Lambs to the Slaughter (4 page)

‘Monika?' Baxter said impatiently.

‘Yes, as long as the supervision
is
proper,' Paniatowski told her daughter.

‘I'm sure it will be,' Louisa said happily. ‘Bye, Mum.'

‘Bye,' Paniatowski said. She uncovered the mouthpiece again. ‘Sorry, sir, what were you saying?'

‘The victim's an old miner, and this is just the sort of story that the press love. I can see the headlines now. “Murder in strike-torn village – pit killer on the loose!” That'll be on days one and two. By day three, they'll be suggesting, in their own subtle and inimitable way, that when compared to the Mid Lancs CID, even a stray cat would look like Hercule Poirot. That's what they'll say – and that's why I want this one wrapped up as soon as possible.'

‘Understood, sir.'

‘If you want extra men, you've got them,' Baxter said. ‘If you need them to work overtime, I'll find the money from somewhere. Just bring me a result.'

‘I'll do my best, sir,' Paniatowski promised.

‘Do
better
than that, Monika,' Baxter said.

There were two police patrol cars parked outside Mr Hopkins' house, and when one of the police constables standing by the front door saw Becky Sanders, he gestured her to come across to him.

‘Now then, young Becky, where are you off to at this time of the morning?' he asked.

‘I'm going home, Mr Mellors,' the girl replied.

‘That's right, you live on Ash Road, don't you?' Mellors said, and without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘I suppose what I should really be asking you is where you've
been
.' He chuckled. ‘Let me guess – was it to one of them all-night discotheques?'

She laughed, because she knew that was what was expected of her, but she sensed that though the policeman was putting his questions in a light manner, there was a serious intention behind them.

‘I've only been down to me granddad's house,' she said. ‘I make his breakfast for him.'

‘Well, that is very kind of you,' the policeman said. ‘And how is he this morning?'

She sensed, once again, that there was more to the question than first met the eye.

‘His chest's not very good today,' she said.

‘And was he behaving in any way unusually?' Mellors asked, with deceptive innocence.

‘I don't know what you mean,' Becky said.

‘Did he seem particularly nervous – or anxious?'

‘Like I said, his chest's bad. He'd coughed up enough gob and blood to fill a jam jar.'

The constable sighed. ‘How was he dressed? Was he in his pyjamas?'

Becky, picturing her granddad in his best trousers, felt a cold shiver run through her.

‘No,' she said, then added hastily, ‘I mean, yes.'

‘No? Yes? Which one is it?'

Think! Becky's brain ordered her. Come up with a story!

‘He doesn't wear pyjamas,' she said aloud, ‘he prefers an old-fashioned nightshirt.'

‘Must have been a bit cold for him, sitting around in a nightshirt,' the policeman said sceptically.

‘He keeps the fire banked up at night, so everywhere is as warm as toast in the morning,' Becky said. ‘Anyway, he's got this old overcoat that he uses as a dressing gown.'

‘And you're sure there was nothing unusual about him this morning – apart, that is, from the phlegm and blood?'

‘The phlegm and blood isn't unusual at all,' Becky said. ‘I only wish it was. Can I go now, cos I've got to get ready for school?'

‘You can go,' the constable said, ‘but just keep in mind that I might want to talk to you again later.'

‘Well, you know where to find me,' Becky said. She paused. ‘Sorry, that sounded cheeky.'

The constable laughed. ‘If you think that's cheeky, you should hear my kids,' he said. ‘Off you go, now.'

‘Thanks, Mr Mellors,' Becky said, over her shoulder.

Detective Inspector Colin Beresford awoke, in an unfamiliar bed, to the sound of his beeper screaming at him from the bedside table.

He groped in the dark for the lamp he had noticed the night before, and clicked on the switch.

Nothing happened.

‘Bloody power cuts!' he said.

Beside him, the woman rolled over and moaned softly to herself.

