Backlash (6 page)

As he approached Chief Superintendent Kershaw's house, he was expecting to see a considerable amount of activity, but rather than the half a dozen official vehicles he'd assumed would be parked outside it, there were only two – and the only
person
in evidence was DS Meadows, who was standing by the gate.

He parked his car behind Meadows', and walked over to the gate.

‘Is Mr Kershaw awake yet?' he asked the sergeant.

‘Wouldn't know, sir,' Meadows said. ‘He's not here.'

‘Then where is he?'

‘He's staying with his bagman. He left the house soon after the police doctor had taken a blood sample.'

‘I'm surprised he was willing to go,' Beresford said.

‘He wasn't willing,' Meadows replied. ‘I told him he had to.'

‘You told him
what
?' Beresford exclaimed.

‘I told him he had to leave,' Meadows repeated calmly. ‘I said if he stayed here, he'd only get in the way of the investigation.'

So a young sergeant, only recently posted to the area, had told a chief superintendent that he had to move out, Beresford thought. Kate Meadows had really got some nerve.

‘How did Mr Kershaw take it?' he asked.

‘He seems like a good bobby, and
as
a good bobby, he could see the sense in what I was saying.'

‘Yes, he is a good bobby,' Beresford agreed. ‘Did the search of the house throw up any clues?'

Meadows smiled. ‘If it had, don't you think I'd have been waiting for you out in the road, with my tongue hanging out like an eager dog's at supper time?' she asked. Her face grew more serious. ‘No, we found nothing at all of any use.'

‘Fingerprints?'

‘Hundreds of them – from what I've heard, the Kershaws are very sociable – but I'll bet a year's pay that none of them belonged to the intruder. And there's no sign of a struggle inside, sir. My guess is that he took her completely by surprise, and then either drugged her or knocked her out.'

‘What about the garden?' Beresford asked.

‘I called the search of the garden off. Even with the spotlights on, there were too many shadows, and I was worried that if there
was
any evidence, some clumsy Plod would end up planting his size-nine boot on it.'

‘So
you
called it off?' Beresford said. ‘
You
made the decision?'

‘Yes, sir, I believe it's called showing initiative.'

And maybe it was called having just a little
too much
nerve, Beresford thought.

‘It's light, now,' he said, with growing irritation. ‘Why hasn't the search resumed?'

‘I thought you might want to have a look at the scene before the uniforms got a crack at it, sir,' Meadows said.

‘You mean you thought
you
might want to have a look at it before the uniforms did!' Beresford said accusingly.

‘That as well,' Meadows agreed.

Joan Williams, Elaine Kershaw's mother, lived in an area of Whitebridge which, even in living memory, had been a village in its own right. And there was still a distinct village feel about the place, Paniatowski thought, as she drove past the local butcher's and post office.

Mrs Williams lived at the end of the former village, in a sturdy stone-built cottage that was almost on the edge of the moors. In the summer, it must have been a glorious place; the garden full of fragrant old-fashioned roses, celebrating the sheer joy of living. But on that chill November morning, the cracked and frozen earth spoke more of death and decay.

As she was walking up the garden path, it suddenly occurred to her that Mrs Williams would already know her daughter had gone missing – her son-in-law's frantic visit the night before would have ensured that – but was likely to have heard nothing since.

Poor bloody woman, she thought, as she lifted the old-fashioned door knocker. She must have been up all night worrying.

The woman who answered her knock was in her seventies. She had white, tightly permed hair and was wearing a pink cardigan – and she didn't look half as concerned as she should have done.

‘Yes?' she said.

‘Mrs Williams?' Paniatowski asked.

‘That's right.'

‘I'm from the police, and—'

‘She hasn't turned up yet, has she?' the old woman interrupted. ‘If she had, Tom would be here himself.'

‘No, she hasn't turned up yet,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘But you mustn't go getting unnecessarily worried,' she added quickly.

‘Oh, I'm not worried at all – at least, not about our Elaine,' Mrs Williams said firmly. ‘It was very silly of her to disappear like that, but wherever she is, Tom will find her.'

‘If you're not worried about her, then who
are
you worried about?' Paniatowski wondered aloud.

‘About Tom, of course. He's so protective – so responsible – and he must be going through agony.'

‘I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind,' Paniatowski said.

‘Of course I don't mind,' Mrs Williams replied. ‘But if you want my advice, dear, you'll take careful notes so you'll know exactly what I said – because Tom's a stickler for details.'

‘I won't be reporting back to Chief Superintendent Kershaw – I'm in charge of this investigation,' Paniatowski said.

Mrs Williams shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘I think you must be a little confused, dear,' she said. ‘But never mind, why don't you come inside and have a nice cup of tea.'

The last time that Beresford had been in this garden, it had been a happy place, full of people who'd had just a little too much to drink and were talking just a little too loudly.

That had been in August, he remembered, when the garden was in its full glory. Now, in November, bereft of its visitors and vegetation, it seemed to him to have assumed an almost funereal aspect.

But maybe that had more to do with the way he was seeing it than the way it actually was. And maybe the fact that he was seeing it that way was due to a feeling in his gut which told him that something truly horrible had already happened to Elaine Kershaw.

