Dying in the Dark (25 page)

‘Yes, I suppose it could,' Paniatowski agreed.

‘But I distrust coincidences at the best of times,' Woodend told her, ‘an' this one really does stretch the bounds of credulity to breakin' point.'

‘So if we accept that it
isn't
a coincidence, what conclusions do we have to draw?' Paniatowski asked.

‘That we thought the two murders – Pamela's and Maria's – were unconnected, but they're not,' Woodend said heavily. ‘That we thought there were two killers, but there's only one. An' how do we know this? Because the maskin' tape an' the implement which were used to kill Pamela almost definitely came from New Horizons, an' because the car which was parked on Ash Croft almost certainly belonged to Lucy Higson.'

‘Lucy – Lulu – was Pamela Rainsford's lover,' Paniatowski said, spelling it out. ‘They'd been seeing each other for about a year, and things were going fine. Then Pamela decided that she wanted Lucy all to herself.'

‘But Lucy wasn't prepared to give up the luxurious life that she had as the wife of one of the richest men in Whitebridge.'

‘And she was probably afraid that if she turned Pamela down, Pamela would tell Derek about their affair, and he would kick her out.'

‘If he divorced her for adultery – especially adultery with another
woman
– Lucy would walk away from the marriage with nothing. So she decided to kill Pamela.'

‘But why did Lucy mutilate Pamela in such a ghastly way?' Paniatowski asked.

Woodend shrugged. ‘Maybe she thought that it would cloud the issue – that it would make us think that the murderer, instead of being her lover, was a ravin' nut-case. Or maybe she really
did
hate Pamela by that point, an' that hatred came though in the mutilation.'

‘Then, one night later, she parks her new car – the Cortina GT – on Ash Croft, walks across the rough land, and murders Maria,' Paniatowski said. ‘Why do you think she did that?'

‘It had nothin' to do with Maria
as
Maria,' Woodend told her, ‘but it had
everythin
' to do with Maria as the wife of one of the investigatin' officers. As I see it, Lucy calculated that if she presented us with a new murder – one we were more personally involved in – it would distract us from investigatin' Pamela's death. An' it worked, didn't it?'

‘Why Maria?'

‘Because she was the ideal candidate. Lucy could have chosen you, but she probably figured out that as a trained police officer, you might put up a good fight. She could have chosen my Joan, but that would have involved travellin' out to the sticks, where it's much more difficult to commit a murder without bein' noticed. Besides, she may have found out that Joan's away. So that left her with Maria, who lived on an anonymous estate, an' wouldn't even be able to see her killer comin'.'

‘Lucy couldn't have known Bob would be arrested for the murder,' Paniatowski pointed out.

‘She could have made a pretty good guess at it,' Woodend countered. ‘When a woman's murdered in her own home – for no apparent reason – it's usually the husband who falls under suspicion, isn't it? An' you don't have to be a bobby to know that – all you have to do is read the papers!'

‘The woman's a monster!' Paniatowski said.

‘There's not much doubt about that,' Woodend agreed.

‘But how do we prove it?'

Woodend sighed heavily. ‘Buggered if I know,' he admitted. He paused for a moment. ‘Maybe we should go back to basics. Where did Lucy live before she married Derek?'

Paniatowski flicked through her notebook. ‘Pemberton,' she said.

‘That's in enemy territory, isn't it?'

Paniatowski smiled at Woodend's instinctive reaction to the people of the neighbouring county. ‘Yes, it
is
just inside Yorkshire,' she said.

‘Well, at least it shouldn't be too long a drive.'

‘You think we should go to Pemberton?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Because maybe we can find out what it was that made Lucy the monster she is now. Maybe we'll find somethin' in her dark past that we can use to put leverage on her in the present.'

‘Like what?'

‘It could be anythin'. Possibly this isn't the first time she used violence on an unwanted lover. Possibly she's even
killed
before. We won't know until we get there an' start askin' questions.'

‘It's a bit of a long-shot, isn't it, sir?' Monika Paniatowski asked sceptically.

‘It's one
hell
of a long-shot,' Woodend agreed. ‘But have you got a better idea?'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘That's what I thought,' Woodend said grimly.

