Backlash (20 page)

‘But there's ways and ways of going about things, aren't there? If we did it sneakily, we could sort of imply—'

‘We could “sort of imply” nothing,' Hardcastle told him. ‘If we don't play it exactly the way the police want us to, they won't even give us the time of day when next there's a major crime.' He ran his fingers through his rapidly thinning hair. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes, you do the introduction that we agreed on, and then we cut to Lynda Jenkins at the scene of the crime. Got that?'

‘I suppose so,' the anchorman said, sulkily.

‘We're on air in five seconds,' the floor manager said. ‘Five . . . four . . . three . . .'

‘Bitch!' Hardcastle said, almost to himself.

‘Who's a bitch?' Ted asked.

‘Lynda Jenkins. She was on local radio until two months ago, but now – just because she's waggled her tits at our ever-gullible managing director once or twice – she's on regional television. That's a big leap for anybody, and most people would show a bit of humility. But not our Lynda! She thinks she knows all there is to know already.'

‘
A corpse has been discovered in the ladies' toilet at Top of the Moors Inn, midway between Whitebridge and Honnerton
,' the anchorman said. ‘
The police have released very few details, but have confirmed that it is the body of a young woman, and that foul play is suspected . . .
'

Satisfied that the idiot with the poncy hair was sticking to the agreed script, Hardcastle switched his attention to the second monitor.

‘Can you hear me, Lynda, love?' he asked.

Lynda Jenkins nodded. ‘Yes, I can hear you.'

‘You've got two minutes to fill. I suggest you concentrate on general stuff . . . famous local landmark, scene of many happy family picnics, now transformed into the scene of a tragic death, blah blah blah.'

The corners of Lynda Jenkins' mouth drooped. ‘Do I have to keep it as general as that?' she asked. ‘I'd much rather talk to my witness.'

‘You've got a witness!' Hardcastle exclaimed. ‘Somebody who actually
saw
the murder?'

‘Well, no, maybe “witness” was not exactly the right word,' Jenkins admitted. ‘I've got the man who discovered the body. Can I talk to him?'

Hardcastle felt a warning stab from his ulcer. ‘You have read the guidelines, haven't you?' he asked.

‘The guidelines?' Jenkins repeated, blankly.

‘They're in one of the files you were given – the one that has the word “guidelines” written on the front. They tell you what you can say on air, and when you can say it.'

‘Oh, them!' Jenkins said. ‘Yes, of course I've read
them
.'

I shouldn't be doing this, Hardcastle thought. I really shouldn't. But if it works, it will be good television.

‘All right, you can talk to him,' he heard himself say. ‘But for God's sake, keep him under control.'

‘No worries, chief,' Lynda Jenkins said cheerfully.

‘No worries, chief,' the producer repeated scornfully to Ted. ‘Is it really any wonder I can't keep my food down?'

‘
And now we go over to our reporter, live outside the Top of the Moors Inn
,' the anchorman said.

‘Top
o
' the Moors,' Hardcastle grumbled to himself. ‘It's Top
o
' the Moors, you ignorant southern bastard!'

Lynda Jenkins' complacent face filled the screen. ‘
I'm talking to Mr Nathan Jones, the man who discovered the body
,' she said. ‘
Could you tell us what actually happened, Mr Jones?
'

The camera panned back to Jones, who was looking very full of himself indeed.

‘
I was leading a hike of the Whitebridge Over-Sixties Ramblers, an organization of which I was one of the founding . . .
' Jones began.

‘
Yes, yes, tell us about the body
,' Jenkins said impatiently.

‘No details!' the producer warned her in her earpiece. ‘Keep him off the details.'

‘
One of the ladies in my party was desirous of using the facilities, but she couldn't get the toilet door open, so naturally she called on my assistance. It wasn't easy to open the door, because the body was jammed behind it.
'

‘That's it, Lynda,' Hardcastle said. ‘That's more than enough. Cut him off now.'