‘The chances are, this is the route he chose to get his victim away from the house,' Meadows said.

‘What makes you think that?' Beresford wondered.

‘There'd be much less risk in that than in taking her out of the front door, especially given what lies beyond the fence at the bottom of the garden.'

‘And what does lie beyond it?' Beresford asked.

‘I'll show you,' Meadows replied.

She led him down the crazy-paving path, past the rhododendron bushes, to the perimeter fence. It was a lattice fence, supported by concrete posts every few feet, and it would certainly not have been difficult for the kidnapper to have thrown Elaine over the fence, and then climbed after her.

But what was more interesting, as Meadows had said, was what lay beyond the fence.

The houses which backed on to the garden were probably about the same age as the Kershaws' home, but considerably cheaper and nastier. And more importantly still, there was a patch of wasteland – which had probably once contained the toilets and washhouses for the whole street – between the house on the left and the house on the right.

‘He could have driven his car right up to the fence,' Meadows said.

Yes, he could, Beresford agreed, and using both the bushes and darkness for cover, he could have been reasonably certain that no one would spot him. And there would have been no danger of leaving any telltale footprints either, because the night before, the ground had been frozen.

It was when they turned to walk back to the house that Beresford noticed the flash of colour under one of the rhododendron bushes. He bent down, and retrieved the object. It was bright red, about five inches long and narrower at one end than it was at the other.

‘Either she did finally start to struggle, or he got careless when he was carrying her,' Beresford said, holding the stiletto heel up for Kate Meadows' inspection.

Mrs Williams led Paniatowski into a living room which was almost swamped with bric-a-brac. There were the pottery ducks flying on the wall, horse brasses hanging on each side of the chimney breast, and the china dogs guarding the hearth.

It was, Paniatowski thought, almost a cliché of what an old lady's living room
should
be like.

‘I'm
really
not worried about Elaine, you know,' Mrs Williams said – a cup of tea held carefully in her hand – as she eased herself into an armchair with a floral motif, opposite the one she'd invited Paniatowski to sit in. ‘And
you
shouldn't be worried about her either. Wherever she is, Tom will find her. He's always looked after her.'

‘He's not—' Paniatowski began.

Then she stopped herself – because what would be the point?

She took a sip of her tea, which was just the sort of mild, not-very-stimulating tea that old ladies always seemed to prefer.

‘I'd like to ask you about Elaine's friends, Mrs Williams,' she said, ‘and I'd be especially interested in hearing about any
boyfriend
who there might have been some unpleasantness with.'

‘Why don't you just ask Tom?' Mrs Williams asked, maddeningly.

Paniatowski sighed. ‘Because you'll know more about her before she was married than Tom will.'

‘There's not much
to
know.'

Paniatowski sighed again. ‘All right, just give me the names and addresses of all her old friends and, like I said, her old boyfriends. If you don't know their addresses, then just their names will do.'

‘She doesn't have any old friends,' Mrs Williams said. ‘And she certainly doesn't have any old
boyfriends
.'

‘Everybody has friends,' Paniatowski protested.

Oh really? asked a mocking voice in the back of her head. And what friends did
you
have before you joined Charlie Woodend's team?

‘You didn't know our Elaine before her marriage, did you?' Mrs Williams asked.

I don't know her now, Paniatowski agreed. But I'm
trying
to get to know her.

‘Why don't you tell me about her?' she suggested aloud.

‘Elaine and her big sister were as different as chalk and cheese,' Mrs Williams began. ‘Mary was always outgoing and confident. But Elaine was such a frightened, mousy little thing. Maybe that was because her dad died when she was very young – or maybe it was just because she was such a late baby. I don't really know the reason – but I do know I always felt guilty about it.'

This was getting her nowhere, Paniatowski thought.

‘Tell me a little about her life,' she suggested.

Mrs Williams shrugged helplessly. ‘There's so little to tell,' she said. ‘Elaine worked as a bookkeeper for her Uncle Michael, and when she wasn't working, she was here at home, with me.'

‘She lived with you?'

‘Yes, right up until the day she got married. I tried to persuade her to go out more – to have a life of her own – but she just wouldn't. I thought she might have been one of those women who . . . who . . . you know.'

‘No, I don't,' Paniatowski said.

‘One of those women who don't like men, but only like women. A Wesleyan, is it?'

‘A lesbian.'

‘That's right. I even asked her about it once. I told her I didn't really approve, but I supposed that if that was the only way she could find happiness, then it was all right with me. And she said she wasn't one of those women – she said even the thought of it made her sick.'

‘So, if she lived as quietly as you say she did, how did she ever manage to meet her husband?' Paniatowski asked sceptically.

‘Destiny,' Mrs Williams said, with a dreamy look coming to her eyes. ‘We were burgled, and one of the policemen who came to look around was very rude to Elaine.'

‘
Do you think you'll catch them?' she asks.

‘
Catch who?' the constable demands, rudely.

‘
The . . . the men who broke in.
'

The constable looks around the room. ‘What did you say they'd stolen?
'

‘
There was a portable television, my mother's jewellery box, five pounds forty-nine pence from the drawer in the kitchen, my piggy bank . . .
'

‘
Your piggy bank!' the constable interrupts. ‘Your bloody piggy bank?
'