Backlash (15 page)

He was surprised to see there was a light on in Paniatowski's office, because he was a frugal man by nature and could almost have sworn he'd switched it off when he nipped out. But then, he supposed, his mind was so stuffed with the material in the files that he probably wouldn't have noticed if the ceiling had fallen in on him.

He opened the door, and saw Chief Superintendent Kershaw sitting at the desk, looking through one of the files.

Kershaw looked up, surprised, and said, ‘I thought you'd have gone home by now, Bill.'

‘I did think about it, boss,' Lee admitted. ‘I even told DS Meadows that's what I would be doing,' he shrugged, ‘but then I weighed up how many files there were still left to go through, and decided to give it another hour or two.'

‘I'm convinced the solution's here,' Kershaw said. ‘I really believe that if we can just find the right file, we'll know who kidnapped Elaine.'

‘Aren't you doing just what you told us
never
to do, boss?' Lee asked.

‘I don't know,' Kershaw replied. ‘What
did
I tell you never to do?'

‘You told us never to put all our faith in one line of inquiry. You said it was bit like betting all your money on one horse, as if that alone would automatically guarantee it would romp home first.'

Kershaw grinned, sheepishly. ‘I did say that, didn't I?' Then, almost immediately, the weary and worried look was back. ‘But I have a gut feeling about these files, Bill. I really do.'

‘And all that aside, sir, I'm not sure you should be looking through the files at all,' Lee continued gravely.

‘Why not? They're my files! I wrote the bloody things!'

‘I know that, sir.'

‘And why are you calling me “sir” all of a sudden?' Kershaw wondered. Then, without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘We have permission – from the chief constable himself – to look through these files, you know.'

‘I'm calling you “sir” because I'm trying to sound official, sir,' Lee said. ‘And
we
don't have permission to look through them –
I
do.'

‘Now look here, Bill—' Kershaw began.

‘It's only right and proper that some of your lads should have a toehold in this investigation,' Lee interrupted him. ‘But not you, Tom,' he added almost pleadingly. ‘You're too close to it. And because you're so close, you might make a disastrous mistake.'

‘What do you mean, a “disastrous mistake”?' Kershaw demanded.

‘You know what I mean,' Lee said levelly.

‘Yes,' Kershaw admitted. ‘Yes, I do.' He stood up. ‘My coming here was no reflection on your abilities, Bill. I still have complete confidence in you.'

‘I know that,' Lee said.

Kershaw walked over to the door. ‘All I will ask is that if there are any developments . . .'

‘You'll be the first to know,' Lee promised him.

It was going wonderfully, Beresford told himself.

They had kissed.

He had fondled her.

She had fondled him.

And now he was inside her, thrusting away, and determined not to reach his own climax before it became obvious that she had reached hers.

‘Hurt me!' she groaned.

‘What?'

‘Not my face. Don't mark my face. But hurt me!'

He was losing his rhythm.

‘I don't know . . .' he said. ‘I'm not sure what you want me to do.'

‘Twist my breasts,' she said.

He took her left breast in his right hand, and turned it slightly, as if he was cautiously opening a door.

‘Not like that,' she said. ‘Harder!'

He did as instructed.

‘That's better!' she screamed. ‘But harder still!'

She was reaching the climax he'd hoped to bring her to – he could hear it in her voice – but the harder he twisted the breast, the softer he was growing himself.

Grace Meade had spent much of her fifteen short years of life worrying.

She had been worried whenever her father had come home drunk, looking for the slightest excuse to knock his long-suffering wife about and cause his daughter other kinds of pain.

She had worried when – out of sheer desperation and misery – her mother had turned to the bottle herself, and very soon had become almost as violent as her husband.

She had worried when – coming home from one of her rare days attending school – she had found her mother in the bath, the water around her a swirling red stickiness.

She had worried when she'd first gone on the game, afraid that the police would arrest her and lock her up, or – even worse – send her back to her dad.

And she had worried every time she got into a punter's car, because – as good, kind, wise Lucy had warned her – there were some very bad men out there.

She had been less worried than usual when the man had picked her up the night before, because he had seemed almost fatherly – though not like
her
father, of course.

But as he'd driven into town, rather than out towards the moors (where most of her punters took her), the concern had started to return.

‘Where are we going?' she'd asked.

‘I've got a place,' he'd said, and now there was a hardness in his voice which had been absent earlier.

‘A place?' she'd replied. ‘What do you mean?'

‘What do you think I mean? A house, you stupid little bitch – a place where I live!'

‘Aren't you . . . aren't you married?' she asked, because most of her punters were,
whatever
they might say.

‘Yes, I'm married,' he'd replied.

‘Then won't your wife—'

‘Don't you go worrying your tiny pathetic brain about my wife,' he'd said harshly.

They'd driven on, through streets she'd never seen before, past houses that she could only dream of living in one day.

‘How tall are you?' he'd demanded suddenly.

‘I don't know. It's a long time since I measured myself.'

‘I'd say you were four feet ten. Is that about right?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Then how much do you weigh? You must surely know how much you weigh?'

‘Why are you asking me all these questions?' she'd said, almost in tears.

‘How much?' he'd insisted.

‘About . . . about seven and a half stone.'

‘Perfect,' the man had said.

And it was the
way
he said it which brought the worrying back, as strong as it had ever been – as strong as when her father had first pulled her knickers down, and her mother had been too frightened to say anything about it.

Yes, she had worried all her life, but she was not worried now. She would, in truth, never be worried again – because she had been dead for over twenty-four hours.

