Backlash (30 page)

‘
Why
are you in disguise?' Crane wondered.

‘Because, if we adopt the conventional approach, it could take days – or maybe even weeks – to find our missing salesman. But we don't have that luxury – so we're going to have to be sneaky.'

‘Sneaky?' Crane repeated.

‘Sneaky,' Meadows confirmed, climbing into the driver's seat of the Volkswagen.

She was not as fast a driver as Paniatowski – very few people were – but she was certainly fast enough, Crane thought, as they pulled out of the car park and headed for Whitebridge High Street.

‘You can stop worrying about my relationship with Inspector Beresford, Jack,' Meadows told him, as they overtook a van on what was not
quite
a blind corner. ‘That's all sorted out.'

‘Who said I was worrying about it?' Crane asked.

‘I did.'

‘Oh?'

‘From the way you were watching both of us in the Drum last night, I could tell that Colin had confided in you about his little problem. I don't suppose he mentioned my name in your cosy man-to-man chat – he probably didn't even mention his own, just said was that he was asking for a friend – but you weren't fooled, were you? You might not have known immediately what he was talking about, but it didn't take you long to make some kind of sense out of it.'

‘And you could really work all that out just by looking at me?' Crane asked.

‘Yes.'

‘That's scary.'

Meadows shrugged – no mean feat when sliding into a gap in the traffic which was only slightly bigger than the Volkswagen.

‘I'm a good observer,' she said. ‘People like me have to be – because when you're surrounded by a hostile world, you always have to be on the lookout for your own kind.'

‘Your own kind?'

‘Come on, Jack, don't play the dummy,' Meadows said, with a hint of exasperation. ‘You've been to university, and—'

‘Who told you I'd been to university?'

‘Nobody did, but we've already agreed that I'm a good observer. You
did
go to university, didn't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Cambridge?'

‘Oxford.'

‘Funny,' Meadows mused, ‘from your little idiosyncrasies, I'd have put my money on you being a Cambridge man. But no matter. You really do know what I mean when I say, “my own kind”, don't you? Or at least, if you don't know, you can probably take an Oxford-educated guess.'

‘Yes, I probably can,' Crane agreed.

‘That's settled, then,' Meadows said, pulling up in front of one of Whitebridge's trendiest – and most expensive – boutiques. ‘Now let's get you your disguise.'

Meadows swept through the boutique like a tornado, and within fifteen minutes, Crane found himself dressed in an expensive leather jacket, and trousers that a Hollywood star would not have been ashamed to be seen in.

He blanched when he saw the bill.

‘Is the force paying for this?' he asked tremulously.

‘Of course not,' Meadows replied.

‘Then who is?'

‘I am.'

‘I don't see how you can possibly afford to do that on a sergeant's pay,' Crane said.

‘On a sergeant's pay, I obviously couldn't,' Kate Meadows replied, enigmatically.

Chief Constable George Baxter's broad ginger face filled the television screen.

‘
Are there any questions
?' he asked.

‘
You say that Mrs Kershaw was missing for three days before her body was discovered
,' said the deep-but-disembodied voice of one of the reporters at the press conference.

‘
That is correct
.'

‘
So why wasn't any appeal made to the general public for help?
'

‘
It was felt that the investigation could proceed more smoothly if the public wasn't involved
.'

‘
And in the light of what's happened, do you still think that was the right decision?
'

Baxter hesitated for a second, then said, ‘
I can't possibly answer that question without revealing more about the investigation than is judged to be prudent at the moment
.'

‘That's scarcely a ringing endorsement of the DCI in charge of the investigation,' Paniatowski said, watching the conference on the portable television in her office.

‘It could have been worse,' Colin Beresford replied, without any real conviction.

‘They're getting ready to tip me off the sleigh, Colin,' Paniatowski said. ‘I'll do my best to make sure you're not thrown to the wolves as well, but given how low my stock is at the moment, there's no guarantee it'll have any effect.'

