Backlash (23 page)

‘Target?' Paniatowski shouted.

‘Basement, ma'am!' the sergeant bellowed back.

‘It's down those stairs! And for Christ's sake be careful – because the man we're after is a really vicious bastard!'

More officers appeared in the doorway.

The second team had already been given the ground floor, and the third – led by Beresford – was soon thundering up the staircase.

Alone in a hall which, seconds earlier, had been pandemonium – and now was eerily still – Paniatowski looked around her.

The place was a real mess, she thought. The carpet was encrusted with years of filth, and the walls were stained with the vomit of someone who hadn't quite made it to the toilet. It looked more like a squat than the home of a member of an aristocratic brewing family.

A constable appeared in one of doorways.

‘The kitchen is clear, ma'am,' he said.

So what? Paniatowski thought.

She'd never expected the kitchen to play a significant part in the search anyway.

But what about the rest of the house?

Was it about to divulge some good news – or was there only the
worst
kind of news waiting for her lads to find?

She crossed the hall and entered the kitchen. It was a big room, filled with expensive equipment, but, once again, it was the dirt which made the strongest impression.

Plates were piled up in the sink, encrusted with barely touched food which was now covered in mould. Aluminium trays, which had once contained takeaway food, were scattered haphazardly across the floor. Cigarette ends – carelessly dropped without even being extinguished – had left brown burn marks on the glazed tiles. And the whole place stank.

It was all wrong, Paniatowski thought, on the verge of despair. The house that the man they were looking for lived in shouldn't have been anything like this.

The leaders of the search teams began to filter into the kitchen.

‘Nothing in the basement, ma'am,' one of them said.

‘The ground floor's clear, ma'am,' a second reported.

Wrong, Paniatowski told herself. It's all bloody wrong!

Finally, Beresford arrived. ‘We've found Taylor Brown, boss,' he said. ‘He's upstairs.'

‘Just him?' Paniatowski asked, knowing even as she spoke that she was wasting her breath. ‘Not her?'

‘No,' Beresford said heavily. ‘Not her. I'm afraid there's absolutely no trace of her at all.'

The Ajax Novelty Company was based in an industrial unit on the edge of Bolton. It was divided into four parts, the workshop and warehouse being the larger two, with the dispatching and office sections looking as if they'd been squeezed – with some effort – into what space was left.

The managing director, Geoff Combes, looked more like a department store Santa Claus than a purveyor of somewhat dubious merchandise, but he seemed relaxed enough about being visited by the police and warmly invited Meadows and Crane into his tiny office.

‘It's a business like any other business,' he explained when they'd sat down, jamming their knees under the visitors' side of the desk. ‘We saw a need, and we filled it.' He rubbed his hands across his Father Christmas belly. ‘Now, how can I help you, officers?'

Meadows slid the pictures of the shoes and the corset across the desk.

‘What can you tell me about these?' she asked.

‘The Lady Zelda and the Bride of Dracula,' Combes said, with obvious pleasure. ‘They're both the top of the range, and they're both custom-made.'

‘And if I wanted to buy either of these items, how would I go about it?' Meadows asked.

‘They'd suit you,' Combes said, instinctively running his eyes up and down her body. ‘You've got just the right build to show them off to their best advantage.' He checked himself. ‘Sorry, what was the question again?'

‘Where would I buy them from?'

‘Well, you'd have three choices. You could buy them directly by mail order from us, you could go to one of the stores we stock, or you could ask one of our travelling salesmen to call.'

‘You're joking, aren't you?' Crane said.

‘What about?' Combes wondered.

‘That you actually have travelling salesmen?'

‘And why wouldn't we?'

Crane looked stuck for a tactful answer.

‘Well, it's just that, given what you sell, I'd have thought your customers would want to be as anonymous as possible,' he said lamely.

Combes chuckled. ‘Some do, some don't. But you're right that the majority of our customers would prefer their friends and neighbours not to know what they get up to behind closed doors. And that's exactly where those salesmen of ours come into their own.'

‘I'm not following,' Crane admitted.

‘Most men wouldn't be seen dead in a sex shop. And having something sent in a plain wrapper through the post has its disadvantages too – because not only does it seem a little sordid to some people, but the postman might actually guess what it is he's delivering. On the other hand, buying from one of our salesmen is an entirely different matter. He's well dressed, and when he visits you at your home or your office, he's carrying a smart attaché case. He can show you leather bonds, and make it sound as if what he's actually offering you is
gilt-edged
bonds. And yet, at the same time, and on an entirely different level, both the salesman and the customer know that the transaction they're involved in is just a little bit dirty – and there's a real thrill for the customer in that.'

‘You're quite the little psychologist on the sly, aren't you, Mr Combes?' Kate Meadows said drily.

‘I like to think so,' Combes replied, complacently.

‘So your customers are mainly men?' Meadows said.

‘That's right,' Combes agreed. ‘Occasionally, one of our salesmen will sell to a couple – or even a woman on her own – but it's mostly men. They buy these things as a surprise for their wives and girlfriends, you see.' He chuckled again. ‘My wife would certainly be
surprised
if I took any of our products home. And then she'd
surprise
me out of the front door – with my suitcase following shortly afterwards.'

‘You mentioned that both the shoes and corset were made-to-measure,' Meadows said.

‘That's right,' Combes agreed. ‘For some of our clients, it's very important to get
exactly
the right fit.'

‘So you'll have records of where the goods were sent?'

‘We certainly will. But I'm afraid I can't show them to you. Client confidentiality and all that, you know.'

‘I quite understand,' Meadows said sweetly. ‘I'm not in the business of asking people to betray their professional confidences.'

