Backlash (24 page)

‘Or better yet, tell me about Grace Meade.'

‘I . . . I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Don't play the innocent with me,' Paniatowski said harshly. ‘Even if you'd had absolutely nothing to do with Grace's abduction, you'd still have read about it in the newspapers.'

‘I don't read newspapers,' Taylor Brown said. ‘I don't read anything any more.' Then, a sudden sign of life flashed across his dead eyes, and he asked, ‘Is the first woman you mentioned related to Chief Superintendent Kershaw?'

‘She's his wife.'

Taylor Brown began to cry. ‘He fitted me up,' he said. ‘He sent me into the jaws of hell.'

The garden was an ugly testament to what neglect could do. Actually, it was more than that, Beresford thought – it was a savage reminder of how thin the line really was between chaos and order. But even so, faced with the choice of battling with the undergrowth or returning to the house, he chose to battle through the undergrowth.

He had not been expecting his expedition to turn up anything of real interest, which was why, when he reached the bottom of the garden and actually
did
find something in front of the rickety, rotting shed, he paid more attention to his discovery than he might otherwise have done.

The
something
in question was the remains of a small fire which had been set inside a metal box. As fires went, it had not been entirely successful, he noted, for though there were ashes enough, he could also see bits of charred newspaper sticking out.

He bent down, and touched the ashes with the back of his hand. They were cold, but damp.

It was obvious what had happened. The fire had not been burning strongly enough to resist a sudden November downpour of rain, and had gone out before it had completed its work.

But he was not so much interested in the actual fire itself as he was in who had lit it.

Could Taylor Brown have started it?

Given both the state of the house and the state of the man, it was hard to imagine him battling his way through the undergrowth in order to do it. And why should he
want
a fire, anyway?

Could it have been one of the neighbours?

Beresford walked over to the back wall. The problem with that theory was that the vicarage was separated from the nearest neighbour by a field. And while the wall was low enough for any reasonably agile man to climb over without much difficulty, why would anyone make the effort, when it would be just as easy to start a fire in their own back garden?

He broke off a twig from a sad-looking tree, and started to poke through the ashes of the fire.

And that was when he discovered that the newspaper was not the only thing that had failed to burn properly.

‘Prison completely destroyed me,' Taylor Brown whined. ‘It was no place for a gentleman, and you can't imagine what I had to endure while I was there.' He ran the back of his hand across his nose to clear away the mucus. ‘The rabble I was locked up with hated me because I was better than them. They beat me, they scalded me with hot water, they . . . they made me eat food that I'd seen them urinate in. They took my life away from me.'

‘Well, that's the way it goes,' Paniatowski said, unsympathetically. ‘I wouldn't think Sonia, your ex-housekeeper, has quite the same rosy a view of life as she once had, either.'

‘My family tried their best to keep me out of prison,' Taylor Brown said, ‘but once I'd been convicted, they didn't want anything to do with me. They still don't. They're
ashamed
of me!'

‘Fancy that,' Paniatowski said. ‘Some people are just so unreasonable, aren't they?'

Wrapped up in his own self-pity, it was doubtful if Taylor Brown even heard her.

‘Kershaw
made me
sign the confession,' he said. ‘It's all his fault. Everything that has happened to me is
his
fault.'

‘He wasn't the one who tortured Sonia,' Paniatowski pointed out. ‘That was you.'

‘She liked it,' Taylor Brown said, unconvincingly.

‘And did Denise like it, as well?' Paniatowski asked.

‘Who?'

‘The girl you slashed with your razor on Market Street, a couple of weeks ago. Did
she
like it?'

‘That was her own fault.'

‘Everything seems to be somebody else's fault, doesn't it?' Paniatowski asked. ‘So tell me, how is Denise to blame for what happened to her?'

‘It was her fault because she wouldn't help me.'

‘She wouldn't do
what
?'

‘Do you realize how much courage it took for me to even approach her, after everything that's happened to me?' Taylor Brown asked. ‘But I did it. I was very brave. And if she'd only done what I wanted her to, I might have started to get my confidence back. But she wouldn't. She
laughed
at me. If she hadn't moved when she did, I'd have slashed her face until there was nothing left of it. That's what she deserved.'

It was hopeless, Paniatowski thought. Taylor Brown was one of the vilest creatures she'd ever met. And no doubt he would have been more than delighted to torture Grace Meade and Elaine Kershaw if he'd had the opportunity. But he could never have accomplished such a thing alone.

And even the possibility that he had a partner – an idea which had never shone very brightly – was growing dimmer and dimmer by the minute, because if someone else
had been
involved, Taylor Brown would surely have tried to shift the entire blame on to him by now.

It had all been a complete waste of time.

‘
You'd better make damn sure you get it right!
' Chief Superintendent Kershaw had said, threateningly.

And she hadn't. Whichever way she looked at it, she bloody hadn't!

Beresford appeared in the doorway, and said, ‘Can you spare me a minute, boss?'

Paniatowski stepped out in the corridor.

‘We can charge this bastard with the assault on Denise – which will at least ensure he's back in prison – but that's it,' she said despondently.

