A Walk With the Dead (16 page)

‘Well, that was a complete waste of three hours of our valuable time,' Beresford said.

Yes, it had been, Paniatowski agreed silently. Of the five men who had been taken into custody that morning, they'd already questioned four. Two of them had alibis for the whole of Saturday afternoon. One had a partial alibi that made it highly unlikely he would have had time to commit the murder. And the fourth, who had no alibi at all, was such a wreck that he would have struggled to tie his own shoelaces, let alone strangle a girl.

‘But we always knew they were long shots, didn't we?' Beresford asked. ‘Bill Horrocks has been our prime suspect from the moment young Crane pointed us in the direction of lesbian-bashing.'

‘It's still only a theory that Jill was killed because she was a lesbian,' Paniatowski said cautiously.

‘It's a theory that fits all the facts we have like a glove,' Beresford said. ‘We know Jill was a lesbian, don't we?'

‘Yes.'

‘We also know that Bill Horrocks
hates
lesbians – and, in the past, has been prepared to do more than just talk about it.'

‘That's true.'

‘And we know he was in the Corporation Park on Saturday. It's game, set and match. He did it – I'm sure he did it.'

Paniatowski had been almost sure herself a few hours earlier, but the closer they got to the interview with Horrocks, the more she could feel her confidence ebbing away.

The problem was, she thought, there was far too much riding on it. She had assured the chief constable that she was the best person to handle the case – had promised him that she would get a result. But if Jack Crane's theory was wrong – if there had been another motive behind the murder – then they were no further on with the investigation than they had been when she'd made that promise to Baxter in the car park of the Drum and Monkey. And even worse, she had no idea where to start looking next.

‘Let's get it done and dusted, shall we?' Beresford suggested, standing up. ‘Then we can all go to the Drum for a marathon piss up.'

‘Wait a minute,' Paniatowski said, reaching up and touching his arm. ‘I think I'll use Kate in this interview.'

‘Well, you're the boss, and you must do what you think best,' Beresford said, trying not to look hurt. ‘Is there any particular reason that you want to use Sergeant Meadows?'

‘Yes, there is,' Paniatowski replied. ‘Horrocks is a big man, and so are you – and if you're in the interview room, it'll be like waving a red rag at a bull. He'll spend his whole time trying to prove he's so much more masculine than you are, and I don't want that.'

‘Then what do you want?'

‘I want him to focus on the thing that happened between him and his wife – and what that should tell him about himself – because if anything's going to break him, it will be that.'

‘You're right,' Beresford said. ‘Good thinking.'

Yes, it was, Paniatowski agreed, but that wasn't the only reason she wanted to keep Beresford out of it. The simple fact was that she was desperate for the interview to go well – and she was terrified that her inspector's cocksureness would screw the whole thing up.

William Horrocks was a large man in his early forties, with hands more than wide enough – and more than strong enough – to have easily choked the life out of little Jill Harris.

‘And how are you on this fine morning, Bill?' Paniatowski asked, as she and Meadows sat down opposite him.

‘I'm not called Bill any more,' Horrocks told her. ‘My name is William now.'

‘But you used to be known as Bill, didn't you?'

‘I was a different man, back then.'

‘It's true – he was,' Paniatowski told Meadows. ‘Back then, when he was a builder's labourer, he was a very different man indeed. It's all in his record – charged with being drunk and disorderly, charged with disturbing the peace, charged with common assault . . . That's right, isn't it, William?'

‘I don't drink no more,' Horrocks said.

‘That's true as well,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘He's hooked on quite a different drug now, aren't you, William?'

Kate Meadows began silently counting up to ten as she waited for Horrocks to respond, and when she had reached that number – and he still had not spoken – she said, ‘So just what drug
is
William hooked on now, boss?'

‘Religion,' Paniatowski said. ‘You surely must have seen him preaching in the Corporation Park.'

‘No, I don't think I have.'

