Backlash (21 page)

‘I don't think it was meant to mean anything,' Crane said.

‘And what leads you to that conclusion?' Beresford asked.

‘The very fact that he didn't have enough control over the positioning of the corpse.'

‘Come again?'

‘Ritual is a precise business. If you study the history of human sacrifice, for example, you'll find that everything involved in the ritual was laid down, and had to be present in exactly the form that had been specified.'

‘I don't see how looking at ancient history will help us,' Beresford said.

‘Then let's not look at ancient history,' Crane suggested. ‘We arrested a serial killer a couple of months ago, didn't we?'

Indeed they had, and even the thought of it was enough to make all three of them shudder.

‘He posed all victims naked and on all fours – and the keywords are
posed them
. Because what he did had a meaning – at least to him. But there's no possible meaning to what this killer did – because he couldn't control exactly how Grace fell or exactly how she looked when she was found.'

‘So, if there was no meaning to it, why did he do it at all?' Beresford asked sceptically.

‘I think he did it because he hoped we'd waste our time searching for a meaning, instead of directing our energy at any other leads we might come up with. And it worked out perfectly for him, didn't it – because that's exactly what we
have
been doing.'

‘What do you think, Colin?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Crane might be right,' Beresford admitted. ‘In fact, it's the only thing that makes any sense. But exactly what kind of man would even think that way? It's almost as if —'

‘Found them!' called a triumphant voice from across the bar.

Beresford, Crane and Paniatowski turned, and saw Meadows walking towards them and waving a glossy magazine above her head.

‘Found what?' Paniatowski asked.

‘The shoes,' Meadows said, slamming the magazine down on the table. ‘The bloody shoes!'

The magazine was called
The Joy of Pain
and it was full of pictures of women being hung in the air, beaten and branded.

‘Is this filth legal?' Beresford asked, disgusted.

‘That's not been clearly established, one way or the other,' Meadows said. ‘Magazines like this are sold very discreetly, so they hardly ever end up in court. And the publishers do claim that all the acts shown are simulated, rather than real.'

‘And are they?' Beresford asked.

‘They may be,' Meadows said, almost indifferently. ‘But I didn't bring the magazine here to titillate your jaded fancies, sir, I brought it to show you these.'

She opened the magazine to the middle, where there was a double-page advertisement. Two of the articles offered had been ringed by Meadows. One was a rubber suit with holes where the breasts were, and the other was a pair of red, extremely high-heeled shoes.

‘He bought both items from the same company,' Meadows said, with a hint of excitement in her voice. ‘And maybe he bought other stuff as well. Maybe he bought so much that we just might have a chance of tracing it back to him.'

‘Where's the company based?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Bolton, boss.'

‘I want you to go there this afternoon, Kate,' Paniatowski said. ‘And take Jack with you. Say you want full access to their records, and if they won't give it . . .'

‘They'll give it,' Meadows said confidently. ‘I've got a trick or two up my sleeve which will leave them with no choice.'

‘I don't want you do anything illegal,' Beresford said, more harshly than he intended.

‘Of course not, sir,' Meadows replied. ‘I'll take your own high standards as my guide, and that way there's no chance I'll ever step over the line.'

I wish I'd never gone to bed with you, Beresford thought.

But even as the idea flashed across his mind, he knew that what he really meant was, I wish I'd gone to bed with you and it had been
different
.

The outside door opened, and Lucy walked into the bar. She looked around, then waved to Paniatowski to join her.

‘What's happened?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Denise is back in Whitebridge,' Lucy said.

Paniatowski felt her heart speed up. ‘And where exactly is she at this moment?' she asked.

‘She's in the car park outside,' Lucy said. ‘Waiting for you.'

SIXTEEN

D
enise Slater was standing at the far end of the car park, huddled in what – if there'd been any sun on that cold November day – would have been the shadow of a builder and decorator's van.

‘I don't want to do this,' she said as soon as Paniatowski and Lucy were close enough to hear her.

‘I know,' Lucy said softly.

‘I don't like police stations.'

‘Of course you don't,' Lucy agreed. ‘Neither do I. But that's because we normally only go to them when we've been arrested. This time it's different – you're a witness, a visitor. Isn't that right, Monika?'

‘That's right,' Paniatowski agreed, wondering how Lucy knew her first name – and how many other prostitutes there were who would have dared to use it, even if they had.

There was not room for three of them in Paniatowski's MGA, and they took Inspector Beresford's car instead, with Paniatowski driving and Lucy and Denise hugging each other in the back.

The closer that they got to police headquarters, the more agitated Denise became.

‘Do I have to do this?' Paniatowski heard the young prostitute ask.

‘No, of course you don't,' Lucy replied.

Of course she bloody
does
! Paniatowski thought. She's doing it whatever it takes – because she's our best chance of getting Elaine Kershaw back alive!

But then she surprised herself by saying nothing and letting Lucy handle the situation.

‘No, of course you don't have to do it,' Lucy repeated. ‘But you'll be letting yourself and the other girls down if you don't . . .'

‘I don't care!'

‘. . . and I'll be very disappointed in you, too,' Lucy concluded.

There was a short silence, and then Denise said, ‘You won't leave me once we're in there, will you?'

‘No,' Lucy promised. ‘I'll be with you every step of the way.'

Five minutes earlier, there had been a couple of dozen officers – sitting in groups of two or three – spread out around the police canteen, but a phone call from DI Beresford had soon changed all that. Now, all the policemen were together at the far corner of the room – and no doubt complaining to each other about the fact.