Beresford smiled. It was not quite a smile of triumph – that would have been putting it far too strongly – but it was at least a smile of relief.

‘I wouldn't be too sure that's all we can do, Monika,' he said. ‘Somebody lit a fire in the garden – I suspect it was Taylor Brown's accomplice – but he didn't quite manage to burn everything he intended to burn. And the thing he
didn't
quite burn was this.'

He reached into his pocket and produced a transparent evidence envelope. Inside it was a piece of cloth, irregularly shaped and charred at the edges. It was not large – no more than two inches in one direction and three in the other – but it was a big enough sample for Paniatowski to see that it was a blue, silky, translucent material.

‘That matches the description of the nightdress Elaine Kershaw was probably wearing when she was abducted!' Paniatowski said.

‘Yes, it does, doesn't it?' Beresford agreed.

EIGHTEEN

I
f the Pride of Bolton public house really
was
the pride of Bolton, then the town was in deep trouble, Jack Crane thought, as he surveyed the tobacco-stained ceiling and peeling wallpaper from his strategic position at the bar. Still, it did have the advantage of being the closest pub to the Ajax Novelty Company, and the pint of bitter the barman was currently pulling for him looked inviting enough.

He took his pint – and Meadows' tonic water – over to the table where the sergeant was sitting, deep in thought.

‘Thanks,' Meadows said, absently, when he placed her glass down in front of her.

‘So what do you think we've learned from our visit to Mr Combes' cosy little establishment, Sarge?' Crane asked.

‘I think we learned that our killer's been planning this whole operation of his for a long time,' Kate Meadows replied.

‘And you're not just talking about Mrs Kershaw being kidnapped, are you?'

‘No, I'm not. I'm almost certain that it was always his intention to kidnap Grace Meade, too – or, if not Grace herself, then someone very like her.'

‘And what's brought you to this conclusion? The shoes?'

‘Yes, the shoes. He had
two
pairs of shoes made-to-measure – and that means he had
two
victims in mind, right from the start.'

‘It bothers me that he's been so careless – especially when you consider that he's never put a foot wrong before,' Crane admitted.

‘Careless?'

‘If Brian Waites hadn't decided to steal the cash from the safe and then do a runner, he'd already have given us a description of the man he sold the shoes to, wouldn't he?'

‘Yes.'

‘But the killer couldn't possibly have known what Waites was going to do, so he was taking a huge – and unnecessary – risk.'

‘It was certainly a risk, but as far as he was concerned, it wasn't an unnecessary one,' Meadows said. ‘In fact, it was
very
necessary.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Everything about the whole business had to be
right
– whatever danger that might put him in.'

‘I'm still not there,' Crane admitted.

‘No, of course you're not,' Meadows replied. ‘How could you be?' She paused for a moment. ‘You're not a virgin, are you, Jack?'

Crane felt himself flush. ‘Why do you ask?' he said. ‘Do I look like one? Do I
act
like one?'

‘I'd have said not,' Meadows replied. ‘But appearances can sometimes be deceptive. So, how would you describe your career as a
non-virgin
? Has it been successful?'

This was getting to sound eerily like his early morning conversation with DI Beresford, Crane thought.

‘Are you asking me if I've slept with a lot of girls?' he asked.

‘Yes.'

‘That's not really relevant to the matter in hand, now is it?' Crane asked, a little huffily.

Meadows smiled. ‘That's where you're wrong,' she told him. ‘I'm about to explain something quite complicated, and I need to know if you're in a position to really understand it.'

‘And how can that – whatever it is – possibly relate to my sex life?'

Meadows' smile widened. ‘Just answer the question, Jack.'

‘I've . . . er . . . had my share of successes,' Crane admitted, reluctantly.

Meadows nodded. ‘Good! And tell me, Jack, have you ever taken a girl to bed when you knew you shouldn't have – when you knew, in fact, that you'd only be building up trouble for yourself?'

‘Oh yes,' Crane said, with real feeling. ‘Oh yes, indeed.'

‘
I know you don't love me, but that doesn't matter any more,' she says. ‘I just want to sleep with you.
'

‘
It's not a good idea,' he tells her.

‘
Most men would jump at the offer,' she says.

‘
I don't expect it to change anything between us,' she says. ‘I just want to feel you between my legs.
'

‘
Please!' she says.

‘
If it's what you want,' he says.

‘
Well?' she says. ‘I was right, wasn't I?
'

‘
About what?
'

‘
About us. And now you can see it, too.
'

‘So you knew it was a mistake from the start,' Meadows said, half-amused, half-serious. ‘So why did you do it?'

‘Because I just couldn't help myself,' Crane confessed.

‘Then you have some idea of what it's like to be a fetishist,' Meadows continued, her voice suddenly much deeper – much more intense. ‘A reason a lot of women submit to pain is not for the pleasure it brings them – though the pleasure is undoubtedly there – but because they
have to
, because there is something inside them driving them to it. So they run the risk of being shunned by the friends they've known all their lives – and of being ridiculed by people who are not fit to lick their boots – because they have no choice in the matter!'