‘It's quite a sight. He gets himself worked up into a right old lather.' Paniatowski paused. ‘But I have to admit, I'm not quite sure which church you belong to, William.'

‘I don't belong to none of them,' Horrocks said. ‘They're all in league with the Devil.'

‘How do you know that?'

Horrocks crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I'm not saying no more,' he told Paniatowski firmly.

‘Well, we certainly can't force you to speak if you don't want to, so we'll just talk to each other,' Paniatowski said. ‘Do you know when William first got this so-called religious calling of his, Sergeant?'

‘No, boss, I don't.'

‘It came to him, funnily enough, around about the time that his wife decided to leave him.'

‘She did not
leave
me,' Horrocks growled. ‘I cast her out – for she had been defiled!'

‘I stand corrected. Thank you for that,' Paniatowski said. ‘Forget what I just told you, Sergeant – she didn't leave him, he cast her out. But isn't it true, Bill, that as this “casting out” was going on, your Thelma had already packed her bags, because she was planning to move in with her lover?'

‘Satan – in his most diabolical form – had her in his grasp,' Horrocks said. ‘He held her in his slimy fingers.'

‘For Satan, you should read a woman called Lucia Evans,' Paniatowski told her sergeant.

‘Lucia Evans?' Meadows repeated, in mock-surprise. ‘I thought you said Bill's wife was moving in with her lover.'

‘And so she was,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘Lucia Evans
was
that lover.'

‘Good grief – how shocking,' Meadows said.

‘William doesn't blame himself for any of what happened, of course. As he sees it, he was a totally innocent party. And the amusing thing is that I don't think he blames his wife, either. In fact, I believe that he thinks – deep down – that she's just as innocent as he is.'

‘Even though she left him?'

‘Now, Sergeant, you know she didn't leave him – she allowed herself to be “cast out”.'

‘Sorry, boss.' Meadows said. ‘Still, it's strange that he doesn't blame his wife for any of it, isn't it?'

‘No, it isn't strange at all,' Paniatowski disagreed. ‘William thinks that way because he has no choice
but
to think that way.'

‘No choice? What do you mean?'

‘Put yourself in his shoes for a minute. Imagine you're a big strong builder's labourer, just like Bill used to be. You work hard on the building site, carrying hods of bricks up ladders all day, and you go to the pub at night to sink a few pints with your mates. Are you with me so far?'

‘Yes, boss.'

‘So you're in the pub, and closing time comes around. That's when you stand up and say something like, “Well, I'd better be going, lads – the wife's waiting for me at home, and I know for a fact that she'll have been gasping for a good rattling all day.” And you're sure, as you leave the pub, that all the others are looking at you enviously, because you're a
real
man, and though they'd like to be just like you, they know they never can be.'

‘Sounds like a nice feeling to have,' Meadows said.

‘As intoxicating as the beer – maybe even more so,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘And then your wife – who you claim has been gasping for a good rattling all day – leaves you for a
woman
! There's only two ways to explain that, aren't there?'

‘The first one being that you're not as attractive – and not half as good at giving her a rattling – as you thought you were,' Meadows suggested.

‘Exactly,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘And that's clearly not acceptable to any self-respecting man. So you turn to the other explanation. The other woman used underhand tactics to trick your wife into leaving you, in which case, the lover is the only villain of the piece.'

It's probably only a short step from thinking one lesbian is evil to thinking that all lesbians are evil – and that they're the Devil's agents,' Meadows said.

‘And that's exactly what William
does
think, and why he founded his one-man church, which I suppose – since he refuses to give it a title himself – I'll have to call the Church of God the Lesbian Basher. And you
did
bash some lesbians, didn't you, William?'

‘I smote the foul Beelzebub in whatever nether regions he dwelt,' Horrocks replied.

‘Or to be a little more accurate, you smote a woman called Shirley Maxwell when she was standing on the Boulevard one Saturday afternoon,' Paniatowski said dryly.

