Backlash (32 page)

‘Lots of men go prematurely white.'

‘And there was the way he walked – it wasn't a young man's walk.'

‘How do you know he was her husband?'

‘She said he was.'

‘What happened next?'

‘She stood up and followed him into the kitchen.'

‘Did they speak?'

‘Yes.'

‘And are you going to tell me what they said – or do I have to guess?' Meadows demanded.

‘Oh, sorry. She said something like, “Don't you want to come and see the exciting things that Brian has brought with him, darling?” And he said, “I've not got time now, sweetheart. But you know what I like, and I trust your judgement.”'

They did
sound
like husband and wife, Meadows thought.

But she knew just how clever men like him were at role playing – because she was pretty good at it herself.

And the woman? Was
she
playing a role?

Possibly not. Possibly she had convinced herself that he
did
care for her – and that he
was
almost her husband.

She couldn't have known, poor deluded soul, what her ultimate fate would be – or that this chance encounter with Brian had probably shortened the time before she met it.

‘Think about the next question very carefully,' Meadows said. ‘Is it possible that the woman wasn't buying the clothes for herself, but for someone else? Is it possible that she was just acting as an agent?'

‘Anything's possible, I suppose,' Waites admitted. ‘But I don't think it's very likely, because most of the stuff she bought was made-to-measure.'

So she must have been approximately the same size as Elaine and Grace, Meadows thought.

The killer had certainly worked things out very carefully!

‘I'll need this customer's name,' Meadows said.

What she was in fact asking for, she realized, was the name of a dead woman, who was probably in a shallow grave somewhere on the moors by now. It might not even be her
real
name that she had given him. But at least it was a start.

‘I don't remember her name,' Waites told her.

‘The name is part of the deal,' Meadows said coldly. ‘If you
don't
give it to us, we'll arrest you.'

‘Honestly, I really
can't
remember,' Waites said worriedly. ‘It was in my order book, but I threw that away after I'd done my runner with the money from Ajax.'

‘The address, then!' Meadows snapped.

‘That was in the order book as well,' Waites said frantically.

‘Get the cuffs out, Jack,' Meadows said to Crane.

‘I remember what the house looked like, though,' Waites said in desperation. ‘It was one of those big old-fashioned jobs. You know what I'm talking about – the kind of house that has a third floor where the servants used to sleep.'

‘A Victorian house?'

‘Yes, that's it.'

Meadows had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘And where is this house?' she asked.

‘It's in Whitebridge.'

Meadows and Crane exchanged glances.

‘Describe the woman to me,' Meadows said.

‘She's in her early thirties. Not my type, but rather attractive. She has a slim build – a bit like you – only much shorter,' Waites said. ‘Hang on, I think the name's coming. The first name, at least. It was Ellen!'

‘Ellen?'

‘No, that's not quite right. It was Elaine. I'm sure of it now. And I've remembered something else.'

‘Go on.'

‘That time I called when her husband was there, and he went straight to the kitchen . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘She didn't say, “Don't you want to come and see the exciting things that Brian has brought with him,
darling
?” She said, “Don't you want to come and see the exciting things that Brian has brought with him,
Tom
?”

TWENTY-THREE

S
ince Kate Meadows had begun the tale of her trip to Bolton, she had had the full attention of the others.

Now, as the tale drew to a close, Paniatowski said, ‘You're sure that it's the right house?'

‘It's the right house,' Meadows confirmed. ‘We brought Waites back to Whitebridge with us. He didn't want to come, but we gave him no choice in the matter. We parked in a lay-by on the ring road, and told him to direct us to the house where he'd sold the red shoes. He took us straight there.'

‘It's Kershaw!' Paniatowski said. ‘It's been Kershaw all along!'

She should have worked that out long before now, she told herself angrily. Instead of trying to bury an unpleasant part of her past at the back of her mind, she should have been using it – holding it up as a lens through which to examine the present.

‘
It was you!' she screams. ‘You were the one who was doing it!
'

‘
We could have been very good together, Monika,' he says.

‘
But you refused to bend,' he says.

‘
What do you mean?' she asks – confused, perhaps almost hysterical.

‘
I don't want my women to have an inner strength,' Kershaw says. ‘I want them to draw their strength from me.
'

‘
So that was what it was all about,' she says. ‘You wanted me to break down!
'

‘
Yes,' Kershaw says, almost tenderly. ‘But only so I could build you up again. Only so I could mould you. We could have been very happy together, Monika,' and now the tenderness has been replaced by a harsh edge, ‘but you had to spoil it, didn't you? You wouldn't cry! You refused to cry!
'

‘
I'm going to report this,' she says.

Kershaw chuckles. ‘I wouldn't do that, if I was you.
'

‘
Why not?
'

‘
Because I'll deny it. And who will the top brass believe? An inspector with a solid record, who has earned the respect of everyone who's ever worked with him? Or a chit of a girl who's somehow – more by luck than judgement – managed to wangle the job of detective sergeant.
'

‘
I can't possibly work with you any more,' she says.