Beresford climbed out of bed, and flicked on his lighter. With the illumination it provided, he could locate the candle, and in the light of the candle he could read his beeper. He was not the least surprised to find that the call had come from Monika Paniatowski.

His clothes were on the floor, where he had hurriedly discarded them the night before, and now he began to collect them up.

‘What's the matter?' the woman asked sleepily.

‘I have to go,' Beresford replied.

‘Will I see you again?' the woman asked.

Beresford sighed. ‘When we met, last night, I thought I made it clear to you that I wasn't looking for a long-term girlfriend,' he said, quickly stepping into his underpants. ‘You seemed quite happy about that at the time.'

‘I was,' the woman admitted.

‘Well, then?'

‘It's just that . . . I thought we got on really well together in bed.' The woman paused. ‘Didn't I please you?'

‘You were great,' Beresford said, putting on his shirt, and mentally ranking her at number five in the chart of the women he'd slept with since his traumatic night with Detective Sergeant Meadows. ‘Really great!'

‘But you still don't want to see me again.'

‘It's not you, it's me,' Beresford said. ‘My life's too complicated at the moment to become involved with anybody.'

And besides, he thought, when you don't lose your virginity until you're in your thirties, you've got a lot of catching up to do.

Under normal circumstances, the road Louisa was walking along would have been very busy at that time of the morning. But these were not normal circumstances. The emergency regulations decreed that, in order to save power, industry was only allowed to work for three days a week, and in Whitebridge's case that meant the factories and mills were silent on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

Thus, as she made her way to school, she saw very few cars at all. There weren't many people about, either – or at least, not many grown-ups. The government had, in effect, given most of the adults permission to stay in bed for an extra hour or two, and it was only the poor bloody kids – and, of course, their teachers – who were required to carry on as normal.

I wish the miners would start working properly again, she thought. It wouldn't have to be for long – they can go on strike for ever once Ellie Sutton's party is over.

She felt a little guilty about having lied to her mother, but she knew that Monika would never understand why a much older girl – a girl she hardly knew – would ever invite her to a party. As a matter of fact, she didn't understand it herself – but you didn't need to
understand
it to be over the moon about it!

Wrapped up as she was in her own thoughts, it was some time before she noticed the car behind her.

It was a big, impressive-looking vehicle, but it was travelling at an almost agonizingly slow speed, so slowly, that despite the fact she had passed six lamp posts since she'd first become aware of it, it had still not overtaken her.

Why was he driving so slowly? she wondered.

Was it because of the icy road conditions?

No, it couldn't be that, because the roads weren't
that
slippery, and the few other cars which had passed had been going much faster.

So maybe the poor man was simply lost. It couldn't be that easy to drive around an area you didn't know when all the street lamps were out, and as the car crawled along close to the kerb, the driver was probably struggling with an open map on his knee.

It was time to do her good deed of the day, she thought.

‘Beneath the school uniform of mild-mannered Louisa Paniatowski lies a true super hero,' she said aloud – and in a pseudo-American accent. She stopped and turned around. ‘This looks like a job for
Navigator Woman
.'

What happened next startled her – and perhaps even frightened her a little.

The car's headlights suddenly switched from being dipped to full beams, and she was instantly enveloped in a circle of blinding yellow light which made her eyes prickle.

She held up her arm to shield herself from the glare, and as she did so, she heard the car's gear crunch and its engine rev.

‘Do you mind!' she called out, though she doubted whether the driver would hear her over the noise of his engine.

The car shot forward, and disappeared down the street, leaving her with golden balls of light dancing in front of her eyes.

‘Well, that wasn't very successful, was it, Navigator Woman?' she asked herself.

The car continued to accelerate until it had turned the corner, then it slowed down again, though to nothing like its earlier snail's pace.

The driver turned to his passenger and said, ‘Well?'