‘She was tempting other innocent souls to join her in her abomination,' Horrocks said.

‘Yes, she certainly
was
handing out leaflets advocating equal rights for female homosexuals,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘You served three years in Strangeways Prison for that attack, didn't you, William?'

‘It was God's way of testing me,' Horrocks told her. ‘I bore the suffering, and I emerged a stronger man.'

‘You bore your suffering and emerged a stronger man,' Paniatowski said, with a mixture of scorn and disbelief. ‘That's not what the governor of Strangeways told me on the phone, just half an hour ago. He says that for the first three months of your sentence, you stayed huddled in a corner, sitting in your own shit. He says that they had you on suicide watch
three times
!'

‘You . . . you don't know hard it is for a man used to the open air to be locked in a cage like a rat,' Horrocks said. ‘You can't imagine it.'

‘But
you
can – very easily,' Paniatowski countered. ‘You've only got to close your eyes and you're back in that cage.' She turned to Meadows. ‘And that's why, since he got back to Whitebridge, he's been very, very careful.'

‘Careful?' Meadows repeated. ‘What do you mean?'

‘There have been a number of attacks on lesbians since William was released, but most of them have taken place at night, when there were no witnesses around to see them. And after every attack, you've been pulled in for questioning, haven't you, William?'

‘You know I have.'

‘But they've never been able to pin any of those vicious assaults on you, have they?'

‘Almighty God protects me as I go about His work.'

‘In other words, you
did
attack those women – but God's letting you get away with it!'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘Maybe not directly – but you
as good as
said it.'

‘No, I didn't.'

She was giving this interview all that she had, Paniatowski thought – and it wasn't working.

She took a deep breath, and marshalled whatever strength she had left to draw on.

‘I'm willing to bet that recently you've started to question whether you've been doing Almighty God's work
well enough
,' she said.

‘I don't know what you mean by that.'

‘Then let me put it another way – one you might find easier to understand. The Lord demands that you smite the guilty with the flaming sword of vengeance, doesn't he?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you've been doing no more than give them a little tap with a toffee hammer.' Paniatowski lit up a cigarette. ‘Are you with me yet?'

‘No.'

‘One Saturday afternoon – probably two or three weeks ago – you were in the park, spouting out your venom as usual, when you happened to notice two young girls. And it was immediately plain to you that they were more than just friends – they were lovers. You do remember them, don't you?'

‘No.'

‘Of course you do. You saw them, but you were too cowardly – too afraid of going back to Strangeways – to do anything about it. Now that's right, isn't it?'

‘No.'

There were no witnesses, and if he kept denying it, she had nothing, Paniatowski told herself miserably.

And then a thought that she'd been keeping locked away in the back of her mind escaped, and galloped into the forefront – and that thought was that maybe he was denying it because he
hadn't done it
!

‘Let's move on to
last
Saturday,' she suggested. ‘You were standing in your usual place, but the park was emptying, and even you are not crazy enough to carry on preaching when there's nobody there to ignore you. So you were just about to call it a day when you suddenly saw one of the girls again – and this time she was alone. Isn't that what happened?'

‘No.'

‘And it not only enraged you that she was there at all, but that she was wearing a crimson top – like some kind of whore.'

‘The top was yellow,' Horrocks said.

‘
Thank God!' Paniatowski gasped silently.

‘What was that you said?' she asked.

‘Nothing.'

‘You said the top she was wearing was yellow.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘It's down on tape, Bill,' Paniatowski said, pointing to the recorder.

‘No, it isn't.'

‘Recording suspended at twelve oh seven p.m.,' Paniatowski said.

She stopped the tape, wound it back a little, and pressed down the replay button.

‘
And it not only enraged you that she was there at all, but that she was wearing a crimson top – like some kind of whore,
' said a voice which was a little tinny, but clearly her own.