Backlash (25 page)

‘I still don't see where you're going with this,' Crane said.

And he didn't – though it did cast a certain light on the conversation he'd had with Beresford.

‘The killer's in exactly the same situation,' Meadows continued. ‘He has a vision of how this whole grisly business should be carried out – and those red shoes are part of it. They're in his head. He didn't consciously put them there, but they won't go away. He has to have them – whatever the consequences.'

‘Jesus!' Crane said.

‘Well, it's a theory, anyway,' Meadows said, sounding much more like her normal self now. She stood up. ‘I suppose I'd better check in with headquarters, hadn't I?'

‘Good idea,' Crane replied shakily.

The Pride of Bolton's payphone, like most pub payphones, was in the corridor next to the toilets, and when Meadows was connected to Whitebridge Police HQ, she asked to speak to Monika Paniatowski.

‘The DCI's left word she's in interrogation and is not to be disturbed for the rest of the day,' the switchboard operator said. ‘But I can put you through to DI Beresford, if you like.'

I don't like, Meadows thought – I don't like at all!

‘That would be fine,' she said aloud.

‘It's me, Meadows,' she told Beresford, when he came on to the line. ‘We've developed what we think might turn out to be a really good lead here, sir.'

‘What sort of lead?' Beresford asked.

‘We know who provided the killer with the shoes, but we haven't been able to trace him yet, so we'd like to stay in Bolton for a little longer.'

‘Would you?' Beresford asked, in a cold, distant voice. ‘And how much longer is a
little
longer?'

‘We don't know. Until we find him, I suppose.'

‘So it could be a
lot
longer, couldn't it?'

‘That's a possibility,' Meadows conceded. ‘But it is a
good
lead, sir.'

‘It may well be,' Beresford agreed. ‘It may even be an excellent one – but I've got other priorities at the moment, and I want you back here within the hour.'

‘Is this personal, sir?'

‘Personal?' Beresford repeated. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Does the fact that you won't let me follow up on my lead have anything to do with what happened between us last night?'

‘No, it doesn't,' Beresford replied angrily. ‘It has nothing to do with that at all!'

‘I'm not sure I believe that, sir,' Meadows said.

‘I don't give a toss about what you believe. I want you back in Whitebridge, Sergeant Meadows – and the
reason
I want you back is that the shit's about to hit the fan.'

Reginald Taylor Brown sat hunched up at the interview table, his hands clasped so tightly that they could have been welded together.

‘I'm cold,' he moaned. ‘I'm very cold.'

So am I, Paniatowski thought. That's what happens when you turn the heating off in the middle of November.

She stood up and stripped off her jacket. ‘It's not cold at all, Reg – not for someone with a clear conscience.'

‘Could I have a blanket, please?' Taylor Brown asked.

‘Of course,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But you have to earn it by answering a few questions first. All right?'

‘All right.'

He looked so pathetic – so helpless – she thought. And if she'd been watching someone else conduct this interrogation, she'd have been convinced they were questioning the wrong man.

But it was all an act he was putting on. A good act, admittedly, and one that had been completely convincing back at the old vicarage. But once Beresford had found the remnant of the nightdress in the garden, she'd seen right through that act – and she wasn't about to be fooled again.

‘You're a mess,' she said. ‘You could never have organized two kidnappings and one murder.'

‘That's . . . that's what I've been telling you all along.'

‘In fact, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that the whole thing was your partner's idea.'

She said it – but she didn't believe that for a second. It had been Taylor Brown who had wanted Elaine kidnapped – Taylor Brown who had yearned for revenge on Kershaw.

The suspect said nothing.

‘It's even possible that you didn't
want
to do it at all,' she continued. ‘That you only went along with it because he threatened to hurt you if you didn't.'

There was no logic behind that statement, and she knew it.

If Taylor Brown hadn't been behind the kidnapping, it would never have happened at all.

But this wasn't about logic – it was about offering him the illusion that there was still a chance he could escape from the consequences of his own evil actions.

‘Is that what happened?' she asked. ‘
Did
he threaten you?'

‘I . . . I don't have a partner,' Taylor Brown mumbled.

There could be only one reason why he was holding back, Paniatowski told herself, and that was because he didn't want his partner caught before he had completed the task that he'd been set.

And what that meant, in turn, was that it was more than likely that Elaine Kershaw was still alive!

‘What do you think he's going to say when we catch him?' she asked. ‘And we
will
catch him – have no doubts about that.'

‘Don't know what you're talking about,' Taylor Brown told her.

‘He'll say that it was all your idea – that he'd never have done it if you hadn't talked him into it. Then it will be too late for you to tell the truth – because everybody will already have accepted his version of events. So he'll get off with a short sentence, and you'll never see the light of day again. Is that what you want?'

It was an effective argument. She'd sat across the table from guilty men a score of times and had seen it work – had been able to follow every twist and turn of their thinking.

Why should I take most of the blame?
they'd asked themselves.

And in no time at all, they'd be convinced that the policewoman was right – that they were almost entirely innocent of the crime, and the fault lay with their partners.

But it wasn't going to work with this man, because he'd abandoned any hope for the future, and all that was keeping him going was his desire for revenge.

‘Tell me where you're keeping Elaine Kershaw,' she coaxed. ‘Just give me a hint. Is it in a house? A barn? A shed?'

‘I don't know where she is.'

‘So your partner didn't tell you,' Paniatowski jeered. ‘He didn't even trust you enough to let you know where he'd taken her! You're not
really
his partner at all, are you? You're nothing but his dupe. And while you're in here, cold and miserable, he's out there – laughing at you!'