‘
Work
for
me, you mean,' he says, with a hint of anger. ‘Work under me. Well, fortunately, you won't have to. I'm being promoted and moved into uniform. By next week, you'll have a new boss – a Scotland Yard reject by the name of Charlie Woodend. And if you want my advice, you'll treat him with more respect than you've treated me.
'

‘
Respect!' she repeats, astounded. ‘Up until five minutes ago, I had nothing
but
respect for you.
'

‘
Give Woodend what he wants,' Kershaw says. ‘If he likes giggling schoolgirls, be a giggling schoolgirl. If he wants to take dirty pictures of you, tell him there's nothing you'd enjoy more. Bend to his will.
'

‘I still can't believe that Mr Kershaw's the killer,' Beresford said.

‘That's because you keep seeing him as the man he wants you to see him as, rather than the man he actually is,' Paniatowski countered. ‘For Christ's sake, look at the evidence, Colin! It wasn't some crazed killer with a grudge against Kershaw who bought the red shoes – it was Elaine! And Kershaw knew she'd bought them. He was even there once, when the salesman called.'

‘All right, so they were into sadomasochism,' Beresford conceded. ‘I wouldn't have thought it of him, but that's not the point. The fact that he indulged in perversion doesn't prove either that he killed Grace or that he faked his wife's kidnapping and then flogged her dead body.'

‘So what do you think happened?' Paniatowski demanded.

‘Someone broke into the house, kidnapped Elaine, and took the shoes and the corset at the same time,' Beresford said.

‘And how would this person know he'd
find
the shoes there?'

‘Perhaps Mr Kershaw and his wife belonged to some kind of sadomasochistic club,' Beresford suggested.

‘A sadomasochistic club,' Paniatowski repeated. ‘Do such things exist, Kate?'

‘Oh yes,' Meadows replied, matter-of-factly.

‘And what goes on there?'

‘It depends on the club. There are no hard-and-fast rules. Sometimes they swap partners. Sometimes, one partnership will put on a show for the rest. And in some clubs, you hardly even speak to the other members – it's enough for you to know that while you're doing your own thing, you're surrounded by like-minded people doing theirs.'

‘Well, there you are, then,' Beresford said.

‘
Where
am I?' Paniatowski asked.

‘The man who kidnapped Elaine was a member of the same club.'

‘Really!' Paniatowski said. ‘Well, let me ask you this. You know Kershaw – or think you do. Can you really see him sharing his wife – even at a distance – with
anybody
?'

‘No, I can't,' Beresford admitted. ‘So maybe the kidnapper didn't even know the shoes would be there, but once he saw them, he decided to take them along.'

Paniatowski sighed, then she turned to Crane. ‘Would you like to tell Inspector Beresford – who's older and much more experienced than you, so should know better – why this line he's taking is a load of crap?' she asked.

‘I'd rather not, boss,' Crane said uncomfortably.

‘It wasn't a request,' Paniatowski told him.

Crane cleared his throat. ‘Mr Kershaw said he was desperate to get his wife safely back, but he did absolutely nothing to assist the investigation. He didn't tell us his wife liked to be whipped . . .'

‘I don't see how that would have helped,' Beresford protested. ‘That was a part of his private life which he wanted to
keep
private. He had no way of knowing then how things would develop.'

‘Shut up and listen!' Paniatowski ordered. She turned to Crane. ‘Start again, Jack.'

‘He didn't tell us his wife liked to be whipped, even when Grace's body was found,' Crane said. ‘He denied ever having seen the red shoes before, though he must have known, when he saw that Grace had been wearing a pair of them, that that was another thing which tied her death to Elaine's disappearance. He didn't tell us that the corset Grace was wearing belonged to Elaine, nor did he—'

‘Enough!' Beresford said. ‘I've heard enough.'

What was it Jack Crane had said about the way the killer had positioned Grace's body, he asked himself.

‘
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.
'

And what had he himself said in reply?

‘
But exactly what kind of man would think that way? It's almost as if . . .
'

Almost as if he was a bobby!

But he'd never followed that thought through, had he?

And perhaps the
reason
he hadn't was because there was some part of his brain which was warning him that once he began suspecting a policeman, it would inevitably lead him to Tom Kershaw.

And he simply hadn't been ready to admit it could be Tom Kershaw – because Kershaw was one of his heroes!

‘I've been an idiot,' he told Paniatowski. ‘Of course it's Kershaw. It
has
to be Kershaw. He decided to kill his wife . . .' He paused for a moment. ‘That has to be our starting point, doesn't it?'

‘Yes, it does,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘He decided to kill her, but he didn't have to – because nature beat him to it.'

‘But he wouldn't necessarily have known that,' Crane said. ‘He probably thought that it was what he was doing to her at the time which killed her.'