But that was the way it had to be, Paniatowski thought, as she led the two prostitutes into the emptied end of the canteen – because just
being
in the interview room would have terrified Denise, and even the DCI's own office might have seemed daunting to her.

‘This is WPC Crowther, but I'm sure she won't mind if you call her June,' Paniatowski told Denise, pointing to the one officer who
hadn't
been herded into the corner, and so had a long table entirely to herself.

Crowther smiled. ‘I won't mind at all,' she said. ‘Why don't you take the seat next to mine, Denise?'

The prostitute looked to her companion for guidance, and when Lucy nodded, she said, ‘Will you sit down as well?'

‘Of course I will,' Lucy assured her.

‘We'd like you to look through the photographs in this book,' Paniatowski said, tapping the ledger which lay on the table. ‘There are a lot of them, but you shouldn't let that worry you. All right?'

‘All right,' Denise replied, uncertainly.

‘What we want you to do is to tell us if any of the men looks like the one with the razor,' Paniatowski continued. ‘Can you do that?'

‘She can do it,' Lucy said, putting her arm protectively around Denise's shoulder.

‘I'll leave you to it, then,' Paniatowski said cheerily, and walked across the room to another table, where Crowther had left a second ledger – this one contained mug shots of all the women who had been arrested on soliciting charges.

It did not take her long to find Denise's picture, and the details that accompanied it told a depressingly predictable story.

Denise Slater had been arrested four times. The first three times, she had been fined. The fourth, she had been locked up for a week.

And no doubt the magistrate had given her a stern warning that next time she'd get a longer sentence, Paniatowski thought.

But had it had any effect?

Had it hell!

She'd probably no sooner been released than she was back on the street.

Grace Meade had been arrested twice. The first time – possibly because she was obviously so young – she'd been let off with a caution, but the second time she'd been fined.

And if she'd lived, Paniatowski told herself, there was no doubt she would have followed the same depressing path as Denise had.

But it was not Denise or Grace who she was really interested in, Paniatowski admitted to herself. She wanted to find out about Lucy.

And there was nothing in the ledger about her.

Not a single mention.

So either she had been very clever, or . . .

‘Denise thinks she's found the man, boss,' WPC Crowther said, from somewhere behind her.

‘I'll be right there,' Paniatowski told her.

Mug shots were a bit like passport photographs, Paniatowski had long ago decided. You clearly recognize the man from the picture, but in some ways the picture didn't really look like the man at all, because it was characterless and sterile.

But not this one, she thought, looking at the picture.

The man that Denise had picked out was in his late twenties or early thirties, and his character shone through despite the harsh lighting and hostile circumstances in which the photograph had been taken. He did not look the least intimidated. In fact, he seemed to be almost enjoying the process – perhaps because it gave him the opportunity to show just how superior to his surroundings he felt.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Denise lean over and whisper something in Lucy's ear.

‘Denise is having second thoughts about him,' Lucy said.

‘But you picked him out immediately you saw him,' June Crowther said. ‘There wasn't a moment's hesitation.'

Denise shrugged. ‘I know, but . . .'

‘So what's happened to make you change your mind?' Paniatowski pressured.

‘This man looks younger than the one that attacked me.'

‘A lot younger?'

‘No, not a lot.'

‘Well, you have to remember that the picture will have been taken when he was charged, which may have been several years ago now.'

‘It's not just his age,' Denise said. ‘This man seems like he hasn't got a care in the world, but the one who attacked me looked like . . . looked like the shipyard had closed down for him.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘I'm from the north-east. We lived near the shipyard when I was growing up,' Denise said. ‘And one day, the owners said there weren't enough orders on the books, and shut the place up.'

‘Go on,' Paniatowski encouraged.

‘A lot of the men who lived on our street worked in the yard. They were big, strappin', confident men until the day they got that pink slip in their pay packets. And then they just seemed to shrink. They walked slower, like it was a real effort. And when they spoke, it was like they weren't sure they were worth listening to any more.' Denise paused for a moment. ‘I'm explaining it very badly.'

‘You're explaining it beautifully,' Paniatowski assured her. ‘What you're saying is that the man in the photograph looks like he still had his job, and the one who attacked you didn't.'

‘That's right,' Denise agreed. ‘When he went for me with the razor, he really
did
want to hurt me – I'm sure of that – but I think the
reason
he wanted to do it was because he was even more frightened than I was.'

Chief Superintendent Kershaw was sitting at his desk. There was paperwork spread out in front of him, but Paniatowski was willing to bet that he had read it at least ten times and still had no idea what it was about.

‘Have you found her?' he asked, in a voice that seemed filled with hope and dread in about equal proportions.

‘Not yet, sir,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘Then why are you here?' Kershaw exploded. ‘Why aren't you still out looking for her?'

‘I've got a mug shot that I'd like you to look at, sir.'

‘Is it that man who you think kidnapped Elaine? Do you think he did it because of something I once did to him?'

‘You can't carry on like this,' Paniatowski said. ‘You've got to stop thinking like a policeman and start thinking like a witness. It's the only way we'll make any progress in this investigation – and you know it!'

Kershaw sighed. ‘You're right,' he agreed. ‘Show me the picture.'

Paniatowski slid it across the desk. Kershaw devoured it with his eyes, and then a look of disappointment filled his whole face.

‘I thought I'd know him immediately,' he said. ‘I thought he was bound to be one of the toerags I'd banged up over the years. But I
don't
know him. He does look vaguely familiar – but I don't actually
know
him.'