P
emberton was one of those picture-postcard towns that Yorkshire had more than its fair share of. It owed its development to wool, rather than cotton, and whereas places just the other side of the county border had dark satanic mills as their legacy of the past, Pemberton was blessed with pretty stone cottages and all the animation which comes from being a small market town.

Woodend and Paniatowski arrived in the centre of Pemberton just before noon. It had been raining when they left Whitebridge, but Pemberton was basking in the kindly glow of an autumn sun, and the small corner of Woodend which was fervently Lancastrian took it as almost a personal insult.

‘If the local bobbies find out we're operatin' on their patch without their explicit permission, there'll be hell to pay,' the Chief Inspector said as he manoeuvred the Wolseley into a parking place in the town centre. ‘So we'll have to be sneaky, won't we? An' just how do you think we should go about that, Sergeant Paniatowski?'

‘I've got a few ideas,' Monika replied. ‘But when it comes to being sneaky you're a master, so what have you come up with?'

Woodend, fired by an optimism born from the belief that they were finally getting somewhere with the case, grinned.

‘The best way to get people to talk to you is to pretend that you're a newspaper reporter,' he said. ‘But that'll only work as long as you look enough like one to be able to carry it off. An' let's be honest, that's somethin' I'd never be able to do in a month of Sundays.'

‘But I would?'

‘I think so.'

Paniatowski, herself caught up in the new-found enthusiasm, sighed theatrically.

‘You're right, of course,' she admitted. ‘A pretty young thing like me could be anything she claimed to be, whereas nobody would ever take you for anything but an old-fashioned flatfoot.' She lit up a cigarette. ‘So while I'm out playing news-hound, what will you be doing?'

‘I'll be in there,' Woodend said, pointing to a large stone building with a sign on the side of it announcing it was the library. ‘I'll be searchin' through the back copies of the local rag for any references to our Lucy.'

‘It's a big job,' Paniatowski said doubtfully.

‘A very big job,' Woodend agreed. ‘I could use a whole team on it. But I haven't got one, have I? So I'm just goin' to have to skim-read – an' hope I get lucky!'

‘And what, precisely, will you be searching for?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘A good question.'

‘And what's the answer?'

‘I really have no bloody idea.'

Derek Higson looked across his desk at the bullet-headed man who was sitting opposite him and said, ‘So how exactly can I help you, Chief Inspector?'

‘It's actually your wife I came to see,' DCI Evans said.

‘Unfortunately, she's not here at the moment. Might I ask what this is all about?'

‘A car matching the description of your wife's was seen to be parked on Ash Croft the night Maria Rutter was murdered.'

‘Yes?' Derek Higson asked quizzically, as if he didn't quite know where all this was going.

Evans cleared his throat. ‘We'd like to establish for certain whether or not it
was
your wife's car, sir.'

‘Are you seriously suggesting that Lucy could be involved in the murder in some way?' Higson asked, his voice showing just the beginnings of anger. ‘Can you actually sit there and tell me that you suspect my wife of killing a woman she didn't even know?'

‘Of course not,' Evans said. ‘All we're seeking to do is to eliminate her from our inquiries.'

‘Well, that should certainly be easy enough to do. It couldn't have been my wife's car on Ash Croft, because she was at home all night, and her car was parked in the garage.'

‘How would you know that, sir?' Evans asked.

‘Possibly because I'm married to her? Possibly because we live in the same house and share the same bed?'

‘But, as I understand it, sir, you yourself were abroad at the time.'

Higson's eyelids gave the briefest of flickers. ‘Quite right, I was,' he admitted.

‘So you can't actually know for a fact that your wife was at home, can you, sir?'

For a moment, Derek Higson was silent. Then he said, ‘I can confirm she was at home, as a matter of fact. Because when I rang her up, she was there to answer the call.'

‘At what time did you make this call?'

‘The call began at around eight o'clock, and it must have been about ten to nine when I finally hung up.'

‘That's a long time to be on the phone, especially when you're ringing from abroad,' Evans said suspiciously.

