'

‘That is not the reason at all. I know she is dead because I have seen so much of death that I can almost smell it.'

‘Now that
is
a good line,' Paniatowski said. ‘But you shouldn't be wasting it on me – you should save it for your lawyer.'

‘Where was she?' Szymborska asked, ignoring the comment. ‘Where was my lovely Linda?'

‘She was in the old bakery,' Paniatowski said, feeling rage flaring up inside her. ‘She was where
you
left her!'

Why was she getting so angry, she wondered.

Why had the dispassionate, official front, which she could normally display on these occasions, so completely deserted her?

It was because the crime she was dealing with now was so horrific, she told herself.

But she had seen horrific crimes before, and she knew that wasn't the answer – or at least not the
whole
answer.

She was angry with herself, she suddenly realized. Angry that even when her gut feeling had told her Stan Szymborska was guilty, there had been some small part of her – buried deep inside – which had refused to accept it.

And she was angry with Stan, for pretending to be the man he wasn't – a man who she could admire, a man who (she had almost found herself wishing) could have been
her
man.

‘I did not kill my wife,' Szymborska said quietly.

‘Didn't you?' Paniatowski asked – much calmer, much more
professional
now. ‘I have to inform you, Mr Szymborska, that I have here a warrant which entitles me to search your house.'

‘Is that necessary? Your men have already searched it once,' Szymborska pointed out.

‘True, they have,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But we'll not be looking for the same things this time.' She glanced down as his feet. ‘What size shoes do you take, Mr Szymborska?'

‘Size eleven.'

Paniatowski nodded. ‘That's what I would have guessed. And that's
just
the size of the footprint in the blood.'

Stan Szymborska was standing in his living room – if not exactly under guard then at least under escort – when Paniatowski walked in holding the pair of black patent-leather shoes.

He still seemed very calm. No, it was more than just calm, she decided – he seemed resigned.

‘Do these belong to you?' she asked.

‘I don't know,' Szymborska said. ‘But I certainly have a pair which are very like them.'

‘We found them at the back of your wardrobe. At the
very
back of your wardrobe.'

And when she had the name of the constable who'd missed them on the first search of the house, she thought, she'd give him the bollocking of his life.

‘Did you hear what I said?' she demanded. ‘We found these shoes in your wardrobe.'

‘Then I assume that they must be mine.'

‘When was the last time you wore them?'

Szymborska shrugged. ‘I couldn't say for certain. But I think it was probably some time ago.'

‘And after the last time you wore them, you gave them an especially thorough cleaning, didn't you?'

‘I would not imagine it was
especially
thorough. I like to take care of my clothes, but I am not fanatical about them.'

‘Really?' Paniatowski said.

She turned the shoes over, so that Szymborska could see the soles and heels, which had been attacked so vigorously with some kind of abrasive that, in some places, the leather had been shredded.

‘I did not do that,' Szymborska said.

‘Of course you did,' Paniatowski countered. ‘But you'd have been much better off burning them, you know. Because however hard you try to get rid of it, blood always leaves a trace.'

‘Whatever I say – however often I tell you that I loved my wife with all my heart – I will never convince you that I did not kill her,' Szymborska said. ‘So why must we waste time going through this pantomime? You have come here to arrest me, so why not do it?'

‘All right,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘Stanislaw Szymborska, I am arresting you for the murders of Linda Szymborska and Thomas Whittington. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.'

‘This should never have happened,' Szymborska said. ‘I should have hanged myself long before it ever got to this.'