The passenger rubbed his nose with his index finger. He had fine wavy blond hair, which gently caressed his collar, and he could, when he chose to smile awkwardly, look no more than sixteen or seventeen, though when he adopted a more serious troubled air, most people would have taken him for twenty or twenty-one.

‘Well?' the driver repeated.

‘Well what?' the young man asked.

And now that he had reverted to being his true self – his arrogant, privileged self – he could almost have been in his mid-twenties.

‘Did you get a good look at her?' the driver asked.

‘A very good look,' the passenger confirmed. ‘That was a neat trick, driving so slowly that she was almost bound to turn round, and then switching the headlights on.' He laughed. ‘Talk about putting her in the spotlight!'

‘None of this should be necessary, you know,' the driver said angrily.

The passenger said nothing.

‘You
do
know that, don't you?' the driver persisted.

‘Yes, I know,' the passenger said sulkily.

‘You'll have no trouble in recognizing her when you see her again, will you?' the driver asked.

‘I'm not a fool, you know,' the passenger replied.

‘The jury's still out on that,' the driver said cuttingly. ‘Will you recognize her, or won't you?'

‘I'll recognize her.'

‘And you do know exactly what I expect you to do when you see her again, don't you?'

‘Will you
ever
stop treating me like a child?' the passenger asked.

‘I might – if you get me what I want,' the driver said.

P
aniatowski had found it a strange experience approaching Whitebridge Police HQ that morning. All around it were buildings illuminated by tiny, flickering lights – storm lanterns, candles and electric torches – yet the HQ itself, which had its own generator, was ablaze with the harsh glare of functional strip lighting.

Now, in her own office, she looked through her window at the team, who were waiting for her outside.

There was Colin Beresford – keen brain, rock-hard muscles and soft heart. She had worked with him since she was a detective sergeant, and he a detective constable still wet behind the ears. She admired him for the conscientious way he had nursed his mother, who had been struck down by Alzheimer's disease, and pitied him for the way in which this had robbed him of his twenties. Now that Charlie Woodend had retired, Colin was her best friend in the whole world, and while it was true he'd been a little difficult in the previous few weeks, she could not wish for a better one.

There was Detective Constable Jack Crane, who looked more like a nineteenth-century romantic poet than a bobby – and sometimes even talked more like one. Jack was destined to be a high-flyer, and if, one day, he ended up as her boss, she thought she could live with that.

And finally there was her new bagman, Kate Meadows, who had cropped brown hair, huge eyes and elfin features, and who dressed with a style – and at an expense – which made her stand out from other female police officers. Kate hadn't been with her long, but she was already starting to regard the young sergeant as solid gold.

Yes, she thought, this was the team –
her
team – and she was both fond of them and proud of them. In fact, she admitted to herself, they were almost the family she'd never had when she was growing up.

She took a deep breath. ‘Enough of the sentimental crap, Monika,' she told herself. ‘You've got a killer to catch.'

She opened the door, and stepped out of her office.

‘We need to hit the ground running on this one,' she said crisply. ‘What details have we got on the victim, Kate?'

‘Retired miner, widower, living alone, looks like he was killed by a blow to the head,' Meadows said.

‘We'll know more about that last part once the police doctor's seen him,' Paniatowski said. ‘What about the incident centre, Inspector Beresford? Do you think we should use the HQ basement, like we usually do?'

‘No,' Beresford replied. ‘I think it would be better if we had an incident room closer to the incident.'

‘I agree with you,' Paniatowski said. ‘Can I leave it to you to find a suitable building?'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘And how many men will you be needing to do the legwork and answer the phones, Colin?'

‘Hard to say before I get there, but I think that if I had more than ten men in a village that size, they'd be tripping over one another.'

‘Ten it is, then, and if you find you need more later, the chief constable has assured me you can have them.' Paniatowski looked around the team. ‘Is there anything else anybody wants to say at the moment?'

Crane and Meadows shook their heads, and Beresford said, ‘It all seems clear enough.'