‘What the hell? Who wanted to be a bobby, anyway?' Beresford asked.

Baxter disappeared from the screen, and was replaced by an earnest-looking young man with a microphone, standing outside police headquarters.

‘
So it is not yet clear why Mrs Kershaw was killed or even
how
she was killed
,' he said. ‘
However, this reporter can reveal that sources close to the investigation feel that mistakes were made, and that perhaps if Chief Superintendent Kershaw – one of the most respected policemen in the force – had been allowed to participate in the hunt for his wife himself, there might have been quite another result. This is Barry Burns, returning you to the studio
.'

‘Now
that's
how it should be done,' Hardcastle told his assistant. ‘A little sincerity, a little insinuation – the soupçon of a suggestion that the reporter knows more than he's telling – and sign off, leaving them wanting more.' He leaned across to his microphone. ‘Do the lead-in to Jenkins' story, Gary.'

The anchorman gave a barely perceptible nod.

‘
On a lighter note, we ask why you might need a gas mask the next time you go for a walk through Waverton Woods
,' he said to the camera. ‘
Lynda Jenkins has the story
.'

‘Cut to Jenkins,' Hardcastle said.

A smiling Lynda Jenkins appeared on the screen, with the woods behind her as a backdrop.

‘She's pissed off with me, but she doesn't want to show it, because she realizes I'm even more pissed off with her,' Hardcastle said to his assistant. ‘But however she feels, she'll make a good job of this – as would anybody who knew her career was hanging by a thread.'

‘
It's often said you should never cry stinking fish in your own backyard, but out here in the countryside it would be almost impossible not to
,' Lynda Jenkins said, on-screen. ‘
And it's all because of this!
'

The camera panned to the sack on the ground.

‘
There's a lot of stinking fish here
,' Jenkins continued, as the camera dwelt lovingly on the rotting perch and trout. ‘
How many? I don't know – because I'm certainly not going to count them, let alone weigh them. They were discovered yesterday by our intrepid fish detective, Timmy Holland
.'

‘Cut to the kid – give it five seconds,' Hardcastle said.

Timmy's grinning face filled the screen briefly, and then was gone.

‘
Why were the fish dumped here
?' Lynda Jenkins, now back on camera, asked. ‘
Nobody seems to know
.'

‘Get ready for the fish puns,' Hardcastle said.

‘Will there be some?' his assistant asked.

‘Lots of them.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘Because all new reporters think they're original, witty and brilliant – and only their producers ever seem to realize that they sound just like the fellers they're replacing.'

‘
I don't want to “carp” on about this
,' Jenkins said to the camera, ‘
but if you're hearing me – or perhaps I should say “herring” me – Mr Dumper, I really think you should examine your “sole” and ask yourself if this is the right “plaice” to leave your rubbish. This is Lynda Jenkins, for
Lunchtime News
, returning you to the aquarium – I mean, to the studio
.'

‘That was awful,' the assistant groaned.

‘Awful?' Hardcastle repeated. ‘This isn't some highbrow current affairs programme, you know. It's
local lunchtime news
, watched by people who are too lazy or too stupid to be doing anything else with their time.'

‘But surely we still have to have certain standards, don't we?' the assistant asked.

‘We do have standards, lad – they're called viewing figures – and reports like that one are good for them.'

‘Really?'

‘You don't believe me? Then go into any pub you like tonight – and if you don't hear at least three fish jokes, you can have my job.'

Kate Meadows pulled up in front of the terraced house, then revved the engine of the Volkswagen convertible a couple of times before switching the engine off.

‘Is she watching?' Meadows asked, from the corner of her mouth.

‘I don't know for certain – but the lace curtain's certainly twitching,' Crane replied.

‘Good enough.'

Meadows took a phone receiver out of her bag, and lifted it to her face.

‘Hello, Jeremy, we've arrived,' she said.