‘Good, because—'

‘But I
am
in the business of making sure that anyone who stops me doing my job suffers for it,' Meadows continued, with a hardness and certainty to her voice that made even Crane feel uneasy. ‘And I do
mean
suffers.'

‘I'll . . . I'll get the ledger,' Combes said shakily.

‘Will you? That would be
very
kind of you,' Meadows replied, all sweetness and light again.

Paniatowski felt an overwhelming urge to get out into the fresh air – away from both the stink of the house itself and from the smell of her own failure – so she opened the kitchen door, and stepped out in the back garden.

It was a big garden and, like the house itself, it must once have been ordered and attractive. But nothing had been done to it for a long time – probably since Taylor Brown had been sent to prison for torturing his housekeeper – and now it was a wilderness, the paths overgrown, the flower beds buried in weeds, the trees covered in fungi and other unpleasant infestations.

‘I know what's going through your mind,' said a voice from behind her, ‘but it still
could be
him that we're looking for.'

She spun round to face Beresford.

‘For God's sake, Colin, give it up!' she said angrily. ‘The man can't even manage to feed himself properly, let alone kidnap two women!'

‘We've always thought it was possible that he might have had a partner,' Beresford pointed out. ‘Maybe it was the partner who did the kidnapping.'

‘And why would anybody want to go into partnership with a man like that? What the hell has
he
got that he could bring to any partnership?'

‘He's got the experience. And maybe the partner was afraid to do it alone – maybe he needed the moral support.'

‘You're clutching at straws.'

‘Or perhaps, given that Mrs Kershaw was one of the victims, it wasn't really a partnership at all,' Beresford speculated. ‘Perhaps Taylor Brown simply paid the other man to do what he was unable to do himself.'

‘That's ridiculous!' Paniatowski said.

‘I don't think it is,' Beresford argued. ‘Taylor Brown must still have money in the bank, and he's certainly got enough reason to hate Mr Kershaw.'

‘Then if this is all about revenge, why kidnap and torture poor little Grace Meade?'

‘I never said it was
all
about revenge. Taylor Brown likes torturing women just for the sheer pleasure of it. Or maybe it was his assistant – or his partner, or whatever you want to call him – who insisted on kidnapping two women instead of one. Maybe they enjoy it more if they're torturing two women at the same time. I don't know, Monika, I really don't – because I can't get my mind around things in the same way that they must.'

‘No, I don't suppose you can,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘All you
can
do is to offer me a long list of maybes.'

‘Come on, Monika, you can't rule Taylor Brown out, just because everything about him doesn't fall as neatly into place as you'd like it to,' Beresford pleaded.

‘You're right,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘Where is he?'

‘He's still up in his bedroom. He said he's not coming out unless he's arrested.'

‘Then I suppose I'd better go and talk to him,' Paniatowski said, without enthusiasm.

‘Only two pairs of the Madame Zelda were ever made in anything like the size you've given me,' Combes said, consulting his ledger.

‘And what happened to them?' Meadows asked.

‘The order was placed with one of our salesmen, a chap called Brian Waites.' Combes turned a page in the ledger. ‘He was also the one who ordered the Bride of Dracula corset, so maybe that was for the same client.'

‘And what's this client's name?'

‘Ah, there I'm afraid I can't help you.'

‘Remember what I was saying earlier – about getting upset when someone stops me doing my job?' Meadows asked.

‘I mean I
really
can't help you,' Combes said hastily. ‘We have records of the order from our tailoring department, of course, but we won't have any for the actual transaction.'

‘No records at all?'

‘Well, the name and address of the client will have been written down in the salesman's order book . . .'

‘Then show us that!'

‘I don't have it.'

‘Why not?'

‘We
never
get to see the salesmen's order books. They work on a commission basis, you see, and they feel – wrongly, of course – that if we had the addresses of their clients, we'd hand those clients over to another salesman, who'd work for a smaller commission.'

‘Now wherever would they have got that idea from?' Meadows mused.

Combes looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘There was a misunderstanding once,' he admitted. ‘You see, we did have this particular salesman who—'

‘I need to speak to the salesman who placed the order,' Meadows interrupted him. ‘You said his name was Brian Waites, didn't you?'

‘Err . . . talking to Brian might prove a little difficult,' Combes admitted. ‘You see, he ran up rather a lot of debts and, in the end, he decided that the easiest way to pay them off would be to help himself to the money we keep in the safe. The moment we found out, of course, we had to inform the police. We really had no other option.'

‘So he's in jail, is he?' Meadows asked impatiently.

‘Regrettably not. He did what you might call “a runner”, and the local police have no idea where he might be.'

‘Which means you've no idea where his order book might be, either?' Meadows asked.

‘Just so,' Combes agreed.

Taylor Brown's bedroom was in as bad a state – if not a worse one – as the rest of the house. The sheets were filthy, the windows were coated in grime, and the floor was littered with bottles.

The Honourable Reginald George Taylor Brown himself was sitting in an armchair, wrapped in a bathrobe which it was just possible to discern had once been white. He was a shadow of a man – far too shrunken and insignificant to fill his posh name. With his claw-like right hand, he was picking at threads in the arm of the chair, and had almost stripped away the fabric down to the wood. His left eye was flickering uncontrollably, and there was spittle at the corner of his mouth.

‘Why won't you just leave me alone?' he moaned, when he saw Paniatowski standing over him.

It would be a kindness to both of them if she did, Paniatowski thought, but she supposed she had better go through the motions.

‘Tell me about Elaine Kershaw,' she said.

Taylor Brown looked up at her blankly.

‘Who?'