Echoes of the Dead (26 page)

‘And are you willing to name that policeman?'

‘I am. It was Detective Chief Inspector Charles Woodend.'

‘Is that the same Chief Inspector Woodend who, until recently, was a well-known – and, many would say, well-respected – figure around Whitebridge police headquarters?' the off-screen voice asked.

‘The very same Chief Inspector Woodend,' Howerd agreed. ‘Though, at the time he wrongly arrested my brother, this “well-respected” figure was not based in Whitebridge, but was working for New Scotland Yard.'

The three of them together presented an interesting tableau, Paniatowski thought.

Robert Howerd kept looking at his niece after almost every sentence, as if he were continually seeking her approval. Elizabeth, for her part, barely seemed to be acknowledging him, preferring, instead, to stare fixedly at the camera with angry eyes. But however much she might
appear
to be ignoring him, she was still acutely aware of her uncle's close proximity, Paniatowski decided, because every time he shifted his position, however slightly, her body instinctively shrank away. And if it was true that she did not wish to be too close to her uncle, it was even truer that the other woman on the sofa – the younger one, who was almost certainly Elizabeth's daughter – didn't want to be in the studio at all.

‘What are your reasons for believing your brother was innocent?' the off-screen voice asked.

‘The certainty that he was not a man who would wish to face his Maker with a lie still on his lips,' Howerd told her.

The Devonshire Arms was one of those Manchester pubs which catered for all tastes but the most refined. It had a public bar, in which shop workers and students would feel most at home. It had a best room, where men could take their wives and girlfriends, and be served by a waiter in a white – if sometimes slightly stained – cotton jacket. And it had the vault.

The vault was where the manual labourers congregated after a hard day swinging a pick or wielding a shovel. They were men of simple ambitions, the two main ones being to drink as much as they could afford and speak their minds without restraint. The air inside the vault was always blue with cigarette smoke and cursing, and ladies – of all kinds – were encouraged to steer well clear of it.

At lunchtime, the vault was a much quieter place. Then, its customers were not men who earned their living by the sweat of their brow, but men who didn't have jobs at all – and showed absolutely no inclination to find one. These men spent less and scrounged more than the manual workers. They had hair which was not stylishly long but merely uncared-for long. They smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, and ran up debts – with a clear conscience – wherever they could. And some of them, it had to be said, stank.

The man sitting in the corner of the vault at that moment was typical of the type of customer who he was forced to deal with at lunchtime, the barman thought, with some disdain.

His name was Mike, and if he had a second name, no one knew what it was. He was probably in his late forties, though the barman could point to some seventy-odd-year-olds who were in much better shape. He had been coming to the pub for as long as any of the current staff could remember, and was generally agreed to have turned being bone idle into an art form.

Normally, Mike would just sit there and gaze into space – as if contemplating a life which might have been – but today he was watching the regional news programme on the television.

No, he was doing more than just
watching
it, the barman decided – he seemed
absorbed
by it.

The barman looked up to see what the fuss was about. A man and two women, sitting side by side on a sofa, were being interviewed, though it seemed to be the man who was doing most of the talking.

‘I didn't know you were interested in current affairs,' the barman said jovially, but the other man ignored him.

Well, sod you, the barman thought. If you can't be pleasant to me, I see no need to be pleasant to you.

The weather girl appeared on the screen, and Mike immediately seemed to lose interest. He drained what was left of his drink, then stood up and shambled over to the bar.

‘You couldn't lend me the odd twenty quid, could you, Ralph?' he asked hopefully.

‘Couldn't lend you
what
?' the barman repeated, in disbelief.

‘The odd twenty quid,' Mike repeated.

‘No, I most certainly couldn't,' the barman said firmly.

‘Or ten quid, if things are a bit tight for you right now. I suppose I could manage with ten.'

‘Not ten quid, either.'

‘I'll pay you back,' Mike said. ‘I promise you I will.'

‘No chance,' the barman replied.

Mike licked his lips, and ran his hand thoughtfully across the stubble on his chin.

‘I'll tell you what,' he said, ‘lend me ten quid now and I'll pay you back a hundred next week.'

The barman chuckled. ‘Course you will.'

‘I mean it – honest,' Mike said. ‘I've to get to Whitebridge – but once I'm there, I'll be rolling in money.'

‘I wouldn't doubt that for a minute,' said the barman, and moved quickly across to the other end of the bar.

‘What do you hope will happen next?' the off-screen interviewer asked Robert Howerd.

‘What I trust will happen next is that there will be a full official inquiry which will both exonerate my brother and bring to book those guilty policemen who, by their actions, caused my niece and her daughter so much unnecessary distress,' Howerd said.

‘Thank you, Mr Howerd,' the off-screen voice said. ‘And now we return to the studio for the local—'

‘But the police are not the only ones who are guilty of committing great wrongs,' Robert Howerd said.

He was going off-script, Paniatowski realized – and, from the wild look in his eyes, it was likely that even he hadn't planned that.

‘I have done great wrong myself . . .' Howerd continued.

‘We've run out of time, Mr Howerd,' the interviewer said,
sotto voce
.

‘I have sinned, and now I must pay the penance,' Howerd said, ignoring her. ‘There must be restitution for what I have done. The Lord, my God, will settle for no less!'

Robert Howerd disappeared from the screen, and was replaced by a weather girl with chubby cheeks, who announced that there was a strong chance of rain later in the day.

The chief constable switched off the television.

‘Well?' he asked.

‘Well what?' Paniatowski replied.

‘Mr Howerd is demanding action and, much as I dislike the man personally, I think he has every right to. Don't you agree?'