‘What are you doing?' Crane asked.

‘I'm talking on the radio phone.'

‘But this car doesn't have a radio phone.'

‘True,' Meadows agreed. ‘All I've actually got is this receiver, with a loose bit of cable hanging from it – but Mrs Lewis, squinting at us through the curtains, doesn't know that. To her, it'll look like the real thing.'

She smiled into the phone, said, ‘God bless you, and all who sail in you,' and slipped the receiver back into her bag.

‘You know what you have to do?' she asked Crane.

‘I know what I have to do,' Crane agreed.

‘Then let's get this show on the road,' Meadows suggested.

She got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell.

The woman who answered the ring was in her mid-thirties, and had a pinched, dissatisfied face.

‘Mrs Lewis?' Meadows asked brightly.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm Katie Quill, from the BBC.' She laughed, slightly awkwardly. ‘Actually, that's not quite true. I work for Midnight Productions, which makes documentaries for the BBC. You've no doubt seen a few of them.
Sin in Soho
?
The Harrogate Wife Swappers Club
?'

‘I don't think so,' Mrs Lewis said dubiously.

‘Oh,' Meadows said, looking quite crestfallen. ‘Well, never mind,' she continued, perking up. ‘Our latest project – which we're all very excited about – is called,
Sexy Toys for the Sexy Suburbs
, and we're looking for experts in that particular field. In fact, that's exactly why we're here at your door.'

‘I'm not following you,' Mrs Lewis told her.

Meadows giggled. ‘I do get ahead of myself sometimes, don't I?' she asked. ‘The fact is, you see, that one of my friends . . . well, she's into that sort of thing. And she said that she bought some of her best toys from your brother, and that he'd be just perfect for the programme. But the thing is, he's not at the address we have for him, and since one of his old neighbours said that you were his sister—'

‘I don't know where he is,' Mrs Lewis interrupted.

‘Well, that was a wasted journey,' Crane said, grumpily, turning back towards the car.

‘Wait a minute, Daniel,' Meadows pleaded. ‘You
really
don't know where he is, Mrs Lewis?'

‘I
really
don't know.'

Crane had reached the Volkswagen and was already opening the passenger door.

‘Come on, Katie,' he said. ‘If we've hit a dead end here, I'm sure we won't have much trouble finding somebody else willing to work as an advisor for five hundred pounds a week.'

‘Did you . . . did you say five hundred quid a week?' Mrs Lewis asked.

‘Yes, that's the standard fee,' Meadows said, matter-of-factly. ‘Of course, with overtime, it could work out to be considerably more than that.'

Mrs Lewis bit her lip. ‘I'm sure our Brian would be more than willing to help you,' she said. ‘But the thing is, you see, he's in a bit of trouble with the police.'

‘Is he in jail?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. But the bobbies are sort of looking for him.'

‘I don't think that should be a problem.
Half
our advisors are wanted by the police for one thing or another, but that's really of no interest to us.
Our
only concern is to get our programme made.'

‘There's a pub at the end of the street called the George and Dragon,' Mrs Lewis said. ‘If you could be in there at nine o'clock tonight . . .'

‘Nine o'clock?' Crane repeated. ‘I was planning to be back in London by
nine o'clock
.'

‘Six, then,' Mrs Lewis said, desperately. ‘I'm sure I could have him there by six.'

Crane made a great show of thinking about it. ‘Six o'clock on the dot,' he said finally. ‘If he's a minute late, we'll be gone.'

‘He won't be late,' Mrs Lewis promised.

‘He'd better not be,' Crane said, unrelentingly.

‘Would it be all right if I stood some of the team in the incident room down?' Beresford said, hating himself for having to ask.

‘Why not?' Paniatowski replied dispiritedly. ‘They can at least find something useful to do back at their own stations. Until we get some new leads –
if
we get some new leads – all they're doing here is sitting on their hands.'