‘
When I looked behind the door, I saw the girl. She was wearing some kind of corset, and her legs were slashed to ribbons
.'

‘You stupid cow!' the producer screamed into Lynda Jenkins' earpiece. ‘Cut the mad bitch off,' he told his assistant. ‘Cut her off now!'

Though Lennie Brown could be a bit annoying sometimes – and, once in a while, could be
very
annoying – he was still Timmy Holland's best mate, and Timmy couldn't even imagine a life in which Lennie didn't play a central part.

The two of them had been lying on their stomachs in front of the television, watching the cartoons, but now Elmer Fudd had made his last attempt to shoot Bugs Bunny, the cartoons had ended, and the news had come on.

Neither of the boys had had high expectations of the news – it was always about boring people doing boring things – and the report on the murder had come as an unexpected, and thoroughly delightful, surprise.

‘Legs slashed to ribbons,' Lennie said, with obvious relish.

‘There must have been blood all over the place,' Timmy replied. ‘I bet there was enough of it to fill a bath.'

‘I bet there was enough of it to fill a swimming pool,' said Lennie, who always had to go one better.

Timmy tried to think of something even bigger than a swimming pool, but quickly gave up.

‘What's a corset?' he asked.

Lennie snorted. ‘Fancy you not knowing that!' he said. ‘It's something that grannies wear.'

That was the problem with Lennie, Timmy thought. If he knew something, he made you feel a fool for
not
knowing it – and if he didn't know, he pretended to.

And he was pretending this time – Timmy was sure of that.

‘If it's something that grannies wear, why had this girl got one on?' he asked.

Lennie said nothing.

‘Well?' Timmy demanded.

‘I can't tell you,' Lennie said finally.

‘Because you don't know yourself!' Timmy jeered, thinking he had finally scored a point.

‘I do, too, know,' Lennie said, partly angry, partly defensive. ‘But if I told you, you wouldn't understand – because you're too young.'

That hurt – that really hurt. ‘I'm only four months younger than you,' Timmy protested.

‘You can do a lot of growing up in four months,' Lennie countered. ‘And anyway, I'm cleverer than what you are.'

‘Are you saying I'm thick?' Timmy asked, almost in tears.

‘Not thick, no,' Lennie said hastily, sensing he'd gone too far. ‘You're a very smart lad.' He should have left it there – he knew he should – but he just couldn't. ‘Very smart,' he repeated, ‘but not as smart as me.'

‘I am so,' Timmy said, rolling on to his side, so that he had his back to the boy who had once been his best friend.

And when he'd done that, of course, Lennie had no choice but to do the same.

The silence was almost intolerable right from the start, but they both held out for more than a minute, before Lennie cracked and said, ‘Do you know what?'

‘What?' Timmy asked sulkily.

‘If we found a dead body, we'd be on the telly, too.'

‘Do you think so?' asked Timmy, all feelings of hostility slipping away.

‘Forced to be,' Lennie assured him.

It all sounded very good, Timmy thought, but he could see one fatal flaw in his friend's plan.

‘Where would we find a dead body?' he asked.

‘In the woods,' Lennie said. ‘There's bound to be a body somewhere in the woods.'

Of course there was, Timmy agreed, and wondered if Lennie was stating no more than the truth when he said he was the smarter of the pair.

The sign outside the seedy-looking shop said its owner was the purveyor of surgical supplies, but that was a convenient fiction which fooled no one but the most gullible, and when Kate Meadows entered she was immediately confronted by a series of corsets which plainly had very little orthopaedic value.

‘So what can I do for you, my dear?' asked the owner, who
wasn't
in fact wearing a dirty raincoat, but certainly should have been.

‘I don't see any magazines,' Meadows said.

‘Why would you?' the owner wondered. ‘This isn't a news-agent's shop, now is it?'

‘Perhaps I didn't express myself very well,' Meadows conceded. ‘I'm looking for instructional manuals in the art of unusual love-making.'