Of course she agreed, Paniatowski thought. Fred Howerd had been sent down for a crime he hadn't committed, and something should be done about it. The only problem was that doing the
right
thing by Howerd would also involve doing the
wrong
thing by the man she most admired in the whole world.

‘I'm willing to submit a report which admits that mistakes have been made and clears Fred Howerd,' she said.

‘That's not enough,' Baxter said.

‘Charlie Woodend didn't plant that pencil,' Paniatowski said. ‘You know he didn't!'

‘No, I don't know that at all,' Baxter contradicted her.

She had a cassette tape in her pocket – one that even Beresford and Crane didn't know about – and, for a moment, she was tempted to play it to Baxter.

But what would be the point – what would be the
bloody
point?

‘I think it's time we put the inquiry on an official footing with another officer in charge – one who is not so personally involved,' Baxter said.

‘Give me two days,' Paniatowski pleaded. ‘Two days and you'll have a full report on your desk.'

‘And what am I expected to do in the meantime?' Baxter demanded. ‘How am I supposed to handle the media? Hell, forget the media – how am I supposed to handle the police authority, several members of which, I happen to know, are close personal friends of Robert Howerd?'

‘You'll find a way,' Paniatowski said. ‘You always do. You'll run rings round them.'

‘So now you're so desperate that you're resorting to flattery, are you?' Baxter asked.

Yes, I
am
that desperate, Paniatowski thought.

‘Two days,' she repeated. ‘Please,
George
.'

She was exploiting the relationship they had once had. She knew it – and she hated herself for doing it. But what choice did she have?

‘Two days,' Baxter said, weakening. ‘But suppose that, during those two days, you find even more damning evidence against Charlie Woodend? What will happen then?'

She wouldn't find any such evidence, because there would be no such evidence to find, Paniatowski thought

‘Anything I find will be in my report,' she said.

But what if she was wrong, a sudden panicked voice asked from somewhere in the dark recesses of her mind. Charlie would never lie to her, but what if he
had
cut corners, and then been so ashamed of it that his memory – for self-protection – had completely blanked it out?

‘Do I have your word that
nothing
will be excluded?' Baxter asked.

‘Yes,' Paniatowski promised.

And even as she spoke, she wasn't entirely sure that she would have the strength of character to see that promise through.

Colin Beresford was gloomily examining his pint when his boss entered the public bar of the Drum and Monkey, and sat down opposite him.

‘Did you see Robert Howerd being interviewed on television?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Yes, I saw it,' Beresford replied. ‘And I wasn't the only one.
Everybody
saw it – at least, everybody who
matters
.'

It was time she did a bit of morale boosting, Paniatowski decided.

‘I established a real rapport with Walter Brown, and I'm almost certain that he's going to come through with that list of names for me,' she said brightly. ‘Of course, I'll put the pressure on him if I have to – but I really don't think that will be necessary.'

The statement did nothing to improve Beresford's mood.

‘But even if you
did
manage to arrest the real killer – and you'll admit that, after all this time, the prospect's unlikely – that still won't get Mr Woodend out of trouble, will it?' he asked.

‘Mr X says it will,' Paniatowski replied stubbornly.

‘Oh, well that's all right then,' Beresford countered. ‘If
Mr X
says it, it must be true.'

‘Another phone call for you, Chief Inspector,' the barman shouted. ‘You're gettin' to be right popular.'

Paniatowski felt her body tense.

‘It's him,' she said to Beresford.

‘It could be anybody,' the inspector replied.

‘It's him,' Paniatowski said firmly.

When Paniatowski picked up the phone in the corridor, she heard the same harsh, disguised voice on the other end of the line.

‘How's the investigation going, Chief Inspector?' it asked.

‘It's official police business,' Paniatowski replied. ‘I can't talk to you about it – and you know that!'

‘Have you talked to Walter Brown?'

‘Yes, I have.'

‘And has he told you anything useful?'

‘Like what?'

‘Like, for instance, who Bazza Mottershead's friends were?'

‘His friends?' Paniatowski repeated. ‘Did you
mean
to say his friends? Or were you talking about his
enemies
?'

‘I can think of at least one man who would easily qualify to be both,' the caller said.

‘And what's his name?'

There was a short pause, then Mr X said, ‘There are some things you say you can't tell me because it's official police business. Right?'

‘Right.'

‘Well, there are some things I can't tell
you
because . . .'

‘Because of what?'

‘Because I can't!' Mr X said.

He sounded angry, Paniatowski thought. Perhaps that was because he had said more than he meant to, and almost revealed his secret – whatever
that
was.

‘Are you still there?' she asked, though she could hear his breathing and knew that he was.

Silence.

‘Speak to me,' she pleaded.

The man cleared his throat.

‘You have to accept that this is not an equal partnership,' he said, finally.

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘I mean that you need me more than I need you.'

It wasn't true, Paniatowski thought. She could sense a desperation at the other end of the line which was at least as deep as her own – but she knew it would be a mistake to argue with him.

‘What do you want from me?' she asked.

‘I want you to stop hiding behind “official police business” and tell me how the investigation's going.'

‘It's not going anywhere,' Paniatowski said – and realized that in admitting it to him, she was also admitting it to herself. ‘But maybe it would – if you'd only give me more to work with.'

‘I have to think!' the man said worriedly. ‘I need time to think.'

‘Take all the time you need,' Paniatowski told him, in a soothing voice.

She began to count silently to herself . . . one elephant, two elephants, three elephants . . .

She had reached ‘thirty elephants' when the man said, ‘You need to talk to Michael Eccles.'