Higson sighed. ‘We run a business here, Chief Inspector. And when I say “we”, I mean my wife as well as myself. We discuss that business every day, whether I'm here or in Europe. And by their very nature, those discussions can be quite extensive.'

‘So you're saying it was a business call?'

‘We may have discussed a few domestic matters – I really can't remember – but the bulk of the call was about business, yes.'

‘And you're sure about the time?'

‘Absolutely. The call was sandwiched between dinner with one client and drinks with another.'

‘Eight o'clock is a bit early to have finished dinner, isn't it?' Evans asked. ‘I thought they ate later on the Continent.'

‘The Dutch don't eat as late as most Europeans,' Higson said. ‘Besides, there's a time difference, so although it was only eight o'clock here when I rang, it was nine o'clock in Holland.'

‘I hadn't thought of that,' Evans admitted. ‘I assume your wife will confirm that this conversation took place.'

‘Why wouldn't she, when that's what happened?'

Evans stood up. ‘In that case, I'll leave you to get on with running your business,' Evans said.

‘Will you be back to see my wife?' Higson asked.

‘No, I don't think that will be necessary,' Evans told him. ‘But if you wouldn't mind asking her to give me a ring at headquarters …?'

‘Of course,' Derek Higson agreed. ‘I'd be delighted to.'

The girls' grammar school was on its lunch break when Monika Paniatowski arrived, but the headmistress, Miss Pringle – a grey-haired woman who must have been close to retirement – was more than willing to see her in her study.

‘I wanted to be a journalist myself, when I was younger,' Miss Pringle told her, ‘but Father was against it. “It's not the sort of profession a young lady should ever contemplate entering,” he said, and in those days, of course, a father's word was law. And I suppose I can't complain about the path I did take. I've had a very fulfilling career in many ways, and helped thousands of young minds to develop.' She sighed. ‘Still, there are still occasions when I wish I'd showed a little more spirit and stood up for myself.'

The sound of a young girl, screaming excitedly that she wanted the ball, drifted in through the window. The words seemed to remind Miss Pringle of where she was.

‘We have a very good netball team,' she said. ‘Fearsome, almost. Now, would you like to tell me what I can do for you, my dear?'

‘I believe Lucy Higson – Lucy Watkins, as she used to be – was once a pupil at this school,' Monika Paniatowski said. ‘You don't happen to remember her, do you?'

‘But of course I remember her. Lucy was one of the outstanding pupils of her year. I was very sorry indeed when her mother took her away and put her into private education.' The headmistress's eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Can I ask what
your
interest in her is?'

I want to find a way to prove that she's a cold-blooded killer
, Paniatowski thought.

But aloud, she said, ‘You know that she's married to a very successful businessman in Whitebridge, don't you?'

‘Yes. I remember reading an account of her wedding. From the photographs, her husband looked somewhat older than her. Is he?'

‘Yes. Nearly twenty years older.'

Miss Pringle nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose it was always going to be that way,' she said.

‘What do you mean?' Paniatowski wondered.

‘Just that …' Miss Pringle brought herself up sharply. ‘Nothing really. I've never been married myself, so I don't really think it's my place to comment on the matches that my girls choose to make. But you still haven't told me why you're so interested in Lucy.'

‘We're running a series of articles called “The Woman Behind the Man Behind the Business”.' Paniatowski giggled girlishly. ‘The title's not mine, I promise you. I'd have preferred something snappier, but my editor liked it, and he's the boss. Still –' she grew more serious again – ‘I do think it's basically a good idea, and I'd appreciate any help you could give me in producing an accurate portrait.'

Miss Pringle thought about it for a moment. ‘I'm not sure I'm the right person to talk to.'

‘But surely, if you were her teacher—'

‘Teachers like to think they know their pupils, but I'm increasingly coming around to the view that, for most of the time at least, we only know what our pupils
want
us to know,' Miss Pringle said. ‘So while I could tell that Lucy was very good at history – she won the prize two years running, as a matter of fact – I'm not sure I could give you an accurate picture of what she was like as a
person.
In fact, I think you'd find out much more by talking to one of her contemporaries.'