‘I don't have a partner,' Taylor Brown sobbed. ‘Please believe me, I don't have a partner!'

‘I'll bet he didn't even trust you to light the fire,' Paniatowski mocked. ‘I'll bet he even did that simple job himself.'

‘What fire?' Taylor Brown asked.

‘The one at the bottom of your garden. You remember? The one you tried to burn Elaine's nightdress on?'

‘I . . . don't . . . know . . . anything . . . about . . . a . . . fire,' Taylor Brown said.

He was good, Paniatowski admitted. Driven by a hatred that was stronger than any love he might ever have felt – stronger than even the instinct for self-preservation – he was
very
good.

She did not think he would crack, but she had to go on trying.

‘Can I . . . can I have that blanket now?' he asked.

‘You won't need it,' she told him. ‘I'm turning up the heat.'

Beresford was sitting at his desk, a mug of strong tea within easy reach of his left hand, a cigarette – burned almost down to the filter – in his right.

‘Any progress?' Paniatowski asked.

The inspector shook his head despondently. ‘Not really. I've got some of my lads checking on Brown's background – who his friends were when he was at school, who he might have met when he was in prison, whether or not he belongs to any clubs or associations . . . you know the drill.'

‘Yes,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘I know the drill.'

‘I've put the rest of the team on door-to-door. They've been told to ask the neighbours what visitors he's had, and whether they've seen any strangers around. But, as you know yourself, his house is a fair distance from the rest of the village – and if
I
had a neighbour like him, I know I'd do my level best to ignore him completely.'

‘What about the search of the house?' Paniatowski asked. ‘Has that turned up anything that might conceivably give us a lead?'

‘No, all it's done is to confirm what we all already know about him. There were some masks and whips – though they didn't look like they'd been used for years – and there were some fairly recent magazines.'

‘What kind of magazines?'

‘The kind you'd have expected us to find –' Beresford slid an evidence envelope across the desk to her – ‘including an old favourite.'

‘And if either Grace or Elaine were ever there, there's no evidence of that now?' Paniatowski asked – though she already knew that if there had been, it would have been the first thing that Beresford mentioned.

‘It's possible we will find some trace of them when we've sifted through all the filth,' Beresford said, ‘but I'm not holding my breath while I'm waiting. Taylor Brown might be a complete bloody nutter, but he was clever enough to put on that act for us – an act that had us completely fooled for a while – and I think he was also clever enough to have the women taken to somewhere that has no connection with him.'

‘Keep plugging away at it,' Paniatowski said – because there was nothing more positive she
could
say.

‘I will,' Beresford told her. ‘What about you, boss? Are you planning to have another go at Taylor Brown?'

Paniatowski nodded. ‘Cold hasn't worked on him, so I've had the thermostat adjusted to make it like an oven in there. And I'll stay with him all night, if that's what it takes.'

‘Or until he asks for a lawyer,' Beresford said.

‘He won't ask for a lawyer.'

Why should he? No lawyer would be able to save him, and he knew that. And by fighting off the interrogation on his own – by holding out until what he needed to happen
had
actually happened – he was probably rebuilding a little of his self-respect.

‘Elaine could already be dead, you know,' Paniatowski said – because
somebody
had to say it.

‘Yes, I do know that,' Beresford agreed gravely.

It had been dark in the woods for some time, but Lennie and Timmy had thought of that in advance, and had brought their torches with them.

At first, the darkness had only added spice to their mission – making it even more mysterious and exciting. Now, however, both the mystery and excitement were wearing thin, at least for Timmy.

If they were ever going to find a body, he told himself, they would have found it by now, because they had been searching for at least an hour. Besides, it was getting cold, he was hungry, and though the darkness didn't scare him – of course it didn't! – he would have felt much more comfortable on a well-lit street.

‘I think we should pack it in,' he said.

‘What's the matter?' Lennie asked. ‘You're surely not frightened of the bogie men, are you?'

‘Course not.'

‘Then we'll give it another five minutes.'

Since neither of them had a watch, Timmy knew that the five minutes would be
Lennie's
five minutes – and that Lennie's five minutes could be at least half an hour – but he didn't see how he could turn down such a reasonable request without seeming chicken.

‘All right,' he agreed. ‘Five minutes. But I'm counting them,' he added, searching for a compromise which would avoid either of them losing face.

‘We'll
both
count them,' Lennie said.

They wandered along, both chanting, ‘One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . .' though at considerably different speeds.

It was as they were reaching the edge of the woods, and were navigating their way through a clump of bushes, that Lennie suddenly took a dive.

‘Stop messing about!' Timmy called to him, starting to feel really scared now.

‘I've fallen over something!' Lennie said excitedly. ‘Come and look!'

It was a sack he'd fallen over – a long thinnish sack tied at the top.

‘It pongs a bit!' Lennie said.

‘It pongs a lot!' Timmy corrected him.

Lennie climbed to his feet. He poked the sack with his stick, and it yielded to the pressure.

Maybe they had found a body, Timmy thought. He'd never
really
believed they would – but maybe they had.

‘There's not much more we can do in the dark,' Lennie said, in a thin squeaky voice which was not his own.

‘No, we'd best be getting off home,' Timmy agreed, eagerly.

They walked the first few paces, then, abandoning all pretence, their walk became a run, and eventually a gallop.

The temperature in the interview room was almost unbearable, and Paniatowski could feel sweat running down her back in half a dozen hot little streams.