TWELVE

S
ergeant Bill Lee had not finally abandoned the mountain of files until after one o'clock in the morning. Even then, he had not gone home to his wife and children – with the early start he was planning, there seemed little point in that – and instead had dossed down on his boss's sofa.

Exhausted though he was, sleep refused to come, and he spent the night tossing and turning.

This was the most important case that he'd ever worked on – or was ever
likely
to work on – he told himself at two o'clock, as he searched in vain for the elusively comfortable position on the sofa which might help him to slip into unconsciousness.

He desperately wanted to save Elaine Kershaw, he thought at four o'clock, as he became aware of a crick in his neck, which no amount of moving around would assuage. Of course he did! That was beyond question. But he would be lying if he said that she was his prime concern.

It was around half past four that images started to come into his mind, and however hard he fought against them, they refused to go away: Tom Kershaw standing by his wife's open grave, hardly able to see through the tears; Kershaw back at work, a shadow of his former self, his edge blunted, his mind wandering; another open grave, this time awaiting the arrival of one of the finest men who ever walked the earth.

At half past five, Lee gave up on his quest for sleep, and returned to Paniatowski's office.

At half past seven, when he had still made no more than a minor dent in his epic task, the door opened and Kate Meadows walked in.

He looked up at her, through tired, prickling eyes, and said, ‘I've had a rough night, and you look like you've had one, too.'

‘Do I?' Meadows replied. ‘Well, all I can say is that, as far as I'm concerned, the night wasn't nearly rough enough.'

‘What do you mean?' Lee asked.

‘It doesn't matter,' Meadows said wistfully.

And then she sat down and reached across for the nearest file.

The little café was almost bursting at the seams with customers at that time of the morning, but Paniatowski managed to secure a table near the window for her meeting with Lucy.

As she sat there, smoking her fourth cigarette of the day – or was it her fifth? – she noticed that some of the other customers were staring at her. No, not staring, she corrected herself – giving her a quick sideways glance and then rapidly turning away.

She smiled inwardly. The lorry driver who'd tried to solicit her had not only made himself look a complete fool, but had helped to create a local legend which would continue to haunt him by being retold – and probably greatly embellished on – for years to come.

And serve the bastard right, she thought – because without men like him, there would not be girls like Grace and Marie.

She was being naïve and foolish, she told herself. There had always
been
prostitution, and there always
would be
prostitution.

But that still didn't mean she should give up getting angry about it.

The café door swung open, and Lucy walked in. She was not dressed as a walking advertisement for her trade that morning. Instead, she was wearing the sort of plain dress that a shop girl or a shorthand-typist might have chosen.

She wasn't wearing any make-up either, and her glistening skin gave her an aura of innocence which made it almost impossible to think of her as a prostitute.

Lucy walked over to the table, and sat down. ‘I'm not used to being around and about at this time of the morning,' she said, with a grin. ‘What's this all about?'

‘I want you to introduce me to Denise Slater,' Paniatowski said.

‘Introduce you!' Lucy repeated. ‘Well, that sounds very la-di-da, doesn't it?'

‘You do
know
why I want to meet her through you, don't you?' Paniatowski asked, ignoring the frivolity of the comment.

Lucy's face grew more serious – and perhaps a little world-weary. ‘Yes, I know,' she admitted. ‘You want me to introduce you because Denise doesn't trust the police – especially since nothing happened after I made her report the attack – and you think that if I say you're all right, she'll believe me.'

‘She
will
believe you, won't she?' Paniatowski said.

Lucy nodded. ‘Oh yes, she'll believe me. All the girls trust good old Lucy.'

‘So when can I meet her?'

‘Not for two or three days.'

‘You do realize how important it is that I talk to her, don't you?' Paniatowski asked urgently. ‘You do understand that the man who attacked Denise might be the same man who's got Grace?'

‘Yes, of course I understand that,' Lucy replied. ‘And if I could just snap my fingers and make it happen, that's exactly what I would do. But I can't – and so you're going to have to wait until Denise gets back.'

Paniatowski felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle.

‘You can relax,' Lucy said. ‘She's not been kidnapped – she's just gone off on a trip with a punter.'

‘When did this happen?' Paniatowski demanded.

‘It was the day before yesterday.'

‘The same day that Grace disappeared?'

‘That's right.'

‘And you're not
worried
about her?'

‘No, I'm not. Because I know for a fact that the punter she went off with is harmless enough.'

‘
How
do you know? Is he one of
your
clients?'

‘No, he isn't, but he's been with several of the other girls, and I've talked to them about him.' Lucy paused for a second. ‘You surely don't think I'd have let her go if there'd been any danger, do you?'

‘Could you have stopped her – even if you'd wanted to?' Paniatowski asked sceptically.

Lucy shrugged. ‘I think so. As I said, the other girls trust me – and that includes trusting my judgement.'

‘Tell me where Denise and this man have gone, and I'll send a car to pick her up,' Paniatowski said.

‘I can't tell you – because I don't know.'

‘So much for the girls trusting you,' Paniatowski scoffed.

And the moment the words were out of her mouth, she felt ashamed of herself – because Lucy was a good woman, a woman who cared for others, and she had no right to belittle her.

‘I'm really so sorry, Lucy,' she said hastily. ‘That was completely uncalled for.'

Lucy favoured her with a smile which was a gentle mixture of forgiveness and amusement.

‘You don't know much about punters, do you?' she asked.