The owner licked his lips, as if he could clearly imagine her making unusual love, but erring on the side of caution, he said, ‘What exactly are we talking about here?'

Meadows stood on tiptoe, then clasped her hands and held them over her head.

‘Are you getting the picture?' she asked.

The owner licked his lips again. ‘I'm sorry, I still haven't grasped your meaning,' he said.

Meadows sighed, and produced her warrant card.

‘Show me your dirty books,' she demanded.

‘I don't have any dirty books,' the owner said.

‘I could come back with a search warrant,' Meadows threatened.

‘No, you couldn't,' the owner told her confidently. ‘You don't have any reason to get one sworn out, because I've always kept my nose clean. And even if you did get a warrant, any dirty books there might have been would be long gone by the time you came back.'

Meadows sighed again. ‘You're making me do things the hard way,' she said. ‘I really hate that.'

She walked over to the door and flicked the open sign over to closed. Then she turned the key in the lock.

‘What are you up to?' the owner asked, starting to sound slightly worried.

‘I told you, I'm doing it the hard way,' Meadows replied.

Slowly, she undid the top buttons of her blouse, until her brassiere was exposed.

‘Very nice,' the owner said, in a voice which had almost become a wheeze. ‘But I'm still not going to . . .'

Meadows took the flesh at the top of her left breast between her finger and thumb, and gave it a hard twist.

‘That'll be a nasty bruise in an hour or two,' she said, as she calmly buttoned up the blouse again. ‘You really shouldn't have done that to me, you know.'

‘You're trying to stitch me up,' the owner gasped.

‘There's not much
trying
about it,' Meadows said. ‘In fact, I think I've done a really good job.'

‘I'll deny it,' the owner said.

‘Of course you will,' Meadows agreed. ‘But who do you think is most likely to be believed – a police officer with a spotless record, or a real piece of dog shit like you?'

‘What do you want?' the owner asked.

‘You know what I want,' Meadows said.

‘Then you'd better come in the back,' the owner told her, defeated.

‘Chief Superintendent Kershaw suspects that Grace's death is connected to his wife's kidnapping,' Paniatowski told Crane and Beresford, across the table in the Drum and Monkey.

‘Only
suspects
!' Beresford exclaimed.

‘That's what I said.'

‘You haven't told him about the red shoes, have you?'

‘No, I haven't. There'd be no point.'

‘He has the
right
to know,' Beresford argued.

‘So you're in favour of telling all victims' relatives how an investigation is progressing, are you?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Of course not, but . . .'

‘Because that's what he is – a victim's relative. If I turn his suspicions into certainties by telling him about the shoes, can you imagine what hell he'll go through? And it may be
unnecessary
hell – because it's still possible we can save Elaine.'

‘The boss is right, you know, sir,' Jack Crane said to Beresford.

‘Besides, the more desperate he becomes, the more he's going to want to take over the investigation,' Paniatowski said.

‘He's a good bobby – he could be useful,' Beresford told her.

‘So you think he
should
take over the investigation?'

‘Not take it over. Of course not. But maybe we could use a bit of his help and experience.'

‘He may be a good bobby but he's also a very desperate man,' Paniatowski countered. ‘And desperate men make mistakes – desperate men believe the wrong things because they
need
to believe them.'

‘And I suppose you're going to tell me she's right about that, too,' Beresford said to Crane.

‘Yes, sir, she is,' Crane said firmly. ‘And you
know
she is.'

‘Yes,' Beresford admitted. ‘I
do
know that.' He turned to Paniatowski. ‘Sorry, boss, maybe I'm a bit too involved myself, because while I don't know Elaine well, I do really like her.'

‘And you really
admire
her husband,' Paniatowski said, with a hint of envy in her voice.

‘I don't understand why the killer left Grace behind the bog door,' Beresford said, keen to change the subject. ‘It wasn't an easy thing to do. I know that, from my own experiments. So what does it mean?'